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The hallway that led to the royal family’s bedrooms was lined with tapestries. Years and years of history draped from the ceiling to the marbled floor, stretching all the way from the northern stairwell to the castle’s southern one. It was fitting for the evening, Hansol thought as he passed a rendition of the unifying Victory at Searl, that he was able to study, in woven precision, the story of the kingdom. He had been through these halls before, could count the paces it took to reach his destination, but he had never walked them alone - attention always elsewhere. The fabrics were hung up like wall paint, the stories fitting perfectly into the background. Easy to pass by if not paid any mind. Or maybe those who never had the chance to look away had just gotten used to them.
Nonetheless, he was glad to have the time to appreciate the tapestries now; they offered a type of comfort on his quiet trip. He was surprised, actually, to find that despite the bedroom hall being located right above the ballroom, where the party was still staying strong into the night, there was an echoing silence that surrounded him rather than the residual chatter of nameless queens and kings. Had he not just left, following another’s earlier footsteps, he’d have no idea there was a celebration going on tonight.
A celebration that will of course one day be remembered, laced and sewn into a grand piece like the one right beside where Seokmin, the Prince’s First Guard, was leaning on large arched doors.
They nodded to each other.
“Prince said to not let anyone in,” Seokmin pointed his head back like the wood he guarded was invisible, telling him in a way that was clear he expected Hansol to understand the nature of the command.
"Did he now.".
“Sure did,” the guard straightened himself out a bit, shifting his weight off the door, “Threatened the polish of my best pair of boots while at it.”
For no real reason other than the mention of boots, Hansol’s eyes shifted down to watch Seokmin’s, still shining at the tips from the light of the hallway chandelier, as they uncrossed and moved closer toward the tapestry, away from the door handle. They didn’t relax in their new position and were really just shifted enough to be easily regrounded, guarding those inside soon again.
He wondered if Seokmin had an idea as to why he was guarding this door at all tonight instead of his typical post during these sorts of celebrations: keeping a steady, invisible pace behind the Prince in the courtroom.
“He’s scared of the dark,” Seokmin had said to him before.
Information about the Prince was considered like a piece of gold; no matter how small, it was something to show off. The nobles and lords in the hall just below understood it: the pursuit of something to hold and gloat “Look here, look at what I’ve got that no one else has”. It’s easy to become greedy with that sort of treasure. When said from Seokmin’s mouth, though, it wasn’t about showing off, bragging about his time spent with the Prince. He never held it in his hands for others to see but not touch. Instead, he held out his palms to Hansol and passed him the gold, just like that.
Seokmin was a good man.
Hansol couldn't say the same for himself.
He took note of the guard's momentarily lax stance, eyes that were trained on deception, regarding him calmly. Nodding his farewell, he pushed through the bedroom door.
It creaked loudly as old, heavy wood does, but the Prince didn’t turn around.
“It’s your sister’s coronation; the guests are asking for their favorite prince”
There was a draft in the room despite the fireplace crackling.
“You mean only.”
“They are synonymous.”
“They are not,” His remark was apparently outrageous enough for Seungkwan to finally turn around: now seeing Hansol, who was making his way over to the changeable painting of the moon’s glow he had been looking out of. He continued, as sure as a learned man would be, “To be one’s favorite is a choice, to be the only is a result from the lack of choice.”
"Hm," Hansol slowed down his pace, hitching an eyebrow in mock-consideration, “But what if I did not want to make any other choice, then isn’t there an inevitable lack from my own choosing?”
Seungkwan’s mouth opened, a habit more than anything, still caught in the excitement of swordplay, but whatever words were meant for rebuttal were left on his tongue.
“Oh.” The Prince flushed, “You are doing this on purpose.”
The beauty of the Royal Family of Andromeda was kingdom gossip. It was not unknown of the proposals made by countless Nobles and other Royals to the Crowned Princess, as well as the hundreds of suitors knocking down the doors of the castle to get a chance at Princess Sojeong’s heart. But when people spoke of Prince Seungkwan, the youngest son and heir to the Estate of Yulu, it was how one would remark on a piece of art: untouchable . His face was of a sculpture’s precision, hair like a brush’s stroke. And these were just rumors, yet Hansol knew them as true. The man before him was a statue of beauty: lips slightly parted and cheeks growing pink. All illuminated by the night sky and the brisk catch of air as Hansol saw now that the window was open despite the winter season. His royal coat, though, which had been massive on his person with navy fur lining the collar, was seemingly thrown to the side on his bedside chair. And his silk white dress shirt, with the frills down by the wrist, was unribboned with the top button casually undone. The reported accounts were never able to mention his eyes - of course, they would have never gotten close enough - but these were the feature of which Hansol found the most fascinating. How they twinkled like obsidian, artful in their own calculation. They were eyes that looked for questions in an answer, for the fault in a folly, the problem in a solution: “shrewd” and “stubborn”.
“I am.” They were standing close then, Hansol’s hand reaching up to hold Seungkwan’s cheek. Thumb pressing under his eye, right on the freckle that lay below his lashes as if wiping away an imaginary tear. Heart shaped birthmark on his palm touching the corner of the Prince’s lip, “Why are you up here alone?”
There wasn’t a response nor movement, besides the Prince, who only pressed his cheek further into Hansol’s palm and Hansol's own searching eyes. He felt warmth seep heavy into his fingertips as they lay splayed and vast on the face only inches before him. This is doting , Hansol supposed, subtly checking for grooves of fatigue on the Prince’s skin to smooth over with his thumb.
Before Hansol could uncover whatever wistful truth lay on the other’s face, Seungkwan took his own hand and softly wrapped it around Hansol’s on his cheek. He curled his fingers into the divet of Hansol's palm, and, as delicate as a secret, brought their joined hands off his cheek together. It didn’t break the moment but created a new one, and Hansol was, of course, yielding.
Using that grip, he turned Hansol’s palm to the ceiling while his eyes fell and fingers moved to trace the abiding lines, “Everything’s changing so quickly. I can’t… I can’t think.”
It was a sudden invitation, and Hansol could do no more than take it.
“My sisters and I have been preparing for this moment our entire lives: all of our studies, our lessons. It was all for this. Yet it always seemed in the distant future - One day you’ll be the queen, Jinseol - but now today is that day, and I can’t seem to,” He paused like he couldn’t understand his own words nor the weight of them, “think.”
If it was at all possible to gravitate closer, they had accomplished it. Their heads tilted in a huddle: a barricade in the privacy of a royal’s chamber.
“It’s okay.”
“I can’t remember who I’m supposed to be now.”
A memory came to mind: the image of the Prince’s hair as he saw it now, but bangs that flowed, dignified in the wind, rather than as a defense to his uncertainty.
They had been taking a walk to the supply store to purchase more ink in Irboro during the third - perhaps the fourth - time he visited, and Hansol told the Prince to remain outside as he would only take a moment.
“ I won’t cause a scene.”
Seungkwan said to which Hansol recalled chuckling for he might as well have said he did not grow up in a castle: “ The shoppe owner won’t bargain with a royal.”
The Prince made an over-exaggerated expression of understanding - Ah, I see - and nodded his head toward where he would wait for him. The sale did only take a moment, which was why he paid the response no mind, but when Hansol looked out the shoppe’s window after purchasing the ink, the Prince was no longer there.
Instead, upon leaving shoppe with the door swinging in his stead, he soon found him across the way, bent down and offering a lily to a little town’s girl.
Seungkwan of Andromeda: The Untouchable Prince
“Please,” And they were no longer in Irboro, but he could still feel the draft of the autumn morning, the sound of leaves falling from the trees, and the breeze in his ear like a lover’s whisper, “help me remember.”
Hansol continued to watch the top of his brunette head, void of the crown that was present at his sister’s ceremony earlier. His gaze held a question so sure and true, it’s desire persisting as steady as ever: “Are you sure?”
The words were whispered, yet Seungkwan’s response was quieter - a simple nod with eyes choosing to find their fate on his lips rather than in his palm. Within a moment, Hansol was no more a victim to longing.
“Okay,” left his mouth in a breath, and his hand - the one studied by the Prince - moved to the cinched waist it rested near. He pulled only slightly, but the body in his grasp moved like a feather - wanting in its surrender. Hansol’s chest was the only thing that stopped him from pulling Seungkwan any closer.
It was impossible, then, to not take advantage of his open hand and smooth away the worry that presented itself in Seungkwan’s forehead, hidden beneath his bangs. It was a fair caress on the side of Seungkwan's face that had been neglected before, moving along his hairline to hold as much of him as he could: ending where both the hair and neck met between his fingers. And as Hansol finally lowered to meet the Prince at his level, a visible shiver ran down the other’s body, eyes fluttering shut. Eyelashes, thick and long, now resting right above his cheekbones: Let me in. – I’m trying.
He understood, now. As Seungkwan’s lips moved with his: the offer - an admission - to being agreeable.
To cause a scene was irony in its own: heads are turned at the mere mention of a prince. And yet Hansol remembered Seungkwan, younger than he was now though all the same, charming his way through the Royal Balls. However, like fading memory, never leaving a guest with the satisfaction of getting to return home saying they know the Prince. Untouchable in the permission to look, to interpret, to observe, and to judge. But never feeling the texture from the brush bristles, holding the artist’s fingertips, understanding the inspiration: this was the offer’s fine print.
Hansol was just as greedy.
God , did he want.
To be able to say he’s spent time learning and unlearning the Prince. That he’s been discovering the details, piecing them together, using them as a guide to learn more. To show the Prince what he’s found, to be able to say “I know you” and have the Prince respond “You do”. To have been awarded the luxury of watching Seungkwan in those crowded ballrooms, moving from guest to guest, and of watching him here in this secluded bedroom where only they stand, pressed even tighter, now at will to the movement of only their own bodies.
You can be all things , was written on his lips as he pressed in harder, deeper. Hands clutching the white fabric and wrinkling it in his fist.