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soursherbat · 2 days ago

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LAMB X BISHOP MASTERPOST YEAAAA!!!

(original template link)

this genuinely took me so long but i needed to explore my ship dynamics with ramzi and his bishops! more details under the cut if you want to know more- warning this post is LONG!!!:

in order, just adding notes and addendums :3c im super sleep deprived so im trying my best but i need to yap about them

ramzi's pronouns are it/he/they!

narinder;

initially a very slow burn relationship, this sheet shows them at their peak. it takes a very long time for the lamb to forgive narinder, and vice versa, but once they're over their differences they're committed.

notes;

he/they for narinder :3c he's bisexual with a preference for masc presenting people!

prefers to be the big spoon but will allow ramzi to take that spot if it really insists on it

reaallly loves to wear the lamb's fleeces and cloaks (the only clothing of theirs that will fit them) but is too proud to directly ask for them

narinder really does not like most people- the only ones he usually socializes with are ramzi and his siblings, possibly a follower he can tolerate for a few minutes. if ramzi is talking to others while narinder is shadowing him he tends to just flick his tail and sulk quietly until his lamb gives him attention again

narinder isn't great with words, they prefer to show ramzi their love with physical affection (in private) and acts of service, while ramzi is more than willing to shower narinder with loving words and acts of devotion

ramzi refuses to confess his feelings to narinder first, full stop. narinder waits and waits, but eventually gives in and tells ramzi how he feels first- ramzi is still feeling bitter and betrayed by narinder, not appreciating them snatching it from its peaceful death to be a tool in his games. they're both incredibly conflicted, it takes a long while for them to work their differences out. its not something that can be solved with a single conversation, but eventually they come to terms with everything that's happened and make amends

ramzi wouldn't actually squash the bug- he'd prefer to just grab it and take it out of whatever space its invaded, narinder will just smack it and be done with it

im just applying the driving one if i ever make a modern au lmfao

narinder cannot cook to save his damn life after being locked up for so long- ramzi had to learn quickly being raised by ratau, i'll be real i dont think that rat knows how to cook

that prickly cat would prefer not to show his love for the lamb in public, but he might sneak a kiss while no one is looking... ramzi however doesn't care, though he does like to fluster narinder a little by flirting while others are around

these two would kill for each other, narinder is practically begging the lamb to let him do so actually- nari is described as the lamb's shadow (affectionately) by most because of how often he's seen just following it around the cult. god help you if you confess your love to the lamb while he's around- though ramzi does get pretty jealous if he sees anyone making eyes at his special kitty...

nari is 4,000 years old virgin to me lmao. ramzi has had a few relationships before narinder, it actually marries shamura before nari- they're not beating the toxic yaoi allegations any time soon they were still battling their resentment around that time

i'll touch on the spicier dynamics in a dedicated post sometime >:3c that'll apply to the rest too-

i wouldn't describe narinder as being awkward, but moreso stoic and lost really. he's also just incredibly pissed off with ramzi, feeling robbed of his rightful status as a god and feeling jealous of everything its built for itself in such a small amount of time- later on he's moreso flustered than nervous or awkward because that damned lamb wont stop flirting with him

gods help you if narinder even sees you making eyes at the lamb. he's incredibly possessive over his former vessel, its perceived rejection of him made something in him snap and they want to possess it, even if he knows that's not exactly plausible... he's normal, i swear (<-lying) ramzi returns some of that energy, it really does not like followers flirting with its favorite cat- i'll be the first to admit that they've got some toxic codependency going on

leshy;

leshy uses any pronouns! they really just don't care that much, same with its sexuality

these two fight over who gets to be the big spoon, since they're nearly even in height (leshy tries to argue his branches make him taller) it makes it easier for them to trade big/little spoon positions- but theyre so competitive they end up wrestling over it

leshy can't even see the clothes he's wearing, but it likes the idea of ramzi matching with them, even if it won't directly admit that

ramzi is rarely called by name when leshy is around, it's always 'lambzi', 'lamby', 'cottonball', or any other seemingly sarcastic pet name he can come up with for it- meanwhile ramzi often calls it 'wiggler' or 'wormy'

compared to leshy, ramzi is a little less outgoing. leshy loves to be the center of attention, he loves to pull pranks and cause mischief whenever he can.

ramzi's quick to let leshy know it is loved through any means, though surprisingly leshy is a bit more inconspicuous about showing his affections for his lamb through old traditions it clearly has no clue about but leshy gets a bit of joy watching its confusion (shamura tells it later-)

these two have a pretty easygoing relationship, at first leshy is upset about its lost godhood but it quickly begins to like staying with the lamb when they learn how accommodating and, frankly, extremely chaotic it is- they get along very well and have a teasing, poking and earnestly soft relationship rather early on. leshy admits his feelings first, mainly getting fed up that ramzi hasnt confessed that he obviously likes it by that point

neither of them mind bugs, leshy actually likes them quite a bit. they'd prefer to catch and release rather than smash them

the poor worm is blind of course he cant cook!! they might be able to if they really focused on building muscle memory and focusing their senses but they're honestly just too lazy to bother, heket's cooking is better anyway

leshy doesn't care if anyone is looking, he loves his lamb! it gets a little embarrassed when they know its siblings are around, but she does get a kick out of knowing its making narinder jealous

ramzi would lay down his life for his precious chaotic grub, it knows leshy is more than capable but they can't help but worry sometimes- leshy knows ramzi can handle itself so its pretty relaxed about everything, unless ramzi comes home particularly hurt

i like to think leshy was a bachelor in his time... why not?? he's the bishop of chaos, im sure it's started a love triangle intentionally to watch them fight over her- ramzi however is a little less experienced in romance

leshy has not an ounce of awkwardness in his body, ramzi's a little awkward when it says something particularly unhinged but otherwise they match each other's freak a little too well

leshy would never admit to ramzi that the smell of anyone else stuck to his wool makes leshy a little jealous... another reason it likes to lend her clothes to ramzi, really-

heket;

she/they/he for heket, she's bisexual with a preference toward women

heket is the big spoon, no questions asked. she loves to cradle that lamb in his arms and it is NOT one to complain about that

heket doesnt lend out her clothes very often, but they like to see how baggy it is on ramzi- she quite likes seeing it wake up wearing her shirts...

ramzi is incredibly formal with heket, usually referring to her by name or some honorific to show its respect (something she appreciates greatly)- meanwhile heket is always referring to the lamb by anything but its name, really

heket's level of social battery depends on the day, some days they would prefer not to speak to anyone, others she's more outgoing

heket shows her affection by making sure ramzi isn't overworking itself, making sure it's eating and sleeping- she knows it can care for themself, but she just wants to protect her lamb.

there's absolutely no way heket would swallow his pride and confess her brewing feelings for ramzi, they wait very patiently for it to finally get their nerve up and admit that he wants to pursue a relationship with her- after (mostly) healing her throat, she doesn't feel so lonely in the cult once her voice returns and she begins to feel conflicted about ramzi... she wants to hate him, but it's doing everything they can to help her siblings and she can't help but respect and admire it for that, they would admit that she would never consider it if she was still a god-

heket thinks bugs are cute, she'll either catch and release them or keep them in a little container for a bit (she's never beating the weird little sister allegations to me)

ramzi's cooking definitely is not as good as heket's, if it cooks a meal the whole cult is asking when it's heket's turn next LMAO-

PDA ruins heket's cool and stoic exterior in her eyes, though she can't just say that to the lamb- they'll gladly give him a hug or a kiss when nobody's looking, though

honestly, ramzi is just protective over all of the bishops. it feels terribly for killing them repeatedly and making them suffer in purgatory, and it never wants to see them suffer again- heket knows the lamb is strong, she's seen it with her own eyes. that doesn't stop him from worrying for them a little when they leave on crusade, however...

heket has some relationship experience, though its been a WHILE- forneus and ramzi are her most recent endeavors and she's incredibly awkward about both of them

heket is insanely awkward, she tries to maintain a cool exterior but it's so hard when that damned lamb is so cute and that sweet cat mom is so kind and shaped- whats a woman to do in her situation??

she can get a little bit jealous if her buttons are pushed on the wrong day, but other than that ramzi and heket have a pretty open relationship

kallamar;

any pronouns for kallamar! though he/she are most preferred, she's very lax about his gender and loves to experiment

despite being nearly a full foot and a half taller than ramzi, kallamar loves to be its little spoon! he feels so safe in his lamb's embrace, she would never leave if it was possible

none of her clothes would fit the lamb, but he does have clothing made for it often! he'll be damned if he lets ramzi walk around looking anything less than presentable, even if they're naked they must be TASTEFULLY naked- (though his definition of what that means is a bit nebulous. ramzi's convinced he just wants to ogle)

they love to make up pet names for each other, 'mari' and 'kallie' are ramzi's favorites to use for his precious husband. kallamar is particularly fond of calling ramzi his puppy, often flustering it-

kallamar is a YAPPER and she will not shut up about how much he loves her lamb! ramzi doesn't mind it, but she's often talking so much that it can't properly find the words to express it back- so they give gifts often, knowing how much their wife loves to adorn himself in jewelry and silks!

ramzi is actually a little bit intimidated by kallamar's experience in love and how pretty he is, kallamar ends up making a very dramatic love confession in front of everyone, totally flustering ramzi (though it has to admit he really loves the dedication!)

he is TERRIFIED of bugs kallamar will shriek so loudly if she finds even a small beetle anywhere near her living space- ramzi often finds itself catching the little bugs while kallie screams bloody murder in the corner

kallamar absolutely can cook but he doesn't want the responsibility of cooking entire meals for the whole cult so she intentionally cooks like shit to avoid it- ramzi catches onto that pretty quickly though

these two need to get a ROOM the confessional is NOT to be used in that way!!!

kallamar's overprotective attitude mainly comes from a place of not wanting the lamb's image to be ruined, he'll tend to their makeup and wardrobe, even helping to enforce loyalty amongst their flock to keep their image pristine- and kallamar is just an easy bullying target, ramzi is Very quick to put an end to that!

kallamar is absolutely more experienced than ramzi, though he's no less dedicated to it. it makes their relationship very calm, there's very little tension between them!

ramzi is very awkward around kallamar at first, he's pretty indignant and a bit cruel to it during the first few weeks- once ramzi begins offering him gifts and praise she warms up rather quickly, however. ramzi's disarmingly cute appearance and dirty mouth tends to make kallamar a nervous mess sometimes, though...

there's not a single ounce of jealousy between these two 🧍‍♂️ they both understand that they're dedicated to one another, and can dedicate themselves to others without compromising their bond

shamura;

they/it for mura! i feel that they enjoy experimenting with their clothing in relation to their gender, but they prefer neutral pronouns

these two take turns on who gets to be the big spoon, though usually shamura claims that spot

shamura loves to weave clothes for ramzi! they enjoy seeing his face light up when they incorporate designs ramzi has shown them that sheep often wore, wanting to keep that memory alive for it

they're pretty formal at first, but the two of them can't help but call each other by loving nicknames once they've become comfortable with each other- ramzi often calls shamura 'softie' or 'dearest'

shamura prefers to keep to themself, though they've grown rather attached to webber. they've basically adopted the little creature, that's their son...

once clarity has returned to shamura through ramzi's healing, they have a better grasp on their words- but they still struggle to word their feelings a lot of the time. they try their best, but they find it easier to give gifts or show their affections with physical intimacy when words fail them

shamura is incredibly paranoid and wary of ramzi's presence when they're first indoctrinated, until they finally break bread and reach an understanding, shamura doesn't even consider the lamb could feel anything but hatred and resentment toward them. it assumes that he wants to seek revenge, but learns that he just wants to help them- it takes a bit longer for the fear to truly leave shamura, but when they never feel that dagger in their back, they begin to soften it clearly isnt lying to them, it's helped all of their siblings become as happy as he can- and it asks nothing in return of them? it feels too good to be true, but they can't help but trust him eventually ramzi confesses first, and is initially (softly) rejected... but theyre not entirely opposed! mainly conflicted, for a while-

they both love bugs, obviously- though sometimes ramzi gets bitten while trying to show shamura the little spiders he's captured

shamura likes to cook but they prefer liquid only foods- it's not horrible, but sometimes they want more variety

shamura is a bit shy about their relationship with the lamb, they're the least experienced with this sort of thing out of all of the bishops- war and reason have no room for love and compassion, after all. they're learning, with ramzi's help

if someone even LOOKS at ramzi the wrong way, shamura is the first to come to the lamb's defense. both a form of devotion, claiming ramzi as their charge they'd guard with their life, and a form of facing their grief- they'd ended ramzi's life once, they don't want to see it hurt anymore

these two match each other's freak so well its scary- you dont wanna see what happens in the mating tent when these two are in there!!

after shamura's initial wariness and shortness with ramzi fades, they become incredibly shy and awkward- they don't know how to navigate all these new feelings, and it doesn't really know who to turn to for advice

shamura is very possessive of their lamb- they were the first to be wed by it, after all- not to mention i personally think them being a spider influences this quite a bit,

WOAW THATS IT!!! holy shit thats a lot of text.... anyway if u have any questions abt any of them or want more clarification feel free to send me asks i love to yap abt them all <3

oh boy im not looking forward to putting all the tags on this

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shuastar · 12 hours ago

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ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ .3 (JWW)

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 9.9k (holy shit) warnings: none for now?? hot wonwoo, lowkey obsessed wonwoo, seungcheol featuring!! y/n does like kinda get hurt (you'll see) but nothing like bad, a lot of crying?? sorry i make y/n cry so much, ᴀ/ɴ: i told myself i would post this like three days ago but i just finished the last part so here you go!! sorry sorry sorry for the delay! im also trying to go through requests at the same time so if i like dont answer for a while i promise im writing it!! just wait!! anyways, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ

Wonwoo

The palace feels extraordinarily wistful tonight.

His coat trails after him in the dark of the night. He shouldn’t be awake at this hour. It’s unhealthy, or whatever Hoshi had told him for the years when he was on the battlefield. He couldn’t help it. It was a coping mechanism of sorts. His mind would spend the day experiencing everything that happens and would spend the night sorting and processing through each and every event. And on those days where the empty company of his desolate, cold commander’s tent seemed too loud, he would take a long evening stroll around the camp grounds, brushing it off as an evening check-up on the midnight-round soldiers who seemed more asleep than himself.

He thought the systems of his mind would have adapted to Society’s peace by now.

Apparently not, because he found himself in a random hallway in the royal palace, thin rays of the moon streaming in through the windows and the midnight air chilling him, even through his layers.

He hasn’t ever seen the palace so silent before.

When he was younger, running the hallways of the palace with Seungcheol, Mingyu, and Hoshi, he had always remembered it to be bright, sunny, almost over-crowded with laughter and giggles from the maids and royal court officials who would pass by the halls frequently. Now, in the cover of a twilight moon and a midnight blanket of stars, the palace was almost eerily, strangely quiet. Silent, almost. Each flickering lantern casts soft yellow shadows along the stone and tapestry walls, illuminating the bare minimum of each section of the hallways.

He prefers it like this, he thinks. Alone.

Alone with the clangs and clashes of swords. Alone with the cries and yells of his far-away officers, now sleeping peacefully, forever. Alone with the tears that were spilled on off-handed solitary nights over old parchment letters. Alone with the burden of duty that seems to haunt him wherever he goes.

He turns a corner.

He prefers it this way. And maybe he was-

He stops in his weary tracks.

He notices her fluttering hair first. First her dark hair that flutters with the icy winter wind from the opened window that she leans against. Then her rather thin-looking shawl that leaves nothing of her nightgown up to anyone’s imagination. And then lastly, how the moonlight shines an ethereal glow upon her face, tilted up towards the stars, lost in thought. Her posture is tense, almost as if she is expecting something to jump out of the shadows at this hour of the night.

Well, him, technically, he guesses. But still.

He stands, rooted to his place, as she shivers with a small breeze. One side of her shawl slips down her shoulder, but she makes no move to adjust it back up her shoulder. Almost as if she does not notice it. Her hands remain folded in front of her on the windowsill. A small hand-held lantern rests almost forgotten on the corner.

He hesitates. Every fiber of his body begs for him to take a step closer – to take in her perfume again, to run his fingertips down her porcelain skin again, to make up for the time he had given up.

Joshua’s words ring in his ears.

If you really like her, you would do something.

He takes a step closer.

“It’s late.”

Y/n whips around, a hand on her chest and another on the windowsill, surprised by the sudden sign of another person. The way her face slightly falls as she turns back to the window pinches Wonwoo’s heart.

“It seems the palace is enduring a restless night,” she replies. But her words are clipped – voice soft and light but tone careful. As if she is afraid of him getting too close.

Wonwoo takes another step, then another, and then another, until he stands behind her, leaving just enough room for another person. His eyes dart to her hands that rest against the ledge. There are white bandages, starkly contrasting against the dark stones of the palace walls, that wrap themselves around her hands. His brows furrow.

His chest tightens. He feels his hands close into fists at his side. He tries to keep his voice casual – keep his worry from seeping in too much with his words, “What happened to your hands?”

Y/n stiffens as her gaze drops. Her hands slowly move in to tuck into the folds of her thin shawl. “Nothing worth mentioning,” she murmurs.

Wonwoo tries his best to force down some sort of disappointment at her short response. Her obvious attempt at pushing him away.

For a good reason, too.

No.

Fix this.

Another breeze drifts through the opened window. Y/n shivers, tightening her hold over her shawl.

Before he can even think through his actions, Wonwoo’s hands are reaching for his coat. In the next second, when he finally realizes what he is doing, his coat is already over y/n’s shoulders, draping it over her bare skin. In a desperate attempt to prolong his distance, his fingers linger on her shoulders, smoothening the fabric over the curve.

“It’s cold,” he murmurs. He waits for her rebuke, a snark, a comment, or a shove of his coat to his chest, but it never comes. Instead, he sees her fingers curl around the fur and pull it tighter around her. Something, deep inside of him, lights in a proud flame, seeing her draped in his furs.

Y/n suddenly scoffs. “Is this part of your duty too?” Wonwoo easily picks up on the bitterness her voice is laced with.

As much as Wonwoo tries to ignore the underlying stab at him, her words still sting. The words are laced with a certain pain he wished he could erase. Instead, he has become the cause of it.

Fix it.

“Not everything I do is duty,” Wonwoo pauses, unsure of whether to continue, “your grace.”

Y/n stills, before a laugh is ripped from her throat. It sounds so genuine Wonwoo is almost taken aback. “What did you just call me?” she huffs, giggles flowing out of her mouth she tries to stop.

Wonwoo can’t help the smile that spreads across his own lips at her laughter. “Your grace?”

Why was that funny?

“God,” y/n sighs, turning to finally look at him over her shoulder. Her cheeks are a rosy red and her lips are glossed, eyes wishful for a second. “I’ve never heard you call me that before.”

Wonwoo perks up. “Do you prefer me call you that?”

Y/n shakes her head almost vehemently. “God, no. That would be terribly formal,” she argues.

Wonwoo cocks his head. “But you call me that, y/n.”

She freezes, laughter dying in her throat. “That’s-” she clears her throat, “That’s different.”

And just like that, she stands away from him, expression guarded again.

A blanket of silence falls between them before Wonwoo breaks it.

“Everything I do is not just duty.” His words are firmer this time. Rooted deeper in his own conviction.

She looks at him, eyes unreadable again. “Am I?” her voice is soft, almost as if she’s testing him.

The question, oddly vulnerable, hangs heavy in the air – fragile and sharp. She looks especially delicate at this moment. As if one wrong word from his mouth can break her from the inside. His heart tugs painfully at the anguish he can puzzle together in her eyes. He steps closer, closing the remaining distance between them. His eyes hold hers and he wonders if she can see the longing swimming in his eyes.

“Am I, Wonwoo?” she repeats. Every utterance of his name falling from her sweet, saccharine lips makes him feel like he’s falling for her again.

“No,” he shakes his head. He tries to weave in every ounce of conviction into his next words, “No, y/n, you’re not.”

They stand in silence. Y/n against the windowsill, Wonwoo in front of her. For a moment, he feels as though the silence can convey everything he had ever wanted to say to her. They stand in silence, their breaths mingling in the cold night air. Wonwoo stares into her eyes, his metal-frame glasses slipping down his nose. Her cheeks are flushed and he can’t help but think how breathtaking she looks – haloed by the moonlight, wrapped in his coat, hair cascading down, strands tickling her face.

She breaks eye contact first, glancing down at the coat that wrapped her shoulders. “You left, Wonwoo.” When she looks back up, her eyes seem glassy, glazed over with unshed tears she refused to let out.

Wonwoo’s throat tightens at her expression. She seems so pained. So frightfully alone that he wants to pull her in an embrace – gather her up in his arms and never let her go. Never let her go. A voice nags in the back of his mind.

See? No good for her. You're making her cry. Fucking again.

“Y/n,” he trails off, hand reaching for her before he physically has to force it down. Now, he is the one whose gaze drops. “Fuck, don't look at me like that,” he mumbles.

Y/n lets out a bitter sort of laugh. “Like what, Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo looks up and he can't help but feel a thick pressure behind his eyes. “I never meant to- to cause you pain,” he tries to explain, but his voice catches on the lump in his throat. “I- I have never wanted to cause- to be the cause of your- your misfortunes. Or your pain. I've only ever wanted to-” he cuts himself off. Eyes pained. If he says this now, y/n would probably scoff in his face.

I've only ever wanted you, he wants to say, but he bites it down.

There is now something else in her eyes. He can see it for a split second before it disappears back into the depths of her irises. When he searches her eyes for it again, she suddenly seems so vulnerable. As if she is finally letting him in.

“I was sincere,” he starts, stepping ever so slightly closer, “at the ball.”

Y/n lets out a huff. “Before or after you kissed me?” Her face is hard again and Wonwoo wants to curse himself out.

He runs a hand through his hair. “No, um,” he swears under his breath, “before I-” his cheeks heat and he averts his gaze, “-I kissed you,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” she says, “fat amount of good you kissing me did.”

Wonwoo winces. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes. “I really am. I just-”

Y/n suddenly covers his mouth with her hand. She shakes her head. “Stop talking.” She reaches for her lantern. “Come talk to me after you've sorted out your own thoughts, your grace.” She turns down the hall. “You said you do not view me as a duty?”

Wonwoo nods. “Yes, of course.”

Y/n gives him one look over her shoulder. Even then, Wonwoo cannot help but swallow at how his coat envelopes her figure.

Her eyes seem more desolate in the shadows of the hall. “Then why does it feel that way?” she whispers before she turns and walks away, down the hall. Away from him.

Again.

y/n

It is by pure coincidence that you hear your name outside of Sungcheol’s study a couple of days after your rather forced midnight escapade with Wonwoo.

However, it is by your choice that you stay, ear pushed up against the rather thin oak doors that are slightly ajar, a soft yellow light seeping out, listening into a conversation that apparently concerns you.

“...marriage to …”

Your brows furrow at the words. Marriage? Why did marriage have anything to do with you? And then you remember it’s Seungcheol. Him and his obsession with seeing you marry before he gets married. Before he opens the entirety of your powers. At this point, after everything, you might as well turn in a resignation letter or something, because you weren’t quite sure how you were supposed to survive high Society after the event a week ago.

And you know. You’re listening to a private conversation of two men, one of whom is the king. But you couldn’t help yourself. It was like something rooted you to your position, brows furrowing as you tried to pick up all the words.

“But why?” The voice sounds oddly familiar. “You’re not married. I’m not …marriage … who?” The sentence is chopped up but you can loosely string together a translation in your head.

You recognize Seungcheol’s frustrated sigh. “Friend,” he mutters, “Wonwoo,” he groans.

You freeze.

The world around you comes to a standstill.

You want to laugh at your continued stroke of misfortune. You and your fate’s delectable horrid need for pushing you towards someone you swore off years ago.

“You can’t keep running from this. The elders want you to get married – preferably to someone with equal or around the same standing as you,” Seungcheol continues, and you feel your chest tighten. This feels like a page out of one of your conversations with the king. “I’m not even going as far as saying a love marriage, Woo. I cannot give you full title and power over your duchy until you do, you know this. An arranged one, a contractual one, a construct only, I don’t care.” It sounds so familiar it gives you shivers. “Just get married. If not to y/n, then to someone else. I’m not saying this again, Woo. Last time was your first warning from the council elders. This is your second from me.”

“... I can’t. Cheol do you know how hard it is to get-”

“-yes. I do. But you cannot take on the full title and powers without it, Wonwoo. I cannot control that.”

A groan. Your foot taps against the floor. “I don’t know who-”

“-Y/n.”

Seungcheol’s utterance of your name makes your heart stop in its cage of ribs. Your mouth goes dry and you finally realize the gravity of the conversation you just walked yourself into.

Why doesn’t he ever just close his door when talking to someone?

“You know as well as I do, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol continues, a rare softness in his tone, “that the title of Archduke Jeon isn’t simply yours by name. The council has strict expectations—and right now, they expect you to marry.” He says the entire thing so matter-of-factly that you can’t even protest against it. Well, that and the fact that the exact thing was happening to you, but perhaps maybe less. Just a little bit.

“Was all of that night because of your marriage?” Seungcheol asks.

You backstep, blood running cold.

What?

Wonwoo’s next words almost tear your unassuming heart into shreds.

“... it was.” His voice is hard. “My claim … based … marital status…”

Seungcheol sighs. The noise shakes you to your core.

There was absolutely no way a human could be this cruel. No way he could ever be this cruel to you. You had to mean more to him than just another duty he had to fulfill. You had to because if you weren’t even the smallest parts of you that had waited for him during the mundane pieces of life would seem so meaningless. So hellbent on your societal ousting.

You had to be hearing something wrong.

“Whatever you have with y/n…”

“...nothing.”

You hear a chair scrape. It scrapes with it the remnants of your heart. You can hear it shatter onto the floor again, the pieces now so small you cannot be bothered to pick them up. There are pieces that lodge in the corners of your lungs, blocking blood vessels as cells carry oxygen into your head. Your hand grasps the wall in a desperate attempt to ground yourself

What did you even expect?

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. “You have a duty, Wonwoo. If not to yourself, then to this country, to the ducal people, to your king.” You hear the scatterings of paper. “And I advise that you fulfill that before you move on to more ambitious fulfillments.”

That was what you were. Fulfillments. A solution for his aggravating empty ducal responsibilities.

That was everything you were in their eyes. No, in his eyes. In his eyes, you were a means to an end. A sense of duty he felt that he had to accomplish. And of course he would go for you. Of course he would march back into your life like he had never left. Of course he would have kissed you under the moonlit twilight, not a care in the world about if anyone could see you two.

Because he would have heard. He would have known everything already. He would have known your scandals, your engagements, your whereabouts in Society – how you were one scandal away from no prospective marriages – one scandal away from losing everything.

You feel bile creep up your throat.

Were you only duty for him the entire time? The entire fucking time?

Were you only a means to an end, a convenient solution, another Society whore in the rough for him?

All this time?

You feel like your lungs are caving in.

Your hand goes up to knock.

Your knuckles rap against the wooden door.

It creaks open.

Creeeaaaaak.

Seungcheol and Wonwoo both whip around.

You bow:

Low, respectful, dutiful.

You try to mask your sniffles with a quiet cough.

“The nation’s humble servant greets the king,” you murmur. You are still in your bow when you feel a tear roll down your cheek. Your nails dig crescents into the meat of your palm.

“Y/n?” Seungcheol pushes off of his desk, making his way over to you. You can picture his look of confusion painted on his face when you don’t rise from your low bow. It’s not like you, you know. You usually bring him into a warm embrace, a smile on your face. You usually give him a teasing bow.

But you can’t look up right now. If you do, you know you’re going to break down sobbing in the middle of the royal study room. If you do, you’re so afraid of meeting his cold sharpened eyes and recognizing none of the imagined emotions you had found four nights ago. You’re so afraid you were terrifyingly wrong.

Seungcheol stops right in front of you. From your line of vision, you can see the toes of his shoes.

“Y/n.” His voice seems much more urgent, as if he’s worried. “Y/n, what’s wrong?”

Your nails dig further into your palms. You feel the tips rip open the first thin layer of skin. You can feel tears welling against your waterline. How could his words feel so real?

“Your highness,” you whisper. Your hoarse voice echoes through the room. You can almost feel Seungcheol’s startle backstep at your sudden title. “I apologize for intruding on your conversation, but I feel as though I will not be able to attend our afternoon tea today.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow.

You can feel warm tears drip down your bowed face. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your brain feels foggy. You feel foggy.

“Why not?” A warm hand is placed on your shoulder, trying to force you up, but you refuse to budge. Seungcheol sighs. “Y/n, look at me. What’s wrong, kid?”

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip. Hard. The habitual nickname digs a sharp blade into your throat. “I just-”

At that moment, your nails, which you had forgotten were still tight against your skin barrier, finally break through the last of the tension, stabbing into your palms. There is a surge of pain before the crescents fill with warm, wet, dark blood.

“Ow,” you mumble. When you slowly open your hands, your palms are dark red. You finally lift yourself up, meeting Seungcheol’s eyes, which blow wide at your tear-streaked face. But he does not say anything. You move your hands behind you.

“Why are you-” Seungcheol cuts himself off with a quick glance behind him. Your eyes trail his, only to see Wonwoo sitting rigidly straight, facing the other way, at Seungcheol’s desk. “-Nevermind. Why can’t you attend tea?” Seungcheol pouts.

You swallow, mustering a small smile. Just big enough for Seungcheol to not worry. “You know. Duties. I think-” you heave in a breath, “-I think it will be best for me to head down to my estate in a couple of days, you highness.”

It is evident Seungcheol does not enjoy your continued usage of his title because his nose scrunches and his pout deepens. “Already? You just got here,” he whines.

You hum, eyes darting to Wonwoo’s form at the desk. He isn’t looking, but you know he can hear every single word. “It’s been a while since I’ve been down at the duchy. Plus,” you add, “I do not want to intrude on guests who feel as though I am merely a duty to be fulfilled.” Your words come out much more scathing, and when you glance at Wonwoo’s turned figure, it is frozen in place.

Seungcheol does not get the hint because he suddenly grabs your shoulders, gently shaking you. “Who is saying that? I’ll have them exiled,” he huffs. His big arms cross across his chest. You can’t help but break out into a genuine smile. “What?” he asks, sniffing. “You come before this country,” he says matter-of-factly.

You tilt your head. “So, actually, no, I do not,” you laugh. One last look at Wonwoo, who is tapping his foot. You swallow down the rest of your tears and force a grin. “God, you need to get yourself a wife, Seungcheol,” you hum, patting his bicep.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Needa find you a husband first. Then we’ll talk about my love life, Miss Cupid,” he retorts, shaking his head. “Won’t you come to tea?”

You shake your head no. “I’ll see you around, your highness.” You spare one fleeting glance towards Wonwoo, steeling yourself. “Your grace. I apologize for my intrusion again.” You bow before you can see Wonwoo turn at your sudden calling of him.

You step towards the door before stilling. “Oh, and if I may,” you clear your throat, “perhaps close your door in the future, your highness? You would not want unassuming,” a pause, “passerbys listening into rather private conversations.”

With that, you close the door behind you with a soft click.

You miss Wonwoo’s gaping mouth and Seungcheol’s taken-aback stare that you leave in your wake.

However, you do hear one sentence before you make your way down the hall:

“Fuck, Seungcheol, what am I gonna do?”

That and the shattering of your glass heart you had carefully glued together three years ago. Every step you take, further into the palace, leaves broken shards in its wake.

When you reach up, fingers brushing over your cheeks, you feel a warm wetness. Its excruciatingly amusing, really, that you keep fucking yourself over with the same man. Same stupid stupid man with the same stupid fucking face.

Him with his dark hair. Him with his glasses. Him with his gentle smile, low voice, dimpled cheeks. Him with his stupid old letters that are in a meticulously organized pile in a drawer back at your estate. Him with his fast-beating heart under your hand during the ball. Him with his piercing eyes that you can’t help but blush under. Him with his knack of squeezing your poor naive heart until it explodes into shattered glass pieces.

You forcefully rub at your eyes, tears coming out of you in staccatoed sobs and gasps of breath. You probably sound ridiculous, gut-wrenching sobs escaping your covered mouth as you stop in the middle of a hallway, one hand against the wall as you slide down, skirt covering your legs. You must seem crazy, insane, as a lady of your standing to drop into such an alarming position in the middle of the royal palace’s hallway.

But you can’t help it. You can’t help the tears pouring down your face, the throaty gasps of breath as your hand clutches at your heart. You can’t help your fists slamming into the brick walls until you can physically feel the stone breaking your layer of skin. And you can’t help but lean back against the cool stone, staring up at the painted ceilings of the palace, wet tracks marking every tear you shed because of him.

And you don’t even know why you’re crying in the first place, anyways. This concept, this dreadful soliloquy of duty, of honor, of responsibility has always followed you. Has always followed him. What did you even expect? Maybe, you dread to admit it, but maybe, just maybe there was – still is – a part of you that got excited at his sudden return from the battlefield. Maybe there was a part of your heart that still longed for something, a lost spark, a reunited kind of flame, to blaze to life again the moment you two locked eyes in the ballroom. Maybe there is still a piece of you – naive and stupid – that wants to run to Wonwoo, tears in your eyes, and pour out your soul. Confess to him the extent of your missing him. Confess to him the deeper, chained parts of your memories.

Maybe that part of you still wants to let him know the space he took up in your thoughts, your everyday routine, your unconscious spirit. Still wants to let him know how violently, terrifyingly your heart shattered when twenty-year-old you, still new to Society, still new to the idea of a responsibility, of a duty, heard him and Seungcheol talk about him leaving. Leaving into the battleground of bloodied wilderness – back to the northern borders of his duchy, and thus the country. Leaving the Capital, leaving his life, leaving you for something as measly as duty?

And you could live with it. You swear.

If it was just that – if it was just him leaving and never coming back to face Society again, you could do it. You think you could have powered through the rest of your noble life. You would have probably settled for some second-rate high-class noble who could bring, at least, value to Seungcheol’s life in the royal courts, if not yours. You would have given birth to two children and would have then gone down south to your sprawling country estate you hadn’t been to since you were twenty. And you would go down and see the nostalgic halls that chronically had sunlight beaming down on the limestone columns. You would have gone down and seen the visages of your younger self, running, laughing, tripping, and then falling in love with a man you thought you had erased from your life forever. You would have raised your children peacefully with Nai and a governess, teaching them subjects your father had not taught you when you were six and ten. Then, maybe you would have died a peaceful death – loved by at least, hopefully, Seungcheol, Mingyu, Joshua, and your children, if not your husband, living on in memories as the one noble lady who resolutely carried her burdens with a smile. The one who was untouchable, the one who sacrificed her dreams for the duty she wore like a heavy crown.

You would have been okay with the slow burn of regret over the years. You would have turned it into something manageable, something to grow old with in your desperate solitude.

And you would have been okay. You would have lived on like he didn’t – never – existed.

But then he came back.

He came back like a ghost of your past you had just finally laid to rest. He came back like a phantom resurrected with the only purpose being to torment you with the memories you had buried meticulously in each polished hallway, echoing ballroom, whisper of silk, hurried glances, judgemental eyes of Society.

You hug your knees close, face burying as you try to hide your tear-streaked face, gasping pathetically into the silence of the palace hallway. Suddenly, the very idea of knowing what he had felt – every glimmer of hope, every wishful unspoken feeling, every lonely night you spent dreaming of a different life – was all constructed. That all of your naive daydreams were for nothing. Wonwoo’s words ripped through your psyche, like sharpened daggers: “Nothing.”

How cruel, you think, a laugh bubbling up your throat. How cruel to have meant absolutely nothing to him. To have been reduced to a mere patronizing duty, a role he, as a man, must fulfill because of popular demand. Because the crown required it. Because the court required it. Because you were a convenient solution to such an inconvenient fucking problem. And then he just comes back from his battlefields up north with just a little more pain in his eyes – enough to tear down your walls with just a little bit of help from his stupidly sweet words. And he kisses you.

The slightest brush of his lips – a constructed play of his – it wasn’t real. It was never yours to begin with. It was a ploy into his obligation to his title, his land, his legacy, his duty.

You feel the coldness of the wintry palace air and the frigid stone floor seep into your skin, mirroring the slow chilling of your soul. There’s a dull jab of pain in your heart. You feel stupid – foolish. Foolish to dream and even more foolish to believe he had come back for you. And now you were to bear the weight of a revelation you knew was coming. A revelation that solidified your position beside him: a duty to shoulder, a burden to silence. A requirement to complete before he advanced to the next stage. Like you had always been with everyone else.

You don’t know how long you stare into the dull darkness when you suddenly hear a pair of soft footsteps approaching from the dark. You hurriedly collect your breath, your sobs leaving now in small gasps. Your fingers rub almost violently against your eyes, trying to compose yourself. You get to stand up – an archduchess should never be on the floor – but when you look up, the face that stares back at you makes your shattered heart press miserably into your ribs, thudding with traitorous beats of hope.

It’s unfair how the moonlight glints and reflects and twinkles off of his glasses that sit low on his nose. It’s unfair how he looks at you with a certain sense of grief, of regret, of pained sorrow.

“Y/n?”

You stand the rest of your way up to your feet, whipping around to face the other end of the hallway, your scrambled mind trying to come up with some sort of excuse other than “haha, you made me cry!” to tell Wonwoo when he asks the question.

You start, “I apologize for-”

“-It’s late.” Wonwoo’s voice is thick with some kind of emotion you can’t really understand. “And cold.” An emotion you can’t place your finger on.

You stay turned to the dark end of the hallway, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of Wonwoo’s body. And when you feel a thick, heavy, warm cloak being placed around your shoulders, you want to tear out your thudding heart and throw it on the floor, stomping on it until it finally bursts – until it finally stops beating for someone who did not want you the same way. Who only saw you as a duty – a wish to be fulfilled. Another box to tick off on his Archduke Requirements.

“I will live,” you mutter, shrugging off the cloak. The fabric piles to a thick lump on the floor between you and him. You feel like you’re trying to convince yourself. “Perhaps it is time for both of us to return to our chambers, your grace,” you state. But you know Wonwoo can hear you swallow the rest of your tears back, your last breath going in stuttered and gasping.

Wonwoo is quiet behind you, and you think he’s already left (leaving you to talk to yourself and an empty hallway, which would be rather embarrassing), but you feel his presence again as he leans down – picking up his discarded cloak.

His next words fan over the open expanse of your neck. “I bid you goodnight, then, duchess.” His words are quiet and reserved, and you can hear the small clangs of his sword and the cloak chains hit against each other. For some reason, his parting formality stabs a more piercing pain in you than anything else.

Perhaps he is also reconsidering.

The next sound you hear is his parting footsteps and a thud against a wall that sounds disturbingly similar to a fist meeting the jagged stones followed by a shudder of an exhale.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Technically, you should be at Seungcheol’s tea. Technically, you should be indulging the king in his weekly rant about the royal court members, his prospectives for a wife, his dreadful repetition of his day, the like. And technically, you should be smiling and laughing with him, sipping one of the most expensive tea steeped from the tea leaves from the West.

But every time you stepped in a hallway a little further from your wing of the palace, you felt a hard lump in your throat, the words that had pierced you last night ringing in your eardrums unfairly loud.

The library is silent at this hour of the afternoon. The royal court had convened in the morning – a meeting you were conveniently exempt from – and the advisory council had also met just a few hours prior. The maids and servants are busy with meal preparations for supper, the knights have their afternoon training with Mingyu and Soonyoung, and every other guest in the palace is either outside in the gardens or at Seungcheol’s open afternoon tea.

So the library is quiet. It’s cold and quiet – the kind of quiet that presses against your ears and makes your breath sound a little too loud. The kind that makes you come to a standstill at every scuff of your heels against the carpeted floors.

You’re here under the pretense of finding a book. You had to lie to Nai about liking the quietness of the library and the slanting rays of the winter sun the large windows had to offer. The lie was more the sunlight than anything. You had walked into the library wing thinking reading something, thinking of something other than your tangled mess of emotions stemming from last night, would distract your naive heart from thudding for him again.

As your fingers graze the spines of the library’s collection, curated by the princess who was off at Reoka finishing her University education, the door creaks open behind you.

You stiffen.

This isn’t a common hour to be roaming around, especially as an unfamiliar palace guest.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around until you hear the soft padding footsteps and the familiar quiet clangs of metal near you. Your heart squeezes before your mind can process who it is as you turn from your place. Under the archway opening to the private collection, where you stood in front of an old bookshelf, Wonwoo stands, silhouetted tall and almost commanding under the shadow of the arch. He almost looks as troubled as you probably do. Almost.

You turn back to the books, feigning disinterest at his sudden presence. Your fingers pick out the first book you touch by the spine, pulling it out from its home in between the old books.

“I thought you would be-” Wonwoo’s voice is loud against the once-silent room.

But your barely-contained words spill out before he can finish and before your mind can catch up to your voice.

“-I thought you would be off attending more pressing duties, your grace,” you interrupt. You can’t control how icy your words sound and you force yourself to stand facing the windows, staring out into the sparring courtyard where the knights are being led through a drill. “Perhaps fulfilling your own or taking your precious time to remind another of theirs.”

Wonwoo’s boots, careful footsteps, scuff the carpet, coming to a stop a couple of steps behind you. He makes no move to turn you around, to say anything to you. Instead, you can feel him staring – his heavy gaze boring holes into the back of your head, almost. Grazing up and down your back.

When the silence becomes almost awkward, he speaks. “I wasn’t aware I needed to inform you of my whereabouts, duchess.”

Your grip on the book tightens after his last word. The same formality of last night brings up evening memories of the night prior … rather unwillingly. Your hands squeeze the book until the hard spine digs into the wounds on your palms from 2 nights, bandaged with white cotton.

You lower your head. “Oh, I think you’ve made your priorities clear enough. No reason to inform me of anything when you speak so clearly with your actions, your grace.”

Although you will your words to not trail off in the end, they do, with the quiet lull of your voice. You let the silence after your words stretch – thick, uncomfortable, taut – between the two of you, letting it densely fill up the atmosphere.

“It seems you misunderstand,” Wonwoo states, like you definitely said something wrong. Like you were wrong and he was right. His words are softer but not any less firm.

You let out a hollow laugh, fingers relaxing their hold on the book. “Have I?” Even to you, your words seem accusatory. “Then please, enlighten me on what there is to misunderstand after being reduced down to a convenient solution?”

You finally turn, meeting his eyes in the wake. They look troubled and your eyebrows furrow ever so slightly at the detailings of the darkness under his eyes, shadowing his face. Behind his glasses, his eyes glint with something you aren’t used to. When he meets your eyes, his expression flickers.

Frustrated, you think. And you want to laugh. Frustrated. Him. Because of you.

He steps closer. “A solution? You think you are simply a solution for me?” His voice rises at his utterance of ‘you,’ and you almost flinch back at his sudden rise in voice.

But when Wonwoo stares at you with frustrated eyes, a flame of indignation sparks in you. Who does he think he is to be frustrated with you?

You scoff. “What else am I supposed to think?” You surprise yourself, even, with the rise in your own voice, echoing through the library. You can hear the bubbling smoke of the tears from last night in your words. “You suddenly show up – out of nowhere – back into Society, after three years, and suddenly you’re everywhere – talking about some sort of duty and expectation placed on you. Do you think of me as some illiterate or some unhearing noble lady, your grace?” You spit, “Do you think I did not understand what you and Seungcheol were talking about last night? About your marriage, your title, your more aspirational fulfillments after marriage? Do not think of me as stupid, your grace.”

Your chest heaves with every snarked sentence that escapes your mouth.

Wonwoo steps closer, eyes glancing down at your bandaged hands. “You think- That wasn’t-”

“-Don’t even,” you laugh, holding up your hand. You hope the desperation in your voice is enough to convince him to stay rooted in his place – no closer to you. Because you think if he comes any closer, you’ll actually snap. “I do think. And what wasn’t, when I heard you so clearly?” Your next words escape you before you have a chance to properly bet on the probability of them being true. “And you’re here following me into the only place I can ask for some peace and quiet for what? Because if you’re going to come up all close to me and hold my waist and kiss me under the stars, your grace, you chose the wrong day to do it.”

You can visibly see Wonwoo’s jaw tighten, fingers curling slowly into fists. His eyes shut and then open, like he’s physically restraining himself. “That’s not why I’m here,” he mutters, composure so obviously cracked at the thinning edges.

You cross your arms. “Then why?”

“I came here because I wanted peace, too,” he says, his voice rough with frustration. “Because this is the one place where I thought I could breathe without feeling like I’m drowning. But apparently, even here, I can’t escape your assumptions about me.”

He sounds so bitter that you blink, startled by his sudden tone.

“My assumptions?” You laugh, poking a finger to your chest. “You’re the one who up and left!” You shove a finger into his chest. “You’re the one who made me not even worth a proper fucking goodbye!”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow and you immediately know you’re close to crossing some sort of line. “I left because of a reason, Y/n.” His voice is so calm still, compared to yours, that it stokes the fire of your anger.

And there goes his utterance of your name again.

“Ha!” You laugh, slapping the bookshelf. The sound rings loudly against the quiet privacy of the library.

Wonwoo swallows. “You mean so much more to me than-”

You stand facing him, heart racing again as you feel the word prod at your tongue. “-Don’t do that,” you snap, stepping closer to the Archduke. “Don’t stand there and act like I mean something more to you when I’m simply a solution. You don’t need me, your grace. You need a wife, your title, to make the king happy. Me?” You laugh, and even to your ears, it sounds relentlessly bitter and sharp. “I’m the convenient solution for an inconvenient situation.”

For a moment, you think your words have actually hurt him, because his face falters. But he quickly masks his expression. However, his lips tug down. Almost as if you had gotten some miniscule detail wrong in the fine print of your words. “Y/n, that’s not-”

“-Then answer me,” you interrupt, sharp with accusation. “Where do I lie in your list of priorities, Wonwoo? Right after the organization of your troops? After Capital Estate renovations? Or am I closer to the bottom, near the niceties you need to uphold for society?”

As you stare, the silence is almost deafening – suffocating – with the weight of your question. And you can physically see the guilt that finally swims in his eyes. And he goes to open his mouth but it falls shut soon after, almost as if he does not have anything else to say. And to you, that in itself is answer enough.

“Exactly.” Your voice is uncharacteristically venomous and Wonwoo’s lips press into a thin line. “You know I’m right. I’ve always been second, or third, or fourth to you and your duties.” Your words whip glass shards into the air.

However, Wonwoo looks at you with a hardened expression, almost as if you had just insulted his honor – his pride. A flicker of pain flashes across his face. He steps closer to you, tone sharper than ever. “You think it’s easy for me?” The intensity behind his words catch you off guard. “You think I can’t– don’t think of you every waking second? That I go a day without regretting every single mistake I’ve made?”

It must be the distance between you two, because you feel your defenses falling. “Regret isn’t enough,” you retort, mind made up. “You can regret every single thing in life all you want but it doesn’t change anything. Your regrets don’t change how easily you left – how you prioritize everything else over me.” You know. You know how selfish those words sound, but you can’t help them from leaving your mouth.

He flinches hard. The next words that come out border a frustrated yell. “I didn’t have a choice! You think I wanted to leave? To leave you? That I wanted to-”

“-Yes.” Your singular response makes him stop completely, pale cheeks flushed and body stiff. “You chose duty, responsibility. Your perfect little archduke life you always wanted. And now you want me to give back the pieces you shattered? Pieces I’ve spent months gluing back together?” Your voice trembles with anger and you don’t think you’ve ever been this angry. Or frustrated. “Don’t you even dare. I’m done.”

Wonwoo closes the distance between you two, his breath fanning over your forehead. His fists are curled at his sides, and you know he’s holding back every word he wants to hurl at you. He doesn’t know this, but his emotions are almost palpable on his face whenever he gets worked up. Whenever he thinks the other person is wrong. And right now is no different. You can visibly see his expression change from frustration to desperation to some sort of in-between.

“You’re done?” he repeats, incredulous. His voice is quiet, sharp, and edged with an unmasked pain. He scoffs. “Is that what you tell yourself to make it easier? That you’re done with me? That you don’t care anymore?”

He almost leaves you speechless, words cutting into you. A pot of rage – more at yourself than him – slowly bubbles because how could he have figured you out? His stare into your eyes almost makes you give in. But you steel yourself, standing up straighter.

“I’m done,” you state. It’s such a lie. It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told, probably. Because if it were up to your heart, you would beg him to stay and stay and stay. Tell him how much you missed him these last few years. Tell him how much he meant to you. But you can’t. “I don’t care about you, us, or what we could have been. So just leave me alone, please. Let me forget you.” I can’t forget you, are the words you whisper to yourself in your head. You wish he could keep coming back. Over and over and over and kiss you under the darkness of the night again and again. But you don’t think you can handle the pain a second time when he leaves.

Wonwoo stares at you, jaw tight, eyes dark with something now unreadable. You both just stare at each other, caught in the thick tension in the atmosphere. You refuse to back down from his stare, even though every passing second makes your breath come out in harder pants, even though it makes you dreadfully aware of your strangled breaths. Then, as if he’s forcing his entire body to retreat, Wonwoo takes one step back. Then another. Then another.

“Whatever you want,” he says. His voice is cold, final.

You try desperately to ignore how his words chill you to the bone. “It is,” you whisper, voice distant. Every word coming from your mouth feels like a big fat lie.

Wonwoo exhales sharply, hand raking through his dark hair. You think he’s about to argue, but he doesn’t, instead turning to leave. And a small part of you shakes in fear because what if he’s giving up. But then the rational part of your mind hits it over and over until it is semi-buried inside your memories. His boots echo every step and the sound rings through your entire being. Just as you think he’s leaving, he stops, hand resting on the archway.

“I’m not giving up on you – on us,” he states with so much confidence you might as well think you are already married or something. His voice is steady, filled with some sort of intensity that makes your heart ache desperately to run into his arms. “No matter how much you push me away and lie to yourself.”

Then he leaves through the archway, down the hall and out the door. The oak doors slam shut behind him, leaving silence in its wake. Your chest heaves with anger, confusion, and something else. Something that feels too much like grief or regret or another one of those feelings.

You stand there, rooted to your spot, forcing each breath out of you, but the chaos inside your mind won’t settle. Even after everything, all you can think about – wish about – is how much easier it would be if you would just let him back in. If you could just forgive him – him and everything he ever did. If you could just (keep) love (ing) him again.

But you won’t. You can’t. Not when you know right now that he’ll always leave you behind. Whether or not the reasoning is chivalrous or not.

You wake up the next morning to sunlight streaming through your curtained window and puffy eyes. Nai is already busy in your room, tucking the curtains out of the way of the streaming sunlight with practiced hands and tidying up the room. You eye your clothes strewn on the floor – the ones you had thrown off after going back to your room late last night from a long frigid walk in the royal gardens – with guilt as Nai picks them up, throwing them in the hamper she carries.

“Sorry,” you sheepishly murmur, sliding out of your bed legs-first. Your feet immediately touch the fur slippers Nai had put out for you.

Nai just looks up, a radiant but confused smile blushing her lips. “Your grace?”

You sigh, padding over to the loveseat by the window, a blanket draped over you. “You know, for the clothes, the mess, everything,” you hum, forehead meeting the cold glass pane. You can hear, distinctly, the clangs of swords coming from the sparring grounds. Your fingertip draws small animals onto the frosted glass, fogged over by the juxtaposing warmth and coldness.

Nai laughs. “My lady, this is a rather trifling matter to apologize for. And I will need to not take up on your apology for that reason.”

Your heart warms at her words. “Thanks, Nai.”

Nai stands a few ways from you, and you know she’s studying your face – puffy eyes, dry lips, tired cheeks. “My lady,” she murmurs, stepping closer, taking one of your hands in hers. Her hands are soft – uncharacteristic of the work that she did for you. “Shall we go down to the South for the rest of this winter season?” she suggests. It catches you off guard. It was usually you who suggested leaving the Capital early because Nai had always loved the Capital.

Your head swivels towards your maid, eyes wide. “What?”

Nai frowns and you notice she has her brown curly hair in a braid today. Her fingers smoothen over your soft hands. “I feel as though the Capital has taken away your entire youth and color,” she admits, looking down, averting her gaze. “Especially…”

You gently smile, pulling Nai to sit down on the loveseat. “Especially what?”

When Nai looks back up at you, she looks almost indignant. “Especially that Archduke Jeon, my lady,” she huffs, arms crossed. “I think that dreadful man causes you much pain. I suggest you leave this season early, leave that man forever waiting for you, my lady,” she announces, hand coming down to slap her thigh.

There’s a pause of silence and then you splutter out a laugh, hunching forward. The sound shakes through your body and your lungs finally feel a little bit empty. “Nai!” For the first time in days, you feel like it is a genuine laugh – not forced, not practiced. “How did you come to this conclusion?”

Nai pouts, bringing her knees to her chest. “I’ve been observing, you know, my lady? I think you are much too good for that man. Even if he does send over flowers in the morning.”

You blink at her words. Flowers? “What flowers?” You had never gotten flowers from Wonwoo before. At least not since his return to Society.

Nai suddenly gasps, springing up. “Oh my gosh! Look at my attention span! I completely forgot to tell you, my lady!” Before you can even question her words again, she’s up and off the loveseat, almost running to the other side of the room where your delicately set-up tea table and lounge chairs rest. At your next breath, she comes running back, a large bouquet of flowers in her hands.

Something tight entangles around your chest and you can feel the thing fill up your lungs again.

“What- who is that from?” you ask, swallowing. To be honest, you don’t want to know.

Nai simply shrugs, handing you your bouquet. “No idea.” Her words change into something much more casual – a tone you are familiar with from when you two grew up together. “It came with the sunrise, but I think,” she dramatically pauses, making you giggle a little, “it’s from that Archduke.”

Her words completely stop you. Archduke. Of course. Of course he would send you flowers after last night. When Nai hums, stepping back to admire the bouquet, Wonwoo’s words come crashing back down on your briefly-empty mind. I’m not giving up on you – on us. You want to break down into tears. Really, you need to get a hold of yourself these days. You think you’ve cried more these past few days than you ever had in an entire year. No matter how much you push me away and lie to yourself. His words enrage you still. How dare he figure you out. How dare he march back into your life like he has you all planned out, your relationship all already mapped out inside his brain? How dare he make you fall for him again, just as you thought you had forgotten him entirely. How dare he send you flowers in the morning without even a thought of how you might have felt? Why you are pushing him away. Why you are forcing yourself to go to these lengths. Because you aren’t sure you can make it out alive if he up and leaves again. Because you aren’t sure if you can come out of another relationship sane if it ends in a fiery mess, let alone ends. Because you aren’t sure if you can trust yourself, let alone him, enough now to let your heart make the decision for you – the first time you did that, it ended with you in the Capital, not knowing what had hit you, and him on the battlefield, fighting it out with some enemy for a duty you knew not.

“My lady,” Nai calls softly.

When you look up to meet her eyes, her hazel orbs swim with a worried flurry of emotions. You crack a smile.

“Irises and tulips, huh?” you mumble, tugging at a tulip bulb that stands up straight amongst the irises. “What a man.” Your voice sounds so bitter even to you and you wonder if Nai pities you. If she finally looks at you with the emotion you hate the most.

“My lady,” Nai repeats. Her hand comes up to rest on your shoulder and it feels almost grounding, in a way, knowing that you at least have her by your side. “A note.” Her finger points to the side of the bouquet, in between the creamy pink parchment and the fresh winter flowers, where a off-white note card sticks out.

You pluck the card out of the bouquet with almost trembling fingers. You aren’t ready to see – to read what he might have poured out onto a singular small note card. You anxiously fold and unfold the sharp corners, not able to turn the cardboard around from the backside, where the store name of the Capital’s most expensive flower shop glints in gold leaf.

You sigh, closing your eyes briefly. When you open them again, you stare at the words on the front, written in almost perfect calligraphy with dark ink. You let out a laugh – though dry and humorless. “Thought of you,” you muse, repeating the three words on the card to yourself. Your fingers grip the edges of the thick paper until it crinkles. “Thought of you,” you mumble again, head dropping against Nai’s arm, eyes closing.

The card doesn’t even need a signature. Neither does the bouquet. There is only one person who would meticulously remember all your favorite seasonal flowers, who would look back at his stupid book of flower languages you had written for your final Botany project during your years at the National Academy. There is also only one person who would be this infuriatingly obsolete with you – who would write his stupid three words on a stupid thick note card and send it over casually with the sunrise to your palace room so secretly even your maid has no definite idea of who sent it. And you would recognize the curve of his ‘f’ anywhere.

You’re not quite sure if you’re more furious or in disbelief. Perhaps both? No, more so furious than in disbelief. Of course, in disbelief of his sudden profession of his thoughts to you, maybe. But more so furious in the aspect of the audacity of him. And you really can’t help the way it gets a little harder to swallow your spit. Wonwoo’s sheer audacity to come back into your life just to mess it all up. Just to maybe stir up some sort of hope in you until he leaves again for another one of his duties. You can just feel it. It’s like this bubbling pot of emotions you’re trying desperately to push down just in case Wonwoo actually does come too close and gets a peak at the bubbles.

Your hands clench.

“They’re lovely,” Nai comments, picking up the bouquet again. “The flowers fit perfectly with the season, my lady,” she adds, fingers the petals. “So fresh.”

You prod the inside of your cheek with your tongue. “Yes, what a perfect fit,” you mutter, glancing outside.

“Shall I set up a place for these in the drawing room?”

“No!” You clear your throat, eyes wide at your own quick reply at Nai’s question. “No,” you repeat, this time less hurried. “Just set it up on the table here.”

Nai raises a surprised brow at your words but does not argue, simply bowing and heading out, bouquet in hand, to find a vase big enough to fit the entire fistfull of flowers.

When the door clicks shut behind her, you finally glance at the note again.

Thought of you.

You wish he could stop thinking of you. Then, maybe, you could finally erase memories of him too. Give yourself the chance to move onto perhaps bigger problems in your life (or perhaps problems you wish were bigger in your life).

Thought of you.

Your heart involuntarily pounds at the image of him hunched over at his desk, detailing his uselessly pretty calligraphy, just for you. Perhaps this was part of his plan? Maybe this was his tactic – the trick up his sleeve for when he wanted you to swoon for him.

You shake your head, standing up from the love seat and heading over to your bed again.

“No, no, no,” you mumble to yourself, tongue swiping across your teeth. “Forget him, y/n. He only causes you pain.”

But for some reason, your hand slips the note into a drawer, storing it for safe keeping with the hundreds of other letters and notes from your painfully naive youth. Even though you knew you could never go back – to then, to love, to him.

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx @mj-szaa @lilylikesthat @ppaia

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