Chapter Text
They’d despised each other since the second Keonho laid eyes on him.
It was orientation week at Uni—suits too big for shoulders that hadn’t caught up yet, speeches about diplomacy and tradition that no one really listened to, and Keonho in the back of the auditorium scowling through all of it. Martin walked in late, wind in his hair, face too sunlit for someone coming from a Prime Minister’s mansion, flanked by a pack of other high-profile new money kids who thought they were charming and personable and above it all. He had a handshake for everyone. Including Keonho, who refused to take it. Everything about the school screamed hellish order—the imported marble floors, the gilded lecture halls, the legacy bloodlines stamped on every locker—reeked of legacy and performance. Keonho had never been one for pretense or kindness, for manners. He was crown-adjacent, bred and born to posture, but he refused to be puppeteered by anything other than his own standards. So the minute that idiot walked into class for the fortieth time like he’d never known discipline a day in his life, Keonho wrote him off.
Something about him had already set his teeth on edge. Maybe it was the way Martin talked to people like they mattered , or how easily he won over the faculty. Maybe it was because he wasn’t afraid of Keonho the way everyone else was—even that first day. Or maybe it was that Keonho knew he’d be expected to work with him, someday. Side by side, the crown and the cabinet. Equal pillars before one inevitably stabbed the other in the back. Which was fucking hilarious. Keonho didn’t believe in equals.
Their cliques picked up on it fast. All the heirs and legacies hung with Keonho, sharp-toothed kids with shiny shoes and too many expectations. Martin’s group was all charm and policy, debate captains and polyglots and kids who wanted to “make change.” They were all told to get along, but the Professors could only enforce so much diplomacy before fists started flying under the table.
He didn’t touch him, congratulate him after sparring matches or soccer scrimmages. He didn’t even look at him. He just knew, down to his marrow, that he was going to hate him.
And he was, of course, correct.
Martin was all too-easy charisma, all too-firm handshakes and bright-eyed bullshit. Prime Minister’s son. Smile like an American campaign ad.
Keonho had the legacies—the princes and finance heirs, the quiet killers in patent leather shoes. Martin had the diplomats-in-training, the debaters, the bleeding hearts with power behind their good intentions, his family backed by all the shit that comes with old money and back room business. Keonho never said it aloud, but he hated how natural it was for Martin to fit in with everyone. How the staff adored him. How the faculty bent to his smartass questions. How he kept smiling at Keonho like he didn’t see the disdain, didn’t hear the sharp-tongued insults, only cocky and superior and loathing.
Their fights started off as purely academic. Policy debates broken apart through a lack of decorum– Keonho ready to set fire to the fucking podium whenever he was up against the blonde and his dumb fucking ideas. Then it was jabs across the dinner table, bickering over Brunello Cucinelli loafers. Then, it was physical. The fall was inevitable– a push during soccer scrimmage, salad fork to the cheek. A misstep that wasn’t a misstep, whispers in the halls about a certain blonde facing charges for nicking a pretty boy’s face during a fencing match. Keonho’s temper was infamous by then, but only Martin ever seemed to bring it to a boil.
Second year made it worse .
On the field, they were forced to wear the same team colors for school games—unity or something—but during practice drills, The professor let them loose. Opposing scrims. Full contact. Keonho’s curveballs were legend, near-impossible to track with the spin he laced them with, and yet Martin stopped them. More than once. Enough to make him furious.
Keonho stormed off more than once, cleats grinding into the turf, leaving scorched silence in his wake. Martin hit right back—once launched a ball so hard in return that it burst on impact when Keonho’s scorpion kick actually slipped past his gloves. That day, the field went dead quiet, both of them staring at the broken ball like it had cracked something bigger open.
They were impossible antagonists in the other’s life. And they hated each other. No playful ribbing, no friendly banter. Just venom. Mean insults slung between drills. Mutual discontempt with no fucking mercy. Villainous.
Then came the night at the cabin.
A small one tucked behind the dormitories—old, unused, and known among the student body for what it really was: a place to experiment. A place to vanish for an hour or two and come back flushed, disheveled, different. For boys to bury the shame down in arranged marriages and longing to bring to the grave. Keonho had gone. Once . Not even with a plan. He just followed some fuckass underclassman out there, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. He hadn’t even touched him—hadn’t done anything yet—but he’d hovered.
And that’s when Martin saw him.
He was in the doorway. Wide open. Like he’d meant to walk in, like the universe had lined up just right to ruin Keonho’s life in real time. By accident, probably. Keonho didn’t know, didn’t care. Just remembered the look—how it flickered across his face like he knew . Like he pitied him. Martin froze, stared. Eyes fixed on the other boy’s bare shoulder like some repressed Victorian lord that’d just seen an indecent glimpse of an ankle.
He wasn’t alone, either. He had some boy from the soccer team with him. One of those third years who tutored for brownie points, always looking a little too eager around him. Keonho didn’t hear what he said—just caught the tail end of it as the guy yanked Martin back by the wrist. He dropped the upperclassman’s hand immediately. Not out of shock, not really. He didn’t look too surprised. Just...quiet. Still. Like he’d walked in on something raw and unspeakably ugly.
The boy– another guy with the crown prince– beneath Keonho jolted and tried to sit up, stammering something, but Keonho barely heard it. His ears were ringing. His stomach flipped. Martin was still standing there, watching, and the worst part was that he wasn’t saying anything. “Let’s just go back to my dorm, baby.” Martin didn’t look back. Just went with him like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t just walked in on something Keonho would never, ever live down. “Nobody will hear us if you be good for me like last time, okay?” Like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t just seen Keonho cracked open and unmade.
And Keonho—he lost it.
Not right away. He didn’t yell. Didn’t chase. Just stood there, frozen, jaw locked so tight it ached. A week later, he found that same boy in the locker room. All alone. No Martin, nobody to hear him scream.
And so he broke the asshole’s fucking nose for fun .
No one connected it. Or maybe they did, but no one said a word. Of course they wouldn’t dare.
By third year, after his fucking freak accident with his heart over the summer and the quiet nights Keonho spent mostly bedridden and reevaluating every fucking corner of his life, he came back colder. Calmer. He still hated Martin. That hadn’t changed. Not even when Martin started fighting back.
Especially because he started fighting back. He still blocked every one of his curveballs on the field like he was built to stop him , specifically. Still grinned at him afterward, smug and infuriating.
“For fuck’s sake—hold still, Keonho.”
Seonghyeon’s hands were already elbow-deep in the folds of Keonho’s ceremonial hanbok, trying to fix the back seam that Keonho had somehow managed to sit on and crumple halfway down his spine. The fabric was silk—dyed black with subtle gold embroidery at the collar—and older than both of them combined. A gift from some diplomat in Seoul. Keonho hated it.
“It’s fine,” he snapped, jerking away.
“It’s not fine, you look like you rolled down a mountain.”
“Maybe I did.”
Seonghyeon rolled his eyes, muttering something about optics and tradition and how he wasn’t about to let Keonho show up to the first event of Golden Week looking like a royal disgrace. Their mothers were probably already watching from one of the palace balconies—Mrs. Seonghyeon, advisor to the Empress, had been Mrs. Ahn’s right hand since before Keonho could walk. The two of them were inseparable, which meant that Seonghyeon and Keonho had been stuck with each other since birth.
Not that Keonho hated him. Seonghyeon was a pain in the ass but useful. He always knew the schedule. Always kept a spare lint roller in his satchel. Always had a discreet way of whispering protocol into Keonho’s ear before he could embarrass himself in front of the Diet again.
Still, Keonho swatted his hands away the second the hanbok looked passable.
“I’m going. If it’s crooked, it’s crooked.”
“You’re a walking PR liability,” Seonghyeon muttered, already following him out into the hall.
The palace was full already—press in the wings, dignitaries in pressed suits, cherry blossoms drifting through the wide ceremonial garden outside. The first event of the week was a daylight thing. Short speeches, polite laughter, posed photos beneath the sakura.
And Keonho had a job to do: show up, shake hands, pretend like his family wasn’t currently under fire from every side of the political spectrum.
It would’ve been fine.
If he hadn’t been on the guest list.
Martin Edwards. Golden boy of the House, South Korea’s most promising future politician if you believed the polls—or his fanbase. Crowned in headlines and kissed by the press. He’d grown into his image since Uni, let it wrap around him like armor: the loyal son, the humble heir, the man of the people. Keonho saw right through it. The tabloids ate it up. Every smile, every bow, every damn hand-on-heart soundbite. He gave a speech last week in Busan that had the aunties crying and the undergrads making Twitter edits. They called him refreshing. Said he was the man to modernize South Korea, to lead the people forward.
Meanwhile, Keonho was just—what? Anger issues? The headline hazard? The one who glared at cameras and refused to play soft?
He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was still adored, but in a way that felt curated. Dangerous. He’d become the mold-breaker for the monarchy, the bad boy the nation couldn’t stop watching. Every time he opened his mouth, the press held their breath for a soundbite they could run wild with.
And now Martin was stealing his thunder. Again. Like he always did.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Not when he thought about that night behind the dorms, in the cabin where things were supposed to be quiet. Secret. Safe. Not when he remembered how it felt to be exposed, caught in the act of just looking, while Martin walked away with another boy and never even flinched.
Now girls screamed his name in every province. Sent letters. DMs. Threw themselves at the idea of him. Dreamed about a future with a man Keonho knew was just as forbidden as he was.
Keonho scoffed, adjusting the collar of his hanbok as they stepped outside.
The applause had already started.
Seonghyeon, like clockwork, blended into the background. He always did—an art perfected over years of royal protocol. Fleeing from the cameras was a luxury Keonho couldn’t afford, not with mom’s eyes somewhere in the crowd and the country’s expectations draped over his shoulders like a second hanbok.
The opening ceremony had begun, and Keonho moved through it as if sedated—perfect posture, tight nods, just the right amount of eye contact.
The crowd was a blur of influence. Ministers, diplomats, foreign dignitaries. Most of his old class was here—every one of them entrenched in nobility or political circles by now. He caught glimpses as he bowed and greeted: Wonhee at the far end of the garden, Juhoon deep in quiet conversation with his mother.
And then came the Edwards’.
Late, of course.
Dr. Edwards, Prime Minister, former Cambridge golden boy turned living thorn in the monarchy’s side. He had a handshake like a swordfight—all tension and controlled aggression. He gave it first to mom, then dad, both of whom met it with equal force. Then came the emperor, Keonho’s grandfather, who didn’t flinch as the cameras clicked and captured decades of political tension in a single grip.
Keonho waited, stiff in his place. Dr. Edwards didn’t offer him a handshake. Just a glance. A sidelong, passing thing, like Keonho wasn’t even worth the theater. It made his skin crawl.
Dad stepped in gently with a calming hand to Keonho’s back. The quiet nudge meant be good. Be civil.
Martin’s eldest sister was the only other one in attendance with them. The rest of the brigade had clearly opted out of public spectacle, but not him. No, he was always the spectacle.
Martin Edwards stood tall, hair gelled into a slickback. There was no smile on his face, not for the cameras, not for Keonho. Just a long, deliberate stare.
Challenging as ever.
Keonho clenched his jaw. Dad’s hand didn’t move from between his shoulder blades. "Welcome." He gritted it out like he had to all the others, though this time it sounded like saying the word might summon fucking Cthulhu himself to end it all right there.
Martin didn’t take his hand—because Keonho didn’t offer it. Just stood there with his arms at his sides and his voice barely above a snarl. The kind of controlled hostility you’d expect between two kids who’d grown up learning how to smile through teeth.
Martin just let out a low, unimpressed hmph and—like it didn’t mean anything—linked arms with his sister, walking away toward the far end of the garden where the rest of their classmates were starting to gather. Laughing. Mingling. Like this wasn’t about to be the beginning of a slow-motion political shitstorm dressed in florals.
Keonho didn’t look back. Not really.
He didn’t have to. He could feel him even through the crowd.
The ballroom was worse.
Too many bodies, too much light. Every corner of it glittered with opulence and tension, and some sadistic event planner had apparently decided this year's Golden Week needed a grand spectacle —a reenactment of a traditional Heian-era greeting ceremony, complete with formal procession and a choreographed exchange between houses.
It was supposed to be symbolic. Peaceful. A nod to old honor codes and shared national pride. Instead, it was a setup waiting to combust.
Keonho and Martin were placed opposite one another, meant to perform a synchronized bow and exchange ceremonial gifts as a display of inter-house civility.
They barely made it to the first bow.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Martin muttered under his breath, eyes forward.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Keonho hissed back. “I can’t hear you over your massive ego.”
“Oh, sorry—was that your ego talking or your mommy’s PR team?”
”Real fuckin’ mature. What? jealous about your daddy needing a new one after he fucked his secretary last week?”
“Fuck you, your highness .”
“Yeah, okay. I’d rather die.”
“Get in line. I’m sure you’re fucking eager to.”
It all happened in a blur.
They were mid-ceremony, barely through the motions, when Keonho muttered something that pushed Martin just over the edge.
“Oh, you’re so fucking original,” Martin snapped. Martin stepped forward, and in a split second of pent-up frustration and sheer pride, grabbed Keonho’s sleeve to shove him back—except the delicate silk gave way with a loud rip.
The world froze.
Keonho stared down at the torn seam like it had personally insulted his bloodline. ”What the fuck??” He seethed.
“Do you know how old this is?” he said, voice flat with disbelief. “This was a gift from the start of the fucking Imperial Court of Seoul.”
“Maybe they should’ve sent a backup,” Martin bit out through a smirk, clearly not sorry.
“You fucking —” And that was it.
Keonho shoved him. Martin shoved back. They slammed each other into the far corner of the ceremonial space, right beneath the towering ceiling display, with delicate glass sakura ornaments, and cascading silk ribbons.
The moment their shoulders hit the support post, it groaned.
Then it fell.
Glass rained down like a meteor shower. Someone screamed. Security rushed in. Keonho hit the floor hard, half-covered in silk and petals and shards of blown glass. Martin landed beside him, his suit snagged and half-torn at the sleeve.
Blood ran down the side of Martin’s neck, a thin cut from one of the larger shards. Keonho’s arm was nicked up too, a thin slice along his jaw already trickling down into the collar of his hanbok.
They blinked at each other in stunned silence for maybe two seconds, the adrenaline wearing off just enough to let the sting hit.
Then:
“Fucking idiot !” Keonho spat, eyes narrowed, voice hoarse as he rolled on the ground, eyes immediately facing them.
“You started it!” Martin snapped back, trying to swipe glass from his hair without flinching. His fingers came back red.
Footsteps thundered across the ballroom floor—Martin’s sister and his mom both, heels clicking against marble as they rushed forward.
The cameras didn’t stop.
They never fucking stopped.
Keonho didn’t even flinch.
“Great. Fucking perfect. ”
There was blood on his neck.
Just a thin red line, trailing from beneath Martin’s jaw down to the collar of his suit, staining the edge of the embroidery. Keonho’s arm stung like hell and there was a smear of blood near his brow, but he didn’t notice it until someone gasped nearby.
“Martin!” “Keonho!”
Voices, sudden and loud. His mother was the first blur he registered, storming across the ballroom floor like she was about to kill someone. Martin’s sister was right behind her, dragging her brother back by the elbow, muttering something furious under her breath. Staff swarmed. Security rushed in. The cameras were still flashing, the media losing their collective minds.
Before either of them could say anything, they were both seized by strong hands.
One by his sister. One by mom.
“Drawing room. Now.”
Dragged like delinquent children through the side halls of the palace, past still-whispering guests and silent guards who knew better than to intervene. Mom's grip was bruising.
The drawing room doors shut behind them with a finality that echoed.
Martin’s father was already pacing. Dr. Edwards, sleeves rolled, voice low and clipped as he barked something to his advisors. Martin’s sister stood stiffly beside him, eyes narrowed like a hawk. Two government aides hovered near the back wall, whispering into earpieces.
On the opposite end of the room, Keonho’s grandfather—the Emperor—stood beside dad and mom. Seonghyeon stood off to the side, still holding Keonho’s sleeve like he’d been trying to patch it until they were interrupted.
No one spoke for a long moment. Just breathing. Just tension.
“Are you insane ?” mom snapped.
“He tore my fucking sleeve,” Keonho said flatly. “What was I supposed to do? Let him get away with it?!”
“I tore your sleeve ?” Martin’s voice rose, incredulous. “You started yelling first!”
“You shoved me into a fucking chandelier !”
“I wasn’t trying to!”
“You never try anything, that’s the problem—”
“ Enough! ” the Emperor barked, voice like a gunshot. He stood there in the doorway, epitome of authority and everything even closely related to discipline.
Everyone fell silent. Even Keonho. Dr. Edwards’ eyes cut across the room like knives. “This isn’t about your rivalry anymore. People fucking recorded that, you know. This is a national disaster."
“You almost killed my grandson,” the Emperor thundered, turning so sharply toward Martin and Dr. Edwards that even his aides flinched. “In front of the entire diplomatic corps. In front of the press .”
Dr. Edwards didn’t even blink, stepping forward in front of his son. “Don’t be dramatic. No one died.”
“Don’t be dramatic ?” Mom barked. “My boy is bleeding from the head!”
“And mine is bleeding from the neck,” Dr. Edwards snapped back, pointing at Martin without looking at him. “Because your boy doesn’t know how to keep his hands and his temper to himself.”
“Don’t talk about him like he’s not in the room,” Martin’s sister muttered tightly to her father.
“Don’t talk at all ,” Keonho hissed, earning a scandalised look from everyone.
“How dare you talk to my father like that!” Martin barked, reaching clumsily over to shove him before his sister veered him away, berating him.
“He’s still my fucking subject, and so are you-” Keonho inhaled.
“Oh, shut up, ” Martin fired back. “If you hadn’t started pushing—”
“If you hadn’t torn my sleeve—”
“You’re fucking obsessed with that sleeve—”
“That sleeve is older than both of us combined–!”
“Enough!” Dr. Edwards bellowed, spinning around to face his son. “What the hell were you thinking? Assaulting the prince?!”
Martin straightened. “He started it.”
“You embarrassed this entire family,” He seethed. “On the first day. On camera. With the Emperor watching.”
“I was provoked .”
“You’re always provoked. You live provoked. Grow the hell up.”
“You’re yelling at me when he shoved me first?” Martin gestured to Keonho, who raised his chin like he was ready to shove him again right there.
Dad stepped forward, voice calm but tight. “They both lost control. It’s done now.”
“No,” the Emperor said coldly. “It’s not done. Because someone will answer for this. And it won’t be swept under the rug like a schoolyard scuffle. This has implications far beyond either of their bruised egos."
Dr. Edwards scoffed. "Yes, because clearly , what this country needs right now is more performative outrage from a man who hasn’t passed a single reform in ten years."
The Emperor’s nostrils flared. “You arrogant little shit. You come into my palace, let your son cause an international scandal, and I’m the one overreacting?” He barked, and everyone in the room could see where Keonho got his temper from.
“Oh, please. You’re the one who made them stand in front of a crowd and act like we’re all best friends. What did you think was going to happen?”
“Maybe I thought you could teach your son basic decorum!”
“And maybe if your grandson didn’t have a temper like a firebomb we wouldn’t be here!”
Dad stepped between them, hands raised like he was trying to stop a train with body language. “Please— both of you—we need to de-escalate. This isn’t helping anyone. There are cameras outside, and if they even hear raised voices—”
“I don’t give a damn about the cameras,” the Emperor barked. "Look at your son. This fucking liberal maimed him–"
“Well, I do ,” Dr. Edwards growled. “Because some of us actually have to run this country beyond press conferences and ceremonial brunches.”
“Then start acting like it,” the Emperor snapped. “I have much more influence than you with the conservatives and liberals and we both know it”
“Stop it!” Dad’s voice broke louder this time, stepping between the two. “Enough. You’re both upset. We all are. But yelling at each other while they sit there bleeding isn’t going to change what happened.”
For a moment, silence returned. Heavy. Uneasy. Keonho was still glaring at the floor. Martin sat stiff-backed, jaw clenched.
And no one, not even dad, knew what the hell to do next.
The house doctor finally cleared her throat from the corner, stepping forward with a tablet and gloves still stained faintly with antiseptic.
“If I may,” she said, glancing between them all. “The glass didn’t strike anything fatal, but it came dangerously close. His Majesty’s radial artery was millimeters from being severed. And Sir Martin’s carotid was nearly grazed. He would've been dead in seconds. It's a miracle.”
The room went still.
Dr. Edwards’ face drained of color. “You’re telling me he almost bled out ?”
“I’m telling you it was very close,” the doctor said. “A little deeper, a little higher, and we’d be dealing with a very different kind of press briefing.”
Dr. Edwards turned to Keonho, voice like thunder. “I don’t give a damn who you are, you almost killed my son.”
Keonho rolled his eyes. “He’s fine.” He glared at the blonde for talking out of turn over him, “I’m fine—”
“He is not fine,” Dr. Edwards snapped. “You’re lucky to be alive, Martin! I could sue for this.”
The Emperor didn’t even blink. “I’d love to see you try.”
“You think I won’t?”
“I know you won’t. You care too much about your approval ratings.”
“I care about my son’s life!”
“And I care about mine. Even if you did, accidents happen when tempers run unchecked.”
“Oh, now it’s an accident. He pushed my boy!”
"He was an asshole first!"
Dad looked like he might start crying, mom still glaring at her boy. “Please. Please . Can we not do this here?” He croaked. “Preferably ever?”
“Son, be quiet–” The tension in the drawing room had reached near-parliament levels when the door burst open.
“Absolutely not ,” came a voice—sharp, clipped, and utterly done with everyone’s shit. “He’s right, y’know.”
Keonho didn’t even have to look. That was Lady Kazuha, the head of the Imperial Press and Public Relations Office. Half the advisors called her the Echery, short for Executioner Secretary, because she didn’t ask things. She gave orders dressed like suggestions.
She strode into the room like she owned the place, tablet in one hand, two phones in the other, glasses perched perfectly on the bridge of her nose.
“This is a disaster,” she said flatly, barely glancing at the Emperor or Dr. Edwards. “It's been ten fucking minutes, and every outlet already has the footage. International news already broke a story of a palace incident. There are hashtags trending in six languages. There’s already a fucking fan meme with slow motion and violins.”
“Oh my god, ” Martin groaned.
She glared right at him, disregarding the blood dripping down his neck without mercy. “Oh, look, And now a remix,” she added without sympathy. “So. Here’s what we’re doing:"
Everyone stared.
“You’re going to pretend you’re getting along. Not barely tolerating each other. Not standing in the same room without throwing punches. Getting along. Smile like you don’t fantasize about strangling each other. Laugh like you actually know how. The country’s watching, and they want multiparty unity wrapped in a pretty bow. If you don’t give them that, we lose the whole damn narrative.”
The Emperor narrowed his eyes. “You dare order my grandso—”
“Yes, I dare, Your Majesty,” Lady Kazuha cut in. “Because the monarchy can weather another scandal—hell, it’s built on them. But trolling? That’s a death sentence, and you know it.”
Dr. Edwards crossed his arms. “This isn’t going to fucking fly. They hate each other, and rightfully so.”
“Do you have a better idea, Mr. Prime Minister?” she asked, propping a hand on her hip with a challenging glare.
He didn’t.
Dad exhaled like someone had just offered him air after an hour underwater.
“So what, we just do a photo op? Act all buddy buddy for your stupid cameras?” Keonho asked, flat, as if he weren't about to explode and finish the fucking job on Martin's jugular himself if he heard another word.
“Of course not. You’ll have to do several. Dozens. You’ll walk in the gardens, go to each other's soccer matches. Share a meal, study together, get drunk at fucking parties. Maybe pet a dog together if I can get one cleared for the grounds. I don’t care what it is—as long as it looks like you’ve both chosen forgiveness and peace.”
Keonho and Martin locked eyes. Still bleeding. Still furious. Still so completely, viscerally offended by each other’s existence that it almost didn’t matter what words Lady Kazuha had said.
They were being told to perform unity. Fake it. Dress it up in smiles and silk and parade it around like the past decade hadn’t happened—like they hadn’t been bred to loathe each other with precision and purpose.
Friends. It wasn’t even a joke. It was an insult. His pulse was thundering in his ears. Not from the injury. Not even from the embarrassment. But from the weight of this being real. This wasn’t a schoolyard tiff anymore. This was statecraft. Optics. Spin.
And suddenly, their rivalry—the one thing Keonho had always known was real —was just another story to polish and stage.
After everything they’d done to get here.
They were going to kill each other. Eventually. Maybe after brunch.
But until then, they’d have to smile and pretend neither of them had spent the last ten years dreaming about the other’s downfall.. Still fuming. Still vibrating with the kind of rage that made ceilings collapse and careers combust.
Martin’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something cruel, but all that came out was, “Friends,” like the word was a piece of glass he was being forced to chew.
Keonho laughed once—sharp, humorless, like the noise had been ripped out of him against his will. “ Fine.”
His heart was still pounding—violently, traitorously. Not from the pain or the broken glass or the threat of being dissected by the press. It was from this. From the sound of that word echoing between them like a punchline to a bit neither of them would ever find funny.
Fucking Friends.
It felt like betrayal. Like a thousand unsaid things between them had been rewritten in real-time—turned into spectacle, costume, choreography. All the near-misses, the fights that bordered on something else, the years they’d spent circling each other like orbiting stars doomed to burn out—flattened into a narrative neither of them had consented to.
Keonho had hated Martin Edwards since they were kids. Had memorized the sound of his footsteps and the way his voice curved when he was about to say something sharp. Had built whole routines around not acknowledging the fact that some part of him needed to win every match against him, every time.
And now? Now he had to smile at him? Walk in the fucking garden like schoolchildren who didn’t have blood under their fingernails and history between their teeth?
Keonho could barely breathe.
They were going to kill each other. Eventually.
But first, they had to stand here—still bleeding, fists half-clenched, trying not to look like they were seconds away from throwing each other through another wall—and pretend they weren’t thinking about all the times they’d come this close to disaster before. All the times they’d come closer.
This wasn’t just tension. This was a fucking noose , tightening like he was on trial. A pivot in something that had never been stable to begin with. The gravity between them had always been off, skewed, bending toward each other with every insult, every match, every brush of something they never dared name.
Keonho had spent ten years wanting to ruin him. Maybe he still did.
But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if that feeling in his chest was rage, or the terrifying fucking beginning of something else.
The palace’s east lawn had never seen so many goddamn cameras.
Three days into the “friendship restoration initiative”—a phrase Keonho could barely say without dry heaving—and they were already being marched through their first public outing: a charity showcase with a nationally broadcast press segment and some poor excuse of a carnival tucked neatly into the formal gardens.
They were planting a fucking tree.
For the nation’s youth solidarity initiative or some shit—some hyper-funded, PR-pumped charity arm supposedly uplifting underrepresented youth from outer prefectures. The kind of thing you needed a hundred-page proposal and three ministerial signatures to attend. Keonho couldn’t tell if it was genuinely doing anything or if it was just another way to funnel money into the monarchy’s public image problem.
But the cameras were out, and the tree had a plaque. So. Whatever.
Martin was, of course, smiling like he’d just invented kindness. Rolled-up sleeves, mud on his gloves, crouched beside a tiny sapling while cameras clicked from every angle. Some lady from Channel 4 said he looked “so gentle for someone so strong,” and Keonho nearly snapped the ceremonial shovel in half.
He played along, barely. Posed with a stiff smile. Managed not to shove Martin into the dirt.
They didn’t speak much, not really. Just long, meaningful glares while aides whispered instructions in their ears and kids from the charity stood nearby trying to get autographs. At one point, a little girl handed Martin a drawing of the two of them shaking hands. Keonho saw his eyes soften. Just a little.
And when the girl turned to him , handing over a second picture—crayon scribbled hearts and crowns and a little speech bubble that said “you’re not scary!! :)”—Keonho didn’t know what the fuck to do. So he just stood there, ears hot, until Martin nudged him and muttered, “Say thank you, dumbass.”
He did. Barely.
The next day was worse.
They were scheduled for a sit-down interview at the palace with the national broadcast network—reputable enough to matter, soft enough to play nice. The idea was to “humanize the tension.” A PR team came up with some segment called Royal Rapport or whatever, and stuck them on a brocade couch with tea and a list of friendship quiz questions.
“Who’s the better cook?” “Who was more popular in school?” “Who’s more likely to cry during a movie?”
They made it through every one with sharp smiles and barbed jabs that flew just low enough under the radar.
“Definitely not you,” Keonho said, tone perfectly polite for the mic, but his eyebrow lifted just enough to say you couldn’t boil water if it came with instructions.
Martin didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well, some of us didn’t live off private chefs and resentment.”
The anchor laughed like they were teasing. The audience cooed like it was charming.
Neither of them blinked. The anchor was delighted . They even guessed each other’s favorite childhood shows— correctly .
Keonho hated how smug Martin looked. Loathed that the quiz had made him laugh, real and unguarded, for maybe three full seconds.
He didn’t know what to do with that sound. Not when it came from him.
Keonho didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to hear him breathe. Didn’t want to know what soap he used or what cologne lingered too long in the halls after he left a room.
And yet…
He didn’t know when it all got so damn fun.
He couldn’t not notice. Couldn’t ignore the detestable heat in his neck every time Martin looked at him sideways with that goddamn smug smile like he knew exactly which nerve to press. Everything about him was infuriating. His voice, his posture, his perfectly tailored state-issued uniform like he was born for the spotlight. The way people leaned toward him when he spoke. The way he dared to joke, to nudge Keonho's shoulder like they were friends, like they weren’t barely one wrong word from tearing into each other all over again.
Maybe it was the moment Martin started talking back with real teeth. Maybe it was the string of interviews where every answer came with an edge, a jab folded beneath the politeness, and the audience laughed like they were best friends instead of barely-contained rivals ready to throw hands in formalwear.
Whatever it was, it didn’t crawl under Keonho’s skin—it ignited something. A flicker. A flare.
It wasn’t just a rivalry anymore. It was sport. It was thrill . The push and pull, the eye contact held too long, the smirk Martin gave him when he knew he’d scored a hit. The crackle in the air when they stood too close. The sheer electricity of every near-argument, every performance of civility with fingernails digging into palms just out of frame.
He despised him, now more than ever. Still— Every brush of shoulders. Every mocking laugh. Every tightly-controlled smile when they were side by side in front of cameras, Keonho felt it.
That fucking rush.
Like a fuse lit behind his ribs. Like something wild and molten pushing to the surface.
Not fucking attraction. Not softness. Something sharper .
Something that felt like falling into an open flame and daring it to fucking burn . There was no doubt that Keonho hated him. Loathed him. Down to the fucking way he tied his laces.
It was unbearable. It was exhilarating.
Every press event, every public statement was an act of war dressed in politeness. Every photo op a bloodbath in smiles. Keonho couldn’t remember the last time someone made him feel this alive and this homicidal at the same time. His pulse rushed just from the sound of Martin’s voice saying his name in that half-mocking tone like they were sharing an inside joke only they got.
They weren’t. Not really.
Still. When Martin rolled his sleeves up at the youth summit and looked over his shoulder like he dared him to say something about it—Keonho’s hands actually shook.
And when Martin’s smirk flickered just once into something unreadable—something almost serious—Keonho felt it somewhere far too deep in his chest.
He wanted to punch him in the throat.
Or maybe grab his collar and find out what that unreadable look was hiding.
Same thing, really.
"Do we really have to do this all afternoon?" Martin groaned, propping himself up on his shoulders and slinging the soccer ball right at Keonho’s forehead.
It hit with a muted thunk before bouncing off, as if even gravity didn’t want to deal with the consequences.
“Ow, you fucking gremlin—”
“You ducked, moron ! ”
“Like hell I did—”
“—if your reflexes are that bad, maybe you should sit this one out, your highness. ”
“Say that again and I’ll send this ball so far up your ass—”
“Children! ” The coach’s voice boomed across the field like divine intervention. Or at least, like a man who had coached two generations of hot-headed prodigies and lived to smile through it. He’d been the powerhouse of the South Korean national team for almost two decades before retiring into mentorship.
These days, he wore sports jackets and orthopedic insoles and still trained like he had something to prove.
“I was given strict orders to help you both, as I already do, just… together. For a brief period,” he beamed, eyes twinkling like none of this tension was new. “I can’t betray what your parents have instructed.”
Keonho muttered something obscene. Martin kicked grass at him, high as he could.
“Now,” Coach continued, gently setting the ball under his cleat like the world wasn’t burning beneath it, “Mr. Edwards, please work on your low-dives while Mr. Ahn improves his penalty shots. Do your best!”
And like clockwork, they were back at it.
Cleats biting into turf. Shouts echoing against the goalposts. The thud of a ball launched with too much spite and not enough aim. Keonho’s hair was already stuck to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back in soaked patches. Martin was sprawled half in the dirt, half in a dive, one glove off and teeth bared in a grin like he lived for every near-miss.
Drills. Cursing. A thousand insults tossed like confetti between breathless bursts of motion. Their feet moved like muscle memory, like war. Each pass precise, each fake daring.
It should’ve been hell.
But on the field, they weren’t sons of legacy or symbols of rival dynasties—they were just two bodies in motion, hellbent on outlasting the other.
Keonho cut across the field in a blur, the ball skimming past Martin’s fingertips and bouncing off the post. Martin barked something that might’ve been “try harder,” but it came out with too much laughter to sting.
They trained until the sky dipped from gold to indigo, the field awash in the glow of floodlights and the smear of sunset. Until their chests burned and their legs trembled and the rest of the world felt far, far away.
They didn’t say it.
But this—this was the only place it made sense to be near each other.
Coach clapped once from the sidelines, startling a bird from the bleachers. “That’s enough for today, boys. You both did well. Actually worked like a pair out there.”
He looked proud. That kind of quiet, unshakable pride that came from seeing potential finally click. Something was stirring—he saw it as camaraderie, a spark of trust between old rivals beginning to blur into something stronger.
“Come on now,” he gestured, beckoning them forward. “Shake hands. Properly.”
Martin hesitated, pulling off his gloves, chest still rising and falling with the rhythm of the match. Keonho wiped sweat off his face with the back of his wrist, blond hair matted to one cheek, breathing hard, a bloodthirsty smile still tugging at the edge of his mouth.
Martin rolled his eyes. Stepped forward.
All he saw was sweat and teeth and a face he might’ve considered handsome, if it were on anyone else.
Their hands met at the center of the field, too tight, too hot, too aware.
Coach grinned like it was friendship.
It became habit before either of them could stop it. End of practice. One step forward, hands out, always in the same rhythm. They never talked about it. It was just coach’s orders, after all.
Off the field, they still tore into each other like it was instinct. Still snapped and clawed and circled like wolves with something to prove. Still couldn’t pass one another in the hallway without some sideways jab about footwork or legacy or that pathetic last dive.
But this —this might be something else.
Keonho started thinking about Martin’s hands more than he wanted to. How rough they were from blocking his shots, how they fit into his own. How the gloves peeled off at the end of practice, slow, a bit theatrical, red palms catching the sun. How they dropped to the base of the goalpost, exposing skin that was just flushed enough to pull Keonho’s gaze and touch his own– bare .
One afternoon, their fingers caught a little too long. Not on purpose. But not exactly an accident.
Another day, Keonho tightened his grip a second too long and didn’t let go first.
Something was shifting. New. Alarming .
Martin, 10:48 AM: “CROWN PRINCE THROWS SUPPORT BEHIND GREEN ENERGY”
You believe in solar now?
Keonho, 10:51 AM: Anything that stops you from speaking instead of me is green in my book.
Martin, 10:52 AM: Wow. So eloquent. No wonder they call you the nation’s mouthpiece.
Keonho, 10:54 AM: Better than the guy whose entire political platform is being tolerable in photos.
Keonho’s phone buzzed again five minutes into his Diplomacy Theory lecture with a photo of Martin at some Seoul University charity gala, grinning in a suit like he didn’t used to bite people during unmoderated caucuses.
Martin, 11:01 AM: Caption: “Future PM lights up the room, charming mystery girl.”
I’d say this is slander but I am glowing.
Keonho, 11:03 AM: Is that highlighter or shame on your ugly face?
He didn’t get a reply until three hours later, when Martin sent a tabloid shot of Keonho holding a toddler at an embassy meet-and-greet.
Martin, 2:47 PM: “Prince Keonho softens public image with children’s charity debut.” This you?
The audacity.
Keonho, 2:49 PM: You’re just mad the kid liked me better than you.
Martin, 2:51 PM: He thought you were a fucking bodyguard .
They didn’t talk on the phone. Not really. But the texts kept coming. Links. Headlines. Tweets. Screenshots of gossip article typos and blurry fancams.
When Martin said something too cutting, Keonho would screenshot it and send it back with a “?” like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever read. When Keonho sent him a press blurb from the palace’s website, Martin responded with a picture of a fucking cow chewing grass.
It was routine. Passive. Pretend.
Except sometimes it wasn’t.
Keonho caught himself reading the texts with something too close to interest. Not just the snark—he’d started noticing the timing, the punctuation. The way Martin’s dry humor always came in waves, sharper when he was tired, too obvious when he was in a good mood.
Martin wasn’t supposed to be predictable. But now Keonho could tell when he was distracted, when he was holding back. When he meant something and hoped Keonho wouldn’t look at it too hard.
And Martin—Martin had started liking the silence between replies. The way Keonho always answered, eventually. The absence of hostility in every shared headline. The way it felt less like provocation, more like conversation.
Neither of them said it. Neither of them thought it.
But there was something different now. A kind of pause.
Like the breath before an apology. Or the half-step before a laugh.
Surprising. Worrying.
A liability.
Martin hadn’t wanted to throw the party.
Not with him coming.
It had started as a joke—some offhand suggestion from his campaign manager to show he was still young, still relatable. Next thing he knew, there was a waitlist of three hundred names and the Gangnam-gu venue had been locked down six months in advance. Top floor. Panoramic city views. Guest list stacked with politicians, celebrities, and the kind of socialites who pretended not to recognize him before tagging him in blurry Instagram stories with captions like “our future prime minister <3.”
He’d invited Keonho because he had to. Because it was expected. Because the public still wasn’t over their “reconciliation arc,” and neither were their mothers.
He didn’t expect him to show up. But he did. Of course, he did, he had to. No choice, and all that.
In a black suit with a collar that looked sharp enough to slice a throat and a permanent scowl that made him look allergic to joy. The press went wild. Martin barely blinked. Just handed him a glass of champagne and didn’t comment on the way he held it like it might explode. Hours passed. Speeches, laughter, too many hands shaking his. Too many fake smiles. And through it all, Keonho lingered. On the periphery, watching; jaw taut as he spoke with Seonghyeon or other old classmates, scowling like it wasn’t a fucking reunion.
Until Martin caught his eye from across the ballroom and grinned.
The music had shifted—slick, bass-heavy, something ridiculous and retro, and the crowd had started to thin on the edges of the dance floor.
He made his way over, drink in hand, and leaned in with a smirk. “Come dance, grumpy.”
Keonho narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“You can dance. Just won’t ‘cuz you’re scared.”
“Fuck off.”
Martin laughed. “You’re good at it! You and Juhoon did a disco number at the third-year talent show. I have footage.”
“That was extortion.”
“You choreographed it. ”
“I was bribed.”
“You were twirling. That’s probably why you guys won, I bet.”
“Here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m going right outside, punching the bodyguards, walking into traffic. Got it?”
Martin bumped his shoulder. “Come on. It’s New Year’s. Don’t make me beg .” He pouted, and something in Keonho’s jaw shifted enough that it might crack. And then—shockingly, quietly—he downed the rest of his drink and said, “Just once.”
Martin grinned like he’d won a decades long war.
The music pulsed around them. Lights catching in the glass. And when their hands touched again, it felt different than the field, than the texts, than the handshake routine neither of them had spoken about since summer.
It felt like something else.
He didn’t look down, but he felt it all the same.
Something that splintered.
Keonho didn’t last long on the floor. A couple of steps, stiff as glass, surrounded by classmates he’d spent a lifetime keeping at arm’s length. He didn’t laugh, didn’t sing along. Just stood with one hand clenched around the neck of a bottle of Armand de Brignac like he was waiting for a signal to throw it like a fucking molotov cocktail.
He watched Martin, the way he moved—too fluid, too loud, too alive. Arms thrown over shoulders, spinning some half-famous heir in a lazy circle, his laughter carrying over the bass of some shitty American pop song from the mid-2000s that neither of them had ever liked. Something from middle school. Something that used to mean something else.
But Martin danced like he didn’t care . Like he wasn’t destined to his political dynasty and a lifetime of nuclear codes and wind turbine funding and arranged marriages and shit.
When he staggered back to Keonho’s side, drunk on champagne and adrenaline, he didn’t hesitate. Hands on Keonho’s hips. Thumb dragging the edge of his belt like it was a joke. Like it was casual, like it was there a thousand times before.
“Loosen up, bro.” he grinned, leaning close, swaying with him. “You’re making the champagne nervous.”
Keonho choked. Not on the alcohol. On him.
On the weight of his hands, too low and too sure. On the way he hovered—over skin, over breath, over bone —trying to coax something out of him. Trying to get him to bend , to ease, to be something else. Something softer.
More like them.
For a second, just a second, Keonho almost let him. And then he stepped back like the music had cut off. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he said, too sharp, too sudden.
The crowd barely noticed.
But Martin did.
It was too much, this sheer weight of being seen —like Martin was trying to smooth something raw out of him.
Trying to soften his sharp edges. Trying to change him.
And not out of pity. Out of hope, trust.
He couldn’t breathe, not properly. Not with that music vibrating through his chest, not with everyone around them laughing like nothing monumental was happening in the space of his stupid heartbeat.
For a second, he thought—
He almost—
But his voice cracked before he could stop it.
“Don’t,” he said, soft. Shaking his head like it might knock the feeling loose. “Don’t do that.” He didn’t step back. Didn’t storm off. Just stood there, rattled to the bone, wide-eyed and clinging to the neck of his bottle like it might anchor him to the floor.
The countdown to midnight hit zero.
It happened all at once.
A hundred champagne flutes clinked against crystal, laughter erupted like static, and someone by the DJ booth prematurely set off a party cannon that showered the room in cheap gold foil and curls of pink tissue. In the corner, someone shrieked from a rogue cork. The ceiling lights dimmed further, casting everything in a syrupy, strobe-flickering haze that made the bodies on the floor melt together in a mess of limbs and perfume and shallow congratulations.
And through it all—
Keonho saw him.
Martin.
Mouth slack with champagne and heat, cheeks flushed from drink, laughter lining the edges of his grin. He was turned toward her—some girl, press-approved and draped in red silk with a name Keonho would forget the moment she disappeared from view. Someone important enough to be seen with. Beautiful in the way that didn't offend anyone. Smiling up at him with glassy eyes and a hand on his shoulder like she belonged there.
And then—
Their lips met. Brief. Light. Almost nothing at all.
But Martin smiled into it. Easy. Familiar. Like it was normal. Like it was real.
Keonho didn’t breathe.
He caught it in pieces, between shoulders and streamers and the stutter of a remix he barely heard. A kiss at midnight. A tradition. An empty gesture.
It shouldn't have mattered.
He knew it shouldn't.
They had both done it—so many times before. Shared kisses and headlines and carefully managed affection for the sake of the crown and the country and a version of themselves that looked palatable in pictures. That was the job. That was the deal.
But tonight—
It felt like betrayal.
Because Martin had kissed her with his mouth and smiled with his eyes and Keonho had just been standing there—
Breathless.
Still aching from the way his hands had lingered on Keonho’s hips not fifteen minutes ago, like he was trying to sculpt something out of him.
Keonho turned on instinct. He didn’t remember pushing through the crowd. Didn’t remember where he dropped his glass. Didn’t remember the startled faces or the way the door hissed shut behind him like it wanted to keep him out.
The cold hit him like a punishment.
Sharp and punishing and clean.
The air outside was bitter, biting. It sliced through the expensive wool of his coat and curled into the open collar of his shirt. But he barely noticed. His skin was already burning from the inside out, a heat lodged so deep in his chest it felt like it might crack his ribs open just to escape. “Keonho–” Seonghyeon called after him fervently, but he kept walking, pushing past his bodyguards and far, far, away.
Past the clustered smokers with their forced laughter and glassy stares. Past the valet circle, where drivers leaned against black cars and tapped aimlessly at their phones. Past the last gleam of ballroom lights reflected in the windows, until all he could see was pavement, breath fogging in front of him, and the skeletal trees across the lot swaying in the winter dark.
He wanted to scream, or maybe collapse. He didn’t know anymore.
All he knew was that he felt stupid.
Stupid for thinking anything meant more than it had. Stupid for thinking the press was the only thing watching their friendship. Stupid for feeling that electric, horrible thing when Martin’s hands had rested on him like they belonged there. It shouldn’t have mattered, it wasn’t real, after all. They both did it. Had to. Press-trained, optics-crafted. Half the country believed he was still with that diplomat’s daughter from two years ago. Martin had played boyfriend to half the Diet’s nieces. It was all scripted. All safe.
It wasn’t rage. Not the usual kind. It was worse . It was that night at the cabin all over again. The taste of bile. The tightness in his throat. The heat in his face as he watched someone else reach for Martin like it was allowed. Like it wasn’t a fucking violation.
He wanted to scrub the memory from his skull.
He couldn’t, not when he still saw the smile behind his eyes. Not when his hands were still shaking. And for the first time in a long time, Keonho didn’t just not want to go back inside. He didn’t know how to fucking move .
Martin finds him just beyond the edge of the patio, near the tree line where the forest thickens, casting long shadows against the snow-laced lawn. Keonho doesn’t hear his footsteps. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s sunk deep into his coat, swaying slightly, hands stuffed into his pockets like they're the only things keeping him tethered to the ground.
“Dude,” Martin calls out, voice rough from the firepit, the cold, maybe the past year, “it’s fucking freezing.”
Keonho doesn’t move. He blinks up at the trees like they’re whispering something only he can hear, breath white against the dark.
“You drunk?”
A soft scoff. “That’s a stupid question.”
Martin steps closer, crunch of snow underfoot. “You’ve been out here a while.”
Keonho lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t. “Yeah. Thinking.”
“About?”
A long pause. Then, “What would you be if you were free?”
It hangs in the air, thick and aching, like smoke caught in the throat.
Martin blinks. “Free from what? I mean—I dunno. My life’s fine, I guess.”
Keonho scoffs—bitter, sharp. “Of course it is.”
He turns to him, slow, like the gravity’s heavier near Martin. His gaze is molten and unsteady, but too focused not to burn.
“I’d disappear,” Keonho says suddenly. “Move to a coast where no one knows my fucking name. Start a dive shop. Blow things up underwater, maybe.” His voice seethed with sarcasm like he didn't give a fuck.
“Huh,” Martin murmurs, genuinely thrown. “Well… you could just do that. Like, tomorrow.”
“No,” Keonho says, eyes dragging across his face, seeing something far older than the boy from the cabin years ago. “No, I can’t. Can you?”
Martin’s breath catches. “I—what?”
“You sure you’re not just pretending?” Keonho tilts his head, voice slow and slurred, almost curious. “Sure you’re not just waiting for someone to call your bluff?”
“I don’t know,” Martin admits, helpless. “Maybe.” It hangs in the air, thick and aching, like smoke caught in the throat.
Martin snorts and shakes his head, kind of confused. “But like, you are free. You’re literally the prince. You can have anything you want.”
Keonho turns to him, eyes glassy and wild, unfocused from too much champagne and too much pressure and not enough goddamn air. “Not everything.”
Martin furrows his brow, takes another half-step forward. “Okay, well, what can’t you have handed to you on a silver platter?”
Keonho laughs then. Sharp. Small. Tragic . He looks at Martin like he’s a joke that somehow walked out of a fairytale, still bright-eyed and stupid. “Think, you fucking moron.”
Martin stiffens. “What did you say? I didn't hear you, bro.”
Keonho’s mouth twists, eyes focused on the snow crunching below his feet. “Forget it.”
“No, say it again,” Martin says, quieter.
But Keonho is already looking past him. Or maybe through him. His vision is swimming—everything blurred and smearing at the edges like oil in water. He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or just how much he’s feeling. He leans back against the nearest tree and lets his eyes fall shut for half a second, trying to anchor himself to the chill, to the solid bark beneath his spine.
“I’m tired,” he mutters. “Of being seen. Of being used. Of feeling like… I’ve got to earn shit just to want it.”
Martin’s breath catches. Keonho looks at him, finally. “You’re sure you’re not just pretending?”
Martin falters. “Pretending what?”
“That this is what you want. That all of this—this life, these lies, these parties—it doesn’t make you sick. That kissing that random girl didn’t feel like swallowing ash.”
“Keonho." He shakes. "What do you mean?” He asks, swaying like an idiot, face all inebriated flush and long eyelashes he tries not to imagine seeing during late night phone calls he’s become accustomed to.
Keonho’s gaze darkens, narrows, his lips twitch with something like frustration, like agony. “You’re really a fucking moron.”
Then he kisses him.
No preamble. No poetry. Just leans in like gravity betrayed them both, lips pressed hot and desperate against Martin’s shocked mouth. It’s a mistake. He knows it in every fiber of his body. But god, he wants him. Hates him. Wants to shove him into a wall or drop to his knees in the snow, just to feel something that makes sense.
Martin gasps—startled, frozen—but he doesn’t pull away.
And then he kisses back.
It’s clumsy at first, breath sharp and shallow, but the moment Martin leans into it, something in Keonho breaks—his grip fists in the front of Martin’s coat, and he groans low, swallowing the taste of lip gloss that isn’t his. Doesn’t care whose it was.
Only that it’s on Martin. Only that it’s here. Now. Against every better instinct he’s ever had.
And he doesn’t stop.
Because he's never learned how. And Keonho clings, fists in his coat, dragging him impossibly close. Martin tastes like peach lip gloss and someone else’s laughter, and Keonho doesn’t fucking care. Doesn’t care that it’s wrong or that he’ll probably regret it or that the whole world could be watching.
Because he’s never been allowed to want something this badly, and he refuses to give this shit up.
The second Martin kisses back —greedy, warm, wasted enough to mean it—Keonho short-circuits. All teeth and breath and too many feelings leaking out of every seam. Martin’s tongue swipes against his lip, hands fisting in the fabric at his waist, trying to pull him in like he wants this, like he wants him, and Keonho's brain flatlines.
He panics.
“Fuck—fuck, no, wait—” Keonho stumbles, slapping his palms against Martin’s chest, trying to shove him back. “Don’t—stop, fuck. ”
He jerks away, teeth grit, heart a goddamn drumline in his throat. Everything is spinning. The trees, the snow, Martin’s flushed, stunned face—all of it a smear of light and heat and mistake.
“What the fuck was that?” he spits, voice fraying at the edges. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—fuck, I wasn’t supposed to—”
His hands are shaking, fingers twitching like they can’t decide whether to punch something or reach for him again.
“I kissed you,” he says, stunned by the sound of it. “I kissed you.”
His knees feel like they might give out. His breath is shallow. He’s drunk. He’s so drunk. And the worst part—the most unforgivable part—is that it felt natural. Like breathing.
And Martin kissed him back. Not reluctantly. Not confused. Like he meant it, drunk out of his mind or not.
“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry ,” Keonho rasps, backing up so fast he nearly slips. “I shouldn’t—I’m not—”
He doesn't finish the thought. Doesn't look him in the eye.
Just turns and bolts.
His footsteps vanish into the snow. His curses echo after him.
Martin stays frozen in place, heart hammering, lips parted, breath ghosting the air like smoke.
The need in him throbs. Violent. Unshakable.
Not just for answers.
For him.