Requested by  stantxtandizone

"Before the Crown"

Yuma's POV prequel to "As We Were Always Meant to Be"

Yuma was nine when he realized Prince Jo was dangerous.

Not in the sword-swinging, throne-toppling way his tutors warned about. But in the quiet way. The way his voice always cut through a crowded hall. The way he didn't look at people—he saw them.

The way he listened, even when he didn't speak.

Yuma hated stiff collars and scripted words, but Jo never mocked him for fumbling protocol. He only offered quiet glances, sharp smirks, and once—when Yuma tripped during a state procession—a hand beneath his elbow, steadying him like it was nothing.

Like Yuma was someone.

After that, Yuma started seeking him out at every event. He'd wait for Jo to walk by. He'd wander off just far enough to end up beside him.

He didn't know what he was doing. Just that when Jo was around, the world was softer. Quieter. Real.

One summer, they sat on the palace roof during a joint training summit. The stars overhead, their guards too tired to protest.

"If you weren't a prince," Jo had asked, "what would you be?"

"Someone free," Yuma whispered.

Jo didn't laugh. He just nodded, like he understood completely.

Yuma fell in love that night.

Not with Jo's title. Not with his face.

But with the way he made even a crown feel optional.

''''''''

The first time Prince Jo met Prince Yuma, he was five and furious.

Not because Yuma had done anything — but because Jo's crown was too big, and his ceremonial tunic itched like betrayal. He was scowling at the velvet walls of the Allied Coronation Chamber when a hand nudged a sugared pear tart into his lap.

"You look mad," the stranger said. "You should eat something."

Jo blinked. The boy beside him was just his size, with a crooked gold pin on his cloak and eyes the color of clear skies.

"I'm not mad," Jo muttered, mouth full of tart.

"You are," the boy said cheerfully, then stuck out his hand. "I'm Yuma."

"Jo," he mumbled.

It wasn't exactly a royal introduction. But it was the beginning.

Every year, they met again.

At treaty signings. At victory celebrations. At seasonal parades when their kingdoms would ride side by side.

Sometimes Jo would look for Yuma first. Other times, Yuma would appear at his side without needing to be summoned, nudging elbows, making whispered jokes, asking things like:

"If you had to run away from the throne, where would you go?"
"Do you think the sun ever gets tired of shining on us?"
"Do you think we'd still talk if we weren't born princes?"

And Jo, who hated unnecessary talk, always answered.

When they were fifteen, they danced together — officially — for the first time.

A snowbound ball hosted by Jo's kingdom, all glittering chandeliers and frost-laced roses. The nobles whispered about symbolism. About unity.

Jo just remembered Yuma's hand in his, warm and unshaking.

"You hate dancing," Yuma said, smiling.

"Not with you."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud.

But Yuma only grinned wider. "Then let's make them jealous."

Time moved like rivers down a mountain — slow, then all at once.

War nearly broke out. Yuma's father fell ill. Jo trained harder than ever. They stopped writing letters. They stopped seeing each other.

Until the night of the New Dawn Accord, where both crowns met again to sign a peace no one believed would last.

Jo arrived in a storm. Late, tired, covered in road-dust and politics.

And Yuma was waiting.

Older. Sharper. But the same storm-colored eyes and grin Jo had carved into memory.

"You came," Yuma said softly.

"You were always the reason I would."

Later, when the ballroom lights dimmed and the speeches died down, Jo found him again on the terrace.

"You disappeared," he said.

"You stopped writing," Yuma replied.

Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

"Would you believe me if I said I still think about that snowball dance?" Yuma said finally.

Jo's voice caught.

"I never stopped," he admitted.

Their kingdoms were talking now. Of merging bloodlines. Of sealing treaties through "historic" marriages.

Jo wanted to laugh. History, they called it.

Fate, he called it.

Yuma took his hand one night after a long council meeting and said, "If this is the future they choose for us, let's make sure it's also ours."

Jo looked at the boy who had handed him a pear tart twenty years ago and said:

"It always was."

🕊️ Epilogue: Years Later

Two crowns. One union. And two men walking side by side—not because they were told to, but because they chose to.

Their people cheered.

Their advisors sighed.

And in quiet moments behind silk curtains and starlit balconies, Jo still whispered, "I hate ceremonies."

Yuma always answered: "I don't. I met you at one."

"Crisis Hour"

A future scene – ruling together through their first political standoff

Their kingdoms had been allies for decades. Lovers, if geography could feel. But no alliance was perfect. Especially not when a trade route failed and every noble demanded answers with sharpened tongues.

Jo sat at the head of the council table, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable.

Yuma paced beside him, cloak flaring with every turn.

"We can't divert resources from the southern ports again," one minister argued.

"We also can't let the northern towns starve while we debate protocol," Jo said calmly.

"We could redirect the merchant fleets," Yuma offered, "through the coastal passage we scouted last year."

Silence. Then murmurs.

Jo looked at him. A small nod. Agreement—not of politics, but of trust.

Later, after the council disbanded, they sat together by the window, sharing fruit and quiet sighs.

"They think you're the calm one," Yuma said.

"You're the fire," Jo replied. "I'm just the one who knows not to get burned."

Yuma leaned in. Forehead to forehead.

"This is harder than we thought," he murmured.

"But we're doing it," Jo whispered. "Together."

And outside, the kingdom watched two rulers—no longer just princes—but partners, bound not just by fate, but by choice.