#“no he is not. he is literally 5 years old” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shuastar · 3 days ago

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ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ .5 (JWW)

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 19k (holy shit im so sorry) warnings: cursing, angst (but also fluff!!), battle scene (blood and vomit and wounds) ᴀ/ɴ: when i tell you guys that i'm so sorry for the wait, i am SO SORRY for the wait. i think i had like thirteen different deadlines for myself for intertwined but i missed literally every single one how tf;; but it's finally out!!! consider this my very late christmas and new years present for you!! <3 anyways, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ

Wonwoo

Wonwoo’s Capital estate felt colder in the middle of the winter flurry that sprinkled and twirled white onto the dead grass. His study, usually emblazoned with a warm, crackling fire, though not in use for a while, felt colder under the hiding moon and howling winds outside. A scratchy record player hummed a soft classical piano into the room – his desperate attempt to fill the lonely, crushing silence of his estate.

The study is deathly quiet, save for the faint crackle of the dying fireplace fire, struggling to warm the cold, expansive room. Wonwoo sits at his desk, head bowed and the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. His desk is perpendicular to the empty fireplace, the firewood only holding a couple of smouldering embers of a day-old flame. He stares listlessly at the black ink of the reports on his desk and suddenly, the stack of reports fixated on the edge of his desk seem much more towering than he remembered them to be before he left his estate for the palace. His fingers rest idly, blankly, on the edge of the thick report in front of him, unmoving, as if the words and the numbers on the paper would magically disappear if he rubbed on them hard enough. He sighs as the habitual late-night thoughts creep up and teeths in his brain, eager to divulge more of his darker secrets – more of his deepest desires.

“Fuck,” he whispers into the dimly-lit room, dropping his head into his hands. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his hair sticks up from the hour he spent pulling at it not even minutes prior. He wishes he could do something, say something, transform into something other than Archduke Jeon. Will she accept him then? When he is free of duties he apparently instinctively places higher than the love of his life? Than the one person he is willing to give all of his heart to? Or maybe she would be willing to let him back into her life, into her heart, when he finally comes to terms with his instinctual hierarchy of values?

A sudden rap against the wood of his study door snaps him out of his dejected self-deprecation.

“Who is it?” he croaks, head still buried in his palms.

There is no response except for a drawn-out sigh and the creak of an opening door, followed by the pitter-patter of slippered footsteps. The familiar clang of metal on metal gave away the mystery person’s identity before Wonwoo even raised his head.

“What do you want, Soonyoung?” he mumbles into his hands, eyes closing. He wishes he could fall asleep better. He wishes he could slip into any bed and fall asleep like a newborn baby – maybe wake up with no dreams, no cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Instead, he finds himself, increasingly, these days, being held back from sleep because of her. Because every time he closes his eyes, the only thing he can see is your bright smile and all he can hear is the repeat of your laughter that had charmed him and refused to let him go.

He hears the long scrape of a chair against the cold wooden floor as Soonyoung pulls the chair in front of his desk back, slipping into the seat. There is a small slap against the wood as he plops a folder down onto Wonwoo’s desk. The sound borders on giving Wonwoo a blistering headache. Really, he couldn’t do any more reports or numbers or letters or words or anything but her.

“I’ve been going over the training reports,” Soonyoung begins, opening the folder and sifting through the pile of papers haphazardly stacked against each other, “and, you know, I think if we get Seungcheol to double the training hours for Wednesday and Friday so that we can actually get the mana drills in…”

Nothing registers for Wonwoo. It’s as if Soonyoung’s every word slips in through one ear and flows out the other – as if his words are like slippery butter or oil, flowing through his thin neural membrane, and lodging itself in absolutely nothing.

“-And so, if we can-”

Soonyoung suddenly stops mid-sentence, cutting himself off. His eyebrows furrow and he leans forward, head tilting in an amusing angle to stare directly up at Wonwoo’s bowed face. Wonwoo doesn’t even move, eyes just closing as Soonyoung pokes his head.

“You’re unusually depressing tonight. You alright?” he asks. And although his words are laced with a soft sort of teasing, Wonwoo can pick out the concern weaved through Soonyoung’s tone. Soonyoung shuts the folder at Wonwoo’s lack of response. “I can tell you that you’ve looked better.”

Wonwoo finally lets out a sigh – a long, deep, rib-trembling, bone-shaking sigh. He knows he’s looked better. Hell, he’s felt better. His hand traces a faint line on his desk’s polished surface, decorated with grooves of a frustrated youth trying to manage an abandoned estate after parents’ death. He lets out one slow breath – one that seems to carry a little more weight and hold a little more space than the room itself. It’s heavy as it escapes his mouth.

“What do you want, Soonyoung?” His words leave harsher than he honestly wants them to. But it conveys his ignorance in full respect.

Soonyoung frowns, crossing his arms. “What I want is to know why you look like you haven’t slept in four days.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Mind your own business,” he mutters under his breath, huffing. He knows Soonyoung won’t back down but he wishes he would. “Don’t you have training plans to detail?”

Soonyoung shakes his head, gathering up the papers and the folder in one swift motion. Everything ends up on the floor by Wonwoo’s desk in the next second and Soonyoung leans forward, poking Wonwoo’s bicep, straining against his white shirt.

“Training plans can wait,” Soonyoung hums. When he receives yet another silent response, Soonyoung leans back, gaze softening. “Come on. Stop acting like you’re fine when you very clearly aren’t, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo briefly looks up and he can feel the dryness in his eyes from the number of sleepless days. “I’m completely fine,” he retorts, but his words don’t hold enough power in them. Well, at least not as much as he would like. “Detail the plans, Soonyoung,” he orders, voice hoarse and thick with a lack of sleep.

Soonyoung suddenly laughs, but it’s ironic and broken off. “You’re funny if you think I don’t know you better than that,” he clicks his tongue, “Come on, Wonwoo. Spill.”

Wonwoo can’t help but crack a small ironic smile at how Soonyoung’s words feel more like an order than his. But, in all honesty, he doesn’t want to broach the topic – the topic that has his mind decrescendo into a flurry of disconnected thoughts. The topic that jams a thick round stone into the only opening of his throat and squeezes at the columns of his tear ducts to force out the salty tears from the corners of his eyes.

Wonwoo speaks up, fingers tightly fisting on top of his desk, “I personally think we should get the cavalry-”

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Soonyoung huffs, crossing his arms across his rippling chest. To anyone else, it would’ve seemed like a threat (to bash their heads in), but Wonwoo simply presses his lips together, opting to scribble his signature down onto one of the reports in front of him.

“Wonwoo, come on. Don’t think that I haven’t realized you’ve been sulking for this entire weekend,” Soonyoung tuts, wagging his finger in Wonwoo’s tight face. “More than usual, too,” he adds as an afterthought.

Wonwoo is quiet. He would tell Soonyoung everything if he knew how to phrase it better. Of course he would! Soonyoung is one of the closest friends he has ever had. Soonyoung has seen him hit himself with his own sword during a late-night knight training session and he’s seen him moon and fawn and coddle you when you were still “undisclosed” when attending the Academy. And now-

Shit, don’t fucking cry.

And now, he guesses, Soonyoung was also about to see him cry, if he could correlate the exponential thickness of his throat and burning of his eyes to the oncoming onslaught of tears that he could predict. That and another depressingly self-deprecating monologue about how he fucked up. And it wasn’t even funny because it was true. Truly depressing. Truly, and perfectly, distressing, especially to him. Especially to his love for you. It was amusing, really, to realize that you’ve such an impact on him even after three years of forced distance. Distance brings fondness, at least for him. He wasn’t too sure of you, seeing as how you had yelled at him in the gardens a couple of days back.

Soonyoung is still quiet, simply waiting for Wonwoo to speak up, which is a new development. Soonyoung maintaining his silence, of course, not Wonwoo speaking up.

“I’ve ruined everything.” Wonwoo can feel his jaw tighten at his own words, hands stilling completely on top of the thick piece of parchment. He swallows hard, his already-too-tight throat constricting around the words that he had long-since become accustomed to.

Soonyoung furrows his brows, tilting his head as his concern visibly deepens. “Everything? What do you mean?”

Wonwoo finally fully looks up, and this time, his eyes sting not from his chronic insomnia but from the blockage of emotions that threaten to rise up and overflow over any opening of his face. Soonyoung almost jolts, as if the raw pain in Wonwoo’s eyes was too much to bear at once.

“Everything,” Wonwoo breathes, as if he’s whispering a curse into the silent room. His eyes burn even more and he just knows that they are an inhuman shade of red. He doesn’t want to cry. Especially not in front of Soonyoung. “It’s gone. With her – Y/n, I mean,” he concludes hoarsely. By your name, he feels as though he is forcing every syllable out of his mouth with the effort it takes for something to push a horseless carriage uphill.

“Wait,” Soonyoung rushes to interrupt, leaning forward, “I thought you talked to her? I thought-”

Wonwoo cuts him off with a bitter gasp of a laugh. “I did talk to her,” he admits, voice cracked and words heavy with an unfamiliar sort of defeat, “It doesn’t matter. I told her everything, Soonyoung. I laid my fucking heart in front of her because I thought she would- I felt that if she could just understand my part, my rationale, even, I could have even a sliver of a chance to win her back. But I don’t-” Wonwoo breaks off. He can’t bear to continue. Not when every word he utters feels like a self-inflicted blow of pain – a dig of a sharp, serrated knife that comes in the form of harshly-spoken, hastily-drawn words. “She doesn’t feel the same. Or couldn’t – can’t, I guess. I don’t even know.” His half-monologue ends with a rather anti-climactic flourish and every passing second of silence that treats his words as something to be examined, the more he wants to drink and drink and drink until he passes out. Metaphorically.

Soonyoung is silent for a time (much help), until he finally uncrosses his legs and drums his fingers on his knee. “Are you sure, though?” he swallows at Wonwoo’s look, his arms flying up in defense. “I’m saying, she hasn’t exactly ever been the type to-”

“-She looked at me,” Wonwoo cut Soonyoung off, voice tight as his vocal cords forced the words out of his larynx, “like I was the last thing she ever wanted to deal with. Like I had ruined her life by telling her how I felt. Like I was-”

“-Wonwoo,” Soonyoung sighs, shaking his head as his fingers stilled on his knee. Wonwoo wants to snap at his friend, tell him how he doesn’t understand, how he would never fully understand the underlying torment of having to live with the knowledge that your-

“Wonwoo, what exactly did she say?” Soonyoung asks, eyebrows furrowed and now leaning against the desk.

Good question, Wonwoo thinks to himself. He recounts the words you had thrown at him, desperate for him to leave your life. The words that had sawed through his heartstrings and clipped off the tendons of his sculpted body and had knocked out the bricks of his well-crafted walls one by one, until he was left bare – in all of his diminishing glory – in front of you. Left bare in front of you and shivering in fear, lest you actually let him go.

Soonyoung waits patiently for his response.

Wonwoo finally relents – lets everything go, if only for a moment. “She said to give up on us,” he murmurs, “She said she doesn’t know if she can do it again, that she wants to forget us, that she wants me to stop.” He lets out a puff of apathetic laughter – frigid, detached, bittersweet. “She says that I’m being selfish, Soonyoung,” he finally spits, trying to swallow the thick ball down his unrelenting throat that constricts tighter every second. His hands shake on the desk and he can feel the tears start to gather again in the corners of his eyes. “I was stupid,” he laughs, “I was stupid to think she would– that anything I said would fix my mistakes. That it would return us to…” Wonwoo trails off, eyes misting over as he spots a picture frame, free of any dust, placed on the corner of his desk, “... normal,” he whispers. The word seems final, like he doesn’t expect anything else.

Soonyoung is quiet as he processes Wonwoo’s speech before opening his mouth.

“I think she just needs time, Wonwoo. She’s just scared. I know her, maybe better than you do, now. Whatever you guys had, yeah, sure, it’s over. But this? What you want it to be, that isn’t. Not unless you let it be.” Soonyoung’s voice is steady and confident. So much so that it almost makes Wonwoo believe his words.

“It’s not about giving up,” Wonwoo counters, and he can feel himself choke up. He can feel the words he’s trying to say, die in his narrowed throat. “It’s about–” he clears his throat, eyes burning and ears ringing, “-- about knowing when I can never be what she wants me to be,” he breathes, lips curling into a bitter smile and eyes blinking rapidly as if to clear them of the tears that threaten to fall.

“Wonwoo…”

Wonwoo turns, facing Soonyoung fully now. He can feel the desperate helplessness rip through his entire body. “How,” he whispers, and it feels more like a statement than anything, “am I supposed to continue on with my life when it means absolutely nothing,” he laughs. His head drops and there is a beat of silence before a small plop is heard. Wonwoo sniffs, tears tracing their unfamiliar tracks down his cheeks. “When I can’t live without her again?” His fist suddenly slams against the desk as a sob wracks through him. “I can’t do this anymore, Soonyoung. I need her by my side again.”

Soonyoung’s warm comforting hand finds its place on Wonwoo’s shoulder, slowly patting it. If he is shocked at his friend’s sudden outburst, he doesn’t show it. “I know, I know. And she needs you by her side, Woo.” Soonyoung lets out a soft laugh at Wonwoo’s sniffles and trembling shoulders, which earns him a weak shove of annoyance from Wonwoo, making him stumble back with a louder laugh. “Come on, man. It’s going to be fine. If there’s anything I’ve learned from sending her letters, which you didn’t do–”

Wonwoo cuts him off with a loud groan, voice watered down with his dwindling tears.

Soonyoung grins, slapping his friend on the back. “-- Y/n hasn’t given up on you, no matter what she says. If anything, she wants to be with you as much as you do. You just have to–”

A sudden knock startles both men into confused silence.

Wonwoo’s brows furrow as he and Soonyoung share a look.

Soonyoung gives him a sideways glance and Wonwoo shrugs, wiping at his eyes as he slowly stands up.

“Who is it?” he calls, voice now void of any evidence of tears. His deep tenor carries across his study and through his door.

It is quiet for a second before a rushed voice replies – breathless and pitched.

“Your grace, I am a messenger from the palace! His majesty has sent an urgent message with me. I am to return with your consent by daybreak!”

“From the king?” Wonwoo muses, pushing out from behind his desk.

Soonyoung whistles, brows rising, “Urgent, huh?”

Whatever this is, it isn’t something he wants to deal with tonight, is all he knows. Not any night, really, but especially not after the emotional blockade he just experienced.

“God,” Wonwoo mumbles, sinking into one of the couches, “Just fucking tell him to leave it at the door. I’ll look at it tomorrow,” he mumbles in the general vicinity of Soonyoung.

“I-”

Knock, knock.

“Your grace,” the messenger again, pressing from the other side of the door. The urgency in his voice is unmistakable. “His Majesty has stressed that this requires your immediate attention.”

Soonyoung shoots Wonwoo a pointed look, which Wonwoo shrugs off.

“Are you gonna get that?” Soonyoung huffs, fingers drumming on the wooden surface of Wonwoo’s desk.

Wonwoo lets out a loud groan, head dropping on the back of his couch. “No.”

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

Now it sounds much more urgent – like Seungcheol will have the messenger’s head if he didn’t have an answer by daybreak.

“Your grace, I beg your pardon, but this is really of the utmost importance!”

“I think this is really important, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung echoes, brows rising at the desperate knocks on the door.

Wonwoo huffs. He stands, reaching for his discarded robe that sits next to him. As he shrugs on his robe, Soonyoung trails behind him and situates himself against Wonwoo’s desk.

“You can enter,” Soonyoung calls out lazily, earning a well-timed glare from Wonwoo, who is half-way through pushing his arm through the sleeve of his robe.

“Who’s the duke here again?” Wonwoo mutters as the door creaks open, presenting a messenger.

Soonyoung shoots him a cheeky grin, arms crossing as he leans back against the edge of the desk. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Do it with your knights, not with my guests, dumb–”

“--I apologize for my late interruption, your grace!” The messenger greets, bowing deep at his hips, hand resting on his chest. His pale face is ruddy, with splotches of red and pink stark against his skin, from the cold outside.

Wonwoo blinks. Had the Capital messengers always been this enthusiastic with their greetings?

“His Majesty insisted this matter could not wait,” is said quieter, with much less enthusiasm.

“Yes, well…” Wonwoo trails off, noticing the envelope the messenger grips in his hand. He clears his throat. “What is it that His Majesty deemed appropriate to send at this hour?” Really, if it was Seungcheol, it would probably be an invitation to a ball of some sorts. But the way Soonyoung stares at the envelope, the way the messenger quivers under his stare, hints at something more. And it makes his stomach churn. It makes his eyes dart from Soonyoung to the envelope to the messenger in a fast triangle, brows furrowing as the messenger stumbles over his words.

“Your grace, I apologize for disturbing you but I was ordered to deliver this message directly,” the messenger repeats, hands trembling.

Wonwoo sighs, his patience already thinning. “Deliver the message, then leave,” he says, voice flat and uninterested. Really, he could think of thirteen other things he could be doing right about now.

From behind him, Soonyoung stifles a laugh.

However, the messenger hesitates, clearly unnerved by Wonwoo’s piercing words. “I- I apologize, but His Majesty has requested a response by tonight.”

“Tonight?” Wonwoo’s brow furrows and he hears Soonyoung push off of the desk, footsteps light against the wood as he pads over to him. “His Majesty is well aware that my estate takes at least three hours from the palace. Surely whatever this is can wait until sun-up.” He gestures towards the crinkled envelope in the messenger’s hand. “Let me see it and you may return to the palace. I will send a message to His Majesty if I see fit.”

The messenger hands over the letter, hands shaking. Wonwoo can feel Soonyoung’s peeping eyes stare at the envelope in his hands as he breaks the wax seal with a sharp flick.

“What is this about anyways?” Soonyoung suddenly asks, admittedly too bored of waiting for Wonwoo to unfold the parchment out of the envelope in silence.

“I-”

“-Quiet,” Wonwoo cuts off both the messenger and Soonyoung with his snapped word. As his eyes scan the unfolded parchment, inked with delicate cursive, his jaw tightens with every line.

This is ridiculous.

Wonwoo can physically feel the world around him crumble. He can feel the blood draining from his face and his teeth grinding together.

He can’t do this.

He can’t fucking do this.

Not again. Not after everything.

“What? What is it?” Soonyoung asks, stepping closer to try to read the letter.

Wonwoo allows Soonyoung to read perhaps one word before the parchment is fisted into a ball in his hand. The thick paper folds surprisingly well under his grip. He tosses the ball onto his desk, followed by the envelope.

“He’s summoning me north,” he says. The words feel like a punch to his gut as he utters them outloud. It’s one thing to read them and another to confirm them from your own mouth. There is not even room to argue. It’s the king, for fuck’s sake. He can’t argue. What Seungcheol says, goes. And he must know. Of course he knows – about you, about him, about them. So why? Why, why, why, why, fucking why?

“Again?” Soonyoung frowns. Even he looks disappointed.

Wonwoo wants to laugh. He wants to rip apart the note and throw it into his dwindling fireplace. He wants to strangle the messenger until this ghastly note disappears itself. He wants to laugh and cry and scream and throw up all at the same time because why. Why was it that every time he tries to right things, tries to make an effort, tries to keep things in the status quo, something comes up to ruin it? To shred it into the tiniest, microscopic pieces and dump it onto the floor for him to clean up?

“Wonwoo?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo replies, word clipped. “There’s a threat. He’s most generously decided that I’m the one to handle it.”

Soonyoung leans against one of the high-backed couches, arms crossed. “He has other commanders. I can go by myself. Why you?”

“Because it always has to be me,” Wonwoo mutters bitterly, a frustrated hand running through his hair. He turns to the messenger and he can’t help how tense he sounds. Not when he feels like there is a rope that is slowly choking him. “Tell His Majesty I will respond in the morning. You can leave with my answer then.”

In any other situation, the speed in which the messenger’s eyes widen would be comical. Wonwoo’s too immersed in his own mind to notice. “But your grace–!”

“--I don’t care,” Wonwoo interrupts. His voice rises unconsciously. “I’ve had enough for one fucking evening. Stay in the guest quarters if you must, but you will leave with my response tomorrow at first light.” Then, almost as an habitual ironic afterthought, “Dismissed.”

The messenger, though Wonwoo can see the hesitation in his eyes, nods at his command. He bows hastily, back-stepping out of the room. “As you wish, your grace.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

Wonwoo leans against his desk heavily, fingers fisted atop the dark polished wood. The room is silent, save for the dying fire and Wonwoo’s sharp exhales that sound more like sobs than sighs.

Soonyoung sucks in a breath. “Seungcheol really knows how to pick his moments and stun a man.”

Wonwoo laughs. It’s bitter – so much so that it almost startles him. “That–” he chuckles, gesturing vaguely at the door as his frustrations spills over into his words, “is the exact fucking problem he has. He doesn’t pick and choose, he creates them whenever it’s fucking convenient for him,” he hisses, eyes closing. He can’t do this tonight. If he thinks about this for one more second, he feels as though he’ll snap.

Soonyoung sighs. “You’re mad.”

Wonwoo’s eyes snap open, head tilting almost psychopathically as his brows furrow. “Of course, I’m mad!” he snaps. His hand comes down against his desk in a loud echoing slap! and he pushes himself off his desk, starting a pace back and forth. “Every time– every single fucking time – I try to focus on my life, my choices, my–” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening at the name that dies in his throat, “He pulls me back in like I’m some sort of pawn. If it’s not the north, it’s the title. If not the title, then the crown. If not the crown, then some other fucking thing in the nation that I frankly don’t give a clown’s ass about! It’s always something.”

Soonyoung runs a hand through his hair like he’s debating on whether to indulge Wonwoo in his rant. He indulges: “You have to understand, though, Seungcheol’s a king. His priorities are to the kingdom. He can’t help that.”

Wonwoo comes to a skidding stop, turning on his friend with a piercing glare that makes Soonyoung regret what he says almost immediately. “And me? What about what’s best for me? For her? If Seungcheol’s all happy-go-lucky brother-figure in her life, why doesn’t he think about her?” His voice drops to a bitter mutter as he continues, unaware of how disheveled he looks with red eyes and fly-away hair. “He doesn’t care. He never has.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Wonwoo scoffs. It’s loud and echoes through the room. He wants to cry. He wants to sit on the floor and hug his knees to himself and just cry. Not go to war. Not fight in battles that were frankly not his to begin with. “Isn’t it?” he breathes, opening his arms wide. “He sends me off to fight in his battles while he plays Society host. He tears me away from everything I’ve ever wanted, cared about, and I just take it. Like some rich owner’s lap dog, expected to just smile and bow and salute and say Yes, your majesty, like I’m worth only what my fucking sword has to offer!” Wonwoo’s voice is tense with emotion as he all but yells the last few words out. He can feel the hot tears down his cheeks again and he hates it. He hates it and hates it with all his heart. His shoulders heave and shake as he catches his breath. He finds himself face-to-face with the stones of his fireplace mantel. His fingers grip the edges like he is steadying himself. “I’m so fucking sick of this,” he whispers, words barely audible. But it echoes. It echoes the loudest.

Soonyoung crosses the room, a warm hand on his shoulders, grounding him. “Wonwoo,” he starts, and Wonwoo just knows he’s going to say something smart and understanding and reasonable, “If you’re this angry, tell him. Don’t just sit here and brood in your self-pity. You’re first and foremost his friend, not his servant. Seungcheol’ll listen if you-”

“-- Would he?” Wonwoo interrupts, facing Soonyoung. He takes in how Soonyoung’s eyes rake over his face, taking in the tears, the blushed cheeks, the bite of his lip. “ It feels like all I ever do is follow orders. A sword to wield, an archduke to parade, an asset to marry off. And then a friend, in some cases.”

He knows, he’s being too harsh. He’s known Seungcheol for at least twenty years. It’s not like this is old news. He knows Seungcheol’s duty to the country will always override anything. Even his love for Mingyu, his own brother. And he knows it’s not done maliciously, especially not to people in his circle. But sometimes – sometimes – his words feel like a snow storm just ripped through your entire life and uprooted every single memory from the malleable ground.

“You’re more than that.”

“I know.”

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Wonwoo doesn’t respond, instead turning back towards the dying flame.

“It feels like time’s always fleeing, Soon,” Wonwoo whispers, forehead meeting the cool stones of the mantel. The childhood nickname is nostalgic on his tongue. “I need more.”

“Then start chasing it. If you need more, start chasing for more.”

------------------------------

There is a profound feeling of desperation and sadness in a leaving dawn, Wonwoo decides. The dawn of today feels too cruel – a biting cold that settles too deep in his chest. It feels heavier than the steam of his breath in the cold morning air and heavier than the icy icicles and thick sheen of snow that clung to the cobblestones and the rooftop gargoyles. Around him, horses hoof at the stones beneath their feet. Perhaps they are as desperate as him to not leave the safety, the warmth, the longing of the Capital. Or maybe they’re just hungry. Either way, Wonwoo feels a pang of relation (though short-lived when his horse nudges against him), with the horses.

Clangs of metal fill the royal courtyard as the royal knights, under the command of Soonyoung (really, if not for his uniform, no one would guess for him to be the Commander-in-Chief), and the Northern Knights, under the command of himself, busy themselves with the final preparations. Soonyoung loiters by his side, already mounted on his horse and (im)patiently waiting for his subordinates to finish tightening useless straps on their horses’ harness. But even Wonwoo could see how his usually cheerful nature is subdued.

Time seems to slow as the sun rolls along its usual path along its sky route, painting even the shadows of the royal courtyard a magnificent display of golds, reds, and oranges. The knights grunt as they mount their horses and some clamber onto military carriages that hold supplies for the next who-knows-how-long stay in the North.

Soonyoung yells something out from next to him.

The horses jostle and neigh before the first line starts to trot across the courtyard and out the wrought-iron gates of the palace.

But Wonwoo couldn't move.

He sits rigidly on his horse, gaze locked in on the silent castle and its closed wooden doors, guarded by no one at this hour. It’s always the same, he thinks. Every time he thinks he can finally stay, every time he promises to stay, every time he thinks he can finally put her first, duty to the crown always tears him away. Far away. To the North, far away. And the ending is always the same. She’ll get a letter from either him or Soonyoung (whoever's letter reaches her first), and she will have to stay alone, frightfully along, battling something he was unable to help with again, as he fought to the inch of his death in some random Northern county to protect an inconsequential-yet-tremendous border.

His fists clench tighter around the reins as her words, her face, her trembling bottom lip fills his mind.

You just leave, Wonwoo. Again and again.

And he had shaken his head no. He had promised her, with tears and determination in his eyes, that he would stay.

No. No, you have to believe me, I won’t.

Yet here he was, ironically.

Yet here he was, breaking that promise like the others he had broken (unknowingly) before it. And it wasn’t even the leaving part. It was the inevitable cyclical nature of hope and heartbreak of your relationship. Every chance he had with you seemed somehow destined to crumble and shatter under the weight of some other letter or some ill-fated re-commission into the battle fields he had thought he had left behind the prior campaign.

And he just couldn’t fucking escape.

He wonders, briefly, if you were even at the palace. He wonders if the messenger is currently running through the palace hallways, trying to locate your room to deliver his letter. He wonders if it was enough – his explanation, of course. His futile attempt at explaining his situation, his rise to duty (again) and how if it weren’t for the official commission, he would have never left. His futile attempt at convincing her that he would stay had ended the same too, though. He wonders if she had ever sat in her sitting room, against that windowsill by her fireplace, quietly hoping for his return from this godforsaken battlefield.

“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung calls softly. It breaks the suffocating quiet. “We have to go.” He says it more as an order.

An unamused laugh escapes Wonwoo’s mouth. He can’t help it. This entire situation feels like a series of dreadfully unfortunate events on his part.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice barely audible to even his own ears. He is rigid on his horse and his hands seem frozen in place on the reins. The leather of his gloves creak under the strain as his fists tighten. He feels his horse shift from foot to foot, sensing his unease.

Soonyoung turns his horse to face him. His brows are furrowed and there is a brief pang of guilt in the shallow part of Wonwoo’s heart at the concern written all over his friend’s face.

“What do you mean ‘you can’t?’” Soonyoung asks, blinking. “You have to. You don’t have a choice.”

Wonwoo’s jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut. His words feel like they are forced out of his throat, “Don’t tell me things I already know,” he mutters. He swallows. He can feel the uncomfortable ball of frustration that he seems to be increasingly familiar with at the back of his throat. Jesus. “I promised her, Soonyoung,” he spits out, and he can feel his emotions (in the form of reluctant tears) rise up to the surface, “I promised her I wouldn’t leave again.” He heaves out a sigh that sounds like it is ripped from his lungs. “I promised. She had my word.”

Soonyoung’s reply didn't come immediately. Quite frankly, Wonwoo did not need it to come immediately. The weight of his friend’s silence was heavy enough. Enough for Wonwoo to know what Soonyoung would say.

“I’m so fucking delusional to think-” Wonwoo cuts himself off as his throat tightens. If he continues, he knows that he’s going to cry – dissolve into a mess of tears again. Except this time, it would be exponentially more embarrassing to shed a few tears in front of five thousand of his men. But his eyes linger on the castle doors. As if his sheer force of will could make her appear on the palace steps, waiting for him in the cold as the snow flurried down around him and his knights. As if just simply staring at the wooden door in front of him could move her from her slumber and into his arms so that he could say one last goodbye before he breaks her heart again. Just like he always does.

Please come out.

His eyes widen just a fraction as the door creaks open.

His face drops when it is only a messenger, a bag slung over his thick coat and still in the process of pulling his hat down over his mess of hair.

The gates shut tight behind him. The castle is silent once again.

There is a sound of horse hooves behind him and Wonwoo knows his men are getting increasingly restless. They don’t want to ride up north any more than he does. Some of them have wives, most of them have more tethering responsibilities like sisters, brothers, parents, and family businesses.

He wants to laugh at himself. It took only one month and two weeks in the Capital for him to forget this feeling of helplessness when he left – when he left you behind. It was like he was twenty one again, leaving for the first time, not knowing he wouldn’t step foot back into the protected walls of Society for three years. Not knowing that he wouldn’t see your face again for another tormenting three years. He wishes you could come out. He wishes he could stay a little longer – just until the sun is fully in the sky and the church towers blare their bells. But dawn is a picky little thing, and the glowing orb in the sky has already raced past his time of leave.

“Sir.” A knight. “Your grace, we need to leave now in order to make it on time to the northern camp. It’s already past dawn, sir,” he states.

Wonwoo sighs, loosening the grip he had on his reins. “I know, Lim, I know.”

“C’mon, Wonwoo. Let’s head out,” Soonyoung says softly, handing him a fur hat with a grin that doesn’t really reach his eyes. Wonwoo cracks a smile, though shaky, as he pulls it on.

With a shaky breath, the winter wind whistling in his ears, Wonwoo tugs his reins, turning his horse towards the open gates.

“Let’s go.”

It’s not an order. Rather, it’s more of a statement – something that he convinces himself he should be doing: following orders. It is his duty. The longer he waits in the falling snow for someone who he knows will not magically appear, the longer the road to the north becomes. As his men start trotting out of the palace gates, his body jerks as his horse follows suit, leading him (unwillingly) further away from the palace.

Soonyoung sighs from next to him. “You’re not leaving because you want to. Y/n knows the kind of man – the kind of person you are. She’ll understand.” His words, supposed to be comforting, only leave Wonwoo with a heavier heart. He wishes he could argue against Soonyoung’s words. Tell him that he’s not sure if she would understand after everything he forced her to endure by herself. He had failed her so many times – to stay, to protect, to shield her – that every time he tried to find a way to fix everything, the world found some threshold way to pull him away.

As their horses move through the gates and the iron-wrought lock clicks in place, Soonyoung gives him a sideways glance that Wonwoo pretends he doesn’t see.

“What are you thinking about?” comes Soonyoung’s question.

“Nothing,” is Wonwoo’s one-word answer that he knows Soonyoung won’t believe.

And he doesn’t.

“Liar,” Soonyoung laughs as they pick up the pace, now galloping against the snow-covered road that leads to the edges of the capital and into the north. The sound of hooves against the well-paved Capital roads ring in their ears and their coats fly behind them as the snow falls faster in harder flurries.

Wonwoo’s eyes sting. First from the wind rushing into them. And then from the ache in his chest that swelled until it felt unbearable. His breath hitches with every gallop and thud of his horse’s hooves against the road that slowly turns more worn and uneven. With every shaking breath he inhales and as the cold whipped at his eyes and cheeks and nose, his vision went blurry. Blurry and blurry and blurry until his breaths suddenly come out in hitched sobs and his cheeks are wet and warm with salty tears. He wills it to stop as he brushes a furious hand over his eyes. From the corner of his eye, he can see Soonyoung stare at him as they race across the outskirts of the Capital.

“You okay?” Soonyoung’s voice cuts through everything – his thoughts, the wind, his tears.

Wonwoo nods, blinking back the rest of his tears that threaten to fall. “Fine.”

Soonyoung’s shrug is followed by a sigh, “Whatever you say, man. Just don’t fall off your horse.”

“Fucking face forward.”

Soonyoung’s laugh, head tilted back and teeth shining, brings a smile, though reluctant to his own lips. And for a second, he has hope that when he returns, they will be okay.

------------------------------

The sound Wonwoo hates the most is the sound of ripping flesh. The sound of burning buildings. The sound of destruction that surrounds and encaptures the air around the event. It brings forward a devastation that people would think impossible until they lay eyes on it themselves. A sound that even he thought was impossible until his third day in the military campaign, three-ish years ago, fighting not far from this very battleground. A sound that would haunt him even in his sleep, paired with the blur-inducing image of a knight under his command, crumpled to the ground, a glinting spearhead shining from the small of his back and blood slowly pooling out of his mouth: instant death.

The smell Wonwoo hates the most is the smell of blood-curdling iron. The bitter smell of warm blood that pools with mines of iron that hit the inside of his nose with a sharp knife. The smell of sharp blood that hits the inside of his nose and pokes and prods his malleable brain. That assaults his eyes that have seen things worse than a simple wound. But it’s a gushing wound. A gushing, tearing, irony wound that he sees in front of him. And he can feel the gag and bile rise to his mouth, which he swallows back down in a desperate attempt to seem calm.

And imagine his own surprise when, suddenly, he hears the haunting sound of ripping flesh and smells the overwhelming odor of warm blood hit his senses, followed by a searing, blinding, sharp pain in his shoulder.

The battlefield is chaos. Not only this one, but all and every one he has been to. In this one, the snow is almost blinding and the clash of steel and courageous men fill everyone’s ears. Wonwoo can barely feel the cold. This is the final battle. If he wins, there is no more war. At least, not supposed to be. If he wins, there is no more fighting the nation’s battles. If he wins–

Suddenly, everything moves in slow motion: like he is watching himself from another screen or like he is reading a book about himself.

The sharp whistle of something cutting through the air is his single warning. It gloats past his ear like a little child who stole your candy without you realising. The next warning is not as much of a warning as it is a promise. A promise of something akin to death?

Wonwoo turns, but – ah – too late. The pain he expects – more painful than he thought, actually – erupts in a flowering and deep maroon bloom in his shoulder as the weapon (a spear, he finds) strikes. It’s his fault, he guesses, that he had chosen today to be the day he forgoes armor. He’s always worked better without armor. His weakness, he realizes, a little too late.

The spear lodges itself in his shoulder with a sickening force. His breath hitches, eyes blurring over as the shock of the weapon’s blow steals his balance. He staggers as he feels his flesh rip and the iron assault his nose. One of his hands instinctively goes up and grips the shaft of the spear.

God…

His legs give out and he finds himself kneeled over, sword embedded in the ground and a long ass spear sticking out of his shoulder. At least it wasn’t his right one.

“Wonwoo!”

Y/n?

Ah, no.

He can very clearly, at least, see Soonyoung running through the clamor and chaos of the remaining bits and pieces of a retreating force (when had they started winning?). Soonyoung sounds awfully panicked and concerned as the knight fully jumps off his horse and starts sprinting the rest of the way to Wonwoo. There is a momentary pang of fulfillment – because who wouldn’t want their best friend running to their side in a time of need – before the sharper pain of the goddamn spear claws its way into his nerve endings.

“Wonwoo! You-”

Wonwoo’s eyes widen as Soonyoung leans over him. In an almost habitual instinct, his right arm shoots out, the flat edge of his sword meeting another metal. At the sudden attack, Soonyoung whips around, sword already in hand, and makes quick work of the rest of the problem.

The man is dead on the ground in ten seconds flat.

Wonwoo chuckles, every breath bringing tears to his eyes. The pain is sharper now as cries and shouts of victory fill up the barren, frozen, bloody valley. He goes to rise but immediately sways on his feet. His vision swims dangerously and the edges of his world suddenly darken.

“Wonwoo, fuck, what happened to you?” Soonyoung rushes out and Wonwoo isn’t too sure if it’s the effect of the blood loss, the cold, or the spear sticking out of his shoulder, but his ears ring and he can barely decipher what Soonyoung says.

“You’re funny,” Wonwoo laughs out, stumbling into Soonyoung’s steadying hands that make quick work of inspecting his body.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Soonyoung mutters (Wonwoo thinks it’s mostly to himself), as he sharply whistles for his horse. “Why is the fact that you look whiter than snow and have a fucking spear sticking out of your shoulder funny?”

Wonwoo accepts Soonyoung’s slinging of his good arm over his shoulder, dragging him over to his horse that had come to a light trot in front of them.

Wonwoo clenches down on his teeth so hard he thinks they’ll break when Soonyoung helps him onto the horse. For a second, he thinks he’s going to black out. If someone had ever told him getting hurt would hurt this bad, he would’ve never become a knight. God.

“Is the spearhead through the back?” Wonwoo asks instead, and at his own words, he’s instantly much more aware of the long stick poking out the front of his shoulder.

Soonyoung hitches himself up behind him. “Yeah. Don’t talk.”

“Ha!” Wonwoo laughs (or tries to). But it’s empty. He can feel the bile rise in his throat again. He doesn’t have the strength to swallow it down this time. The horse whinnies and neighs as he throws up onto the right, his shoulder throbbing at another beat to his slowly slowing heart. He can’t help the tears that flow down his cheeks and the remnants of his undigested breakfast make its way up from his stomach and into the open. He can’t help the choked gasps and groans of pain either. Neither can he do anything when he feels Soonyoung’s warm hand on his back, right under the wound, and a foreign pressure against the wound itself – like someone had grabbed the spearhead.

A grunt of exertion and the same tearing of flesh.

A clatter of metal and wood.

A shout of pain (from his part not anything else).

A gush of blood that coats the back of the horse and dribbles to the ground.

And then a blinding pressure against the wound.

“Stay awake!” Soonyoung yells right in his ear. Wonwoo feels a sharp slap against his cheek but his eyes are fluttering shut. Soonyoung should’ve never pulled out that goddamn spear.

“You-” Another shout of paint interrupts Wonwoo’s own words as the horse starts accelerating into a gallop and Soonyoung applies more pressure against the wound. “Fuck, take it easy.”

Wonwoo’s head lolls against Soonyoung's shoulder. And he realizes that this is the first time he’s ridden side-saddle. It’s exceptionally uncomfortable, and not just because he’s gushing blood.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re losing blood.” Soonyoung’s words sound so much like an order it actually makes him shut up.

He barely registers Soonyoung’s yell to return back to main camps and someone to ride ahead of them to notify the medics of the wounded. He also barely registers someone coming up behind him and tightly wrapping his shoulder until he feels the blood slow to an occasional dribble. Perhaps the cold helps clot his blood. He doesn’t really know.

He and Soonyoung have already been riding for at least five minutes before he actually realizes that the horse has started moving again. And when he does, each bump and gallop on a different leg jolts pain up his body and into his shoulder. He can’t imagine what he looks like now – bloody, teary, gasping oxygen into his lungs as he leans against his best friend who holds him close to his chest. It’s a weird feeling.

“Tell her…” Wonwoo gasps, the words leaving him before he can think them through, “I didn’t mean…” another gasp, “to leave.” His voice breaks at the end when the horse suddenly jumps over a fallen tree.

“You tell her yourself,” Soonyoung snaps. Wonwoo’s unsure if he’s angry at him, at the horse, or at his wound. Perhaps all three?

As the ride lengthened, the packed snow slowing the horse down, Wonwoo’s breaths turn more shallow and uneven, and he knows Soonyoung can feel his warm, wet, sticky blood seeping through his gloves.

“Hah,” Wonwoo swallows but his mouth feels disgustingly dry, “Y/n,” he mutters, “should’ve stayed… should’ve–” his voice fades out, replacing itself with a broken mumble of words even he cannot make out.

“Stop fucking talking,” Soonyoung hisses and Wonwoo can clearly hear the tremble of worry in his friend’s voice. Soonyoung’s grip around him tightens. It’s rather comforting to know at least one person doesn’t want him to kneel over and die.

But for some reason, his lips cannot make out anything else except her name – like a prayer. Or a plea of some sorts. Like some lifeline that tethers him to the current world. “Y/n… doesn’t know… I–” a pained groan interrupts him again and he feels the tether slowly loosen in his grasp.

The next time he regains consciousness, they’ve arrived at main camp, medics crowding Soonyoung’s horse as Soonyoung tries to help lower Wonwoo onto some sort of stretcher cot thing. He feels the burning sensation of the rubbing alcohol against his wound as the medics clean his wound.

“...not taken out the spear, Sir!”

“I-!”

“-See?” Wonwoo laughs, face scrunching in pain and eyes screwing closed as the rubbing alcohol meets his shoulder again. “Told you it was a bad fucking idea. Now I’m gonna die and–”

“--Okay! When I told you to shut the fuck up, I meant for you to shut the fuck up entirely. Not only when you please, smartass!” Soonyoung snaps, and Wonwoo doesn’t even mind his friend’s raised voice. He deserves it, anyways.

Wonwoo opens his mouth to retaliate, only for a scream of pain to be ripped from the confines of his throat when the medics pour something all over his wound and turn him to the side. Wonwoo’s breaths come out in desperate pants and he feels his heart start to race when his vision quickly closes around the world, blackening the edges of his sight too quickly for his liking.

And before he can even say anything, he finds his eyes fluttering shut and his body going limp, followed by a prick in his arm that barely registers. Well, compared to the gaping hole in his shoulder anyway.

Soonyoung

War camps are usually grim. More when people lose, but it’s grim. The scent of iron and burning wood always lingers in the cold air and the sterile odors of rubbing alcohol and medical ointment always burns itself into the grooves of your brain by the end of the campaign. And you have to enter a war campaign, yes, with hope, but you also have to brace yourself for the worst. Like losing family. Or friends, for that matter. Except, when that time actually comes, or when you think that time will come, you’re never ready. Of course you aren’t. Because who’s ready to see their best friend fall to his knees with a giant fucking spear lodged in his shoulder.

God, when Soonyoung first saw Wonwoo stumble and fall, he had thought the spear had hit Wonwoo’s chest. Or some more important organ in his body. He saw Wonwoo’s life flash before his eyes.

It’s a dangerous combination: worry, concern, and panic. It muddles your brain and makes you do stupid things like pull the said spear out of your best friend’s shoulder to leave a huge gaping wound and then get berated over the entire action when you reach the medical tents at main camp because apparently you’re not supposed to do that?

But still.

The medical tent is, unusually, quite empty. Empty, considering all the casualties the order had this time around. God, right. The casualty reports. He had completely forgotten in the midst of this mess.

“Sir, will you be glaring over our shoulders the entire night?” Yewon asks. Her pretty brown eyes flutter up to Soonyoung as her hands still over Wonwoo’s open wound, half-stitched. The other medics nod in support of her question.

“I was not glaring,” is his reply. His arms cross as he leans against a pillar. To the right of him is the stainless steel medical trolley containing the rubbing alcohol bottles, some weird-smelling dark ointment, surgical thread and needles, and Wonwoo’s dark red bandages that were only thirty minutes old.

Yewon laughs. If she wasn’t working in this campaign, Soonyoung would have thought of courting her, except she was working in this campaign and she was conveniently working directly under him. All the more reason to start glaring.

“Sir, quite frankly, you’re making the newer nurses nervous.”

“Not you?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Then, not my fault if they can’t work under pressure.”

“Not pressure, Sir, but constant scrutiny?”

“Same thing.”

“Definitely not–”

A groan coming from Wonwoo’s mouth cut them both off. Yewon glances at Soonyoung like he had something to do with Wonwoo waking up earlier than planned from his herb-anesthesia-induced slumber. Soonyoung shrugs, instead moving closer to Wonwoo.

He looks bad. He doesn’t think he’s seen Wonwoo this bad since the one Knighting Duel when Wonwoo got dagger-stabbed in his thigh. But even that was just a nick to him. This wound has his hair matted with cold sweat and head lolled to the side. His lips move in unfamiliar words.

“Y/n.”

Soonyoung scoffs, “For God’s sake, Wonwoo.”

He repeats her name, voice hoarse and weak. The sound is so quiet Soonyoung almost doesn’t register it, but by Wonwoo’s third repetition, Soonyoung knows everyone has heard.

Yewon clears her throat, diverting her gaze, “He’s delirious. It’s common with wounds like this. He’ll be in and out for a while.”

As if his utter infatuation with y/n is a common herb-induced delusion. Ha.

Soonyoung decides not to comment on Yewon’s words, instead brows furrowing. He nods, dragging a chair over to Wonwoo’s cot to actually hear the broken words slipping from his delirious friend who is hopelessly in love. It’s a surprisingly good combination, deliriousness and being in love.

“She hates me,” Wonwoo slurs, face twisting with pain. Soonyoung tongues the inside of his cheek as Wonwoo’s fingers twitch weakly against the blanket. “I promised,” Wonwoo gasps, “swear I didn’t mean to leave her.”

Soonyoung can feel his chest tightening. It hurts him more, Soonyoung thinks, that Wonwoo’s relationship with Y/n had always been a relationship that was meant to be but just started at the wrong time. Soonyoung knew. Of course he did. He had grown up in the Capital with the royal family and the high classes of Society. He had attended the National Academy with Wonwoo, Joshua, Mingyu, and Y/n. He had been one of the only people who had seen firsthand how Y/n and Wonwoo’s relationship had blossomed, only to fracture, shatter, stumble under the weight of everlasting duty and simple circumstance. And now, hearing Wonwoo talk only about the woman he had always loved was almost too much to bear. For the first time in his life, Soonyoung felt something akin to pity for his best friend.

“She hates me.”

Soonyoung scoffs, leaning back against his chair. “You’re an idiot, Wonwoo,” he mutters, though it’s more to himself than anything.

Wonwoo’s head turns slightly to the side as if he’s looking for something.

Ah.

Someone.

Wonwoo’s brows furrow and his voice cracks at the pain of the slight movement. “Will she take me back?” he whispers, eyes fluttering open just briefly. They’re glassy and unfocused, staring into the depths of the flapping canvas of the tent. “Soonie,” he mumbles, and Soonyoung sits up at the nickname, “do you think…” a gasp of breath, “she’ll forgive me?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He can’t. His throat tightens. For a moment, there is nothing he knows to say. He had seen Y/n’s heartbreak, her anger directed at both herself and Wonwoo, and her attempts to move on. He had been the one who had sent her letters of the three year war campaign and Wonwoo’s condition – though she never asked for it – every week. But he had also seen Wonwoo’s side. He had seen his midnight insomniac strolls, no matter how cold the weather was. He had seen Wonwoo’s body-wracking sobs as he woke up from a nightmare of losing his parents all over again. He had seen Wonwoo’s decision to never move on from his childhood love and how he had tried everything to return to the Capital. Soonyoung was the recipient of Wonwoo’s late night musings of perhaps living with Y/n in his Capital estate in the future and helping her tend to the garden and buying her whatever she wants.

“She’s mad,” Wonwoo rasps (as if he knew what Y/n is feeling at the very moment), and Soonyoung bites his lip at the tears pooling in his friend’s eyes. “She should be.” Wonwoo’s voice breaks and he turns his head away, body trembling under the layers of blanket. Soonyoung isn’t too sure if it’s from the pain or from the cold. “I just keep leaving,” Wonwoo mumbles, eyes squeezing tight, “I always leave.”

Soonyoung sighs, leaning forward to grasp his friend’s hand that twitches on top of his stomach. “Wonwoo,” he says softly, squeezing Wonwoo’s hand, “Stop tearing yourself apart. Your first thought when you’re near-death should be more about staying alive for her rather than if she’s mad at you for leaving. Focus on surviving. I swear she’ll be furious if you croak.”

But true to Wonwoo fashion, he doesn’t seem to hear Soonyoung’s words. “I’ll write her. Tell her,” Wonwoo lets out a low groan of pain. Maybe the herbs were wearing off? “I’m sorry. So so so sorry,” he murmurs, the words slurring together. Soonyoung can only watch as a single tear traces down a track from the corner of Wonwoo’s eyes, down to his cheek, before rolling into the pillow.

Soonyoung clenches his jaw. It’s not every day you see your best friend cry. Except, he will say, he had seen Wonwoo cry more in the span of the past two months than in the three years he was with Wonwoo during the war campaign. Soonyoung grips the edge of the cot. “You’re not dying, okay?” He says. He hopes it’s firm enough to snap Wonwoo out of whatever self-deprecating shithole he’s floundered himself into. “You’re not dying. You’ve got too many fucking problems to fix. If you want to apologize, Y/n’ll hear your apology from your own goddamn lips.”

Soonyoung almost laughs when Wonwoo doesn’t respond, his body, Soonyoung guesses, finally succumbing to the pull of sheer exhaustion and pain. Soonyoung watches as Wonwoo’s chest slows to a steady rise and fall, though it remains obviously shallow, and his face relaxes into an uneasy sort of calm.

Slowly, Soonyoung rises from his seat, pulling one of Wonwoo’s blankets further up his naked chest until it sits right below his wound. If Wonwoo returns to the Capital injured and sick, he would never hear the end of it from Y/n.

“Sir?”

Soonyoung turns, coming face-to-face with Yewon, who looks more exhausted than she did a while ago. That’s what war does, he guesses.

“Keep him alive,” Soonyoung orders, voice harsher than he intends. But Yewon, nor the other medics, flinch. “I don’t give a flying fuck what it takes. Keep that man alive.”

He doesn’t stay to hear any of the medics’ responses, instead stepping outside the sterile-smelling tent. When the cold air blasts his face, he exhales. It’s heavy and thick in his chest.

His fingers drum on his thigh as the sudden memories of Y/n crying during one of his visits to the Capital flood his mind. He laughs to himself at the memory. The week before, he had written to Y/n (well, to Seungcheol, but it had happened that Y/n had also read it), that Wonwoo had sustained a large gash while fighting further up north near the border, and that he had to get stitches for his wound. He was basically asking if Wonwoo could return to the Capital for a proper medical check. Technically, if Soonyoung was honest, the gash wasn’t bad. Wonwoo had barely lost significant blood and he was fine. More than fine, actually, since that day, he had been out fighting with the rest of the knights, but Wonwoo seemed so miserable without the Capital (read: Y/n), that Soonyoung either needed to send him back to the city or make him shut up.

He distinctly remembers Y/n running up to him with tears in his eyes, asking if Wonwoo was okay, if he was alive. He also distinctly remembers her forcing out a sigh of relief with the words “I don’t know what I would’ve done if things went wrong,” leaving her mouth.

Soonyoung had never experienced love like that, but if whatever between Y/n and Wonwoo wasn’t the purest sort of love, he wasn’t sure what to base “love” off of. He had firsthand seen how her eyes softened when she spoke of Wonwoo. Even after everything.

So, Soonyoung didn’t have the heart to tell Y/n about this yet. Not until he was sure Wonwoo would make it conscious and upright to the Capital. But one thing was distinctly clear: if Wonwoo had been fighting for anyone, it wasn’t for the nation or his Archduke title.

It was for her. Her and her only.

y/n

“My lady! My lady!”

You turn from your seat at the windowsill, watching the snow fall in flurries to cover your garden. Nai comes running into your room, and when you see the waving letter in her hands, your heart thumps to a halting stop in your chest. Your blink rapidly.

“Nai?”

You stand, dusting off your dress in faux calm. You feel your heart start hammering in your chest when Nai hands you the letter and you read the address.

Kwon Soonyoung

Commander of the Royal Knights

“It’s a letter, my lady, from the battlefields. It just arrived,” Nai huffs, out of breath, certainly, from running up the estate stairs.

You bite your lip and you can feel the familiar tightness start in your throat again. “What-” your voice cracks, “what is it about?”

Nai shakes her head, pushing the letter further into your hands. “No idea, your grace. Perhaps it is encouraging news?”

You hesitate to open the letter. There are the remnants of tears left in your eyes from the morning. This is the first correspondence of any sorts your had received since Wonwoo had up and fucking left for the northern war. And you had thought that he would write to you at least. That he would have written because you had finally gotten around to thinking that you could start with him again – that you were finally okay with his situation (not really, but still). That he would at least have the decency to let you know of the circumstances of this prolonged battle. That he would view you with enough dignity to even simply send someone over to express his feelings. Something that would clarify things for you. But of course. This was Wonwoo. He always got up and left without any prior notice.

Your finger slides under the envelope flap, tearing it open.

You suck in a breath at the first few sentences.

“Wonwoo…” you whisper.

It’s like your world is spinning. It’s like all the blood slowly drains out of your face and goes to power your heart that thuds dangerously fast in the confines of your chest. You feel your fingers curl in, wrinkling the crip parchment, dotted with ink stains. You feel the tightness in your chest and the thick ball in your throat. You don’t know what to say. What to think. The words written in Soonyoung’s familiar messy scrawl blink back up at you, unwavering and unrelenting.

Y/n,

I hope you are doing well. My plan was not to notify you regarding this, but Wonwoo insisted. You know how he is…

He took a spear through the shoulder in the final battle. He’ll recover (medics approve!), but he’s been muttering delirious sentences at me and anyone who thinks to change his bandages. Every other word out of his mouth is your name. “Is she angry, Soonyoung? Will she forgive me, Soonyoung? What if I died, Soonyoung?” Seriously, someone needs to shut him up (I’ve tried).

Anyways, I thought it would be best for you to hear about his current state from me rather than from the Society rumor mills. Don’t worry, y/n. But I will be frank with you. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s exhausted from everything. We’re trying to either get a Capital medic up north or go back down to the Capital ourselves, but the roads are icy and I barely had enough of a melting window to send this letter.

You should know this though: he didn’t want to leave. He made me promise to tell you that. Whatever you think of him, whatever he’s done to make you believe he doesn’t care, you’re wrong. I’ve never seen a man so willing to leave the battlefield—not for his title, not for his honor—but for the chance to go back to you.

He’s stubborn as hell, and sometimes he makes decisions that would test the patience of a saint (you <3), but he’s fighting for more than simple duty. He’s fighting to survive so he can stand in front of you again and beg for the chance he thinks he doesn’t deserve.

So if you’re still angry, yell at him. If you’re still hurt, let him know. But please, don’t let him wonder if you hate him. It’s killing him more than the damn spear did.

Love, Soonyoung

You gasp in a breath, the letter falling to the ground. You barely register Nai picking it up and leading you over to your bed, sitting you down. You barely register her handing you a cup of water and forcing you to drink it. You can’t register anything. Not when–

“How deadly is a spear to the shoulder, Nai?” you ask. Your voice is high pitched and hysterical and it sounds muted and faraway to your ears.

Fuck, he can’t die.

Nai blinks. “A spear to the shoulder? Well, it depends on how big the wound is, my lady. The bigger the wound, the greater the chance of blood loss.”

You swallow, breaths coming out in shallow exhales. Soonyoung told you Wonwoo was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.

But why is there a gnawing sensation in your gut? Then why is there a sinking feeling in your gut that’s telling you he’s not? That Soonyoung was simply lying for your sake? What if Wonwoo was actually near-death? What if he was–

“_-if that person doesn’t receive proper medical procedures?”

Nai furrows her brows. “My lady, the war campaign’s medics are–”

“--That’s not my question, Nai!” You snap, head turning to your maid. Your eyes brim with tears as you trace over the words in your brain.

He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of–

“--Well, they would need a blood transfusion. Only Capital doctors are certified for that procedure, my lady.”

You’re quiet. Pros and cons.

Don’t let him wonder if you hate him. It’s killing him more than that damn spear is.

There are only two pros on your list.

Wonwoo lives.

He doesn’t think that you hate him.

But those are two pros enough to convince yourself. The next few words out of your mouth are rushed and panicked.

“I’m going. North, I’m leaving North,” you gasp, shooting out of your seat. You stumble over to your closet, throwing the door open and walking in, desperately digging through your countless dresses for something fur-lined. Something warm.

Nai runs behind you. “My lady? North? Whatever for? It’s cold! You’ll fall sick!” She fusses with the corset back of your lounge dress, undoing it to help you into a new one even through her words.

You shake your head, snatching the thickest cloak you see and slipping into your riding boots. “Send the estate’s medics up to the northern camp,” you order, clipping the cloak shut by your chest. You pull the thick hood over your head, wiping a stray tear off your cheek. You shove the crumpled letter into the cloak pocket. “I don’t give a shit if it’s icy. They will be there by noon tomorrow. Pack with them enough food and any medical equipment they need.”

You walk out of the closet after snagging a pair of hunting daggers decorating your dresser surface.

“My lady!” Nai yells, running after you. She grabs your wrist, halting you. “My lady, you cannot go up north by yourself!”

You shake her off. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until you feel Nai’s hands steadying yours. “Then send an estate knight with me. I don’t care. I’m going up north right now.”

Nai huffs, her grip on your hand loosening enough for you to pull it out. You turn on your heels and walk down the hall. Nai follows.

“My lady, Archduke Jeon will be okay,” Nai hums, a comforting hand placing itself on your shoulder. You shrug her off. “Heading to the north may only make things worse, my lady. The archduke–”

“--He thinks I hate him, Nai!” you cry, whipping around. You feel tears poke at your waterline and your shaking hands hit your chest in frustration. “He thinks I hate him! Soonyoung just told me that they need Capital doctors. If you think I have enough self-pity to stay in the Capital while frankly, the one person I have ever loved may just as well die thinking that I hate him, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

When you feel the tears stream down your face, Nai pulls you into a tight embrace. It’s comforting. But only for a moment, before Soonyoung’s words replay in your head.

“Nai, I have to,” you whisper, voice thick with tears. You don’t know what you would do if Wonwoo leaves thinking you hate him. You’ve never hated him. Ever. Not when he left you alone to go play with Mingyu and Seungcheol when you were younger, not when he didn’t kiss the back of your hand during your debutante, and definitely not when he left you to go fight the nation’s war. You’ve never hated him. Resented him? Yes, perhaps. Frustrated at him for always leaving? Yes. Betrayed that he could never tell you why? Yes, definitely. But hated him? Never. And you were going to first burn your estate than let him think that you’ve ever hated him.

“Then take a knight, at least.”

“I don’t care who you send behind me for protection. I’m leaving.”

Nai presses a pouch into your hands with a knowing look. “I know, my lady. These are silver coins for emergencies. Please be careful. The journey to the north is at least four hours.”

“That’s why I need to go now.”

Nai purses her lips but nods, stepping away from you. You give her a tight, wavering smile.

“I’ll be okay, Nai.”

Nai nods, bowing deeply, before letting you turn away and run down the rest of the hall and out into the courtyard.

Your fingers clench the clasp of your cloak and your eyes squeeze shut for a split second, trying to blink back the tears.

He’ll be okay.

He’s okay.

When you arrive at the entrance courtyard, your mare greets you, pawing the ground with her hooves. You waste no time with formalities towards the two guards flanking your sides, instead choosing to haul yourself up the horse and tug the reins, swallowing the lump down your throat as a strong wind whistles through the treetops.

“My lady, are you sure–” Jedediah Kim speaks up, only to cut himself off when you avert your teary gaze to him.

“--I need to,” is your simple response, voice shaking with not only tears but also with some emotion that is harder to place. Jedidiah holds his tongue, opting to just nod and share a look with Jay Lim who flanks your other side.

“Your wish is my command,” he murmurs. The words are simple. They are words you’ve heard thousands of times before in your life, yet now, facing the brutal, windy, icy journey that you knew lay ahead, it seemed more as a pledge of loyalty, of unfailing servanthood than anything.

“Let’s go,” you whisper, but it carries. It whistles through the slanting morning sunlight and the brittle bones of the trees littering your courtyard. It swims through the canvases of the road laying before you and you mumble out a small prayer to any deity who will listen. Anyone who could let you know how he really was.

The moment you pass into the arched entrance of the Northern Forest – a place you vaguely remember passing through when you were seven, riding a carriage up to your grandfather’s Northern estate – you’re hit with the extent of how bad your idea is. Not the motive behind it, of course. And nothing can stop you from getting to Wonwoo by evening, but you hadn’t expected a snowstorm to greet you on the doorsteps of the northern camp. The snowflakes border dangerously on small balls of hail and the winds tear through the rather flimsy excuse for a cloak you have on.

“Your grace!” Jedediah’s voice breaks through the whipping whistling winds. Just barely.

You give yourself a second to glance back at him, whose horse can barely keep up the same pace as yours, before you return to look straight ahead.

“Your grace, we are literally riding into a snowstorm!” Jedediah yells. His voice is muffled by the winds and the snow.

As if you don’t know.

“I am well aware!” You yell back, pulling your cloak tighter around your body as you lower yourself closer to the back of your horse. Maybe it’s a placebo effect, but you swear it’s less windy this way. Or maybe the four-hour ride was finally catching up to you in the form of hysteria or something.

You swear you can’t feel your legs. If you hadn’t been glancing down every ten minutes at your feet, you could swear that your legs fell off three kilometers back. Your fingers feel frozen on the thick reins, unmoving except for the occasional squeeze or pull to veer your mare back in the right direction. And you definitely can’t feel your face, especially not with the wind heading straight-on to you, threatening to pull your hood up and over your head. But everything pales in comparison to your windward thoughts, spider webbing this way and that, never settling on an idea for more than one minute, lest it turns into a reality.

You think you’ve gone through at least thirty one scenarios of finding Wonwoo half-dead on in the medical tent. And don’t get started on the other fifty four possible scenes of your entrance into the camp and then finding Wonwoo half dead in the medical tent.

And it feels like you go through hundreds of these scenarios – quite schizophrenic – before you see the clearing used for the northern camp. It’s almost idyllic how the snow suddenly lulls into a softer blanket of white, unlike the harsh gusts of ice and frigid wind just minutes before, as you approach the clearing, hooves heavy against the frozen forest ground. The knights’ forms are mere shadows against the snowy white background of the otherwise-beautiful landscape behind the main camp. As your mare slows to a fast trot, the cacophony of the snowstorm that had assaulted your ears slowly changes into a mix and a mingle of bustling knights and occasional laughter. Along the camp’s perimeter is a line of crude barricades, most likely to keep away the snow piling too much, and the grounds are surprisingly empty and crowded at the same time, with knights rolling up spare tents and packing up unused or too well-used armory into wagons. At least half of them are visibly injured, with either crutches, arm slings, or bandaged heads (something you only heard of back in the Capital), and almost every one of them turn to look at you as you pull your mare to a sudden stop, simply and cleanly ignoring Jedediah’s hurried calls after you as you step down from the saddle, swallowing down the dryness of your throat.

It’s a weird feeling because you were sure you could face all of this when you left your estate five hours ago. Now, you are standing in the entrance of the Northern camp, underdressed for the snowstorm that had been billowing outside ten mere minutes ago, hair wild from the wind, eyes colored red from the tears you had unknowingly shed, and body trembling – from the cold, the shock, the exhaustion, you aren’t too sure.

You see their mouths moving before you hear the whispers as you stagger your way into the camp. The snow crunches under your feet and you offhandedly register Jedediah’s complaints of riding in the snow for five hours straight, and you minutely register the flakes of snow that decorate your hair. But nothing – nothing – pales in comparison to the thundering of your heart that has been transported generously to your brain, thrumming a melodramatic, syncopathic, urgent beat against the very fibers of your being.

As you move into the camp, crossing the perimeter line, you glance around frantically. You can’t see him. At least, not from your current vantage point. You can feel the stares of everyone drilling holes into your head and if you were in any other mental state, you would have questioned why no one stopped you from entering yet. Each crunch of the snow underfoot is then drowned out by either the bustling of the camp or the chattering of your teeth that you don’t know is even happening until you clench your jaw and suddenly a noise stops. You feel high-strung. So high-strung to the point that you feel like if you don’t see Wonwoo in the next ten minutes, you might as well sit down and start crying.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice the figure watching from the outskirts of camp until he starts jogging towards you, voice sharp with surprise and not-that-hidden accusation.

“Y/n?”

You whip your head – which grants you five seconds of almost complete blackness as your world spins, and you regret not taking your iron supplements like Nai had suggested – and come face-to-face with a brow-furrowed Soonyoung. His grip is firm against your shaking shoulders and he’s tense with some sort of anticipation and concern.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Soonyoung hisses, eyes frantic as they glance behind the two of you. His tongue darts out in between his pursed lips. “Do you have any idea how dangerous–”

You have no mind to stand and listen to him tell you to ‘go home.’

“Where’s Wonwoo?” you interrupt, voice hoarse and trembling, Your words break off at the end and even you are surprised at how distraught you sound. You barely give Soonyoung a glance, eyes wild as you try to look over his shoulder to search the camp.

Soonyoung visibly freezes, his grip loosening on your arm. “That’s why you’re here?” he scoffs, running a stressed hand through his hair. “Y/n, I didn’t send you that letter for you to come running up to a battlefield because you–”

“--Soonyoung!” You snap, eyes locking with his. And maybe it’s the way you’re gasping for breath, or the godforsaken snowflakes in your hair, or your wild eyes, or maybe your rumpled clothing, but Soonyoung shuts up, glancing at you and then further behind you, where you can hear the rolling of a familiar carriage. “Soonyoung, where is Wonwoo?” At this point, you’re on the verge of begging your old friend. You’re desperate. You need to see him. You need to look him in the eyes and hold his face in your hands and tell him you’re sorry. Because God forbid if this shit happens again and all that you come to is a cold, lifeless body.

“...he’s in the middle,” Soonyoung whispers, swallowing as you push past him, stumbling through and over the barricades and the strewn battle items.

The knights glance your way, their movements slowing as you push past anything or anyone in your way, flatly ignoring the looks and calls of confusion, concern, and your name.

You almost stumble to the ground when you finally see him – tall and resolute in the midst of everything. The snow falls in gentle flurries around him as he speaks with three other knights, gesturing vaguely towards the group of boxes on the other side of the camp. His back is towards you, his focus obviously on the knights speaking to him, but when all three of their eyes widen almost comically and they mumble something about a woman behind him, he turns.

His eyes meet yours. You see his entire body freeze, his clipboard slipping out of his grasp and sinking into the snow-covered ground.

And it’s as if something in you breaks entirely. A dam or a wall of some sorts. Something that had been the sole energizer behind your five hour ride into the northern territories, through a snowstorm, and now, here, in the middle of a military camp, completely powers off, leaving you standing along, cold, exhausted, and on the verge of tears, like you have been since the third hour on horseback. A sigh of relief is punched out of you. Relief that Wonwoo’s alive. That he is walking. That you can tell him without having to lean over his cold body and cry a river.

Your legs give out, your knees hitting the cold snow.

Wonwoo’s eyes snap open. “Y/n!” His voice rings out as he rushes to your side, knees also hitting the snow with a hard thud. His hands hover around your shoulders and waist, as if he’s unsure if he can touch you or bring you into an embrace, but the look on his face is unmistakable. His eyes are blown wide with alarm and you can see the deep dark circles under his eyes even through your slowly blurring vision.

Wonwoo swallows, “What- what are you doing here? Are you hurt? Are- are you okay? What–”

“--How could you?” you choke out, your voice shaking as your tears that had been gathering for hours finally decide to spill over, marking their tracks down your cheeks, chin, and onto the snow.

Your words make Wonwoo tense up, his hands freezing from their hovering near your face. “Y/n…” For a second, he looks so pained you want to just bring him into your arms and tell him everything. Just let him encircle you in his familiar warmth and bask in the safety of his arms.

“You left me,” you whisper, voice aghast with some sort of panicked grief, “Fucking again.”

The guilt that flashes across his exhausted face is instant and dreadfully sharp. “I never– I didn’t want to leave –”

“--Shut up!” You cry out, burying your face in your shaking palms, tears now drenching your icy face. “Just– Wonwoo, just shut up!”

Wonwoo flinches as though your words had physically struck him, browning knitting together in ill-concealed anguish. “Y/n, listen, please, I didn’t have a choice–”

“--You always say that!” You sob, your voice rising to a level of hysteria you personally thought was incapable. You don’t mean it to slip in, but there is a bitter undertone to your words. “Every time, Wonwoo, it’s the same fucking excuse. I didn’t have a choice. I had to leave. Do you really think that makes it hurt less?” You gasp, wiping your eyes, streaming with tears, to tearfully look up at Wonwoo, who stares at you with reddening eyes and a parted mouth. “Do you think that makes it okay?”

Wonwoo shakes his head, his fingers curling around your wrist to pull your hand away from your face. “Y/n, I was trying to protect–”

“--Protect me?” you snap, bitterness imbued into every letter of your words. “Explain to me how leaving without a word is protecting me. How breaking every promise you ever made is protecting me,” you force out, angrily wiping away your tears. You barely even notice the stares from the knights around you. You shove a finger into Wonwoo’s chest. “Do you know what’s it’s like to wait for someone, not knowing if they’ll ever come back? If they even made it out of the first week alive? To love someone who keeps walking away?”

Wonwoo suddenly grasps your hands, pulling them to his chest, laying them flat against his beating heart. “I didn’t want to leave,” he whispers, voice breaking.

“But you did!” you yell, and you feel a fresh onslaught of tears in your eyes. “You did! You left and I-” you gasp in a breath, one hand clutching your chest and another gripping Wonwoo’s cloak, “I couldn’t breathe, Wonwoo. Every time I heard– heard your name, I thought–” you heaved, “thought you were dead!” Sobs wrack your shaking body as you clutch the furs of his cloak like it is the only thing grounding you to the present. “Do you even care? Do you understand what it feel like to lose someone over and over and over again?”

“Y/n–”

“--I can’t do this,” you cry, shaking your head as tears blur your already-clouded vision. “Wonwoo, I can't keep loving someone who always ends up leaving! Everyone I love leaves. My mom, my dad, my grandmother – they left. And just when I think I can finally at least have you by my side, you–” a bitter laugh escapes you, scratching blood down your throat, “you’re just like them. Always leaving, always running, always breaking your promises of staying.”

“I’m not–” Wonwoo’s voice trembles as he reaches for your hands again, only to have you pull away.

“You are!! You left, Wonwoo. You left and you didn’t even think to say goodbye. How could you do that to me? How could you do that to me!” You’re left gasping for breath – mind reeling and throat constricting, and vision blurring out of control. Everything’s too much. You shouldn’t have come to the North. You should’ve–

“I can’t, Wonwoo,” It seems as though your mouth works separately from your mind, “I can’t keep waiting for you to come back, wondering if the next time I wake up to the news of your departure will be the last. I can’t go through that again. I can’t–”

"Y/n, please, please just give me a chance--"

"--I can't, Wonwoo, i don't know how--"

"--Y/n, please, you-- you're everything to--"

It’s as if the walls to your own brain are closing in on you. All your thoughts are racing and your pulse quickens with every breath you take. It doesn’t take long before the confession is forced – squeezed – out of your entire being.

“--I love you,” you choke out, the broken confession falling from your lips like your salty tears fall from your chin.

Wonwoo stares at you, stunned, like you just told him something extraordinary.

“I love you so much it feel like I’m breaking,” you say, your voice trembling as the sobs escape uncontrollably, staring dead-straight into Wonwoo’s eyes, “Like I’m tearing apart at the seams because of much you worry me and stress me out and make me cry and leave me waiting for years—” your hands reach up to him shakily, clinging to his cloak, “I hate it. I hate how much I love you because it hurts so much. It hurts, Wonwoo, it hurts.” You finish with another sob, head bowing as your forehead meets his chest. You feel his breath coming out in small stunned sighs against your hair. His hands hover as though his touch will make you rescind all your words.

His voice cracks as he whispers, “What did you say?”

You look up, blinking as your lips tremble, tears trickling down your cheeks. “I love you.” You glance down before laughing mirthlessly, “I love you almost too much.”

For a moment, Wonwoo is quiet. So is the camp and the rest of the world. Then, almost rushed, you feel a warm hand against your frigid cheek and a sudden swipe against your cheekbones. Next thing you know, Wonwoo’s lips are crashing into yours, molding shape against your plush lips. Your eyes are wide before another hand, though less confident, sneaks down to your waist, pulling you flush to him, chest to chest. His grip is tight against your clothes, against your frigid skin, as if a grip any looser will make you run away. He holds you like you’re fragile – like any stronger and you’ll break. Like letting go will shatter him. But his kiss is intense, strong, deep, as if he is pouring out his entire soul into a single kiss. When your eyes flutter closed, he breaks apart, and you see a single streak of a tear down his cheek.

“Say it again,” he breathes, forehead meeting yours.

Your mind is hazy from the kiss, and your fingers rise to brush against your lips. But your tongue moves with no wait for your brain. “I love you.”

Wonwoo swallows and he lets out a small laugh, and with every passing millisecond that he holds you and brushes his thumb against your cheek, his smile grows with his laughter. “God,” Wonwoo mumbles, pulling you into his arms in a tight embrace, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder. “God, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” Wonwoo rushes out, a hand threading through your hair. You can feel a couple of tears that drop onto your cloak but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s right in front of you, mumbling nonsensical I love yous into your hair.

Wonwoo pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, tears filling his exhausted eyes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, bringing your hands up to his face. There is a sharp pang of guilt as you watch tears slip down Wonwoo’s smooth face. “Don’t cry,” you whisper, gently brushing the tears off his face with shaking hands. You try to steady your fingers, at least, but it feels like your adrenaline has finally worn off and you can distinctly feel the icy cold seep into your bones. Every bite and sting of the wind is sharper than you remember it to be and the flurries of snow around you land on your skin with a frigid sort of burn.

Wonwoo is quiet before stands quickly, pulling you up to your feet, which you do, save for the slight stumble.

“What-”

“-You’re freezing, Y/n,” He states, holding you at arms-length to glance up and down your body. You see his eyes narrow as you tremble, eyes blinking rapidly to drive away the blurriness.

He suddenly reaches for the clasp of his cloak with his good arm, reaching behind him to shrug off his cloak. His good arm fumbles as he drapes it over your shoulders, movements stiff but deliberate. When he tries to adjust how the cloak sat on your shoulders, you see his eyebrows furrow as if he’s in pain before it disappears behind his focused expression.

“Won–”

Wonwoo turns away, pointing to the first knight he sees with an air of command, “Get the fire going in my tent,” he orders, tone regaining its commanding edge. “Now.”

The knight, rather shocked at the sudden singling-out, glances around himself before he salutes, rushing off into the biggest tent.

Wonwoo’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him as he motions Soonyoung over. “Take over here,” he hums, expression softening slightly, “Finish the preparations. We’re still leaving as planned.”

Sonyoung raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “And what do you want me to do with this half-assed packing, huh?” he glances between the two of you with twitching lips, “Magic it into completion?” When you roll your eyes, Soonyoung sticks a tongue out at you childishly.

“Just handle it,” Wonwoo mutters, patience obviously thinning as he glances back at you, tucked into his side, head resting against his chest. “I’m taking her into the tent. She’s freezing out here.”

Soonyoung shrugs, picking up Wonwoo’s dropped ledger from the snow. He tuts when some of the ink is smudged from the snow. “Fine, go be in love,” he sighs, gazing off to the side as if he is reminiscing about some old love of his (which never ever happened).

You smile, genuinely, at his words. A feeling that you’re not used to creeps up your throat. It threatens to make itself known when Wonwoo pulls you closer — as if you could get any closer to him — and pokes at your eyes.

“Come on, let’s go inside. You’re shivering.”

It takes you a moment to register in your dulled head that Wonwoo is talking to you and not some other knight or even Soonyoung. You would have swayed on your feet if it isn’t for Wonwoo’s tight hold on your waist. Everything feels a little hazy and you don’t know if its the exhaustion or if its the cold that lulling your brain to sleep.

“Y-yeah,” you mumble, looking down at the ground as Wonwoo just gives you a soft glance, leading you to the direction of his tent, away from all the knights and the bustle of the packing.

You can see Wonwoo glance down at you at least twice every five seconds, as if he’s making sure if you’re really there, and you feel a pang of guilt — or regret, maybe? You didn’t completely think through your course of action when you had deceided that you needed to go up north. It didn’t really occur to you at the time that maybe Wonwoo would already be swamped with responsibilities bigger than you (like organizing the knights), until now. And seeing Wonwoo try to hide his every wince of pain when he even just moves his shoulder to better grasp your waist, basically holding you up as you stumble through the thick snow.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, palms digging into your eyes. When you remove them, black charcoal from your waterline follows, smudged and thick. “I’m sorry for coming, I didn’t really think through the—“

”—Don’t say that,” Wonwoo interrupts, his eyes sharp, even through the exhaustion and the pain lingering and floating in his orbs. He looks almost pained at your words and you mentally hit yourself at the constant distress you cause this man. “Don’t say that, Y/n, please. You— To me, you being here means more than everything. The only thing,” Wonwoo gives you a heartwarming smile, glasses fogging up as his puffs of breath hit the surface, “you shouldn’t be doing is staying out in this cold.” He lifts up the tent flap, ushering you in before closing it behind him.

The first thing you notice about his tent is that it’s warm. It’s warm and toasty, thanks to the fire that’s blazing in the makeshift fireplace. The second thing is the sheer amount of nothing in his tent. It’s spacious, but only because the room contains nothing but a single cot, a desk, a chair, sheepskin rugs, and a random table in the middle of the room. As Wonwoo sits you down on his chair, pushing you closer to the fireplace, you notice the stacks of papers that line his desk, just waiting for him to come back and finish signing them off. You also notice the stiffness in his shoulder and how he works to minimize any movement in it.

“Wonwoo–”

“--Here,” Wonwoo interrupts, flapping a thick fur blanket over your shoulder. You don’t miss the way he bites back a hiss of pain at the sudden movement. He gives you a smile, though thinner than last time.

You shake your head, gently grasping his wrist, stopping him from moving his arm. “Wonwoo,” you repeat, firmer than before. He finally holds your stare, eyes flickering from your forehead to your eyes to your lips and then back up.

He hums in response, kneeling in front of you so that he’s eye-level and not towering above you. He maneuvers his hands so that your hands rest in his. You feel his thumb gently smooth over your knuckles, calloused palms so warm under your touch. He looks at you like you hung up the stars and briefly, you wonder how you never saw the love in his eyes.

“I brought my doctors,” you murmur, one hand going up to trace your fingers along his sharp jaw. You cup his cheek, fingers brushing against his pale skin, still slightly cold from the outside air. Your gaze flits down to his shoulder, bandages obvious under the thin tunic he has on. The stain of red clearly disrupting the sterile white has you worrying. “You need Capital medics, not just ones from the war camp.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows furrow, a hand going up to cover yours on his cheek. “Who told you that? I’m–”

“--Soonyoung did,” you state over his words, quieting him, “and don’t tell me you’re fine because there is no way your stubborn ass actually rested.” You give him a knowing glance and he glances away, murmuring something about being busy helping his knights pack and filling out paperwork.

When you don’t respond, Wonwoo sighs, leaning into your touch. “You didn’t have to.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I know. But I needed to.”

Wonwoo gives you a confused look, blinking as if to tell you to continue.

You bite your lip as you feel another rush of tears. “I–” your voice cracks, “I thought you were going to die before I told you the truth,” you whisper, feeling a stray tear drop from the corner of your eye. It feels refreshing, almost, to get it off your chest – to let someone else into your fiercely-guarded heart that was once (and still is) his.

Wonwoo is quiet, studying your features as if looking for more unsaid feelings – things you’ve kept to yourself for these long years. When he deems it enough, he catches you off-guard, turning his head to leave a long kiss on the inside of your wrist, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments.

Then, without moving, he murmurs into your palm, “Y/n,” his voice trembles at the last syllable of your name, “I’ve been in love with you for so long I don’t even remember what it feels like to not love you.”

Your breath hitches and your heart pounds in your chest as his words wash over you like a tidal wave. Over and over again until every other sound surrounding the two of you sounds like meaningless white noise. Wonwoo says something, you know because you see his lips moving, but everything after his confession is a blur. It’s mere ringing in your ears compared to the soft words he had just murmured into your palm like agave honey down your throat.

“...I know I’ve hurt you,” Wonwoo suddenly says, snapping you out of your daze, “I know I’ve made mistakes that I can never make up for. But if you can forgive me–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, pulling your hand down into your lap, “--no, if you can even just let me try to– I swear to you, I will never leave you again.” He sounds breathless after the last word, like it took all the oxygen in his lungs to convince you of this fact.

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until you feel Wonwoo’s fingers brush the tears off your face.

“Never ever?” You ask, voice quiet and tinged with an edge of teasing. You fiddle with the silver ring that encircles his pinky.

“Never ever,” he confirms, brushing the last of your tears off of your wet cheeks. He laughs as you blush under his touch, cheeks heating to a dusty pink.

You sniffle, rubbing at your eyes. You pull your hands out of his grasp, instead trapping his face in between your palms. Wonwoo’s eyes widen a bit at your sudden actions.

“You’re going to get that shoulder looked at when my doctors arrive,” you state. You want your words to sound firm, but it actually comes out more as a meek order than a non-negotiable sentence.

But still, Wonwoo nods, a small smile gracing his lips. Your heart thuds in your chest.

Fuck, if you knew battling this whole thing straight-on would make him smile so much, you would’ve done it sooner.

“Promise,” you add, holding up your pinky.

Wonwoo links his pinky with yours, twisting so that your thumbs stamp together. Before you can say anything else, he pulls you by your hand, his good arm going to steady your waist when you suddenly jolt forward from the momentum. His hand cups your cheek (and you pretend to not notice his grimace of pain), as he leans in, a grin dancing on his lips.

“I promise,” he whispers, his breath hot on your lips, before his lips meet yours. Softly as first, then with some growing carnal intensity that steals your breath from your poor lungs. It’s as if he is pouring all of his emotions into the kiss, the sincerity, the love, the truth. He mumbles something against your lips as he pulls back, but it’s lost in the pounding of your heart and the small embarrassing gasps you let out when he pulls you to stand, his lips now trailing soft kisses down the column of your throat. You hope, with eyes squeezed shut, that he can’t feel your erratic pulse under the thin skin of your neck.

When he teasingly bites, right above your collarbone, you jolt, hands finding purchase higher on his chest. The movement has him wincing, face suddenly buried in the crook of your neck as he turns away from you, arms stiffening around your waist.

You freeze, eyes blown wide open as Wonwoo lets out a soft noise.

“I’m so– so sorry,” you gasp, unsure of what to do as Wonwoo just stands there, breathing heavily, a pained grunt escaping him. “Are–” you try to pull away, “Are you okay?” When Wonwoo doesn’t respond, your brows furrow, shifting so that your arms wrap around his waist, leaning so that your head rests against his chest. You can faintly hear his heartbeat from where your ear presses against his chest, and Wonwoo seems to relax a smidge under your embrace. “I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, feeling Wonwoo breathe a sigh into your hair.

“I’m fine,” he replies after a beat of silence, save for the crackling of the fire. His voice is tight but not angry. “Don’t be sorry, ‘s not your fault,” he murmurs.

You beg to differ. But you decide to keep your arguments to yourself, at least when he’s injured.

“You need to rest,” you hum, eyes closing as his good arm goes up, fingers threading through your hair.

“Later,” he rebuts, pressing a soft kiss on your temple. “Need to help with the packing.”

You click your tongue. “A normal person wouldn’t even be out of bed in a week with a puncture wound as bad as yours.”

You can feel Wonwoo’s lips curve into a smile against your temple. “Are you calling me abnormal?”

“No, I’m calling you not self-responsible,” you huff. “Have you ever stopped to consider what would happen if you actually ripped your stitches open and your wound got infected? How are you even walking around? Don’t you feel the–”

“--Y/n–”

“--No, listen to me. You can’t just jump right into your duties after you were stabbed within an inch of your life–”

“-- Y/n–”

“--Wonwoo. I asked the doctors before and they said–”

“--Love,” Wonwoo laughs, his head tipping back ever so slightly. His glasses slide low on his nose. But it’s the pet name that makes you actually shut up.

You blink up at him, mouth slightly parted as he gives you a quick peck on the lips, the tips of his ears blushing red as you stare at him. It’s like your heart just stops for a second. But Wonwoo acts like everything is as it was.

“You’re adorable,” Wonwoo chuckles, giving your forehead a peck as well. His injured arm’s hand sits low on your hip.

“W-what?”

Wonwoo gives you a cheeky grin, pinching your hip. “I’ll rest after I finish these reports, yeah? Just thirty minutes.”

You nod, but your mind is still reeling from what he had called you before (Love!!!!!). “O-okay. That’s fine. But you have to.”

Wonwoo just hums in response, gently adjusting his cloak that is on your shoulders. He looks down at you for a moment, meeting your eyes, before swooping in to steal another kiss, lips stretched in a grin as he whispers, “I love you. More than you know,” against your lips, and he smoothens your hair with such care and utter love that it’s hard not to believe him.

Your eyes flutter shut and you reach up to cup his jaw, rising to your tip-toes to kiss him back. Wonwoo gently pulls your head back as he leans down, tongue swiping over your bottom lip with such practiced ease it almost makes you jealous of anyone he ever kissed before you.

You detach with a gasp, out of breath and cheeks definitely a dark pink. Wonwoo’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, the edge of his mouth lifting as he thumbs your bottom lip, pulling the flesh down and swiping over your kiss-bitten lips with a laugh.

“Sorry,” he grins, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “Can’t help myself.” He curls a finger around your hair, lightly pulling on it with a teasing sort of smile.

You let out a laugh of disbelief, burying your face in his muscled chest, face heating at his words.

“So crude,” you mumble, but it’s not without a smile. Your cheeks hurt from how much you are smiling, arms returning to their place around Wonwoo’s waist.

When you glance up, you feel your breath hitch. Wonwoo looks down at you with such an infatuated look in his eyes it churns your stomach. You feel tears prick at your eyes and you quickly go back to hide your face in his chest, lest he sees your watering eyes. But of course, it’s Wonwoo.

“Hm?” He gently goes to lift your head, but you shake your head no, holding him tighter, like you’re subconsciously afraid that if you let go, he’ll collapse. “Love, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice ever-so gentle.

“Nothing,” you mumble, cheek pressed up against his chest. “Just,” you fist his tunic, feeling a tear slide down your aching cheeks, “it feels good to tell you– cathartic, I guess – that I love you.” Your cheeks burn at your confession, your voice trailing off into a meek whisper by the end of your hastily put-together sentence.

Wonwoo just kisses the top of your head, gently peeling you from his chest with minimal resistance from you. “You know, right?”

“Know what?”

“That I love you, angel, more than anything.”

His forehead rests against yours and the last word is a faint whisper against your lips but it rings clear in your ears. Internally, you hit yourself over the head because how could you ever have doubted this man – though battle-worn and sometimes clueless – and his love for you.

And for the first time in years, you felt comfort in letting yourself believe him.

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx @venuszaa @lilylikesthat @ppaia @ameliamirabela @tearsdntfall617

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