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gukyi · 7 years

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seoksanhwa | kth

⇒ summary: may you keep your friends close and your enemies closer. watch your back, keep to the wall. always be ready to attack. do not let your guard down, for it will be the last thing you ever do. the game of love is cruel and treacherous, the obstacles high and the stakes even higher, and the royal family never did play fair.

⇒ sageuk, joseon, and prince!au

⇒ pairing: taehyung x female reader

⇒ word count: 23k

⇒ genre: fluff, angst, light smut

⇒ warnings: death, smut

⇒ a/n: this has been the biggest beast tbh. huGE shoutout to @simplymesimplyodd for beta-ing this and generally being very supportive via text as i screamed about being lazy and not wanting to finish this.

heavily, heavily inspired by halsey’s latest album, hopeless fountain kingdom, and completely fucked over by taehyung and namjoon’s 4 o’clock, which was the worst and best thing to be released while i was in the midst of writing this. i recommend you listen to both while reading this. house of cards and love is not over could do you some good, too.

historical accuracy who? never heard of her.

As the sun gives way to the isolated moon, wading in the sea of the sky, its closest friends bursts of light millions of eons away, a cry sounds from the center of the royal palace. It pierces through the thin wooden walls, reverberating around the courtyard as the eunuchs shiver in fear and the court ladies rush to the door. The grounds are relatively empty, save for the few couplets of servants doing their rounds, tending to the flowers and the trees and the letters and the wells.

Another shriek erupts from that same barren room, much more voluminous than the last. It sends shivers down the spines of the advisors in the throne room. Their foreheads are placed to the wooden floor, resting in a bow as they pray to the heavens.

Pray, pray, pray.

They will not move from that position until they receive word.

A mere building over, the queen cries. Beads of sweat collect at her forehead, matting the thin strands of her ivy black hair to her skin. She wears but a robe, made of the finest white silk her ladies have crafted for her, though she is layered upon layered with sheets and sheets, wrapped around her for security. Beside her sits her husband, rocking back and forth as he grasps her hand. She does not notice, but his fingers are turning the slightest shade of cerulean from her ever-tightening grip. He fears that if he forces his fingers free, something will change.

Already, he’s been advised by his most trusted friend — the palace astronomer, a man who has stayed by his side ever since they were but innocent children, minds untouched by the brutal reality of the real world — that this birth will not bode well for the future royal child born. It is predicted he will be a boy, a prince, but the stars are unaligned, the seasons are astray, the timing is arbitrary. He cannot be born now, for he will never amount to anything, but he must. If not, the King runs the risk of losing his most treasured wife in the process of prolonging their child. This birth must continue.

Another cry, another push. The king knows this prince lacks the qualities that will make him a fair and just king. The queen’s first born was not nearly as taxing on her body as he is.

Another shout, another push. The king wonders what will become of this prince. What legacy will he leave behind, if any?

Another shriek, another push. Who will he be?

“It’s a boy.”

The king looks up. His wife is panting, her breaths heavy and loud as she heaves, her chest rising and falling to the beat of her own heart. She’s let go of his hand, his fingers flushing with color as he regains feeling in them. Beside her legs is her highest court lady, dressed in her finest robes, holding a boy wrapped in a blanket.

The boy’s eyes are blown wide as he takes in his first surroundings, looking from the court lady to the queen to the king. His eyes are the richest shade of brown the king has ever seen. His skin is pruny and red, a result of his growth in his wife. He is small, much smaller than his brother. The astronomer was right. He looks weak. A poor excuse for a prince.

As the king meets his second son’s big, brown eyes, the child smiles.

Later that exact month, the king receives word that the wife of his most loyal and wise advisor has recently delivered a healthy baby girl.

Knees fall to the dirt in the courtyard, then a small frame of a torso, and finally a head of pitch black hair.

“Taehyung-ah!”

Taehyung lies on the ground, his hanbok soiled by the grey dust covering his sleeves. A grin bursts across his face, then he begins to giggle furiously, his eyes scrunching up as he howls.

The older boy walks up to him, his hanbok pristine. He looks like a god from where Taehyung lies on the pavement, the afternoon sun surrounding his silhouette with a glistening glow.

“Aw, hyungnim,” Taehyung frowns as he props his little body on his elbows before pushing himself off the ground, nearly toppling over again.

“You have to stop running around,” Namjoon instructs matter-of-factly.

“Why? We have so much space,” Taehyung asks innocently, tiny arms stretching out as if to cover the vast expanse of the palace grounds, the only home Taehyung’s ever known and the only place he’s ever explored.

“You could get hurt,” Namjoon says. “It’s difficult for the eunuchs to keep track of your whereabouts. The court ladies’ responsibilities are disrupted with your scurrying.”

Taehyung pouts, whining in response. His entire life thus far has been merely instructions, orders from parents and his brother and eunuchs and Taehyung feels trapped. He’s caged in, stuck in this little box within the palace walls where people shout commands at him.

“It’s fun,” Taehyung exclaims, twirling around right there. Namjoon reaches his arm out, only a couple years older but so much taller than he.

A rustle, then a thud.

Namjoon and Taehyung both turn around suddenly, surprised by the sudden noise. Under a sturdy branch stands a girl. Her saekdongot looks as though it’s hardly been touched, the bright green shining as though it was brand new. She stands tall, perhaps taller than Taehyung, but he’s never seen her before.

“Namjoon orabeoni is right, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl says. Taehyung is taken aback at her forwardness. She looks no older than Namjoon, who tops him by a few years at the ripe old age of five. Taehyung, ever the childish three-year-old, is curious.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” The girl asks, grinning.

“Y/N, what are you doing out at this hour?” Namjoon asks.

“Abeonim has given me some free time. I wanted to wait in the tree to see if you would come.”

“Here we are.”

“Here you are.”

“Hyungnim?”

Namjoon turns his attention to Taehyung, whose eyes are wide and brows furrowed at the intimacy of his speech with the girl. Why is it that Namjoon appears to be best friends with her, when Taehyung has lived three years on this land without ever coming across her?

“Taehyung-ah?”

“How do you know her?”

“She is abeonim ma-ma’s advisor’s daughter. Born around the same time as you,” Namjoon says simply.

“Are you allowed out, Y/N-ssi?” Taehyung wonders.

“Of course, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl says. “I know these grounds almost as well as you do.”

The girl holds herself with a resilience not even Namjoon can match. His brother, ever the intellectual, follows rules and holds himself high. He knows his status, and while he does not flaunt it, he is proud of it nonetheless. This girl, though, she looks strong. Stronger than him, Taehyung knows that. She’s only his age and already she is brave and confident, unabashed in the most sophisticated way.

“I never see you.”

“You’ve never needed to,” she responds quickly.

“We must leave, Y/N. I shall see you soon, I hope?” Namjoon says. He grabs ahold of Taehyung’s little wrist, wrapping his hand around it to motion to the girl that they will be departing.

Taehyung doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay, stay and get to know the girl that Namjoon already knows very well, somehow. She interests him, more than any boring ceremony or lengthy tea gathering. It is not often Taehyung stumbles across—or rather, sees jump out of trees—children his age, not when these palace grounds are so barren, so stripped of youthful minds such as he.

“Of course, orabeoni. I expect nothing less.”

The girl bows respectfully to the both of them, her hair falling forward in front of her face as she tilts her head. Before Taehyung even registers her goodbye in his head, she’s gone, disappearing into the shadows of the building and pillars that surround him.

Namjoon leads Taehyung back to where his father sits, his desk piled with letters upon letters from advisors and business workers and townsfolk alike.

Their father, King Sejong, is a man of many talents. Having gained the throne only a year prior to Namjoon’s birth, he has already begun a series of illustrious reforms to further the progress the land has made, already created a path straight to prosperity. He often sits in his study for hours on end, refusing to be disrupted by eunuchs and advisors as he is buried under stacks of scrolls and paperwork. On days like these, Namjoon and Taehyung spend time in their own studies, or with their mother, Soheon, or outside.

They approach the door to their father’s study hesitantly and silently, the soldiers guarding the entrance tipping their heads at their arrival.

Namjoon tentatively opens the door, sliding it open ever so slightly so as not to make a statement.

“Abeonim-mama,” Namjoon says, bowing instantly. Taehyung watches Namjoon go down before his mind clicks and he follows suit.

“Namjoon-ah, Taehyung-ah, what a lovely surprise,” the king says, putting down the scroll in his hands and smiling at his two children. They both rise, standing tall. “Taehyung-ah, tsk, your sagyusam is covered in filth. What did you do today?”

“We went outside.”

“They have not cleaned the grounds for a week, Taehyung-ah. You should know better.”

“It’s a nice day today, abeonim-mama.”

Namjoon pipes in. “I accompanied him, abeonim-mama. I could not stop him from falling.”

“Did you injure yourself, Taehyung-ah?” The king questions, his brows furrowed at the idea of Taehyung being so reckless. He shouldn’t be surprised, for Taehyung is always toppling over, but still, it’s disconcerting.

“No. We met a girl today, abeonim-mama.”

“He met a girl today,” Namjoon corrects. Taehyung frowns. “It was Y/N-ssi. She was outside today, too.”

“Her father is in?” the king says, perking up at the mention of the girl. He could really use some advice from her father today.

“So he is.”

“Thank you for telling me, Namjoon-ah. I must remember to speak with her father.”

“Abeonim-mama,” Taehyung interrupts, his voice light and shy. “How come I don’t know Y/N-ssi?”

“She is none of your concern quite yet, Taehyung-ah,” the king says, though to Taehyung, it feels more like an order. A restriction.

“Abeonim-mama, may I tell him?” Namjoon asks.

“Tell me what?”

“Y/N-ssi and I are betrothed,” Namjoon explains.

“What?”

Taehyung does not understand.

“She and I will be married when we are older.”

“That’s already decided?”

“Someone has to do it,” Namjoon reasons to Taehyung.

“How come?”

“I will be the Crown Prince, Taehyung,” Namjoon tells him. The crown prince? Taehyung hears these words around, listens to them being spoken by the adults he spends his time with, but he does not know what they mean. “Father needs someone stable to take after him, see that the kingdom will be left in good hands.”

“Why not me?”

The king chuckles. Sometimes, Taehyung’s naivety is almost amusing, in an innocent sort of way. Like a fish that does not know it will be plucked from the water as it approaches the man with the bread in one hand and the trap in the other.

“I am older.”

There they are. Those words, the ones that Taehyung dreads hearing. Namjoon is older, Namjoon is wiser, Namjoon is smarter. Taehyung knows he lacks the skills Namjoon is refining, lacks the regality in his actions that Namjoon possesses, but he can make those up. The one thing Namjoon will always have over him, no matter the day, month, of year, is his age.

“You are older,” Taehyung repeats. “And that makes you better?”

The king is glad that Taehyung cannot see him nodding.

“It makes me more experienced,” Namjoon corrects. Taehyung doesn’t want to have this talk anymore.

“Will my wife have to get chosen for me?”

“Somewhat,” the king interjects. “But you need not worry about that right now, Taehyung-ah.”

Namjoon shuffles Taehyung from their father’s study.

“Why not?” Taehyung asks his final question of the day.

The king smiles heartily to himself. “You are but a child, Taehyung. Bask in it.”

As the years wear on and Taehyung grows out of the hanboks he wore as a toddler, he finds that he stumbles across the girl much more than he used to. He’s five now, like how old Namjoon was when Taehyung learned that Namjoon and Y/N would eventually end up married. He’s growing every day, or, at least that’s what the lovely court ladies are telling him as they try to fit him into a sagyusam that is much too tight on his arms. His favorite color is red, he’s decided that much. His bangs are much too long, and they tickle his eyelashes whenever he blinks.

The beauty of being a child is fresh in Taehyung’s mind as he dances around his princely responsibilities by running away from them as he giggles, his cheery voice echoing down the wooden hallways. Each day he finds a new hiding place within the palace grounds, a brief respite as his eunuchs chase after him, crying for him to return back to the palace. He always does, of course, a little bit of sweat gathering at his forehead and his cheeks tinged pink, but he finds entertainment in some sort of sadistic way in the struggle the eunuchs go through to find him. Namjoon is getting busier, though he’s barely seven. Some days, he won’t leave his study, just like their father.

It’s on one of those days that Taehyung accidentally comes across the palace gardens. He’s always known that it was there, but he was never able to get a good look at it, always dragged away to his obligations before he could smell the flowers and chase the butterflies.

Without his eunuchs to stop him, he opens the gate, standing on the tips of his toes to stretch his hand towards the latch, high above his little head.

Instantly, Taehyung is taken aback by the sheer aroma of the place, a pleasant odor that reminds him of his mother’s perfume. He can’t quite pin the scent, but he does know that it smells fresh. It smells new.

Taehyung feels at home, surrounded by so many wild things, from the birds that sit on the flourishing boughs of the trees and the lizards and geckos that scurry across the garden floor, rustling the leaves in their place. He can’t understand why anyone would prevent him from coming in here. What is there to hurt him? Even though Taehyung’s studied these plants, read about them in the books he gets during his schooling, he can hardly identify any of them. Instead, he meanders around the garden, dragging his hand along the leaves of the trees and the petals of the flowers, soft to his touch.

“Wah,” he exclaims, taking it in.

He teeters as he steps on rocks instead of staying on the grass, shooting his arms out for balance. One foot in front of the other, he moves from stone to stone until the path ends. He stops on the last rock, looking up to a mountain of pristinely shaped boxwood, a wall of green. It looks as though he’s reached the edge of the palace garden, the seemingly endless landscape of color, ending.

Taehyung keeps going, curious to see how far the garden really extends. He toddles for a couple steps lining the perimeter of the garden until he pauses right in front of a small, red flower. His favorite color is red, he reasons, leaning down on his thin little knees to pick it up.

He twirls the blossom in between his fingers, admiring its beauty, when he sees a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye. When he focuses on the hue, he finds merely a few steps away, the same flower.

Taehyung walks towards it, reaching down to pick it up as well. He will give these to his mother whenever he returns to the palace. But just as he’s about to rip the flower from its root, he sees another.

It seems as though the path leads through the entire garden, not limited to the walls. Taehyung follows each and every one until he finds himself much farther away from the entrance than he planned.

The flowers stop at the very opposite end of the gate, two of them distanced a few steps apart right in front of the boxwood. Taehyung wonders what compelled him to keep going, and considers following the flower path back to the entrance, where he knows his responsibilities reside.

One more step and he’s right in front of the wall yet again, looking at it closely as though it’s trying to tell him something. He feels like there’s something it has to say, something he’s missing.

He gazes from the tip of the boxwood, high above his head, to the bottom, shades of green colliding, before pressing his hand to the plant.

He feels something move.

Taehyung pauses, drawing his hand away as he ponders. No wonder he was so intrigued by this.

He presses again, this time much harder, and to his surprise, a door swings open, the entire front covered with boxwood to blend in with the rest of the garden wall.

The door leads to a hidden room, one that, if not blocked off, would blend seamlessly with the rest of the garden. Taehyung is hardly old enough to take it all in, but as he enters, the hand he holds in front of him with the flowers between his fingers drops to his side, his grip loosening, but not letting them fall to the grass floor. This room can’t be much bigger than the closet that holds all of his fancy hanboks, the ones he wears for crowning ceremonies and when esteemed guests come over, but flowers unlike the ones in the main garden line the walls and at the other edge of the rectangular space sits a single bench.

There’s a girl on that bench. The tip of her head peeks out from over the top of the back, barely making Taehyung’s view. It doesn’t look like she’s noticed him, yet.

Taehyung takes a tentative step towards the bench, then another, and another. Eventually, he finds himself just out of the girl’s peripheral vision, standing right behind the bench as he ponders his next move.

“Hello, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl speaks.

Taehyung jumps so suddenly he’s surprised his feet don’t come loose from his shoes as he falls to the floor, taken aback.

“You know me?” He asks.

The girl stands up and turns around, her face finally meeting Taehyung’s eyes, and he instantly recognizes her.

“It’s you,” he says, mouth agape.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” the girl says. She tips her head, bowing. “Hello, Taehyung wangjanim. I’m Y/N.”

“Hello, Y/N-ssi.”

“When did you find this place?”

“Just now,” Taehyung responds. “How long have you been here?”

“Right before the sun was highest in the sky.”

“So, a while?”

She nods. The girl makes to sit back down on the bench, but she pauses, holding out a dainty hand for Taehyung to take. He pulls himself up, still holding onto the little red flowers. She sits back down on the bench, scooting over and patting the seat, motioning for Taehyung to join her. As he gets up, he notices that neither of their feet touch the ground.

“When did you find this?” Taehyung wonders aloud, gazing around to all of the different greenery.

“Three moons ago.”

“Do you come a lot?”

“Whenever I feel as though I need to leave.”

“Am I intruding?”

The girl shakes her head, a smile breaking out across her face. “Never.”

They sit there, in relative silence, listening to the birds chirping and the leaves rustling. Taehyung doesn’t think he’s ever been so quiet in his life, so peaceful and calm. Often times, in meetings and gatherings, he is restless, his body desperate for movement and engagement as the advisors and scholars drone on. For all he knows, they could be spending hours sitting there, in the same spot, listening to the same birds and the same leaves.

Taehyung looks down at his hands, the flowers wilting ever so slightly as they use up the last of the water left in their stems, They are somewhat crushed, the petals, flattened from his tight grip and his fall to the grass. He holds the flowers up in front of him. She turns towards the movement, interested.

“What are those?” She questions.

“Flowers.”

“What kind?”

Taehyung shrugs. He’s got himself a terrible memory.

“They’re seoksanhwa,” the girl states, and Taehyung’s eyes widen. She’s full of surprises, this girl.

“How do you know?”

“The books I study tell me,” she states. “Red is my favorite color.”

Taehyung smiles, mouth open wide as his teeth show. “Mine too!”

“Really?” the girl asks. “We have the same favorite color.”

“Do you want these?” Taehyung asks, holding them out so they sit right under her face.

She’s taken aback by the sudden gesture, brows raised.

“They’re yours,” he decides, taking her tiny hand in his and wrapping her fingers around the mini-bouquet he’s made. “They match your hanbok.”

The red brings out the fire in her eyes.

“Thank you, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl says, smiling as she brings the flowers to her nose, their faint scent dancing around her head. “They are beautiful.”

“So are you,” Taehyung says truthfully, gazing fondly at the girl beside him as she takes in the aroma of the blossoms.

“You can’t say that, Taehyung wangjanim!” She exclaims, pushing his shoulder as she grins. “I’m getting married to Namjoon orabeoni.”

“But you’re still beautiful, Y/N-ssi,” Taehyung insists, giggling. “Hyungnim is lucky to have a girl like you.”

She beams, smiling down at her lap.

Taehyung takes a single flower from the several in her hand and holds her chin towards him. As he places the flower in her hair, they do not break eye contact, their lips turning upwards at the sight of each other, innocent and pure and divine. They are golden children, sitting in the garden all alone as they share this moment. Golden.

One thing Taehyung shouldn’t be surprised about (but he is, anyway, because of course he is) is the fact that Namjoon’s bride-to-be is aggressively unrelenting at best. In her element, she is practically the exact opposite of Namjoon, fiery, loud, unchangeable. She runs across the grounds without fear because she does not care if her saekdongot gets dirtied or if her unhye gets scuffed. She is aggressive, strong like Taehyung as they chase each other around and hide behind frightened court ladies, laughing at each other. More often than not, Namjoon will decline their invitation to join them in the gardens or the forest, shaking his head as Taehyung will gaze towards the pile of books by his desk, nearly as tall as he.

On the off chance Namjoon is feeling like taking a break, he joins them outside and takes a seat on the closest stairwell as he watches over his betrothed and his brother, running as though the finish line is thousands of years away.

“Agissi!”

Taehyung first hears a court lady cry out as he sits among the bookshelves in the palace library. The king has instructed him to brush up on his readings after nine years of disregarding them, so now Taehyung is spending the rest of the day lazily strolling through the cases, pretending to pay attention to the words on the pages. Next, he hears several footsteps, all furiously fast-paced and quick in succession.

Taehyung has a feeling he knows who they belong to.

The book in his hands is barely open before he sees a flash of red and finds himself getting pulled along somewhere, a little hand grasping onto the collar of his cerulean blue sagyusam as the book drops to the wooden floor, forgotten.

Eventually, they stop, hidden in the study that sits right next to the library, obscured from any court lady’s view. Taehyung’s breathing heavily despite the fact that he is constantly running, but the girl in front of him presses her palm to his lips, her soft skin meeting his, as she waits.

“Shh!” she whispers in response to Taehyung’s gasp, eyeing the door right in front of them.

“Agissi!”

Her eyes widen and she grabs a hold of his collar again, scrunching it up between her fingers as she leads him to the armoire in the back of the room, open and empty. They climb in, their little bodies easily allowing both of them to fit inside as she pulls the door closed, their eyes peeking through the cracks in the wood as they watch the court ladies rush by the study in the continuation of their search.

Taehyung has never been in such close proximity with a girl before, other than his mother and the court ladies that bathe and dress him. He can feel her heavy breaths on his chest as she triple checks to make sure the coast is clear, pushing him into the corner of the armoire so that she has more room.

The light from outside filters through the thin cracks in the pristine wood, illuminating only slivers of their bodies here and there, part of her collarbones, her eyes, her hair. Taehyung watches in awe as she takes control of the situation, keeping quiet for another few seconds before swinging the armoire door open in relief, sighing aloud as she steps out.

“Thanks for waiting with me, Taehyung wangjanim,” she beams, her eyes crescents as they smile along with her lips. “Next time we do this, I want to braid your hair.”

Taehyung’s hand flies to the back of his head, fingering through his growing locks. He wants them to get all the way down to the floor. He follows her, crawling out of the closet and standing up, his hair making it just past his shoulders.

“I want to braid yours,” he blurts back, making her laugh.

“Mine? Can you even braid, Taehyung wangjanim?” She chuckles.

Taehyung pouts. No, he can’t braid. His mother never taught him to.

“I’ll learn.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Hardly two weeks later, at a family dinner between her own and Taehyung’s, she takes the liberty of instructing him. Namjoon’s eyes, though they should be, aren’t focused on his future bride and disruptive dongsaeng, but rather his father in law, listening to the intellectual conversations between the king and his favorite advisor as though he was an adult himself. Beside him are his giggling counterparts, trying to muffle their laughter as she puts her hands in his hair and tickles his shoulders with the strands.

Taehyung reaches his little arms as far back as he can to match the movements of her own as she weaves her way through his hair, their fingertips barely touching between each ivy black strand.

“Wangjanim, please,” she whispers into his ear as she finishes up, the hair off of Taehyung’s shoulders and in a messy, loose braid down his back.

“I want to learn,” he murmurs back, almost whining.

“Try to braid mine,” she says, moving from her spot behind him to the pillow where she originally sat, turning her back to him. She holds out her hair, much longer than his, and he tentatively takes it in his hands. He definitely does not know how to do this.

Taehyung separates her hair into three different parts like she did his, but from there, he forgets. He, desperate to get it right, starts taking the strands and placing them arbitrarily along her back, the gold in her hanbok standing out against her hair.

She giggles, her entire body moving up and down with her laughter, and it makes Taehyung lose his focus.

“Stop moving,” he orders, trying to fix what he knows is already wrong.

Her hands move to the back of her head, feeling around as she glosses over the mess Taehyung has made. “You’re not very good at this, Taehyung wangjanim.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I think it’s cute,” she decides, content with the overlapping disaster Taehyung thinks her hair is, but she merely wraps the loose red daenggi sitting on her lap (Taehyung had no idea she had such a ribbon on hand. It blended in seamlessly with the rest of her hanbok) around the bottom of the braid, clearly happy to show it off.

Taehyung looks at her as she gets back to eating the mandu in front of her, slipping into the conversation Namjoon and the adults are having as though she had never left. And perhaps Taehyung isn’t very good at deciphering things, especially his textbooks and his father’s emotions, but he’s almost positive that what he feels for this girl is something more than friendship.

(It will take him several more years, taxing, taxing years, for him to decide that it’s love.)

“She’s very comfortable with Taehyung wangja, isn’t she?” the advisor asks the king, leaning towards him so as to whisper the words in his ear. Neither of them take their eyes off of the two, sitting next to each other and giggling to something amusing to their innocent minds.

“Yes,” the king responds curtly. He shifts his gaze to his eldest son, who sits silently as he eats his meal, not too quickly but not too slowly, either. Though he is right next to his future queen, he says nothing to her. “They are close.”

“Does that worry you, Jeonha?”

“No,” the king says firmly, shaking his head. “Taehyung wangja knows she is betrothed to Namjoon wangja. They are just friends.”

The king will not allow Taehyung to ruin the heir to the throne like this. If he states that they are friends, then that is all they will ever amount to be. Taehyung deserves company, sure, but he needs limits.

The king supposes that as they get older, their responsibilities will drive them apart.

Oh, how he was wrong.

Taehyung passes through those awkward “I’m not technically old enough to be a young adult but I’m also not young enough to be considered a child” years quite quickly, or at least, he thinks he does. Maybe Namjoon has some ugly scrolls of Taehyung’s preteen angst put into words somewhere in his study, but that’s a small price to pay.

Now, Taehyung is fourteen, and he skips around the palace grounds with just as much spunk as he did when he was four. His father says that innocent minds die as they begin to come across the true evils of the world, but Taehyung disagrees. Innocent minds never die, Taehyung thinks. All that happens is that they begin to hide. The world does not treat optimists very kindly. That, Taehyung knows.

Being fourteen is simultaneously the best and worst. Taehyung isn’t sixteen yet, not like his brother, who is buried with paperwork to help out their father daily and only ever emerges from his room to eat. He’s not twelve, either, like when he would still be treated like a little kid who still chased after butterflies in the palace gardens he was forbidden to visit.

Being fourteen is the best, because he isn’t old enough to be given the same amount of taxing work, work that prevents him from going outside and basking in his fleeting youth. His father doesn’t trust him to take care of affairs like his brother, but Taehyung supposes that that’s alright, because in return, he gets free time. Fourteen is just under the age where adults think you’re capable of doing adult things. He knows he’s getting older. He knows.

Being fourteen is also the worst, because no one takes a fourteen-year-old seriously. Nobody, not his brother, or his father, or even the eunuchs who still feel like they need to chase after him when Taehyung takes one misstep. Taehyung has things to say, he’s read his books, he’s kept up with the royal and financial affairs of his father, but whenever he opens his mouth, Namjoon speaks before he can.

Today is no different.

There’s a water crisis in the southern peninsula. The drought left last year, but its repercussions have remained in its place, the rivers still low and the wells still dry. The king refuses to allow anybody to monopolize the water business, believing that water is a right rather than a privilege, but he lacks any idea as to how to return it to the parched grass and even thirstier villagers.

Taehyung does. He thinks that the overflowing rivers in the North could provide subsistence for the time being as the water levels even out and the drought wears off if they just created a couple of canals. Once everything is stable, they can block up the canals, and life will return to what it once was. This not only solves the water problem, but it also provides some temporary jobs for those struggling to beat out the poverty within their lives.

Taehyung’s only allowed into the gathering of the ministers and advisors and his father because Namjoon is, and it’s unjust if one sibling is permitted into the meeting but the other not.

“How about buckets?” one of the advisors suggests. “People can transfer water from the North to the South.”

“That’s too long of a journey,” the king decides. “No commoner, let alone a noble, would want to make that trip.”

“The sea?” Another perks up.

“Sea water is undrinkable.”

“Canals,” Taehyung mutters under his breath as he stands in between his brother and another advisor. “Why don’t they try canals?”

“Abeonim-mama,” Namjoon pipes up from next to Taehyung, drawing their father’s attention towards them. “Taehyung has something to say.”

“Taehyung?” The king asks.

The advisor next to him laughs, like he’s doubtful of Taehyung’s competence. Smoke billows from Taehyung’s bright red ears.

“I was thinking that maybe we could try—” Taehyung begins before he’s almost instantly cut off.

“Taehyung, I appreciate the contribution, but I don’t really think now is the time for illogical ideas,” the king says. Taehyung hasn’t even gotten his idea out, but it’s already being disregarded, labelled as illogical and dumb.

“My apologies, abeonim-mama,” Taehyung bows, rolling his eyes as his head faces the floor. He stands up straight and makes to walk out of the meeting room.

“What Taehyung was trying to say,” Namjoon says, clearly trying to give Taehyung credit where he deserves it. “Is that perhaps canals would work to distribute the water evenly, abeonim-mama?”

Taehyung’s nearly out the door when he hears the king’s response.

“Canals! That’s brilliant, Namjoon,” he cheers, applauding the boy.

Taehyung feels like his eyes roll so far back they could fall out of his ears. He shuts the door behind him, and beelines towards the gardens.

The seoksanhwa is there as always, waiting for him to open the door to the secret room behind the wall of boxwood, guiding him to the entrance. Taehyung knows these gardens by heart at this age, having spent years here already. He knows each plant like the back of his hand, each flower petal like he’s never looked at anything else in his life. So what if he can’t name more than two economic policies? You could blindfold him and hold his hand out to graze the leaf of a flower, and he would identify it instantly.

There is no girl on the bench this time.

Taehyung’s really not surprised. She’s very busy these days, as one is. When Namjoon gets busier, she does too, getting absorbed into her responsibilities as the crown princess. She has to learn medicine, sewing, languages, and literature. It’s no wonder she lacks the free time Taehyung has as second-in-line.

Sometimes it’s nice like this. Being alone, that is. Sometimes, Taehyung likes it when she’s not here. It is their space, but sometimes, he wants it to be his. Taehyung’s just short enough for him to be able to stretch out horizontally on the seat of the bench without having to scrunch up his legs, which makes for a fantastic napping location. Taehyung has lost count of how many times he’s accidentally (or on purpose) fallen asleep in here, away from the business of being royal.

Taehyung lies down, in desperate need of a cool down session after that infuriating meeting where he was treated no better than a servant offering tea.

Taehyung wishes he was taken seriously. Taehyung wishes that he didn’t live in Namjoon’s shadow, always outdone by the kingdom’s favorite prince. Taehyung wishes that for once, he could just get something that he wants.

Taehyung turns so that he’s facing the sky, the sun’s rays barely making it into his peripheral vision. He looks up into the blue of the sky, and it reminds him of the flowers in the garden, and Y/N. Last time he saw her, a couple weeks ago, she was wearing a saekdongot the same color as the sky. It made her glow.

A bird passes overhead, barely a quick flash of brown before it’s gone.

Taehyung smiles to himself. Even if everything else is taken from him, at least he has this.

He will always have this.

He hardly notices, but his eyes begin to drift shut, soothed closed by the sounds of the garden, his first and only home.

“Taehyung wangjanim! Taehyung wangjanim!”

Taehyung groans as he hears his name called, keeping his eyes closed. Maybe if he doesn’t open them, he won’t have to face whatever is after him.

“Taehyung wangjanim!” The voice repeats, getting increasingly louder.

Taehyung whines again, stretching his arm out until it hits the wood backing of the bench, making him wince in pain. As he moves to rub his fingers with his other hand, he miscalculates and rolls right off the seat, dropping to the garden floor with a thud. Taehyung thinks his entire left side is bruised now.

“Taehyung wangjanim!”

Taehyung is so tired he thinks that he could fall right back asleep in the comfort of the prickly grass. He’s just about to shut his eyes again and delay his return to his obligations when a very familiar face appears over his, looking down.

The sun is in the perfect position in the sky to offer some ridiculously angelic ethereal glow to her silhouette, dimming her face in exchange for the halo that surrounds her.

“Taehyung wangjanim,” she laughs, holding a hand out for him to take.

Taehyung gladly grabs onto it, pulling himself up from the grass.

“When did you get here, Y/N?” He asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Even through his haze, she is as gorgeous as ever.

“Only about a minute ago,” she responds. “The entire palace is looking for you.”

Taehyung has no idea how long it’s been since he stormed out of the meeting room, filled with rage. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep on the bench. All he knows is that the sun is significantly lower in the sky than it was when he did.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But I knew you’d be here. Everyone else is looking around the different estates.”

“You found me, I guess,” he says, smiling lazily.

“I’ll always find you, wangjanim,” she decides, holding his hand. “You’ll never be lost to me.”

Taehyung looks at their outstretched arms, joined by their fingertips as they stand in the dimming light of the sun as it sets over the wall of boxwood. He can see their elongated shadows in the grass. The tassel of her baetssi daenggi blows in the wind, mimicking the loose strands of her hair that have escaped from her braid. They stay like that, watching each other for perhaps seconds, perhaps hours.

Taehyung knows that he’s old enough to be expected to be knowledgeable about the rules. He knows he can’t keep doing this, keep allowing these moments—the ones that dance on the line between a platonic and romantic relationship—when he shares them with the one girl he knows he can’t have. He knows he shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing right now, gazing into her eyes and imagining a life where he can just keep looking at them. Shouldn’t be wondering what they may have been like in a previous life, where there were no boundaries that separated them.

Perhaps, just this one time, Taehyung can blame it on his age.

Apparently, Taehyung’s sixteenth birthday is a very big deal.

He doesn’t want it to be.

All of his other birthdays were small affairs, a nice meal and a couple of good presents from his family, but this one happens to be a Very Big Deal.

In hindsight, Taehyung should have known that his sixteenth birthday would be an extravagant engagement from all of the excitement Namjoon got for his, but it came across him like a damn tidal wave.

Birthdays already tire Taehyung out more than they should. He enjoyed them as a child, where the adults would finally excuse his ruckus behavior and call it “excitement from his birthday”, giving him entertaining knickknacks and trinkets and actually allowing him to play with them. Now that he’s older, the presents are nice but everyone expects him to be capable of sitting still through a boring ceremony wearing clothing heavier than several gallons of water. At least his ceremony isn’t as long as Namjoon’s was, since he is not going to be the designated crown prince.

His dalryeongpo is the physical version of the weight Taehyung constantly feels pressing down on his shoulders.

The first snow of the season was much later than it normally is, but it made up for its delay with an extensive amount of the cold, white dust. Even a week later, there is still a decently-sized layer of snow outside the palace grounds, sitting on top of the frozen lake and covering the gardens.

Last winter season was the last time Taehyung decided he would ever go outside to play in the snow. He’s too old for it, now, too grown up. He stands nearly as tall as Namjoon at this age, and definitely taller than his mother, and he is not the child he used to be.

It’s the early morning. The rising sun shines down on the snow, reflecting off of it, but not melting it. Taehyung is wearing nothing but his jeogori, but hanging on the wall next to him is the dalryeongpo he will spend the rest of the day wearing. Taehyung eyes it with distaste, bile rising in his mouth.

He gazes outside his window, peering over the rice paper covering the panes.

“Wangjanim!”

The little girl stumbles over her own feet, hidden by the layer of snow as she runs along, making new prints in the white. Her cream hanbok blends with that of the snow on the ground, but she sticks out like a sore thumb anyway as she shrieks.

Taehyung furiously chases after her, a snowball the size of his head in his hands. It’s too big for him to hold in only one palm, so he’s dragging it around with both hands. His back is already covered with remnants of snowballs, sticking to the silk. His ears are red and his nose pink.

“You can’t keep running!” He shouts, stepping in the prints she’s making in front of them. Their feet are just barely the same size.

She giggles again, having turned around and stopped in her path, watching Taehyung approach her.

“Come and get me!” She shouts.

A fire ignites in Taehyung’s eyes, going from a spark to a flame within an instant as he pauses in his tracks, rolling the snowball between his fingers. She’s too busy laughing at the excitement of it all to realize the ball has left Taehyung’s hands, and she’s hit right in the chest, falling backwards.

Taehyung nearly apologizes, until he hears her giggle.

He runs over to her and sees her lying down in the snow, the edges of her hanbok soaking wet. Fallen snowflakes decorate her hair, and the color of her lips matches the crimson in his cheeks.

Taehyung smiles down at her as her eyes scrunch up. She’s still grinning, as though the cold doesn’t phase her. He holds a hand out (he thinks he hears his mother calling for their return) for her to grab, and she does.

Next thing Taehyung knows, he’s lying down in the snow as well.

“You should know better, wangjanim,” she squeals, their hands still connected, a warm respite in the middle of this bitter cold.

“I should,” he agrees.

“Look at the trees,” she says, sticking her free hand towards the sky.

The branches above them are bare, but they sit with the faintest line of white around them, snow that falls onto their feet when a breeze passes by. They almost look like a spider’s web. Taehyung wishes he was good at art, so he could save this image forever.

“They’re pretty,” she decides firmly, letting her hand fall to her side.

“You’re pretty.”

He feels a shove on his shoulder.

“Stop telling me that,” she says. “You say it too much.”

“I never want you to forget it.”

Taehyung blows his hot breath in her face, watching it dissipate around her head, and she laughs.

“Taehyung-ah!”

Taehyung sits up at the sound of his mother’s voice. He knew she was looking for them.

“We have to go back,” he tells her.

“That’s such a long way,” she whines.

They press their hands into the snow, the frost stinging their skin as they push themselves to their feet. Taehyung gets in front of her, kneeling down as she pauses, eyes wide.

“Get on my back.”

“What?”

“Get on my back.”

“Taehyung wangjanim…”

“Come on. We’re not going to get back any faster,” Taehyung says.

He feels her hesitantly get on his back, her hands grasping onto his thin shoulders as he takes her legs under his arms and stands up. Taehyung decides he needs to work out more, because he can barely lift up a small pile of books, let alone another person.

Taehyung hears his mother call his name again, and takes the liberty of running. She breaks out into a squeal when she feels him speed up, but her surprise soon turns to laughter the further they go.

Once they reach the safety of the balcony connected to the main estate, he kneels back down, letting her climb off of him. She gets down, her little feet stepping onto the clear pavement, beaming.

“Thank you for the ride, Taehyung wangjanim,” she says.

Taehyung smiles back at her. “Anything for you.”

There’s a knock at the door that Taehyung disregards entirely. He can see them now, running across the snow-covered lawn without a single care in the world. He wonders what that might be like, these days.

Another knock.

Knock, knock.

Taehyung walks over and opens the door to find his head eunuch bowing respectfully behind it.

“Taehyung daegun, I am here to dress you.”

Taehyung nods in response, letting the eunuch dress him in his robes as he stands with his arms out, like a statue. With each piece of fabric wrapped over his shoulders and around his torso, Taehyung feels his body get heavier.

When the eunuch is done, he steps away, admiring his work. Taehyung must admit, the eunuch has dressed him in such a way that even under the layers upon layers, he is quite comfortable.

“Taehyung daegun?” The eunuch asks.

“Yes?”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

For the most part, Taehyung zones out during his ceremony. He really could not care less about the whole ordeal, standing on the platform with an empty smile on his face as he looks over the king’s advisors and ministers and eunuchs alike. It’s not even that big of an event, just a couple of speeches to celebrate new responsibilities because now Taehyung’s old enough to handle Adult Things. Quite frankly, Taehyung doesn’t think getting more work should be celebrated, but if he gets a nice meal and some gifts, then he supposes it’s worth it.

Even Namjoon speaks, and it is the only thing Taehyung pays attention to. He waxes poetic about Confucian principles like filial piety, but then he says this:

“Being second-in-line is difficult, because you’re the backup, the understudy, the Plan B. But you’re also just as important as the Crown Prince,” he says, looking Taehyung straight in the eyes. He has Taehyung’s full attention. “You have to be ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice, because what if the Crown Prince gets sick, dies, becomes incapable of ruling, or betrays that which cultivated him? It is the utmost duty of the second-in-line to accomplish that which the Crown Prince could not achieve. I am proud that Taehyung has made it thus far, and I know I, as the future king of this fruitful land, can always count on him. I truly hope that he can count on me as well.”

Taehyung takes the liberty of bowing, head to toe, to Namjoon, the only man in his life Taehyung is brave enough to trust.

The rest of the ceremony is just as boring as the beginning, but Taehyung takes Namjoon’s words to heart. He guesses he really does matter, and not just because there’s a gold-encrusted robe around his shoulders.

Finally, after what feels like thousands of eons standing in the king’s throne room, a dead expression on his face as he looks directly forward into nothing but a haze of court folk, the festivities really begin. Taehyung is presented with the most wondrous array of food he’s ever seen in his entire life as he takes a seat next to his brother, equally as eager to dig in. It appears as though the royal chefs have prepared all of Taehyung’s favorite dishes, though he’s not really biased towards a select few, and cherishes all food regardless of its contents.

Taehyung is too busy swallowing down the nicest dubuseon he’s ever had to notice her settling in in the seat opposite him at the large round table they sit at. She’s wearing some of her nicest clothes, too, accompanied by her father, personally invited by the King himself to join in on Taehyung’s birthday bash.

It is only when he hears her light, airy laugh that he finally looks up, meeting her eyes. Her mouth is right open, frozen in mid-giggle to something she most definitely found funny, but she closes it the second she sees him, shooting him a smile instead. It’s all teeth and hardly any lip, and Taehyung’s heart takes a tumble. He suddenly doesn’t think he can eat anything more, for his stomach is filled with butterflies, fluttering around and draining him of his appetite.

Wooden chopsticks drop to the floor, Taehyung’s hand suspended in the air. A court lady rushes over to pick them up from where they’re beginning to roll under the table, and another scurries towards Taehyung with a perfectly clean and unpoisoned pair to replace them. Taehyung almost forgets to nod in response, only remembering at the last second, but he places his new pair of chopsticks on the table beside his bowl, still half-full.

“Yah,” Namjoon says from next to him, eyeing his bowl with confusion. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not anymore, hyungnim,” Taehyung says truthfully. Everything in front of him seems very unappealing.

“You should eat, Taehyung-ah,” Namjoon says. “The chefs made all of this for you.”

“I did. I’m full,” Taehyung says distantly. He’s trying to keep his eyes off of her and how her smile rivals the winter sunrises, but to no avail.

Namjoon follows Taehyung’s gaze until it leads him right to his future bride, sitting across from them as she laughs at something their mother is telling her. Oh.

“At least eat another dubuseon,” Namjoon says, picking one up himself and shoving it straight into Taehyung’s mouth. Taehyung coughs on the tofu, sputtering as Namjoon drops it onto his tongue. He swallows it in a single go and pounds his chest to get it down his esophagus as Namjoon laughs.

“Hyungnim!” Taehyung whines at Namjoon’s beaming grin. Taehyung is about to counter with a glassful of green tea when, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of her. She’s nearly falling back from laughing at the view in front of her, Namjoon stuffing food down Taehyung’s throat and Taehyung about to counter, and suddenly, Taehyung doesn’t really think he needs vengeance.

Being a prince is tiring, thinks Taehyung as he is led around by his eunuchs and court ladies. They’ve obviously tried to throw him a nice birthday party—he is sixteen, after all—but all Taehyung wants for his birthday is this one textbook from China on herbal medicine and a nice day that consists of nothing except sleep.

Taehyung is in the midst of being shown the new fabrics his mother had gotten him for the court ladies to make into a new hanbok for him when he decides that he’s had enough of this party nonsense.

“Taehyung daegun, where are you going?”

Taehyung jumps at the sound of one of his eunuchs as they catch him trying to suavely move away from the festivities. He cracks a guilty smile. “Oh, just to be by myself for a little. I’ll join up later.”

“We still have things to show you, Taehyung daegun,” the eunuch says, a little heartbroken. It takes all of Taehyung’s willpower not to cave in and stay with them, just to keep the sad looks off of their faces.

“Show me them in a little bit, alright? I just need some ‘me’ time,” Taehyung suggests, eyebrows raised. His eunuchs relent, bowing as they nod. Taehyung smiles at them before trying his darnedest not to immediately bolt, walking patiently away from them until he dashes when he knows he’s out of sight.

Unsurprisingly, Taehyung ends up in the secret room in the palace gardens, but someone’s already there.

“Tired, Taehyung wangjanim?”

Taehyung is taken aback by the sudden words. It seems that every time he comes here when she’s already arrived, she doesn’t even have to turn around to know it’s him who walked through the door.

“Yeah,” he sighs, walking over and sitting down next to her. He’s too tall to lie down on the bench anymore.

“I figured you’d be, sooner or later,” she says, sliding over to give him more space. Subconsciously, he starts playing with her hair at the same time she starts playing with her thumbs.

“You know me so well, Y/N,” he chuckles. She is silent.

“I have a gift for you, wangjanim,” she says, and Taehyung perks up at the mention of a present. “For your birthday.”

“You do?”

She gasps, a hand pressed to her chest with an accosted expression on her face. “Did you really think I would fail to get a birthday gift for my best friend’s sixteenth birthday? Do you even know me?”

Taehyung chuckles, continuing to twirl the ends of her hair in his hands. “What is it then, Y/N?”

She moves away from him, her hair escaping from in between the pads of his fingertips. Taehyung watches closely as she feels around her hanbok for his present, eventually pulling out a long red ribbon, worn-down at the edges.

“Here.”

“A daenggi?”

She laughs to herself. “It’s not just any daenggi, wangjanim. Don’t you remember?”

Her hands move to the back of her head, feeling around as she glosses over the mess Taehyung has made. “You’re not very good at this, Taehyung wangjanim.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

The memory comes back to Taehyung like a burst of light, like a star falling from the sky as the moon watches it leave.

“You kept it?” He asks softly as she places the ribbon in his hands. He rubs his fingers along it, looking down in awe as he takes in the nostalgia of it all.

“Of course,” she giggles. “It’s yours.”

Taehyung beams.

“Turn around,” she instructs, and he does so, his back facing her. She taps his shoulder and out of the peripherals of his vision, he sees her hand, extended out. She curls her fingers in, motioning for him to give her the daenggi. He does, hesitant at what she may be doing, but he feels light fingers holding onto his hair, at the end of his braid. She loosens it before he feels it become tighter, and when she’s finished, the daenggi no longer rests in her hands, but is instead wrapped around the bottom of his braid. “I like it.”

“So do I.”

Taehyung turns back to face her as she turns away from him, eyes gazing all over the place, from the snow-covered boxwood to the remnants of flowers, dead from the bitter cold.

“I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve done this,” Taehyung says.

“Years?”

“Maybe not years.”

“When was the last time we were here?” She wonders aloud, gazing off into the sky. “Together, like this.”

“Too long ago,” Taehyung replies.

“We are both so busy nowadays, Taehyung wangjanim,” she tells him. It’s such a shame their youth has escaped from their grasp. “I have things to attend to with my father’s position in the court, my mother’s infirmary, and my engagement.”

“Yes, the engagement,” Taehyung says, more to himself than to her. It’s almost as if it’s a reminder to himself that what he feels for the girl beside him isn’t permanent, can’t be permanent. “How’s that going?”

“It’s going,” she says, clearly worn out from the countless hours she’s spent dealing with it. “Namjoon orabeoni is taking care of most of it for me, which I really appreciate. We’re not even technically engaged yet, and I’m already tired.”

“When is it official?”

“A few years. Abeonim says that a sixteen-year-old girl is too young to get married, and while I’ve seen younger, I’m in no rush either.”

Taehyung needs to change the topic before he says something he’ll regret. He feels the words coming up his throat, threatening to spill out off of his tongue.

“He’s right.”

A serene sort of silence settles in between them, neither of them really knowing what to say to keep the conversation afloat. It’s like this a lot more than it used to be. Taehyung doesn’t want to think that they’ve drifted apart, but they must certainly have lost the flair their younger selves had, more often at a loss for words than bubbling with excitement.

“What are you doing these days, Taehyung wangjanim?”

She feels like a stranger.

“Why call me ‘wangjanim’ when I have a new title?” He counters.

“Because wangjanim reminds me of the little boy who used to sit in this exact spot, picking the wild seoksanhwa from their roots in the grass,” she says, and Taehyung’s heart skips a beat (no, several) at the nostalgia behind it.

He feels a blush rising on his cheeks. “Am I not that boy, anymore?”

“You’re certainly much taller than he was,” she jokes.

Taehyung laughs, a hearty one that reaches his eyes. “Is that the only difference?”

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” she says, combing her fingers through it. It hangs loose down his back, having consistently refused putting it up like Namjoon does. He knows he should and that his refusal to is childish, but he’s always liked the way it’s looked down.

“Nice to know I don’t look seven, anymore,” Taehyung says.

“Don’t you wish you were, though? Seven again?”

“Sometimes,” Taehyung admits. “I wish we could run in the snow again. I wish we could chase each other around the gardens again. I wish we didn’t have any adult responsibilities and I wish we could see each other now as much as we did then.”

“Don’t you wish anything for yourself?” She asks. “Why the both of us?”

Taehyung is too honest for his own good. “You’ve always been and will always be by my side.”

Taehyung is too genuine for his own good.

“Taehyung wangjanim…” she says, the words dying on her lips as she meets his gaze, soft and sad and sure.

Taehyung is too reckless for his own good.

Before he allows his mind to register it, he’s leaning in, his hand sneaking its way up from where it sits on his lap to her neck, thumb brushing her cheek. His eyes are closed—he doesn’t want to see the look on her face when it happens—as he turns her head towards him and presses his lips to hers.

It’s a sight to behold, Taehyung thinks. He can’t imagine what this may look like to an outsider. There they sit, against the setting sun just barely shining over the wall of snow-covered boxwood, only silhouettes visible. Perhaps, to an outsider, they are not royalty and nobility, they are just kids, kids desperately in love and relishing in the feeling of their lips against each other’s.

All Taehyung feels is warm.

Warm, warm, warmth.

She is the sun setting against the horizon, her lips rays that make his blood boil.

They might kiss for hours, or mere moments, but Taehyung doesn’t know. He loses track of time the second his lips are on hers.

They part, soft as ever, breaths heavy but not too heavy.

“Wangjanim?” She asks quietly, bringing her fingers to her lips, still tingling.

Taehyung is breathless at the sight of her. “You’re beautiful, Y/N.”

“So you’ve told me,” she muses.

Taehyung is a little bit daring, and pecks her on the cheek another time, making her jump in a pleasant surprise. “And I will never stop telling you. Every day of my life, Y/N, you are beautiful.”

Maybe they’re golden again. Just this once, in the glow of the evening light, they are golden.

Secret kisses and silent giggles follow them throughout their days. It is the best year of Taehyung’s life, hands down, and one where his beaming personality shines through the most. It seemed as though his youth had always been out of his grasp, but finally, Taehyung can stretch a little bit more. Just enough.

She meets him whenever she can, wherever she can. Though they find themselves only growing busier, any chance to see each other is a chance they welcome with open arms.

Autumn leaves fall outside the window to Taehyung’s study, where he’s been trapped for the past several hours, paperwork piling up. Namjoon is much too busy these days to do anything but work, so Taehyung hardly ever sees him. Shades of orange, red, and brown cover the grass outside, bits of green peeking through open spaces here and there as Taehyung sighs, closing another textbook and crassly flinging it across his desk, tired. He’s nearing seventeen, but the king still does not trust Taehyung with affairs that matter, leaving the trivial occurrences under his wing. Namjoon says that everything Taehyung does, down to his bathing schedule, matters in the grand scheme of things, but Taehyung doesn’t really think so.

Taehyung makes the executive decision that watching the leaves fall from the trees, swaying down in the air until they peacefully land on the ground, is more interesting than the scrolls in front of him, turning around to stare at them rather than his freshly-inked quill and blank parchment.

He stays that like for a couple minutes, allowing himself a respite from the work he was never meant to do. His mind clears and for once in his life, Taehyung is silent, silent and sleepy.

There’s a knock.

Taehyung’s eyes burst open as he frantically looks around, about to turn to the door when he hears the knock again. As Taehyung looks out the window, he makes eye contact with her through the aging panes, her bright eyes lifting his mood. She waves at him briefly before shaking her hand wildly, signaling her desire for him to join her outside, and it’s all the encouragement Taehyung needs to forgo his work entirely.

He breezes by the eunuchs waiting outside his study with a quick greeting before he dashes outside, eyes searching. His immediate thought is to go straight to their garden, which has more flowers in it than Taehyung’s ever seen before, but he soon hears a pitter patter of steps amongst the sound of the brisk wind, and he follows them.

He finally finds her by the river, where she sits on the bank and lets her hanbok dirty, mud imprinting itself on the fine white silk. She’s tossing in little pebbles, not trying to skip them across the water.

“Y/N?”

She turns to him at the sound of her voice, gleaming.

“Wangjanim,” she replies simply, patting the soft ground next to her.

Taehyung wastes no time sitting down next to her, ignoring the feeling of his clothing sinking into the mud, and picks up a couple of stones as well.

“Why did you want me, Y/N?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she hums back, hardly looking at him.

“You’ve seen me.”

“That I have.”

The stone drops into the water with a splash.

“I missed you,” Taehyung says.

Splash.

“You say that every time we see each other,” she giggles.

“I miss you whenever I am not with you, beside you, near you.”

“Wangjanim,” she says, much more shy this time.

“I miss you like the moon misses the dawn, almost there but just a hair out of its reach. I miss you like the trees miss the grass, right below its feet but not close enough to its branches. I miss you like the stars miss each other, so close together from far away, and so far away from close up. Every day, I wish you are by my side.”

Splash.

“You are sweet, wangjanim. And kind,” she says, turning to him. Taehyung feels a gentle hand press its palm on his cheek as she leans towards him, lips smiling but eyes unreadable. “Your wife will be lucky.”

Taehyung reaches a hand up to meet hers, holding onto it like a lifeline. “My wife should not be a concern of yours nor mine. We are here together, and even so, I miss you.”

He finally presses his lips to hers, letting himself get engulfed in her taste, her touch. Every kiss shared between them feels brand new, the sensation foreign each time. Perhaps Taehyung is drunk on her touch, but how can one be drunk on something that changes each time?

He does not know it, but it is a mistake of his to disregard the future. He has always put off mentions of his future bride, opting to live in the present, for there is no better place to be. But living in the present does not erase the future, and Taehyung might not get drunk on her love but he is drunk on her, and it does no good to be addicted to something that, inevitably, leaves.

When they part, she breathes out, light and heavy at the same time.

“This must end, wangjanim,” she says.

Taehyung leans in again, his lips on her cheek. “Fuck the end.”

The end comes on a fine day at the end of summer, where it begins to cool down but the weather is still humid. It is Namjoon’s coronation, meaning that his bride will finally become the official designated candidate for crown princess, and Taehyung’s ever-slimming chances are slipping right through the cracks between his fingers.

This day has been a long time coming. It’s been in the works for nearly twenty years, preparations being made since the prince’s birth to ensure the stability of the throne. Namjoon has never been more ready.

Taehyung has never been less ready. He dons his finest clothes and his fakest smile, knowing fully well that once the ceremony is over, she is officially no longer his to hold, to cherish.

This day has been a long time coming, but Taehyung wishes that time were even longer.

It’s not as though Namjoon doesn’t have the slightest idea as to how Taehyung’s feeling. He has eyes, and he’s used them over the years to watch his younger brother fall in love with the girl meant to be his. He’s not oblivious, but his father is, and both Namjoon and Taehyung would like it to stay that way.

“Taehyung-ah?”

Taehyung whips his head around to face the entrance to his bedchamber, where his brother is standing, decked out in the most extravagant silk. He wears sort of a sad smile on his face, Namjoon, out of place for a man about to be given the title of crown prince.

“Hyungnim?” Taehyung asks, eyebrow raised. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“I am already, for the most part,” Namjoon shrugs. “How are you?”

Taehyung feels like he’s about to vomit.

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why are you asking?” Taehyung says, wary. He has a feeling he knows where this conversation is leading, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Taehyung-ah,” Namjoon repeats, defeated.

“Hyungnim, I’m fine,” says Taehyung, trying to put a little strength in his voice to convince his brother. “Really.”

“Don’t lie to me, Taehyung-ah. Don’t you trust me?” Namjoon questions like it’s something he truly needs to think about, and that breaks Taehyung’s heart.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Taehyung says, voice cracking. “Just… I’m fine.”

Namjoon gives up at that point, seeing how distraught Taehyung is without even outright mentioning the topic at hand. He sends him a smile, the same sad one that Taehyung hates seeing on Namjoon’s bright face, before bowing out.

All peasants want to be royal, but Taehyung has always wished there was a way to rid himself of the crown atop his head.

For the sake of his own sanity, Taehyung zones out during the ceremony. Nobody thinks twice about the blank expression on his face, as they’re all focused on his brother anyway. Taehyung would rather be anywhere else in the world right now.

When Taehyung finally comes to, he catches a glimpse of his brother in all of his glory. Namjoon stands tall, robes encrusted with gold dragons and a solemn look on his face as he swears to uphold the duties a crown prince must maintain. He looks powerful. He looks wealthy.

He looks like a king.

And Taehyung, Taehyung when he looks down at himself with his finest clothes and fakest smile, he looks like a child.

Taehyung spends the rest of the day avoiding his brother and camping out in the palace garden, comforted by the birds and the geckos and the sway of the flowers. He lets his mind wander, following the brisk breeze blowing through the trees. Taehyung should have known not to get too attached, and here he is, heartbreak on the horizon.

He hears the door to the secret room open.

“And here I was, thinking that I was the only one rude enough to escape my own festivities,” Taehyung says aloud, and he hears the light rumble of her chuckle in response.

“I figured you’d be here, wangjanim.”

“I figured you wouldn’t come find me.”

She scoffs. “Are you kidding? I’ve told you before, I’ll always find you.”

Taehyung sits up at that, meeting her eyes. She’s still fully dressed, not a single hair out of place, and the sight of her almost makes Taehyung fall back to the garden floor. Her clothes are but another reminder that she is now unattainable, merely a star floating in the midnight sky, beautiful, but too far away to hear it.

He can’t help but selfishly think that it should be him who gets to see her like this. It should be him who she’s about to marry. It should be him who gets to create new life with her. But instead, it’s not, the universe is cruel, and fate unchangeable.

“Surely you should be back with my brother,” Taehyung says, a little biting, unfitting for such a boy like himself.

She simply laughs, walking over and joining him on the bench. Her robes spread out as she sits down, taking up much more space than Taehyung is. “You’re too kind, wangjanim, but I would much rather spend my time with you.”

This time, it is she who interlocks their fingers, letting them rest on the wood in between them.

“I’m sorry, Taehyung-ah,” she whispers. It’s the first time she’s ever called him that.

“Sorry?”

“I’m sorry that it has to be like this,” she continues. “I wish that destiny was not so unforgiving.”

Taehyung feels a bout of anger come across him. “But why must we let destiny come in between us? Why must we conform to fate that was not meant for us?”

He leans in, pressing his lips to hers, and for a brief moment, he forgets. His vision blurs and all he sees is the girl in front of him, the gold in her robes catching the afternoon light, reflecting in shimmers along her body, and for a second, he lets himself believe that she is dressed like this and that they are here, together, because she is his. It is a selfish thought, but it is enough.

When they part, Taehyung sees her glossy eyes and catches a tear that trickles down her cheek, wiping it away with her thumb as she smiles. It is the same sad smile that Namjoon gave him.

“Oh, Taehyung-ah, don’t you know? We’re royals. Even if we broke away from the path that fate has left us, we’d never truly be free.”

Taehyung is not in the room when it happens.

In fact, he’s nowhere near the room, lying on his back on the riverbank, cloudspotting. It’s such a beautiful day, Taehyung thinks, and now that Namjoon is the crown prince, Taehyung’s responsibilities have freed up immensely. His hands rest under his head as he makes shapes out of the fluff, letting time tick by during his nineteenth year. Each cloud reminds him of her.

He’s on the verge of falling asleep, his eyes already pressing closed, when he feels himself rattled, a hand shaking his side. Taehyung shoots up at the feeling, eyes puffy from sleep, and sees a frantically frazzled eunuch crouched down next to him.

“Yes?”

“Taehyung daegun!” The eunuch cries. “Your father… Jeonha…”

“My father?” Taehyung asks, concerned.

“He has fainted!” The eunuch exclaims.

Taehyung’s puffy eyes go wide as all of the sleep fades from his body. He’s up in an instant, caring less about the mud on his back as he begins to dart towards the palace, the eunuch close behind him. At first, he hasn’t the slightest clue where to go, but he follows the herd of court ladies, advisors, ministers, and eunuchs, all headed for the throne room. Taehyung is normally much more polite, but today he is shoving his way through the crowd without apologies, ordering his subordinates to move, that’s my father!

There is already a conglomeration of nurses surrounding the body lying on the wooden floor, but Taehyung spots Namjoon and his mother a few steps away from where the king is. His mother is on the verge of tears, a hand over her mouth as she watches, helplessly. Namjoon’s brows are furrowed.

“Hyungnim!” Taehyung calls.

Namjoon looks up at the sound of Taehyung’s voice and watches him make his way over to them, eyes worried at the sight of their father.

“Hyungnim, what happened?”

“I don’t know, I just got here. I heard he was walking from his throne, tripped on the last step, and fell to the floor in a crumple, but I can’t imagine why,” Namjoon says, clearly shaken. “He hasn’t had any previous health concerns.”

“I’ve alerted the royal doctor,” their mother intervenes. “He’s on his way.”

“Will he be alright?” Taehyung wonders. The king is pale, much paler than he’s ever been, and his skin looks sallow, almost tinted green. Taehyung watches in horror as the nurses wrap his unconscious body in blankets, the stiffness of his limbs almost frightening. “Will he die?”

“Gods, I hope not,” Namjoon replies. “I’m not ready to be king.”

Their father lives.

He wakes up the following day, sweating profusely as he rids himself of the layers of clothes and blankets atop him. Beside his bed sits a large bowl filled with water, and he dunks his entire head into it, letting it cool him down.

Within the next ten minutes, Taehyung comes in to replace the towel resting at the foot of his bed to see the king wide awake and breathing heavily.

“Abeonim?” Taehyung asks, dropping the fresh towels in his hands and letting them softly thud to the floor.

“Taehyung-ah,” the king says. “How long was I asleep?”

“A day,” Taehyung musters out. “The-The royal doctor said you wouldn’t wake for another couple days.”

The king chuckles heartily, more to himself than to Taehyung. “Guess I proved him wrong.”

“Are you okay?” Taehyung wonders, rushing up to the king. He reaches a hand out to feel the king’s forehead, see if he still has the fever he fainted with, or perhaps he is still as cold as he was when they brought him to his bedchamber, but he pushes it away.

“Where’s Namjoon-ah?”

Taehyung’s outstretched hand falls instantly to his side. He wishes he could say he’s surprised at the king’s obvious favoritism, but it’s something he should have expected, instead.

“I don’t know, perhaps in the library?”

“Please let him know I’m awake. We have royal affairs to deal with now that I’ve regained consciousness,” his father asks of him, and Taehyung can do nothing but accept the order.

When Namjoon comes into his father’s bedroom, he dashes to his bedside, dropping to his knees as he feels all over his father for any signs of illness. Taehyung stands by the doorway, watching the two of them as Namjoon trips over his words in a desperate attempt to convey all of the news to the king.

“You-you fainted and then—doctor said you were almost dead—heart nearly stopped—irregular pulse—suspected arrhythmia—was so worried you wouldn’t wake up—eomeonim’s beside herself—”

“Namjoon-ah, calm yourself,” the king says smoothly, like he’s speaking to an overwhelmed child on the verge of tears. In a way, he is, though Taehyung will always be more like a child than his brother. “It will take much more than a simple heart palpitation to get rid of me.”

Namjoon curls into the king as they hug, the king rubbing the back of Namjoon’s matted hair, smoothing it down with the palm of his hand. Taehyung smiles to himself, almost bitterly, thinking that perhaps if he were born just a little earlier, he would be given the same love and respect the king has for Namjoon, everyone’s favorite prince.

As the week wears on, their father gets healthier. Two days and he’s freed from bedrest, three and he’s allowed to be exposed to mildly strenuous work, four and he can finally join the rest of his family for a hearty meal as the sun sets low in the sky.

Taehyung’s a little late to this one. He is almost never punctual, always busy getting lost in some daisy field or staring at the passing clouds to be aware of the time, but he has a legitimate excuse this time. The daenggi, the same one that was given to him just over four years ago, is not in its normal place. Taehyung keeps it atop a navy blue silk box, where he stores the rest of his hair accessories, but he seems to have misplaced it. He spends fifteen minutes scouring his room for the ribbon before he inevitably gives up and joins his family. They watch him sit down as he shoots an apologetic smile, hair messy from the breeze he made as he was rushing down the hallway to the dining room.

“Sorry, got caught up,” he says, picking up his chopsticks.

Namjoon nudges his shoulder. “Busy picking wildflowers, Taehyung-ah?”

“Excuse me, but just because they’re not selectively bred doesn’t mean they deserve any less love,” he jokes back, pretending to be offended.

Namjoon chuckles as he begins to pile the meat on top of Taehyung’s rice bowl. “You know how much I hate duck.”

“Like the back of my hand,” Taehyung singsongs, gladly taking the roast duck in front of him and gobbling it down. They carry on like this, bantering like friends rather than brothers, amusing their parents as they go back and forth between their little retorts.

Maybe Namjoon is the boy marrying the love of Taehyung’s life, but that doesn’t mean he is to blame. They are princes, after all, and blood is much thicker than water.

“Open wide!” Taehyung teases as he dangles a piece of peppered tofu in front of Namjoon’s face.

Namjoon’s nose is crinkled up in disgust as he sniffs the pepper in front of him, dancing by his lips. He’s never liked black pepper very much.

“Get that heathenish thing away from me!” Namjoon cries, trying to move his hands to push away Taehyung’s taunting chopsticks.

Taehyung presses further, the tofu nearing his brother’s mouth, before Namjoon catches a great big whiff of the pepper and sneezes. The noise shocks Taehyung so much that in his haste to remove the tofu from Namjoon’s nose, he knocks over Namjoon’s cup of water, spilling it all over the tablecloth.

“Oh gods, my bad,” Taehyung mutters to no one in particular. He immediately gets up with Namjoon’s empty cup in hand as his brother begins to dab up the mess he’s made, heading towards the side table where the water pitcher, freshly filled, waits. He refills Namjoon’s cup to the brim before walking back over, spilling some water on the floor with his uneven steps, and placing the cup right next to his bowl.

“Oh, you didn’t need to get me another cup. I had the nicest tea before I came here, so I’m not very thirsty,” Namjoon says, beaming as he pushes the cup away. “But thanks anyway, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung grins back, happy to see his brother smiling so much these days after the king’s bout of sickness. “Anything for you, hyungnim.”

Taehyung is in the room when it happens, this time.

It’s hardly an hour after they finished eating, but they’ve retired to Namjoon’s room and are playing a pick-up-sticks tournament, one game after another.

Namjoon’s beating him four to three, but Taehyung’s bringing it back this round. His eyes are trained on every move the sticks on the floor between them make, watching them with exact precision, when Namjoon makes a move that sends them flying.

“Yes!” Taehyung cheers, pumping a fist up in the air in celebration. They’re tied now.

He’s so thrilled that for a brief second he does not spare a glance at Namjoon, but a thud catches his attention.

Namjoon has collapsed on the floor, his fingers still resting on the stick that brought upon his loss.

“Hyungnim?” Taehyung asks in a sweaty panic. “Hyungnim?”

He leans down to shake Namjoon awake, thinking that perhaps he’s finally given into sleep after so many nights without it, but that is hardly the case. The pulse on his wrist is weak, the one by his ear even weaker, and he does not budge, despite Taehyung’s aggressive shaking of his body.

“Hyungnim!” Taehyung shouts another time, furiously grabbing onto Namjoon’s arm. It’s a lifeline, the final connection between the crown and his youth.

Taehyung is on top of his brother now, knees spread over each side of Namjoon’s lifeless body as he moves his hands all over, a desperate attempt to wake him. Perhaps a minute passes, perhaps an hour, but Taehyung loses track of time as he does anything he can to stir some movement in Namjoon, but all are rendered useless. He only becomes fully aware of his actions once he feels himself being dragged from Namjoon’s body, which is soon surrounded by eunuchs, court ladies, and nurses alike. Taehyung loses it in the corner, screaming and scratching at the eunuchs that hold him down as the nurses prepare his brother for transport, the only word on his lips Namjoon’s name.

“He’s been poisoned.”

Taehyung’s mouth drops to the floor, almost comedically, as the words leave the royal doctor’s mouth. Namjoon rests in his bed, eyes closed peacefully as though he is merely sleeping, with Taehyung, their mother, and the King all standing beside him, listening to what the royal doctor has to say.

“Poisoned?” His mother asks, deeply concerned. Taehyung can see it in the wrinkles that are etching themselves along her forehead.

“I believe so,” the royal doctor confirms, making Taehyung sink to his knees. Who would want to poison Namjoon?

“How can you tell?” The king asks.

“Telltale signs. He is perfectly healthy but fainted without warning, has no irregular heartbeat nor any previous conditions. I’d say any higher dosage and you would have a dead crown prince on your hands.”

“I will not let the fool who poisoned my son get away with this crime,” the king states with a fury so violent even Taehyung is a little scared. “He shall pay.”

“Will he be alright?” Taehyung asks the royal doctor, eyeing Namjoon with worry.

“If given proper care, he will be back on his feet in no time,” the royal doctor assures him, though Taehyung feels everything but assured. Seeing Namjoon like this, so weak and helpless, has Taehyung buckling with worry.

“You are responsible for the recovery of my son,” bellows the king as he looks the royal doctor in the eye. Though they are roughly the same height, Taehyung’s father appears so much larger than the man in front of him. “If he does not return to his full health, you are the sole one to blame.”

The royal doctor bows. “You have my word that your son will be back to fulfilling his duties as soon as he is able to, jeonha.”

The king seems relatively satisfied with that answer, turning around regally and marching out of Namjoon’s room, his wife close behind him. Taehyung stills sits on his knees, watching as the doctor replaces the cold cloth resting on Namjoon’s forehead. Once he is finished, the doctor bows to Taehyung and exits the room, leaving Taehyung alone with the unconscious body of one of the only people Taehyung cannot afford to lose.

Taehyung spends every waking moment in Namjoon’s room, by his bedside, as he waits for his brother to wake up. He believes that if he keeps vowing that Namjoon will open his eyes, he eventually will. Perhaps Namjoon is unprepared to be king, but Taehyung even more so, the mere thought of him becoming the ruler giving him chills.

It is two days after Namjoon’s poisoning that his crown princess arrives, a bouquet of flowers in her hands. She spots Taehyung, as he does her, and they meet eyes for just a second. She looks worried, but Taehyung looks sad.

“Wangjanim,” she says, practically speechless. She rushes over, placing the blossoms on the side table, pressed up against the wall with all sorts of herbal medications resting on it, and sits next to Taehyung, pressing a soft hand into his palm as the two gaze at the crown prince.

“You came,” he whispers.

“How could I not? My betrothed has been poisoned,” she replies. Taehyung holds onto her hand a little tighter.

“He will get better,” Taehyung says. Maybe if he repeats it enough times, it will become true.

“And you? Will you get better as well, wangjanim?” She asks, turning to him for the first time since she sat down next to him.

“With time,” Taehyung muses in response. His eyes are still trained on his brother.

She gets up, and even though Taehyung isn’t watching her, he knows she does, feeling her hand leave his grasp.

“I should not want to overstay my welcome,” she says. “Please place the flowers in a vase so that they may quench their thirst.”

He reaches out to grab her hand, making her stop in her tracks. His voice breaks, on the verge of tears. “Stay.”

“Pardon me?”

“Stay, Y/N. Please,” Taehyung begs, words hoarse. “I-I know that Namjoon’s right here, and-and that we need to stop, but he’s asleep. Please, just stay.”

“Taehyung-ah…”

“I-I know it’s selfish but I just… I can’t lose you too. Stay with me. Please. Just this once.”

She turns around and takes a seat, on the floor right next to the chair Taehyung rocks back and forth in, resting her head on his arm. Taehyung allows sleep to take him.

Namjoon wakes up the same day the king pinpoints the source of the poison. Though he himself is still recovering from his dance with death not even two weeks prior, he has enough strength in him to investigate.

Taehyung is more than relieved to see Namjoon’s sage brown pupils, nearly bursting into tears of joy at the sight of Namjoon opening his eyes. The elder merely chuckles to himself, pleased to see how much he means to his brother.

“Missed me that much, Taehyung-ah?”

A tear rolls down Taehyung’s cheek as he smiles. “Always, hyungnim. I can’t live without you by my side.”

However, Taehyung does not get much time to rejoice, as before he knows it, he is being summoned by the head eunuch, requesting that Taehyung come with him to see the discoveries the king has made in his investigation.

“Hyungnim, I’ll be back to make sure I’m not dreaming,” Taehyung promises as the eunuchs open the door for him.

Namjoon nods. “I’ll still be here, Taehyung-ah. Take all the time you need.”

“Don’t die on me yet, hyungnim,” Taehyung orders as he approaches the doorway, pointing to his brother. “We still have so much more to experience.”

Taehyung bounces down the hallway, cheerful that his brother is finally awake, as he meets the king in the main throne room, who is less than such.

“Abeonim,” Taehyung says, grinning. “Hyungnim woke up.”

“He did, now?” The king asks, hardly looking up at his second son. “What wonderful news.”

“I know? I’m so glad he did,” Taehyung says even though he knows the king is no longer listening.

“I looked into his poisoning, Taehyung-ah, and I believe I have found the cup that delivered the deathly dose,” the king says, and Taehyung jumps up at the mention of the source. He will do anything to find the coward who tried to murder the crown prince.

The king motions for Taehyung to come up to the table he stands behind and observe, so Taehyung marches up. On the table between him and the king rests a single palace cup, one typically used for water or milk and found in abundance in the castle’s kitchen cabinets.

“You think it was this one?” Taehyung asks, picking up the delicate thing to inspect it closely. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, no glaringly obvious signs of a deadly substance along its rim.

“Almost positive,” the king says.

“So this means it’s from the kitchens? Someone who has access to the kitchens did it?” Taehyung wonders aloud, trying to piece together the clues of the crime to solve the puzzle.

“I believe so. However, when I had the eunuchs search the kitchen for any more items worthy of inspection, one came across another object, so out of place that it was almost laughable that the criminal would leave such an obvious clue behind,” the king continues, and he has Taehyung on his toes at the mention of another hint. This is the most that Taehyung’s been involved in a royal affair in months.

“What is it?”

The king tilts his head, and an eunuch scurries over with a wrapped up piece of cloth, bowing as he places it gently in the palm of the king’s hand. The king nods to him and the rest of the eunuchs dash off, leaving Taehyung alone with the king, about to reveal the second piece of evidence.

Light hands place the cloth softly on the wooden table between them, and Taehyung is eager. He is rocking back and forth from his heel to the balls of his feet as he watches the king unwrap the cloth to reveal a single item inside.

Taehyung stops.

Resting, ever so gently, among the regal cerulean blue, is a single red daenggi, worn at the edges.

Taehyung lifts his head to meet the king’s, and the king posses almost a cruel expression on his face, and Taehyung knows. His eyes go wide.

“Second Prince Kim Taehyung,” the king declares. “You are assumed to be the criminal behind Crown Prince Kim Namjoon’s attempted murder. Your trial begins tomorrow at noon sharp.”

A door slams shut as Taehyung vomits, retching onto the floor of his bedroom. He’s broken out into cold sweats as he dry heaves, no food or water left to regurgitate out of his mouth. Taehyung nearly keels over onto the floor, only managing to steady himself on the wall at the last second.

He’s in shock. That’s what it is, Taehyung thinks. He’s in shock and this is all a dream and soon he will wake up to find Namjoon alive and the real criminal caught, locked away in a cell. This cannot be real. There is no way that this is real. How could someone ever accuse Taehyung of trying to poison the only person he trusts more than himself?

Taehyung stumbles forward, drunk off of panic. His face is red and his eyes are bloodshot as he takes it all in and pushes it away at the same time, reeling on his toes.

He is lost. He sways back and forth, clueless. A notepad and a calligraphy brush catch Taehyung’s eye as he unintentionally tilts his head towards his desk, and he trips over his own feet to reach them. He has to organize his thoughts. He has to figure this out.

I do not know who poisoned my brother.

I do know that I did not poison my brother.

I do not know how my daenggi was found in the kitchen.

I do know that I lost it a day or so before my brother collapsed.

I do not know who would want to frame me for this crime.

I do not know how to clear my name.

His characters are sloppy, dragging all over the page and the sleeve of Taehyung’s hanbok, dirtying it. He can barely read his own handwriting, a poor attempt at ordering his thoughts so that they are not crushed into a single jumble in his mind. Taehyung stares at the parchment, looking at it desperately like it will tell him something he doesn’t already know. He then proceeds to crumple it up in his hands, shaping it into a ball as he throws it against the opposing wall, defeated.

Taehyung does not know what to do.

Taehyung does not know how to save himself.

Taehyung does not know who is to blame.

Taehyung does not know.

Taehyung collapses, sliding down the back wall of his bedroom and coming in contact with the floor, slamming himself onto it as it sends a surprised jolt throughout his body. There is nothing he can do.

He has dug a hole for himself that he didn’t even notice, forgetting about it until he took a single step forward and fell straight in.

Taehyung stares at the books on his bookcase, outlining every single one of them with a brush in his mind, until the door bursts open.

“Taehyung-ah!”

Taehyung makes no note of her as she rushes over, falling to her knees in front of him as she presses her hands everywhere, on his chest, his chin, his cheek.

“Taehyung-ah, please…” She begs, willing him to finally look at her. He catches her right as a tear escapes from her eye, rolling down her cheek, alone. “Please, Taehyung-ah. Tell me they’re joking. Tell me they’re lying. Anything, please. Anything.”

“They aren’t,” he musters out, voice so soft and weighted that she almost misses it.

“Taehyung-ah,” she says, a full sob wracking her body. “Please, Taehyung-ah. Tell me it’s not true. Lie to me, Taehyung-ah. Just this once.”

“I can’t.”

“Taehyung-ah!” She cries, desperate. “How can you just sit here? How can you let this happen to yourself?”

A hiccup escapes from his lips as Taehyung jumps, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He wipes them away with the clean sleeve of his hanbok, refusing to cry in the face of what appears to be imminent death.

“I have nothing to prove myself innocent, Y/N,” he says, a tear falling anyway. She sniffles in response, trying to stop her crying with little success. His hands have somehow found hers, just like they always do. “It is over.”

They spend the rest of the night together, weeping silently together on the cold floor of Taehyung’s bedroom, neither very good at calming the other down.

Taehyung has many objections to the accusations made by the king and the royal court, but he refuses to display said objections with tardiness. At five minutes before noon, he allows himself to be lead by none other than his favorite eunuch from his bedroom to the courtroom, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as he leaves her be, peacefully dreaming on his floor.

The courtroom is a familiar place. Taehyung has been in here many a time to watch royal trials take place and affairs be handled, but not once did he ever believe he would be the poor soul seated in the defendant’s chair.

It takes no chains or ropes to hold Taehyung in place. He is perfectly willing to sit through the trial like a man. Like a prince.

The hopes that Taehyung has stored in the back of his mind, the ones that think that this will all go perfectly smoothly without a single hitch, they are childish. He knows what lies in wait for him on the parchment in front of the minister that stands before him. Taehyung has never been good at playing the game of royalty, but the king is undoubtedly the champion.

When the sun moves the slightest bit, perfectly perpendicular to the ground below, the trial starts.

“Second Prince Kim Taehyung,” the minister reads from a scroll. “You stand before us today as the man accused of poisoning Crown Prince Kim Namjoon. Do you admit to these crimes?”

Taehyung stands in response, bowing. “I do not.”

“Very well. The trial continues.”

From prior experience, Taehyung has always known the trials held within this courtroom do not go down in favor of the defendant, despite whether or not the victim is present.

Taehyung takes a seat and listens to more advisors, senators, and ministers rattle off quite useless information, speaking of what occurred the night Namjoon was poisoned and what Taehyung’s whereabouts were.

Namjoon is not here. He’s been prohibited to attend by the king himself, apparently, or at least that’s what the eunuch told him on the way to the courtroom. Taehyung is even more uncomfortable without him, shifting in his seat, befallen with worry. How does he have any chance of clearing his name without the victim doing it for him? How will people take his alibi seriously when they still believe he is a naive child?

Taehyung is still not paying attention as the king takes the podium.

“Taehyung-ah,” he bellows, finally catching Taehyung’s eye. “Taehyung-ah, I know you.”

Taehyung highly doubts that.

“Ever since you were a child, Taehyung-ah, you have always been overshadowed by your brother. I know that,” the king begins, and the harsh honesty in his words makes Taehyung wince. “Nobody pays attention to second-in-line, younger prince Kim Taehyung, who bounces around in fields and tries to catch butterflies. You were never anybody’s favorite. Not even mine.”

The words sting.

“You always had things to say, but Namjoon did too, and his were always better. Always more intellectual, more realistic. You had your head in the clouds and I’m afraid that while it was up there, it became envious. There is nothing a son wants more than respect, and nothing a prince wants more than power. You were blinded, Taehyung-ah, desperate for the crown you so craved, and now look at you.”

Oh, how the king has never been more wrong.

“It is so like you to be careless, Taehyung-ah,” continues the king. He holds up the daenggi as though it’s nothing but a bamboo skin, just as useless. “But your disregard for everything has shown, and here you are, caught in the act of trying to kill your own brother in a last ditch effort to gain the throne.”

Before Taehyung can respond, the crowd of advisors, senators, and ministers watching all hum in agreement, nodding.

“You were wrong, abeonim,” Taehyung finally speaks, standing up firmly. “It is not the crown that I want, nor is it the man who will soon be under it.”

The king raises an eyebrow and smirks, almost as if to say, oh really?

“It is the woman by that man’s side, betrothed to him for all eternity. She is who I want. You thought you had done a fine job of separating us, keeping us in our own reserved bubbles, but you were mistaken.”

Taehyung is sentenced to death by hanging for attempted regicide.

His bedroom has never seemed more like a prison than it does now. Though a convicted criminal, Taehyung is still a prince, meaning he has too high of a status to reside in the cells meant for prisoners. He is restricted to his bedroom, guards placed all around the building so as to deter him from trying to escape, an act Taehyung sees as a useless final attempt to free himself. Only a man afraid of death would ever try to leave.

He must admit, it is a nice place to sleep for his final night. It gives off the illusion that tomorrow will be just as normal as any other day, where Taehyung prances around the palace grounds, smile wide. Even if it’s just for a mere moment, a second of his ever-shortening lifespan, he can forget that the whole kingdom views him as a traitor, and instead believe that they view him as a boy.

There is no god to save him now. No deus ex machina, no giant crane extending from the sky and plucking him from his personal prison. This is no drama, no elaborate plan to save him. This is the fate that he had so foolishly hoped to run away from, but he had failed to realize that destiny is always one step ahead.

Taehyung wills himself not to cry. He must be strong in the face of death, ready to stare it down as though if his gaze is intense enough, he can beat it.

Someone knocks on his door. Perhaps it’s a court lady with a cup of water, poisoned by the same free man who poisoned his brother, offering a sweeter, faster release.

It’s just Namjoon, limping into his room.

“Taehyng-ah,” Namjoon says, and the crack in his voice alone is enough to make tears fall from Taehyung’s eyes, but he refuses to let them.

“Hyungnim,” Taehyung whispers in return. “Do not pity me.”

“How can I not?” Namjoon asks. “How can I sit back and watch my only brother be hanged for a crime he did not commit?”

“You and I both know you will not try to change this,” says Taehyung sadly, the finality in his tone making his entire body shake.

Namjoon takes a seat next to Taehyung, the both of them side by side on his silk comforters. Taehyung allows his head to rest in the crook between his brother’s neck and shoulders as they stare off into the air that settles around them. Every now and then, Taehyung will hear a sniffle coming from the man beside him, and he can do nothing to console him.

“This is outrageous,” Namjoon mutters, and from the softness in his voice Taehyung knows that it was a comment not meant for him to hear.

“Hyungnim?” Taehyung asks, removing his head from Namjoon’s shoulder as the elder stands up, expression much darker.

“This is outrageous,” he repeats, much louder this time. “Surely… Surely there is more evidence lying around here. Surely we can find some way to clear your name before you are executed. I will search the kitchens, and I will get Y/N to ask the court ladies, we can fix this.”

“Hyungnim,” Taehyung says, grabbing onto Namjoon’s wrist as his hands curl into fists.

Namjoon’s voice wobbles. “Surely… Surely there is a way we can save you.”

“Hyungnim.”

Namjoon collapses back onto Taehyung’s comforter, and for the first time, Taehyung does not see his brother as the brave man the kingdom believes him to be. Instead, Namjoon is defeated, at a loss for words.

“You are dying in my place,” Namjoon comes to realize. “Instead of me, you are the one who will lose their life.”

“Rather me than you,” Taehyung says sadly, almost laughing. “I would never make a good king.”

“Don’t say that, Taehyung-ah. You would make a brilliant king. You are so smart, so brave. Look at you,” Namjoon says. “You are staring death down without so much as flinching.”

“But you are loved. The people love you, they trust you. You have their respect and their utmost loyalty, and you are ready to be king. I am not.”

Namjoon starts to cry. “You are loved, Taehyung-ah. More than you know.”

“Only one may live while the other dies, and it looks like my time has come,” Taehyung is choking on his own words, his resolve fading as he watches his brother cry in front of him, helpless.

Taehyung lets Namjoon sit there, sobbing into the silk of Taehyung’s hanbok, leaving damp patches in his wake. There is nothing he can do except wait for his brother to stop weeping, any attempts to comfort him only making him bawl even harder. Time stops as they remain there, the silence deafening. It is their final moment together, two brothers who share the same wish, dreaming of a life where there are no burdens on their shoulders, no titles resting atop their heads, and they can just be.

Namjoon breaks the quiet, still hiccuping even though the tears have now ceased. “There is no one I’d rather have by my side than you, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung smiles to himself, letting his eyes drift shut.

Namjoon continues, taking the silence as a ‘thank you’. “In the darkness of this unforgivable world, you are the flame that illuminates the path to the sun, and you are dying, the last link to a universe filled with light.”

Taehyung does not expect any more visitors for the night, though he can’t say he’s displeased to see her bursting into his room. Unlike Namjoon, she’s already beside herself, cheeks stained with the remnants of tears and a hand over her mouth. Taehyung’s heart breaks at the sight of her, and she stops dead in her tracks when they meet eyes. Hers are glossy, bloodshot from who knows how many minutes of crying, and his are devastated.

“Y/N,” he says, almost at a loss for words. “My love.”

“Taehyung-ah,” she chokes back.

Before he allows his mind to register it, she’s darting towards him, practically falling into his body as giant weeps wrack hers. The scene before them is anything but pretty, Taehyung beginning to hiccup and sniffle again like a child with the flu, her loud sobs too real to be romanticized.

“It’s fine,” he says, cradling her head in his arms as he rubs his thumb along the soft expanse of her cheek, wiping away the seemingly endless tears. “I’ll be fine.”

She merely cries in response.

“Everything will be fine, won’t it? I’ll be okay, I promise. I’m not going to leave so easily, you know. I’ll be back, everything—” Taehyung stops, a hiccup escaping his lips as he tries to sooth her with meaningless words, “—everything will be okay.”

“How will I manage, Taehyung-ah?” She asks him. “How can I allow myself to live a life without you in it?”

“It will grow on you, Y/N,” Taehyung assures her. “Pretty soon, you’ll forget about me entirely.”

She finally smiles at that, lips wet with tears that had dripped down to meet them, the smallest bit of relief from the cruel reality of the remainder of Taehyung’s life.

“Do you really think I’d forget you that easily?”

“It would relieve the pain,” Taehyung reasons.

“Sometimes pain is worth the pleasure.”

“You need not worry, Y/N,” Taehyung says. “The king cannot get rid of me that easily.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am positive,” Taehyung promises, his voice so sure that it makes his heart ache to know that she thinks he is telling the truth. “We must spend this final night wisely. We’re together after all, aren’t we?”

She looks up at him, craning her neck to meet his glowing expression. “And how will we do that, wangjanim?”

“Do you trust me?”

Taehyung turns his head down to see a small grin growing on her face, taking over her lips.

“Forever and always.”

They finally meet in the middle, each of them desperate for a taste of the other, pressing their lips together forcefully, as though this is what they were truly waiting for. It is so easily to fall into the rhythm of her heartbeat, letting the steady thump guide his own as they kiss, over and over, getting high off of each other’s touches and not once wishing to come back down. It is just kissing, an act that they have done with each other countless times in the shadows of bookcases and in between walls of boxwood, giggling as their noses tickle each other. But this time, something feels different, and Taehyung cannot quite pinpoint it with the feeling of her lips of his alone.

She kisses with a fervor, a sort of desperation that he has never experienced before, a foreign sensation on the cracks of his lips. She does not stop, kissing him like the world is on its last legs before imminent annihilation, like time is slipping through the cracks in their fingers as their hands roam each other’s bodies. She holds onto him tightly, refusing to let go and Taehyung knows why, knows what will happen the second she releases him. She kisses him with such urgency because it should be there, because the both of them know they will never have each other like this again, not in this life.

Time slips through the cracks in their fingers, but maybe if they keep their hands interlocked, it will stop altogether.

She gasps the second he removes his lips from her mouth, attaching them to her earlobe, biting down, his tongue trailing the edge of the skin. His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, aching to feel every part of her under the pads of his fingertips. Breathy moans leave her lips as Taehyung trails down to meet her jaw, her neck, pressing kisses anywhere he can get his hands on.

Their hands finally meet each other’s, connecting almost instantly as they kiss, kiss, kiss.

“Taehyung-ah,” she sighs out. “Please.”

It is not a plea this time, not a desperate request. She does not wish to gain much from this, just enough.

Their clothes are lost in a flurry of fabric, the soft silk sliding off of their bodies with ease as they gather in piles on the floor beside his bed. With every inch of skin exposed, Taehyung cannot get enough, finally allowing his hands to roam everywhere they please, her body warming up to his touch.

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, fingers dancing between her breasts, leaving but a light, tingling sensation behind. The words are no different than the ones he’s told her countless times, but they mean a little more this time.

“You are golden,” she responds breathlessly.

They cannot keep their hands off of each other, understandably so. Their touches are gentle, the two of them hardly pressing on each other as they maneuver themselves around. Her hands make their way to his hair, wrapping around bunches of his strands and tugging ever so lightly as his move down towards her center as she gasps.

Eventually, as time passes and she begins to place kisses all along his bare torso, covering the endless expanse, Taehyung pushes in, allowing himself to be wholly devoured by her, savored. He strikes up a familiar rhythm, moving to the beat of their hearts, synchronized as one, because in this moment, they are one mind, one body, one heart, one love. He feels nothing but the greatest pleasure, a feeling he knows he must treasure for the rest of eternity.

She smiles at him the entire time, eyes crescents as he thrusts in and out, letting herself kiss and be kissed and love and be loved. Her voice only raises when she approaches her high, Taehyung easily able to tell from the way her grip on his hair grows tighter. With a final shallow push, she releases, pressing her lips to his as her moans enter his mouth. Not long after, he follows suit, pulling out of her and subsequently collapsing on the bed, their chests heaving.

Later, when they are all cleaned up, they sit, resting along the wall which Taehyung’s bed is pushed against. Her head lies in the dip between his neck and shoulder, and they sit, relishing in their final moments together.

“I love you,” Taehyung whispers, and the words feel like gospel from his lips.

She does not budge, remaining in the same spot and glancing down to where their hands rest across their laps, interlocked.

“I love you, too.”

Wrapped up together in Taehyung’s sheets, where one body melts into the other, it is the first and last time Taehyung will ever utter those words to her. He hardly notices, but tears have begun to roll down his cheeks, softly dripping off of his chin and onto his torso, but he does not make to move them.

Taehyung looks at their hands, tracing her arms all the way up to her delicately shut eyes, letting her fall asleep on his shoulder. He wonders what will become of them, who she will be when he is not there to accompany her. He wonders how she will rule over her people, and has no doubt in his mind that she will treat them with grace and respect. He wonders if they will meet in their next life.

That’s a lie. He has no doubt that they will, knowing that the red string of fate tied around their pinkies will never steer them wrong.

Hopefully, in their following lives together, searching for each other in an endless hunt for love, they will not be reincarnated as royals.

For the final time, in the light of the isolated moon, the saddest as they come, they are golden like the stars that make their separation inevitable. All star-crossed lovers are the same devastating shade, and that is golden.

Taehyung takes his last breath the moment the sun sits perpendicular to the land that it shines on.

As he walks to the podium, dressed in a drab white hanbok, one reserved particularly for traitorous princes such as he, he twirls the stems between his fingers. In his right hand, held tightly behind his back by a palace guard with a firm resolve, he holds some little red flowers, picked from the garden he will never sit in again. They are the final touch of color in his world, his skin pale and his clothes paler, his last link to his old life, dying before his eyes.

Neither she nor Namjoon are present for his execution, and Taehyung’s glad. He does not want them to see him like this, does not want the memory of his limp body, hanging from a rope as it dangles in the air, in their minds. He does not want their last thought of him to be him dead, his soul vanished from the world on land.

He makes the mistake of thinking about their current whereabouts, what they might be doing as Taehyung is led to his death. Namjoon is probably in his bed, waiting for his recovery as it creeps upon him like a snail, bored out of his mind. And she, she is probably in the garden, sitting on the bench waiting for a boy who will never walk through that door again.

Never.

There are so many things Taehyung will never do again. He will never cloudspot, never toss rocks into the river, never hug his brother, never kiss her again.

But he will always love her, always cherish their moments together, always be on the lookout, always smile.

Perhaps in his next life, if he remembers, he can boast about how he was always smiling, even as the grim reaper stared him down and gave him chills.

As Taehyung stands firmly on the wooden construction, a dull beige rope wrapped around his neck, he thinks of a little girl sitting on a bench in the secret room of a garden. The wind blows through her hair, showing off the strands that did not make it into her braid. She is humming to herself, ever so softly, blissfully unaware of the young boy that approaches her with the sun illuminating the chestnuts in his eyes. In his hands, his fingers curled tightly around them, is a handpicked bouquet of all of his wildest dreams, right in front of his eyes, in the form of little red wildflowers. As the girl begins to turn around, finally recognizing the presence of another, the boy smiles.

So does Taehyung.

Hours later, long after the body swaying in the confines of the rope has been removed, tossed outside—traitors are never given proper burials, no matter their status—and beginning to decompose in the tall grass at the edge of the palace grounds, the seoksanhwa lie, still on the podium, fallen from the hands of the boy who loved them so.

The poison dealt quite the amount of damage to Namjoon, as it is several days past the original incident and he is still bedridden, restricted to his room by his father in the hopes that he will make a full recovery.

It’s boring, really, as he is forbidden from receiving any work to keep his mind occupied nor is he allowed to have very many visitors, his father truly pulling out all the stops to ensure that the health of the crown prince is at its highest level.

Namjoon loves his dad, but this is truly getting to the point of unbearably uneventful, the days ticking by much slower when he has nothing to do. He’s probably read every single book in this household by now.

On the better days, Namjoon has a visitor. She is the only person truly capable of lifting his mood up to the highest it can be. They are engaged, after all. She never visits empty handed, often times carrying a book with her, and if not, a glass of water or milk or something for Namjoon to indulge himself with. She will sit by his bedside and read to him, perhaps it is a book he’s read a thousand times, or one he’s never stumbled across, and he will listen, taking in every word uttered from her sweet voice.

Some days, Namjoon can hear it. She does an excellent job of hiding it, but some days, Namjoon will hear the brokenness, the pain masked by a chirpy ‘hello’, sad eyes and a glowing smile.

He does not comment on it. The silence in between them after she finishes up the chapter in the book, it is welcome rather than unsettling. Namjoon hears lots of silence these days, and it allows his buzzing mind to take a rest.

Neither of them say it out loud, but it’s apparent to both of them that Taehyung’s death has brought them closer than they ever were when he was alive.

They are especially close on the days that she comes in, the bowl of food in her hand trembling with every step, tears in her eyes. Those days, Namjoon does not eat. He lets her sit on his bed, pushed up against his legs, and cry. He has no reassuring words, nothing of comfort to offer her, for Taehyung is dead and not even the most powerful of sorcerers could ever bring him back.

Less often than she, Namjoon will cry when she walks in, almost everything she does a reminder of Taehyung, from the way she wraps her new red daenggi around her braid to the way she enunciates some of her words. And she will simply stroll towards him, sitting down in the same place on his bed that she sits every day, and lets him cry, rubbing his shoulder, the only comfort she can provide him.

They are the closest when they cry together, both overcome with grief and guilt as they think of Taehyung. She is foolishly in love with him still, and Namjoon keeps his mouth shut about how loving the dead keeps them living only in memory, souls stuck on Earth as ghosts until they no longer harbor a connection with the real world. Her love for him is as deep as the Korean sea, and it is not Namjoon’s place to tell her otherwise.

They would have made a fantastic pair.

The sun seems a little dimmer, the days when they cry together. The nights seem a little darker, too.

About a week and a half post-poisoning, Namjoon is finally allowed out of bed. At least, that’s what the royal doctor is telling him, saying that he’s perfectly healthy at this point and any more excessive time spent lying down in bed would merely be overkill. He has doubts that his father agrees with that sentiment.

For the most part, Namjoon is merely desperate for a taste of some of his favorite tea, the kitchens having run out nearly two weeks. Now that he’s permitted to be mobile, he can go and check to see if they’re restocked the cabinets, because he refuses to live any longer without the scent of chamomile wafting in the air in front of his nose.

It’s nice to be up and moving, if Namjoon’s being honest. A week and a half of bedrest and all of the bones in his body are stiff. He casually greets the kitchen staff, smiling and waving at them as they bow in response, beelining for the place he knows all the tea is kept.

As expected, the clay jar typically filled to the brim with chamomile tea leaves in empty, not even crumbs left at the bottom. Namjoon frowns into the jar, pursing his lips.

“Are you looking for your tea, wangseja?”

The voice nearly makes Namjoon drop the precious clay jar, his clumsy hands catching it right before it dropped onto the countertop. He turns to see one of the royal servants, looking at him with bright eyes.

“Oh, yes, as a matter of fact I am,” Namjoon says, grinning. “Do you know where it is?”

The servant tips his head. “It rests in a basket by the doorway to the stables. Forgive us, we have been too lazy to place it in the jar.”

“No worries,” Namjoon smiles, pleased to know that his tea is available for him whenever he pleases.

“You are not the first one to seek it out,” the servant comments. “A couple of weeks ago, one of the advisors, Advisor Oh, was looking for that same one. Came searching through the kitchen, just like you.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, the smile on his face suddenly replaced by a frown. He is suspicious. “No advisor is allowed to be present in the kitchen without permission from a member of the royal family,” he states, the question mark in his head growing.

The servant gasps, eyes blown impossibly wide as he suddenly drops to his knees right in front of Namjoon, attracting the attention of the rest of the kitchen staff as he falls to the ground. “Wangseja, I deeply apologize for allowing such a man into the kitchen without checking to make sure he was permitted inside. Pardon me,” the servant begs, clearly fearful for his life.

Namjoon looks awkwardly at the rest of the gawking kitchen staff, a blush growing on his cheeks. “No harm done. I pardon you.”

The servant breathes a heavy sigh of relief, but when he gets back up, Namjoon is gone, the empty jar resting on the counter as though it was untouched.

He finds her outside, lying by the creek that flows through the palace grounds as she points to the clouds, talking with no one in particular. Her gleaming expression paints a smile on Namjoon’s face as he approaches her.

“Y/N,” he says, making her sit up quickly. “Y/N.”

“Namjoon orabeoni?” She asks, a hand over her forehead so she may block her eyes from the sun he stands against.

“I think I figured something out,” Namjoon says. “About the poisoning.”

That makes her stand up in a fury, nearly tripping over her own hanbok. “What do you mean?”

“I think I have a lead.”

It’s quite fitting that the moment Namjoon was finally released from his bedrest, he immediately started a new investigation into his poisoning. Only he would dive into an affair so deep right after getting poisoned.

Digging through other records, Namjoon hunts for any information he can on Advisor Oh, coming across only writings about his career and his actions as a member of the royal council. But these records hardly provide anything, it is what she tells him that is of much greater importance.

“According to one of the court ladies, Advisor Oh had been asking around for your personal servants for at least a week prior to your poisoning,” she tells him.

“Which court lady?”

“She wanted to remain anonymous, in case she’d get in trouble for it.”

“If our lead is correct, she’d be rewarded for providing such crucial information,” Namjoon reminds her.

“I know, but I will honor her request,” she says. Namjoon’s always liked that about her, how she does not see people as below her, only equal. “Besides, we should focus on what she said, anyway. Advisor Oh was trying to get in cahoots with your servants. Clearly, he was planning something.”

Namjoon’s brow furrows.

Hardly a day later, he returns to their unofficial official meeting place by the creek, the same place that they met the first time Namjoon had a new development, with more information.

“Orabeoni!” She shouts as she sees him running towards her. Once he reaches her, he leans over, chest heaving as he regains his breath. Perhaps he should have joined in with her and Taehyung as children when they ran around the palace grounds. Then, he might not be so out of shape.

“I have something,” Namjoon says between heavy breaths. “More news.”

“Like what?” She asks, a hand on his upper arm as she guides him back up, holding him as he stands tall.

“I spoke with some of Taehyung’s favorite eunuchs. They’ve been demoted now, did you know? Since Taehyung—” Namjoon pauses and looks at her. Neither of them like speaking of the topic very much. “Well, you know. Anyway, he was telling me that Advisor Oh had been seen leaving Taehyung’s room, but when questioned, merely stated that he was searching for him.”

“That smells fishy,” she remarks. “I don’t trust it.”

“Neither do I, but I believe it’s enough to require an official assumption.”

She grins.

Namjoon has never been so thrilled to issue out an arrest warrant.

Namjoon is still too weak to go out and personally capture the man, but he has some very helpful castle guards by the names of Jimin and Jeongguk, and they are more than willing to do the job for him.

A man is thrust down in a seat in a dark room, hands tied behind his back and Jimin and Jeongguk hold him down, standing guard right behind him to ensure that he does not budge.

“Release me!” The man shouts to the guards, struggling against their tight grip. “How dare you disrespect your seniors like this!”

Namjoon steps into the view, the candles on the table illuminating little bits of his body, here and there.

“They have a perfect reason to hold you down, Advisor Oh,” Namjoon says, smirking as he approaches the man, palms flat on the table in between them. “Do you know what that is?”

The man shakes his head.

“You put poison in the tea given to me two weeks ago, did you not?”

The man is firm in his seat, resolve strong. Namjoon’s is stronger. “I did not. Unfortunately, wangseja, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Liar.”

Namjoon merely frowns, but he continues nonetheless, trusting Jimin and Jeongguk to keep the man planted in his seat as he begins to pace before him. “A witness informed me that you were sighted in the kitchens, without being given permission by any member of my family, in search of some chamomile tea. Chamomile happens to be my favorite kind of tea. Did you know this?”

“No.”

“Liar.” Namjoon grows more displeased by the minute. “Secondly, I found out that you happened to be asking around for my personal servants, whom I trust with my life, as though they were merely throwaway toys. Do you admit to this?”

“No.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Thirdly,” he begins, still pacing back and forth, “you were also spotted leaving my deceased brother’s bedroom before my poisoning.”

“I was looking for him.”

“And what did you need him for, hm?”

The resolve breaks. The man begins to stutter, clearly unprepared to answer such a question, and Namjoon smirks. He continues, finally stopping the pacing as he turns back to the table, hands angrily pressed down on the wood.

“Finally, I believe you were snooping through my brother’s room for one of his belongings, and just so happened to stumble upon this object right here, seeing it as the perfect piece of evidence to frame him for the crime.”

A court lady runs over, a folded blue cloth in her hand. She places it on the table without making eye contact to Namjoon, before scurrying back into the shadows. Namjoon unfolds the cloth, revealing none other than the worn red daenggi, practically unused since its discovery in the kitchen.

“Do you or do you not recognize this object?”

“I-I-”

“Do you or do you not?” Namjoon repeats, bellowing. He knew his resolve was stronger.

“I do!” the man cries, making Namjoon stand up straight in victory.

“Do you, now? And why do you recognize this?”

“I planted it,” the man finally admits. “I hoped to murder you in revenge for my daughter not being considered a candidate for the crown princess,” he hisses. “And I would’ve succeeded, had it not been for that no-good son of a bitch, the deceased prince, the one that saved you.”

Namjoon spits in his face. How dare he. “You desired wealth and power, did you not? As far as I remember, you work for one of the most insignificant sections of the council, correct? Useless as they come, eh?” He asks the man, looking up at Jimin and Jeongguk. They merely nod in response.

“I am worth so much more than the shitty position your father gave me,” the man says, biting. “I could do great things.”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Namjoon says, shrugging. “Advisor Oh Honggyu, you are convicted of attempted regicide. You will receive no trial and are scheduled to be executed at once.”

He is hanged that same night, and now, Taehyung may finally rest easy.

In the early morning hours, the night after the true criminal is executed, Namjoon is awoken by the sounds of his doors bursting open. His heart immediately jumps up his throat, terrified for a moment that the criminal seeks revenge for his capture, but the worry immediately subsides the second he hears her choke down a sob.

“Y/N?”

“Namjoon,” she says, eyes swimming in her tear ducts. She dashes over, wiping her eyes as she does, and collapses on his bed.

“What’s wrong? Why are you awake at such an hour?”

She begins to full-on weep, bawling as she breaks down on his comforter, tears leaving marks in his silk sheets. Namjoon’s sitting up at this point, leaning over to rub her back, trying to provide any amount of comfort he can. It’s been awhile since they’ve shared a moment like this.

“This isn’t fair,” she whispers between hiccups.

“What isn’t fair?”

“Taehyung…” she says, trailing off. “We could have saved him.”

“Oh, Y/N,” Namjoon says, suddenly realizing what this is about.

“No, Namjoon orabeoni, we could have. If we had just—If we had just looked for more evidence when he was first convicted, asked around like we did just now, he would be here,” she says softly. “He would—He would be with me.”

Namjoon says nothing.

“He could have been spared, he’s gone just because we didn’t care enough to dig deeper, didn’t care enough to want to save him. He’s gone,” she says, and it only occurs to Namjoon then that the realization that Taehyung no longer walks this Earth with the rest of them has come to her. “We could have helped him, we could have cleared his name. We could have—” She hiccups. “We could have—”

The world is full of could-haves, but could-haves mean nothing because they are things that didn’t happen, they are nothing but regrets, unfulfilled requests. They are what the human mind thinks of too late, the shooting star they just missed. Could-haves do not make things haves, and that is all the difference.

Namjoon does not find that the need to sleep overtakes him for the rest of the night. Instead, he holds her, holds her as the sobs rattle through her body, rocking back and forth with gentle whispers of “I know, I know.”

Namjoon and his betrothed, after nearly seventeen years worth of a nearly unbreakable promise, are married three months after Taehyung’s death. It is, for the most part, a quiet affair, even though it may be the most exciting event the kingdom has seen in years. However, without the electrifying laugh of a boy whose life could have been spared, to Namjoon, not much is exciting anymore.

Nine months later, the arrhythmia that once allowed his father to dance with the grim reaper himself returns, claiming him for all eternity. Namjoon becomes King of Joseon on the exact anniversary of Taehyung’s death.

These days, Namjoon keeps a small vase filled with little red wildflowers on the desk in his study, visible to all who visit him. He picked them from a hidden room in the palace garden, shown to him by the girl who wishes for the return of her youth, long gone.

glossary, in order of appearance:

hyungnim: used by a male to refer to a close male friend or relative older than him saekdongot: tradition hanbok worn by noble and royal girls wangjanim: used to refer to any prince prior to receiving any other titles abeonim: father orabeoni: used by a female to refer to a close male friend or relative older than her mama: majesty sagyusam: the topmost layer of a royal/noble boy’s hanbok unhye: a type of women’s shoes made from silk, reserved for wealthier women due to their high price agissi: used to refer to a royal/noble girl by someone lower in rank than them dongsaeng: a relative or friend who is younger than the person speaking daenggi: a ribbon worn by young princesses and noble girls around a braid jeonha: king baetssi daenggi: a small head accessory worn by females of high ranks dalryeongpo: a robe worn by princes not designated as the crown prince jeogori: the undergarments worn beneath a hanbok daegun: used to refer to any prince other than the crown prince once they are of age eomeonim: mother wangseja: crown prince

leave any feedback/requests here and check out my masterlist here!

#taehyung smut #taehyung angst #v smut #v angst #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #taehyung fluff #v fluff #taehyung scenarios #bts scenarios #bts royal au #bts prince au #cameos by jimin and jungkook!#writing #w: seoksanhwa #this was the biggest pain in the ass but it's here!

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cultofpokeshipping · 7 years

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Enter the Missing Father ch.1

Now more improved thanks to the wonderful and talented @n-i-n-t!!!! Seriously, go check that chick out!!!!! I wrote this story when I had no clue how to do chapter stories (I still don’t have a clue tbh). Its a pokeshipping (duh) AU complete with marriges/new life/death/betrayal/trash fluff/and more!!!! Let me know what you all think!! and again, please go show some love to @n-i-n-t

If you’d like to check out some of my other stuff, here’s my link:

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/6829205/

Enjoy!!!!!!!

Enter the Missing Father, Ch. 1

Rating: T

Words: 5405

A man in his early forties stood at the door of his wife’s house. After being gone for so long, he was unsure of how she might react, or if she would accept him back into her life. Against the nauseous feeling in his stomach, he knocked on the wooden door, listening for an answer on the other side. How would she react? Happy? Sad? How long had it really been? With a click, the door swung open, and the smile he longed to see faded instantly the moment their eyes connected. “Hello m–” She slapped him. Ending his introduction early. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been!? I had to raise our son alone! I haven’t heard from you in the last twenty years!” She breathed. “I had to dry his tears when I told him that you died because I didn’t have the heart to tell him that you walked out on him! On us! I had to be strong for the both of us!” The woman roared, incensed with rage Standing his ground, the man took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry… my dearest Delia.” “And you—do you know what’s worse!? I stayed faithful to you!” The man swallowed in response to her hostility and glanced tiredly around the entrance; she held her hand up to silence any response. “How dare you speak to me that way, Giovanni!” Few times in his life had Giovanni, the great criminal leader of Team Rocket felt intimidated. Delia was one of the few people on the planet, a gaze so intense he felt his blood run cold. Taking another deep breath, Giovanni started again, “I’m sorry that I left you to raise our son alone, and that I never called, or wrote, or dared to visit.” he cleared his throat, “I just didn’t want you and our son to get involved with…” Without knowing it he had taken a few steps forward, but Delia stopped him with the palm of her hand, and gave a solid push, keeping him just out of reach, and out of her life. In a rather comical display balance, the shove came as a surprise, and Giovanni stumbled, and fell backwards onto the porch. “Involved with what?!” She hissed, practically seething. Giovanni thought he had never seen her so angry before in his life. “When I married you, I knew exactly what you were doing with Team Rocket. You even tried to induct me when we were engaged! Our son—My son—Ash Ketchum already grew up without a father; and he doesn’t need you, of all people now!” “My beautiful son, that I spent years of sleepless nights with, listening to him cry few years that you didn’t want him–” She hesitated, furious beyond words. “I told him you were dead. You have no business here, not with him. Not ever.” Delia had spent hours—years–of her life waiting on this man, this self-involved man. Whatever reason he had for missing Ash’s life, she didn’t care—and she especially didn’t want him suddenly showing up now. In Delia’s mind, the man she fell in love with, Ash’s father, died years ago when she had to hold her crying son when he would return home from camp, crying, because the other children teased him for his circumstances. She spent years patching the damage left by Giovanni’s absence, and she would sooner die than give him a second chance. “I’m assuming you have his wedding invitation?” she fumed, folding her arms over her chest. Giovanni seemed to pause for a moment, smart, if he knew what was good for him. “Yes…I have.” he replied calmly. “Might I ask how?” She rolled her eyes. “First, you’re gone for years, and now you think you can make an appearance! You’re sick in the head!” Now it was Giovanni’s turn to twist, he stood up, straightened his tie in preparation to speak again—he would not take this kind of treatment. He had barely said three sentences to this woman, and she exploded. Given, she had every reason to, he wouldn’t accept it. Before he spoke, Delia raised her hand. Nimble, pale fingers pressed high to referee the moment. A threat. “If you, or any of your gang members ruin a single, solitary millisecond of my son’s wedding, I swear to Mew, and Arceus, and every godly creature on this planet it will be the last thing you ever do! Do I make myself clear!?” She was screaming, and hadn’t realized it. Lights flicked on in the neighbor’s house down the street, but no one rushed to their doors while she held a dark scowl. Her words pierced into Giovanni’s heart like fiery daggers and he nodded. “Crystal.” He muttered, swallowing his pride. He didn’t remember her as such an angry woman—so vicious and tired. He saw the distinct traces of crowfeet beneath her eyes, and her once smooth skin was wrinkled just around her lips—laugh lines. “I’m sorry.” he offered, but she made no attempt at reconciliation, as the door slammed shut shortly after. XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOXOXOOXOXOXOOXOXOOX The wedding between Ash Ketchum and Misty Waterflower went off without an issue. As if it were a moment in a fairy tale; everything was perfect. Delia couldn’t have been prouder or happier for her son and newly acquired daughter in law than she was now. They both looked absolutely precious. Ash wore a jet black tuxedo with white carnations tucked into his chest pocket. Beneath he had on a white, satin dress shirt, a pearl white tie, and his original Cascade badge pinned onto his tie, just beneath the knot. Paired with midnight black pants, tailored to perfection and glistening dark leather shoes; he was the embodiment of the perfect gentleman. If only the guest saw how long it took him to get that way, especially his hair—neatly combed, matted down with gel so not a single strange of hair was out of place—he looked exactly like the prince Misty always wanted, and the prince Delia always knew that he was. But across from her prince-charming, Misty looked absolutely breathtaking. He dress was pure, a silky white gown with diamonds hand embroidered throughout the full length of her bodice. A truly elegant pearl white tulle skirt puffed out all around her like a sea of white—and around her neck, she wore an elaborate crystal necklace, given to her by her mother. Matching her gown, she had diamond stud earrings, with an emerald center with red hair cascading down her backside. Holding it together was a seashell pin that Delia remembered as the pin that was given to Misty by Ash on their first date. To complete the look, her ballgown dress was perfected by a pair of pristine, glass slippers. In her seat, Delia chuckled, the world renown ‘tomboy mermaid’ certainly looked like a princess herself, standing in all of her glory beside her equally as darling son. However, if the marriage was based solely on looks; their relationship would have never lasted, Delia knew. Unlike her own rather dauntless marriage, Ash and Misty loved each other like no one else. In fact, if they had been married in rags in the middle of nowhere, no gifts, no lights, no dancing, and no drinks—they would have still shared that same, tantalizing gaze. Material items did not matter; they were each other’s whole world. “And by the power invested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife!” After a cheer from the pews full of people, a hush followed as the officiate leaned in with a smile. “Ash, you may now kiss the bride.” Ash looked giddy, hardly able to contain himself when he nudged forward to cup his new wife’s cheeks with his hands. Her heart fluttered in pure joy when he leaned in, kissing her passionately, and her arms flung up then around his shoulders as they celebrated the moment. “Ladies and gentleman, it is my privilege to introduce you for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Ketchum!” Along with the man’s own booming voice, the crowd roared in applause and happiness. A few hats were thrown in celebration, Delia thought wolf whistles came from a rowdy bunch in the corner—but she couldn’t care. All eyes were on her two children. As the newlyweds separated, Misty’s brows knit daringly—mischievously, if Delia knew that look herself, and taking Ash by surprise, Misty laid a sloppy, lip-glossed kiss onto his lips and Ash gasped. “Mis–!” he barely choked out before she snatched his hand bolted gleefully from the arch. Gazes fixed only on one another, they carefully followed the churches steps outside of the large, oak doors, and sprinted off into a waiting carriage. Ash barely snatched the door before Misty hopped in beside him, and as the driver started the engine, they waved to their long-time friends, new family, and from Ash, to Delia—a look of intense happiness as he turned forward to enjoy the scene with his wife. The perfect moment. Delia could have never been more proud of her son. XOXOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOOXOXOOXOXOOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOXOX “My, my, darling, when did you get good at slow dancing?” Misty crooned during their first dance. He not only avoided stepped on her dress and shoes, but she also bowed, kept his hands in the correct position, and move her gracefully across the dance floor as their carefully, and much fought over ‘first dance’ song played in the background as noise neither of them could hear. “Anything for you Mist.” His voice was deep now, a sultry drawl that sent excited shivers up Misty’s spine. She grinned from ear to ear as he twirled her around. “How much did you bribe Brock? You were horrible at those dance lessons we shared.” Ash’s facade broke for a second, nearly tripping up the twist, but caught her effortlessly with pursed lips. Accidents brought them closer, and he squeezed her hand. “Let’s talk about that later.” “Later” She winked sheepishly at him, and he draped his arms around her affectionately to bring her beautiful face mere inches from his own. “I love you, angel.” He hummed lovingly as he kissed her soft lips. “I love you more, darling.” she purred, taking initiative by cupping his cheeks and kissing him once more, for as long as possible—to think, a few years ago, the idea of holding hands in public turned Ash several sheets of white—and now, dozens of his closest friends watched him, and he could care less. He loved her, so if people talked, they talked. He didn’t care. As the song came to a close, they tried to keep from pawing at one another—mostly for his mother’s sake, but as the DJ announced the next dance, he kissed Misty’s hand farewell and traded her off with none-else than her father. The old man nodded to Ash proudly before whisking the redhead off further to the dance floor, and Ash stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked backward off the dance floor—eyes never fleeing from his wife. She looked—and was—absolutely stunning, he couldn’t believe when he saw her that Misty was the same arrogant, sarcastic little girl he met when they were children. Oh, how times had changed for the two of them. One second away from her felt like isolation. “We’re up next.” The familiar, sweet voice of his mother stirred him from his thoughts, and he broke concentration for only a second to see her glowing face. If there was anyone as happy as he was—it was his mother. “Hey mom.” he offered with an over the shoulder hug where her arm lingered, keeping him close. “I’m just so happy for you.” “Don’t start crying, mom.” Ash chuckled while she wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “And thank you,” he added dutifully, meeting her dark eyes. Her bottom lip quivered when she hugged him tightly. “I can’t help it; my little boy is all grown up!” She whined, grasping at the back of his tuxedo with her manicured fingers while Misty twirled by them, giving Ash a look of apprehension. Delia was a crier. “Mom.” Ash laughed, patting her while Misty spun to a stop, her father looking directly at the two of them—their song was over. Ash passed Misty with a kiss on the cheek before leading his mom to the dance floor and smiling warmly. Delia’s tears had since stopped—she never cried on a dance floor, but the look of pure bliss and happiness bounced from her face to his; and he looked over at Misty briefly, unable to keep his eyes off of her. She talked with her dad, shared a long hug with both of her parents and Ash felt a wave of emotion wash over him while he stepped to the beat. “Mom,” he cooed, earning her attention with a deep breath. “…I…I kind of wish dad was alive to see this.” When Delia didn’t immediately respond, Ash cleared his throat—it wasn’t sadness, but acceptance of the events. “But it’s okay, I mean, I am beyond words happy that you’re here, mom. I love you.” For a second, he saw her eyebrows twitch worriedly as if she had more to say than she was about to—but the tears started again, and this time she didn’t seem to care who saw her when she hugged her son tightly. “I love you, too, Ash.” she sobbed, and the rest of the dance was spent sharing short remember when you were this big stories, that mostly reminded Ash why he grew up the way he did in the first place. To remind him why his mother was exactly the mother, and the father, that he always needed. When the song was over, Delia directed him to a very patiently waiting Misty who was gabbing with her sisters offhandedly and tossing glance after glance over her shoulder to see when Ash was finished, and hearing the song end; she almost jumped from her skin in glee. “Go sit with your bride. She’s waiting.” Delia sniffed, but Ash hesitated a moment. “Are you going to be okay, mom?” Ash offered sympathetically, always the most sincere with his mother. Delia covered her sob with a cough and nodded. “I’m fine. Go.” She urged, swatting him on the back to push him forward. He tone was rushed, and, dare Ash to assume—pained. But he couldn’t linger on it as the waft of freshly cooked food filled his nostrils, and of course, Misty, who was positively glowing in all of her bride-glory. “What took ya?” She challenged, and Ash stuck his tongue out at her playfully before taking a seat at her side. Where he belonged. Once the rest of the attendance were in their seats, a tall gentleman made his way to the microphone at the DJ stand and waved to the crowd. Ash knew him instantly, how could he not? Misty and Ash looked at one another, then back at the tall, dark-haired man. “Hello, everyone. My name is Brock Harrison, and I’m the best man tonight.” He almost seemed to chipper announcing it, and Misty and Ash both had to silence a chuckle. “That’s right, me. And boy I cannot describe how honored I am to be here tonight, to celebrate a union that many years ago…well, well, seemed almost impossible.” “Booo” Misty whispered playfully under her breath to hide her blush as the lights fixated on them, but she was quieted by Ash who cuffed her hands to listen. “You see—when I first met these two, they were only ten years old. Ash was a beginning Pokemon trainer, and when I say that; I should really say a novice, trainer.” He waited for the laughs to sprinkle around the room while Ash scowled vehemently at him and Misty covered her lips to contain a chuckle. “In fact, the first time that Ash challenged my gym, he tried to beat my onix with Pikachu; and I crushed him!” At this point Ash had balled his fists and looked to Misty for support, only to see that she was chuckling, but her eyes had playfully narrowed at Brock. “In the end, Ash did beat me. Not fairly, but I remember that I had never seen anyone with the determination and drive that he had. Ash inspired me. My best friend.” He took a moment to raise his glass to Ash, and the playful hostility died with an honest smile. “So I decided to travel with him and Misty, and I’ve never once regretted it—well, except for when I had to stop those two from killing each other on a daily basis—but they grew out of that.” Under his breath, Ash thought he could hear Brock mutter a quiet I think, before continuing as the crowd that knew the newlyweds so well laughed louder. “But in all seriousness, I love these two wonderful people like my own family. Misty, I have watched you grow into a beautiful young woman, both physically and emotionally. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever had the joy of meeting, and I can’t imagine what life would have been without you there. I love you as much as I love my own sisters, and someday, I hope that I will meet a young lady as gorgeous and as faithful as you, I wish you and Ash the best.” “Ash, you have come a long way since you began your journey from Pallet Town with Pikachu. The experiences you’ve gone through are things that most people only dream of. You’ve faced adversaries, the end of the world, and every time you’ve come up on top. No matter how much you’ve grown, or changed; there is one thing about you that hasn’t changed one bit. Your drive. Your determination.” Misty squeezed Ash’s hand in response to Brock’s pause. “You’ve always strove to be the best that you can be, especially with Misty. The love that you two share is intoxicating and genuine, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous of what you two have. I love you two like nothing else in the world, and that you two are going to give each other the best, forever and always.” Brock took a moment to inhale, looking into each of their faces, watching the smile reach their eyes as he raised his glass. “To Ash and Misty Ketchum. The two very best friends anyone could ever dream of!” After the toast, each person in attendance rose for a standing ovation as a tearful Brock made his way to his best friends and whisked them into a warm, affectionate hug. “That was beautiful Brock, thank you.” Misty smiled, planting a kiss on his cheek. “I’m not gonna kiss ya, Brocko, but thank you for saying all of that. I know you meant it. We love you, too.” He smiled earnestly, and as the embrace ended, Ash and Brock separated on cue. “Love you, too, buddy, but this is kind of.” “Awkward.” Ash deduced, crinkling his nose and stepping aside while Misty snickered. “Maybe you two should have gotten married.” Misty teased hotly, and Ash scowled. “Only if he would stop bringing up that gym match.” Ash joked, shaking his head with wide eyes at Brock, who snickered. “No chance in hell.” After the short embrace and conversation, they took their seats again for the next speech—Daisy rose for all to listen. As her speech started, Misty tucked Ash’s hand away against her lap and brushed calming strokes down the length of his arm while Daisy spoke of their past—of their future of their relationship and their friendship. Of how proud she was of Misty, how grateful she was for Ash, and most importantly, how amazing they were together. Lily and Violet chimed in on cue, smiling at Misty from ear to ear. “This is the start of the rest of your life! And I know you couldn’t be happier. I love you baby sister. Here’s to the newlyweds!” She screamed, and once again, the crowd rose for a roaring applause, and Misty and her sisters shared a fitful of hugs. “You’re going to make me ruin my make up,” Misty whined through a smile, wiping at her tears. “I love you three so much.” She urged, and the hugged again. Finally, the moment they had all been waiting for, a polite hush followed his mother as she walked the distance from her table to the microphone where all eyes fell on her. No one was scared of Delia—they loved her unconditionally, she was a mother to all of them, and everyone respected her a great deal. She treated every single person with kindness and love and waited eagerly for her to speak. At first, words didn’t leave, choked up on her gaze on Ash, emotional over the previous speakers, but then she offered a sincere smile and plucked on a pair of reading glasses as she reviewed her notes from an elegant notebook. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Delia Ketchum, as most of you know, I’m Ash’s mother.” She waited for a string of quiet applause before continuing. “It’s my turn to finally toast my wonderful son, and his gorgeous wife, Misty, so…” She flicked a page or two but then tucked it behind her before speaking again. “I was just nineteen years old when I found out I was pregnant with Ash, and to be honest, I was scared that I wouldn’t be a good mother, or that I would mess up and prove my family right that I couldn’t handle raising a child as a single mother.” her eyes hit the floor, but it was Ash who watched her eagerly, knowing well that she was the best mother he could have ever wanted—and the crowd agreed with silent mutterings of how 'untrue’ the sentiment was. Delia was a wonderful mother. “Then, when I held my baby boy for the first time, all of my fears, my doubts, and my worries disappeared in an instant! No one could stop me; I had Ash, and that’s all that mattered.” She raised her hand to stop applause. “And then when he was ten, he left on his Pokemon journey, and truth be told, I was sad, but I knew he was following his dreams and that always made me smile. And if he hadn’t gone—well, I would have never met my new, stunning daughter-in-law, Misty. I have had the utmost pleasure of knowing this beautiful young woman since she was just a ten-year-old girl with a fiery temper and legs too long for her body.” Misty slammed her palm against her face, blushing with a sigh, but knew that Delia meant no harm. Ash leaned over to mutter something about I like your long legs, but she was too embarrassed to hear him as Delia continued. “Like most everyone else here, I’ve watched you grow. I’ve watched you blossom, I’ve watched you fall and get back up. I’ve seen you mature into the magnificent young woman standing here today, and I love you like my own. Misty has always brought the best out in my son, even when they argue, there’s so much love. They bring out the best in each other, and they strive for greatness together. As friends, as lovers, as a couple.” “They share nicknames;” she paused as if waiting for permission to tell the story. “Ash calls her 'Angel,’ after an incident where he was hospitalized for a few months, and Misty was there to take care of him. To make a long, and… not so happy story short; Ash was in pretty bad shape—but Misty came to his side every day and sung to him in this angelic voice that soothed him. When he finally woke up, his first words were thank you, my angel.” She waved to Misty, who blushed and tossed a sincere gaze at Ash who smiled affectionately at the memory. An event it was. Ash had terrible nightmares for months after the accident; he barely remembered it now, though; thanks to Misty. “Ash and Misty were made for each other. No one has ever been more devoted to each other as they are, and I am so excited for their long and prosperous future together. They complete each other. To Ash and Misty Ketchum!” Delia boomed, hiding the tears that pooled at the sides of her eyes. As the crowd cheered in elation, and Ash moved from his seat to walk to his mother, and she to him, an unknown figure walked to the microphone and stopped the mother and son dead in their tracks while he scanned the audience with calm eyes. “Hello everyone, might I say a few words?” He tapped the microphone and then folded his hands behind his back. Immediately, Ash made a face while Delia spun around, clutching at her son’s arm. “My name is Vincent Giovanni, and I’m the leader of the Viridian City gym, and I would like to say a few words to this lovely couple.” As the man spoke, Ash found his way back to his seat, with his mom followed him quietly to the seat he had set up for her at his left side. Seeing his face scrunch up uncomfortably, Misty brushed her hand along his back and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Is everything okay, Ash?” Misty inquired. Not wanting to see her worry, he smiled at her. “I’m all right, angel, really.” He spoke softly and turned back to the man, unable to shake the feeling that he had seen him somewhere before. In the seat not to far away from Ash’s, he could see Delia practically fuming in her seat, white-knuckled at the grip she held on her dress skirt. “First of all, I would like to congratulate our regions Pokemon Master, Ash Ketchum, and his new bride, the gym leader of Cerulean City, Misty Ketchum, on this truly extravagant and breathtaking wedding ceremony. I wish you both nothing but the absolute best, and may your live only grow stronger as the years fly by. Giovanni grinned while raising his glass. A calloused glare made his words mocking, and both Ash and Misty were both on the defensive. “I would like to take this extra time, to say something I should have said a very long time ago.” he stared at Ash first, but then to Delia, as if he was trying to embed the knife into her back. His cocky glare returned to Ash. “Ash Ketchum, I am your father,” he announced without any hesitation, and the audience gasped in pure silence at the accusation. For Ash, he looked on with a blank stare. Separated only by the dance floor and table, he felt like the room was suffocating him, and he couldn’t open a window. His father? Ash thought grimly, but his father was dead, mom had told him so. Naturally, Ash tried to look at Delia but found his gaze stuck on Giovanni—this man. His father. Then, as seconds moved into light years, Misty rose, leaving the small table set aside for them, hiking her dress up with the balls of her hands and storming through the silence until she stopped abruptly a foot away from him, staring him down regardless of the height difference. No one spoke, not even the fish bowls on the tables flipped when Misty exhaled icily. Full of rage and pain shared from years of experience handling Ash’s emotional baggage, Misty hissed. “Get out.” She ordered firmly, but when he didn’t budge—didn’t look at her, she stomped her foot and pointed at the door. The rest of the crowd joined in, while Ash’s knees were too weak to move, Brock, standing at an amazing 6'3” was rushing to Misty’s side in her defense. “You don’t get to talk!” Misty had screeched before Giovanni continued. “You will not barge in here and cause my husband anymore pain. Get out!” Brock reached her, followed by Gary, then Tracey, and slowly the rest of the guest rose in the determination; and while Giovanni was sure they would not harm him, he brushed his hands against his suit and nodded. “Alright.” he nodded, then smoothly turned away from them, and left through the swinging doors. Misty’s corset beneath her dress was suddenly suffocating, and she beamed at Brock. “Who does he think he is, coming in here on our wedding day!” Misty hissed in a low voice at Brock who shrugged, but then directed her attention back to Ash, who had only now managed to stand. “Ash, darling.” Misty hummed as the crowd dispersed and started to talk amongst themselves, she walked to him, cupping his cheeks and sitting him back down on the chair. “What just happened?” A stunned Ash asked, while Misty pat his shoulder gently. “A crazy man just tried to crash our party.” She said, in pure disbelief that Giovanni was really Ash’s father. Hearing her comment, Ash smiled in agreement. “Yeah, I guess so.” “But we’re not going to let him, right?” “Right.” Ash agreed, finding it hard not to grin at Misty when he stood up to address the other issue. “Alright, everyone, let’s dig in!” Ash shouted, and alleviated sighs and grunts responded to him as people started to make their way to the buffet table—but Ash had his hand in Misty and tugged her along with him as he shouted. “Bride and groom go first!” He shouted, rushing passed Richie and Kasey, and a few other guests. Left alone, sitting at her table, knuckles still white and eyes as wide as saucers, Delia shook her head. Ash didn’t believe him. But he came. He showed up. What in the world did Giovanni suspect he would get out of this meeting? Of barging in on Ash’s wedding. Her heart ached, and she leaned forward, crying, for the first time that night—for another reason than happiness. XOXOXOXOOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOXOXOOXOXOX Ash the night drew to close, and Misty and Ash were both partied out, and their friends had all gathered for dancing, cake, food, and probably too much alcohol, they were finally setting off from the party, to embark on their own, more intimate celebration of the evening. “Thank you all for coming!” Misty sung eagerly, hugging people briefly as Ash practically dragged her away from the reception. She was moving too slow—and they were going to be late for the private jet he ordered if they didn’t leave right now. “Misty–” He whined, but she was still eagerly waiting for pictures with friends and family, and catching up—basking in the one-time glory of being the center of attention, and actually enjoying it. So Ash watched her, a small smile playing on his lips, as he thought about what Giovanni had said to him. It couldn’t really be his father. Ash’s dad was dead….so why… “Hey, stop thinking so much, you’re gonna strain yourself!” Misty whisked to him, planting a gently kiss on his cheek before starting their final goodbye with waves and bubbles. She leaned over to whisper in his ear next, keeping her voice low and sultry. “I’m going to need you at your best tonight.” She sang playfully into his ear, and Ash snatched her by the arm, and practically threw her inside of the limousine he ordered, not sparing another thought on the Viridian City gym leader.

#pokeshipping #my fanfiction #N-i-n-t #beta reader #alpha reader at this point #ch 2 later this week #please read #likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated

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