Young One (1/2)
Title: Young One
Pairing: Sukai
Genre: royal!au, servant!au
Rating: R
Length: 18,100 words
Summary: There is no one in the world Jongin is more devoted to than the prince who saved his life.
Warnings: Brief mention of slave trade and dirty old men.
Notes:
1 Watanabe Keiko is Irene from Red Velvet. I just didn't think her English or Korean names were suited to the plot :)
2 If it means anything, I consider FKA twigs' "Papi Pacify" the official soundtrack to this story. I wrote the entire thing listening to it.
The slit of the lady's dress cuts all the way up to her left hipbone. The silk of it is red, lustrous, like the skin of a cherry. It clings to her small waist as though it were wet.
Jongin eyes it from underneath his eyelashes. A gown of this kind seems inappropriate for a first meeting. Something blue, perhaps; mild and airy, like the one Nana had been wearing the day she'd met Chanyeol. But this red, red like the lip rouge of a second concubine, seems nothing short of suggestive.
Delicately, the guest drapes one of her long, white limbs over the other. Her breasts heave over her strapless neckline, and the stones at her neck glisten in the light. A glossy fingernail traces the rim of her wine glass. That's when Jongin notices it's empty.
He reaches for the decanter of rosé on the table next to him, just as he hears his murmured name.
"Your Highness," Jongin replies instantly. He approaches the table for two with discretion, ingrained into him by years in service. His footsteps barely make a sound. "More wine?"
"Just for the lady, please, Jongin." Intelligent almond eyes meet his, turning up ever-so-slightly at the corners. "I've had enough for the evening."
And then, for a split second, Jongin sees the grin.
Ah, he thinks to himself, deciphering the hidden meaning. He's mastered all the little cues and quirks that give the prince's true motives away. This one means, simply, how dull this is.
A smile twitches, round and minuscule, behind Jongin's lips. But he keeps it to himself, because he knows his place. In a moment, he's filled one crystal glass with the fragrant pink wine. Not a drop spilt.
The lady cocks a painted eyebrow. "Come, Joonmyun," she exclaims, with a disbelieving sort of amusement. "It's not even midnight. Surely you aren't going to make me drink by myself?" Her eyes dance over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip of rosé.
Jongin bites his tongue. He also thinks it inappropriate for a stranger to address the prince by his given name. But the lady-a princess, from Japan-acts as though they have known each other since infancy.
The familiarity of royals.
The prince laughs, attempts to cajole her. "By all means, no, Keiko. I'll keep you company if you plan to finish the wine." A chuckle puffs in his throat. "But I'd prefer a less alcoholic drink. Keep my wits about me."
His eyes glimmer in the yellow light. Jongin could spot the mischief in them a mile away.
"I was told you were a great lover of wine, prince," the lady says coyly. "My mother sent over this bottle especially for you."
"And I hope you will convey my deepest thanks to Lady Watanabe," Joonmyun replies. "To explain, I was up at dawn today to oversee some work in the palace, and didn't know you would be coming to call." He smiles at her, flirting without real sincerity. "Otherwise, I would have planned to be less exhausted, and more at your disposal."
Keiko reaches across the table. Her fingers graze the back of the prince's hand. "I am at your disposal." When she traces the veins that emboss his skin, Joonmyun's thumb tics. "Shall I entertain you?"
Jongin turns away then. He retreats from the table, taking the decanter with him. He knows how the unwed royals entertain each other.
"Unfortunately," he hears in his periphery, "I have another early start tomorrow-even earlier, in fact. And while I would love to spend more time in your presence, I think it would be wiser for me to retire tonight." The words are cloaked in another smile. "Forgive me."
"Ah." The sound of rustling fabric signals the lady has pulled back. "Then I suppose it can't be helped." Her voice has flattened somewhat, although it has lost none of its seductive quality.
"I will see you another time, Keiko," she is assured with winking charm. And then: "Jongin?"
A step away from his position in the shadows, Jongin halts. The wine sloshes against the glass of the decanter between his hands.
"Yes, Your Highness," he murmurs, spinning back around but keeping his eyes on the pale marble floor.
"May I ask you to run a bath for me?" The tone is gentler now, more amiable. "I'll be taking one as soon as I've seen the princess out."
"Certainly, Your Highness." Jongin bows. His hair falls into his eyes. "Right away." He places the decanter on its table and moves to step out of the dining room.
It's not fast enough to miss Keiko's next words.
"Beautiful specimen, your manservant," she directs to Joonmyun, taking little care to modulate her voice. She sounds bored-the way all shallow, frivolous royals without a pursuit are bored. "Can I buy him from you?"
Jongin flinches, drawing in a sharp, silent breath. Blood charges his temples, hot with humiliation.
"A trunk of pearls?" Keiko offers, light and breezy. "Two?"
"He is not for sale," Joonmyun informs her. His voice is quiet, with an unmistakable undercurrent of warning. "He is a person, Keiko."
Jongin can hear the nerves in the lady's ensuing laugh.
"Oh-of course. Of course he is. Did I offend you, prince?"
"Not at all," Joonmyun replies, letting her off. There is no point in a lecture that will fall on deaf ears.
"I only meant to compliment you," Keiko gushes, quick to make reparations. "Your…friend, you see, draws the eye like a gem. Such natural, untouched beauty. Don't you agree?"
Now, all Jongin hears is the echo of his own breathing.
"Yes." Joonmyun's voice seems closer and clearer, as though he has turned in Jongin's direction. "That I do."
There isn't a mirror in sight. But Jongin can pinpoint the exact shade of red that floods the rest of his face-bright and garish, like the dye of an inappropriate dress.
He picks up the pace, exiting the room.
Water drips from the sponge in Jongin's hand and the tips of the prince's dark, soaked hair. The sound is reverent; a delicate echo in Joonmyun's private bathing area.
"Is the water warm enough, Your Highness?"
Jongin didn't want to be the first to speak, but he can see goosebumps pebbling over Joonmyun's skin.
"Yes," the prince answers. His arms rest on the sides of the tub, lean and muscled. His mind seems to be elsewhere. Without preamble, he asks, "What did you think of the princess?"
Jongin strokes the sponge over a smooth shoulder. "She was very glamorous, Your Highness."
"I'm accustomed to seeing silk of that color and diamonds of that size only at weddings. A little extravagant for supper at someone's home, wouldn't you agree?"
Jongin chuckles, passing the sponge over the other shoulder. It amuses him, the way the prince offhandedly refers to his palace as though it were a small country villa.
"And her looks?"
The little bumps have reached the prince's forearms, where the cool air hits. Jongin holds the sponge over them, one at a time, squeezing warm water from it to comfort the skin. "Beautiful, Your Highness." He does the same to Joonmyun's back, so the soap runs down it in milky rivulets.
The prince turns his head. Now Jongin can see cheekbone and chin, not just the flat of his neck. "Pay no attention to what Keiko said. I might have found you at that auction when you were barely a teenager, but you were born free, just like me and Sehun and our sister."
Jongin dips his head. Of the three children in the royal family, Joonmyun has always been the most liberal. The sponge works its way between his shoulder blades this time, making a soothing, scraping sound.
"You know that, don't you, Jongin?" The prince's voice is careful. "I only meant to take you from that godforsaken place. But…you can leave any time."
Joonmyun is as tender as he is open-minded. Particularly with his inner circle-highborn and low.
Jongin takes a moment to speak, collecting his thoughts. "You've said so, Your Highness. And I'm eternally grateful for your kindness." His voice doesn't shake. "But I would never leave you."
The sponge stops working-or rather, is stopped. Joonmyun has reached behind him to loosely, lightly, hold Jongin's wrist.
"Why not?" The words are curious.
"Because I am loyal to you," Jongin says simply.
That meets with a noncommittal hum. "And your loyalty is what keeps you here."
It's more a statement, than a question.
No, Jongin disagrees, digging his fingers into the porous matter of the sponge. But he responds with a, "Yes, Your Highness," anyway, so there is less to explain.
The prince unclasps his wrist. His arm returns to its position on the ledge of the tub. He faces forward again, so all Jongin can see is a crop of dark hair and a damp neck with a mole at its base.
"Thank you, Jongin." Joonmyun shifts in the tub. The muscles in his back bunch together, then smoothen out.
"It is nothing, Your Highness," Jongin replies. He immerses the sponge in bathwater, draws it out, and discharges the fragrant liquid across Joonmyun's shoulders, which have begun to air-dry.
The prince makes a sound of approval. He settles deeper into the water.
Jongin watches him wordlessly. But really, he confesses, buffing the sponge against Joonmyun's neck, really, my lord, it's because I love you.
⤫
At twelve, Jongin loses both his parents in a raid. Chanyeol, his brother, is thirteen.
On a day like any other, ruthless men slash and burn through their village, a knot of cottages in the emerald mountains. The women are taken for their tents; the men, killed on sight. The children are segregated into two groups-one for the army to keep, the other to be sold off as slaves.
The leader of the insurgents looks Jongin and Chanyeol up and down, soaking in the faultless skin of their mother, the pretty eyes of their father. He deliberates executing them like the rest of the adult males. They both seem much older, too capable for their ages, even though they are barely out of childhood. Innocents, by the skin of their teeth.
In the end, he lumps them in with the rest of the outgoing merchandise. "Gorgeous little brats," the leader says. Jongin will never forget his cold, cruel voice. "Strip them down when they stand for auction. Looks like these'll fetch a handsome price from old lechers."
They take a long, difficult journey down the mountains. The children are confined, and given very little to eat. Once they reach the market where the auction will be held-a rambling place, reeking of entrails and spices-Jongin's ribs are starting to show beneath his skin.
Somewhere in transit from the slavers' caravan to the auctioneer's platform, Chanyeol manages to steal a handful of berries. But when Jongin tries to wolf down his share, his brother stops him cold.
"No, Jongin, this is belladonna."
Jongin's dirt-streaked hand falls away from his lips. "Poison?" he whispers, lips shaking from hunger. "Then why?"
Chanyeol's next words are chilling. "So that if they separate us, which I think they will, and the people who buy us are bad masters, which they are likely to be, we will have a choice." He looks Jongin square in the eye. "Do you understand?"
The younger curls a loose fist around the berries; a safe pocket, to keep them from dropping. "Yes, hyung."
One by one, the children are plucked from their herd to be sold off to the highest bidder. The customers are an oily, seedy bunch: round-bellied merchants dripping in gold chains, tinted madams with rotting teeth underneath their red smiles. A wizened, flint-eyed man purchases six girls and boys in quick succession, saying, "I serve many masters."
Jongin prays and prays that he gets passed over the next round. The gnarled old geezer disgusts him. If not, he will put every single berry into his mouth and swallow. A parting gift between brothers.
But something strange-something miraculous-happens when it is his turn. The auctioneer rustles him forward by the nape of his neck, calling out his introductory price. As Jongin stands on the platform, naked, grimy, and trembling, a different sort of customer emerges from the throng.
The handsome, clean-shaven face cuts through the sea of smarm like a lighthouse. Its features are elegant, with a sort of fierceness in the eyes that confirms the power in this young man's hands. Broad shoulders give him a noble bearing, and while he is not particularly tall, he is striking-like a prince. There is a slim gold circlet resting on his crown, so Jongin surmises that's exactly what he is.
A prince.
A gasp ripples through the crowd. Suddenly, every person in the auction-including the auctioneer-is sinking to their knees.
"Your Highness," the auctioneer purrs. "It is an absolute honor-"
"I am told you have children in your selection," the young man interrupts in a clipped tone. "I am sure you are aware this sort of sale is frowned upon."
The auctioneer feigns blissful ignorance. There are only two slaves left in holding, after all-Jongin and Chanyeol-and they look every legal inch of eighteen.
"Does this one not suit, Your Highness?" The auctioneer brushes his fingertips against Jongin's chin, showing him off. "I'd planned to keep him for my own home-my wife is partial to this kind of face, you see. But for you?" He bows solicitously, bending his back as low as it will go. "A royal discount, if you are interested."
The prince's mouth stretches into a grimace. His eyes bore holes into the auctioneer's forehead. He might be a royal, but he can't be more than twenty-and it's clear the old man is playing up his lack of experience.
"Do not condescend to me, hawker."
The auctioneer bows lower still. "Not at all, Your Highness, not at all. I would never deign to."
Frustration blooms anew in the prince's face. He shoots a glance in Jongin's direction. The sad state of him, it seems, is enough to merit a double-take. Suddenly, those sharp eyes soften with pity.
Jongin squirms under his gaze. He'd been someone's beloved son just a fortnight ago-beautiful and brave and strong, just like this royal. But now…
"How much for the boy?" the prince inquires curtly, unapologetically.
The auctioneer's smirk is insufferable. "Given his superior features and physique, I can go no lower than fifty gold coins, my liege."
"You will have a hundred," the prince replies, "if that will finish the bidding once and for all." Murmurs of yes, Your Highness, vibrate along the fringes of the platform, where people are still on bended knee.
At the auctioneer's triumphant bow, the prince marches up the stage. He pulls his plush, embroidered cloak off his shoulders to wrap Jongin in it.
"My name is Joonmyun," he says gently, tugging the cords of the cloak to secure it around the boy's frame. "You don't have to be afraid of me."
With a flash of courage-and a startling display of trust-Jongin rushes out a request. "Will you take my brother, too, sir?" His plea is shaky and pathetic, because his throat is dry with thirst, and the rest of him weak from deprivation. Jongin doesn't care a whit at this point. "I cannot go anywhere with you, otherwise."
Immediately, the prince's gaze swings to Chanyeol, standing in the pit behind the stage, his hands over his privates. That noble face mellows once more, then flickers with rage, then shapes itself, finally, into resolve. Jongin follows the shift from one emotion to the next, hoping against hope.
"Of course I will," the prince assures him. "I'll take you both. Today."
He turns back to the auctioneer to discuss the transfer of Chanyeol into his care-but his hand rests squarely over the top of Jongin's arm, where the cloak won't cover the skin. Jongin senses the protection in it. Pure instinct.
Deep inside him, where the terror of the past several days has hardened into a crust over his heart, something gives a little. Eases. Melts.
"Sold!" he hears over the noise of the market.
Chanyeol shuts both eyes in relief. Jongin opens his hand then, and the poison berries tumble down to his feet, untouched.
⤫
Nana's hair streams into her face, pushed here and there by an insistent breeze. Chanyeol is trying his best to rake it away. His sweetheart has pressed a wave into each lock with a hot iron to show him (and shyly preen). He doesn't want the whole thing spoilt, if only for her sake.
But the wind swells, and Chanyeol's long, calloused fingers catch in the fine strands, tangling.
Nana laughs, bringing up her own hands to help. "You do more harm than good."
"I'm sorry," Chanyeol says helplessly. "Have I ruined it? I don't really know what I'm doing."
She unwinds his fingers from her hair, murmuring, "It's all right, I don't mind at all."
Jongin spies the kiss she presses briefly into Chanyeol's palm, and the smitten half-smile it pulls over his brother's face.
Chanyeol, today, towers over every servant in the palace. Confident, sturdy, and good with animals, he is excellently placed as the right hand to the stable master. Nana, on the other hand, is the cosmetic servant to Princess Boa (the eldest of the royals). "Nana the Fair," they call her in the downstairs halls, for her face like a painting.
Boy and girl had met the same year the brothers were found at the auction and brought to the palace. The attraction-even at that age, even under those circumstances-was instant. By the third year, they were promised, at sixteen.
Their love is quiet yet potent, like the undertow in the sea, sweeping them away into a deeper world. And Jongin is happy for them-truly happy, and so proud. But he is unspeakably lonely, because theirs is a world he may never enter. And beyond that, he is afraid, because he knows if his heart does not change, he will never have what they have.
"How are the horses?" Nana asks, toying with the short hairs on the back of Chanyeol's neck. He has flopped to his stomach on the grass, his upper body draped over her lap. Whenever they find the time, they take their midday meal in the pasture by the stables. Jongin gets dragged along most days.
"Skittish," Chanyeol tells her matter-of-factly. He takes her hand in his, letting her toy with his fingers instead. "There's a new steed in the stables. A little wild. Stable master says he just got off a ship-and he's got the others on edge."
"A horse for one of the princes?" Nana muses, her forefinger tracing an infinite loop over his knuckles.
Chanyeol shakes his head. "He belongs to the visitor."
That pricks up Jongin's ears. He wipes his mouth with a piece of linen. "What visitor, hyung?"
"A childhood friend of Prince Joonmyun's." Chanyeol looks over at him, hair in tufts from the breeze. "Did he not tell you? The man arrived today."
The prince had mentioned a visitor, come to think of it-months ago, when he was still wearing his hair a little long. But then the arranged meetings had begun at the behest of the King and Queen. A parade of wealthy, marriageable noblewomen like Watanabe Keiko had come and gone and sometimes, come again. Preoccupied with those visits-ones that potentially shortened his time by the prince's side-Jongin had let the date slip through the cracks.
"You'll meet him soon enough," Chanyeol says. He plants a kiss on Nana's knee, where the modest slit in her dress reveals a crescent of skin. She swats playfully at his mouth, and Chanyeol takes the blow with a glorious grin.
He's right, of course. At the supper bell, when Jongin comes to oversee service, there's a stranger sitting next to Joonmyun at the dining table.
"Good evening, Your Highness," Jongin murmurs, hands folded as he dips his head.
The prince smiles at him, radiating warmth. "There you are. I've been wondering where you were off to." He says it with so much affection, it sparks a treacherous heat deep within Jongin's chest.
"My apologies," he says, averting his gaze. "I didn't realize I was late."
"Not at all." Joonmyun's eyes crinkle. "We settled here hours ago to catch up. You arrived at the perfect moment."
Then he ducks his chin, lifts his eyebrows encouragingly, which means he is asking Jongin to come closer (just the way he used to, when the younger man was still a frightened child, hiding in the dusty nooks of the palace, missing his parents).
Of course Jongin follows.
"This is my friend, Yixing." Joonmyun gestures to his companion. "He's sailed halfway around the world to get here."
"Zhang Yixing," the stranger introduces himself. His voice is somewhat melodic, and his diction prettily accented, as if each word is a sweet with an exotic taste. "And you must be Jongin."
The younger unbends his body from its respectful bow. There's an attractive, open face regarding him. Probably thirty, Joonmyun's age. But the prince has always looked so much younger, childlike.
Jongin replies with flawless court etiquette. "At your service, my lord." This Zhang Yixing knows his name, which means Joonmyun has spoken of him at least once. Jongin wishes he knew exactly how he'd come up in the course of their conversation.
"Just hyung will do," Yixing responds. "I'm a wandering commoner, not a prince like our mutual friend here." He leans in towards Jongin, his body language confiding. "Does being in Joonmyun's service suit you? Or shall I take you away with me when my visit is over?"
Joonmyun scoffs. "Do not attempt to align yourself with Jongin. He is devoted to me." He glances in Jongin's direction, the look in his eyes assured. Or is it hopeful? "At least, that's what he says when I ask."
"Absolutely, Your Highness," is all Jongin permits himself. The rest of it remains unsaid. Not even Chanyeol knows of his true feelings.
Devoted to, and then some.
He notices only then that Yixing is still staring at him. The older man's face teems with interest. It's a peculiar expression, Jongin thinks-one that resembles the surface of a koi pond, flickering and rippling with the movement below.
But despite the stare pinning Jongin down, Yixing's next words are pointed not at him. Clever and knowing, the visitor's eyes shift to a different target.
"How mysterious you are, Joonmyun."
The prince is piqued. He blinks, eyelashes long and black. "In what aspect, exactly?"
A brief pause stills the conversation. Jongin takes the opportunity to busy his hands. He plucks two crystal glasses from a tray, filling them halfway with wine. The decanter holds white this time-a clear, golden liquid that smells faintly of peaches.
"Oh, nothing bad." Yixing waves a hand airily. He draws a glass towards himself by the base, smiling down at the table, expression unclear. "Just your own devotion."
⤫
At fourteen, Jongin makes up his mind to go into service.
He and Chanyeol have been living in the palace for two years. They are viewed as guests of the prince. Unorthodox guests, certainly, who choose to sleep and take their meals and help out with the drudgery downstairs, instead of residing in the special guest quarters offered to them, time and time again, and with measured tact, by Joonmyun himself.
He does insist on private schooling from Prince Sehun's tutor, who is on-hand daily. Jongin loathes the thought of being a charity case, and Chanyeol's shoulders stiffen every time the tutor arrives, face much too kindly and sympathetic for their liking. But Joonmyun will not take no for an answer.
Today is the perfect rest day-clear, warm, and idle. Chanyeol is off on errands with Nana (no doubt to fawn over her in his wordless way, as she carries out the mundane task of picking flowers for Princess Boa). Jongin has not been invited to come, which is fine by him. There is something more important he needs to do, anyway-and it's to be here, by the only lake on palace grounds, to settle something with Joonmyun.
The prince is stripped down to his undergarments in preparation for his usual swim. His skin is a pale, pale gold, oiled with rosehip for protection.
"Your Highness," Jongin ventures. "There is something I'd like to say."
Joonmyun turns to face him, interest playing on his fine features. "Go ahead."
Jongin soaks in the jut of the prince's collarbones, the carved definition of his abdominal muscles, the broad reach of his back when he bends to pour more oil into his hands.
He diverts his attention, for a moment, to the reeds swaying prettily by the lake's edge. "I would like to be of use to you."
Surprise overtakes the prince's expression. "How?"
"I..." Jongin clears his throat. "I know you find yourself without a manservant these days." The last one, Jongdae, had recently gotten married, suddenly found himself with a new farm as dowry, and swiftly been granted leave to run it by the kind prince.
"Yes," Joonmyun says patiently. "What of it, young one?"
The endearment comes with no warning, like always. It used to make Jongin feel safe-but now, something pools hot and discomfiting in his gut.
He's been inexplicably drawn to the prince for some time now; sneaking glances at him between lessons, across rooms and tables. He observes the melody of Joonmyun's laugh when Boa shares an amusing story, the column of his neck when he tips his head back at the end of a long day, the smiling creases in the corners of his eyes when Jongin approaches him, tentatively, with a question. Jongin knows the feeling of the prince's warm hand, square between his shoulder blades, by heart.
He knows it's strange. But last year, he'd seen the prince pluck a flea-ridden pup from the side of the road, nursing it back to health with his own hands, in his own bed. Since then, Jongin has found himself particularly observant when the royal is nearby, and unable to work out the constant thrum in his chest.
(That pup, he thinks, is kind of like him.)
"I'd like to be of service," Jongin repeats, breathing out his nostrils. "Take Jongdae's place." He pushes a little more, before he loses his nerve. "There is no better way for me to repay my debt."
He already knows the prince will not like that. As if on cue, Joonmyun grunts, grabs his undershirt to wipe off his hands, and tosses it unceremoniously to the ground.
"Jongin." His voice is tight. "How many times-"
"Forgive me," Jongin cuts him off, feeling out-of-bounds. "I know what you want to say: that we owe you nothing." A falsehood, he thinks, worrying at his lip. He tries a different approach. "Your Highness, my brother already works daily with the horses at the stable. And you haven't uttered a word in protest…"
"The stable master tells me he's a natural," Joonmyun reasons. "I've said nothing because the work makes Chanyeol happy."
"And this would make me happy, too," Jongin mutters.
"Will it really?" the prince shoots back dryly. "Preparing my clothes, heating my bathwater, serving my supper-this would all bring you happiness?" He turns his back on Jongin. "Palace servants are born into service, Jongin. It's a family tradition. They aren't trapped into the trade by something terrible that happened to them when they were children."
Jongin take a step forward, hands balling up at his sides. "It isn't just that I want to pull my weight-which I do," he expresses with urgency. "I'd like to try something, Your Highness. See what I'm good at, what it is I have to offer. I was too young when-when you found me. So the truth is I hardly don't know what I can do."
That's the last argument left in Jongin's arsenal.
Shockingly, it works. The prince sighs in resignation. His solid shoulders slope downwards in defeat.
"All right," he concedes, finally. "You've won."
Jongin tries not to smile too widely. He already feels the tops of his cheeks pushing into the skin underneath his eyes, sealing his elation in place. "Thank you, Your Highness," he breathes out, his voice as bright as the sun in the trees. "I won't disappoint you."
The prince clicks his tongue, more amused than annoyed now. He eases into a low chuckle. "You are able to maneuver me so well."
"Not at all, Your Highness," Jongin tries to say, humbled, still beaming.
But Joonmyun has already turned his back. He pushes the last of his clothing down to pile in the grass, not in the least self-conscious. As he steps out of the undergarments, Jongin's eyes fall on the muscles in the prince's upper thighs, the smooth, taut shape of his buttocks, for the very first time.
A manservant sees his master naked every day, a sensible voice whispers in his head. Don't be a baby.
Of course, this does nothing to allay the sharp spike of his desire-and the delicate, poignant brush of longing that comes with it. Jongin's stomach writhes, and his face burns.
He knows this is the moment to look away, to study the patterns made by the clouds in the summer sky and the browning tips of the dry grass and pretend these are the most fascinating things in the world. And yet he keeps his eyes glued to the sight of the prince wading, unclothed, into the cool, blue lake.
Joonmyun's body reflects the morning light like a mirror, sculpted by shadows in the strongest areas. Everything is mesmerizing.
Only when his head and shoulders remain above water does the prince glance back.
"There's no need to stay," he puts forth in a neutral tone.
"I'm sorry," Jongin stammers, blinking himself out of a trance. "I'll leave you now. I didn't mean to linger." He scrambles to his feet, mouth moving over more apologies with no actual sound behind them. Everything is embarrassing.
But the prince has more to say. "There's no need to go, either, Jongin."
He sounds unsure this time, so Jongin hazards a peek at his face. It brims with fondness, nice and easy.
"Do whatever pleases you." Joonmyun shrugs. The lake water ripples around his shoulders. "I just want you to be happy."
"Oh," Jongin murmurs, his lips holding the roundedness of the word. "Oh." His knees falter only a moment before he's sinking back down into the dying grass. "Then I will stay, Your Highness, if it pleases you."
"Of course," the prince replies. He smiles, fleetingly, before tipping his head back and relaxing into the shallow waves.
Jongin will always remember this moment. The sunlight is soft, creeping over the back of his neck, and the earthy smell of wet shore clings to the inside of his nostrils. That is exactly how, and exactly when, he falls in love.
⤫
Zhang Yixing is a guest of Prince Joonmyun's for three months. It's an entire summer-a season that should flit past as swiftly and gracefully as a flock of migrating birds. But this summer, time drags on. Because for every month Zhang Yixing is present, something happens-something that makes life difficult in the palace for three of its servants.
It's as though the newcomer's stay has brought about a curse.
That's what Nana tells Jongin, anyway.
The first thing that happens sends Chanyeol spiraling into a rage.
It starts on a muggy, windless day, when Prince Sehun comes home from his overseas studies. He is Jongin's age, exactly-two years over twenty. If the whispers of the scullery maids are to be believed, the youngest prince is also the most handsome, and most likely to get his way.
When he strides into Boa's room to greet her, his gaze falls on Nana, mixing flower paints for the princess' lips. Sehun remains in his sister's company for the rest of the day. His eyes trail after her cosmetic servant for the rest of the week.
Jongin notices immediately. But he doesn't say anything, assuming the infatuation will pass just like so many of the royals' whims.
He knows he is dead wrong when the prince comes into the servants' kitchen and asks Nana, directly, for a drink of water.
It ruffles her. The unease flickers across her face like candlelight. The regular kitchen is four flights of stone staircase above, where the royals have easy access to it (or at least, their handmaidens and manservants do, on their behalf).
But Nana dips her head cordially, putting down the earthenware cup in her grasp and rising from her seat.
"Just a moment, Your Highness," she murmurs. "The proper glasses are upstairs-"
"Never mind that," Sehun replies. "I can drink from yours."
Nana balks, unable to hide her bewilderment. "But-"
"Please." And Sehun cranes just a little lower, speaks just a notch softer. "I'm parched."
Lips pressed together, the girl ladles cold water into her cup and hands it to the prince.
He makes sure to slide his fingers against hers when he takes it. And after he's taken a draft, he licks his lips, like he's looking for a particular taste.
Nana glues her eyes to the kitchen's crude floor.
Jongin comes to stand next to her in an attempt to deflect Sehun's attention. "Can I offer you anything else, my lord?" he asks.
"Thank you, Jongin, but no." Sehun doesn't even spare him a glance. "Perhaps my brother could use some refreshment in his quarters?"
Even if Jongin was less perceptive-even if he hadn't seen the smoldering look Sehun lays on Nana's face like a caress-he isn't stupid. He knows when someone is trying to get rid of him.
"The prince is with the sword master, my lord," Jongin says carefully. "He and Lord Yixing are sparring this afternoon, and did not want to be disturbed."
The space between his arm and Nana's electrifies with a tense energy. Jongin wishes Chanyeol was back in the palace, instead of out in the fields with Yixing's thoroughbred for its daily trot.
He feels Sehun's eyes on him then.
"I see," the youngest prince says, taking a step back. He crosses his arms across his chest and rests his weight on one leg. This makes his stance seem a little more casual. Rakish. Irresistible.
Another calculated move.
"Are you married?" Sehun asks abruptly. When Jongin jerks up, the prince's eyes are boring into Nana's.
"No, Your Highness," is her measured reply. The words drag against each other, like she doesn't want to say them.
"That is good news."
"But I am promised," Nana perseveres, her voice a little louder, words a little steadier, "and am as good as wed."
The prince's smile is a small one. "To this man?"
Jongin squares his shoulders, standing taller for his brother.
"No," Nana replies. "To Chanyeol, who works in the stables."
A lush and dangerous softness coats Sehun's features. "How long have you had this arrangement?"
"Since we were sixteen, my lord."
"You must be in love with him."
"I am."
"And has he touched you?"
Nana's eyes flash with indignation, and suddenly she is raising her head high. She reminds Jongin, at this moment, of Chanyeol's wildest mares-the ones he finds most difficult to break.
"My lord," Nana grits out, "that is no concern of yours."
Sehun isn't smiling anymore. He isn't gloating either. No, it looks to Jongin as though he is…desperate. Helpless and hurt and aroused and pulled a little too taut, all at once.
He steps closer, the movement a plea in itself.
"If he hasn't," Sehun whispers, "come to me, day or night, and I will."
Nana gasps.
Jongin instinctively takes a step in front of her. "My lord," he warns, his voice more menacing than he'd intended.
"Thank you for the water," Sehun says abruptly. He deposits the cup on the closest surface and sends a final, lingering look at the object of his affection. "Think about what I said, Nana the Fair."
To Jongin, he gives the following instructions: "Tell my brother I will be joining him for dinner, and that I wish for us not to be disturbed, either."
Then he spins on his heel and climbs back up the stairs, leaving the pair of them too stunned to speak.
Chanyeol does not have the same problem when they tell him all that has happened, well into the night.
"That bastard." His deep voice booms, ping-ponging against thin walls. He paces the room in long, jerky strides. "I would throttle him if he wasn't Prince Joonmyun's brother!"
Jongin stands in the doorframe, letting his brother have it out.
"These royals." Chanyeol swipes his fingers across his mouth, like the word is a filthy thing he wants to be rid of. The half-chuckle, half-growl that follows only makes Jongin grimace. "They pride themselves on breeding and refinement-enlightenment," his brother seethes, "but they're no better than dogs in heat."
"Chanyeol, please," Nana implores him. She looks so afraid. "They will hear you."
He sneers at the wall. "And what if they do?"
"Shhh," she tries to placate him, fingers curling into the neckline of her dress.
"Ah, yes," Chanyeol barrels on, like he hasn't heard a thing. "They'll lock me up or banish me-have me killed conveniently. Foist you over to the youngest prince as his prize. Of course."
The Nana Jongin knows would throw a quilt in his brother's face and demand he calm down, so they can talk about this like adults. But she seems terribly shaken, until now, by the encounter with Sehun-because this Nana covers her face with her hands and shivers.
"Stop it," she pleads in a sob only slightly muffled by her fingers. "Just. Stop."
That halts Chanyeol in his tracks.
"What-" In a second, his tone has drastically altered. "Nana?"
She shakes her head violently, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyelids.
Jongin watches his brother come over to his sweetheart, crouching in front of her. "Nana." Chanyeol wedges a hand between both of hers to cup her cheek. "I'm sorry. Have I frightened you? I'm sorry."
Nana slips off her seat, folds herself into his lap. "You will not make me live without you," she mumbles into Chanyeol's shoulder. "You will not. I will never forgive you."
When Chanyeol starts kissing her, his free hand stroking up and down her spine, Jongin slips out of the room.
"I'm sorry," Chanyeol is saying again, muffling the words into her neck. The kisses he lands there make soft, wet sounds. "I didn't mean it, I swear."
The last thing Jongin hears as he shuts the door behind him is Nana's gentle, low-pitched moan.
The next month, Jongin is placed an extremely unexpected situation.
One night, Zhang Yixing kisses him just outside Joonmyun's room. The prince is running a fever, and Jongin has just returned from the kitchens with something medicinal for his tea.
Yixing appears out of nowhere, only whispering a quick Jongin before pushing the younger man against the wall. He holds Jongin's face between his rough hands, thumbs stroking over Jongin's chapped lips. Then he tilts his head and seals their mouths together like two halves of the same fruit.
Jongin struggles at first, because Yixing is not Joonmyun, and Jongin has never considered anybody else.
But Yixing is surprisingly well-built, and Jongin can't seem to push him off-not while he's holding a bowl of dried chrysanthemums in one hand and a tray of iced linens for the prince's forehead in the other.
And beyond that…this is Jongin's first kiss in twenty-two years of existence. It's warm and wet, hard and thorough, and Yixing is licking over his tongue in a way that makes his head spin. Everything tastes like the sweet red wine the man has brought with him in his galleon of continental delights. Jongin catches himself groaning into the kiss, feeling dirty when he does, eyelids fluttering.
He never does close them, though.
By the time Yixing releases him from his hold, Jongin's mouth has swollen into a puff. His cheeks are the color of peach blossoms. His hands have pressed the bowl of desiccated flowers and tray of compresses against his hipbones, where tomorrow, the skin will bruise.
Yixing is looking him over, the expression on his face rueful. "It's not fair," he mumbles, with no segue at all, "but I get it now." Then he pecks Jongin once more, carefully, licking at the seam of his lips.
He leaves directly after that, without so much as a goodnight. For several minutes, Jongin slumps against the wall, trying to catch his breath and failing to process what has just happened to him.
"You look drained," Joonmyun mumbles from his bed, as Jongin pours hot water over a sieve of chrysanthemums. "You should get some rest."
Jongin crosses the room. He keeps his face still. "I will, Your Highness, once you've fallen asleep."
The mattress gives way under Jongin's weight as he helps the prince sit up. He hands Joonmyun a cup of tea, the yellow of it as strong as its aroma. "Please drink the whole thing. It will help bring down the fever."
"All right," the prince susurrates, fingers lacing as he cradles the cup in his hands. He sips from it, swallowing the liquid with a weak gulp. When he exhales, his breath is warm on Jongin's face.
"Too hot?" Jongin reaches for the tea to check.
Joonmyun shakes his head, eyes groggy. "It's delicious." He takes another sip and leans his head against his companion's shoulder. "Thank you, Jongin."
His forehead is so smooth, with the barest sheen of sweat glistening over the brow line. So close, Jongin could turn his face, dip down, and kiss the skin.
Then he remembers that his lips have just been between Yixing's, and it forces him to look the other way.
In the morning, Joonmyun's fever is gone, but Jongin insists he take breakfast in bed. When Yixing swans into the room, collapsing over the prince's covers to pick at the fruit on his tray, Jongin makes himself scarce.
This continues for the next few days, which turn into the next few weeks.
The kiss is never re-enacted. Yixing only acts as he had before: friendly and candid, with a touch of flirtation and more physical contact than necessary. Jongin is a little more wary of that last part, nowadays.
Once, Yixing bumps into him as they pass each other in a doorway. Jongin rounds a corner too sharply, and his chest collides with one of Yixing's shoulders. The older man stumbles, placing both hands on Jongin's waist to steady himself.
That is how Jongin finds himself peering down into that droll face, two months familiar, an inch too close for comfort.
"Careful," Yixing says, smile unreadable. "You might run into a wall next time."
His hands squeeze Jongin's waist before he goes on his way.
Jongin senses the prince's eyes on him from the far end of the room-and worse, the color heightening in his cheeks.
He is scooping chopped lychees over a bowl of shaved ice when the question is asked.
"Does Yixing make you uncomfortable?"
The tone is innocent enough, but Jongin knows when Joonmyun is choosing his words.
He sets the refreshment in front of the royal, eyelids at half-mast. "No, Your Highness."
"You know you can tell me the truth."
Jongin breathes steadily, but his spine tenses. "Yes, Your Highness."
"So explain," Joonmyun says, fiddling with the ceramic spoon Jongin has also placed before him. "Explain why you've stopped meeting his eyes when he speaks to you, and why you freeze whenever he touches you by accident, as you did just now." He pitches the spoon into the sweet ice, licking the corner of his mouth.
Jongin can't think of anything else to do but dip his head. "It's only out of habit, Your Highness. I didn't realize you'd noticed."
"But I did," Joonmyun mutters, tongue wetting both lips this time. "Has something happened between you two?"
He's been caught out. Jongin's eyes widen, and he casts about for words. But even as the nerves jolt his body like hard liquor, his mind lingers obsessively over a single strained note in the prince's voice. It makes him sound, almost, jealous.
Joonmyun draws in a breath through his nostrils. "Has he…has Yixing seduced you?" He exhales on a chuckle, and the notes in that ring just shy of bitter. His spoon stabs into the ice again and again, making a dent in the middle and pushing bits of fruit to the sides. "You see, I know how he is when he sets his mind to something-"
"No," Jongin interjects tenderly, his own heart hammering against his chest. "Not at all, Your Highness. Forgive me, but you have misjudged the situation."
The prince's cool fingertips ghost over his wrist bone. They feel like a reward for a correct answer.
"So he hasn't succeeded," Joonmyun ruminates, voice marginally more even. "But has he tried?"
Four fingers curl around Jongin's wrist as a thumb presses into the palm of his hand. It doesn't caress him; just rests there, waiting.
"He…" Jongin can't decide what the better course of action is-to lie and appease the prince, or to obey him and be truthful. "I…"
The thumb brushes over one of his lifelines, back and forth, back and forth. It shouldn't be erotic, but Jongin keens from the sensation, anyway.
"What has he done?" Joonmyun persists in a gravelly tone. "Tell me now."
And out it comes.
"He surprised me," Jongin admits, "with a kiss." He barely realizes what he is saying until it cannot be unsaid.
Besides a twitch in the prince's small mouth, Jongin is hard-pressed to find a reaction.
He still attempts to do damage control the very next instant. "It was only once, Your Highness. Weeks ago. I felt nothing, and I lost nothing." His eyes shutter, but he keeps on going. "It would be unnecessary, truly, for you to broach the subject with Lord Yixing."
For a long, long moment, Joonmyun gazes at him. The look in those almond eyes is indecipherable. All Jongin sees are flecks in dark pools, like the tea leaves some of the servants claim they can read, far beyond his interpretation.
"If you say so," Joonmyun says, more breath than vowels and consonants.
He loosens his hold on Jongin, and Jongin is reminded of that one time, in the bath, when they'd found themselves in a similar position. Joonmyun's fingers remain in a lax curl around him. Jongin could jerk away in a second, rub the sensitivity from his wrist, go straight back to work.
Instead, he draws his hand from the prince's grasp in slow motion-a painstaking, meaningful retreat. He experiences the endearing dampness of Joonmyun's palm on the back of his hand. He feels the heat and trepidation in Joonmyun's elegant fingers when his own brush over them. He lets his nails trace lines and grooves, keeps every tip in contact with Joonmyun's soft skin. When their hands finally separate (Joonmyun's own flipping over pliantly, their middle fingers touching ‘til the final moment), it feels, maddeningly, like a kiss.
Jongin presses his hand against his thigh, body electric.
"I'll be standing outside the door if you need me," he murmurs, not bothering to wait for Joonmyun's nod before leaving him to fend for himself on this hot, sticky afternoon.
It's during the third month of Yixing's stay that everything comes to a head, and all at once. That's why it's so painful, Jongin will admit to himself later on, when it is finished.
On the last day of summer, when a breeze dances through the trees, bringing with it the scent of fall, Watanabe Keiko returns.
The princess glides through the palace corridors like she has lived there all her life. She is dressed in lavish silks and the rarest jewels; her hair loose, inviting. This time, she wears fewer cosmetics on her face; more fabric…everywhere.
Jongin almost finds her pretty, in spite of himself. Because she is. Very, very pretty, and desirable to so many other royals.
Now that her beauty has been allowed to seep through all the pomp and flash, it makes her seem rather formidable.
"Hello, Keiko," Joonmyun greets her when they are finally in the same room. "Stylish as ever."
"And you look gorgeous as always." The lady holds out a hand so Joonmyun can grasp her fingertips. "My liege."
Joonmyun laughs. "Your liege?" His eyes are crescents, and Jongin smiles, because the prince's expression is infectious.
Keiko smiles, too; a sideward purse of the lips. It seems shrewd, in a way. She withdraws her hand, dipping her head.
Joonmyun remains amused. "What's this, princess? Are we on formal terms now?" He gestures for her to take a seat. "Has it been that long since your first visit?"
"Much too long, prince," she replies, in sotto voce, settling her robes around her.
"We'll pick up where we left off, then." He's using his diplomatic voice now, the one reserved for foreign dignitaries. "Wine, I presume, Keiko?"
"A man after my own heart," the lady purrs, her natural coquette resurfacing. "I've missed you, Joonmyun."
The prince gives her a polite chuckle, watching Jongin decant another bottle of Lady Watanabe's rosé. The wine fills the hollow vessel with a gentle splash. Jongin hopes it distracts from the sigh that has sprung from his throat.
"Is this how it's going to be?" Keiko is asking the prince.
Joonmyun cocks his head, smile gone lazy. Jongin often catches this one directed at him, when the prince is drifting off into thought. Jongin can observe him openly then, for a minute or so, without fear of getting caught.
"Hmm?"
"I mean, is this how we will continue?" Keiko explains. "Me calling you by your name, and you calling me by mine."
That little wrinkle between Joonmyun's eyebrows indicates he isn't following. "I don't see why not," he replies. "You dropped formalities on our very first encounter."
"Well, yes," Keiko laughs, pushing her hair behind her ears. "I suppose what I'm asking is if we can remain this informal even after we are married."
Joonmyun's head snaps up.
"Because I would enjoy that immensely," the princess divulges. She threads her fingers through a dark, glossy lock, roping it over her shoulder. "It would almost be like our own private joke, when you are king, and I your queen."
"Married?" the prince echoes, just as the decanter in Jongin's hands slips.
It meets the marble floor with a terrible crash. Keiko shrieks in surprise. Instantly, the air smells too sweet, unpleasantly cloying. The precious wine is everywhere. It pools around a pair of bare servant's feet-a pink halo littered with jagged constellations of glass.
"I'm so sorry," Jongin mumbles, all tripping tongue and shaky adrenaline. He bows deeply-once, twice, three times. "I will remove this at once."
Married, he intones, the word piercing him like an arrow. The prince is to be married.
He hears the crunch of the glass against the sole of his foot; feels the keen surprise of shard slicing skin.
"Stop, Jongin," Joonmyun stands from his chair. "You're bleeding!"
Something shiny glints in Jongin's eye. Another chair groans against the floor. Keiko has turned away from the sight of blood, her heavy earrings swinging.
"Here." Joonmyun approaches, holding out a sinewy arm. "Cling on to me."
Jongin wishes, desperately, that he could draw Joonmyun's arm around his waist. Keep it there instead.
"It's nothing," he forces out, warmth flooding the space behind his nostrils. He steps out of the prince's reach.
"Jongin, come on-"
But Jongin shakes his head. He schools his face into submission. The chastened look of a clumsy servant is neutral territory-compared to heartbreak. "I'll be back with rags, Your Highness. Please refrain from moving around the room until I've cleared all the glass."
He walks out as quickly as he can manage, cutting his other foot in the process, but feeling nothing save for the laceration in his chest.
Married. Keiko's voice rings clear as a song through his head. When you are king, and I your queen.
Jongin barely registers the slide of the door, the footsteps over the marble. A hot hand is gripping him by the shoulder. Then Joonmyun is whirling into view, blocking the way in front of him.
"What has gotten into you?"
He sounds so bewildered, and Jongin is so grateful to see him, but also lovesick and overwhelmed. It spills out before he can contain himself.
"I didn't know you were to be wed, Your Highness."
He almost tosses in a "Congratulations," but the pleasantry never quite makes it through.
"Neither did I," Joonmyun ripostes, swift and stern. "But that's not the issue here." His hand clamps around the top of Jongin's arm. "Don't move. I will have someone come and clean your wounds first."
Jongin shuts his eyes. "Your Highness, I cannot leave the room in that state. You have a guest."
When he opens them again, the prince is glaring at him.
"You will obey me," Joonmyun says, in a lower, more intimate voice. He's never spoken to Jongin like this before. The power behind it hammers straight into Jongin's gut, to be met with simmering heat.
"Yes?" Joonmyun's gaze is ember-like.
"Yes." Jongin murmurs. "Yes, Your Highness. Forgive-"
"Stop apologizing," the prince cuts him off, "when you've done nothing wrong."
For a moment so fleeting, Jongin thinks he must have imagined it, the prince cups a hand over his cheek.
"What am I going to do with you, young one?"
It's like he's talking to himself.
Jongin can only stare into those black-brown eyes, rapt with wonder.
Joonmyun removes his hand. "Stay here," he says firmly.
And then he's calling out to a passing servant, asking her to bring rags for spilt wine and to ring for the royal doctor, "so he can see to this man."
Part 2
Pairing: Sukai
Genre: royal!au, servant!au
Rating: R
Length: 18,100 words
Summary: There is no one in the world Jongin is more devoted to than the prince who saved his life.
Warnings: Brief mention of slave trade and dirty old men.
Notes:
1 Watanabe Keiko is Irene from Red Velvet. I just didn't think her English or Korean names were suited to the plot :)
2 If it means anything, I consider FKA twigs' "Papi Pacify" the official soundtrack to this story. I wrote the entire thing listening to it.
The slit of the lady's dress cuts all the way up to her left hipbone. The silk of it is red, lustrous, like the skin of a cherry. It clings to her small waist as though it were wet.
Jongin eyes it from underneath his eyelashes. A gown of this kind seems inappropriate for a first meeting. Something blue, perhaps; mild and airy, like the one Nana had been wearing the day she'd met Chanyeol. But this red, red like the lip rouge of a second concubine, seems nothing short of suggestive.
Delicately, the guest drapes one of her long, white limbs over the other. Her breasts heave over her strapless neckline, and the stones at her neck glisten in the light. A glossy fingernail traces the rim of her wine glass. That's when Jongin notices it's empty.
He reaches for the decanter of rosé on the table next to him, just as he hears his murmured name.
"Your Highness," Jongin replies instantly. He approaches the table for two with discretion, ingrained into him by years in service. His footsteps barely make a sound. "More wine?"
"Just for the lady, please, Jongin." Intelligent almond eyes meet his, turning up ever-so-slightly at the corners. "I've had enough for the evening."
And then, for a split second, Jongin sees the grin.
Ah, he thinks to himself, deciphering the hidden meaning. He's mastered all the little cues and quirks that give the prince's true motives away. This one means, simply, how dull this is.
A smile twitches, round and minuscule, behind Jongin's lips. But he keeps it to himself, because he knows his place. In a moment, he's filled one crystal glass with the fragrant pink wine. Not a drop spilt.
The lady cocks a painted eyebrow. "Come, Joonmyun," she exclaims, with a disbelieving sort of amusement. "It's not even midnight. Surely you aren't going to make me drink by myself?" Her eyes dance over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip of rosé.
Jongin bites his tongue. He also thinks it inappropriate for a stranger to address the prince by his given name. But the lady-a princess, from Japan-acts as though they have known each other since infancy.
The familiarity of royals.
The prince laughs, attempts to cajole her. "By all means, no, Keiko. I'll keep you company if you plan to finish the wine." A chuckle puffs in his throat. "But I'd prefer a less alcoholic drink. Keep my wits about me."
His eyes glimmer in the yellow light. Jongin could spot the mischief in them a mile away.
"I was told you were a great lover of wine, prince," the lady says coyly. "My mother sent over this bottle especially for you."
"And I hope you will convey my deepest thanks to Lady Watanabe," Joonmyun replies. "To explain, I was up at dawn today to oversee some work in the palace, and didn't know you would be coming to call." He smiles at her, flirting without real sincerity. "Otherwise, I would have planned to be less exhausted, and more at your disposal."
Keiko reaches across the table. Her fingers graze the back of the prince's hand. "I am at your disposal." When she traces the veins that emboss his skin, Joonmyun's thumb tics. "Shall I entertain you?"
Jongin turns away then. He retreats from the table, taking the decanter with him. He knows how the unwed royals entertain each other.
"Unfortunately," he hears in his periphery, "I have another early start tomorrow-even earlier, in fact. And while I would love to spend more time in your presence, I think it would be wiser for me to retire tonight." The words are cloaked in another smile. "Forgive me."
"Ah." The sound of rustling fabric signals the lady has pulled back. "Then I suppose it can't be helped." Her voice has flattened somewhat, although it has lost none of its seductive quality.
"I will see you another time, Keiko," she is assured with winking charm. And then: "Jongin?"
A step away from his position in the shadows, Jongin halts. The wine sloshes against the glass of the decanter between his hands.
"Yes, Your Highness," he murmurs, spinning back around but keeping his eyes on the pale marble floor.
"May I ask you to run a bath for me?" The tone is gentler now, more amiable. "I'll be taking one as soon as I've seen the princess out."
"Certainly, Your Highness." Jongin bows. His hair falls into his eyes. "Right away." He places the decanter on its table and moves to step out of the dining room.
It's not fast enough to miss Keiko's next words.
"Beautiful specimen, your manservant," she directs to Joonmyun, taking little care to modulate her voice. She sounds bored-the way all shallow, frivolous royals without a pursuit are bored. "Can I buy him from you?"
Jongin flinches, drawing in a sharp, silent breath. Blood charges his temples, hot with humiliation.
"A trunk of pearls?" Keiko offers, light and breezy. "Two?"
"He is not for sale," Joonmyun informs her. His voice is quiet, with an unmistakable undercurrent of warning. "He is a person, Keiko."
Jongin can hear the nerves in the lady's ensuing laugh.
"Oh-of course. Of course he is. Did I offend you, prince?"
"Not at all," Joonmyun replies, letting her off. There is no point in a lecture that will fall on deaf ears.
"I only meant to compliment you," Keiko gushes, quick to make reparations. "Your…friend, you see, draws the eye like a gem. Such natural, untouched beauty. Don't you agree?"
Now, all Jongin hears is the echo of his own breathing.
"Yes." Joonmyun's voice seems closer and clearer, as though he has turned in Jongin's direction. "That I do."
There isn't a mirror in sight. But Jongin can pinpoint the exact shade of red that floods the rest of his face-bright and garish, like the dye of an inappropriate dress.
He picks up the pace, exiting the room.
Water drips from the sponge in Jongin's hand and the tips of the prince's dark, soaked hair. The sound is reverent; a delicate echo in Joonmyun's private bathing area.
"Is the water warm enough, Your Highness?"
Jongin didn't want to be the first to speak, but he can see goosebumps pebbling over Joonmyun's skin.
"Yes," the prince answers. His arms rest on the sides of the tub, lean and muscled. His mind seems to be elsewhere. Without preamble, he asks, "What did you think of the princess?"
Jongin strokes the sponge over a smooth shoulder. "She was very glamorous, Your Highness."
"I'm accustomed to seeing silk of that color and diamonds of that size only at weddings. A little extravagant for supper at someone's home, wouldn't you agree?"
Jongin chuckles, passing the sponge over the other shoulder. It amuses him, the way the prince offhandedly refers to his palace as though it were a small country villa.
"And her looks?"
The little bumps have reached the prince's forearms, where the cool air hits. Jongin holds the sponge over them, one at a time, squeezing warm water from it to comfort the skin. "Beautiful, Your Highness." He does the same to Joonmyun's back, so the soap runs down it in milky rivulets.
The prince turns his head. Now Jongin can see cheekbone and chin, not just the flat of his neck. "Pay no attention to what Keiko said. I might have found you at that auction when you were barely a teenager, but you were born free, just like me and Sehun and our sister."
Jongin dips his head. Of the three children in the royal family, Joonmyun has always been the most liberal. The sponge works its way between his shoulder blades this time, making a soothing, scraping sound.
"You know that, don't you, Jongin?" The prince's voice is careful. "I only meant to take you from that godforsaken place. But…you can leave any time."
Joonmyun is as tender as he is open-minded. Particularly with his inner circle-highborn and low.
Jongin takes a moment to speak, collecting his thoughts. "You've said so, Your Highness. And I'm eternally grateful for your kindness." His voice doesn't shake. "But I would never leave you."
The sponge stops working-or rather, is stopped. Joonmyun has reached behind him to loosely, lightly, hold Jongin's wrist.
"Why not?" The words are curious.
"Because I am loyal to you," Jongin says simply.
That meets with a noncommittal hum. "And your loyalty is what keeps you here."
It's more a statement, than a question.
No, Jongin disagrees, digging his fingers into the porous matter of the sponge. But he responds with a, "Yes, Your Highness," anyway, so there is less to explain.
The prince unclasps his wrist. His arm returns to its position on the ledge of the tub. He faces forward again, so all Jongin can see is a crop of dark hair and a damp neck with a mole at its base.
"Thank you, Jongin." Joonmyun shifts in the tub. The muscles in his back bunch together, then smoothen out.
"It is nothing, Your Highness," Jongin replies. He immerses the sponge in bathwater, draws it out, and discharges the fragrant liquid across Joonmyun's shoulders, which have begun to air-dry.
The prince makes a sound of approval. He settles deeper into the water.
Jongin watches him wordlessly. But really, he confesses, buffing the sponge against Joonmyun's neck, really, my lord, it's because I love you.
⤫
At twelve, Jongin loses both his parents in a raid. Chanyeol, his brother, is thirteen.
On a day like any other, ruthless men slash and burn through their village, a knot of cottages in the emerald mountains. The women are taken for their tents; the men, killed on sight. The children are segregated into two groups-one for the army to keep, the other to be sold off as slaves.
The leader of the insurgents looks Jongin and Chanyeol up and down, soaking in the faultless skin of their mother, the pretty eyes of their father. He deliberates executing them like the rest of the adult males. They both seem much older, too capable for their ages, even though they are barely out of childhood. Innocents, by the skin of their teeth.
In the end, he lumps them in with the rest of the outgoing merchandise. "Gorgeous little brats," the leader says. Jongin will never forget his cold, cruel voice. "Strip them down when they stand for auction. Looks like these'll fetch a handsome price from old lechers."
They take a long, difficult journey down the mountains. The children are confined, and given very little to eat. Once they reach the market where the auction will be held-a rambling place, reeking of entrails and spices-Jongin's ribs are starting to show beneath his skin.
Somewhere in transit from the slavers' caravan to the auctioneer's platform, Chanyeol manages to steal a handful of berries. But when Jongin tries to wolf down his share, his brother stops him cold.
"No, Jongin, this is belladonna."
Jongin's dirt-streaked hand falls away from his lips. "Poison?" he whispers, lips shaking from hunger. "Then why?"
Chanyeol's next words are chilling. "So that if they separate us, which I think they will, and the people who buy us are bad masters, which they are likely to be, we will have a choice." He looks Jongin square in the eye. "Do you understand?"
The younger curls a loose fist around the berries; a safe pocket, to keep them from dropping. "Yes, hyung."
One by one, the children are plucked from their herd to be sold off to the highest bidder. The customers are an oily, seedy bunch: round-bellied merchants dripping in gold chains, tinted madams with rotting teeth underneath their red smiles. A wizened, flint-eyed man purchases six girls and boys in quick succession, saying, "I serve many masters."
Jongin prays and prays that he gets passed over the next round. The gnarled old geezer disgusts him. If not, he will put every single berry into his mouth and swallow. A parting gift between brothers.
But something strange-something miraculous-happens when it is his turn. The auctioneer rustles him forward by the nape of his neck, calling out his introductory price. As Jongin stands on the platform, naked, grimy, and trembling, a different sort of customer emerges from the throng.
The handsome, clean-shaven face cuts through the sea of smarm like a lighthouse. Its features are elegant, with a sort of fierceness in the eyes that confirms the power in this young man's hands. Broad shoulders give him a noble bearing, and while he is not particularly tall, he is striking-like a prince. There is a slim gold circlet resting on his crown, so Jongin surmises that's exactly what he is.
A prince.
A gasp ripples through the crowd. Suddenly, every person in the auction-including the auctioneer-is sinking to their knees.
"Your Highness," the auctioneer purrs. "It is an absolute honor-"
"I am told you have children in your selection," the young man interrupts in a clipped tone. "I am sure you are aware this sort of sale is frowned upon."
The auctioneer feigns blissful ignorance. There are only two slaves left in holding, after all-Jongin and Chanyeol-and they look every legal inch of eighteen.
"Does this one not suit, Your Highness?" The auctioneer brushes his fingertips against Jongin's chin, showing him off. "I'd planned to keep him for my own home-my wife is partial to this kind of face, you see. But for you?" He bows solicitously, bending his back as low as it will go. "A royal discount, if you are interested."
The prince's mouth stretches into a grimace. His eyes bore holes into the auctioneer's forehead. He might be a royal, but he can't be more than twenty-and it's clear the old man is playing up his lack of experience.
"Do not condescend to me, hawker."
The auctioneer bows lower still. "Not at all, Your Highness, not at all. I would never deign to."
Frustration blooms anew in the prince's face. He shoots a glance in Jongin's direction. The sad state of him, it seems, is enough to merit a double-take. Suddenly, those sharp eyes soften with pity.
Jongin squirms under his gaze. He'd been someone's beloved son just a fortnight ago-beautiful and brave and strong, just like this royal. But now…
"How much for the boy?" the prince inquires curtly, unapologetically.
The auctioneer's smirk is insufferable. "Given his superior features and physique, I can go no lower than fifty gold coins, my liege."
"You will have a hundred," the prince replies, "if that will finish the bidding once and for all." Murmurs of yes, Your Highness, vibrate along the fringes of the platform, where people are still on bended knee.
At the auctioneer's triumphant bow, the prince marches up the stage. He pulls his plush, embroidered cloak off his shoulders to wrap Jongin in it.
"My name is Joonmyun," he says gently, tugging the cords of the cloak to secure it around the boy's frame. "You don't have to be afraid of me."
With a flash of courage-and a startling display of trust-Jongin rushes out a request. "Will you take my brother, too, sir?" His plea is shaky and pathetic, because his throat is dry with thirst, and the rest of him weak from deprivation. Jongin doesn't care a whit at this point. "I cannot go anywhere with you, otherwise."
Immediately, the prince's gaze swings to Chanyeol, standing in the pit behind the stage, his hands over his privates. That noble face mellows once more, then flickers with rage, then shapes itself, finally, into resolve. Jongin follows the shift from one emotion to the next, hoping against hope.
"Of course I will," the prince assures him. "I'll take you both. Today."
He turns back to the auctioneer to discuss the transfer of Chanyeol into his care-but his hand rests squarely over the top of Jongin's arm, where the cloak won't cover the skin. Jongin senses the protection in it. Pure instinct.
Deep inside him, where the terror of the past several days has hardened into a crust over his heart, something gives a little. Eases. Melts.
"Sold!" he hears over the noise of the market.
Chanyeol shuts both eyes in relief. Jongin opens his hand then, and the poison berries tumble down to his feet, untouched.
⤫
Nana's hair streams into her face, pushed here and there by an insistent breeze. Chanyeol is trying his best to rake it away. His sweetheart has pressed a wave into each lock with a hot iron to show him (and shyly preen). He doesn't want the whole thing spoilt, if only for her sake.
But the wind swells, and Chanyeol's long, calloused fingers catch in the fine strands, tangling.
Nana laughs, bringing up her own hands to help. "You do more harm than good."
"I'm sorry," Chanyeol says helplessly. "Have I ruined it? I don't really know what I'm doing."
She unwinds his fingers from her hair, murmuring, "It's all right, I don't mind at all."
Jongin spies the kiss she presses briefly into Chanyeol's palm, and the smitten half-smile it pulls over his brother's face.
Chanyeol, today, towers over every servant in the palace. Confident, sturdy, and good with animals, he is excellently placed as the right hand to the stable master. Nana, on the other hand, is the cosmetic servant to Princess Boa (the eldest of the royals). "Nana the Fair," they call her in the downstairs halls, for her face like a painting.
Boy and girl had met the same year the brothers were found at the auction and brought to the palace. The attraction-even at that age, even under those circumstances-was instant. By the third year, they were promised, at sixteen.
Their love is quiet yet potent, like the undertow in the sea, sweeping them away into a deeper world. And Jongin is happy for them-truly happy, and so proud. But he is unspeakably lonely, because theirs is a world he may never enter. And beyond that, he is afraid, because he knows if his heart does not change, he will never have what they have.
"How are the horses?" Nana asks, toying with the short hairs on the back of Chanyeol's neck. He has flopped to his stomach on the grass, his upper body draped over her lap. Whenever they find the time, they take their midday meal in the pasture by the stables. Jongin gets dragged along most days.
"Skittish," Chanyeol tells her matter-of-factly. He takes her hand in his, letting her toy with his fingers instead. "There's a new steed in the stables. A little wild. Stable master says he just got off a ship-and he's got the others on edge."
"A horse for one of the princes?" Nana muses, her forefinger tracing an infinite loop over his knuckles.
Chanyeol shakes his head. "He belongs to the visitor."
That pricks up Jongin's ears. He wipes his mouth with a piece of linen. "What visitor, hyung?"
"A childhood friend of Prince Joonmyun's." Chanyeol looks over at him, hair in tufts from the breeze. "Did he not tell you? The man arrived today."
The prince had mentioned a visitor, come to think of it-months ago, when he was still wearing his hair a little long. But then the arranged meetings had begun at the behest of the King and Queen. A parade of wealthy, marriageable noblewomen like Watanabe Keiko had come and gone and sometimes, come again. Preoccupied with those visits-ones that potentially shortened his time by the prince's side-Jongin had let the date slip through the cracks.
"You'll meet him soon enough," Chanyeol says. He plants a kiss on Nana's knee, where the modest slit in her dress reveals a crescent of skin. She swats playfully at his mouth, and Chanyeol takes the blow with a glorious grin.
He's right, of course. At the supper bell, when Jongin comes to oversee service, there's a stranger sitting next to Joonmyun at the dining table.
"Good evening, Your Highness," Jongin murmurs, hands folded as he dips his head.
The prince smiles at him, radiating warmth. "There you are. I've been wondering where you were off to." He says it with so much affection, it sparks a treacherous heat deep within Jongin's chest.
"My apologies," he says, averting his gaze. "I didn't realize I was late."
"Not at all." Joonmyun's eyes crinkle. "We settled here hours ago to catch up. You arrived at the perfect moment."
Then he ducks his chin, lifts his eyebrows encouragingly, which means he is asking Jongin to come closer (just the way he used to, when the younger man was still a frightened child, hiding in the dusty nooks of the palace, missing his parents).
Of course Jongin follows.
"This is my friend, Yixing." Joonmyun gestures to his companion. "He's sailed halfway around the world to get here."
"Zhang Yixing," the stranger introduces himself. His voice is somewhat melodic, and his diction prettily accented, as if each word is a sweet with an exotic taste. "And you must be Jongin."
The younger unbends his body from its respectful bow. There's an attractive, open face regarding him. Probably thirty, Joonmyun's age. But the prince has always looked so much younger, childlike.
Jongin replies with flawless court etiquette. "At your service, my lord." This Zhang Yixing knows his name, which means Joonmyun has spoken of him at least once. Jongin wishes he knew exactly how he'd come up in the course of their conversation.
"Just hyung will do," Yixing responds. "I'm a wandering commoner, not a prince like our mutual friend here." He leans in towards Jongin, his body language confiding. "Does being in Joonmyun's service suit you? Or shall I take you away with me when my visit is over?"
Joonmyun scoffs. "Do not attempt to align yourself with Jongin. He is devoted to me." He glances in Jongin's direction, the look in his eyes assured. Or is it hopeful? "At least, that's what he says when I ask."
"Absolutely, Your Highness," is all Jongin permits himself. The rest of it remains unsaid. Not even Chanyeol knows of his true feelings.
Devoted to, and then some.
He notices only then that Yixing is still staring at him. The older man's face teems with interest. It's a peculiar expression, Jongin thinks-one that resembles the surface of a koi pond, flickering and rippling with the movement below.
But despite the stare pinning Jongin down, Yixing's next words are pointed not at him. Clever and knowing, the visitor's eyes shift to a different target.
"How mysterious you are, Joonmyun."
The prince is piqued. He blinks, eyelashes long and black. "In what aspect, exactly?"
A brief pause stills the conversation. Jongin takes the opportunity to busy his hands. He plucks two crystal glasses from a tray, filling them halfway with wine. The decanter holds white this time-a clear, golden liquid that smells faintly of peaches.
"Oh, nothing bad." Yixing waves a hand airily. He draws a glass towards himself by the base, smiling down at the table, expression unclear. "Just your own devotion."
⤫
At fourteen, Jongin makes up his mind to go into service.
He and Chanyeol have been living in the palace for two years. They are viewed as guests of the prince. Unorthodox guests, certainly, who choose to sleep and take their meals and help out with the drudgery downstairs, instead of residing in the special guest quarters offered to them, time and time again, and with measured tact, by Joonmyun himself.
He does insist on private schooling from Prince Sehun's tutor, who is on-hand daily. Jongin loathes the thought of being a charity case, and Chanyeol's shoulders stiffen every time the tutor arrives, face much too kindly and sympathetic for their liking. But Joonmyun will not take no for an answer.
Today is the perfect rest day-clear, warm, and idle. Chanyeol is off on errands with Nana (no doubt to fawn over her in his wordless way, as she carries out the mundane task of picking flowers for Princess Boa). Jongin has not been invited to come, which is fine by him. There is something more important he needs to do, anyway-and it's to be here, by the only lake on palace grounds, to settle something with Joonmyun.
The prince is stripped down to his undergarments in preparation for his usual swim. His skin is a pale, pale gold, oiled with rosehip for protection.
"Your Highness," Jongin ventures. "There is something I'd like to say."
Joonmyun turns to face him, interest playing on his fine features. "Go ahead."
Jongin soaks in the jut of the prince's collarbones, the carved definition of his abdominal muscles, the broad reach of his back when he bends to pour more oil into his hands.
He diverts his attention, for a moment, to the reeds swaying prettily by the lake's edge. "I would like to be of use to you."
Surprise overtakes the prince's expression. "How?"
"I..." Jongin clears his throat. "I know you find yourself without a manservant these days." The last one, Jongdae, had recently gotten married, suddenly found himself with a new farm as dowry, and swiftly been granted leave to run it by the kind prince.
"Yes," Joonmyun says patiently. "What of it, young one?"
The endearment comes with no warning, like always. It used to make Jongin feel safe-but now, something pools hot and discomfiting in his gut.
He's been inexplicably drawn to the prince for some time now; sneaking glances at him between lessons, across rooms and tables. He observes the melody of Joonmyun's laugh when Boa shares an amusing story, the column of his neck when he tips his head back at the end of a long day, the smiling creases in the corners of his eyes when Jongin approaches him, tentatively, with a question. Jongin knows the feeling of the prince's warm hand, square between his shoulder blades, by heart.
He knows it's strange. But last year, he'd seen the prince pluck a flea-ridden pup from the side of the road, nursing it back to health with his own hands, in his own bed. Since then, Jongin has found himself particularly observant when the royal is nearby, and unable to work out the constant thrum in his chest.
(That pup, he thinks, is kind of like him.)
"I'd like to be of service," Jongin repeats, breathing out his nostrils. "Take Jongdae's place." He pushes a little more, before he loses his nerve. "There is no better way for me to repay my debt."
He already knows the prince will not like that. As if on cue, Joonmyun grunts, grabs his undershirt to wipe off his hands, and tosses it unceremoniously to the ground.
"Jongin." His voice is tight. "How many times-"
"Forgive me," Jongin cuts him off, feeling out-of-bounds. "I know what you want to say: that we owe you nothing." A falsehood, he thinks, worrying at his lip. He tries a different approach. "Your Highness, my brother already works daily with the horses at the stable. And you haven't uttered a word in protest…"
"The stable master tells me he's a natural," Joonmyun reasons. "I've said nothing because the work makes Chanyeol happy."
"And this would make me happy, too," Jongin mutters.
"Will it really?" the prince shoots back dryly. "Preparing my clothes, heating my bathwater, serving my supper-this would all bring you happiness?" He turns his back on Jongin. "Palace servants are born into service, Jongin. It's a family tradition. They aren't trapped into the trade by something terrible that happened to them when they were children."
Jongin take a step forward, hands balling up at his sides. "It isn't just that I want to pull my weight-which I do," he expresses with urgency. "I'd like to try something, Your Highness. See what I'm good at, what it is I have to offer. I was too young when-when you found me. So the truth is I hardly don't know what I can do."
That's the last argument left in Jongin's arsenal.
Shockingly, it works. The prince sighs in resignation. His solid shoulders slope downwards in defeat.
"All right," he concedes, finally. "You've won."
Jongin tries not to smile too widely. He already feels the tops of his cheeks pushing into the skin underneath his eyes, sealing his elation in place. "Thank you, Your Highness," he breathes out, his voice as bright as the sun in the trees. "I won't disappoint you."
The prince clicks his tongue, more amused than annoyed now. He eases into a low chuckle. "You are able to maneuver me so well."
"Not at all, Your Highness," Jongin tries to say, humbled, still beaming.
But Joonmyun has already turned his back. He pushes the last of his clothing down to pile in the grass, not in the least self-conscious. As he steps out of the undergarments, Jongin's eyes fall on the muscles in the prince's upper thighs, the smooth, taut shape of his buttocks, for the very first time.
A manservant sees his master naked every day, a sensible voice whispers in his head. Don't be a baby.
Of course, this does nothing to allay the sharp spike of his desire-and the delicate, poignant brush of longing that comes with it. Jongin's stomach writhes, and his face burns.
He knows this is the moment to look away, to study the patterns made by the clouds in the summer sky and the browning tips of the dry grass and pretend these are the most fascinating things in the world. And yet he keeps his eyes glued to the sight of the prince wading, unclothed, into the cool, blue lake.
Joonmyun's body reflects the morning light like a mirror, sculpted by shadows in the strongest areas. Everything is mesmerizing.
Only when his head and shoulders remain above water does the prince glance back.
"There's no need to stay," he puts forth in a neutral tone.
"I'm sorry," Jongin stammers, blinking himself out of a trance. "I'll leave you now. I didn't mean to linger." He scrambles to his feet, mouth moving over more apologies with no actual sound behind them. Everything is embarrassing.
But the prince has more to say. "There's no need to go, either, Jongin."
He sounds unsure this time, so Jongin hazards a peek at his face. It brims with fondness, nice and easy.
"Do whatever pleases you." Joonmyun shrugs. The lake water ripples around his shoulders. "I just want you to be happy."
"Oh," Jongin murmurs, his lips holding the roundedness of the word. "Oh." His knees falter only a moment before he's sinking back down into the dying grass. "Then I will stay, Your Highness, if it pleases you."
"Of course," the prince replies. He smiles, fleetingly, before tipping his head back and relaxing into the shallow waves.
Jongin will always remember this moment. The sunlight is soft, creeping over the back of his neck, and the earthy smell of wet shore clings to the inside of his nostrils. That is exactly how, and exactly when, he falls in love.
⤫
Zhang Yixing is a guest of Prince Joonmyun's for three months. It's an entire summer-a season that should flit past as swiftly and gracefully as a flock of migrating birds. But this summer, time drags on. Because for every month Zhang Yixing is present, something happens-something that makes life difficult in the palace for three of its servants.
It's as though the newcomer's stay has brought about a curse.
That's what Nana tells Jongin, anyway.
The first thing that happens sends Chanyeol spiraling into a rage.
It starts on a muggy, windless day, when Prince Sehun comes home from his overseas studies. He is Jongin's age, exactly-two years over twenty. If the whispers of the scullery maids are to be believed, the youngest prince is also the most handsome, and most likely to get his way.
When he strides into Boa's room to greet her, his gaze falls on Nana, mixing flower paints for the princess' lips. Sehun remains in his sister's company for the rest of the day. His eyes trail after her cosmetic servant for the rest of the week.
Jongin notices immediately. But he doesn't say anything, assuming the infatuation will pass just like so many of the royals' whims.
He knows he is dead wrong when the prince comes into the servants' kitchen and asks Nana, directly, for a drink of water.
It ruffles her. The unease flickers across her face like candlelight. The regular kitchen is four flights of stone staircase above, where the royals have easy access to it (or at least, their handmaidens and manservants do, on their behalf).
But Nana dips her head cordially, putting down the earthenware cup in her grasp and rising from her seat.
"Just a moment, Your Highness," she murmurs. "The proper glasses are upstairs-"
"Never mind that," Sehun replies. "I can drink from yours."
Nana balks, unable to hide her bewilderment. "But-"
"Please." And Sehun cranes just a little lower, speaks just a notch softer. "I'm parched."
Lips pressed together, the girl ladles cold water into her cup and hands it to the prince.
He makes sure to slide his fingers against hers when he takes it. And after he's taken a draft, he licks his lips, like he's looking for a particular taste.
Nana glues her eyes to the kitchen's crude floor.
Jongin comes to stand next to her in an attempt to deflect Sehun's attention. "Can I offer you anything else, my lord?" he asks.
"Thank you, Jongin, but no." Sehun doesn't even spare him a glance. "Perhaps my brother could use some refreshment in his quarters?"
Even if Jongin was less perceptive-even if he hadn't seen the smoldering look Sehun lays on Nana's face like a caress-he isn't stupid. He knows when someone is trying to get rid of him.
"The prince is with the sword master, my lord," Jongin says carefully. "He and Lord Yixing are sparring this afternoon, and did not want to be disturbed."
The space between his arm and Nana's electrifies with a tense energy. Jongin wishes Chanyeol was back in the palace, instead of out in the fields with Yixing's thoroughbred for its daily trot.
He feels Sehun's eyes on him then.
"I see," the youngest prince says, taking a step back. He crosses his arms across his chest and rests his weight on one leg. This makes his stance seem a little more casual. Rakish. Irresistible.
Another calculated move.
"Are you married?" Sehun asks abruptly. When Jongin jerks up, the prince's eyes are boring into Nana's.
"No, Your Highness," is her measured reply. The words drag against each other, like she doesn't want to say them.
"That is good news."
"But I am promised," Nana perseveres, her voice a little louder, words a little steadier, "and am as good as wed."
The prince's smile is a small one. "To this man?"
Jongin squares his shoulders, standing taller for his brother.
"No," Nana replies. "To Chanyeol, who works in the stables."
A lush and dangerous softness coats Sehun's features. "How long have you had this arrangement?"
"Since we were sixteen, my lord."
"You must be in love with him."
"I am."
"And has he touched you?"
Nana's eyes flash with indignation, and suddenly she is raising her head high. She reminds Jongin, at this moment, of Chanyeol's wildest mares-the ones he finds most difficult to break.
"My lord," Nana grits out, "that is no concern of yours."
Sehun isn't smiling anymore. He isn't gloating either. No, it looks to Jongin as though he is…desperate. Helpless and hurt and aroused and pulled a little too taut, all at once.
He steps closer, the movement a plea in itself.
"If he hasn't," Sehun whispers, "come to me, day or night, and I will."
Nana gasps.
Jongin instinctively takes a step in front of her. "My lord," he warns, his voice more menacing than he'd intended.
"Thank you for the water," Sehun says abruptly. He deposits the cup on the closest surface and sends a final, lingering look at the object of his affection. "Think about what I said, Nana the Fair."
To Jongin, he gives the following instructions: "Tell my brother I will be joining him for dinner, and that I wish for us not to be disturbed, either."
Then he spins on his heel and climbs back up the stairs, leaving the pair of them too stunned to speak.
Chanyeol does not have the same problem when they tell him all that has happened, well into the night.
"That bastard." His deep voice booms, ping-ponging against thin walls. He paces the room in long, jerky strides. "I would throttle him if he wasn't Prince Joonmyun's brother!"
Jongin stands in the doorframe, letting his brother have it out.
"These royals." Chanyeol swipes his fingers across his mouth, like the word is a filthy thing he wants to be rid of. The half-chuckle, half-growl that follows only makes Jongin grimace. "They pride themselves on breeding and refinement-enlightenment," his brother seethes, "but they're no better than dogs in heat."
"Chanyeol, please," Nana implores him. She looks so afraid. "They will hear you."
He sneers at the wall. "And what if they do?"
"Shhh," she tries to placate him, fingers curling into the neckline of her dress.
"Ah, yes," Chanyeol barrels on, like he hasn't heard a thing. "They'll lock me up or banish me-have me killed conveniently. Foist you over to the youngest prince as his prize. Of course."
The Nana Jongin knows would throw a quilt in his brother's face and demand he calm down, so they can talk about this like adults. But she seems terribly shaken, until now, by the encounter with Sehun-because this Nana covers her face with her hands and shivers.
"Stop it," she pleads in a sob only slightly muffled by her fingers. "Just. Stop."
That halts Chanyeol in his tracks.
"What-" In a second, his tone has drastically altered. "Nana?"
She shakes her head violently, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyelids.
Jongin watches his brother come over to his sweetheart, crouching in front of her. "Nana." Chanyeol wedges a hand between both of hers to cup her cheek. "I'm sorry. Have I frightened you? I'm sorry."
Nana slips off her seat, folds herself into his lap. "You will not make me live without you," she mumbles into Chanyeol's shoulder. "You will not. I will never forgive you."
When Chanyeol starts kissing her, his free hand stroking up and down her spine, Jongin slips out of the room.
"I'm sorry," Chanyeol is saying again, muffling the words into her neck. The kisses he lands there make soft, wet sounds. "I didn't mean it, I swear."
The last thing Jongin hears as he shuts the door behind him is Nana's gentle, low-pitched moan.
The next month, Jongin is placed an extremely unexpected situation.
One night, Zhang Yixing kisses him just outside Joonmyun's room. The prince is running a fever, and Jongin has just returned from the kitchens with something medicinal for his tea.
Yixing appears out of nowhere, only whispering a quick Jongin before pushing the younger man against the wall. He holds Jongin's face between his rough hands, thumbs stroking over Jongin's chapped lips. Then he tilts his head and seals their mouths together like two halves of the same fruit.
Jongin struggles at first, because Yixing is not Joonmyun, and Jongin has never considered anybody else.
But Yixing is surprisingly well-built, and Jongin can't seem to push him off-not while he's holding a bowl of dried chrysanthemums in one hand and a tray of iced linens for the prince's forehead in the other.
And beyond that…this is Jongin's first kiss in twenty-two years of existence. It's warm and wet, hard and thorough, and Yixing is licking over his tongue in a way that makes his head spin. Everything tastes like the sweet red wine the man has brought with him in his galleon of continental delights. Jongin catches himself groaning into the kiss, feeling dirty when he does, eyelids fluttering.
He never does close them, though.
By the time Yixing releases him from his hold, Jongin's mouth has swollen into a puff. His cheeks are the color of peach blossoms. His hands have pressed the bowl of desiccated flowers and tray of compresses against his hipbones, where tomorrow, the skin will bruise.
Yixing is looking him over, the expression on his face rueful. "It's not fair," he mumbles, with no segue at all, "but I get it now." Then he pecks Jongin once more, carefully, licking at the seam of his lips.
He leaves directly after that, without so much as a goodnight. For several minutes, Jongin slumps against the wall, trying to catch his breath and failing to process what has just happened to him.
"You look drained," Joonmyun mumbles from his bed, as Jongin pours hot water over a sieve of chrysanthemums. "You should get some rest."
Jongin crosses the room. He keeps his face still. "I will, Your Highness, once you've fallen asleep."
The mattress gives way under Jongin's weight as he helps the prince sit up. He hands Joonmyun a cup of tea, the yellow of it as strong as its aroma. "Please drink the whole thing. It will help bring down the fever."
"All right," the prince susurrates, fingers lacing as he cradles the cup in his hands. He sips from it, swallowing the liquid with a weak gulp. When he exhales, his breath is warm on Jongin's face.
"Too hot?" Jongin reaches for the tea to check.
Joonmyun shakes his head, eyes groggy. "It's delicious." He takes another sip and leans his head against his companion's shoulder. "Thank you, Jongin."
His forehead is so smooth, with the barest sheen of sweat glistening over the brow line. So close, Jongin could turn his face, dip down, and kiss the skin.
Then he remembers that his lips have just been between Yixing's, and it forces him to look the other way.
In the morning, Joonmyun's fever is gone, but Jongin insists he take breakfast in bed. When Yixing swans into the room, collapsing over the prince's covers to pick at the fruit on his tray, Jongin makes himself scarce.
This continues for the next few days, which turn into the next few weeks.
The kiss is never re-enacted. Yixing only acts as he had before: friendly and candid, with a touch of flirtation and more physical contact than necessary. Jongin is a little more wary of that last part, nowadays.
Once, Yixing bumps into him as they pass each other in a doorway. Jongin rounds a corner too sharply, and his chest collides with one of Yixing's shoulders. The older man stumbles, placing both hands on Jongin's waist to steady himself.
That is how Jongin finds himself peering down into that droll face, two months familiar, an inch too close for comfort.
"Careful," Yixing says, smile unreadable. "You might run into a wall next time."
His hands squeeze Jongin's waist before he goes on his way.
Jongin senses the prince's eyes on him from the far end of the room-and worse, the color heightening in his cheeks.
He is scooping chopped lychees over a bowl of shaved ice when the question is asked.
"Does Yixing make you uncomfortable?"
The tone is innocent enough, but Jongin knows when Joonmyun is choosing his words.
He sets the refreshment in front of the royal, eyelids at half-mast. "No, Your Highness."
"You know you can tell me the truth."
Jongin breathes steadily, but his spine tenses. "Yes, Your Highness."
"So explain," Joonmyun says, fiddling with the ceramic spoon Jongin has also placed before him. "Explain why you've stopped meeting his eyes when he speaks to you, and why you freeze whenever he touches you by accident, as you did just now." He pitches the spoon into the sweet ice, licking the corner of his mouth.
Jongin can't think of anything else to do but dip his head. "It's only out of habit, Your Highness. I didn't realize you'd noticed."
"But I did," Joonmyun mutters, tongue wetting both lips this time. "Has something happened between you two?"
He's been caught out. Jongin's eyes widen, and he casts about for words. But even as the nerves jolt his body like hard liquor, his mind lingers obsessively over a single strained note in the prince's voice. It makes him sound, almost, jealous.
Joonmyun draws in a breath through his nostrils. "Has he…has Yixing seduced you?" He exhales on a chuckle, and the notes in that ring just shy of bitter. His spoon stabs into the ice again and again, making a dent in the middle and pushing bits of fruit to the sides. "You see, I know how he is when he sets his mind to something-"
"No," Jongin interjects tenderly, his own heart hammering against his chest. "Not at all, Your Highness. Forgive me, but you have misjudged the situation."
The prince's cool fingertips ghost over his wrist bone. They feel like a reward for a correct answer.
"So he hasn't succeeded," Joonmyun ruminates, voice marginally more even. "But has he tried?"
Four fingers curl around Jongin's wrist as a thumb presses into the palm of his hand. It doesn't caress him; just rests there, waiting.
"He…" Jongin can't decide what the better course of action is-to lie and appease the prince, or to obey him and be truthful. "I…"
The thumb brushes over one of his lifelines, back and forth, back and forth. It shouldn't be erotic, but Jongin keens from the sensation, anyway.
"What has he done?" Joonmyun persists in a gravelly tone. "Tell me now."
And out it comes.
"He surprised me," Jongin admits, "with a kiss." He barely realizes what he is saying until it cannot be unsaid.
Besides a twitch in the prince's small mouth, Jongin is hard-pressed to find a reaction.
He still attempts to do damage control the very next instant. "It was only once, Your Highness. Weeks ago. I felt nothing, and I lost nothing." His eyes shutter, but he keeps on going. "It would be unnecessary, truly, for you to broach the subject with Lord Yixing."
For a long, long moment, Joonmyun gazes at him. The look in those almond eyes is indecipherable. All Jongin sees are flecks in dark pools, like the tea leaves some of the servants claim they can read, far beyond his interpretation.
"If you say so," Joonmyun says, more breath than vowels and consonants.
He loosens his hold on Jongin, and Jongin is reminded of that one time, in the bath, when they'd found themselves in a similar position. Joonmyun's fingers remain in a lax curl around him. Jongin could jerk away in a second, rub the sensitivity from his wrist, go straight back to work.
Instead, he draws his hand from the prince's grasp in slow motion-a painstaking, meaningful retreat. He experiences the endearing dampness of Joonmyun's palm on the back of his hand. He feels the heat and trepidation in Joonmyun's elegant fingers when his own brush over them. He lets his nails trace lines and grooves, keeps every tip in contact with Joonmyun's soft skin. When their hands finally separate (Joonmyun's own flipping over pliantly, their middle fingers touching ‘til the final moment), it feels, maddeningly, like a kiss.
Jongin presses his hand against his thigh, body electric.
"I'll be standing outside the door if you need me," he murmurs, not bothering to wait for Joonmyun's nod before leaving him to fend for himself on this hot, sticky afternoon.
It's during the third month of Yixing's stay that everything comes to a head, and all at once. That's why it's so painful, Jongin will admit to himself later on, when it is finished.
On the last day of summer, when a breeze dances through the trees, bringing with it the scent of fall, Watanabe Keiko returns.
The princess glides through the palace corridors like she has lived there all her life. She is dressed in lavish silks and the rarest jewels; her hair loose, inviting. This time, she wears fewer cosmetics on her face; more fabric…everywhere.
Jongin almost finds her pretty, in spite of himself. Because she is. Very, very pretty, and desirable to so many other royals.
Now that her beauty has been allowed to seep through all the pomp and flash, it makes her seem rather formidable.
"Hello, Keiko," Joonmyun greets her when they are finally in the same room. "Stylish as ever."
"And you look gorgeous as always." The lady holds out a hand so Joonmyun can grasp her fingertips. "My liege."
Joonmyun laughs. "Your liege?" His eyes are crescents, and Jongin smiles, because the prince's expression is infectious.
Keiko smiles, too; a sideward purse of the lips. It seems shrewd, in a way. She withdraws her hand, dipping her head.
Joonmyun remains amused. "What's this, princess? Are we on formal terms now?" He gestures for her to take a seat. "Has it been that long since your first visit?"
"Much too long, prince," she replies, in sotto voce, settling her robes around her.
"We'll pick up where we left off, then." He's using his diplomatic voice now, the one reserved for foreign dignitaries. "Wine, I presume, Keiko?"
"A man after my own heart," the lady purrs, her natural coquette resurfacing. "I've missed you, Joonmyun."
The prince gives her a polite chuckle, watching Jongin decant another bottle of Lady Watanabe's rosé. The wine fills the hollow vessel with a gentle splash. Jongin hopes it distracts from the sigh that has sprung from his throat.
"Is this how it's going to be?" Keiko is asking the prince.
Joonmyun cocks his head, smile gone lazy. Jongin often catches this one directed at him, when the prince is drifting off into thought. Jongin can observe him openly then, for a minute or so, without fear of getting caught.
"Hmm?"
"I mean, is this how we will continue?" Keiko explains. "Me calling you by your name, and you calling me by mine."
That little wrinkle between Joonmyun's eyebrows indicates he isn't following. "I don't see why not," he replies. "You dropped formalities on our very first encounter."
"Well, yes," Keiko laughs, pushing her hair behind her ears. "I suppose what I'm asking is if we can remain this informal even after we are married."
Joonmyun's head snaps up.
"Because I would enjoy that immensely," the princess divulges. She threads her fingers through a dark, glossy lock, roping it over her shoulder. "It would almost be like our own private joke, when you are king, and I your queen."
"Married?" the prince echoes, just as the decanter in Jongin's hands slips.
It meets the marble floor with a terrible crash. Keiko shrieks in surprise. Instantly, the air smells too sweet, unpleasantly cloying. The precious wine is everywhere. It pools around a pair of bare servant's feet-a pink halo littered with jagged constellations of glass.
"I'm so sorry," Jongin mumbles, all tripping tongue and shaky adrenaline. He bows deeply-once, twice, three times. "I will remove this at once."
Married, he intones, the word piercing him like an arrow. The prince is to be married.
He hears the crunch of the glass against the sole of his foot; feels the keen surprise of shard slicing skin.
"Stop, Jongin," Joonmyun stands from his chair. "You're bleeding!"
Something shiny glints in Jongin's eye. Another chair groans against the floor. Keiko has turned away from the sight of blood, her heavy earrings swinging.
"Here." Joonmyun approaches, holding out a sinewy arm. "Cling on to me."
Jongin wishes, desperately, that he could draw Joonmyun's arm around his waist. Keep it there instead.
"It's nothing," he forces out, warmth flooding the space behind his nostrils. He steps out of the prince's reach.
"Jongin, come on-"
But Jongin shakes his head. He schools his face into submission. The chastened look of a clumsy servant is neutral territory-compared to heartbreak. "I'll be back with rags, Your Highness. Please refrain from moving around the room until I've cleared all the glass."
He walks out as quickly as he can manage, cutting his other foot in the process, but feeling nothing save for the laceration in his chest.
Married. Keiko's voice rings clear as a song through his head. When you are king, and I your queen.
Jongin barely registers the slide of the door, the footsteps over the marble. A hot hand is gripping him by the shoulder. Then Joonmyun is whirling into view, blocking the way in front of him.
"What has gotten into you?"
He sounds so bewildered, and Jongin is so grateful to see him, but also lovesick and overwhelmed. It spills out before he can contain himself.
"I didn't know you were to be wed, Your Highness."
He almost tosses in a "Congratulations," but the pleasantry never quite makes it through.
"Neither did I," Joonmyun ripostes, swift and stern. "But that's not the issue here." His hand clamps around the top of Jongin's arm. "Don't move. I will have someone come and clean your wounds first."
Jongin shuts his eyes. "Your Highness, I cannot leave the room in that state. You have a guest."
When he opens them again, the prince is glaring at him.
"You will obey me," Joonmyun says, in a lower, more intimate voice. He's never spoken to Jongin like this before. The power behind it hammers straight into Jongin's gut, to be met with simmering heat.
"Yes?" Joonmyun's gaze is ember-like.
"Yes." Jongin murmurs. "Yes, Your Highness. Forgive-"
"Stop apologizing," the prince cuts him off, "when you've done nothing wrong."
For a moment so fleeting, Jongin thinks he must have imagined it, the prince cups a hand over his cheek.
"What am I going to do with you, young one?"
It's like he's talking to himself.
Jongin can only stare into those black-brown eyes, rapt with wonder.
Joonmyun removes his hand. "Stay here," he says firmly.
And then he's calling out to a passing servant, asking her to bring rags for spilt wine and to ring for the royal doctor, "so he can see to this man."
Part 2