ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ ♕ ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

┗━━ 𝓦𝓸𝓸𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰'𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥 ━━┛

"What of the trade routes between Etheria and Celestia?" An advisor asks, his hands resting palm-down on the table. "What of the impact of our own actions? Surely the royal wedding will cause an influx of popularity here within Etheria, and we cannot stop nor prevent people from seeking shelter within our walls."

"Fear not, maester Jeon, we have plenty of resources here within our walls in the event that others seek shelter," another advisor chimes in from the other end of the table, pleading with a softer tone and a gentle expression.

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat at the end of the table, rolling a delicate polished marble between his fingers, feeling the weight of his crown slowly press against the top of his head as he leaned backwards, glancing at the ceiling with an emptiness settling into the pit of his stomach.

The night had passed uneventfully. For what he had hoped to spend with San, he rather spent alone, sitting upright in bed, his arms wrapped around his legs with his cheek pressed against his knee, listening to the ambiance of such an unusually still evening. He felt hollow and unkempt, messily tore in half even despite knowing that he was doing what was expected of him. San had every right to be angry and upset, but in the times that they usually sought solace from one another, San rather chose to isolate himself, straying away from what once was their safety net and was now a place of stress.

The weight of the morning was just as quiet, if not more so, drowned out with the sound of his maids running amuck, gathering his clothing and polishing his crown, talking amongst themselves as if the Prince himself wasn't even there. Wooyoung just sat by and watched, staring at himself in the mirror, wondering why he began to hate the very man that looked right back at him as if he were a mere stranger. He didn't know who he was anymore, nor was he sure if he even cared, but he knew that he had to fix this. He had to coax San away from this place of isolation, to bring him back into the comfort of their shared warmth, to remind one another at just how much their souls mutually healed the other.

But, Wooyoung couldn't do that. He was lined up with meetings and other princely-duties that he couldn't even fathom, listening as the council his father had chosen bickered over something as meaningless as trade routes, talking amongst themselves without bothering to seek opinions. Wooyoung didn't really have much to say, anyway, he just rather sit there and think for himself, wondering at how he could even begin to fix anything that he had destroyed.

"What do you think, my Prince?"

Wooyoung allows his gaze to slowly fall back to the table, observing the faces that watched him closely, studying his every move in a gesture that was ticking with unease. He knew these men and women fairly well, but not well enough. His father had elected each of these people with a purpose, but Wooyoung trusted none of them.

Maester Jeon, a man of medicine and exponential knowledge, had served beneath the King for more than a decade, and yet Wooyoung felt little trust in his every breath. The male was elderly, adorning a red cloak and dark garments just beneath, a golden chain holding his cloak against his chest while his eyes watched Wooyoung curiously. Maybe he was worth trusting, maybe he wasn't. Wooyoung couldn't tell.

Across from Jeon were the Lord and Lady of Aveon Harbor, a local town on the other side of Etheria, far from Islan where his friends, Seonghwa and Hongjoong, resided. They were. . . peculiar, per se. Wooyoung didn't much appreciate their opinions, as they came from a wealthy home with their noses up their own ass, likely seeking to be a part of the crown in any way they could manage. They seemed like snakes, too consumed in their own way of thinking to care about the future of Etheria, rather seeking their own selfish desires over the likes of anything else.

Wooyoung shifted his gaze to then look at Knight's Regient Su-hyeok, a man of noble prowess yet seeking power in the form of managing the entirety of the knight's brigade. Wooyoung didn't exactly know Su-hyeok well enough to form an opinion, but he'd heard murmurs of his character through the likes of his own protectors. Mingi had always said more than enough, expressing how tough and cold Su-hyeok is, stating that the winter in Etheria was warmer than the likes of Su-hyeok's own heart. Minho had expressed something similar, but without the dramatics.

"Think of what?" He responds, twirling the marble hesitantly, shifting his gaze between each of the faces before him.

"Lady Aveon seems to think that we cannot harbor any more people within Etheria's walls. She is adamant that we must be careful in the coming winter, bracing ourselves for the likelihood of famine." Su-hyeok seemed unsure of the comment himself even as he spoke, gesturing idly with his hand before sitting casually in his seat, his eyes wandering about the room before settling back upon Wooyoung's, clearly unfamiliar with this approach and topic.

"I see," Wooyoung replies, raising a brow. "There is not anything to worry about, my Lord and Lady. You forget we are a kingdom of harvesting, farming, fishing and barter. We know not of what this winter will bring, council. Why worry now?"

"Are you insisting that we wait, until it is too late for any of us to seek action?" Lady Aveon retorts, her voice casting out across the long, oak table, her brows slightly furrowed as irritation laced itself within her tone.

"Is that any of what I just said, my Lady?" Wooyoung replies, shifting in his seat as the marble pauses in his grasp, delicately held between the press of his fingers. "You forget your place amongst this table and I ask of you to reconsider your tone. I am the promised King of Etheria, Lady Aveon, and I expect for you to treat me as such."

"Yes, your grace," she says quietly, bowing her head down. "Please forgive my inconsiderate behavior."

Wooyoung nods, taking a breath inwards. "Humble yourself, my Lady, as it will save you the embarrassment later."

Adjusting in his seat, Wooyoung leans forwards, setting the marble down in the small dish that was settled before him, adorning other colors of the same exact marbles, all glimmering with a slight polish that the maids had performed earlier. He glances at each of his council members, those of which he hadn't chosen himself, yet somehow still needed to find peace with.

"We trade in the same manner that we always have," Wooyoung reiterates. "We barter, we remain fair, and we continue to make peace with those around us so we can all live within this realm."

Wooyoung watches as each member nods their head, shifting their focus elsewhere. Jeon continues talking, indulging into another topic entirely, leaving Wooyoung to lean back into his seat, crossing one leg over the other. Taking a deep breath inwards, Wooyoung raises a hand, brushing a strand of his hair aside as he looks up, seeing the familiar forms of Minho and Mingi standing guard, complacent and unmoving, their postures similar and somehow comforting. He knew shift change was coming any moment now, and soon San would take Mingi's place, Mingyu occupying the other, leaving him to wonder if San's eyes would meet his own today, or if they'd share words to soothe their souls. But, he didn't know.

He listened as the people before him talked and talked, discussing issues with farmland, husbandry and essential medicines. He couldn't find it within himself to care, allowing their talk to go without interruption, his gaze focused on the open doors ahead of him, waiting for any glimpse of San.

Before he realizes, he watches as Mingi and Minho both bow their heads, trading off their post as two other forms settled in their previous place. Wooyoung saw the familiar curl of San's bright red hair, how it framed his face and settled against his features, shimmering in the sunlight from the nearby window. Wooyoung traced the jut of San's jaw with his irises, wanting nothing more than to reach and pull him closer, to sit on his lap and whisper a myriad of affectionate nothings, and yet he couldn't. He just simply sat there, bored and uninterested in the details of his kingdom, hoping for a love he couldn't quite have, yet yearned for.

"That's enough," Wooyoung says dismissively, a hand barely reaching upwards as he feels his fingers press against his temple for a fleeting moment of relief. "We can reconvene another day. I believe we have discussed enough."

"Your grace, I understand that you might be tired–"

"Enough, maester Jeon," Wooyoung says sharply, standing and rising from his seat. "I said that we are to be done. Nothing further, please."

"Yes, your grace," Jeon replies, looking away as he bowed his head, his hands falling away from the table and down towards his lap. Wooyoung raises a brow subtly, glancing at each of his council members before moving away, wetting his lips tentatively in thought.

"I know that you all mean well," Wooyoung begins. "But may I remind all of you that I am not the one who has placed you here. My father was a smart man, but you were his council, not my own. The moment I am married and crowned King of Etheria, you better pray to the God's that I may have mercy on your place here within these walls."

Wooyoung's words seem to hold their weight as he smooths out his crisp linen shirt, maneuvering away from the table and towards the open doors, listening as no words become of the people he spoke towards. They all seemed to grapple with the real consequence of Wooyoung's sentiment, and even more so, they had come to see that their places may only be but temporary.

"Mingyu, San, to my chambers, please." Wooyoung barely spares a glance as he moves past the threshold of the doors, listening as the males follow in tow without a word, loyally trekking just behind as a private escort.

The halls were quiet at this hour, nearly at the sun's peak of noon as Wooyoung gathered himself in a poised-rush as he sought the comfort of his chambers. He needed peace, privacy; something away from the chaos of expectations and the weight of his crown. He needed serenity, if just for a moment, to breathe and see himself as something other than a pure disappointment. Maybe he was naive, or perhaps just oblivious, but he needed to bring himself back down from the edge before he teetered over and tumbled beneath the hazard of tumultuous waves.

The light danced across the stone floors as Wooyoung moved through the corridors, listening to the breeze twirl through the nearby trees and scatter across the pond, reminding him of what lay just outside, even despite the rage culminating inside of himself. The weight of the world felt ungodly brutal, like a burden meant for someone else to harbor, a storm raining down on someone who didn't know how to swim and remained at a loss, drowning in nothingness.

Upon reaching his door, Mingyu stepped in front, opening the door before stepping aside, allowing Wooyoung to trek inwards, his hand immediately reaching upwards to grab onto his crown, curling his grip around the fair metals and jewels as if they were nothing. He takes a breath, setting down the crown on its usual cushion, abandoning the feeling of the world set against his shoulders so he could breathe with reprieve, reaching his windows and curling his fingers over the sill of the open wall, looking out into the world he was set to rule.

The buildings were cast beautifully in the light, the walls stretching out towards the horizon, keeping everyone within their perimeter safe and without worry. Wooyoung's eyes trail along each of the rooftops, inspecting the details of each home and each towering building, listening as life went on just outside of the castle, bustling without bothering to acknowledge anything else. The citizens moved assuredly, carrying boxes or driving wagons through the stone streets with the lively sounds of chatter, nearly aloof to the tribulations within their very own kingdom. Wooyoung simply watches, resting his head down on the edge of his window, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, aiming to calm the storm from inside.

He hears the doors close behind him, clicking shut, cutting him off from the rest of the world as he rests there, breathing in the familiar air of his kingdom, trying to calm himself so he could face the world again. He felt slightly inept, unable to adapt to all of this pressure, and yet he remains, pushing through every single day as if he feels none of the stress of having to live up to his father. His mother, as estranged or odd as she may be, was the only reason he kept pursuing this lifestyle. He didn't wish for any of this. He didn't want to be king in this fashion, nor did he seek marriage, but here he was, promising himself to his kingdom to be wed to someone he just met mere hours ago. He ached in a way that made his heart feel empty, void of the life it once held before the weight of all of this. He worried that he was allowing himself to trek too deeply into these feelings, to harbor so much guilt and grime, to be a fraction of the person he once was.

But worrying wasn't enough. He was just there, living and breathing, going through the motions of his daily, chaotic life, watching as the people who worked beneath him moved in a blur, disassociating himself away from their conversations as they worked through the same routine, just like they had the day before, and the day before that.

It was an endless cycle of self-pity, one that Wooyoung wished he could steer clear from, and yet he stayed, simply because he thought he deserved it. He was hurting San simply because he was selfish, ruining himself in fear that he'd disappoint his father, all while trying to live up to his mother's expectations, even if she felt to be too hard to reach.

A shuddering breath sinks inwards, causing his head to tilt down, crying out and into the void, praying, hoping; wanting nothing more than to be free of this. He was scared, beyond the facade he portrayed every single day. He was just terrified of everything that was to come. He was sinking in all of this, trying to patch the holes of his ship in a means to justify all of the self-inflicted wounds he was dealing himself, trying to avoid the inevitable plunge to his death. He knew where this path was leading, this singular wish to be free of whatever burdens he entertained, and yet he couldn't rid himself of it. He floated in the abyss, watching water flood the bottom of his boat, dragging him beneath the waves of a sea so dark, he wasn't sure if he'd ever breach the surface again.

The sudden wrap of arms around his waist only brings his tears to emerge stronger, his breath to hitch, his thoughts to pause. A warm body presses against his, chest to back, a familiar surge of comfort radiating through his veins until he takes a moment to open his eyes, clutching the window with one hand while the other drifts beneath, wrapping around the contours of a hand he had held before.

"I am here, Wooyoung," San murmurs quietly, tightening his embrace. "I am right here."

Wooyoung shakes his head, feeling the rapture of tears sink down his cheeks, curling beneath his jaw, falling somewhere near his shoes and onto the floor, drowning in a sea of emotions that were hard to contain. He had been holding himself together for so long, swallowing his fears and masking his unease, falling for a fake sense of pride, hoping that someone would pull him out of this.

Wooyoung can feel that San had taken his armor off, leaving the warmth of San's body to press against his in a familiar touch, slowly beginning to pull him away from the cusp of teetering over.

"Just let me go, San," Wooyoung breathes out, pressing his forehead against the sill of his window. "You cannot be a part of this."

"I wish to be," San reiterates, pulling Wooyoung closer, allowing his head to rest near Wooyoung's right shoulder. "You are not alone in this, Wooyoung. I am right here, I am with you."

"You cannot be with me, San. Do you even hear yourself?" Wooyoung leans his head upright, turning to gaze over his shoulder. "Look at me. Look at us. Can you even see the reality of what we have been entertaining, as if we hold no consequence?"

San is silent, almost as if he was listening, or as if he couldn't quite speak. Wooyoung straightens himself, standing upright, feeling as San's hold grows lax, yet his hand remains curled on his hip.

"They are looming just outside of those doors, San. Our fate, our future, cannot be. Has that not yet set in?" Wooyoung asks, his eyes watching San carefully, almost in a plea for reassurance.

"Do you think I do not know any of that?" San's voice was a near-whisper, tentative and quiet, almost as if he was too afraid to break any fraction of Wooyoung's very essence. "I know all of it, Wooyoung. I know of every single thing we fear. We have discussed and talked for hours about how we are selfish in every action we take, and yet we continue. What of that has changed?"

Wooyoung shakes his head, allowing his tears to fall continuously, not bothering to stop himself from feeling any second of this. "I cannot help but feel terrified, San. The moon nears its renewed state, and I have to bed one of these men. I have to choose one of them, and I must see through to it all– does that not bother you?"

"I will not stand here and lie to you. It does bother me, it bothers me every day, Wooyoung. What do you expect for me to say?"

Wooyoung shrugs, chewing on his lip, feeling the stream of tears begin to slowly curl to a stop as he looks at San, wondering if his anxieties trickled a bit too far out of control.

"I wish to be here, Wooyoung. Is that not what you asked of me?"

"I did," Wooyoung replies, allowing his head to tilt downwards. "I just– I–"

"I fear the same thing, my Prince," San comforts soothingly, reaching a hand upwards, gently pressing his palm against the jut of Wooyoung's jaw. "I can feel your fear, your tribulation. I am weary in the same manner."

"If they find out–" Wooyoung breathes out, lifting his gaze, watching as San meets his eyes. "If my mother were to find out about us, that my virtue is stained–"

"She will not," San reassures. "We are only stronger if we are together, Wooyoung. Do you trust me?"

Wooyoung raises his arms, hands resting on the sides of San's jaw, as he steps closer, allowing his fear to finally bleed freely from his tongue.

"I do not wish for you to die," Wooyoung breathes out shakily, allowing his lip to quiver. "If I were to lose you, I would simply cease to exist."

"Why would I ever die?"

"My mother would have you hanged," Wooyoung says quietly, swallowing a shaky breath. "If she were to see us together, like this, or. . . intimate–"

"Then we wait," San says, a soft smile curled on the very faint edges of his lips. "We take all of this, one moment at a time, and we communicate openly, without fear of what is to come. If we remain honest, seek out these small moments together, then what is there to fear?"

Wooyoung shakes his head, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he bites back the negative thoughts settling on the edge of his tongue.

"There is plenty to fear, San," Wooyoung murmurs. "But I do not fear my own death. I do not fear my enemies and nor do I fear my incoming marriage. I fear losing what matters most to me in this realm, in this fracture of life that hangs loosely, like a thread."

San's expression softens, likely as the realization of Wooyoung's fear finally settles in. For a moment, Wooyoung hesitates, brushing his thumbs against San's skin, hoping for a reply that would simply smooth over the surface of his aching, fracturing heart. But then, San leans in, pressing his lips to Wooyoung's without an utterance of fear.

Immediately, Wooyoung melts into the kiss, his hands sliding to cup the back of San's neck, pulling him closer, allowing himself but a moment to sink into the feeling of something he desperately needed. There was nothing more he wanted than this, to bottle up this moment, cast it into the sea, only to be washed ashore again, to be remembered in a time when he needed this exact same thing later down the line. He didn't know how long he'd be able to cherish this, to hold it close to his heart and to harbor it, but the simple selfish feeling of desire burns brightly, causing him to only pull San closer and deepen the kiss.

Carefully, San pulls away, brushing strands of hair away from Wooyoung's eyes. He's quiet, if only but for a second, studying the contours of Wooyoung's face, almost as if he'd disappear from his grasp.

"You make me feel protective in a sense that I cannot describe in mere words," San expresses softly, allowing his eyes to drift closed, leaning close enough to rest his forehead against Wooyoung's. "I know there is a role for you to maintain, a certain presence to flaunt. I. . . I was angry yesterday, I will not lie. I. . . did not like how they looked at you, how they kissed your hand and how they spoke to you."

"You know I cannot avoid those interactions–"

"I know," San assures, but Wooyoung can hear the hesitance in his voice. "I hate this, Wooyoung. The difference in our worlds, the ties that constantly pull us apart when all I want is to drift closer to you."

"I hate this, too," Wooyoung replies, trying to ground himself, attempting to calm the tide of his raging emotions. "How are we meant to exist in a world where we are so different, yet pulled together by the same universe that seeks to tear us apart?"

"We try," San mutters, leaning away just enough to brush his lips against Wooyoung's forehead, placing a delicate kiss there. "That is all we can do, Wooyoung. We try."

"Yes," Wooyoung replies, sniffling quietly, feeling as San brushes away the remnants of his tears with the soft touch of his thumb. "We can try, San. For as long as we can."

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As the sun began its descent, Wooyoung found himself on his balcony, a bowl of ripe green grapes settled on the table nearby, along with a golden chalice of some sort of tea that Ji-soo had made. Wooyoung had a book of open scriptures on his lap, his eyes moving through the words as he sought to further his education by any means possible, though he was sure that nothing could truly prepare him for life beneath the crown and atop a throne.

So, he settles in, taking a breath as the wind curls around him, carrying the breeze warmly, tinted with a hint of salt. The sea wasn't too far from Etheria, just a short ride on horseback to the coast, though Wooyoung had always loved the scent of the sea, melting beneath the haze from the setting sun as the light danced along the stone railing of his balcony. It was peaceful here, and after spending a few hours in the company of San, he found himself seeking a new mindset, hopeful and doing everything he can to simply survive the tribulations of this.

San stayed for a while after they had talked, laying in bed with Wooyoung, soothing a hand through his hair as he offered words of affirmation, soothing him into a state of peace that led Wooyoung into a subtle slumber. Wooyoung wasn't sure as to how long he had slept, but San had left at some point, leaving the Prince to wake to a lonely bed, barren of warmth and the tranquility that came with being around the one person he adored the most.

Now, he was seeking peace of a different kind, the kind he found in literature and thick pages, woven in ink with a feathered pen. Each scroll held something different, lost in a separate page of fiction that felt too hard to believe in. He wanted something real, or at least, something that sounded real when he read it to himself. These books and poems, they were nothing special, but everything about them felt to be drawing him in, allowing him the peace of mind to sink into a different reality. That was all he needed, or, that's what he thought he needed.

The sudden sound of his balcony door opening causes him to sit upright, setting the papers aside on the table where his other supplies sat. Mingyu appeared, stepping out with an expressionless stupor, one that had always followed him in his line of duty.

"My Prince," he greets quietly, holding the door open with one hand. "Prince Yeosang wishes to speak with you."

"Right now?" Wooyoung asks, raising a brow. Mingyu nods. "Let him through."

Mingyu stands aside, and just as Wooyoung rises to his feet to properly greet Yeosang, the male walks through the threshold of his door, a smile woven onto his lips.

"Pardon the intrusion, your grace," Yeosang says warmly, earning a small wave of dismissal from Wooyoung.

"Please, I welcome your company. Care to join me?"

Yeosang nods, almost eagerly, moving over to the empty seat that lay on the other side of the table, leaving Wooyoung to nod at Mingyu, dismissing him without a word. Mingyu leaves, closing the wooden door behind him, leaving Wooyoung and Yeosang to their private conversation, broken up only by the sound of passing birds.

"What brings you to my balcony, Prince Yeosang?" Wooyoung asks, settling back into his seat.

"I rather sought a moment away from court," Yeosang replies, adjusting his jacket slightly. "I thought it might be appropriate for us to seek a moment alone, given our circumstances, no?"

"I see," Wooyoung agrees, nodding his head, reaching for his chalice. "Being in court can be draining, and I find it difficult to exist sometimes."

"I understand, more than you may know," Yeosang counters, turning to glance at Wooyoung. "The pressure my parents place on me to succeed is rather. . . tiring. Truth be told, if you do not mind me speaking so plainly, I really do not seek to be married."

Wooyoung pauses, the chalice sitting in his open palm, the liquid inside shifting with his every breath, though Wooyoung feels unable to meet Yeosang's gaze. Was he seeking to pull out of his race for the throne beside him? Was he making it clear that he held no desire to be married to Wooyoung in the first place?

"Marriage feels definite," Yeosang contemplates lightly, taking a break inwards as he looks out into the scenery ahead of them. "I do not wish for such finalities just yet. I am still young, left with passions and desires that would likely be contained by the cusp of something like marriage. I want freedom, more than anything else, your grace. I desire to be able to do anything else that I wish to, without having to worry about a husband lingering over my shoulder."

"I. . . do not seek the covenant of marriage, either," Wooyoung admits, setting down his chalice with a subtle clink. "It was not in my cards of destiny told by the fortune teller, and yet here I am, hearing otherwise from my own mother."

Yeosang lets out a brief chuckle, overly amused by Wooyoung's apparent honesty. "You? Not seeking marriage? Was that not the entire point of your whole gathering?"

"It was, I will admit, a bit brazen of me, was it not?" Wooyoung smiles, chewing on his lip afterwards. "I have to fool the masses, somehow."

"Your secret is safe with me, your grace," Yeosang says with a smirk, his eyes shooting down to glance at the scrolls of paper. "Do you read, my Prince?"

"I do quite enjoy literature," Wooyoung admits, gesturing towards the papers themselves. "Take a look, if you are to be so curious."

"Are you a romantic, your grace?" Yeosang asks, reaching for the papers, inspecting the lines of ink and script with a curious gaze.

"Maybe," Wooyoung teases, watching Yeosang closely. "Are you?"

"I am but a princely poet–" Yeosang pauses, his eyes moving to look at Wooyoung. "I have to be a romantic to be into something as creative as pure literature."

"Maybe I then too, am a romantic," Wooyoung supposes lightly, turning his head, gazing out at the setting sun.

"Have you ever been in love, your grace?"

Wooyoung hesitates, taking a breath inwards, contemplating internally before he nods, nearly afraid to let the words slip.

"Yes, but–" he pauses, closing his eyes tightly, feeling his jaw tense. "They do not know I harbor such a feeling."

"Why have you not expressed it?"

"Can you truthfully blame me for keeping it to myself when I am to be wed to one of my suitors?"

Yeosang shrugs before he too sighs, shifting his gaze to look at the setting sun. "I cannot, I am afraid I experience the same sentiment; the same fear."

"What fear?"

"The fear of losing someone you love," Yeosang mutters, breathing his words out into the open, even if they were anything but gentle in their delivery. "I have someone too that I adore, and yet I am here, partially hoping that you will seek my hand in marriage."

Wooyoung turns, glancing at Yeosang, his brows slightly pinching together. "And the other half?"

"It hopes, and it prays, that you will choose someone else and leave me to fool about in my own choices once more," Yeosang murmurs, looking down at his hands, daintily messing with his rings. "Maybe, and truly only then, can I entertain the freedom I seek to maintain if you were to deny me."

Wooyoung's gaze softens before he turns away again, and for a moment, he begins to question if all of this was worth a single moment of acknowledgement from his mother. It wasn't only his life at stake, but everyone else's in return. Yeosang's future was hanging so delicately in the balance, right in between his fingers, dancing and weaving through as if he were the most fragile thing known to man. Wooyoung didn't wish to tether him down, to take him away from the person he apparently loved, nor did he wish to conform him into a societal court that he sought to abandon. But, he was the same way. Maybe they'd be better off together in that sense. Free to see the people they love, free to wander off, run amuck, leave with the gust of fleeting winds, only to come together when necessary.

They're wordless in that moment, accepting that they were but two princes in love with partners they could never have, either bound together in a marital sense or rather not at all. They were so different, yet so similar in the same toss of a golden coin, but Wooyoung can't help the feeling of simmering guilt building within his stomach. It's grasping him by the throat, causing his own words to simply fail him.

Wooyoung wouldn't do that to Yeosang. He didn't wish to take away his freedom and tie him into a life he desperately didn't want. He just couldn't.

He didn't wish to see someone else's life ruined just for the sake of salvaging his own, and that in itself was enough of an answer to narrow down his choice.

Even if it pained him to do so.