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Jisung had been a thirteen year old teenager when he found himself stumbling through one of the gardens of the Han family’s vast castle. His older sister had told him this particular garden carried a rare array of flowers varying from different shapes and colors. She said she travelled long miles in order to meticulously pick and choose each plant, worked harder on harvesting them and maintaining their glory. Even though his sister was to be queen she had been adamant on caring for this garden herself.
“First thing you should do after retrieving your seedling: rid it of all previous energies; treat it as you would a deck of oracle cards,” Her eyes had glistened in thoughtfulness.“The flowers will sense your presence, soak in your energy.”
“Secondly, You should not start planting until you have set your intentions—this part is crucial to the whole process. Gardening is not as simple as watering your plants and letting them go. They are life and they become a part of you. They breathe in your emotions, translating them visually. Your flower will borrow some of your vibrancy and blossom at your happiness, your flower will wither at your sorrows; ashening as though mourning the sweet pollen of your joy.”
Jisung had been fascinated by that notion; having his very own flower as one would have a best friend.
He had wandered on his clumsy, fawn-like legs through row after row, each one much more extravagant and colorful than the next. He could feel himself getting dizzy from the bursting mix of scents. His lungs were taking double their usual intake of air, greedily gulping more of the sweetened oxygen.
He could remember the exact turns he had made.Two rights and a left before he saw it.
It sat idly by a billowing fig tree. It had been the easiest thing to miss, easier to be enthralled with the divinity of the myriad of blushing figs hanging repetitively on each thick branch but once it caught your eye it was very, very hard to miss.
It was the type of beauty he was taken aback from.
Throughout the prince’s life he had struggled with the definition of beauty, it had seemed to harbour such a fickle meaning. Many things were deemed as beautiful by so many people but he didn't really think it was a word to be said with such ease.
The object of his attention was a singular peony—porcelain white below the shadow, it glinted beneath the touch of the sun like a pearl, its petals blushing a dusted pink, sprouting sporadically from within its core, color climbing teasingly through the rest of the flower.
Besides its subjective magnificence; that wasn't what truly pulled him towards it. Rather the cloud of energy he felt gusting around it like a glittering fog, his nostrils had picked up on the smell and wouldn’t relent until it found the source. It was so very lonesome. Away from the other fully pinked peonies, guarded in the protective shadow of the tree, peering to the side a little as if wanting to prove its existence. The flower’s beauty resided in its diligence, in its inexplicable desire for acknowledgement.
The true essence of its beauty was the solid fact of the peony knowing it’s beautiful.
He had made his way to it, tentative and wary, afraid of scaring it into oblivion.
It was heart-wrenchingly prettier up close but much more fragile. He cupped its side with his right hand, gasping at its softness. He could feel its effects already, a silent hum thrumming in his veins, his entire body.
This would be his flower. He had finally understood what his sister meant, could already feel the transfer of his energy as it seeped out of him and buried itself deep into its leaves down to its roots.
He had taken it to his room that night. Carefully tucked in a pretty pale pot in the corner of his double height window. His entire chambers were engrossed with its fruity scent, a confident fusion of roses with an underlying muskiness similar to that of jasmines.
He would not keep it out of his sight during the first few weeks, opting for staring at it all night, reading his stories by its side. The peony’s contentedness was tangible; its smell addictively tart. It engulfed him with its floral wafts like a vice grip.
Jisung had been sixteen when his peony crumbled in on itself. The once icy petals turned a decaying green, its sweetness turned rotten and sour. If someone were to ask him what and when this had happened, he would have been stomped.
There had been something wrong with him spiritually, his sister said when he came to her embarrassed.
Perhaps it was a stumble in a step or a word out of line. Maybe he changed when he became too aware of the imperfections he had acquired, the ones twirling around his body like poisonous ivy; thorny and throttling. Maybe things tumbled down when he learned about death and religion and what believing in those mythologies entailed, what type of person he wanted to become, whatever he could do to make his small insignificant life significant. Jisung was a prince but he would never rule. He would never join the knights because he wasn’t a fighter. He supposed he had been so buried under his utter uselessness it took his flower down with him.
Jisung had been twenty one when he met Lee Minho. It was after the dull events of the coronation of his sister which had happened earlier than anyone had anticipated—the suddenness of the King and Queen’s deaths left the entire kingdom feeling untethered—off kilter, distressed and doubtful of pledging their allegiance to the young crown princess barely in her mid twenties. She had proven herself worthy in spite of their haughty opinions as she stepped up to take her birthright position, without a sliver of hesitance, her stance that of a Queen’s. Her tears went unshed as she wielded the angry grief he knew was convulsing in her chest and utilised it as a show of strength. Undeterred in the face of struggle; for her people, for her family and especially for Jisung.
His meeting with Lee Minho had taken place in the kingdom’s meeting room, infamous for its insanely elongated table—almost six metres long, made out of the wood of a walnut tree. A dome shaped ceiling donned with a thousand tiny, glass windows reflected the sunlight, creating diamond patterns across the entire room.
The queen had sat at the head of the table, Jisung standing petulantly in front of her—miles between them both figuratively and literally. A man with silver armour stood next to her. He was eyeing Jisung with askance, his chin raised proudly, broad shoulders perfectly proportional to his visibly strong exterior.
“Jisung.” She had called to him in her sweet voice, the one she used for her little brother not prince Jisung. It was one of the rare times she allowed herself a bit of delicacy. She had introduced the man; his name was Lee Minho, his family was middle class and he would be assigned as his personal guard. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, saying he needed him now that she would be too busy ruling a kingdom to do it herself. Talking and ordering him around had been a new constant in their lives, he was exhausted. She wouldn’t listen to any of his protests, “You have to understand, you must understand. This is your duty.” She repeated, repeated and repeated herself a thousand times until his words died in his throat, until he could no longer see any exit from this situation.
He had been equal parts humiliated and endeared by it.
The armed man had moved to his side at the direct order of the queen. He was to answer to Jisung now—although gauging by the way he slightly towered over him, not with height but a veil of deep rooted authority, the prince felt anything but control over this guard. No it was the complete opposite, he was rendered too frail—in need of a watchful eye. Shame ran as hot as coals at the back of eyes.
“Your highness.” Had been the first words the guard had spoken to him, expertly catching Jisung’s eyes with his. The word beautiful buried itself deep under his tongue; he had to dig his teeth in order to keep it inside. Minho was clearly around his age, a tad older— maybe by a couple of years. His cheekbones seemed to have been cut from marble and doused in the most prestigious lacquer in the kingdom. His fire was a hefty cherry red so evident. Jisung’s eyes burned from such potent eye contact, blinking rapidly in recovery. He imagined if it went on for any longer the man could set the entire room ablaze with a single flutter.
“Han Jisung.” The prince answered belatedly, “Call me Jisung, please.” He hated being called nicknames he didn’t live up to. He was only Jisung. A normal person with a normal name and undeserving of such glamorous titles.
“Okay,” there hadn’t been a trace of shock on the man’s face. “Shall I escort you to your chambers, Han Jisung?” The prince’s name lolls out of his mouth leisurely—a smooth, lazy attempt at testing out his name’s constants and vowels, he said it like he intended on using it well and often. A promise of savouring this request honestly.
Lee Minho, twenty three years of age, Han Jisung’s personal guard from this day onward had flashed him a most remarkable smile—full of teeth, full of mischief.
It was nauseating.
The velvet smooth way this man had slithered into Jisung’s life was unrealistic. Jisung was cursed, he was under a spell, it was impossible. He could not be feeling this way, it was absolutely sardonic.
The lines between both men blurred and it was in a blink of an eye—or perhaps ages, before high ranked guard Lee Minho became Minho hyung and the youngest prince of Han castle became Jisungie.
Minho’s abrasive attitude and sharp tongue should have had him cowering away from the man. Minho’s presence was supposed to be restricting, his job was to contain the young prince, keep him alone and away from danger, away from matters unseemly of a prince. And yet, it couldn’t have been further from reality. Minho had made him feel liberated. The older man’s distinct strangeness made Jisung feel befitting of the skin he possessed for once. It was as if nothing he articulated jarred the older.
He was solid as a rock, and Jisung’s never ending tales were the waterfall crashing again and again against him. Minho was unshakable, impossible to deter, impossible to get under his skin.
During the nights when the prince had been too heckled with nightmares to sleep—haunted by the ghost of his parents. The guard took Jisung to secret spots on the outskirts of town and told him to keep it between them. It was nothing like any friendships he ever made, it was different. There were shreds of intimacy shrouded in this act they were a part of, a sultry lilt in the way Minho kept pronouncing his name—prolonging the word suggestively. They had made their fair share of secrets together; something special, secretive— solely to the pair. They spent those restless nights chatting. As per usual it was mostly the young prince gossiping whilst Minho laughed his high laugh straight into his ears and into the purple sky, piping in to give him a uniquely phrased comment now and then.
This had become their new normal. Jisung got used to the proximity. Minho’s loitering shadow 5 feet behind him had become a comfort. Welcomed.
What had not been normal though, was a specific night. The night of Han Jisung’s 22nd birthday.
The prince had been too overwhelmed with the poshness of the royal party. The queen had taken it upon herself to host the best gathering to honour her only brother. He was grateful for her care but he could only do so many concessions before he wanted to rip his own skin.
He only had to give Minho a single pleading glance before his hand was taken and they were leaving.
“Minho? What about the party? We can’t leave without reason!” He had shouted in whispers , a bit panicked.
“You have fallen ill my prince and you are in dire need of my direct assistance.” He raised his eyebrow at him, willing him to play along. Jisung’s insides were drowning in giddiness, astounded by the older’s carefulness.
“Of course.” He complied with ease. Being with Minho was the easiest thing.
They had found themselves cooped up snuggly in the huge armchair situated in Jisung’s balcony, connected right next to his room. The sky was a droopy grey, the moon a shocking dollop of light in the midst of its vastness.
“Happy birthday Jisungie.” Minho had broken the silence first. He cradled Jisung’s wrist with his hand, thumb rubbing circles against his pulse point. It was calm despite the thunderstorm awakening in his brain.
“I have to ask you something.” He had to ask, had been wanting to ask for too long but there was never an adequate time. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” He hesitated a bit at the end, his words becoming quieter. It didn’t matter, Minho would hear him either way.
“I would.” Minho supplied casually, his easy acceptance of this appalled Jisung. It didn’t surprise him.
“It’s embarrassing, you can't laugh but you can say no,” he added the last bit hastily. “Hyung, I want you to take my virginity.” There it was. He actually uttered those words. This lingering thought that had been caught in his throat like toffee—dangerously honeyed and painstakingly sticky.
“Why me?” There were traces of bemusement in his tone which was more than unusual for Minho. Jisung began rethinking everything.
“Because I want to know what it's like, why it's such a big deal,” he explained. “And you're you and I trust you.” He hadn't been sure then—not really—if that was the unfiltered, raw truth. He could have asked Chan, he could have asked anyone he wanted. He was a prince. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to have sex with anyone. Though envisioning touching and being touched by someone other than Minho made him sick with nerves.
Minho was Jisung’s guard for god's sake; at least the prince knew he wouldn’t hurt him. Never. He spent so many restless nights thinking about how it would play out, how the feared guard would handle him; gently—patiently guiding him through each step with that perfect cadence of his voice—reserved for when they were alone. How freeing it might be to let himself go completely; vulnerability on display to one person exclusively.
“Are you sure? I need you to be sure about this.” Minho’s gaze could cut through him. His hand left his wrist to tug a hair behind his ear. Jisung was suddenly hyperaware of every miniscule detail, the humidity in the air, the scratchiness of the blanket beneath them and the undeniable shift in energy. Minho’s touch already felt a hundred times more intimate than usual. He leaned into it instinctively.
“Yes hyung, I’m sure,” he stared at the mole on the man’s nostril. “It's just sex, not a big deal…” He tried being suave about this, tried hiding the shiver in his voice. It was futile—pathetic even to attempt such an attitude with Minho. He saw right through him which again proved that the older man was the perfect person to ask.
Minho gave him an “if you say so” once-over but kept his mouth shut nonetheless, taking mercy on the younger. “So you want me to make love to you Jisungie?” He teased him as he leaned into his space again.
“Shut up and take me to bed.” Jisung pushed their shoulders together.
“Lead the way, your highness.” His smile was infectious, if not a little solemn. Still, he was glad for this, glad for normalcy.
How devastatingly mistaken he was.
It had happened then.
Right after Minho gave him a kiss goodbye. His once shrivelling peony fluttered awake, its dusty petals ruffled back to their pearly sheen and the pinks blossomed in bigger patches. It was an aching beauty, heavy on his chest, maiming him restless for hours to come.
The true meaning of beauty had solidified to him in twice consecutive instances that night.
The First had been witnessing the unravelling of Lee Minho: the of his mouth—slightly agape as he scrunched his eyes shut, little beads of sweat crystallised against the paleness of his skin like dew on a leaf.
The Second had been witnessing as life seeped back into his flower—its drab pot filled with song and a haze of mist swirled around its orbit, isolating it from lurking ugliness.
Jisung had known it like he knew the stars gleamed in the dark. He knew and he wanted to forget so badly. He had been changed—not that he wasn’t a virgin anymore—but because his flower had; it had remained unchanged for years, even when he tried his best to talk to it, entertain it, willing it with his eyes to come back to him. He was sure his emotions were sincere yet all his attempts were in vain.
The lonseome peony humming quietly in front of him had finally accepted part of his spirit. It was a blushing mess of color. It was full of love.
Minho never lied.
He had made love to him.
Jisung was twenty four now.
Two years had passed since his birthday night, two years since he had fallen and failed to claw his way back. Two years since they had been seeking each other out more often than they should.
All Jisung had to do was smile smally at his guard before Minho was coming up with an excuse to lead him to his chambers—His sister was worried about the alarming times he had had the flu—They didn’t always make it to his rooms. Minho took him to secluded rooftops brimming with golden lights, a small wooden cabin hiding between tall trees at the edge of the river and each location had rivalled the other with its impeccable scenery; Minho was romantic in this detached, nonchalant way. From afar it seemed as if they were forbidden paramours going on trysts whenever they could. Their exchange of touches was reverent and their words unspoken, pleading eyes meeting ravenous ones again and again.
The prince had had sex with other people—Minho hated hearing about those stories. They weren’t bad per se, yet still they lacked considerably. None of them had ever come close to satisfying him; they either asked too many questions, or he had to stifle too many sounds—fake some even more. To put it simply, they just weren’t Minho.
It was mid-October, a cold inconspicuous Tuesday.
They had agreed to meet in Jisung’s rooms around noon. The prince thought it was another insinuation for sex but the guard wouldn’t look at him, unusual hard lines buried between his eyebrows.
It was a good few minutes after noon—Jisung worried out of his mind when Minho came through the doors. His face was flushed red from exertion. He had been running.
The serious expression on his face was wiped upon seeing the bundle of stress that was Jisung. “Jisungie.” He beelined in his direction, the younger got up to meet him halfway.
He was secured in arms of steel. Minho’s heady scent was a delicacy. Jisung whined audibly when he retracted his body—the embrace ending too quickly. At least he seemed apologetic.
“I need to talk to you. I had to talk to you first.” The older’s features crumbled into a grave expression. “I want you to hear it from me.” His voice was hoarse. Jisung finally took notice of the state he was in. Dishevelled hair, usually pristine armour askew and a scroll of parchment in his left hand.
“What? What is it? Are you okay?” He was asking too many questions but he was incredibly lost.
“I’m leaving. The queen gave me a higher position outside of the country.” He winced as he said it, the words stinging his tongue. “I am to become a knight.”
The floor tilted beneath Jisung. No, it split. A huge irreparable rupture, daring to pull him under.
He couldn’t speak. Minho was squinting at him—watchful as if expecting Jisung to explode any second.
“I refused, I really tried to. But the queen—your sister didn’t think there was a plausible enough reason to refute such a privilege.” He explained helplessly. This was very uncharacteristic of him; it made Jisung light-headed. “I told her I’d do it if she let me pick your new guard. She agreed.”
“What the fuck are you even saying Minho.” This was insane, this wasnt real. This was impossible. What new guard. Minho was his guard and would be forever.
“Don’t you worry I chose him already. His name’s Felix, he’s my cousin.” He avoided Jisung’s question weakly, “Nice guy I promise.”
“I don't care if he’s nice, I don't care if he's your cousin. You're the only guard I will accept,” his voice was getting higher, more hurried. “The only one I want.” This part went a lot quieter, more of a whisper. A dichotomy between its frail delivery and the heavy meaning it carried.
He wanted Minho. Not only as his guard—someone who works for him. He wanted him in the way lovers wanted each other in the plays he had watched. He wanted that sort of affection, the sort that came with warm hearted cheek pinches and featherlight touches. The sort of care which was conveyed with mutual physical contact; bone crushing hugs brimming with emotion, hands interlacing—gentle sweetness bursting at the seams from the simple innocence of it, thoughtful palm on palm, thumb in tact with the line of the other and passing giggles at the imperceptible size difference. He craved for the giddiness of love. Love.
Love he had been holding so dear to himself for far too long it had been carved within the bones of his ribcage.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it. The ship is leaving tomorrow morning.” Minho’s lips quivered. They fucking quivered. In what alternate reality were they existing and having this ridiculous conversation. “I owe you this, I owe you a farewell worthy of yourself.”
“You mean too much to me Jisungie.” Emotion was drowning his sentence.
The dam broke.
This was too sudden. Minho. His Minho was leaving him in less than a day. He thought he'd have more time. He thought they had all the time in the world. They should’ve had more time, how dare Minho force this on him? How can the prince possibly begin to articulate what he feels for him, what he had been feeling for this man every day since he met him.
“Minho—you can’t leave me.” I love you, I love you he wanted to say, his eyes burned. He was already too late.
“I love you.” He said it either way. A pathetic, saddened phrase. He never would’ve imagined himself saying it like this—defeated and embarrassed.
Minho physically flinched.
“I love you too much,” he continued, realising this was hurting Minho. “with every aching breath of mine.” His face was blotchy, reddening in an obscure mix of crimson and peach, tears as big as globes formed against his waterline weighing it down, they tumbled down slowly but steadily against the plump of his cheeks.
Minho took a laboured breath as he stepped back, anguish slumping his shoulders.
Jisung wrung his hands out uselessly— gracelessly like a man with nothing and everything to lose at once. “I love you. I loved you way before you fucking touched me.” He didn’t know where all this honesty was coming from but it felt good, his heart was burning with the relief of letting his shameful secrets out. “That was the reason I asked you to be my first, I thought you would’ve had that figured out by now.” For someone as quick witted as Minho he was surprisingly slow at this.
The prince had been sullied with love prior to his birthday night. He was beyond any help before Minho showed him all the ways he could love and be loved, before they tarnished their relationship with unabashed lust. It was only a matter of time before they let it consume them.
“Jisung.” Minho was holding himself up against his dressing table, eyes wide, knuckles white.
Jisung answered to his name by walking directly to the man in front of him. “Please.” He was speaking straight into his throat—the pretty hollow of his throat, the one he had kissed obsessively. “Please, Minho.” His hands curled with the collar of his shirt, clutching and unclutching the unperturbed fabric as if he could squeeze answers out of it.
Jisung’s lips were bitten raw from his gnawing teeth, wincing at the metallic taste it left in his mouth, they searched for the antidote in the plump pair right in front of them, his favorite shade—a darkened fuchsia.
His greedy mouth fit perfectly in between Minho’s. The relief was immediate; he could cry. The iciness of the older’s lips soothed the tender skin of his own like the most thoughtful caress, like salt on an open wound. It burned so badly. That would not deter him.
Their lips moved in synchrony. Jisung’s salty tears joining the kiss, making it wetter, more sloppy. It was delicious. Each tear tasted of a memory uniquely theirs, memories only they'd remember. A particularly salty one brought him back to the first night they had kissed on his balcony. Minho had taken him to bed upon the prince’s request, said he would take care of Jisung the way he deserved.
Minho's hands hover around the younger’s sides for a second before nature took over and he engulfed Jisung’s body completely, molding him into himself, crushing his windpipes and bruising his ribs. The older’s breath was searing hot, marking and piercing through the layers of his flushed skin. Their bodies melted into each other.
More. Jisung was getting impatient. He pushed Minho on the bed, tears streaming stickily. “More—“ He heaved, an ever present stutter in his breath. He started taking his clothes off, ripping them in his hurry. He was left in his measly underwear as he deliberately stood there, allowing Minho a few moments to savour this scene: Prince Jisung, fully vulnerable in front of him one last time.
He gestured at Minho to do the same. Quickly, they had to be quicker. He needed this, he needed him, he needed to have him like this. He must have looked like a crazy person; Minho’s eyes softened at him—placating. He hated it, hated it so much. He didn’t want the older’s pity.
The man complied nonetheless, ridding himself of his clothing piece by piece. The prince climbed onto his lap languidly, fingers grazing his crotch, featherlight but intentional. Minho’s nostrils twitched.
Jisung’s hands locked around Minho’s neck softly, thumbs resting on his jaw as he looked him straight in the eyes and beyond that, he finally saw Minho, saw him and his insecurities, wondering what had led them to this moment. He reached for him methodically—naturally, the way they have always handled each other with ease and trust.
“Are you—“ Minho started to ask.
“I’m ready. I thought you were coming for sex.” He interrupted. He barely noticed whether the man was lined up correctly before he was dragging his body down.
Down
Down and down again until he was so full of the other he could hardly breathe; overwhelmed with the suddenness of the intrusion and high on the sharp pain lighting up in his lower back. A fresh batch of tears drowned his face.
He barely gave his body time to adjust before he was quickening his pace, rocking back and forth over and over until his thighs were trembling with the effort of his movements. Still he didn’t relent. He loved it too much to stop, loved the dual pain of being both split open and tiring out his body.
He was grateful for it in the way it instantly diluted the pain his heart lurched with.
Minho’s pleasured moans spurred him on, motivating his drags. He was fucking himself on his guard’s cock like nothing they had done before; varying from messy bouncing to laboured grinding.
He was growing weaker but he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied. Minho noticed the strain in his movement. The prince was losing grasp of whatever rhythm he was trying to maintain. His feline eyes raked over his shaky legs, smoothing them with his gaze as he reached out, softly cupping the plush of his inner thighs, grasping the fat in between his thumb and index finger before travelling further up. caressing his hips up to the curve of his waist, manoeuvring his skilled hands downward to where they were connected.
Jisung shivered. Minho was being too tender, it sent him mixed signals, made him believe he was cared for beyond just sex, beyond their bonded bodies.
“Jisung… Jisung baby let me take over.” He rasped, voice thick in his throat. He wrapped an entire arm around Jisung’s waist, lifting him up an inch. “Let me fuck you now okay?”
“No. Stop making decisions for me. I want this. I have to do this, please let me.”
“You already did so well Jisungie, let me take care of you alright?” if Jisung wasn’t already crying he would have surely started bawling because here was Minho; crushing his walls, destroying his barricades. He repeated this fucking sentence. The same one he had said two years ago.“Let me take care of you. Let me fuck you the way you deserve baby”
It was so unfair, so fucking unfair to be known this well by someone because fuck did letting go feel good: allowing Minho to hoist him up and around whilst cradling his head with his calloused palms, gently laying him on the silken sheets. Minho’s face was painted with infatuation; like he couldn't believe what he was witnessing. “My doll,” he murmured inaudibly; a normal person wouldn’t be able to hear it but Jisung would because he had been hanging on to every word that left the older man's lips for years. “You are beautiful,” he sealed it with an open mouthed peck to his lips, “So fucking beautiful.” This one was accompanied with a nip at his collarbones. Jisung hissed at the contact however he didn't have time to register the bite before it was being soothed with a warm tongue.
“I have always loved you Hannie” He bottomed out as he confessed and Jisung’s brain was too sluggish to comprehend what he was hearing because it couldn't be that.
Minho’s thrusts were timed better than the prince’s previous ones, he fucked him deeply, dragging himself in and out of Jisung at a notorious pace. He wanted the younger to memorise the shape of him, to imprint himself inside.
He was branding him. Ruining him for anybody else.
Minho was a selfish, selfish man.
Jisung loved him for it more.
They reached their climax at the same time, gasping in each other’s mouths. Minho’s body hovered over his for a minute. His hands snaked across his stomach, spreading the mess they made between themselves before bringing his glistening fingers to Jisung’s mouth, heavy lidded eyes gleamed tauntingly at his own. Jisung took the offered hand with both of his; dutifully licking every last bit of themselves clean.
“Minho…” Jisung drawled, his head was too fuzzy, too fucked out to make sense of what words they had exchanged, of what made this time so different from every other time. He could feel a palpable shift, as if they finally found the last piece of their million-piece transparent puzzle. Here they were snuggly slotting the last piece together.
Reality snuck up on him too quickly as he felt the familiar wetness of Minho wiping him clean, the blurriness cleared up and in its stead the horror of what Minho had told him settled in.
He shifted away from Minho with speed, going to the farthest corner on the bed. He tucked his knees into his chest. He lost his tears, opting for little sniffles every few seconds.
“I’m sorry.” Minho began.
“Don’t. Don't apologise to me, you don't owe me anything.” Jisung snapped. “You would be stupid not to take the position.” He sighed inwardly. It was true but as much as he hated the idea of Minho going away, he would be an idiot to let this opportunity go. Minho was an amazing friend but he was an even more amazing soldier. He shone in his silver armour; the crude—careless way he yielded his foot long sword made the ones around him underestimate what he could do before he swiftly unsheathed it, the quick movement of his dexterous hands impossible to keep up with. The man took his duties to the kingdom seriously. It was not surprising why his sister would choose him for the job.
Jisung was proud of him. Though he was beneath admitting that aloud.
“Okay, if that’s what you want. I won't apologise anymore.” He shifted his weight on the mattress until Jisung was within arm’s reach, “But I'll have you know that I do owe you, and you have to listen to me. I have to tell you everything I couldn't before.” He sat next to him, knees knocking with his own.
“It baffled me, because every rich snob in this kingdom did things for their own gain. Upon taking this job I thought you would be the same but from the first few clumsy steps you took into that meeting room, I knew you were oceans apart. You are effortlessly good Jisung, you are so good I was scared for you, scared of people taking advantage of you, of grappling with your emotions.” He sighed, “I was glad I was your guard, I wouldn't trust anyone with this job. You were always so gullible, blinded with the world you created for yourself, a place where evil didn’t exist. I loved it, it was enchanting. And I loved you when you gave me a place in it, as if I deserved it, as if you wanted me a part of your bubble. I wanted you and I'll continue wanting you well after everything.” His voice was raw, teetering on helplessness. Jisung’s tears were a distant thing.
He intertwined their hands together, perfectly warm and so very safe. “Please understand that my love for you is honest and it is wholly real. I never thought of what we had as wrong, and I do not regret choosing you. I’m rambling because I needed you to know you were loved. This fancy town had never felt like home to me, not until you came and shaped it into a semblance of a home.” Minho dragged them down against the headboard, shifting his and Jisung’s rigid body; forcing him to face his treacherous amorous eyes, “you're my home, the warmest home. My Hannie, I love you. I love you, I wanted to confess my truth to you. It has always been you.”
Jisung allowed Minho to hold him close to his chest, allowed him to pepper kisses atop his hair and allowed him to murmur stories as he was dozing off. And as he was slowly escaping consciousness he caught hold of the last syllables escaping Minho's mouth, something vaguely akin to: “I love you so much.”
He accepted the truth.
“I love you.” He whispered into his chest. “I love you.” again, forever.
The truth which was and always will remain pure: Jisung loved Minho and Minho loved him back.
It was around midnight when Jisung came to. His body felt like a taut bag full of gritty bones. A mind numbing headache must have creeped up on him from all the crying.
Right.
The side of his bed was cold. It seemed to have been vacant for long hours. A piece of parchment laying instead of the man he was in love with. But it wasn’t any piece of paper; it was the one he had seen in the older’s hand when he had come panting.
His hands trembled in their haste to unlatch the paper, misery clawing at him.
A letter.
Dearest Prince Han Jisung,
Jisungie.
Is it selfish that I kept you all for myself? I think you're the most beautiful person ever and I feel saddened to think very few people know it or at least appreciate it half as much as I want to.
I am sorry for it. I am sorry for all the time we had wasted thinking we weren't enough for each other when I was positive you were all I ever wanted, needed and desired. Would it be odd to say that the mere sight of you shook me to the core? you left me off balanced—hanging on a thread. You loved how steady I was, how deft my movements were but you are observant, aren’t you?
Did you notice the tremor that grilled through me whenever our skins touched, your touch left me swaying light headed; left me drunk on it for the rest of the day. Never have you ever left my mind, not even after the hurtful words you spoke, not even after the tragic way you picked your sentences, how do you do it?—I think of myself as a coward now as the only way I could muster the courage to ask you is through this messy letter. But here it is: Do your lips choose to be so sullen all the time? For how long can you tolerate the bitter feeling they leave. I kissed them sweet a lot of times, do you know how much I had been dreaming about it before you asked me? I hope we wiped all things unsavoury and cruel from our lips today.
I remember the first time I brought you to Moon’s pub; you wouldn’t stop complaining about color coordinating your wardrobe. I wanted to cut you off and kiss you stupid until your words became a garbled mess of my name and incredulous babble about forgetting whatever you were insinuating, but I loved your voice more, deep and sugared like you have never known how to darken your tone. I think it was probably due to all the tutoring you had but you always spoke strictly correct English, flawless grammer and confusing vocabulary all the same. You were a born speaker. I wondered why you did it so little around anyone other than me, they think you are so thoughtless do they not? I also wondered if that bothered you....I guess I ponder about a lot of the things I think would have bothered you and ultimately bother me too, I want you to know that it bothered me when you feigned nonchalance over an out of pocket comment thrown your way from a pathetic loser unworthy of your pretty thoughts, I was bothered when you held my hand to stop me from retorting and thus risk cracking my pristine cold image. I swear sometimes you were worse than me when it came to this. Why were you so afraid for my reputation than that of yours? Why was it considered shameful to protect someone you cared for?
I’m sorry it’s a bit ironic of me, seeing as I am the one who’s leaving. I am so helplessly sorry Jisung, I can’t stop saying it, can’t stop feeling sorry for myself, for you and us—what we could have been. I want to hold you and drown you in apologetic words and senseless explanations but I know you'd hate that. If we ever encounter each other again (and I've never been more sure of something) I want to kiss you first, callous accusations and hurt later please. I am in no position to ask any favours but I can't help it, you are all my brain ever seems to mull about.
I want you more than my dark ink can give, more than my trembling fingers can form into legible cursives. I want to see you again so badly I might explode. I’m sorry, sorry. I am so sorry.
I really do love you, every little inch perhaps.
P.S. you’re most precious whilst sleeping baby.
Yours always, Royal knight Lee Minho.
Minho hyung.
Through the soft mutters of the wind, a breeze was caught against the canopy of the prince’s balcony.
A dainty pearl of a peony withered, petal after petal simultaneously disintegrating and peeling until it was a naked stem.