Archive of Our Own

There are many things in Namjoon's life that he appreciates: good wine, a newly bound book, sun-ripened peaches plucked from a branch, a horse ride through the orchards. Simple things. Things that also exist outside the walls of the palace—even though he’s never spent much time outside of them himself. When he's reading a book of poetry, he can lose himself in the words, imagine that he's somewhere far from the palace and its responsibilities. It's indulgent and perhaps a bit out of touch, he realizes, to wish he lived a life a little more ordinary. He has everything he could ever want—and more than he really needs.

The confines of royal life are stifling, though, and as he gets older and marches closer to his coronation in just a few days, he finds himself less interested in his responsibilities. Ruling the nation, producing an heir, monitoring far-flung troops at war—none of this interests him in the least. He's always been more of a romantic spirit than a politician. His younger brother, Taehyung, is better suited for that role: diligent, fiery, clever, and charming Taehyung. Namjoon would happily give it all up if he could.

Their father passed away not even a month ago, just shy of Namjoon's 25th birthday, and according to the elders of the court, he's more than ready to receive the crown and begin leading the kingdom. No time for grief, they said, not when you're king. He cried exactly one time in the grain stores out behind the kitchen and hasn’t shed a tear since.

The weeks leading up to the coronation have been marked with royal fittings, a session with a jeweler to measure and re-shape the crown, a physician poking and prodding him to test his fitness. It hardly feels dignified, much less something suitable for a future king. It all feels like it's for some farcical performance to be staged in front of the court after an evening of feasting and drinking.

"Your Majesty." The page lingers in the door, waiting to be summoned in.

It was strange to hear that title; no one had alerted him to the swift change. It was only after Taehyung pointed it out that Namjoon understood: our father is dead, and now you are the highest figure in the land. No more "Your Highness."

"Yes, what is it?" Namjoon asks, closing his book. He turns from the window and waves the young man in.

"Your portrait is today, Your Majesty. The artist has arrived; he's in the library, as you requested." The page bows and excuses himself.

Namjoon hates the formalities, the rigid social structures. He's not sure the last time he learned one of the staff member's names. They never receive a proper introduction, and they all seem to tremble whenever they address him. His father was stern and reserved, but never cruel, and Namjoon doesn't understand why the aides in the palace never allow him to speak to them informally, at least for a few moments each day. While he has Taehyung, he wishes he had a friend, some sort of confidant.

He can feel himself getting maudlin again—the after-effect of reading too much poetry about lost loves and pining for pastoral romance. Rising from his chair, he takes a steadying breath and adjusts the collar of his shirt. Taehyung had insisted that Namjoon put in a little effort for his portrait, and as much as he hates the stiff collar and tight buttons lining his chest, he knows his brother is right.

When he steps into the library, he's greeted with bright sunlight pouring through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. One of the staff members must have pulled back the thick velvet curtains at the artist's request. Usually, Namjoon prefers to light some candles and enjoy reading by the orange candlelight. He squints and cranes his neck to see around the large easel sitting in the middle of the room.

"Your Majesty," a voice says. From behind the easel, a young man stands up and bows deeply, brushing the hair from his face as he rises. "My name is Jeon Jeongguk, and it is my immense pleasure—"

"Do not address the Royal Family without permission," a page snaps. Namjoon didn't even see him waiting in a corner of the library.

He waves at the page to excuse him. "You may go," he says flatly. "I'm sorry. Jeongguk, was it?" He steps forward, taking in the sight of an artist who's much younger than he expected. Jeongguk has expressive, curious eyes, and the sweep of his dark, wavy hair across his forehead is like a detail out of a romance novel Namjoon's read before.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answers, bowing again.

"Please, call me Namjoon," he says. Jeongguk's mouth drops, and he looks ready to protest, but Namjoon shakes his head. "I'd like to be comfortable with you during these sessions. Will you please speak informally with me? Let me imagine we might be friends?"

Jeongguk smiles in response, and it's disarming—stunning and beaming, his eyes squinting shut. He nods. "Yes, of course." He gestures toward a tall-backed chair positioned in front of the fireplace. "If you would please sit here, Your M— Namjoon," he stammers.

Namjoon smiles and obeys, taking a seat in the chair. It's heavy and ornate, the wood carved into shapes of stags and fruit and ivy. He remembers seeing his father sit in this very chair, imagining how the plush velvet felt. When he was a child, he sat it in this chair once, his feet dangling high above the floor. It was a scary feeling back then to feel so far from the ground, but now, his feet are firmly planted, his head held high.

Jeongguk busies himself with his materials, unrolling a cloth pouch of charcoal. He hums softly, and the tune sounds familiar, but Namjoon can't place it. He can't help but study the young man; he must not be much younger than Namjoon, though there's something especially boyish about his features.

Namjoon clears his throat. “I thought you would be older,” he says, giving Jeongguk a skeptical glance. “Most artists they send for commissions are...” he pauses, searching for the right word, “experienced.”

Looking up from his tools, Jeongguk smiles, tilting his head. “Well, with all due respect, Your Majesty, if a king can be young, why can’t an artist?” There's a beat of silence, and Jeongguk's jaw drops, his face draining of all color. "I am so sorry, I spoke out of turn," he gasps, bowing.

At that, Namjoon laughs heartily, clapping. "You make a valid point, Jeongguk," he answers. "This is exactly the kind of conversation I've been craving. Don't hold back on my account."

The blush on Jeongguk's face is endearing, and in the late afternoon light, Namjoon can take in the beautiful shape of the young man's face—the slope of his nose, the swell of his bottom lip. It's hard to imagine him living anywhere outside of a palace, getting his hands dirty, having anything less than beautiful silk and linens draping his body. (Perhaps it is an ugly thought, Namjoon realizes, to assume that Jeongguk is someone destitute or lacking in some way.)

"Please," Namjoon finally says, unable to endure the silence any longer, "let us speak freely. Do tell me about yourself. Where are you from?"

"Everywhere and nowhere," he replies with a shrug. He settles onto his stool and leans a bit, inspecting Namjoon's posture. "I've been traveling my whole life. Just follow where the jobs lead me."

"Sounds exciting," Namjoon answers. How freeing it must be to float through the world without something tethering him to one spot. "I haven't seen much outside of the palace walls."

"That's a shame," Jeongguk sayss, beginning to sketch on the canvas. He frowns and furrows his brow. "Your M—Namjoon," he chuckles, shaking his head, "May I approach you? I think your portrait might look better if I can tilt you more toward the light."

Nodding, Namjoon responds, "Of course. Please direct me as you need to."

"It's a bit easier if I can touch you," Jeongguk says, and the blush from before is creeping across his face again. "To tilt you just so." He hovers awkwardly a few feet away from Namjoon and waits to be waved over. "Thank you," he says softly. "May I?"

Namjoon nods, trying hard to steady his breathing. The very feeling of Jeongguk's hand on his skin has his heart racing. His hands are tender, tilting Namjoon's face ever so slightly toward the sunlight.  How long has it been since someone has touched him so carefully? Without sizing him up to be fitted for some suit or assessing his health? Jeongguk touches him like a lover might: deliberate, considerate, a bit reverent.

Leaning back, Jeongguk looks at Namjoon closely, raising an eyebrow and scanning his face. "Yes, lovely. This will do." He smiles and stands quickly, moving back to his easel. "You already look like a king."

Scoffing, Namjoon shakes his head. "I certainly don't feel like one."

Jeongguk hums in response but doesn't say anything else. He seems to get lost in sketching, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he concentrates on making quick, careful strokes on the canvas. There's something calming about his silence; Namjoon doesn't feel the awkward itch to fill it with rambling small talk. Watching Jeongguk feels a lot like reading on a quiet, rainy evening: soothing, comforting in the way it seems to wipe Namjoon's mind clean of any worry.

The chair, however, is uncomfortable, and does little to help Namjoon's posture. He's lost in a hazy daydream when he looks up to find Jeongguk staring at him. "You're frowning," he says, offering his own downturned expression. "What is Your Majesty thinking about?"

"Nothing, actually," Namjoon laughs, sitting up straight. He stretches his neck and clears his throat. "I was appreciating the comfortable silence. It's so rare to get some time to myself without someone buzzing in my ear."

Nodding, Jeongguk lifts Namjoon's chin gently with his finger. "At least turn toward the light then. We can find a way to make you smile later." Namjoon notices the smudge of charcoal on Jeongguk’s hands and imagines a smear of black on his face. He wouldn't mind if Jeongguk somehow marked him, leaving behind a little trace of their contact.

Settling back onto his stool, Jeongguk studies Namjoon's face before leaning toward the canvas again. "Will there be a wedding after the coronation? Do they plan these things out for you?"

Namjoon snorts and tries not to move his head too much. "I'm sure they are making arrangements as we speak."

"And will I be meeting the future Queen? Perhaps for a wedding portrait?" He peeks his head around the canvas, an eyebrow cocked.

It's a very forward question, one that stuns Namjoon, even after insisting Jeongguk speak freely with him. He swallows and forces a tight smile. “They bring women to court for me, but I’m not interested.”

Pursing his lips together, Jeongguk shuts one eye and squints at Namjoon, lifting a hand to inspect the light falling across his face. “Not interested in them? Or romance?”

“Them.” A faint blush creeps its way up from Namjoon's feet, splashing him all over with heat. He clears his throat. "I am quite interested in romance," he adds.

Jeongguk hums but does not look back at Namjoon. "A romantic king leading a kingdom. How noble." He pokes his head out and grins, his nose scrunched in delight. "I think perhaps we all need a bit more romance. How different the world would be if the poets and artists ran the world."

"Finally," Namjoon sighs, his shoulders slumping a bit in relief, "someone who understands me."

A knock at the door startles them both, and Namjoon sits up straighter, gesturing at Jeongguk to do the same. "Taehyung is the only one who knocks," Namjoon whispers.

The heavy wooden doors swing open, and they hear the loud steps of Taehyung before they see him. He smiles when he sees Namjoon, and hurries over, not bothering to greet Jeongguk. "Brother," he says, "We've had a successful hunt, and the kitchen is preparing lunch for us as we speak. Join me?"

Namjoon nods, standing to accept his handshake. The gesture feels strange, too foreign considering they are brothers, two of the few surviving relatives of their family line. "Sounds wonderful," he says graciously. "Jeongguk," he says, turning to the artist, "Would you please join us? I'd like to continue speaking with you about the portrait."

Jeongguk nods shyly and smiles, glancing warily at Taehyung. "It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty."

Taehyung nods, offering a polite smile. "I will let the kitchen know." He turns to leave and hesitates at the door, looking back at Namjoon skeptically. Namjoon ignores the sharp look.

"That's really very kind of you, but wholly unnecessary," Jeongguk says, beginning to gather his materials. "I don't want to impose."

"We always have more than we need. It would be my pleasure to speak with you a little longer," Namjoon says, walking toward Jeongguk. "May I have a look?" He gestures at the easel.

"Please," Jeongguk says, turning it to show off the canvas. “It isn’t much to look at just yet. A few lines, that’s all.”

While simple, the strokes and lines on the canvas so clearly depict Namjoon in a manner far more regal than he feels. A sharp, defined jaw, clear cheekbones—already he can see the shape of his father's face. It takes his breath away. "You have tremendous talent," he murmurs, turning to Jeongguk, feeling a little starry-eyed in the face of this artist. "Even as a draft, I can see so clearly what this will look like when you finish."

Laughing airily, Jeongguk waves him off. "Wait until the final portrait to give me your praise. I'll get too self-conscious otherwise."

"I look forward to spending more time with you," Namjoon says. He's fully aware that he's teetering on the edge of being too sentimental, of giving away too much of his loneliness, but the kind look in Jeongguk's eyes is reassuring. 

♔ ♔ ♔

The lunch spread is decadent to the point of obscenity: stuffed pheasants adorned with decorative leaves and sparkling, candied grapes; glass decanters of wine placed along the table; cheese and fruit heaped on plates with fresh baked bread. Namjoon doesn't miss the way Jeongguk's eyes light up at the feast. It's a little embarrassing, he thinks, to show off in such a way.

A servant pulls out a chair and gestures for Namjoon to sit. He takes a seat and watches as they try to guide Jeongguk to a smaller dining quarter off the main room. "No," Namjoon says quickly, raising his hand to flag the servant. "I'd like him to sit beside me please." He touches the place setting to his right. "Our esteemed artist deserves a proper welcome to the palace."

"Very well," the man replies. He pulls out the chair for Jeongguk and pours him a glass of wine.

"Thank you," Jeongguk says, looking up at the man pouring his drink. He fidgets with his hands, frowning down at his lap. "I should have washed up," he mutters, turning over his hands to show off the blackened smears on his skin.

"Nevermind that," Namjoon answers, smiling cheerfully. "It's just proof of your hard work. We should all be so lucky to have something to show for what we do." He raises his glass and nods at Jeongguk to raise his. "To more artists and poets in the world."

"To romantics," Jeongguk adds. They clink their glasses and take a sip of the wine.

It's amazing, Namjoon thinks, how Jeongguk fits so beautifully into the tapestry of the palace. He's friendly and charming, polite and easygoing. His face is something out of old books about chivalry and epic love. If Namjoon had been a poet, he might devote several thousand lines to this face.

"Brother, are you going to properly introduce me or continue leering at the artist?" Taehyung's honeyed voice pulls Namjoon out of his reverie. He smirks, an eyebrow raised in amusement as his eyes trace over Namjoon and flit over to his guest.

"Taehyung, this is Jeongguk," Namjoon stammers, tilting his glass toward him. "He's been commissioned for the coronation portrait."

"Ah, so he does have a name." Taehyung grins and plucks a fig from a platter at the center of the table. Even now, over lunch, he looks far more regal and king-like than Namjoon can ever imagine himself. "Jeongguk, I do hope my brother hasn't bored you terribly."

Shaking his head, Jeongguk answers, "No, Your Highness. He hasn't."

Namjoon pulls a face and takes a sip of his wine. "I'm not completely intolerable," he teases, smirking at his brother. He realizes that some may wish for his relationship with his brother to be more contemptuous and filled with a violent rivalry, but there's none of that. Nothing noteworthy to whisper in the servant's chambers or murmur about in town at the markets. He and Taehyung may be opposites in many ways, but they've always been jovial, albeit not very close. Some days, Namjoon looks at him and feels a pang of longing, a deep yearning to be closer with him, to understand how he views the world, and then other days, when they're laughing and soaking in one of the large outdoor baths together, he feels certain no one on earth will ever know him the way Taehyung does.

"No," Taehyung concedes, his face softening. "No, you aren't intolerable." A server steps in to prepare his plate, and Taehyung turns his attention to the servant, smiling as they converse.

"Jeongguk, where are you staying while you are here?" Namjoon asks, tearing a chunk of bread from a nearby loaf and chewing it slowly.

"There's a boarding house just outside the palace gates on the edge of town. I've reserved a private room. Comfortable." Jeongguk sweeps a chunk of bread across his plate to gather the excess gravy. His cheeks bulge when he eats, and it fills Namjoon with both a sense of satisfaction and worry at his ravenous appetite.

"A private room? You must be spending your entire commission fee just to stay there," he says, frowning as he looks over the sumptuous spread of food.

"It's fine," Jeongguk says, smiling, eyes squinting in delight. There's the faint shadow of wine staining his lips and a fleck of bread on his chin that Namjoon wishes he could brush off. "The experience of painting a royal portrait is excellent payment; it will help me find more work."

Shaking his head, Namjoon takes a bite of bread and huffs through his nose. "No, that will not do." He clears his throat and gestures to one of the servants hovering behind him. "Please prepare a room for Jeongguk."

"Your Majesty, the servant's quarters are full this evening with the master huntsmen's pages," he murmurs.

"That's fine," Namjoon says, "give him one of the rooms in the guest wing."

The servant opens his mouth to protest, but Namjoon raises an eyebrow before he can object. "Yes, Your Majesty," he answers quickly, bowing deeply before exiting.

"You'll stay in one of the guest chambers," Namjoon says, turning back to Jeongguk with a wide smile. "You'll be more comfortable there anyway. I can't imagine that sitting on your stool hunched over the easel is very pleasant after a while."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Jeongguk says, nodding his head. "Namjoon," he adds under his breath, smiling just enough for Namjoon to notice.

♔ ♔ ♔

The days pass in a similar fashion: Namjoon wakes early, meets Jeongguk in the library, they talk and laugh as Jeongguk begins to fill the canvas with his likeness. It’s comforting to have someone to speak to who doesn’t try to redirect his attention to foreign politics or domestic affairs. 

Later one evening, after a leisurely afternoon filled with exchanging poem recitations, Namjoon is too anxious to sleep, his skin alight with something buzzing under the surface. After lunch, he and Jeongguk returned to the library to continue the portrait, and they passed the time speaking about poetry and art. It was impossible not to lean forward in his chair, chasing after every enthusiastic word that Jeongguk shared with him. More than once, Jeongguk had to stop and shake his head at Namjoon, rushing over to re-position his head or adjust his shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, Namjoon didn't mind the redirection, the kind way Jeongguk smiled at him as he tilted Namjoon's chin.

They shared another meal together, this time in the smaller dining room, and continued talking. Namjoon didn't notice the fireplace had died out or the table had been cleared of supper; he was so enraptured in Jeongguk's presence. How long had it been since Namjoon felt truly seen as a person and not just a future king? He appreciated the way the artist loosened up around him, tossing out small jokes and quips, just enough to draw shy laughter from Namjoon.

And now, lying in his bed, all he wants is to be near Jeongguk again—to see how his face looks in the flickering candlelight of a dark room, to hear the low murmur of his voice as they try to be quiet while speaking. It feels strange to long for someone like this. Years ago, when Namjoon was a boy, he fell in love with the son of one of the porters. At least, he thinks it was love. What else could he call the feeling of sparks between them when they kissed in the orchards, away from prying eyes?

That feeling is back, and it feels reckless after only knowing Jeongguk for a few days, but if Namjoon has learned anything from all of his books, it's that the heart is a powerful force, one that overrides all reason. For once, it feels nice not to think, but to just feel.

He imagines Jeongguk nestled among the plush tapestries of the bed, his dark hair fanning all around his face as he sinks into the pillows filled with goose feathers. The golden shadows of the fireplace would paint the curves of his cheekbones in the flickering light, rendering him a masterpiece.

He's beautiful, Namjoon thinks, beautiful and sweet and smart and sharp. Instantly likable. Firm hands with a gentle touch. A smile that seems all at once innocent and all-knowing. A mouth that glistens after every flick of his tongue as he concentrates on drawing Namjoon.

To kiss that face, Namjoon thinks. To kiss that face and feel his tongue in Jeongguk's mouth, to taste him and catch every sigh that passes his lips. The thought makes something burn in Namjoon's gut, and he knows it's wrong to imagine the young man this way, but who can fight the heart and the body of its desires? Not him.

When Namjoon touches himself, he's already hard, his cock swelling and warm to the touch, brought to life with the thought of licking into Jeongguk's mouth, gripping a fistful of hair as Namjoon kisses him. He exhales shakily and strokes himself, imagining the calloused, charcoal-smudged hands of Jeongguk sliding along his length. The thought of his body covered in dark fingerprints—proof that Jeongguk was there, touching him—makes him shiver.

The logs on the fire pop and hiss, and it feels like every part of Namjoon is ignited too: fingertips fevered against his sensitive skin, even the slick wetness from his cockhead feels like it's heated from deep within his gut. Oh, to feel Jeongguk in this way, he thinks, shuddering as he feels his calves tighten and toes curl. Firelight dancing in Jeongguk’s eyes, that mischievous grin on his face, voice like an angel laughing in his ear—Namjoon would take it all if he could.

His leg muscles seize, and he works himself through his final release, spilling into his hand, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Namjoon lifts himself from the bed and walks to the wash basin to rinse his hands. He catches a glimpse of himself in the small, bejeweled mirror and sees the dark blush on his cheeks, the near-savage glaze in his eyes. He hopes against all hope that this isn't the face Jeongguk is committing to the canvas.

♔ ♔ ♔

Sleep was far away and out of reach for Namjoon. He tossed and turned all night, unable to rid himself of the image of Jeongguk’s face. He worried Jeongguk might take one look at him and know how Namjoon touched himself as he thought of the artist’s hands on him. It was humiliating. 

As a child, Namjoon was known for his inability to lie or school his face. He never mastered a blank stare or a cool, unaffected gaze. Taehyung, however, had the face of an actor: muscles that cooperated and never gave anything away, eyes that were bold and impenetrable. As they grew older, Taehyung learned to take advantage of his skills; Namjoon languished without them. 

When his servant enters the room at dawn, Namjoon feels like he’s half-dead, nothing but lifeless stone. The curtains are flung open to allow the morning sunlight to spill into the room, and the sudden light makes Namjoon squint and shield his face. 

“The artist is awake, Your Majesty,” the servant says nervously. “He has been for quite some time.” 

“What does that have to do with me?” Namjoon asks, grumbling as he rolls over, planting both feet on the floor. 

“He has asked for you to join him in the library for your portrait,” the man answers. He forces a tight smile. “He has asked repeatedly, but we know Your Majesty prefers to sleep later when you do not have obligations.” 

“Did he say why? It’s still early.” Never mind the flutter in his chest. He swallows that down and stands, stretching his arms overhead. Jeongguk has never asked for him this early; it feels a bit illicit to have him summoned before the palace is fully awake, still half-asleep and undisturbed.

“Something about your face, Your Majesty.” The man clears his throat. “And the sunlight?” He doesn’t sound convinced that Jeongguk’s request has any merit. 

Namjoon can’t help but smile. “Please tell him I am on my way. I won’t require your help dressing this morning.” As the servant turns to leave, Namjoon reaches out, waving his hand. “Please prepare some breakfast for us? You can leave a tray on the desk.” 

By the time Namjoon has joined Jeongguk in the library, the young man is deep into his portrait, unbothered by the noise of Namjoon’s boots against the floor. His eyebrows are pinched in concentration, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. There is no music in the room, but he hums to himself, pausing occasionally as he leans back to inspect his work. The image of Namjoon is taking shape: the lines becoming bolder, the angles of his face beginning to look more and more like him. 

Namjoon clears his throat before speaking, “Good morning, Jeongguk. I am told I have been summoned?” 

Jeongguk looks up from the canvas and grins, nodding eagerly. “Yes, Your Majesty, I request your presence on this very fine morning.” He gestures toward the chair. “When I woke up this morning, I realized the sun would pour into this room at the perfect angle. I couldn’t go back to sleep and asked for you instead. I hope you don’t mind.”

Shaking his head, Namjoon sits in the chair and waits for Jeongguk to direct him. “Not at all. I hope you didn’t wait for very long.”

“I have been up for awhile,” he admits, approaching Namjoon. He walks around the chair, assessing the light and how it hits Namjoon’s features. “I was thinking about the way the sun would hit you here,” he brushes his fingers against Namjoon’s cheek and temple before lifting his chin ever so slightly. “And here.” 

“I trust you slept well,” Namjoon murmurs. He hopes Jeongguk can’t feel the blush creeping across his cheeks. Up close, he is magnificent, smelling of the fresh ivory soap used in the palace and something else, something sweeter. 

“I did not,” he admits, laughing a bit. “I was up nearly all night thinking about you.” Now he’s blushing and sputtering, shaking his head. “I mean, I was thinking about your portrait. You and your portrait. Your face. Sunlight. Ah, forgive me.” He hurries back to his stool and hides behind the canvas. 

The flustered look on Jeongguk’s face makes Namjoon feel warm and floaty. It was not a reaction he expected to see from the young man. It only endears Namjoon further. “How much time do you need to complete the portrait? I see you’ve made tremendous progress.” 

Jeongguk seems grateful for the shift in conversation. “Another day or two.” He looks up from his work. “I won’t be long. Then I’ll be on my way to the next place.”

“A day or two?” Namjoon can hardly mask the disappointment in his voice. “So soon.” He forces a laugh and tries to calm his face. “You must work without stopping to finish a large piece so quickly.” 

“I can slow down if Your Majesty would like me to take more time,” Jeongguk offers, biting his lip. 

“Take as long as you’d like, I insist,” he answers, smiling. “There’s no hurry.”

At that, Jeongguk laughs and shakes his head. “Well, this is your coronation portrait after all. We do seem to be on a tight schedule.” 

“Ah,” Namjoon nods. “I suppose you’re right about that. Well, you have a little more time should you need it.” How foolish to forget about the coronation. 

“Are you looking forward to the event?” Jeongguk asks casually, squinting at Namjoon as he makes quick strokes across the canvas. “Your life will change so much.” 

“It’s my responsibility,” Namjoon answers, fighting back the long-suffering sigh growing in his chest. “Doesn’t matter if I’m looking forward to it.” 

“What would you prefer to be doing with your life?” Jeongguk freezes, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry, am I speaking out of turn?” 

“Not at all.” Namjoon shakes his head. “You may be the only person who’s ever asked me what I’ve wanted.” He inhales slowly, eyes flitting around the room as he gathers his thoughts. “My ideal life would be traveling, spending my time studying, reading...” He smiles a bit sadly. “I suppose I’m describing your life, aren’t I?” 

“It’s funny that you dream of my life, when I’ve never dreamed of yours,” Jeongguk murmurs, keeping his attention on the canvas. “All the responsibilities, no freedom, no privacy...” He sits back, taking in the canvas before he sets down his charcoal. “It must be a lonely life.” 

A clamor at the door grabs their attention, and one of the maids smiles apologetically as she walks in slowly, the heavy tray in her hands wobbling with every step. “My apologies, Your Majesty. Please pardon the interruption.”

Namjoon smiles and nods. “It’s fine. Thank you.” He and Jeongguk watch as she moves painstakingly slow, arranging the plates and coffee urn meticulously on the large desk. “Thank you,” he says, nodding to excuse her. He turns to Jeongguk. “Care for some breakfast?”

Jeongguk nods. “Yes, thank you.” 

They approach the table and inspect the spread: fresh slices of bread adorned with rich smears of butter, plump peaches left fuzzy and whole, a plate stacked with thin slices of meat and cheese. The coffee smells rich and fragrant, and Jeongguk reaches to pour a mug before Namjoon stops him. “Please, allow me,” he offers, trying hard not to give away the spark he feels as their fingers brush together. 

They eat in silence as they lean against the desk, watching out the window as the gardeners prune the tall hedges enclosing the yard around the library wing. “Do you explore the grounds much?” Jeongguk asks, brushing the crumbs from his mouth. 

“I do,” Namjoon says fondly, nodding. “I often ride out through the orchards.” He glances at Jeongguk who’s focused intently on a peach. “I can show you the peach trees,” he offers. 

“It must be a nice quiet place to read,” he says, glancing up. 

“Or draw,” Namjoon adds. He nods and raises his mug. “I’ll take you this afternoon if you’d like. Or whenever you prefer. I don’t want to waste the light.” 

Smiling, Jeongguk answers, “I’d like that.” He lifts the peach and inhales deeply. “I can’t believe how fragrant these are. I’ve never had a peach like this.” 

Namjoon plucks one from the tray and inspects it. “This is our family’s special fruit. Our staff have been cultivating this variety for close to a century. It is truly one of a kind.” He gestures at Jeongguk with the fruit. “Go on, try it.” 

Jeongguk bites into the peach and sighs, seemingly unbothered by the juice dripping down his chin. His eyes flutter closed as he chews, making pleased sounds. The image sends fire straight to Namjoon’s gut. He imagined this very face last night: rosy cheeks, a face glistening and satisfied, breathless sounds escaping his lips. When Jeongguk opens his eyes, he catches Namjoon staring and smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he laughs, waving the peach, “I’m not sure I’ve ever been so transfixed by a peach before.”

Namjoon swallows, nodding dumbly. “Nor have I.” He steps closer, holding his breath for a moment. “You’ve got a little,” he gestures at Jeongguk’s mouth. “May I?” Jeongguk nods, and Namjoon doesn’t miss the way his breath catches. He leans in and kisses him gently, licking the plump swell of Jeongguk’s bottom lip. It’s chaste, over too soon, but it sets Namjoon’s world off its axis. 

“We should—“ Jeongguk gestures toward the canvas. His cheeks are a deep pink, the blush washing over him in a way that makes his skin look soft and rosy like the peach in his hand. 

Nodding, Namjoon sets down his peach and wipes his hands on a napkin. Without a word, he returns to his chair, tilting his head the way Jeongguk has instructed him. 

“The orchard,” Jeongguk finally says after a long silence, “May we go this afternoon?” He licks his lips and smiles—wide and brilliant. 

Namjoon returns his smile, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “As you wish.” 

♔ ♔ ♔

Taehyung insisted upon another lavish lunch, complete with a full interrogation of Jeongguk: his upbringing, his family name, plans after the royal portrait. He was careful and methodical with his questions, never losing his smile as he questioned their guest. Mercifully, a friend of his arrived, diverting his attention.

Later that afternoon, strolling toward the stables, Namjoon sighs, clasping his hands behind his back. "My apologies for my brother." He pauses. "He means well—some misguided attempt at protecting me, I think."

Jeongguk laughs and shakes his head. "Trust me, I am used to the questions. I understand one might be skeptical about an artist moving in and out of high circles. At least he didn't ask if I am a spy."

Namjoon's eyes narrow. "Have you been accused of being a spy before?"

"Once or twice," Jeongguk answers with a smile. "I would make a horrible spy, though. Too much of a daydreamer. I'd forget what was fantasy and what was reality."

Namjoon grins. "Sounds like something a spy would say."

They reach the stable, and a pair of horses are already dressed and saddled. Namjoon approaches the larger horse, whispering to it as he smooths his hand along its muzzle. The stable hand nearby offers Namjoon some apples, and he thanks him, taking the fruit. "Here you go, lovely," he murmurs, feeding his horse. When he looks over to Jeongguk, he's still far from the other horse, a look of concern on his face. "What's wrong?"

Jeongguk clears his throat and forces a smile, his face ashen. "Your Majesty, I don't know how to ride a horse."

The stable boy scoffs, and Namjoon shoots him a dirty look. "Have you ever been on one? It's a short ride to the orchard. We can go slowly."

Fidgeting, Jeongguk looks down at his fingers and sighs, unable to bring his eyes to meet Namjoon's. "I had a bad accident as a child and never tried again." He looks up, and the pained look in his eyes makes Namjoon a little breathless.

"We can walk to the orchard—"

"—Your Majesty, that will take ages on foot," the stable boy interrupts.

Namjoon inhales slowly and bites back a rude remark. "Or you can ride with me?" He turns back to Jeongguk and smiles. "We'll go as slowly as you'd like."

Jeongguk glances at him and then to the stable boy, who is clearly impatient with this entire exchange. "Riding does sound nice..." He bites his bottom lip and smiles bashfully.

"Together it is." Namjoon turns back to the stable boy. "Please put away the tack. We won't be needing it." The stable boy nods and leads the second horse away.

"You didn't have to offer that," Jeongguk says quietly.

"No, I didn't, but I wanted to," Namjoon answers. He steps closer to Jeongguk, and somehow in the bright afternoon glare, he looks wilder and more beautiful than ever. The breeze blows a loose curl across his face, and he tries to push it out of his eyes with little success. "I promised to show you the orchard, so that's what we'll do."

Once the horse is ready, Namjoon offers Jeongguk a hand. "She won't budge, but you have to trust her," Namjoon explains. "I'll help hoist you up first, then I'll climb on."

Jeongguk looks at the horse skeptically, then back to Namjoon. "She won't spook?"

"Jewel? Absolutely not," Namjoon says, patting her side. "It'll be much easier if you climb on first, I promise."

"Promise," Jeongguk repeats. He nods and takes a shaky deep breath. Namjoon helps him onto the step stool and lifts him up and onto the horse. In one fluid motion, Namjoon slides on in front of Jeongguk and takes the reins.

"See? Easy." He turns and nods to the stable boy. "Thank you. We'll return within the hour." He glances over his shoulder at Jeongguk. "You'll want to hold on. You can wrap your arms around my waist." He hopes Jeongguk can't hear the slight tremble in his voice.

The feeling of Jeongguk's arms slipping around his waist is exhilarating. His arms are strong, and Namjoon can feel the press of Jeongguk’s muscled chest against his own back. Jeongguk's heart is racing—probably from fear of the horse—but Namjoon wonders if the artist can feel his heartbeat raging too.

The ride to the orchard is leisurely. Namjoon could ride there quickly if he were alone, but he enjoys the slow trot across the palace property and he takes the opportunity to point  out different features of the gardens and grounds to Jeongguk as they pass by. "You would like the fountains," Namjoon says, gesturing to a fountain surrounded by topiaries and hedges. "The light in the morning is exquisite."

"Sounds beautiful," Jeongguk answers, his head bobbing slightly, his cheek brushing softly against Namjoon's back.

"You can rest your head if you'd like," Namjoon says over his shoulder, "Might be gentler on your neck." When Jeongguk complies, he feels like his chest might burst.

The orchards are surprisingly empty, though Namjoon realizes someone must have relayed a message to the orchardists and fruit-pickers to clear the area. He blushes just imagining what they might have whispered in the servants' quarters earlier that day. 

"Oh!" Jeongguk exclaims, sitting up quickly. His hold on Namjoon's waist tightens. "I can already smell the trees." 

The floral perfume of peaches drifts through the air, and it's heavenly. How many poems had Namjoon read with a scene just like this: two lovers on horseback, riding through fields of fruit and flowers, chasing sunlight and a little time together?  The thought nearly makes him laugh, aware that he's already deep in a fantasy that's his alone.

He guides the horse to the edge of the orchard and halts her. "I'm going to hop off first, then I will help you down," he says. Jeongguk nods and releases his hold on Namjoon. He dismounts the horse and ties her reins to the fence post marking the rows of trees and holds out his hand, smiling, "Your turn."

Jeongguk takes it and dismounts easily. (Perhaps Namjoon is a bit disappointed that he didn't stumble into his arms.) "Thank you for the pleasant ride," he says beaming.

"My pleasure," Namjoon answers. He gestures toward the clearing between sections of trees. "Shall we? We can eat directly from the trees if you'd like."

The amble slowly among the trees, chattering on about books they've read, stories they've heard about faraway lands, rumors from the towns nearby. Simple conversation, inconsequential and lighthearted, but just enough to keep Namjoon from fixating on Jeongguk's beauty. It's hard to ignore, really, with the sun dappling his skin as it filters through the leaves. Jeongguk is so comfortable speaking informally with him; it feels like they're lifelong friends.

They stop at a tree with branches drooping from the weight of overripe peaches. Carefully, Namjoon plucks one and hands it to Jeongguk. "They probably won't be good for much longer. We have to enjoy them now."

Jeongguk lifts the peach and nods, as if raising a glass. "Carpe diem," he laughs. He takes a bite, and somehow it's more obscene out in the open field, covered by a canopy of leaves and flower buds and fruits. The juice dribbles down his chin, and he doesn't bother to wipe it. Instead, he fixes his eyes on Namjoon—something playful and fearless in his eyes. "Your Majesty," he says, voice low and honeyed, "might you deign to kiss a lowly commoner again?"

The formality and dark gleam in Jeongguk's eyes makes Namjoon shiver. "Please," Namjoon murmurs, "speak freely around me, I beg you."

Stepping closer, Jeongguk licks his lips and bites the peach again. "Namjoon, will you kiss me?" His lips are slick with peach juice, pink and plump like the fleshy fruit.

Without hesitation, Namjoon leans in, kissing him so hard that it startles them both. Jeongguk drops the peach and clutches Namjoon's face. He sighs into Namjoon's mouth, and he tastes like peaches and sweat—sharp and sweet and vibrant.

They lose themselves in frenzied kisses: hands in hair, broken gasps for air, tongues pressing deep into the other's mouth. Namjoon's mind drifts somewhere far away, far from the worries and questions of what this could possibly mean for him. He's somewhere far from this world with Jeongguk, tasting only sunlight and this moment, feeling the way Jeongguk's mouth goes slack against his, how his hands clutch to his shirt.

"Jeongguk," Namjoon finally says, chest heaving as he pulls back, "we have to be careful." He brushes the unruly curls away from Jeongguk's eyes, smiling as he tucks a lock behind Jeongguk’s ear.

Nodding, Jeongguk looks down, one hand still clasped onto Namjoon's. "I'm sorry—"

"—come to me tonight," Namjoon answers quickly. "I'll show you the hidden stairway to the library. We can meet there."

Jeongguk looks up, eyebrows raised in confusion. "What?" He laughs and shakes his head. "I thought you were..." He trails off, laughing again.

"Maybe it's too fast, foolish even, but if you'll have me, come to the library tonight. I want nothing more than to continue this." He nods toward the path of the orchard. "But not here, where someone will see us."

"Your stable boy did look a bit skeptical," Jeongguk admits.

"A midday ride to the orchard?" Namjoon laughs. "Yes, they do have their assumptions."

"Isn't that why you invited me here?" Jeongguk asks. "Into your private orchard?"

Namjoon blushes and busies himself with picking another peach. He's certain his cheeks are just as flushed as the ripe, fuzzy skin of the fruit. "Maybe," he lies, though he wants to say, Yes. Though he wants to say, You could ask me for anything, and I would give it to you.

♔ ♔ ♔

 All evening, Namjoon feels on edge waiting for his meeting with Jeongguk. The rational part of his mind tells him how irresponsible he is for falling so hard for a man he’s only just met. But the emotional, romantic part of his mind—the louder part of his mind—tells him to follow the feeling, to give in to the strange and exciting way Jeongguk seems to draw him closer. 

He tries not to think about what Taehyung might say if given the chance. He’s already seen the way his brother watches how Namjoon leans closer as Jeongguk speaks. He observes with an obvious curiosity, eyebrow raised as he looks on. It took everything for Namjoon not to meet his gaze; he didn’t want to risk giving himself away. 

Back in his bedroom, Namjoon paces in front of the fireplace. The warmth of the afternoon has faded, leaving a chill in the air, and he shivers, though he’s certain it’s from the thought of seeing Jeongguk soon. Once the clock strikes midnight, Namjoon slips on his robe and makes his way down the hall. 

He knows this palace inside and out—aware of the creaky floorboards, where the shadows are darkest around the corners, which staircases are unused this time of night. No one will notice him going to the library this late, but he knows Jeongguk is taking a risk by using the back staircase reserved for the servants. Namjoon waits at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the back entry to the library. 

A faint light appears, and then Jeongguk descends the stairs, smiling brightly when he spots Namjoon. “You waited for me, Your Majesty.” 

The title feels different all of a sudden, warmer when coupled with Jeongguk’s gleaming eyes and shy smile. “I wanted to be sure you arrived safely.” He nods toward the door to the library and pushes it open. “Shall we?” 

Nodding, Jeongguk follows close behind him. He steps further into the library as Namjoon pulls the door shut. “We won’t be bothered?”

“No,” Namjoon says, shaking his head. “The staff know better than to disturb me in the library. Especially at night.”

“Lots of visitors?” Jeongguk teases, setting his candle down. He seems nervous, endearingly so as he plays with the cuff of his shirt. 

“No.” Namjoon steps closer, taking Jeongguk’s hand between his own. “I have never done anything like this. You have captivated me in a way I’ve never felt before. Do you feel it?” He places Jeongguk’s hand on his chest, pressing firmly with his palm. His heart is pounding, and he’s certain Jeongguk can feel it too. 

“I feel it,” he whispers looking down at their hands. “It is strange.” He looks up at Namjoon, and his face looks so innocent with his alert, dazzling eyes and smile teasing at his lips. “But if anyone understands it, it’s you and me, right? Dreamers? Romantics?” 

Their lips meet in a soft kiss, a silent, but powerful confirmation that yes , they do understand one another—even if it’s irresponsible or rushed. They give in to the gravity of it all, accept it with kiss after kiss. Namjoon cups Jeongguk’s face and presses kisses all over his mouth and cheeks and eyelids. He wants to cover his skin in kisses, paint him with his lips. 

Jeongguk pulls away, looking a little dazed and breathless. He smiles and touches his lips gingerly. “Your Majesty,” he huffs out a laugh, catching himself, “Namjoon...” He trails off, ducking his head for a brief, bashful moment. 

“Follow me,” Namjoon says, tugging on his hand. He leads them toward the fireplace and gestures toward the rug. “Lay with me.” He kneels at the fireplace and sets the logs before lighting them. The fire slowly comes to life, illuminating the room with a warm, amber glow. 

Jeongguk kneels beside him, running his fingers along the fabric of the rug. “You must have had many lovers before me,” he murmurs. 

Shaking his head, Namjoon crawls closer. “I told you—I don’t care for the suitors they bring here.” He sighs and stretches out, lying on his side. “There was a boy when I was younger. A child of someone who worked here for my father. He was the last person I loved.” 

“Love?” Jeongguk looks up, a little shocked. “Are we talking about love now?”

Namjoon blushes, turning his attention to tracing the swirling, intricate patterns of the rug. “I just mean to tell you that I don’t have a lot of experience, and perhaps it’s because I’m afraid of loving someone I can never truly be with.” He clears his throat and lifts his eyes. “There are rules...” 

Of course they know there are rules. They’re both well aware that outside of this library, outside of this moment, there are rules that dictate where they belong and with whom they belong. Whatever they share, it’s all fantasy, a spell that will be broken once the sun rises and the sweat on their skin dries. 

“Never mind that,” Namjoon says, reaching for Jeongguk. “Let us have this night together. And the next and the next. Until you have to leave, and I have to piece together my heart.” He intertwines their fingers, lifting Jeongguk’s hand to kiss his knuckles. 

“Yes,” Jeongguk answers quietly. He scoots closer and leans in to Namjoon, nosing along his neck until he brings their lips together. They kiss slowly, like the fire might last forever, like the moon drifting across the sky won’t give way to the morning sun in only a few hours. 

Namjoon rolls Jeongguk onto his back and settles onto him, his elbows planted on either side of his face. He kisses Jeongguk all over, trailing his lips down the column of his neck, mouthing along his exposed collar bones. One hand reaches under the thin, gauzy fabric of his shirt, and he’s delighted to find that Jeongguk’s skin is warm, his skin sensitive to fingertips roaming all over his torso, flicking across his nipples. 

Moaning, Jeongguk arches his back, chasing after Namjoon’s touch. “Please,” he whimpers, reaching for the hem of his shirt. Namjoon sits back for a moment, helping him out of his shirt and tossing it aside. Jeongguk reaches for Namjoon’s robe, and he pushes it off his shoulders. They break apart for a moment, undressing themselves quickly, neither one pausing to feel self-conscious. 

When Namjoon turns back to Jeongguk, his breath catches in his throat. Jeongguk is glorious, laid out before him, awash in the golden firelight, his body looking like a piece of marble chiseled to perfection. Delicately, Namjoon traces his fingers along the slope of Jeongguk’s shoulder, the curve of his muscular arm. “You’re magnificent,” he gasps, and then leans over to press a kiss to Jeongguk’s bare chest. 

“You can have me however you’d like, Your Majesty,” Jeongguk responds, threading his fingers through Namjoon’s hair. “I am yours.” 

Smiling, Namjoon settles on top of Jeongguk once more, kissing his lips carefully. “Let me pretend we are equal,” he murmurs. Let me pretend that we might live this way beyond this dream, he wants to say. 

“Then touch me, Namjoon, I am yours.” Jeongguk pulls him closer for a kiss, and it’s deeper than before, filled with heat and tongues. Jeongguk moans into Namjoon’s mouth, and he writhes against him. The feeling of their cocks rubbing together feels like kindling and sparks. At any moment, Namjoon feels like he might burst into flame. 

He slips a hand between them, taking Jeongguk’s cock, stroking him and touching him the way he touched himself the night before. He had imagined taking him to bed, but he didn’t expect the weight and heat of him in his hand, couldn’t have imagined the flush on the other man’s cheeks, the airy gasps he’d let out as Namjoon touched him. 

Namjoon breaks their kiss and mouths along Jeongguk’s neck, trailing kisses down his chest until he’s licking along his length, taking him into his mouth. Jeongguk’s hips buck, and his hands grip Namjoon’s hair as Namjoon takes him deeper, all the way down to the base. The flicker of light washing over Jeongguk highlights his furrowed brows, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His hips lift off the rug, chasing after the heat of Namjoon’s mouth, and Namjoon presses a hand to Jeongguk’s stomach to keep him still. 

He could spend a lifetime doing this—laving his tongue all along Jeongguk’s body, pulling beautiful whimpers and sighs from his rosebud lips. The feeling of Jeongguk’s grip losing hold in his hair tells him he’s overwhelmed, nearing the edge of ecstasy, but Namjoon doesn’t want it to end just yet. Pulling off, he pumps his fist along Jeongguk’s slick cock and kisses his thigh. “Shall I keep going?”

Shaking his head, Jeongguk sits up just enough to see Namjoon’s face. “N-no,” he stammers, “I want to feel you.” 

Nodding, Namjoon crawls closer and crashes their lips together. He’s painfully hard, riled up from Jeongguk’s breathy whines and fevered skin. He wants nothing more than to be closer, to feel him from the inside out. “Do you want to lay like this?” He brushes the hair away from Jeongguk’s sweaty forehead. “Tell me what you want, you sweet, lovely thing.” He nuzzles against Jeongguk’s jaw, just under his ear and pants against his skin. 

“Like this,” he answers, raking his fingernails down Namjoon’s back. “I love the weight of you against me. So powerful.” 

Laughing, Namjoon shivers at the touch and sits up, staring down at Jeongguk. The artist’s cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and tender from kissing, and he looks like the drawings hidden away in some of the racier books Namjoon has had shipped to the palace in secret. Never did he imagine finding someone so beautiful, so breathtaking in real life. “Let me find a sheath,” he says, sitting up on his knees. 

“Must we?” Jeongguk asks, splaying his hand against Namjoon’s stomach. “It’s not as if we’ll produce a bastard heir.” 

Namjoon laughs and leans down to kiss him. “I suppose we can go without.”

“I’m yours, remember?” Jeongguk cups his face and stares at him intently, eyes boring deep into his own. “You can have me however you’d like.” 

“Like this, then,” he answers. They kiss again, and Namjoon kisses down his body once more, and pushes his legs apart. “May I?” 

Jeongguk nods and blushes, covering his face with his arm. “Mortifying,” he mutters. 

“Delicious,” Namjoon corrects. He licks along his cock again, then moves down further, licking deep between his legs along his rim. The skin is puckered and tight, the ring of muscle sensitive to every touch of his tongue. Jeongguk shudders, and Namjoon holds him still, licking slow, teasing circles against him. “You’re sensitive,” he hums before sucking on the fragile spot. He presses a finger against Jeongguk’s rim and glances up, awaiting any sign of distress. 

“Go on,” Jeongguk says, still hiding behind his arm. 

Grinning, Namjoon presses a single finger into him, delighting in the broken sound that erupts from Jeongguk. He licks alongside his finger, angling it in and out carefully. He slips another finger in, and he can feel Jeongguk’s muscles tighten as he tenses around his fingers. Slowly, Namjoon works his fingers in and out, enjoying the way Jeongguk begins to quiver with every motion. The sounds of Jeongguk’s labored breathing eggs him on, and he presses in a third finger, licking and thrusting into him, chasing after the beautiful, wrecked sounds escaping his lips. 

“Gorgeous,” Namjoon murmurs, lips pressed against Jeongguk’s quivering thigh. “I could spend a lifetime having you like this and it wouldn’t be enough.”

“Please,” Jeongguk whimpers, shuddering as Namjoon works his fingers slowly, his tongue lapping along Jeongguk’s inner thigh. “Let me have you now .” 

Namjoon pulls his fingers out and kisses Jeongguk’s thigh. He licks along the dip of his hip bone, follows the lines of his abdomen, flicks over his nipples, traces along his throbbing jugular, and finally, he licks into Jeongguk’s mouth, swallowing every pretty sound. “As you wish,” he answers, leaning back on his knees. He licks his hand and slicks his cock, pumping slowly as he takes in the image of Jeongguk waiting for him.

It’s a sight to behold: Jeongguk’s skin splotchy and pink, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. His cock lays against his stomach, red and hard, glistening at the tip. His hole is pink, slick with spit, and Namjoon feels like he could spill over at any moment from the lewd image alone. He presses Jeongguk’s knees toward his chest and scoots closer. The tip of his cock brushes against Jeongguk’s rim, and they both shudder at the sensation. 

Slowly, he presses the tip of his cock to Jeongguk’s hole, waiting for any sign to stop. Jeongguk reaches for his wrist and grabs it. “Go on,” he huffs. 

Namjoon tries to steady his breathing for a moment, then begins to push in. Jeongguk is tighter, hotter than he realized, even after opening him with his fingers and tongue. The sounds he lets out are feral, so unlike his restrained, cautious sounds from before. “God,” Namjoon pants, pressing in until he reaches the base of his cock.

They’re joined as one now—no clear end and beginning—just their bodies pressed together in a combination of heat and salt. Namjoon leans in and kisses Jeongguk’s forehead. “Are you alright?”

Nodding, Jeongguk’s eyes flutter open and he smiles. “Yes.” His arms wrap around Namjoon’s waist, and though it was only hours ago that they did the same on horseback, it feels brand new—completely foreign and dreamlike. 

Steadily, Namjoon begins to rock his hips. He’s in no hurry for the moment to end. Instead, he thrusts his hips languidly, eyes trained on Jeongguk’s face as he watches the pleasure work over him. “You are beautiful,” he pants, thrusting into him. 

And he is beautiful: clever and smart, a sharp sense of humor, talented, skin luminous and eyes penetrating. A vision of beauty. One that Namjoon wants to commit to memory forever. He chases after that feeling as they make love. Jeongguk digs his fingernails into Namjoon’s muscles, groaning and sighing, babbling his name, dragging his lips and teeth against any patch of skin he can reach. 

“Namjoon,” Jeongguk murmurs, clutching at the back of Namjoon’s neck, “let me taste you.” 

Namjoon falters, losing his pace, and falls forward, catching himself on his hands. “You don’t have to—“

“—I want to,” Jeongguk answers, smoothing his hands down Namjoon’s chest. 

Dropping his head, Namjoon shudders. “A filthy angel,” he murmurs, pulling out carefully. 

Grinning, Jeongguk sits up and pushes Namjoon back. “Will you kneel for a commoner like me?” 

Namjoon can’t even correct him, not when he looks so devilish and pleased with himself at catching him off guard. “As you wish.” 

Jeongguk sits on his knees and crawls forward. He bends down, clutching at Namjoon’s thighs and takes his cock in his mouth. It’s obscene how he hums and sighs, working his tongue along his cock, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his thighs. 

Namjoon allows one hand to drop onto Jeongguk’s head, barely applying any pressure. Jeongguk grabs his other hand and moves it to his head. He intertwines their fingers and grips harder, showing Namjoon what to do. Sucking and licking and drooling, Jeongguk takes Namjoon’s cock in and out of his mouth, gagging as he reaches the base. He doesn’t relent, and he lets out a pleased sound when Namjoon thrusts into his mouth. 

It’s lewd and delicious, and the sounds of Jeongguk moaning and gagging make Namjoon feel lightheaded and faraway. He’s beautiful on his hands and knees, his face covered in spit, tears trailing down his cheeks. But still, it isn’t enough. Namjoon wants to taste him, wants their mouths pressed together in a flurry of kisses. He lifts Jeongguk, pulling him to his knees until they’re kissing once more. It’s all a blur of sweat and salt, hands scrambling to hold onto the other’s body. 

He can’t recall the last time he felt ignited like this, can’t recall the last time he felt the mouth of another person pressed against his own, chasing the same breathless feeling together. When Jeongguk takes his cock in hand, Namjoon shivers and gasps, drawing an overjoyed grin from Jeongguk. He reaches for Jeongguk’s cock in retaliation, and they stroke each other with sloppy jerks, their breaths ragged and loud as they kiss in a mess of tongues and teeth. 

Jeongguk whines and drops his head on Namjoon’s shoulder, and Namjoon twists his wrist, pumping until he feels the younger man shudder against him, spilling into his hand. Jeongguk’s grip loosens, and Namjoon wraps his hand around his, stroking his own cock until he shivers and comes. They lean against one another, gasping for air as they come down from their shared high. 

Namjoon tilts Jeongguk’s chin with his other hand and kisses him slowly, licking along his sensitive bottom lip, tasting himself on Jeongguk’s tongue. “You are incredible,” he murmurs, pressing kisses all over Jeongguk’s face. 

There’s so much more he wants to say, but he knows he’s lost in a post-sex haze, still floating through a fantasy that can never come true. But for now, he’ll accept the afterglow of it all: the way Jeongguk is heavy with sleep, his body pliant and obedient as Namjoon lays him back on the rug. He sighs and yawns as Namjoon carries over a wash basin and a cloth. 

Dipping the cloth into the cool water, he asks, “Jeongguk, where will you go after this?” 

He rolls onto his side and watches as Namjoon wrings out the water. He props up his elbow and rests his chin on his hand. “Anywhere, I suppose.” 

Namjoon scoots closer on his knees and brings the cloth to Jeongguk’s skin. He swipes it slowly along his stomach, carefully wiping at his oversensitive cock and thighs. “Must be freeing to have a choice.” 

“You can come with me,” Jeongguk says, watching the careful, reverent way Namjoon cleans him off. “We could run away, read books all morning, make love all afternoon. I could paint and you could—“

Shaking his head, Namjoon pulls back, frowning. “A beautiful idea, but an impossible one.” 

Jeongguk sits up on his elbows, cocking his head as he asks, “Why?”

“It’s not that easy. You’re an intelligent man, Jeongguk. You know this.” He dips the cloth and wrings it out again, reaching to wipe himself off. It feels like every swipe is washing away the remnants of the dream, leaving only the ugly truth behind. 

“I think it could be easy if you’d let it,” he says, grabbing Namjoon’s wrist. “Don’t you deserve happiness?”

Namjoon swallows, shaking his head. “I am happy.”

“You’re lonely,” Jeongguk says gently. 

“I can endure that.” He pulls away. “If I could leave this behind, I would.” Even as he says it, he’s not so sure it’s true. 

“You’re upset,” Jeongguk says, lying on his back, folding his arms behind his head. “I’m sorry.” 

Sighing, Namjoon tosses the cloth into the basin and stretches out alongside him. “Can we just have tonight? Stay here a little longer?” 

Nodding, Jeongguk turns to face him. “Of course.” He brushes his fingers along Namjoon’s cheeks, pressing into the spot where his dimple appears. “Let me see you smile, Namjoon. I can’t bear the thought of making you so sad.” 

He forces a smile and fights back the bitter tears of the reality waiting for them when morning arrives. Jeongguk leans in and kisses him, and he lets the worry go. He’ll let the morning break his heart, but for now, he has only tonight. 

♔ ♔ ♔

If not for the chiming grandfather clock, Namjoon might think it was still evening. But he knows that sound well: the tolling of the bells that signal morning. He and Jeongguk spent the evening whispering and touching, their mouths exploring one another and hands reaching all the hidden spots of their bodies. They didn't talk about the future, didn't talk about what might happen beyond the night before, and Namjoon gave himself over to the nebulous shadow of uncertainty.

"It's morning," Namjoon murmurs, lifting his lips from Jeongguk's nipple. Namjoon kisses Jeongguk’s collarbone and thrusts his hand deep inside his velvety heat over and over until Jeongguk whimpers and tries to wriggle away from him. "We have to go soon, they'll come looking for us in our rooms." But he makes no effort to move, not when Jeongguk is biting his lip, swallowing down the moans he so freely released only hours ago.

"Your Majesty," Jeongguk pants, hips bucking and chasing after Namjoon's hand, "You cannot expect me to stay quiet—ahh."  It's a beautiful sound: wanton and breathy, accompanied by a beautiful splash of pink across Jeongguk's cheeks, spreading its way down his neck and chest. His body is like a blank canvas, and Namjoon has the privilege to cover him in beautiful colors—a rosy blush, bursts of purple where he sucked into him like a dripping peach.

"Then we'll have to hurry, won't we?" He kisses down the trail of fine, delicate hair leading from Jeongguk's navel and licks along his weeping cock. They're both so exhausted, he's not sure either of them can come again, but he's feeling greedy, unwilling to stop touching Jeongguk like he's the only other person in the world. He uses his other hand to pump Jeongguk's cock, suckling at the head, swirling his tongue over the tip. Jeongguk's hands find purchase in Namjoon's hair, and he slurs some kind of warning as he thrusts his hips.

"Ah," Jeongguk gasps, grip tightening on Namjoon's scalp. "P-please," he begs, trembling as he rocks into Namjoon's mouth. He lets out a weak cry, his body tensing before falling limp on the floor.

Namjoon licks a little longer until Jeongguk swats him away. The sound of his exhausted laughter makes something swell in Namjoon's heart. He knows that there are kings and queens who keep lovers. They lavish them with gifts and clothing, keep them comfortable in private bedrooms. They take a husband or a wife, but they turn to their lovers during the private moments, share furtive glances during the public ones. It is a life that many before Namjoon have led, and a life that many after him will lead. But how could he do the same? How could he have Jeongguk in his home and his heart but keep him secret? How could he deny him a public life, the freedom to roam the court and love openly?

He leans over Jeongguk and smiles, brushing his thumb along his swollen, tender lip. The answer: he couldn't. He could never deny him the wild, unbridled, simple kind of love he deserves.

"They'll start looking for me soon," Namjoon says, sighing as he leans over to kiss Jeongguk's forehead.

"Go on," he answers, sitting up. "I'll get dressed and stay here. I can tell them I came in early."

Namjoon frowns, watching as Jeongguk begins searching for his clothes. "I don't want to leave."

Laughing, Jeongguk pulls on his shirt and begins to button it. "You'll be back here soon." He pulls on his pants. "Don't pout," he teases, crouching in front of Namjoon. "Not very becoming of a future king." He cups Namjoon's face and kisses his cheek, one after the other. "Go, and when you come back, I will be ready to touch you again." He kisses his lips, lingering for a moment. "Now go."

Begrudgingly, Namjoon gathers his clothing and dresses quickly. He knows he has to hurry to get back to his room before someone is sent to wake him. Even if they do find his bedroom empty, he knows they won't dare say anything to him.

It feels strange stepping out of the library, like opening the door has broken the spell around them. Whatever world they built in the middle of the night is now gone—lost to morning light and obligations. He finds his door unattended, and he slips in quickly, falling against the door as he closes his eyes.

"Morning, brother."

Namjoon gasps and opens his eyes. Taehyung is perched on the edge of his bed, smoothing his hand over the undisturbed blankets. "Your bed is cold."

Namjoon doesn't answer.

"Where did you sleep last night?" Taehyung clasps his hands in his lap and waits for a response.

"Do I ask you where you sleep at night?"

Smiling, Taehyung shakes his head. "No, you don't." He clears his throat, and his smile fades. "But I don't spend the night with the help."

Namjoon sighs and crosses his arms. "What do you want, Taehyung?"

"Your coronation is in two days, Namjoon. If you want to have this dalliance to get it out of your system, fine. But I'm worried you might be falling in love." He raises his eyebrows and purses his lips for a moment. "Are you falling in love, brother?"

The way he asks the question makes it clear he already knows the answer. There's no point in Namjoon denying it. He's certain his brother has seen it all over his face whenever he and Jeongguk are together.

"What if I left?" he asks suddenly.

"And denounce your birthright?" Taehyung scoffs. He stands up from the bed and paces closer, twisting the large ring on his hand. "You'd give up your family and your responsibility for him?"

"Taehyung," Namjoon sighs. "I love you. But you know I don't want to be king. I have no interest in carrying on this legacy."

Taehyung chews his lip and stares at Namjoon for a moment—just long enough for Namjoon to see the tears brimming in his younger brother's eyes—then looks away. "It's hardly been a week. You would give it all up?"

Namjoon steps closer, unsure of what to do next. He wants to hug his brother tight, assure him that leaving would be its own act of love, but he doesn't know how. Taehyung is only a year younger, but he suddenly looks like a child: eyes pleading and bleary, his cheeks blotchy as he fights back tears. Up close, Namjoon can see the faint worry lines on his forehead, the cowlick above his ear where he always twirls a lock of hair when he's nervous. His brother. 

"I would never betray you," Namjoon finally says. It's the truth. He would forgo any of his own happiness if it meant Taehyung would be happy. "Never." 

Taehyung laughs, and it's bitter and joyless. He swipes at his cheeks and nods. "Your artist awaits for your next session. Don't keep him waiting." 

The excitement of returning to the library is dampened. Namjoon changes his clothes, splashes water on his face, and he greets his staff as he walks the main hall toward the library. Everything has shifted in the daylight: all the shadowy corners are illuminated, the hushed sounds of midnight have given way to the loud chatter and commotion of the palace at work. Magic, Namjoon realizes, is never going to exist in his life.

When he steps into the library, Jeongguk looks up from his easel and smiles. He's laid out his paints and brushes, his palette ready for the morning's session. "Your Majesty," he greets him.

"Jeongguk," Namjoon answers with a nod. He walks past Jeongguk quickly and takes his seat on the chair. Without instruction, he shifts it toward the sunlight and lifts his chin.

Though the room is filled with the ambient morning light, it feels colder now. Jeongguk seems to feel it too—his smile giving way to a grim expression. He doesn't speak to Namjoon; instead, he focuses on painting, pausing only to lean back and view the canvas. Rarely does he look at his subject. It feels like the sun hiding behind cold, gray clouds each time he ducks behind the canvas.

As Namjoon sits there listening to the sounds of the paintbrushes against the canvas, he observes the room. The rug by the fireplace looks the same, but he knows he'll never forget the way the fibers felt against his skin as Jeongguk straddled him, arching his back and chasing after release. The velvet settee sits dull and lifeless as ever, but Namjoon knows if he were to brush his fingers along the gold-trim, he'd easily recall the way Jeongguk gripped it as Namjoon held his hips and thrust into him.

All these lifeless items now gilded in a memory that will one day fade—artifacts of a night never to be repeated. Namjoon closes his eyes, tries to imagine a room without these items. A room without Jeongguk's image painted on every surface.

"Your Majesty," Jeongguk calls, pulling his attention. "May I adjust you?" He nods toward the windows. "The light, Your Majesty."

Namjoon knows he should decline, should angle himself and deny Jeongguk's touch, but he is a weak man. "As you wish."

Jeongguk sets down his paintbrush and approaches Namjoon slowly, like he's trying not to spook a frightened animal. Up close, Jeongguk smells faintly of smoke and sex. When he leans over to adjust Namjoon's posture, his shirt flaps open, revealing the bruise surfacing on his collarbone. All over, he's covered in reminders of their night together. When he touches Namjoon's face, it's with the same familiarity of the night before: feather-light, affectionate. Like he's handling something precious when he touches Namjoon.

"Something happened," he states flatly, stepping back to assess the light.

"Just reality," Namjoon answers, staring past Jeongguk at nothing in particular.

"After last night, you'd really be this unkind to me? You can't even look at me?" His chin quivers, and he shakes his head, huffing quickly. "I understand." Just as he steps away, Namjoon grabs his wrist.

"I could never be unkind to you," he murmurs. "But I worry it's unkind to let either of us believe we can be anything more." He looks down at his fingers encircled around Jeongguk's wrist. "I cannot let you wish for something that cannot happen." He swallows and releases Jeongguk's hand, intertwining their fingers instead. "I cannot let myself wish."

"Namjoon," Jeongguk sighs. He rests his chin on Namjoon's head and leans into him. "I understand."

And perhaps that's the worst part of all: that they both understand the circumstances they were born into, that they understand how the world is designed to keep each of them in their place.

"Your Majesty."

They startle, and Jeongguk pulls away quickly, averting his eyes. The young maid walks in looking a bit mystified at the scene and smiles apologetically. "His Royal Highness Taehyung has requested you for lunch." She glances warily at Jeongguk. "And you too." She bows and hurries out of the room.

Jeongguk exhales shakily and wrings his hands. "I don't think that is wise."

Nodding, Namjoon rises from the chair and smooths the front of his shirt. "I understand." He steps toward Jeongguk, but then he stops, as if some invisible force has halted in him. "Will you need me after lunch?"

Shaking his head, Jeongguk answers, "No. I have what I need."

♔ ♔ ♔

Lunch is a mirthless affair. The afternoon follows in dull succession. Dinner is tedious. The golden hue of the day is long gone without Jeongguk's presence. Namjoon tells himself to get used to it; his days will feel much like this once the artist is gone.

The next morning, when he wakes, there is no servant in his chamber requesting him in the library. Namjoon stays in bed, trying hard to concentrate on a new novel, but the words are tiresome, the characters flat, the world uninviting. He sighs and tosses the book aside. He knows he could stay in bed all day if he wanted to; he could mope and brood and shout at his servants, but what good would that do?

He finally climbs out of bed and dresses himself, ready to set about the day tending to the last minute tasks before his coronation. In twenty-four hours, he will march down the aisle of the cathedral and repeat words written long before he was ever born. A crown will rest on his head. Songs will be sung. Trumpets sounded. And he will be king.

He walks past the library and fights the urge to duck in, have a look at Jeongguk's work. He knows only heartbreak awaits him if he sees that smile today. He joins Taehyung in his study, flopping down on the leather sofa across from his desk.

"Last day as prince," Taehyung says, not bothering to look up from his papers. "Would you like to sign these tax decrees or dictate greetings to our distant cousins?"

"Neither," Namjoon sighs, leaning back against the arm rest, propping his feet on the opposite end. "I want to sit with my brother and pretend for a moment that there aren't a million things to do."

Taehyung shuffles his papers together and sets them aside. He rises from his chair and joins Namjoon, sitting across from him in an oversized armchair. "Do you remember when Father sat us down as children and explained running a kingdom?"

"I remember not understanding a word of it," Namjoon laughs.

Smiling, Taehyung nods and glances around the room. It’s strange to see him looking shy, hesitant, so unsure of himself. "He said it required sacrifice. Passion. Intelligence. Even when we didn't feel like giving any of it."

"Ah," Namjoon hums, sitting up. He leans against the back of the sofa and drapes his arm across it. "Yes, I do remember this."

"And do you remember asking Father what would happen if you didn't want to be king?" Taehyung asks.

"Vaguely," Namjoon lies. Of course he remembers. He remembers the way his father's demeanor turned cold, how he shook his head and spoke of disappointment and betrayal—words that didn't exist within their family. For all the love he had for his father, it was the first time Namjoon felt a stirring of frustration toward him.

"He said you would be betraying all of us."

Namjoon shakes his head and scrubs his hands over his face. "Taehyung, I don't need to reminisce. I am walking down the aisle tomorrow. It's happening."

"Who would you betray if you didn't go through with it?" he asks gently.

"You, of course," Namjoon snaps. "I wouldn't do that to you."

Taehyung hums and glances around the room, as if pondering the truth of Namjoon's statement. "Who decides what makes a betrayal? The person committing the act or the victim?"

"I'm not indulging your riddles, Taehyung." Namjoon rises quickly and tugs on the tails of his jacket. "Will you be at the unveiling of the portrait?"

"You know I wouldn't miss it," he answers, turning his attention to the bauble on his hand. "I believe the artist said it would be ready this evening after dinner. Something about leaving first thing tomorrow morning?"

Namjoon freezes. "So soon?"

"Namjoon," Taehyung scoffs. "He's been here a week. Your coronation is tomorrow. He's already stayed longer than necessary."

Frowning, Namjoon bites back an answer and rests his head against the door for a moment. “Taehyung, I know it’s imprudent, but I just feel something with him.” He lifts his head from the door and sighs. “Never mind. No time for this right now.” 

“You’ve always had more heart than anyone I’ve ever known,” Taehyung says wistfully. 

“My curse,” Namjoon huffs bitterly. 

“Your blessing,” Taehyung corrects. He steps out from behind his desk and walks over to Namjoon in a swift, steady gait. King-like, Namjoon notes. “Namjoon, my brother,” Taehyung says firmly, cupping Namjoon’s face, “You have always had more love than you know what to do with. I’ve always admired that about you. I hope that never changes.” He smiles and tilts Namjoon’s head down and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Invite Jeongguk to supper. Let’s give him a proper farewell to thank him for bringing you some levity this week.” 

Nodding, Namjoon smiles, too moved to properly respond to the earnest way Taehyung’s looking at him. Up close in the dim light of the office, he looks so much like their father in his old age: wise and all-knowing, sympathetic and firm. 

Taehyung pats Namjoon’s cheek and clears his throat, turning away abruptly. “I’ll see you at supper.” He’s always been a bit self-conscious about showing tenderness, like somehow it doesn’t come as easily to him, and he’s afraid he’s going about it all wrong. He settles at his desk and begins shuffling papers—a sign that Namjoon should leave. 

He walks the halls slowly, trying hard to resist the pull toward the library. Dinner seems like one last kindness for the artist, but it’s also the last dinner they’ll have together. He tries to calm his nerves, to remind himself that he’s only known Jeongguk a week. Maybe it was the early autumn sunlight or the last taste of ripe peaches or a night of love-making that’s clouded his judgment. The week-long fantasy was exactly that: a fantasy, never meant to last very long. 

Without noticing how far he’s walked down the hall, he hears, “Your Majesty!” and realizes he’s just past the library. He pivots quickly and hovers near the door before he steps in, a polite, restrained smile on his face. 

“Jeongguk,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s not sure what would happen if he let them loose. 

“Your Majesty,” Jeongguk says, bowing deeply. Already, the formality hurts. It feels too cold, like the distance between them is already stretching, like the sun is already far from the earth, bringing winter and darkness. 

“Please, speak freely,” Namjoon murmurs. 

“Namjoon,” Jeongguk answers. He smiles bashfully and fidgets with the paintbrush in his hand. His forearms and hands are covered in streaks of paint, and a small splash of blue smeared on his chin. Namjoon wishes he could go to him, blot the paint away with his fingers. “Would you like to see?” 

“Isn’t there an unveiling soon?” 

“Ah,” Jeongguk nods, “Yes. Well, I thought you might like to see it up close? If you’d like?” He sets the paint brush down and pushes the hair out of his face. “If you have time.”

Namjoon steps closer and nods. “I do have time.” They’re standing side-by-side now, and the tension between them feels like two magnets, their poles gravitating toward one another no matter how hard they try to stay separate. “Are you nervous?”

“What?” Jeongguk laughs, and he sounds nervous—airy and a little skittish. “I suppose I am.” 

Thoughtlessly, Namjoon lets his hand brush against Jeongguk’s. It’s barely a graze of their knuckles against one another, but it feels like a match strike. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” Namjoon says suddenly, turning to face Jeongguk. Of all the things to look at in this room, he only wants to see Jeongguk’s face—not this painting, not the dwindling daylight, not the clock noting the limited hours. 

“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk replies. They don’t talk after that—not when their lips meet, not when Jeongguk’s hands are undoing the buttons on Namjoon’s shirt, not when Namjoon is threading his fingers through Jeongguk’s hair, tilting his head back to nuzzle and kiss along his neck. 

They stumble backwards until they hit the sturdy desk. Jeongguk yelps and scoots back against the surface, hooking his legs around Namjoon’s waist. His hands are covered in paint, and Namjoon doesn’t mind the stains on his clothes. He wants to be marked, wants to have some proof that Jeongguk touched him. 

“The paint—“ Jeongguk starts, but Namjoon hushes him with a kiss. This time it’s slow, warm and sweet like peach nectar. 

“Let us not worry about such things right now,” Namjoon murmurs, thumbing along Jeongguk’s lips. 

Grinning, Jeongguk nods and drags his thumbs along Namjoon’s jawline. “The most beautiful of canvases.” He pulls him closer for another kiss, and he holds Namjoon’s face steady as he kisses him over and over again, flicking his tongue in and out of Namjoon’s mouth, licking along his bottom lip. 

“My God,” Namjoon shudders, breaking their kiss. He presses his forehead against Jeongguk’s and tries to catch his breath. “I’m supposed to invite you to dinner.” 

“Then invite me,” Jeongguk laughs, smoothing his hands over Namjoon’s chest. 

“We don’t have much time,” Namjoon answers, pulling away. Jeongguk starts to protest, but Namjoon lowers himself to his knees as he unfastens Jeongguk’s pants. 

Groaning, Jeongguk drops his head back for a moment before looking down at Namjoon. “You just said we don’t have—“ The words catch in his throat when Namjoon pulls his cock out and starts to suckle at the tip. 

“We don’t have time to do all the things I’d like to do to you,” Namjoon murmurs, pumping along Jeongguk’s length, slicking him all over. “But we can do this.” 

“I’d never say no to a king down on his knees,” Jeongguk answers, smirking. He brushes the hair away from Namjoon’s eyes, looking so fondly and touching him so gently, Namjoon nearly forgets he’s kneeling in the library, taking the cock of an artist in his mouth.

The din of the servants preparing for dinner grows louder. Namjoon’s grateful for the noise—anything to mask the untamed sounds between them. He wishes he had something lewd to say, something about the way Jeongguk’s cock feels against his tongue, how he likes the firm grip on his hair, but he worries if he tries to speak, something else will come out instead: desperate pleas for Jeongguk to stay, promises he can’t keep once he’s king. 

Instead, he focuses on licking along the thick vein of his cock, mouthing at the sensitive head, taking him all at once until he feels breathless and his vision goes spotty. There’s nothing he can say to change what will happen in the morning, but he can moan and sputter, flick his wrist and make sloppy, wet sounds with his fist, pull out Jeongguk’s pretty, unabashed sounds that make him feel weak. 

“Namjoon—“ Jeongguk’s grip tightens, his fingernails digging into Namjoon’s scalp. His hips buck off the desk, and Namjoon sucks him through each ripple of pleasure, relishing the taste of bitter salt on his tongue. 

Namjoon stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns to look for a drink, but Jeongguk grabs him by the cheeks and kisses him hard. It’s too breathy—sloppy and rushed, but it feels so much like goodbye. Something final, agreed upon in this final moment together. “Come to dinner,” Namjoon whispers, kissing Jeongguk’s cheeks, over and over again, ignoring the fresh tears he catches with each kiss. 

“I have to finish up here. I want your unveiling to be perfect.” Jeongguk turns his attention to buttoning Namjoon’s shirt, and the trembling in his chin is unmistakable. He looks up at Namjoon and forces a smile, swallowing the lump in his throat. Shuddering, he says, “I will see you soon, and you can see how you’ve inspired me this week.” 

Wrapping his arms around Jeongguk, Namjoon pulls him closer, smoothing his hand along the back of his head. He doesn’t say anything when Jeongguk lets out a sob, clinging to Namjoon’s shirt. “Soon,” Namjoon murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “I will see you soon.” 

♔ ♔ ♔ 

At dinner, Taehyung doesn’t comment right away upon Jeongguk’s absence. He surprises the wait staff when he insists upon a chair closer to Namjoon. “He’s my brother. Why should I sit all the way over there?” he grumbles, carrying his wine to the other end of the table. He settles into a chair next to Namjoon and takes a long sip, eyeing him carefully. “Where is he?” 

“Putting the finishing touches on the portrait,” Namjoon answers, focusing on dismantling the quarter chicken laid before him. He takes a bite of a drumstick and chews it, not finding any enjoyment in the taste. 

Taehyung hums and eats a handful of grapes, watching as Namjoon makes a mess of his plate. “And did he put his finishing touches on you?” 

“What?” Namjoon sets down his utensils and wipes his hands on his napkin. Taehyung, stoic as ever, is unreadable. “What on earth does that mean?” 

“Brother,” Taehyung chides, leaning forward. “You have paint all over your face.” He brushes his thumb along Namjoon’s chin, holding it up to reveal a smudge of blue. 

“I must have leaned too close to the canvas.” 

Taehyung grins. “Liar.” He sighs loudly and raises his glass, shaking it at whomever is closest to refill it. “If given the chance, you would really give all of this up?” He asks, gesturing at the dining room. They’re in the main dining hall—a room that’s opulent with dark wood paneled walls, gilded chandeliers, and vases and paintings from some long-deceased royal family member’s collection.

“I think I would,” Namjoon says solemnly. “I don’t think I will be a very good king, Taehyung.” 

He hums in response and gulps down his wine. “Let the historians deal with that.” He pats Namjoon’s shoulder and lowers his voice, “It’s your last night. Things will be different tomorrow. Have faith, brother.” 

An understatement, surely, he wants to reply, but instead, he nods. Taehyung does his best to make light conversation, and Namjoon forces himself to play along. They’re both trying—both of them doing the best they can with the life that’s been handed to them. He doesn’t begrudge his brother for wanting peace within the family and order within the kingdom. He just wishes he shared the same optimism and allegiance. How can he be king when he has so many doubts? 

There’s no time to brood; Taehyung seems determined to keep Namjoon distracted with wine and music. He allows his younger brother to hand him another drink, and the wine starts to taste sweeter the more he drinks. 

The music dies down suddenly as one of the head valets enters the dining room. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” he bows. “The portrait is ready.” 

“Well then,” Taehyung says, his voice a bit slurred, “Let’s see the masterpiece.”

“Shouldn’t this be more ceremonious?” Namjoon asks, hooking his arm with Taehyung’s as he leads them toward the library. 

“You’ll have the big reveal tomorrow,” Taehyung assures him. “This is just to show it off for you since he’s leaving.”

As if Namjoon could forget. They walk slowly down the long, carpeted hallway, taking careful, albeit staggering steps. When they reach the library, the door is wide open, and the lights are raised for the viewing. Jeongguk stands far from the canvas, his hands clasped in front of him. Namjoon notices the way he worries at his thumb as he stares at the floor. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, looking up with a smile. “I hope the portrait will be to your liking.” He glances at Taehyung. “And to yours, Your Highness.”

Taehyung nods and claps. “Yes, I’m sure it will be stunning. Let us gather ‘round.” 

Namjoon’s just shy of being too drunk to recognize some of the older men gathered in the room; future advisors, he thinks, though the flickering candle light and haze of wine makes it hard to decipher them for sure. 

Jeongguk reaches for the sheet covering the canvas. “May I?”

“Please,” Namjoon answers. 

Slowly, Jeongguk pulls back the cover, revealing the finalized portrait. It somehow looks larger now that it’s finished—or perhaps it’s the way Namjoon’s presence fills the whole canvas. His shoulders are sharp and broad, his head lifted toward the light, a look of amusement on his face. It nearly makes Namjoon gasp to see himself like this—to see the shadows of his father’s face so obvious in his cheekbones and eyebrows. 

“Magnificent,” Taehyung murmurs, eyes widening as he takes in the painting. “It’s incredible.” He turns to Jeongguk, shaking his head in amazement. “You have really captured him.” The words sting with truth. Jeongguk has captured him, ensnared him in a net that will soon release him. 

“Your Majesty,” Jeongguk asks, raising his eyebrows in question. 

“It’s beautiful, Jeongguk,” Namjoon answers quietly. “Better than I imagined.” 

“One question,” Taehyung asks, stepping closer. He leans down, inspecting the bottom of the portrait. “Why is he holding a peach?” 

Jeongguk immediately blushes, and Namjoon steps in before he has to answer. “I asked him to include it.” He almost missed that detail—something public, yet so private, a reminder of what they’ve shared.

“Ah,” Taehyung says, nodding. “Well, what the king wants, the king gets.” He stands, beaming proudly at Jeongguk. “A round of applause for our artist and his wonderful portrait.” 

The staff members clap, and Jeongguk smiles sheepishly, his cheeks still bright red with embarrassment. “Thank you. It is truly an honor.” 

Taehyung waves off the servants, making them disperse in a way that only he can with some subtle nod that only they seem to understand. He turns to Namjoon and slings his arm around his neck. “Well, Namjoon, your portrait is outstanding. Shall we continue your final celebration before your coronation?” 

Namjoon glances warily at Jeongguk. All he wants is another night with him, just more time to kiss him and touch him. More time to let himself believe this is real, something permanent and sturdy that will last beyond this week. But he can’t shake the way Taehyung questioned him earlier, asking him about family and betrayal. 

“Yes, as you wish,” Namjoon answers, not looking away from Jeongguk. 

He nods in understanding and clears his throat. “Thank you again for this great honor. Please enjoy your celebration. I’ll wait here to meet with the framer. I would like to supervise.” 

“Ah, wise,” Taehyung answers, nodding. “Thank you again.” He turns to Namjoon and jostles him a bit, laughing. “Alright, let’s march to your death, brother.” 

Namjoon laughs, but it’s a flat, humorless sound. 

♔ ♔ ♔ 

When Namjoon wakes, he sits up in his bed, groaning at the throbbing in his temples. The morning light is dim and gray; he can make it out through the sliver between his curtains. He doesn’t remember going to bed. Doesn’t remember much before he went to bed, either. Just lots of drinking with Taehyung and some of their servants. Maybe some singing? Too much wine. That’s for certain. 

The last thing he recalls about last night is passing the library, looking in and expecting to see Jeongguk perched on his stool. Instead, he saw his portrait, newly framed: a face that he knew was his own, but one that felt foreign, stared back at him. He wanted to go in and stare at it, run his fingers over all the lines that Jeongguk drew on the canvas, but one of the valets hurried him off to bed. Probably for the best. 

He climbs out of bed, wincing when his feet hit the cold floor. No one has been to his room yet to start a fire or summon him for last-minute coronation notes. He washes up at the basin, splashing the lukewarm water on his face. In spite of the raucous evening, he doesn’t look too exhausted or haggard. He pats his face dry and double checks his reflection; the blue smudge of paint is long gone. 

There’s a knock at the door, and before he can answer, Taehyung steps in. He looks surprisingly bright and alert, a calm smile on his face. He closes the door behind him and waves an envelope. 

“I was wondering when I might be called to some task this morning,” Namjoon mumbles. He settles on the edge of the bed and stretches his neck, waiting for it to pop. 

“This is a different task,” Taehyung says. He bites his lip and glances down at the envelope. “It is a big one, though. Life-changing, some might say.” 

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Taehyung, I cannot handle your riddles this morning. My head is splitting in two. What is it?” 

“You can see for yourself, but I have to warn you,” he holds out the letter before yanking it back, “once you open this, there is no going back.” 

“Sounds ominous.” Namjoon rolls his eyes and sighs, trying hard to tamp down his annoyance. “Did you trick me into some pledge last night? Did I lose a bet?” 

“No,” Taehyung snaps, “but you did... reveal some things.” He dangles the letter in front of Namjoon. “Do you want it or not?” 

Namjoon snatches the envelope and inspects it. The wax seal is of their own family crest. He frowns, looking up at Taehyung. “What is this?” 

Taehyung doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks over to the window and draws back the curtains. The skies are filled with dark gray clouds, and a steady rain pelts the lawn. “The artist left before the rain began,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands along the heavy velvet panels. 

“As expected,” Namjoon answers. He brushes his fingers along the seal. “Why does this feel like a death sentence?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Taehyung teases, turning to Namjoon with an amused smile. 

“You did say life-changing,” Namjoon grumbles, slipping his finger underneath the envelope flap, breaking the seal. 

“Life-changing can be good, too,” Taehyung answers. “You used to be such an optimist.” He huffs and stomps over to Namjoon. “Please, read the damn thing.” 

Namjoon makes a face and pulls out a folded slip of paper. He squints at the writing and looks up at Taehyung. “I don’t understand.” 

“It’s an address,” Taehyung says, jabbing a finger at the paper. 

“I see that,” Namjoon answers. “For what?” 

“Where your artist will be going next. He’ll be expecting you by sundown.” 

Namjoon furrows his brow and stares at the paper. He doesn’t know when it happened, but he’s trembling, the paper shaking in his hand. “I don’t understand,” he repeats, staring at the simple lettering. It’s not swirling and decorative like the official palace script, not the hasty scribbling of Taehyung, either. “What does this mean?” 

“You have a choice,” Taehyung says gently, sitting next to him. “You can follow him and meet him tonight. Or you can stay here and be king.” 

“You say it like I have a choice,” Namjoon says, shaking his head. He turns the paper over, looking for any other writing, but it’s blank. He tucks it back into the envelope and hands it back to Taehyung. “This is unkind.” 

“I did some soul searching,” Taehyung says, turning his attention to the rain outside. “We cannot have an unhappy king.” He pauses, placing his hand on Namjoon’s thigh. He stares out the window, ignoring Namjoon’s gaze. “And I cannot have an unhappy brother.” He swallows, but it’s too late—Namjoon can hear the tears in his voice. “So if you want to go,” he turns back to Namjoon, the tears visible in his eyes, “then you should go.” 

“Taehyung,” Namjoon sighs, placing his hand on top of his brother’s, “I cannot betray you like that.” 

“Remember when I asked who decides what counts as betrayal? Well, in this case, I do. And the bigger betrayal would be me holding you back from following after this dream.” He smiles weakly and wipes at his cheeks. “You will always have a home here, Namjoon. That will never change. So if you want to live your life with Jeongguk or someone else, I will not stop you.”  

“I don’t understand...” Namjoon stares down at the paper in his hand then at his other hand clasping his brother’s. The choice has always been there, he realizes, but never has it ever been presented to him so clearly. “The coronation—“

“—postponed for rain,” Taehyung says, forcing a smile. “I told them storms are bad luck, so we’re delaying it for now.” He squeezes Namjoon’s hand, clinging to it fiercely. “Listen, you have a heart that will better serve the world outside these walls and this kingdom. You have to honor that. You know Mother would want this, too.” 

Namjoon’s face softens, and he can’t help the tears that slip down his cheeks. It’s so rare to speak of their mother—the precious, thoughtful woman who squirreled away sweets for them and made up elaborate ghost stories before bedtime. Their mother: source of all their affection, who taught them to be gentle and kind boys. “Foul play,” Namjoon laughs, rubbing his eyes. 

Taehyung grins. “I can be quite motivational.” 

“Excellent for a king.” Before Taehyung can answer, Namjoon pulls him into a tight hug. He whispers into his ear, “Thank you.”

“Your horse is ready,” Taehyung says, pulling away. He stands up and smooths his hair, though he still looks tearful and a little fragile. “The kitchen has prepared you some food for the road. Two guards will accompany you until you reach this address.” 

“You’ve got this all planned out?” Namjoon asks. It feels so fast, almost too easy, even. 

“I didn’t want you to have any reason to say no.” He smiles and exhales shakily. “Well then, I will let you change and gather your things.” 

“Taehyung,” Namjoon begins.

He waves him off. “I know.” 

♔ ♔ ♔ 

When Namjoon mounts his horse, the rain has finally stopped. In the distance, the dark clouds are dissipating, giving way to puffy white and pink clouds of the early afternoon. His bag is filled with fresh bread, slices of meat, and several peaches—the last of the season. 

In the pale light of the afternoon, everything feels dreamlike, edged in gold. He turns to Taehyung and smiles down at him from the horse. Thank you feels inadequate, but what else can he say? 

Taehyung approaches him and pats his thigh, grinning up at him. “Tell the artist hello. I appreciate his cooperation with the plan.” 

“The plan?” Namjoon sputters in disbelief. 

“Off you go!” Taehyung laughs, rubbing the side of the horse. “Travel safe, brother.” 

“I will write soon,” Namjoon promises. 

As he rides out of the palace gates, he glances over his shoulder, taking it all in. He doesn’t feel any sense of loss as they travel further down the road. There’s no weight in his chest at the prospect of leaving it behind. Instead, he looks toward the future, the rain-slick road, the skies washed out and clear like a canvas awaiting its next masterpiece.