Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The golden emblem of the East Kingdom gleamed behind the royal thrones — a phoenix rising from flame, wings outstretched. But the fire in the room didn’t come from the symbol behind them.

It came from Alpha Crown Prince Seungcheol, standing alone before his parents, caught in the burning heat of expectation. “I won’t pick someone I don’t know,” he said, again.

Firmer this time.

“I won’t choose an omega from a list like I’m ordering a banquet dish.”

King Haneul’s hands were steepled beneath his chin, expression unreadable. But his voice was clipped. “You are not choosing for love. You are choosing for the kingdom. We are not asking — this is the law. A crown cannot rest on a head without a bond. You must have a consort by your coronation.”

Queen Mira, seated beside her husband, tried to soften the blow. Her voice was velvet, but it didn’t hide the steel beneath. “There are noble omegas from the South, West — even the North. Alliances we could strengthen. Families who would consider it an honor.”

Seungcheol resisted the urge to scoff. “Honor,” he muttered. “Is that what this is to you? Selling me off like a pawn for ‘balance’?”

“You are not being sold,” King Haneul snapped.

“You are ascending. Do not confuse the two.”

But Seungcheol did confuse them. Every day, more and more.

What good was ascending if every step he took was one he was forced into? He had been trained to rule, not to belong to someone else for the sake of tradition.

“I’ve never even felt—” He stopped himself.

His mother’s gaze narrowed. “Felt what?”

Seungcheol’s voice dropped, almost ashamed. “Love. Attachment. Anything that could make this feel real.”

Silence stretched between them.

“That may come after,” Queen Mira said gently. “But a king must build his house first. Then fill it.”

He felt like he was suffocating. The crown, once a dream, now felt like a weight on his spine.

He bowed slightly. “Understood. May I be excused?”

King Haneul nodded. “Three months, Seungcheol. Make a choice. Or we will.”

******

The golden sun had barely risen over the Eastern Kingdom’s palace when the stillness of morning was broken by the soft hum of servants, silk robes brushing over polished marble, and distant birdsong carried in through the high-arched windows.

In the quiet of the strategy room, Prince Seungcheol sat alone.

He stood by the tall windows, looking out over the capital of the East. From this high tower, the kingdom looked peaceful—orderly. The streets were just beginning to stir with life, but inside his chest, everything was loud.

Rushed. Unsettled.

His fingers hovered over the embroidered collar of his ceremonial jacket, absently straightening it for the third time.

His 25th birthday loomed just 3 months away. With it came a crown he had been trained for since childhood. And yet, one condition hung over his head like a sword: he had to find a mate.

If not, his parents—the King and Queen—would choose one for him.

He sighed, low and tired, when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Still brooding before breakfast, Cheol?”

Mingyu’s voice echoed in the chamber as the heavy doors opened. Jeonghan followed behind him, his laughter soft and warm like the early light.

“Your Majesty in Training is always brooding,” Jeonghan added, moving past him with a smile that tugged at the corners of Seungcheol’s lips. “It’s part of his charm.”

Seungcheol reached out without thinking and gently brushed a stray thread off Jeonghan’s shoulder. “And yours is barging in like you own the place?”

“I practically do. I’ve conquered this room more times than you can count.” Jeonghan winked, settling into his favorite seat.

Seungcheol shook his head, but his smile lingered.

The rest of them arrived soon after. 

Wonwoo, quiet as ever, gave a respectful nod—his cousin and closest confidant.

Seokmin burst in with a laugh that filled the room, his Southern accent coloring his words with bright energy. Last was Jisoo, in his white and gold robes, always a vision of grace, robes flowing like water as he floated toward the table.

Six princes.

Six kingdoms once divided by war, now bound by peace—and more importantly, by love.

Not the romantic kind. The kind that formed when you grew up knowing every version of someone. When you bled together, trained together, held each other’s secrets through long winters and hard years.

And in Jeonghan and Mingyu’s case—brothers, heirs of the North, alpha and omega, as close as two halves of a star.

And in Seungcheol and Wonwoo’s—cousins, raised like twins, each other’s shadows and shields.

The war table was set: rivers carved into polished wood, figurines hand-painted to resemble ancient battalions, the board a relic from the Great War itself.

Their monthly tradition. A strategy game based on the past—now a bonding ritual.

“Well,” Jeonghan said, fingers already in motion, “shall we see who falls first today?”

“You ask like we all don’t already know,” Seokmin muttered, earning a round of chuckles.

“Give him a break,” Mingyu sighed. “He’s a know-it-all, but at least he’s pretty.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Flattery from my little brother? I must be winning already.”

“You always are,” Jisoo said with a knowing smile, settling beside Wonwoo, who simply nodded.

The game began.

Seungcheol watched Jeonghan play—his fingers moving gracefully across the board, mind already ten steps ahead of everyone else.

He wasn’t aggressive. He didn’t dominate with brute force like Mingyu or trap like Wonwoo. Jeonghan wove traps so subtly you didn’t know you were caught until it was already too late.

And he couldn’t even lead.

That thought hit Seungcheol like a stone in the chest. He looked again at Jeonghan—not with affection or admiration, though those were always there—but with clarity.

Jeonghan is brilliant.

Fearless. Measured. A natural leader.

And yet, as an omega prince, he is bound by tradition.

Sheltered, even now, when he should have been out negotiating treaties, leading armies, building policy.

He had everything it took to rule—except permission.

"What a waste", Seungcheol thought, as Jeonghan flanked Seokmin’s border.

"What a fucking waste."

And then, it clicked. But it wasn’t thunder.

It was soft. Slow. Inevitable.

It wasn’t that he was in love with Jeonghan.

It was that he loved him—enough to want more for him.

Jeonghan deserved freedom.

A legacy. A place that didn’t ask him to sit quietly at the side while others ruled.

He deserved a seat at the table. At the throne.

"What if I gave him that?"

"What if I chose him—not just to meet my obligation—but to give him what the world won’t?"

Seungcheol’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t romantic. Not yet.

But it was real.

Deep.

Right.

He didn’t want a mate who would flatter him.

He wanted a mate who could rule beside him.

And if Jeonghan would have him—if he would accept—their bond could be something new.

Something powerful.

Something theirs.

"Checkmate,” Jeonghan said with a slight smile, ending the game.

“I swear you’re cheating,” Seokmin muttered.

“I don’t cheat,” Jeonghan said, sipping his tea. “I just think faster.”

Seungcheol sat quietly, a small smile on his lips—but his mind already racing.

Not with doubt. Not with fear. But with certainty.

Jeonghan would make a brilliant consort. But more importantly—he’d be free. Free from expectations that kept him caged. Free to be more than a symbol.

And Seungcheol could give him that.

He rose suddenly.

“I’m going to step out for some air.”

As he turned to go, Jeonghan’s voice followed him, light and teasing.

“Thinking of surrendering, your highness?”

Seungcheol paused, and when he looked back, his eyes were soft.

Fond.

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

Jeonghan’s brow furrowed slightly. Just for a moment. But there was no suspicion in his gaze—just warmth. Understanding. A bond that had always been there, just… shifting, gently, into something new.

Seungcheol stepped into the corridor, the cool air brushing over his skin.

This wasn’t just a decision.

It was a promise.

Jeonghan deserves to be more. And Seungcheol will make sure he gets to be.

And as the soft murmur of laughter drifted behind him from the room of his dearest friends, Seungcheol made the first move toward the future—

not as a king searching for a mate,

but as a boy choosing freedom

for the one he trusted most.

******

The stars outside the tower window blinked like secrets they dared not speak aloud. In the hush of night, after the clinking glasses and laughter of the get-together had faded, Seungcheol led Jeonghan into his sanctuary — a library hidden deep in the eastern wing, behind a tapestry of the kingdom’s first queen.

The moment they stepped inside, Seungcheol felt a familiar calm settle over him. This place was his refuge — dusty tomes, cracked leather, and silence.

Jeonghan, in contrast, looked curious, skeptical. “You bring all your guests here?” he asked, running a finger over the spine of an old military strategy manual.

“You’re not just a guest.”

That made Jeonghan raise a brow, but he said nothing.

Seungcheol hesitated. For someone who gave war speeches and debated nobles without blinking, he suddenly felt... exposed.

“I need a consort,” he began, voice steady. “You know the law. You heard what my parents said.”

“And?” Jeonghan leaned against the bookshelf, arms folded. “You want me to help you find one?”

“I want you to be one.”

Silence fell like a blade between them.

Jeonghan didn’t flinch. But his expression shuttered.

“That’s not a funny joke.”

“I’m not joking.”

Jeonghan exhaled through his nose. “You’re asking me to give up my life in the North. My title—”

“I’m offering you something else.” Seungcheol took a step closer. “The only way you’ll ever sit where you deserve to sit. By my side — as my equal. I’ll name you King Consort. Then I’ll make you head of the state advisory council.”

Jeonghan stared at him. “It’s legal, yes. But not done. You know what this means — politically, culturally. The other kingdoms—”

“Will whisper. Maybe shout,” Seungcheol cut in. “But we’d be within the law. A prince of the East, bonded to a prince of the North. The first step would be discreet. Letters. Visits. We let them assume. Let the gossip spread slowly.”

“And the second?”

“Publicly name you as my mate. At the coronation.”

Jeonghan blinked, stunned now. “You’d bond with me?”

Seungcheol nodded once. “I wouldn’t do it lightly. But I trust you. I know who you are. And I believe in what we could build together.”

Jeonghan laughed — but there was no humor in it. “You’ve never even kissed anyone, Seungcheol.”

“Neither have you.”

That shut him up.

There was a beat of silence. Jeonghan looked away, his expression unreadable.

“And you’d train me?” he asked finally. “Combat. War strategy. All of it?”

“Everything I know,” Seungcheol promised. “You’d never be just a consort. You’d be my partner in rule. No more shadows. No more 'maybe next in line.’”

Jeonghan crossed the room slowly, stood toe-to-toe with Seungcheol. His eyes searched his face.

“Why me?” he asked.

Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re the only one I’ve ever seen as more than what people let you be.”

Jeonghan's throat bobbed. For the first time, his voice was quiet.

Unsure.

“Let me think about it. If I say yes... I leave everything behind. My name, my family, all the things I'm used to.”

“I know.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then nothing changes,” Seungcheol whispered. “And I’ll wear that crown alone.”

Jeonghan nodded slowly, the weight of the moment settling between them.

And for a second — just a second — they both wondered how something that felt so heavy could also feel like the beginning of something real.

******

The Eastern wind was gentler than the North’s. Warmer, less cruel.

But Jeonghan missed the cold.

He stood by the arched window of his guest chamber, dressed in soft night robes, eyes tracing the horizon. The stars were fading now, swallowed by a sky turning bruised-blue with the first breath of morning.

He hadn’t slept.

The conversation from the night before replayed in his mind in maddening loops — Seungcheol’s voice steady and sure, eyes locked on his like he meant every word. That part stung the most: the sincerity. The belief.

“You’d never be just a consort.”

But he would be. No matter how poetic the offer, no matter how pretty the words.

Because at the end of the day, he was still just a prince born with the wrong designation. An omega. And the world only knew two paths for omegas like him: soft roles, silent lives.

He was the firstborn of the North. He should have led armies. Should have stood beside his father in the war room, drawn maps, brokered peace deals. Instead, those dreams were buried the moment his status manifested.

Now Mingyu, his younger brother — loud, sweet, and too good-hearted — would be king someday.

And Jeonghan would… what?

Teach the royal nursery?

Learn to embroider?

Be married off to someone who needed a pretty, clever omega to warm their palace and look regal at parties?

He gripped the stone windowsill until his knuckles went white.

The thing that hurt the most was that he could do it. Could smile, could play nice. He’d done it his whole life. But every time he bowed to someone less competent, less sharp, something inside him burned.

And now Seungcheol was offering him something no one else ever had.

A way out. A way forward .

It wasn’t a fairy tale. It wouldn’t be easy. In fact, it might be chaos — they’d both be targets, both under scrutiny. Jeonghan would be torn from the North, from the comfort of his routine and the safety of expectations.

But gods, for once in his life, he wouldn’t be caged .

He exhaled and leaned his forehead against the glass.

Freedom had never looked like love before.

******

The golden light of morning poured into the high-vaulted breakfast hall, gilding everything it touched.

The six of them were gathered one last time, sipping tea and pretending they weren’t already thinking about goodbyes.

Seokmin and Jisoo were arguing over the best swordsmanship school in the South.

Wonwoo looked half-asleep, pushing fruit around his plate.

Mingyu, bright and talkative, was recounting a dream he had about fighting off a boar with nothing but a spoon.

Jeonghan was quiet.

He barely touched his tea. His mind was elsewhere — one step ahead, one decision behind.

Seungcheol was seated at the far end, watching him in brief glances.

Not pressing. Not begging. Just waiting.

Jeonghan couldn’t help but admire that about him.

How Seungcheol knew when to lead with silence.

When breakfast ended, and their things were being packed for the return to their respective kingdoms, Jeonghan stood. He didn’t wait for a cue.

He walked the length of the hall until he was beside Seungcheol, just close enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

“Can I speak to you?”

Seungcheol stood instantly, concerned flickering across his face.

But Jeonghan didn’t wait for them to get to the library again. He simply leaned close enough to be heard.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked away.

Seungcheol stood frozen in place, the word echoing in his ears like a bell tolling far off in the mountains.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it was everything.

Chapter Text

The Northern Palace was just as he left it — draped in snowfall, kissed with the scent of pine and burning firewood. The moment Jeonghan stepped out of the carriage, a gust of wind greeted him like an old friend, brushing over his cheeks like cold silk.

Mingyu stretched beside him and groaned dramatically. “I missed this air. The East smells like roses and politics.”

Jeonghan chuckled. “You sound like a prince now.”

“I am a prince,” Mingyu said with mock offense. “Soon to be king, apparently.”

Jeonghan didn’t respond to that. Instead, his eyes drifted up to the towers, the snowy rooftops, the quiet strength of the palace that raised him. Something deep in his chest tightened — not regret, not sadness exactly, but the heavy awareness that the next time he left… it wouldn’t be as a returning son.

He spent the next few hours walking the palace like he was memorizing it.

First, the old library — where the scent of ink and dust filled the high ceilings. His favorite reading nook was still there, sunlit in the afternoon. The same cushion, slightly worn. He ran his fingers along the edge of a book on military formations and smiled faintly.

Next, the armory. The weapons were for show now — mostly ceremonial — but Jeonghan remembered sneaking in after hours, swinging swords that were too heavy for him. A royal omega wasn’t supposed to care about things like this.

But Jeonghan always did.

He walked past their childhood hideout — a crawlspace behind the old wine cellar that he and Mingyu used to escape bath time or boring etiquette lessons. The guards still hadn’t discovered it.

Last, he stopped at the greenhouse.

It was warm and foggy inside, the glass panes covered in soft condensation. Rows of his plants stood tall — tomatoes, lavender, foxglove, tiny lemons in ceramic pots. He moved through them slowly, touching leaves gently like they were people he was saying goodbye to.

This was the place where no one expected anything from him.

Not a prince. Not an omega.

Just Jeonghan.

******

The meal was quiet. His mother, the Queen, asked after Seungcheol with pointed curiosity, but Jeonghan brushed it off with vague answers.

His father made a passing comment about alliances, but didn’t press.

It was Mingyu who slipped up.

“…and honestly, I didn’t think anyone could beat me at archery until I saw Wonwoo — he’s terrifying. Calm, but like… too calm. You know what I mean?”

Jeonghan gave him a long look over his wine glass.

Mingyu blinked. “What?”

Jeonghan only smirked. “Nothing.”

But later that night, as he sat in bed with a blank letter in front of him, that little detail stuck in his mind. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had something quietly unfolding in the background.

******

Jeonghan had expected Seungcheol to send something first — a plan, a map, a coded set of instructions.

But two days passed in silence.

And that silence was oddly comforting.

Because it meant the choice was still his.

So he chose.

He dipped his pen in ink, the crisp stationery in front of him.

He didn’t know where to begin.

No grand declarations.

No strategy.

Just… a day.

Cheol,

I woke up earlier than I meant to. Again. The cold keeps leaking in through my window. It’s annoying but also kind of comforting, like the North won’t let me forget where I am.

I went to the cooking class. We made some version of a stuffed dumpling. Mine was a disaster, but it made the kitchen staff laugh, so I suppose it was worth it.

After lunch, I painted. Not anything good. Just the view from the greenhouse. I think I’ll miss that place the most.

It smells like mint and wet soil right now. My lemon tree is finally blooming. I told it not to die while I’m gone.

This is strange. Writing to you like this. But it also… isn’t.

Anyway, I suppose this is me saying: I’m in.

— Jeonghan

He folded the letter carefully, sealed it with plain wax — not the Northern crest. No one could know yet.

Outside, he found one of the trusted couriers.

A quiet man. Reliable.

“Special delivery,” Jeonghan said softly. “To the Crown Prince of the East. Personal. Urgent. Untraceable.”

The courier didn’t ask questions. Just nodded, mounted his horse, and rode off down the long snowy path.

Jeonghan watched until he was nothing but a dot in the white.

And then he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

This is it.

This is finally happening.

******

Seungcheol didn’t expect the silence to weigh so heavily.

He told himself Jeonghan needed space.

Time.

The decision was monumental — to walk away from everything he knew, to become a part of something that had never been done before. A royal omega turned King Consort?
That alone could fracture alliances.

The idea was radical.

So Seungcheol waited.

Patiently.

And every morning, he told himself he wasn’t hoping for a letter.

Until the third day.

He was in the middle of reading over military reports when his personal butler knocked, quiet but firm.

“Your Highness,” he said, “there’s… a letter. For you. No seal. No insignia. Just… this.”

The butler extended a white envelope with a plain wax seal.

Seungcheol blinked. “From whom?”

“There’s no name, but it was handed to the courier with very specific instructions. Straight to you. No detours. No record.”

His heart lurched.

He looked around, just briefly.
The corridor was quiet.

But he didn’t see the Queen standing on the balcony above, hidden by shadow, her gaze sharp and fixed on her son.

He took the letter.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and turned away.

******

The room smelled of parchment and cedarwood.
His sanctuary.
His secret.

Seungcheol sat at his desk, heart hammering, fingers trembling slightly as he broke the wax.

His name wasn’t on it. But the handwriting was familiar — long, precise strokes with flourishes at the end of certain words. A writing style he used to mimic when they were younger. Jeonghan always wrote like a noble scholar from a different era.

As he read, a quiet warmth bloomed in his chest.

Cheol,

I woke up earlier than I meant to. Again...

He read it once.

Then again. Slowly, this time, tracing every word like it was something sacred. It wasn’t a love letter. It wasn’t even particularly romantic.

But it was real . Honest. Like Jeonghan had carved a little space into his day just for him.

That was enough.

No — it was everything.

When he finished, Seungcheol gently folded the letter and placed it inside a small wooden box on the upper shelf, locked it, and slipped the key into the lining of his robe.

He leaned back for a moment, chest full and oddly light.

But then a new thought sparked — something sharp, bold, and utterly him .

No more plain wax.

He stood abruptly, his decision made.

******

The palace postal wing was quiet, manned by a handful of trusted scribes and messengers. When Seungcheol entered, everything stopped.

“Your Highness,” one of the scribes said, standing quickly.

“I need the full official ensemble,” he said. “Gold envelope. Gold paper. Black silk ribbon. Red wax with the Eastern crest.”

A pause.

“My lord, those are reserved for—”

“I know what they’re for. Get them for me.”

No one questioned him further.

The materials were brought forward with quiet hands and wary glances. No one dared ask who the recipient was. No one dared speak as Seungcheol swept up the set and turned without another word.

******

He sat down at the same desk, pulling out his best pen.

He didn’t overthink it. Didn’t censor himself.

Jeonghan,

I didn’t expect this. Your letter. You. But it made me smile, and I don’t do that much these days.

Things here are the same — war council meetings, training drills, my parents breathing down my neck. I’m getting better with the blade, though I still miss your corrections.

Thank you for writing. And for being honest. You always were better at that than me.

Next time, use the official Northern letter set. Just in case.

P.S. I want to see this lemon tree someday.

— Seungcheol

He sealed the letter with the Eastern crest — bright red against gold — tied the ribbon and cradled the envelope like it was something alive.

And then he ran.

******

Seungcheol saddled his own horse, ignoring the shocked stable hands.

“Tell no one,” he said, mounting swiftly. “And if anyone asks, I’m riding to clear my head.”

He galloped out into the darkening woods, catching up to the outbound courier with speed born of adrenaline and something dangerously close to hope.

He handed over the letter with a look that said don’t fail me and don’t ever speak of this again.

The courier nodded.

By the time Seungcheol returned to the palace, the sky had gone black. He dismounted, cloak whipping in the wind.

Up on the same balcony, the Queen watched. Still silent. Still waiting.

She didn’t say a word.

But she was starting to wonder what — or who — had sparked this sudden fire in her son’s eyes.

******

The sunlight filtered through the glass panes, casting golden light over the dew-speckled leaves. Jeonghan hummed under his breath as he trimmed the edges of his mint plants, relishing the silence and the earthy scent of soil and citrus.

A soft knock broke the peace.

One of the palace attendants stood at the edge of the greenhouse, holding something carefully in both hands.

“A letter for you, Your Highness.”

Jeonghan straightened slowly. “Another invitation?”

“No, sir. It’s… official.”

His heart skipped.

He wiped his hands, walked over — and froze.

Gold envelope. Gold paper. Black silk ribbon. The unmistakable red wax of the Eastern crest.

Cheol…

Jeonghan’s throat dried. “Thank you. I’ll take it in my chamber.”

He walked quickly — no, hurried — back through the snow-dusted corridors, clutching the letter close to his chest.

Once safely in his room, he locked the door, sank onto his bed, and opened the envelope with trembling fingers.

Jeonghan,

I didn’t expect this. Your letter. You...

By the time he finished reading, a smile had crept onto his face — involuntary and warm.

He stared at the last line for a long time.

P.S. I want to see this lemon tree someday.

Jeonghan let out a soft breath, then folded the letter slowly and tucked it inside his drawer — beneath his stack of dried lavender.

He stood up with purpose.

******

“Your Highness?” the postmaster asked, blinking as Jeonghan entered.

“I’d like the official ensemble,” Jeonghan said politely. “Northern crest wax, silver paper, ribbon — the full set.”

The room fell silent. One of the younger scribes dropped his quill.

This was the first time the omega crown prince had ever asked for something formally .

They scrambled to fulfill his request, even as confused whispers rippled through the room behind his back.

Jeonghan didn’t care.

He returned to his chamber, the materials in hand, sat down at his desk, and began to write.

This time, the strokes of his pen were lighter — his heart unburdened just enough to let joy slip through.

Cheol,

You make it sound like I sent you a revolution. I suppose in some ways, maybe I did.

I followed your advice. I’m writing this with the official Northern ensemble. It feels dramatic, but then again, I guess we are dramatic.

Today, the greenhouse was warmer than usual. I found the first bloom on my orange marigolds. I think they were waiting for someone to notice.

I’m not good at letters yet. But I’m glad you read mine.

— Jeonghan

He sealed it carefully, heart still racing.

And then, pulling his cloak over his shoulders, Jeonghan snuck out through the east gate and crossed the outer courtyard, the letter tucked safely inside his inner coat.

The courier — the same one as before — was tending to his horse when he looked up and blinked in surprise.

“Another?” he asked softly.

Jeonghan gave him the letter. “Make sure he gets it. And make sure no one sees you.”

The courier nodded, holding the letter like it was made of fire and history.

Maybe it was.

******

The meal was quiet, save for Mingyu stuffing his mouth with roasted duck.

He glanced sideways at Jeonghan and nudged him with his elbow. “So, the letter?”

Jeonghan blinked. “What about it?”

“Was it a courting invitation? Or another party you’re planning to ignore?”

Their parents turned toward him with mild interest. The Queen raised one eyebrow.

Jeonghan smiled coolly. “Neither. Just boring old paperwork.”

The King huffed a quiet laugh. “You? Paperwork?”

“I’m learning,” Jeonghan replied simply.

The Queen didn’t speak — but she gave him a look.
Long. Measured. Curious.

He stared down at his food, lips twitching. Not tonight, Mother.

******

The moonlight spilled across the stone floor of his room, and still, Seungcheol couldn’t sleep.

His mind kept drifting back to Jeonghan’s words. The marigolds. The smile he imagined on Jeonghan’s face as he wrote that line.

He had always admired Jeonghan. Since they were boys. Since Jeonghan first argued with their military tutor about battle strategy and somehow won .

But this was different.

This felt like a beginning .

And somewhere deep in his chest, that tug — the one he always felt when Jeonghan did something brilliant or bold — returned.

Stronger this time.

He's really doing this. With me.

Seungcheol turned over in bed, hand resting above his heart.

He didn’t know what kind of future they were building, but he was suddenly desperate to protect it.

******

He lay on his side, pillow hugged tightly to his chest.

He’d done it. He’d answered. He’d made the first step.

And now, the fear had returned — but it was different. It wasn’t the fear of rejection or punishment or disgrace.

It was the fear of hope .

Because Seungcheol hadn’t just opened a door. He’d offered him something no one else had before: a path.

One he could walk as himself.

Jeonghan closed his eyes, breathing deep.

Tomorrow, he’d write again.

But tonight, he let the warmth settle in.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel trapped.

Chapter Text

The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs filled the long marble hall. A usual breakfast — three courses, warm bread, an abundance of honey — the kind of routine Seungcheol had memorized in silence.

He sipped his tea, only half-listening to the conversation between the King and his councilmen. Until he heard one word.

“The North,” his father said. “We’ll need to send a representative soon. An update on the armory shipments. And livestock growth in the western farmlands. The diplomat should leave within the week.”

Seungcheol's grip on his spoon faltered.

Before he could think — before he could measure the weight of the words or the reaction they might trigger — he spoke.

“Can I go instead?”

The room froze.

Forks paused mid-air.
Conversations halted. His mother’s head turned, ever so slightly.

The King lowered his cup. “You?”

Seungcheol blinked. He felt it too now — the oddity of it.

Him, who barely stepped outside the palace gates unless forced.

Him, who constantly found ways to bring people to the East instead.

He straightened. “I’d like to observe Prince Mingyu’s swordsmanship personally. The new blades we delivered — I want to see how well they’re being integrated into their formations.”

The silence lingered.

The King leaned back.

His gaze was unreadable. “You despise travel.”

“I’ve been thinking of changing that.”

More silence.

The Queen was still watching.

Always watching.

Finally, the King gave a small nod. “Very well. You leave in three days. Take a small escort, no more than necessary. Keep the visit diplomatic.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol answered, calm on the surface — though his heart was beginning to pound.

The room was dark save for a single flickering candle. Seungcheol sat at his desk, fresh parchment in front of him, hands steady.

This wasn’t a letter to charm.

It was a letter to inform.

Jeonghan,

Don’t write back to this one. Not this time.

I asked to go on a state visit to the North. I leave in three days.

I don’t have a reason I can put in words. Not yet. But I need to see you.

This time, save your answer for when we speak in person.

I’ll find you.

— Seungcheol

He didn’t even wait for the ink to fully dry before sealing it.

No gold this time. Just neutral parchment. A normal seal. Something forgettable.

But his eyes lingered on the letter a moment longer before calling for the courier.

“Deliver this tonight. No delays. No detours. You understand?”

The courier nodded. Seungcheol didn’t say it, but the weight in his voice spoke volumes: This letter isn’t just a letter.

It’s a signal.

******

The envelope was simple this time.

Plain seal. No mark of gold or silk. But Jeonghan’s heart reacted as if it were laced with fire.

He opened it slowly, eyes scanning each word twice, then three times.

Save your answer for when we speak in person.

His fingers trembled — just a little.

That evening, during dinner, the King cleared his throat.

“We’ve received word. Crown Prince Seungcheol of the East will be arriving in three days for the state visit.”

Jeonghan didn’t flinch.

His fork moved naturally from plate to mouth.

Calm. Collected.

But across from him, Mingyu blinked like a startled deer.

“Seungcheol? Coming here? Voluntarily?”

Even the kitchen staff froze.

The King kept his expression blank, chewing slowly. “Why is that so shocking?”

“Father, don’t you remember? Seungcheol hates leaving the East,” Mingyu blurted. “Remember the last get-together? We had to pretend the South was neutral territory just to get him to step foot outside the city gates.”

“Maybe he changed,” Jeonghan replied, voice smooth as honey.

But he could feel the Queen’s eyes on him.

A stare that lingered just a moment too long.

******

Jeonghan pulled his hair back with a ribbon and rolled up his sleeves.

The greenhouse needed attention.

He rearranged pots, wiped down glass, watered the tulips twice. He replanted his favorite lemon tree by the entrance and tucked a note in his mind to cut fresh lavender when the blooms peaked.

Everything had to be in place.

As if someone important would be standing there soon.

Someone he cared about.

******

“Just a few more stitches and—ta-da!” the instructor beamed.

Jeonghan looked down at the small white bunny in his hands. Its ears flopped sweetly, and the long crocheted lashes framed a gentle face.

He stared for a moment.

Something about it reminded him of him — the quiet eyes, the weight of presence, the warmth wrapped in stillness.

He flushed.

Oh no.

He tucked the bunny into his satchel and didn’t say a word for the rest of class.

******

The moment Seungcheol stepped off his horse, a gust of cold air greeted him — sharp and biting, like the North always was.

He adjusted his cloak, eyes scanning the palace entrance.

The royal family was there, standing tall against the wind.

Mingyu grinned and waved far too enthusiastically.
The Queen smiled with her usual graceful restraint. The King gave him a firm nod.

They welcomed him like he was already family.

And then—Jeonghan.

Everything else disappeared.

He stood in blue and gold silk, the hanbok flowing like liquid around his frame. His hair, long and tied into a high ponytail, was adorned with intricate golden flowers and delicate chains. The sun caught in them, casting halos of light around his face.

Seungcheol forgot how to breathe.

He’s… unreal.

The Queen’s voice sliced through the haze. “Seungcheol. Welcome. You’ve grown.”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Then turned politely to Jeonghan, trying not to stare too hard. “Prince Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan bowed slightly. “Welcome to the North.”

He didn’t miss the tiny twitch of Jeonghan’s lips.
Or the warmth in his eyes. But the moment passed as they were ushered inside.

******

The table was dressed in silver and deep green, dishes already laid out with precision.

Seungcheol answered questions easily — about his journey, about his parents, about the state of the East.

Mingyu was practically bouncing in his seat. “I can’t wait to show you the armory! The new blades you sent are incredible.”

Seungcheol chuckled, eyes flicking sideways. “Before that…”

The table quieted.

He turned to the King and Queen. “Would it be alright if Prince Jeonghan gave me a tour of the palace grounds? It’s been a long time since I visited here.”

A beat of silence.

Jeonghan’s fork paused mid-air.

He lifted his gaze toward Seungcheol with a flicker of something nervous, but not surprised.
Their eyes locked — and held.

The Queen tilted her head, smiling with too much knowing in her expression.

“Of course,” she said softly. “Jeonghan, just make sure to bring your personal butler and maid with you.”

Jeonghan blinked.

Then looked at Seungcheol.

Of course his mother would find a way to make it look proper.

She was brilliant like that.

******

The sun was soft and warm, casting gold across the palace gardens as Jeonghan and Seungcheol walked side by side. A respectful distance between them at first — though not for long.

Jeonghan’s voice was light, bright even, as he spoke. “That wing over there is where the seamstresses work. They’ve made every formal hanbok I’ve ever worn, including the one I wore when I turned eighteen.”

Seungcheol chuckled knowingly. “I remember you hated it so much, Seokmin and I took turns carrying you on our backs after the ceremony because you refused to walk.”

“It had seven layers. Seven. I nearly fainted during the evening ceremony. Mingyu said I looked like a puffed pastry.”

They turned a corner, passing by a corridor bathed in the scent of fresh herbs and stone.

“There,” Jeonghan gestured, “That’s where I learned archery. Mingyu and I used to sneak extra arrows from the guards just to have competitions at night.”

Seungcheol watched the joy in his face — the way his eyes lit up, how his steps quickened with every memory.

He realized something: he’s never seen Jeonghan like this. Not even as children. Not like this.

And then, as they passed by a familiar small building near the stone pathway…

Jeonghan paused.

The post office.

He blushed.

And Seungcheol couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He leaned closer, voice low. “So this is where you turned a state courier into your personal accomplice.”

Jeonghan playfully rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

Their conversation continued, flowing as effortlessly as the wind rustling the palace banners. They spoke of their daily routines, their meals, the way both of them laughed when Seungcheol asked about “doljjong”, Jeonghan’s pet rock.

“Mingyu hid doljjong to prank me but he forgot where he put it so we kind of just forgot my rock since then.”

They laughed. Teased.

Jeonghan was radiant, and Seungcheol couldn’t stop being awestruck.

It felt like time folded in around them, creating space where everything — past, present, and maybe something more — could exist just between the two of them.

As they turned toward the west wing, Jeonghan suddenly grabbed Seungcheol’s hand, his excitement spilling over.

“I can’t wait to show you my greenhouse!”

Seungcheol froze for half a second at the warmth of Jeonghan’s hand in his.

But he didn’t let go.

Behind them, the butler and maid exchanged subtle glances — lips pressed to contain smiles, eyes glinting with silent understanding.

From the tower above, the Queen watched quietly with the King.
Her hands folded in front of her as she said softly, “Let’s observe more. See where this thing will go.”

******

Jeonghan’s greenhouse was nothing like Seungcheol imagined.

It wasn’t just pretty — it was alive.

Vines curled around tall panes of glass like they were reaching for the sky. Blossoms in every color bathed the air in gentle fragrance. There were benches carved from old cedar, small wind chimes that whispered when the breeze passed through, and a gentle fountain tucked in the far corner.

“It’s…” Seungcheol breathed, “Incredible.”

“I tried to describe it in my letters,” Jeonghan said, a little shy now, “but I guess words don’t do it justice.”

They walked slowly, hand still in hand.

Then Jeonghan led him to a corner where two small trees were potted in gold-rimmed containers.

“This marigold tree and lemon tree,” Jeonghan said, “They’re for you.”

“For me?” Seungcheol blinked. “Jeonghan, I don’t know how to take care of these. I’d probably kill them in a week.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Jeonghan said, gently nudging him. “I want to see them bloom the next time I’m there.”

Seungcheol nodded slowly, touched. “Then I’ll do my best. For you.”

******

A soft knock.

Jeonghan peeked in, clutching something small in his hands.

“I… um… wanted to give you something.”

He held out the crocheted bunny.

“I made this during my crochet class. I’m not very good, but… it reminds me of you. And maybe, when you see it, you’ll think of me too.”

Seungcheol stared.

The long lashes. The floppy ears. The delicate stitching.

His chest ached in that way it always did around Jeonghan now — soft and sudden, like being struck with something invisible and sweet.

“I love it,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Then he stepped back and reached behind his neck.

A thin gold chain, at the end of which was a small rose — delicate, old, and clearly treasured.

“This was mine since I was a child. My mother said it was once hers. I’ve always kept it with me.”

He gently looped it around Jeonghan’s neck, clasping it carefully.

“Please wear it. So you remember me, too.”

Jeonghan’s breath caught. “I will.”

They smiled at each other.

Two boys — no, two princes — in the stillness of a moonlit room, holding something they didn’t dare name yet.

******

The North was always colder in the mornings, even in the arms of summer.

The royal family stood at the grand courtyard as Seungcheol prepared for his departure. The horses were saddled, the guards lined up in discipline, and the sun cast long, quiet shadows across the stone.

Seungcheol looked at each of them — the King, stoic and wise.

The Queen, whose eyes missed nothing. Mingyu, grinning like a little brother excited and clueless. And Jeonghan…

Jeonghan, who wore the rose necklace under the collar of his hanbok and had the kind of expression on his face that Seungcheol couldn’t read — not yet.

Seungcheol stepped forward and wrapped Mingyu in a tight hug. “You’ve grown,” he said with a grin. “Don’t let that confidence turn into recklessness.”

Mingyu scoffed. “Says the guy who just did a state visit out of nowhere.”

Seungcheol chuckled. “Touché.”

And then, he turned to Jeonghan.

Their eyes met.

The world slowed.

He reached forward slowly, gently took Jeonghan’s hand, and — before he could talk himself out of it — brought it to his lips.

He kissed the back of Jeonghan’s hand.

Soft.

Deliberate.

Gasps were barely hidden. The butler straightened with a jolt. One of the maids bit her lip to suppress a squeal. Mingyu’s smile dropped into confusion. The Queen’s eyes narrowed.

But Seungcheol didn’t flinch.

He held Jeonghan’s gaze as he said, “Thank you. For the tour. For the plants. For…”

 A pause.

A breath.

 “…for letting me see your world.”

He stepped back, voice steady. “I can’t wait for you to visit the East. I’ll prepare something special.”

And just like that, he mounted his horse and rode away — the crocheted bunny bouncing gently against his satchel.

******

Jeonghan didn’t move for a full minute. The place where Seungcheol kissed his hand felt warm, like a whisper of magic had settled there.

What was that feeling?

Something bloomed in his chest.

Soft. Heavy. Unfamiliar.

It wasn’t just nervousness. It wasn’t excitement alone.

It was something else.

Something new.

The moment they stepped back into the palace halls, Mingyu didn’t hold back.

“What was that?!”

Jeonghan blinked. “What?”

“The hand kiss! The poetic goodbye?! That wasn’t diplomacy. That was—”

“Mingyu,” Jeonghan sighed, trying to walk past him.

But Mingyu stepped in front of him. “Look. Whatever this is, I just want to say… Seokmin and I bet 30 gold coins that Seungcheol would choose you.”

Jeonghan stopped mid-step.

“Wait. What?”

“Wonwoo and Jisoo said it’d be some foreign noble. We said no way, it’s you. Obviously.”

“You bet on my—?!”

Before he could react further, a guard appeared at the hallway.

“The King and Queen would like a word, Crown Prince.”

Mingyu gave him a good luck look and vanished like smoke.

The King sat behind his desk. The Queen stood near the window, her arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Jeonghan entered quietly, bowing.

“Is there something,” the King began, “we should know about… Prince Seungcheol?”

Jeonghan’s throat tightened. “He was here for a state visit.”

“And kissed your hand in front of the court,” the Queen added sharply.

Jeonghan hesitated. His hand twitched unconsciously toward the rose on his chest.

“He makes me feel…” He paused. Looked down. “...something.”

That was all.

The room was silent.

The Queen’s gaze dropped to the necklace — golden and delicate, clearly not something Jeonghan owned before.

Her eyes lingered, but she said nothing.

The King, after a breath, leaned back. “Very well. You are still our son, and a prince of the North. We will not press further.”

But as Jeonghan left the room, he felt a quiet warning in the air. Not a threat — just… awareness.

******

The moon was pale above the North, casting silver across Jeonghan’s windowsill.

He sat quietly, holding the rose pendant between his fingers, heart still a little unsure, a little louder than usual.

For a long moment, he closed his eyes, and whispered into the cool night:

“Please… keep him safe.”

The wind didn’t answer.
But in the stillness of his chamber, under the eyes of the stars, Jeonghan’s first prayer for someone else drifted upward — quiet and true.

Chapter Text

The carriage rolled into the East palace gates just after sundown, Seungcheol finally home from the North. His shoulders were tired from the journey, but his heart was light.

The Queen and King stood waiting for him in the entrance hall, their eyes scanning him like they always did — but this time, the Queen’s gaze dropped immediately to the satchel hanging by his side.

More specifically, to the little crocheted bunny dangling from its strap — its long lashes bouncing gently with his every step — and to the carefully wrapped golden pots cradling the marigold and lemon saplings in his arms.

“Well, those are new,” the Queen said, arching a brow. “And rather... delicate for someone who once said he’d never take care of a plant again.”

Seungcheol barely noticed the cautious tilt in her tone. He just smiled, eyes crinkling softly. “Jeonghan made me a bunny. He said it looked like me — I don’t see it.”

The King looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“And the plants?” the Queen asked, voice lighter now.

“A gift. Generosity, he said. Something to look forward to when he visits the East next time.”

The air changed for a moment — subtle, thoughtful.

The King and Queen exchanged a silent glance while Seungcheol, still smiling, excused himself.

Later that evening, wrapped in the comfort of fresh robes and the scent of cedar oil from his bath, Seungcheol sat down at his desk — the bunny resting against a candle stand, watching him like a soft guardian.

He opened a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill in ink.

Jeonghan,

I’m home. The ride back was smooth, and your plants survived better than I thought. I’ll find the perfect sunlit spot for them in the East Garden tomorrow morning.

I think my parents are catching on. The Queen asked me about the bunny, and I may have... told her it looked like me. I don’t know why I said that out loud.

I’ve decided I won’t be subtle anymore. Not with this. So this letter won’t be slipped into anyone’s pocket or handed behind closed doors. It’s going through the official royal post.

Let’s make this real.

Also... you looked stunning. When you’re happy — I mean really happy — it’s like something divine has taken shape. I hope I get to see that again soon.

— Seungcheol

******

The next morning, the East Palace buzzed with its usual rhythm — but something was different.

It was Prince Seungcheol, strolling — no, skipping — through the marble halls with an envelope in his hand, gold-trimmed and sealed with the East’s red wax.

He stepped into the main royal post office, a place he normally avoided, and declared to the stunned workers,
 “I need this sent to Prince Jeonghan of the North.”

Every scribe froze. One of them dropped a pen.

No one asked questions — but by lunch, everyone knew.

The maids whispered while arranging tea trays. The gardeners paused mid-trim. Even the training knights side-eyed one another with knowing smirks.

Prince Seungcheol was writing letters. To the omega prince of the North.
Openly.

That afternoon, Prince Wonwoo appeared at Seungcheol’s study, a smug glint in his eyes.

“A careless birdie told me you visited the North the other day.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Careless birdie you mean Mingyu? And yes. I was there for a state visit… and maybe even more.”

Wonwoo didn’t blink. He just sighed. “I think mine and Jisoo’s thirty gold coins are in danger.”

Seungcheol frowned. “What does that even mean?”

But Wonwoo only smirked and turned on his heel. “Nothing. You’ll find out.”

That night, with the moonlight pouring in again and the East quiet in its slumber, Seungcheol reached again for his pen.

Jeonghan,

You won’t believe this — but we’re officially palace gossip now.

Apparently, maids are swooning over your beauty and asking if I am truly sending letters to the “most divine omega of the four kingdoms.” I told them I understood their crushes.

I also had a surprise visit from Wonwoo, who said something cryptic about thirty gold coins and “danger.” Do you know what that’s about? I have a theory... but I want to hear yours first.

Anyway, this — all of this — has been more than I imagined.

I’ll treasure these days, these letters. Even if the world turns upside down, I’ll remember this season like the first bloom of spring.

Thank you.

— Seungcheol

******

The midday sun was gentle as it filtered through the palace’s hanging silks, painting soft shadows across the garden pavilion where the royal family took their lunch. Birds chirped lightly in the distance, and the scent of honeyed tea leaves wafted through the warm breeze.

Jeonghan sat beside Mingyu, absently stirring his soup, when a familiar voice broke through the light conversation.

“Your Majesties, Prince Jeonghan,” came the respectful tone of the royal postmaster, bowing deeply with two scrolls in hand. “Two official letters have arrived from the East — both from Prince Seungcheol.”

The silver tray held two gold-rimmed envelopes, sealed with the red wax of the East and tied with black silk ribbon — unmistakably royal, unmistakably personal.

Jeonghan blinked once, trying not to react too quickly. He gave a soft nod, his expression poised as he took the letters delicately, sliding them into the satchel hanging from his chair with an unbothered grace.

But his heart was already fluttering.

“Two letters, hyung?” Mingyu grinned, ever the instigator. “Is it too late to ask you to read them aloud for everyone to enjoy?”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes and reached over to pinch his brother’s arm.

“They’re private,” he said smoothly, earning a dramatic sigh from Mingyu as he leaned back and stared at the sky.

“I swear I can already hear the sound of thirty gold coins coming my way.”

The King and Queen chuckled — but their eyes didn’t leave Jeonghan.

The Queen leaned in slightly, her voice light but edged with curiosity. “Jeonghan, you’ve always disliked sewing and crocheting. But you made something for Seungcheol?”

The King followed. “And your greenhouse… you’ve never allowed anyone outside the family to take care of those plants. Yet you gave him two.”

Jeonghan met their gaze calmly, though a soft warmth threatened to bloom in his cheeks.

“Seungcheol told me he wanted to take care of me,” he said, fingers brushing over the satchel’s flap. “So while I’m still not with him, I gave him something he could take care of — in remembrance of me.”

Mingyu groaned beside him. “That’s so cheesy I could choke on the air.”

Jeonghan stood, lips curving in the faintest smirk. “Then don’t breathe too deeply, Gyu.”

Without another word, he bowed politely and excused himself from the garden. His steps were light, his heart beating faster as he walked swiftly through the palace, letters cradled safely in his arms.

Inside his personal library, the curtains drawn, Jeonghan sat by the reading nook with the softest pillows surrounding him. He unsealed the first envelope with careful fingers.

Seungcheol’s handwriting greeted him like an old friend — warm, confident, and just a bit chaotic at the ends of each line.

Jeonghan’s heart squeezed as he read about Seungcheol’s safe arrival, his concern over the plants, his unfiltered honesty about openly sending the letters this time. He could almost hear Seungcheol’s voice when he read the line about the maids having crushes on him — and he laughed out loud when the 30 gold coins were mentioned.

The second letter made him bite his lip to keep from grinning too wide.

So Seungcheol was hearing the palace gossip.

He shook his head, fondness blooming in his chest like his greenhouse marigolds.

With no hesitation this time, Jeonghan reached for his own parchment, his pen gliding across the paper with more ease than ever before.

Dear Seungcheol,

First of all — two letters? Are you trying to spoil me?

My parents also asked about you today during lunch. Mingyu tried to read your letters aloud, but don’t worry — I pinched him hard enough to make him stop. He’s too confident about winning those 30 gold coins. I might start rooting for Jisoo and Wonwoo out of spite.

Thank you for the letters. I really mean it. I never imagined something as simple as this — a letter from someone I care about — could make me feel like I could breathe easier. This freedom… it’s something I didn’t know I’d ever have. Now it’s here, at my fingertips, and I’m scared, but also so happy.

I want to see you again. Maybe we can play board games next time — I’ll even try not to cheat at mafia (no promises).

Please take care of the bunny and the plants. I miss them already. And maybe… I miss you too.

— Jeonghan

Folding the letter neatly, Jeonghan took a deep breath, gathered his things, and made his way toward the North’s royal post office.

The workers bowed when they saw him — surprised, still not quite used to his visits.

“I’d like this delivered to Prince Seungcheol,” he said gently.

They accepted the letter with reverent hands, saying nothing — but something in their eyes shimmered.

As if they understood.

As if they knew that history was taking shape right before them — with a few letters, a crocheted bunny, and the quiet courage of two princes learning how to love.

Chapter Text

One Month Later — Two Months Before the Coronation

The late afternoon sun spilled golden warmth over the royal gazebo, nestled among the flowering hedges of the Eastern gardens. Birds chirped gently in the distance while a crisp breeze rustled the fresh blooms nearby.

The Queen sat at the far end, her brush dancing across the canvas as she captured the colors of the sky and the sway of the gardens with a soft precision only years of practice could bring. The King and Seungcheol, meanwhile, sat across each other at a small table, mid-game of chess. Steam curled from their cups of spiced tea, and trays of sugared plums and almond cakes sat untouched between them.

The peace was palpable — until the sound of quick, practiced footsteps approached.

“Your Majesties. Prince Seungcheol.” The royal courier bowed low, holding a familiar gold-trimmed envelope with black silk.

Seungcheol's breath caught as soon as he saw the seal — Jeonghan’s.

He accepted the letter with a calm hand, but the beat of his heart betrayed his excitement. With barely another word, he slid a thumb beneath the wax and began to read.

The silence in the gazebo shifted — not in tension, but in curiosity. The Queen’s hand slowed on the canvas. The King paused in contemplation of his next chess move.

And Seungcheol?

His expression softened.

His eyebrows quirked once, then his lips pulled into a growing smile — dimples appearing like old friends. His eyes lingered on one part of the letter longer than the rest, and a quiet laugh escaped before he caught himself. When he reached the end, he folded the letter gently, reverently, and placed it against his chest.

He forgot the chessboard. He forgot the tea.

He forgot his parents were still watching.

The Queen cleared her throat. “Your eyes are sparkling.”

Seungcheol blinked, the spell breaking. He straightened, coughing lightly behind his hand. “Someone is making me happy.”

The King placed a hand over his chess piece but didn’t move it.

Instead, his gaze sharpened.

“Are you ready to make history?” he asked softly. “Are you ready to face the consequences of your future decisions? The consequences of… your heart?”

There was a pause.

A beat of wind passing through the vines above.

Seungcheol’s voice came quiet, but certain.

“If I have to burn everything just to keep him alive and free, I will.”

And before either of his parents could respond, Seungcheol rose from his seat, bowed politely, and walked away — faster with each step, letter still pressed to his chest.

******

The wooden room smelled faintly of cedar and old parchment. Seungcheol placed the letter inside his locked wooden box, added carefully to the rest of Jeonghan’s words, each one a treasure.

With no hesitation, he sat down at his desk, dipped his pen in ink, and began to write — his handwriting a little messier this time, a little more rushed, a little more like his heart couldn’t wait.

My Jeonghan,

I read your letter under the sun with my parents just a few feet away. I couldn’t stop smiling — I forgot I was playing chess with the King. You owe me a rematch (you distracted me. That’s not fair.)

The Queen said my eyes were sparkling. Maybe because they are. You do that.

Today, my father asked me something important. He asked if I’m ready to face the consequences of my heart. And I told him the truth. That I would burn everything down if it means keeping you free.

That’s what I want for you.

Freedom.

To smile, to explore, to make mistakes, to be brilliant the way you always are.

I’ve always admired you, Jeonghan. Your wit, your mind, your quiet strength. You make me want to be better. You make me brave.

I miss you more than I say. And next time… I don’t think a kiss on the hand will be enough.

Until then,

— Yours, Seungcheol

He sealed the letter with care — but didn’t hide it this time. No disguise, no secret delivery. Just the truth, now braver than ever.

And on the corner of the desk, the crocheted bunny stared at him with its long lashes and quiet smile — a quiet witness to a love that was no longer just a whisper.

******

Jeonghan’s chamber was silent, save for the rustle of golden parchment and the soft rhythm of his breath.

He sat by the window, legs tucked beneath him on the cushion, the moonlight spilling across the floor in long silver streaks. The envelope lay open beside him, the black silk ribbon carefully folded. But his eyes were glued to the words on the page — a letter that had started like all the others…

until it didn’t.

“My Jeonghan…”

His fingers curled over the top of the letter as his breath caught.

It was subtle.

A simple shift.
A possessive touch to a name he had always known.

My Jeonghan.

It shouldn’t have felt like anything.

And yet it did.

Jeonghan instinctively brought the letter closer to his chest, folding it against him with trembling hands as a dull ache bloomed behind his ribs — not painful, not heavy.

Something in between. Like warmth fighting its way through a long winter.

Then the end:

“Yours, Seungcheol.”

It was not just a signature.

It was a promise.

A silent rebellion.

A quiet revolution.

He closed his eyes.
It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was something more dangerous: a mutual understanding — a sacred bridge that belonged only to the two of them. One that defied expectations, distance, titles, and time.

“I am not his,” Jeonghan whispered to himself, brushing his fingers over the rose pendant on his chest. “But maybe… someday I could be.”

He stayed like that a while — letter against his chest, heart full, gaze on the moonlight — as if making another silent prayer to the sky.

******

In the darkened library tower of the Southern Palace — far away from the gazes of queens and courtiers — four princes sat around a small round table, the candlelight flickering between stacks of hidden ledgers, goblets of wine, and a bowl of dried figs.

Mingyu was sprawled on a velvet armchair like he owned the kingdom. “We are two months away from the coronation and let me tell you—Jeonghan hyung is blushing these days. It’s so annoying. My thirty gold coins are already warming up.”

Wonwoo, calm and composed as always, arched a brow. “Careful, Gyu. That smugness might turn on you if they don’t end up together. Jisoo and I are watching.”

Jisoo, in his signature fur-lined robe, popped a fig in his mouth and leaned forward dramatically. “Personally, I’d be fine losing gold if it means we get to see Seungcheol lose all composure in public the way Jeonghan already has.”

Seokmin cackled. “He kissed the back of his hand in front of the North royal court. That wasn’t composure. That was drama. The man is down bad.”

“I saw the bunny,” Wonwoo said. “Hanging off Seungcheol’s satchel like some sort of royal badge of honor. It even had long lashes. I’m starting to think Jeonghan has a type.”

Mingyu groaned. “He’s not in love yet! It’s still early! But it’s going there! And when it does, I will be thirty gold coins richer, thank you very much.”

“But what happens,” Seokmin interrupted, voice a little softer, “when the people find out?”

The laughter died down a bit.

“Two royal heirs,” Jisoo said, voice dipping lower, “from different kingdoms. Different traditions. Some might not take it lightly.”

Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on Mingyu’s for a beat too long before saying, “But some might just see it for what it is — a story waiting centuries to be written.”

Mingyu blinked at him, then looked away just a little too quickly.
Seokmin didn’t miss it. Nor did Jisoo — who was still chewing, still grinning, but not saying a word.

A quiet tension flickered between them, barely lit and easily dismissed by outsiders. But it was there.

Jisoo leaned back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “Let the lovers write their story. And let us keep the pot warm. Who knows? Maybe the coronation won’t be the only history we witness.”

“Cheers to that,” Seokmin murmured, raising his goblet.

And four glasses clinked in the flickering candlelight — beneath secrets, wagers, and the growing suspicion that three love stories were slowly unfolding.

Not just one.

Chapter Text

20 years ago…

The Eastern Palace sparkled like a jewel that day. Lanterns swung gently from the peachwood beams, casting golden light against the ivory walls.

The birthday hall was grand — a tapestry of silks and laughter, where nobility from every kingdom mingled under one roof for Prince Seungcheol’s fifth birthday. But among all the pomp and etiquette, a single moment changed history:

Six small children stood in a circle, each one slightly unsure, holding the hand of their royal attendant or clutching the sleeve of their silken robes. Most hadn’t met before — not truly. Not without the eyes of an entire court watching.

But that day, in the playroom beside the ballroom, the attendants slowly stepped back.

Mingyu was the first to move — bold and tall for his age. He offered Seokmin a shiny marble and said, “Wanna race?” That was it. The wall between kingdoms fell.

Jisoo sat beside the velvet curtains and lined up pastries from the buffet, organizing them by color. Jeonghan, curious, joined him. “The pink ones are better,” he said quietly.

Wonwoo didn’t speak at all. He sat by the windowsill and stared at the sun-dappled garden until Jeonghan tugged his sleeve and whispered, “Let’s go look at the koi fish.”

And Seungcheol — the oldest, the center — just watched them all with the careful eyes of a child already taught to lead. He clapped once, and suddenly they were all running through the grand corridor, silk shoes squeaking, voices echoing.

That day, a bond was forged. Not of treaty. Not of politics. But of belonging.

—

Through the Years…

Year 2: A snowball fight in the North turns into a chaotic war, Seungcheol shielding Jeonghan behind him, laughing as Mingyu and Seokmin charge forward like wild deer.

Year 3: A painting class in the West — their first collaborative piece. Jisoo painted stars, Jeonghan painted a moon, Wonwoo added shadows. It still hangs in the Western Library.

Year 4: A horse named Stormbreaker throws Seokmin into a pile of hay. Everyone panics — except Jeonghan, who reaches him first, dusting him off and whispering, “You’re okay. It’s just hay.”

Year 5–10: Every month, a different kingdom hosted their get-together. The staff began to anticipate their presence: fruit tarts for Jisoo and Seokmin, fencing gear for Seungcheol and Mingyu, fresh paint for Wonwoo, lemon cookies for Jeonghan. The palaces were never the same after their laughter echoed through the halls.

Year 11: Mingyu and Seokmin painted the East’s outer wall with a “friendship mural” that still remains. Wonwoo read them poetry under the trees. Jeonghan fell asleep with his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder for the first time.

And through it all, the people of the Four Kingdoms came to believe in them.

These six weren’t just royal heirs. They were the heart of peace itself.

******

Present Day…

Seungcheol pulled his hood lower over his head as he moved through the winding market. The smell of fresh bread, ink, and incense filled the air. Everything was familiar and grounding — the stalls he’d bought trinkets from as a child, the corner where Mingyu once begged for cotton candy.

But today, the market felt different.

Softer.

He stopped at a flower vendor, brushing his hand over yellow marigolds. “These are from the North, aren’t they?”

The old woman smiled knowingly. “Yes. They say a certain northern prince grows them himself.”

Seungcheol’s fingers lingered. He took a stem, tucked it behind his ear.

As he walked further, he heard whispers.

“That’s him. The crown prince.”
“The one who writes letters.”
“They say he received a bunny crochet — and kept it.”

“It’s romantic, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol felt the warmth spread across his chest.

He didn’t stop the whispers. He didn’t correct them.

Because they weren’t wrong.

******

Jeonghan wore his lightest cloak, the wind carrying strands of his hair as he strolled through the city center. A royal guard trailed behind him discreetly, but the people paid no mind — they were used to seeing him this way.

Children waved. A baker handed him a small peach tart. “A treat for your beauty, Your Highness.”

He bowed politely, murmuring thanks.

An older man selling journals leaned forward and asked, “Is it true that Prince Seungcheol is planning something for the Solstice? Something big?”

Jeonghan smiled faintly. “We’ll see.”

He passed a group of artists painting by the fountain. One girl sketched a small garden. “I want to visit the East one day,” she said to her friend. “They say Prince Jeonghan gave the Eastern prince trees. Trees.”

 “Do you think they’re in love?”

Jeonghan didn’t flinch.

He didn’t speak.

But his hand reached instinctively to the rose-shaped necklace under his cloak.

******

In different kingdoms, under different skies, two princes walked among their people — not as rulers, but as young men whose hearts were starting to swell with something louder than friendship.

A quiet revolution.

One whispered between smiles and sealed with letters.

And in the distance, the echo of children’s laughter still lingered in the stones of four ancient palaces — a reminder that everything began with a birthday, a race, and a handful of marbles.

******

The golden sun filtered through the Northern Palace’s glass panels, casting warm beams over the breakfast hall as soft clinks of teacups echoed in the background. Prince Jeonghan sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in front of his plate, his expression unreadable. Across the table, the King cleared his throat and set down the document he’d been reading.

“We’ve received a request from the Eastern Kingdom,” he began, looking between his sons. “They’re asking for a formal update on the agricultural projects we collaborated on last winter. Mingyu, I want you to represent us. You’ll leave in two days.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then—Jeonghan blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers tensed ever so slightly around his cup.

Mingyu noticed.

He leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Father, you know,” he drawled, voice too casual to be innocent, “I think someone in this room is dying to visit the East more than I am.”
He turned and looked directly at Jeonghan, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Jeonghan glared at him.

Hard.

The Queen raised a brow. “Is that so?”

Mingyu shrugged dramatically. “I just don’t want him to sulk while I’m gone. The palace might crumble under the weight of his pining.”

“Mingyu,” Jeonghan muttered through his teeth.

The King, unfazed, looked to Jeonghan. “Would you like to go?”

Jeonghan hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Then, a breathless, “Yes. I would.”

The Queen smiled, knowingly. “Then you may.”

After the meeting, as they walked down the hall, Jeonghan grabbed Mingyu by the cheeks, squishing them with a glare. “How dare you,” he whispered.

Mingyu grinned through his squashed face. “You’re welcome.”

Jeonghan sighed and released him before pulling him into a quick, tight hug. “Thank you.”

Mingyu ruffled his hair with a laugh. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for my 30 gold coins.”

That night, Jeonghan sat in his room with parchment and ink, the moonlight casting silver patterns across his desk. With practiced care, he penned a letter:

To My Ever-Steady Prince of the East,

Mingyu is coming in two days for the state visit.

I’ll be asking him to bring you something. I hope you’ll like it.

Unfortunately, I’ve been swamped with lessons lately. My tutor says I’ll disappear under my stack of books if I skip another class. So, I won’t be able to come along.

Take care of my plants, and yourself. I miss you.

Always yours — Jeonghan 

P.S. Please don’t give the crocheted bunny a sword again. It’s supposed to be peaceful.

Jeonghan smiled, folded the letter with a trembling excitement in his chest, and walked through the corridors to deliver it to his favorite place in the kingdom now — the royal post office.

He handed the letter to the clerk with a glint in his eyes. “Please make sure this gets there before my brother does.”

******

Two days later — Eastern Palace

A royal messenger handed Prince Seungcheol the letter just as the sun rose over the palace gates. He was in the garden, watering the marigold and lemon trees — Jeonghan’s trees.

The crocheted bunny, still hanging from his satchel, swayed in the morning breeze.

He opened the letter with a soft smile.

The moment he saw Jeonghan’s handwriting, his heart lifted.

But as he read, the corners of his smile faltered slightly.

So, he’s not coming…

He stared at the line for a moment longer than he should have. The soft ache of disappointment bloomed in his chest.

Still, the letter was unmistakably Jeonghan — affectionate, teasing, a little dramatic. Seungcheol laughed at the postscript. “He knows me too well.”

Just then, the King and Queen stepped into the garden. The Queen’s eyes swept across Seungcheol’s frame — and then paused.

“You’re not wearing your necklace,” she observed gently.

Seungcheol didn’t look up from where he knelt beside the lemon tree. He brushed the soil off his hands, then smiled faintly.

“Someone’s taking care of it for me,” he said. “It’ll come back to me. When the time is right.”

The King exchanged a glance with the Queen. There was a softness to their expressions now.
An understanding.

Moments later, a guard arrived to announce that Prince Mingyu would arrive by sundown.

Seungcheol nodded, standing up and brushing off his tunic. “Then I suppose I should prepare something for him too.”

He glanced down at the letter again, reading the familiar closing lines one more time:

Always yours…

He placed the letter carefully in the small box where he kept all of Jeonghan’s letters, next to the crocheted bunny, a dried marigold, and a pressed petal from the first rose that bloomed the day after they said goodbye.

What he didn’t know, as he closed the lid, was that Jeonghan was already halfway across the kingdom, hidden in Mingyu’s traveling caravan — heart racing, smile blooming, excitement about to burst.

Because some surprises… are worth the wait.

Chapter Text

The Northern sun spilled lazily across the polished floors of Prince Jeonghan’s chamber, catching the light of the rose necklace glinting gently against his collarbone.

And yet—despite the peaceful beauty of the morning—chaos reigned.

Jeonghan was pacing.

Again.

Back and forth across the expanse of his room, robes swishing, slippers nearly worn through with how much he was overthinking. His personal maid, Aeri, stood helplessly by the massive wardrobe, hands half-buried in fabric, watching her prince spiral with a familiar mix of affection and exasperation.

“My prince, you need to breathe,” she said gently.

“I am breathing,” Jeonghan snapped, before groaning and dramatically falling face-first into the pillows of his bed.

“I just don’t know what to bring! What to wear! What if I look too formal? Or too casual? What if I look like I tried too hard?!”

“My lord,” Aeri replied patiently, “you are the most gorgeous prince in all four kingdoms. You could show up in your sleepwear and they would still swoon.”

“That’s not helpful!” came Jeonghan’s muffled yell from the bedsheets. “And besides… I need to find the perfect gift.”

Aeri sighed, turning to the wardrobe with the calm of someone who had weathered Jeonghan’s dramatics for years.

“Tea and lemon tarts. Now.”

She exited the room with purpose.

By the time she returned, Jeonghan had migrated into a dramatic roll across his mattress, arms flailing as he muttered to himself about “symmetry” and “a good first impression that doesn’t look like a first impression.” Aeri set the tray down, handed him his favorite teacup, and finally forced him to sit up straight.

“We’re making a list,” she declared, opening her notebook.

“An outline,” Jeonghan corrected, sipping his tea miserably. “Everything has to be perfect.”

And so, together, they began to list.

When they reached the section marked “Gift for Prince Seungcheol,” Jeonghan froze.

He stared at the parchment. “I don’t have anything ready.”

“Give him something meaningful,” Aeri said gently.

“I already gave him my bunny. And my plant,” Jeonghan muttered. His hand involuntarily touched the rose necklace resting against his chest.

His eyes lit up.

“I have an idea.”

Within the hour, Jeonghan was in a hooded cloak and in a modest carriage, heading for the city center with Aeri and two royal guards in tow. He directed them to a narrow street where a small jewelry shop sat nestled between a florist and an apothecary.

The shop owner, a kind man in his sixties, blinked twice as the prince entered but bowed deeply.

“Your Highness. To what do I owe this honor?”

“I need a custom piece,” Jeonghan said, voice firm but eyes dancing with a sort of barely-contained excitement. “Can it be done today?”

The jeweler blinked again. “Depends on the design, my lord.”

Jeonghan stepped forward and placed a hand gently on the counter. “I want a snowflake pendant. Your finest silver and your most expensive blue stones. Intricate. Something... unforgettable.”

The craftsman studied him, eyes softening as understanding bloomed behind them. “For you, my prince, I will make it happen.”

Jeonghan exhaled with visible relief. “I’ll return before dusk.”

He spent the next few hours wandering the market, still cloaked, though he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He bought paintbrushes with delicate bristles for the Queen, a beautiful wooden board game etched in northern patterns for the King, and boxes of local delicacies, including sea-salt sugar tarts and mountain honey biscuits.

His guards trailed behind him, weighed down by bags, looking like bewildered metal statues holding luxury shopping.

Whispers followed him wherever he went.

“There goes the Northern Prince again…”

“Isn’t he supposed to be locked in books?”

“Is he smiling?”

But Jeonghan didn’t care. He was smiling.

When he returned to the jewelry shop, the owner carefully placed a small velvet box into his hands.

Jeonghan opened it—and gasped softly.

Inside lay the most delicate snowflake pendant he had ever seen. Blue and silver rhinestones shimmered even under candlelight, catching light like the first frost at dawn.

It is beautiful.
Cold and gentle.

Regal and soft.

Just like the one he meant it for.

He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

He paid generously and hurried back to the palace. As he stepped into the courtyard, Mingyu, fresh from a strategy meeting, took one look at him—followed by the guards juggling shopping bags—and burst out laughing.

“You don’t look excited at all,” he teased.

Jeonghan rolled his eyes and shoved past him. “Tell that to your 30 gold coins.”

He handed his gifts to the maids with specific instructions for wrapping, then headed straight to his greenhouse, where he carefully picked a rare blue rose from his newest bloom.

He placed it gently beside the necklace in his satchel, running his fingers along the petals before closing it. He couldn’t sleep that night, not with the excitement clawing at his chest.

Tomorrow, he would see him again.

And this time, he wouldn’t be hiding behind letters.

******

The sun was barely at its peak when the grand gates of the Eastern Palace opened with their usual ceremonial flare. The royal guards straightened, the musicians began their gentle welcoming tune, and the palace staff lined up, eyes trained toward the carriage procession arriving from the North.

Prince Seungcheol stood tall beside his mother and father at the steps of the grand courtyard. His dark hair caught the morning light, his regal navy tunic fastened with silver pins, every inch the soon-to-be King.

But a crease formed between his brows.

“Two carriages?” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

His mother, the Queen, followed his gaze. “Prince Mingyu must be traveling with a retinue,” she said calmly, though the tilt of her head showed curiosity.

But Seungcheol had met Mingyu’s guards.

Loud, boisterous, and wholly incapable of walking in formation. And certainly not in a royal carriage.

The first carriage slowed and came to a stop, and out stepped Prince Mingyu, bright as the summer sun in shades of plum and ivory, his smile wide and unmistakably mischievous.

He bowed to the King and Queen with familiar ease, his voice smooth and warm. “Your Majesties,” he greeted. “It’s always a joy to be welcomed so kindly by the East.”

The Queen returned his smile. “The East is brighter when you visit, Prince Mingyu.”

Seungcheol stepped forward to clasp his friend’s forearm, his usual half-smirk tugging at his lips. “You seem far too smug for someone who just arrived.”

Mingyu leaned in and whispered, loud enough for only Seungcheol to hear, “That's because I brought you something. Or should I say… someone.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction.

Mingyu turned with a gleam in his eyes and jogged back toward the second carriage, the attention of the entire courtyard following him like a magnet. The door swung open under his hand—and time paused.

From the shadows of the carriage emerged Jeonghan.

Draped in elegant layers of soft gray and silver threaded silk, his figure was framed perfectly by the embroidered folds of his robe. His hair, slightly tousled from travel, shimmered in the sunlight like a halo, and the moment his face appeared, the entire palace seemed to hold its breath.

His hand reached for Mingyu’s arm with easy grace, the other lifted in a casual wave.

His smile—wide, genuine, a touch of mischief—landed directly on Seungcheol.

And Seungcheol forgot how to breathe.

The world dulled around him, sounds muffled as if someone dipped the palace in glass.
It wasn’t that Jeonghan looked stunning (though he did).

It was that he looked happy.

And he is here.

As Jeonghan and Mingyu reached the royal steps, Jeonghan offered a polite but slightly dramatic bow to the King and Queen.

“Forgive me, Your Majesties,” he said with soft elegance. “This visit was not officially arranged, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to deliver some gifts myself.”

The Queen’s lips curved knowingly. “Surprises from the North are always welcome.”

Jeonghan turned next to Seungcheol, who still hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked.

His chest visibly rose with effort as if air had only just remembered to enter his lungs. Jeonghan’s smile softened, a quiet little thing, just for him.

“Hi,” he said softly.

And without thinking, without ceremony or hesitation, Seungcheol closed the distance between them.

He reached out, pulling Jeonghan into a full embrace, his arms around Jeonghan’s waist, holding him like someone who’d spent weeks dreaming of this exact moment.

Gasps echoed in the courtyard.

One of the guards dropped his spear.

Mingyu’s jaw fell open and then snapped into a knowing grin.

The King merely raised an eyebrow.

The Queen pressed a hand to her lips.

And Jeonghan—somehow not surprised, but entirely amused—laughed softly against Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“You’re going to wrinkle my robes,” he murmured, his cheek brushing Seungcheol’s jaw.

“I don’t care,” Seungcheol whispered back. “You’re here.”

They separated slowly, reluctantly, and when Jeonghan finally looked back at Mingyu, he rolled his eyes. “I told you he’d make a scene.”

Mingyu looked smug. “I was counting on it.”

Seungcheol, slightly dazed, turned to the King and Queen. “May I… take Prince Jeonghan on a walk before the formal lunch?”

The Queen nodded, her eyes shining with something unreadable. “Of course.”

As they walked away, their shoulders brushing, whispers followed behind them like petals in the breeze. But neither of them paid attention—not when their hearts were thundering louder than any rumor.

And somewhere behind them, Mingyu nudged a silent Prince Wonwoo, his smirk stretching. “30 gold coins, my Wonwoo. I can almost taste it.”

******

The sun peeked through silk-draped windows, casting gentle light onto the marbled corridors of the Eastern Palace. It wasn’t often that a stroll through the halls felt so significant, but today, as Prince Jeonghan and Prince Seungcheol walked hand in hand, their fingers naturally laced like it had always been this way—every gaze, every footstep, every breath felt like it was being etched into history.

Their personal guards and maids trailed discreetly behind, eyes respectfully averted yet shimmering with wonder.

Whispers, silent but tender, passed between them. It wasn’t just royalty walking these halls—it was love, unfolding in real time.

Seungcheol was mid-sentence, pointing out the newly renovated stained-glass skylight near the east wing.

“We tried to match the original pattern from a hundred years ago,” he said. “But we added more golden hues. I think it makes the sunlight warmer.”

Jeonghan looked up and nodded, a soft “It’s beautiful” falling from his lips.

But Seungcheol was barely listening to the stained glass—he was listening to the tone in Jeonghan’s voice. He was memorizing the way his profile looked under the colored light, the way his silver-blue robe caught the sun like moonlight in motion.

Their quiet walk veered slightly off course, led by soft laughter and muffled voices. The corridor near the nursery and playroom echoed with children’s joy—workers’ and palace staff’s children spending the day under the watch of kind teachers while their parents served the kingdom.

Seungcheol glanced toward the door just as it swung open—and the moment the children spotted Jeonghan, a gasp rippled through the room like magic had walked in.

“Prince Jeonghan!” one of them squealed, and in a blink, five small children bolted out of the nursery, arms wide, giggling as they rushed toward him.

Jeonghan instinctively knelt to meet them, his robe pooling gracefully around him, and laughter spilled from his chest when tiny arms hugged his legs and waist.

One of the teachers called after them, flustered. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness—they know you from the paintings but we didn’t expect—”

Jeonghan waved her off gently. “Please, don’t worry. I adore children.”

A little girl, no more than six, with large brown eyes and braids down her back, cupped Jeonghan’s cheeks with both hands and tilted her head in wonder.
“I hope I can be beautiful like you when I grow up,” she whispered with sincerity that almost brought tears to the maid’s eyes behind them.

Jeonghan leaned forward, brushing their noses together with a grin. “I bet you’ll be even prettier than me. You already have better lashes.”

The children giggled and clung closer, asking about his clothes, his necklace, even if he brought candy.

Jeonghan laughed and answered each with patience, as if he had all the time in the world.

Seungcheol stood back, watching.

And something inside him shifted.

Watching Jeonghan—his Jeonghan—kneel among children like he belonged there, like joy was a language he spoke fluently, a warmth bloomed in his chest.

It was too early, too much to say—but somewhere, in some corner of his soul, he saw a future. One where Jeonghan wasn’t just a prince.

He is a constant.
A partner.

Someone to build the rest of his life around.

A sudden loud wail cracked the air. A two-year-old boy sat on the floor, red-faced and sobbing over a fallen toy.

Without hesitation, Jeonghan rose, walked to the boy, and lifted him into his arms with such ease and care that even the teacher stopped mid-step.

Jeonghan rocked him gently, pressing his cheek to the child’s temple, whispering something none of them could hear—but the boy quieted within seconds.

From the tall windows above the nursery, the Queen stood silently, watching it all. Her gaze lingered not just on her son but on the Northern prince in his arms. She said nothing, but her eyes misted just slightly.

Her son had found someone.
And she knew, deeply, irrevocably, that he is in good hands.

******

After their visit to the nursery, Seungcheol offered Jeonghan his hand again, and with fingers once more intertwined, they made their way to the private royal dining hall.

Inside, The King and the Queen, and Prince Mingyu were already seated. The table was set elegantly, adorned with blooms of soft blues and golds. On the far side sat a collection of wrapped gifts that had been promptly delivered and opened—a new board game for the King, a set of fine paintbrushes for the Queen, and delicacies from the North, all carefully selected by Jeonghan.

The Queen looked up from her tea. “Your gift choices were impeccable, Prince Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan bowed slightly. “I tried to bring something each of you would enjoy.”

The Queen’s smile was sweet but laced with gentle curiosity. “Tell me, Prince Jeonghan… why the surprise visit?”

The room quieted subtly.

Jeonghan’s eyes twinkled. “Well,” he said softly, “I’ve found myself… missing the East a little more than usual these days.”

Beside him, Seungcheol let out a breath like a secret, like a prayer answered.

Mingyu, seated across, barely held back a smirk. “So subtle, my dear brother.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

And when he caught Seungcheol’s gaze again—there was no need for words.

******

The dining hall was cleared, plates polished clean and tea cooling in porcelain cups, when the King leaned back with a playful glint in his eye.

“I wonder,” the King mused aloud, his gaze falling on the three young royals across the table, “if the famed minds of this generation could still be sharpened by something as old as a board game.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. “Are you challenging us, father?”

“I’m merely suggesting,” the King replied smoothly, “that perhaps Prince Jeonghan’s brilliance isn’t as terrifying as the rumors say.”

Jeonghan smiled like a blade unsheathed. “Careful, Your Majesty. That sounds dangerously like an invitation.”

And so, within minutes, a strategy game board was laid out—aged wood and polished tiles. The game, known for its complexity and demand for foresight, was infamous among the royals as a tradition of wit.

Round one began with Seungcheol and Mingyu playfully conspiring against Jeonghan, whispering across the board with childish glee. The King maintained a regal composure but made tactical moves with the subtlety of a seasoned ruler.

But Jeonghan… Jeonghan played like he was conducting a silent symphony. Quiet, deliberate, unpredictable. His pieces danced around theirs, folding their traps into his own advantage.

“Check,” he said calmly.

Three turns later, “Mate.”

Round one: Jeonghan.

Round two, they tried new strategies. Mingyu attempted chaos. Seungcheol tried to mirror Jeonghan’s moves. The King played defensively.

Still: Jeonghan won. This time by flipping the game entirely with a mid-match sacrifice they never saw coming.

By round three, there were beads of sweat. Mingyu refused to blink. Seungcheol narrowed his eyes. The King drank his tea slower, his mind visibly churning.

And yet—“Mate.” Jeonghan grinned. “Again.”

Mingyu groaned and leaned back, dramatically clutching his chest. “Why do I feel like I just lost my future kingdom?”

Seungcheol smiled despite his defeat, eyes flicking to Jeonghan with something else behind them now.
Admiration.

Devotion.

The King chuckled. “You’re dangerous, Prince Jeonghan. Very dangerous.”

******

That night, long after the laughter had faded into candlelight, Jeonghan sat in his chambers, robe loosely tied, hair falling over his forehead, brushing through the velvet of moonlight. He had just placed the rose necklace back on his neck when a soft, almost hesitant knock interrupted the silence.

He opened the door to find Seungcheol, dressed simply, no guards in sight.

“Want to go for a walk?” he asked quietly.

No more words were needed. Jeonghan wrapped himself in a soft shawl, and the two of them padded through the sleeping palace. The only light came from the moon and the stars, cascading in silver trails across the polished floors.

They walked in silence until they reached the grand balcony—an open, sweeping ledge of marble that overlooked the entire capital city.

Lanterns below glowed like fireflies. The river glinted like silk. People’s homes shimmered faintly in the distance.

Seungcheol leaned close and whispered, “This is your view, Jeonghan. One day, this will be yours. Your people.”

Jeonghan didn’t respond immediately. The weight of his words wasn’t heavy—it was warm. It felt right. “It’s overwhelming sometimes,” he finally said. “But right now… with you here, it feels less frightening.”

They stood side by side, the night quiet except for their breaths.

Jeonghan reached into his satchel, pulled out a small black velvet box, and opened it to reveal the snowflake necklace, gleaming with blue and silver stones that shimmered even in the starlight.

“I made this for you,” he said softly. “To match mine.”

Seungcheol blinked. “You—?”

“Turn around.”

Seungcheol obeyed, and with a calm, slightly trembling hand, Jeonghan lifted the necklace and carefully fastened it around his neck. As he leaned in to clasp it, their faces came close—too close. Close enough to hear each other’s heartbeats.

When Jeonghan looked up again, Seungcheol’s gaze wasn’t on the stars.

It was on him.

“Can I?” Seungcheol whispered, eyes briefly flicking down to Jeonghan’s lips.

Jeonghan nodded.

And Seungcheol kissed him.

There was no grandeur, no orchestra, no crowds.

Just the moon, the stars, and two quietly glowing necklaces.

It was soft, slow, reverent—like a vow. Jeonghan leaned into it with ease, with a feeling that had no name but all the clarity in the world. When they finally pulled away, Seungcheol rested his forehead against Jeonghan’s, their smiles brushing close.

Jeonghan’s hands played with the hair at Seungcheol’s nape.

Seungcheol’s arms stayed locked around his waist like he was afraid to let him go.

Then, in the hush of night, Seungcheol whispered into the air between them:

“It’s time to make my courting official.”

Chapter Text

Prince Seungcheol woke before the sunlight could stretch fully across the palace rooftops, a faint breeze curling in through the open windows.
The warmth of his bed is familiar, but something different stirred inside him—a kind of fullness, like his heart was still echoing with moonlight and first kisses.

He reached instinctively beneath the collar of his robes and wrapped his fingers around the snowflake pendant hanging around his neck. Cool against his skin, it glimmered faintly with the memory of Jeonghan’s soft voice and even softer touch as he fastened it there the night before.

He sat up, chuckling to himself.

 He should feel embarrassed—the Crown Prince of the East, smiling like a fool over a necklace. But instead, he felt… proud.

He slipped into a modern hanbok—midnight blue, with silver threadwork at the sleeves—and deliberately left the top layer open just enough for the pendant to catch the light.

Let anyone ask.

He is tired of hiding things that made him happy.

He found Jeonghan easily.

All it took was following the trail of giggles and the faint clatter of tiny feet. In the nursery, bathed in warm morning light, Jeonghan sat on the cushioned floor, surrounded by a small army of toddlers.

He was a mess in the most beautiful way.

Bright, mismatched hair clips littered his long hair—some barely clinging on, others stacked absurdly atop each other. Glitter smudged the edges of his sleeves, and one particularly enthusiastic child was attempting to “paint” his cheeks with pink chalk.

Jeonghan looked up just as Seungcheol appeared in the doorway—and grinned.

 The next moment, he stood quickly, careful not to trip over little hands tugging at his robes, and ran straight toward Seungcheol, laughing breathlessly.

Without pause, Jeonghan pressed a kiss to Seungcheol’s cheek, letting it linger just a moment too long.

A chorus of gasps erupted behind them—maids, teachers, guards, even the tiny children, all collectively wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

One young girl even dropped her crayon.

“Good morning,” Jeonghan said softly, brushing a clip from his fringe.

“Good morning,” Seungcheol replied, dazed and far too enchanted to care about the staring.

Jeonghan turned back and waved to the kids. “Be good while I’m gone! No fighting over who gets to put the next clip on me, okay?”

They walked out hand-in-hand, ignoring the commotion left in their wake.

The garden walk was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of leaves. Jeonghan had removed a few of the more chaotic clips but left some in—“they were proud of their work”, he’d said with a shrug.

As they strolled toward the side training fields, they were greeted by the roaring chaos of a soccer match. The palace guards, all in various stages of losing, were chasing after a blur of limbs and strength that could only be Mingyu.

The prince looked like he belonged on a battlefield, not a soccer field—shirt clinging to him, hair wild, laughter loud.

And nearby, just outside the chaos, was Wonwoo, standing coolly under a shaded alcove, arms crossed, holding Mingyu’s towel and water bottle.

Jeonghan raised a brow, amused.

Seungcheol, smirking, decided to prod gently. “Wonwoo,” he said casually, “how do you like the cold weather in the North?”

Wonwoo blinked once. “…It’s not that bad.”

Jeonghan glanced at Seungcheol with barely concealed amusement.
 Seungcheol only hummed, “Mm,” as if that answer had confirmed something.

Jeonghan leaned in and whispered, “That was not subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Seungcheol replied.

After Mingyu scored the final goal with a yell of “That’s how it’s done!”, the four princes headed back to Mingyu’s chamber, waiting as he showered and changed.
Jeonghan perched at the edge of the lounge couch, removing the last few hair clips and stacking them carefully on a silver dish.

“I’m keeping these,” he said.

“Sentimental now, are we?” Seungcheol teased.

“I’ve always been sentimental,” Jeonghan replied, tone softer than expected.

In the dining hall, the King and Queen awaited them, breakfast already served in golden dishes warmed by low lanterns.

“Good morning, boys,” the Queen greeted with a gentle smile, eyes immediately darting to the very visible snowflake necklace around her son’s neck.

Mingyu launched into a loud recounting of his soccer victory, using too many hand gestures and impersonating at least three guards. The King chuckled, clearly entertained.

“Prince Wonwoo,” the King said between bites of fruit, “how are your medicinal lessons going? I heard you’re learning about field diagnostics.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Wonwoo answered. “I’m currently studying reactive herbs for cold climates. There are northern plants that can be refined into salves for inflammation.”

“Well done,” the King said, nodding approvingly. “Very practical.”

And then, the Queen turned to Jeonghan, eyes curious and kind. “And you, my dear? Are you enjoying your stay here?”

Jeonghan smiled and set down his teacup. “I suppose I’ve… been thinking about the East a little more lately.”

“Oh?” the Queen said.

“I kinda see myself living here,” Jeonghan added smoothly.

A pause.

 Then a smile bloomed on Seungcheol’s face so softly, so genuinely, that it felt like the answer he’d been waiting for his whole life.

******

The golden morning deepened into warm midday, and after breakfast, Jeonghan found himself summoned gently by the Queen for a quiet walk through the Eastern Palace’s private garden.

She didn’t speak much as they strolled past rows of blooming camellias and white hibiscus, only offering him a hand-stitched parasol and a faint smile. Jeonghan followed her silently, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot and birdsong filling the air.

Their walk ended not in the garden, but in a modest wing of the palace that Jeonghan had never entered before—a sunlit sitting room with ivory curtains and dusty velvet chairs.

“This,” the Queen said, motioning him forward, “was Seungcheol’s first nursery.”

Jeonghan blinked, a little startled. “Your Majesty,You’re showing me your son’s baby pictures?”

The Queen smiled mischievously. “Don’t act like you’re not curious.”

She led him to a low wooden cabinet and pulled out a thick, leather-bound photo book. Jeonghan sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, his hanbok pooling around him, as she opened the album with reverence.

The first photo: a chubby-cheeked Seungcheol with a wild patch of hair and an oversized crown drooping over one ear.

Jeonghan laughed—open, delighted, and unfiltered.

Another photo showed toddler Seungcheol clutching a handmade crocheted bunny, its one ear flopped sideways and its yarn-stitched lashes exaggerated and slightly crooked.

Jeonghan squinted. “Wait. This bunny’s eyelashes… they look like Seungcheol’s when he’s annoyed. Look at that. Is this where he got it from?”

The Queen burst out laughing. “He used to drag that poor thing everywhere. Once, he held it up and demanded the royal seamstress make it a coronation robe.”

They laughed for a moment longer—two people in very different roles, sharing the same boy in their hearts.

But then, as the room quieted and Jeonghan turned a page, the Queen’s tone shifted, soft but clear.

Her eyes glanced downward—to the rose-shaped pendant glinting softly at Jeonghan’s collarbone.

“He gave that to you, didn’t he?” she asked gently.

Jeonghan didn’t deny it.
His fingers touched the necklace almost reflexively.

The Queen tilted her head, eyes kind but searching. “The North loves you, Jeonghan. And I know you love them too. But… are you ready to leave all of it behind? To start a new life here?”

Jeonghan looked up, heart full, voice quiet.

“I’ve thought about that,” he admitted. “A lot.”

She said nothing, giving him space.

He smiled faintly, glancing down at a photo of baby Seungcheol covered in paint.

“No one has ever… taken care of me the way your son does,” he said truthfully. “Not like that. He sees me before the title. Before the mask.”

A breath.

“I love the North. It raised me, shaped me. But when Seungcheol holds my hand, or just looks at me like I’m… something worth protecting, I feel like I could be home anywhere. Even here.”

The Queen nodded, touched. “He’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. I know what it means when he trusts someone enough to let them in. You were best friends before anything else. That bond… it matters.”

“I know,” Jeonghan whispered. “That’s why this all feels like the beginning of something right, even if it’s bittersweet.”

She leaned over, brushing a stray hair from his face. “Then I’m glad you’re here. You’re in the right hands, Jeonghan.”

That afternoon, the Eastern Palace’s diplomatic hall buzzed with energy. Maps were rolled out, scrolls laid in tidy stacks, and a circle of high-backed chairs filled with generals, diplomats, and scholars.

Seungcheol sat at the head of the room, beside the King, reviewing the materials. And when Jeonghan entered, dressed not in his usual elegant layers but a crisp scholar’s robe in Northern silver-blue, heads turned.

The King stood. “Prince Jeonghan, we’re holding a diplomatic simulation training today. We’d like you to join us—if you're willing.”

Jeonghan blinked once, then bowed slightly. “It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”

Mingyu, seated beside Wonwoo, smirked. “Good luck keeping up with him. Jeonghan’s the reason I passed all my diplomacy exams. He trained me in royal logic by making me debate while he threw pillows at my head.”

Jeonghan turned and shot him a glare. “You’re not supposed to tell people that.”

Seungcheol grinned. “No wonder you’ve been undefeatable.”

Jeonghan moved toward the table, fingers already flipping through the simulation documents with ease.

“You underestimate me,” he said calmly, “but I promise, I play the long game.”

Seungcheol leaned close, voice low. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

As the simulation began, and the two princes settled into their respective roles, the rest of the room watched with awe—two future rulers, minds like steel and hearts full of quiet certainty.
A team already.

And perhaps, the beginning of something even greater.

******

The long, polished table in the Eastern Palace’s diplomatic hall was surrounded by a ring of scholars, generals, and royal aides. Scrolls filled with historical records were neatly stacked, and in the center lay a large, detailed map of the four kingdoms—the territories shaded in earth tones and divided by etched silver lines.

Seungcheol stood at the front with the King, outlining the premise of the diplomatic simulation.

“We’ll be reviewing a scenario based on the Battle of the River Crest,” he announced. “A skirmish that happened six decades ago between the West and the South. You’ll all be assigned different kingdom roles to strategize a resolution before war breaks out.”

Jeonghan, seated beside Wonwoo, narrowed his eyes at the map already.

“They’ve changed the border lines,” he muttered.

Wonwoo raised a brow. “And you noticed that in two seconds?”

“It’s the same battle we studied when we were ten,” Jeonghan replied, lips twitching. “But this time, they added fog of war. That makes it harder to see the trade routes—look.”

Before the King even began assigning roles, Seungcheol raised a hand.

“I’d like to request Jeonghan as my opposition,” he said, lips curved in the faintest smirk.

Jeonghan didn’t even blink. “You’re that confident?”

“No,” Seungcheol said simply. “I want to see how far you’ll go.”

The King allowed it with an amused nod, assigning Seungcheol as the Southern envoy and Jeonghan as the Western general.
Mingyu and Wonwoo would be neutral mediators from the North and East respectively, watching the way both sides negotiated and applying pressure when needed.

The moment the bell rang, Jeonghan leaned forward, eyes glittering. “First of all,” he said, voice cool and composed, “the South’s route to the river is flawed. If you take that hill, you’ll collapse your own supply chain by the second moon.”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. “That route gives us visual control over your cavalry. I’m willing to risk supplies for strategy.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, almost fond. “But then your troops starve by the third week. Strategy without sustainability is just hubris.”

Mingyu whistled. “Someone’s being feisty.”

Seungcheol arched a brow. “And your counter?”

Jeonghan pushed a marker across the map. “I’d send a decoy downriver with our weakest ships—empty of supplies. The moment your scouts bite, we detonate at the shallows. You’re left blind, outflanked, and hungry.”

Wonwoo laughed, quietly impressed. “That’s… actually evil.”

“It’s efficient,” Jeonghan replied, with a smile too calm for the plan he’d just described.

Seungcheol stared at him for a moment longer, then let out a deep breath. “I’m trying not to fall in love with your brain right now, but it’s getting hard.”

Mingyu choked on his tea.

The room chuckled, but the King said nothing.

The simulation moved forward, and round by round, Jeonghan held his ground—adjusting his tactics, twisting old strategies into something dangerously effective.

The King asked theoretical questions. Jeonghan answered with data, logic, but also unexpected empathy.

“The goal is not to win wars,” he said once, pointing at the map’s center. “It’s to prevent them. That’s what makes true power: knowing when not to pull the trigger.”

Seungcheol watched him across the table, and something in his eyes softened—but also sharpened, a growing awe forming beneath the smile.

When the final bell rang and the room applauded, Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, calm and unbothered as if he hadn’t just obliterated everyone’s expectations.

Even Seungcheol looked impressed—and a little amused.

“I surrender,” he said, hand raised in mock defeat. “The West wins this round.”

Mingyu leaned over to the King and whispered, “ Your Majesty, now do you see what I meant when I said never bet against Jeonghan?”

The King didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze lingered on Jeonghan—the way he carried himself with quiet poise and subtle fire, the way his words danced between intellect and empathy, control and unpredictability.

And in that moment, the King finally understood.

Why the scholars of the South called Jeonghan The Beauty with a Blade.

Why the generals of the West marked his mind as more dangerous than his crown.

Why Seungcheol looked at him like he'd found something precious enough to build a future around.

The King smiled quietly to himself, leaning back in his chair.

The Beauty of the North wasn’t just a name.

It was a warning, and a promise.

And the East would be lucky to have him.

******

The halls of the Eastern Palace had quieted. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows like melted silver, and the echoes of courtly footsteps had long faded into the hush of night. Seungcheol had just returned from the diplomatic chamber, still half-dazed by the events of the simulation.

He found his father in the King’s private study, seated in a high-backed chair with a small glass of warm wine. The King gestured for his son to join him without a word, eyes not leaving the slow swirl of the liquid in his cup.

Seungcheol obeyed quietly.

For a moment, there was only the soft crackle of the hearth.

Then, the King finally spoke.
 “You made the right choice.”

Seungcheol looked over, eyes narrowing faintly. “You mean during the simulation?”

“No,” the King said, smiling faintly. “I mean Jeonghan.”

That name, that simple, four-syllable name, wrapped around Seungcheol like warmth and weight all at once.

“You see him as more than just a childhood friend,” the King continued, tone steady. “I saw it long before this visit—but today, watching him challenge every assumption in that room... I understand what you see in him.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond immediately.

His fingers absentmindedly touched the snowflake pendant that now hung close to his heart, the metal cold but comforting.

“He’s brilliant,” Seungcheol finally said, voice low. “And kind. He’s all softness and strategy. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel like he does.”

The King let out a soft hum, something proud buried inside it.

 “I’ve led this kingdom for decades. And I’ve fought beside men who believed love is weakness. But I’ve come to learn that love—real love—makes us more dangerous, not less. You stand stronger with him, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze distant.

“Do you think the people will accept him?”

“They already have,” the King replied simply. “They just don’t know it yet.”

******

The North Wing of the palace was quiet when Mingyu found Jeonghan standing at the open balcony of his guest chambers.

He didn’t knock—he never did with Jeonghan. He simply leaned against the doorframe, watching his older brother stare out at the moonlit East.

Jeonghan didn’t turn around. “You’re going to say something annoying, aren’t you?”

Mingyu grinned. “Probably.”

He walked over and leaned beside Jeonghan, arms folded, the wind rustling his still-damp curls from the bath.

 “You’re glowing, by the way,” Mingyu teased. “Must be the climate. Or maybe… someone’s first kiss.”

Jeonghan let out a small scoff, cheeks heating up instantly. “Shut up.”

Mingyu laughed, unbothered, and bumped his shoulder lightly into Jeonghan’s. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that the cold-hearted, calculating Prince of the North blushed so hard he needed to sit down after.”

“I did not sit down.”

“You tripped.”

“I stepped—”

“—backwards. Dramatically. Into a chair.”

Jeonghan laughed, unable to fight it anymore.

He leaned into his younger brother’s shoulder, the teasing melting into a quiet moment of comfort between siblings.

“You’re going to miss me, huh?” Jeonghan whispered after a beat, catching the subtle drop in Mingyu’s gaze.

Mingyu didn’t answer immediately. His usual grin softened, eyes focused somewhere in the distant lights of the Eastern city.

 “I’ve always had you, hyung,” he said, voice quieter. “Even when we were kids. You were there when I was afraid of horses. You were the one who taught me how to read maps, how to argue, how to win.”

“You’re making it sound like I’m dying,” Jeonghan chuckled, but there was a pinch of emotion in his voice too.

Mingyu shook his head. “I just never imagined a palace without you. The North’s going to feel… quieter.”

Jeonghan didn’t answer. He reached up and gently fixed Mingyu’s collar like he always did before their council meetings, the familiar gesture grounding them both.

“You’ll be fine,” Jeonghan whispered. “You are always meant to be more than my shadow.”

“And you,” Mingyu said, eyes bright but soft, “are always meant to lead beside someone who sees the world like you do. And loves you for it.”

Jeonghan smiled.

Not the diplomatic kind.
Not the rehearsed kind.

But the soft, tired, vulnerable kind he only gave Mingyu.

They stood there in silence for a while longer, letting the stars speak for them.

And somewhere between the cold air, the glow of the snowflake pendant, and the hush of a kingdom slowly learning to love again—

a prince of the North quietly began to say goodbye to the place he had always called home.

Chapter Text

The morning sun painted the East in soft golden light, casting a dreamlike glow across the city.

The town square bustled with life—vendors calling out their wares, children running between stalls, the scent of sweet breads and dried herbs dancing in the air.

Jeonghan and Mingyu, both in modest royal cloaks, strolled side by side under the close protection of their guards, though the townspeople were used to their presence now.

Jeonghan’s face was barely hidden beneath the soft hood he wore, but that didn’t stop the whispers.

“They’re so beautiful in real life…”

“Is that the prince from the North?”

“I heard he tamed our Prince Seungcheol.”

Mingyu smirked beside him. “Your fans are getting louder. Should I start walking five steps behind you now?”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Only if you want to draw more attention.”

They moved through the stalls, picking out small gifts for their parents—a hand-carved incense box for the Queen of the North, a rare tea blend for the King.

Jeonghan lingered over a silk bookmark embroidered with roses, his fingers brushing over it with a thoughtful look. “I think Seungcheol would like this,” he murmured.

Mingyu glanced sideways. “You already gave him a necklace, Jeonghan. You’re spoiling him.”

Jeonghan shrugged, cheeks pink. “I like seeing him wear things from me.”

They paused in front of a bakery stall. Jeonghan ordered a box of East-made lemon tarts—his favorite.

Mingyu raised a brow. “For the road?”

Jeonghan shook his head. “For Seungcheol. He still doesn’t understand why North lemon tarts are better, so I’m giving him proof.”

Mingyu laughed. “You’re the most passive-aggressive lover I’ve ever seen.”

But Jeonghan didn’t deny the word lover.

Back at the palace, meanwhile, Seungcheol sat at his study, his brows furrowed into a sulk as he flipped a letter over and over in his hands.

It was Jeonghan’s most recent note from before the visit—a soft, sarcastic scrawl with careful inkwork and pressed blue petals still tucked between the folds.

He sighed. “I hate letters,” he muttered aloud, resting his chin on the desk.

Wonwoo, sitting across from him, looked up from his book. “Since when?”

“Since they started taking one week to reach him.”

Wonwoo blinked. “You’re literally seeing him every day now.”

“That’s the point!” Seungcheol snapped—not angrily, just emotionally. “I’ll have to go back to sending letters. And waiting. And wondering if he smiled when he read them.”

Wonwoo smiled softly, adjusting his spectacles. “He did. Every single one.”

Seungcheol just groaned and buried his head in his arms.

******

By midday, the news had already spread across the four kingdoms.

Couriers dashed through palace gates, papers sold faster than they could be printed, and whispers filled every court.

“The Beauty of the North & The Brawn of the East: Romance or Alliance?”

“Crown Prince Seungcheol Seen Wearing Custom Jewelry—Gift from the North’s Jeonghan?”

“Will This Blooming Relationship Tip the Scales of Power?”

In the South, the royal advisors debated what this meant for Mingyu, wondering if the younger prince would still be seen as a potential consort by other kingdoms.

In the West, Jisoo read the headlines aloud to Seokmin, both of them laughing over the embellished stories. But their laughter was laced with a tinge of worry—about power shifts, possible jealousy from nobles, and what this kind of union could mean long term.

Back in the East, the Queen’s private court gathered to discuss the murmurs. Some nobles smiled with hopeful expressions, remarking that such a pairing could solidify peace permanently.

But others, more traditional, raised concern. “He is the North’s heart,” one advisor said. “If he moves in the East, what becomes of their power? Their identity?”

“Jeonghan is clever,” the Queen said calmly, quieting the room. “He will never abandon his people. If anything, he’ll bring them closer to ours.”

******

The final morning in the East arrived with the kind of sky that looked painted—muted greys and blues bleeding into the edges of the horizon. The palace courtyard was unusually quiet, save for the rustle of luggage being loaded into the carriages, the soft clinks of armor as guards moved about, and the occasional voice reminding others of forgotten items or scheduled farewells.

Mingyu stood tall beside their carriage, dressed more like a general than a visiting prince now—dark layers, clean lines, eyes sharp but solemn. His hands were tucked behind his back as he surveyed the scene, but his gaze kept shifting toward Jeonghan.

Jeonghan, wrapped in a soft grey cloak with fur trimmings from the North, was saying quiet goodbyes to the Queen and King of the East. The Queen held both of his hands, squeezing them gently.

“You have a place here, always,” she said with a warmth that made his chest ache.

Jeonghan smiled, eyes bright despite the tug of parting. “And you’ll always have lemon tarts from the North, I promise.”

The King gave him a nod that carried the weight of deep respect. “Take care of your kingdom, Prince Jeonghan… and my son.”

Seungcheol appeared behind them, his steps quieter than usual. No royal guards trailed after him this time, just like the night before. He wore a similar hanbok to yesterday—simple in silhouette, but elegant in its embroidery.

The snowflake pendant glinted against the fabric, its silver catching the morning light.

He approached Jeonghan slowly, as if trying to make each second stretch.

“You’re really leaving?” Seungcheol said softly.

Jeonghan turned to him, lips twitching in that familiar teasing smile. “I can’t live off your kitchen’s rice cakes forever.”

Seungcheol chuckled, but the weight in his eyes didn’t fade. He glanced down, noticing Jeonghan clutching something behind his back.

“What’s that?”

Jeonghan held it out—a wrapped box with a small card. “Lemon tarts. And a letter.”

Seungcheol blinked. “You wrote me a letter before you even left?”

Jeonghan shrugged. “I figured you’d miss me before the sun even hits noon.”

Seungcheol stepped closer, crowding Jeonghan’s space the way he always did when he was nervous.

He wanted to hug him, to kiss him, to find an excuse to say don’t go, but he didn’t.

Instead, he reached forward, brushing Jeonghan’s cheek with his thumb.

“I’ll send a letter back. But I hate waiting,” he whispered.

Jeonghan leaned into the touch. “Then don’t wait. Come visit.”

They didn’t kiss again—not in front of the court, not with the press already breathing down their necks. But the warmth between them was unmistakable. And when Jeonghan finally boarded the carriage, he looked back only once.

And Seungcheol was still standing there, a smile on his lips, his necklace glowing like frostlight.

******

The arrival back to the Northern palace was met with heavy snowfall and the embrace of chilled wind—but also with familiarity, warmth, and expectation. The palace gates opened with reverence as Jeonghan and Mingyu returned.

The Queen of the North was already waiting at the entrance, wrapped in deep sapphire velvet. The King beside her looked curious—he had heard the reports, of course. The papers reached even here.

He knew his son had brought more than gifts from the East.

Mingyu was the first to greet them, bowing low and handing over the boxes of presents with flair. “We brought the East’s finest.”

The Queen laughed, cupping his face. “I’m sure you brought chaos too.”

“I always do.”

When Jeonghan stepped forward, her gaze softened further. “You look... different.”

Jeonghan smiled. “Do I?”

“There’s something in your eyes,” she whispered. “Something new.”

And there was.

Later that day, as Jeonghan unpacked his things in his chamber, his maids fussed over him, whispering in awe over the necklace he still wore—Seungcheol’s rose pendant resting just below the collar of his robes.

Even the head steward mentioned it with a raised brow. “Should I assume this will not be stored in the royal vault?”

Jeonghan smirked. “No. It stays with me.”

Still, it wasn’t just the palace who noticed the change.

By the evening, newspapers across the North printed stories about the East visit—some spun tales of young love between nations, while others were more cautious.

“Prince Jeonghan Returns from the East—Romance or Royal Strategy?”
 “Unbalanced Peace? Citizens Question Power Shift if Union Occurs”
 “Royal Court Split on Potential Marriage: Hope or Hesitation?”

In the Southern capital, there were quiet meetings among advisors.

In the West, paintings were already being commissioned of “The North’s Rose and the East’s Shield.”

But in the North, Jeonghan sat in his greenhouse that night, lanterns flickering around him, the air fragrant with soft florals. He sipped tea alone, re-reading the letter Seungcheol left in his coat pocket.

It simply said:
 “My heart is cold when you’re gone. Come back and make it warm.”

Jeonghan tucked it inside his journal, between pages of pressed petals.

And as snow fell once more over the glass dome, he whispered to the night sky:

“Soon.”

******

45 days before Seungcheol’s coronation and birthday, the East is buzzing—not with preparations for a coronation, but with something far more unexpected and emotionally charged.

In the grand hall of the royal palace, Seungcheol stood tall before the court.

His posture is calm, but the weight of what he is about to say is evident in the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His parents, seated on their thrones, looked on—his mother with quiet curiosity, and his father with the sharp eyes of a man who had ruled through storms.

“My lords, my ladies,” Seungcheol began, his voice unwavering, “I come before you not as your future king today, but as your prince, your son, and a man who has made his choice.”

Murmurs rippled through the chamber.

“I will be formally announcing my courtship to Prince Jeonghan of the North. This is not born out of alliance nor convenience. This is personal. And it is real.”

A quiet beat.

A breath held across the room.

His mother, after a pause, smiled.

His father leaned forward ever so slightly, and said only, “Then let it be done with honor.”

Seungcheol bowed, and the court responded with nods, applause, and a few stunned gasps that quickly turned into whispers flooding the Eastern corridors.

That same night, a letter made its way to the North, carried by the fastest courier.

My dearest Jeonghan,

 I made it official today. The world will know what we already do.

 I’m coming to you—with my heart, and something golden.

 Please don’t wear anything too perfect when you run to me again, or I’ll fall all over you.

 Forever Yours,
 Seungcheol

******

Back in the East, Seungcheol made one private stop before preparing for the journey, a small, elite jewelry shop tucked behind the scholar’s street.

The shop owner, old and wise, nodded with understanding when Seungcheol showed him a rough sketch.

 “A pair of handmade gold bracelets,” Seungcheol explained. “A design of roses and vines, circling a snowflake in the middle. One for him. One for me.”

“It’s rare to see a design speak so clearly,” the old man whispered as he inspected the drawing.

“But this is love, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol only smiled.

In the North, once the news broke, preparations began immediately.

The palace buzzed as servants polished every corner, as florists discussed whether to emphasize blue roses or winter lilies, and as chefs began testing new recipes.

But no one is more restless than Jeonghan.

He clutched Seungcheol’s letter to his chest when no one was looking.

He inspected the mirror for imperfections that didn’t exist.

He sat through meetings distracted, fingers toying with his rose necklace.

Even his maids whispered amongst themselves. “Love is making our prince... soft.”

But perhaps the most unexpected reaction came from Jisoo, Seokmin, and Wonwoo, who met one evening over warm wine and pastries.

“We’re going,” Seokmin said immediately.

“To the North?” Jisoo raised a brow.

“To see this ridiculous, poetic, over-the-top declaration of courtship with our own eyes,” Wonwoo added, smirking. “Also... I miss snow.”

And so, the East’s most curious and loyal friends began their own preparations to attend the ceremony—as guests, but mostly as witnesses to a love that was rewriting royal tradition.

Chapter Text

The wind was crisp that morning, the kind of Northern breeze that carried the scent of pine and snow, laced with the sound of distant bells ringing in the city square. Inside the palace walls, the air was tense with anticipation—not from fear or uncertainty, but from something more tender, more delicate: hope.

Jeonghan stood by the tall arched window, already dressed hours before the arrival.

The court had insisted on tradition, draping him in the finest robes the North could offer—deep sapphire silks embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like ice under candlelight. His long hair was neatly styled, pinned back with jeweled clips, and a pale blue sash was wrapped around his waist, the rose necklace still glinting proudly against his chest.

He looked every bit like the Prince of the North, ethereal and poised—until the sound of hooves and carriage wheels cracked the silence.

His breath hitched.

“He’s here,” he whispered. And suddenly, the centuries of etiquette and posture drilled into him vanished like snowflakes under sunlight.

Without waiting for any formal announcement, Jeonghan gathered his robes in both hands and ran.

He ran through the polished marble halls, past startled maids and advisors. The long train of his robe trailed behind him like a streak of color, fluttering wildly as he sprinted toward the palace gates.

The guards had just opened the heavy doors when he burst through them. The royal courtyard had already started to fill—nobles, ministers, servants, even curious townspeople peeking from the gates, all waiting for the East’s royal envoy.

They were expecting a formal procession.

What they saw instead is Prince Jeonghan of the North, in full ceremonial regalia, running like a boy chasing summer.

The first royal carriage hadn’t even stopped moving when Jeonghan spotted him.

The second it did, Seungcheol stepped down, his dark ceremonial hanbok hugging his frame, and the snowflake bracelet glinting proudly on his wrist.

He barely had time to lift his eyes before Jeonghan flung himself into his arms, the force of it almost knocking him back a step.

Gasps echoed through the courtyard.

Jeonghan’s arms wrapped tightly around Seungcheol’s neck, his face pressed into the crook of his shoulder.

“You took too long,” he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. “I missed you too much.”

Seungcheol laughed softly, holding him just as tightly. “You’re literally glowing. I thought I told you not to wear something too perfect.”

“I wanted to blind you,” Jeonghan replied without missing a beat.

And right there, in front of the watching nobles and stunned courtiers of the North and East, Seungcheol pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Jeonghan’s head. A touch so intimate, so unguarded, it silenced even the gossips.

Jisoo, Seokmin, and Wonwoo—having arrived just moments before—stood by the courtyard steps.

Jisoo smiled knowingly. Seokmin sighed dreamily.

Wonwoo elbowed him, grinning. “I give it three days before they’re banned from public displays of affection.”

Back in the embrace, Seungcheol rested his chin on Jeonghan’s shoulder for a second longer than necessary, like he needed to feel every heartbeat for proof that he was finally here. “I brought something,” he whispered.

Jeonghan pulled back just enough to look up at him. “So did I.”

Their eyes locked—tender, mischievous, overwhelming.

And just for a moment, it didn’t matter that they were surrounded by tradition, expectation, or watching eyes.

There was only the boy in royal robes running toward the man who made him feel safe enough to forget everything else.

******

Jeonghan took Seungcheol’s hand in his own, threading their fingers together as they turned to face the North’s King and Queen, who had just stepped down from the viewing balcony.

The Queen raised her brow in amused disbelief, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Royal etiquette must have flown out the window the moment love came galloping through the gates,” she teased, half-serious, half-playful.

The King let out a low chuckle, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run before, Jeonghan. Not even when you were late to your own coming-of-age ceremony.”

Before Jeonghan could respond, Mingyu’s voice cut in from behind them, laughing. “I’ve never seen him run that fast. And I’ve been chased by him with a broomstick before.”

He placed a dramatic hand over his heart, “So please understand how serious this must be.”

Jeonghan, still flushed from both the sprint and the emotions, just rolled his eyes. “Mock me all you want. I regret nothing.”

The nobles and representatives from the royal courts of the four kingdoms had already begun to gather in the grand hall for the formal exchanges. Courtiers offered their bows and blessings, ministers of foreign affairs exchanged scrolls of goodwill, and alliances—though already longstanding—were reaffirmed with heartfelt words and subtle nods of diplomacy.

But as the sun began to dip lower behind the icy cliffs, the golden tones of twilight wrapped around the palace like a soft blanket. The formalities gave way to familiarity.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol, once again just friends among friends, found themselves back with Jisoo, Seokmin, Mingyu, and Wonwoo in one of the palace's quieter gathering rooms. A fire roared gently in the hearth. Cups of mulled wine passed hands, snacks long forgotten by palace formality scattered across the table.

Someone brought out a deck of old card games they'd used since they were teens.

Laughter filled the room like music. All six of them playing, teasing, arguing about rules, slipping into old rhythms that made it feel like time hadn't moved at all.

It was Jisoo who slowed first.

He sat back, his eyes fixed on Jeonghan and Seungcheol’s clasped hands on the table. “You two,” he said, voice warm, “I’ve known you both most of my life, and I’ve never seen either of you like this before. I’m really happy for you.”

Jeonghan blinked at him, surprised, but Jisoo just smiled gently and raised his glass in a small toast.

“I always knew it,” Seokmin added, leaning his head against the back of the chair. “Even when we were kids, I knew you’d find your way to each other. You two were always orbiting—just waiting for the right season.”

Wonwoo, who rarely said much when things got sentimental, exhaled slowly and stared at the fire.

His voice was soft, misted with emotion. “You both deserve this. Deserve each other. The way you look at him, Cheol… it’s the way people in stories talk about love.”

Mingyu cleared his throat, lifting his cup and giving a rare, unguarded smile. “I’ll save my speech,” he said, glancing at Jeonghan. “I already cry enough when he leaves. Let me be dramatic on the day you make it official.”

They laughed, and the laughter stitched something sacred between them.

Later that night, when most of the court had retired, Seungcheol and Jeonghan walked slowly through the quiet halls, wrapped in moonlight and something unspoken between them.

Seungcheol’s arm circled Jeonghan’s waist, firm but protective, while Jeonghan’s hand gently clasped around his forearm, the two moving as one. There was no rush to speak—just the soft rhythm of their boots against marble, the distant hush of snow falling beyond the windows.

When they arrived in front of Seungcheol’s chamber, they stopped.

The corridor was quiet.

Still.

Seungcheol turned to Jeonghan, his eyes taking in every line of his face, every detail that he had missed in their days apart.

“I still can’t believe you ran,” he whispered, cupping Jeonghan’s cheeks like something delicate and precious. And then, without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed him.

Not hurried, not soft—a kiss filled with all the words he didn’t know how to say. A kiss that said I’m here now and I’ve always been yours .

When he pulled back, breath shallow, he held Jeonghan’s gaze.

“Wait here,” Seungcheol said.

He slipped inside his chamber and returned a moment later holding a small velvet box. Without a word, he gently took Jeonghan’s wrist and opened the box to reveal a handmade gold bracelet—a band shaped like twisting vines of roses wrapping around a small snowflake, glinting like the stars.

He fastened it around Jeonghan’s wrist carefully.

Jeonghan, now looking down at their joined hands, noticed the identical bracelet shining on Seungcheol’s own wrist.

“A bracelet will do for now,” Seungcheol murmured, his thumb brushing over Jeonghan’s skin. Then he gently touched Jeonghan’s left ring finger , the touch feather-light.

“But next time… I’m going to put something here.”

Jeonghan’s lips trembled with the smile he tried to hide, his eyes turning glassy.

“Next time,” he whispered back.

And as they bid each other goodnight, lingering in the doorway, neither of them said the word that was now blooming between them.

But Seungcheol knew it.

He is in love with Jeonghan.

******

The East had not seen such movement in a decade.

Banners were being re-dyed, grand silk tapestries pulled from vaults, and golden embroidery stitched carefully into new banners bearing the royal crest—soon to also symbolize Seungcheol’s reign. The courtyards echoed with the clatter of wooden scaffolding and the rhythm of hammers as stages were built for celebration, walkways reinforced for parades, and lanterns hung by the dozens.

The castle is alive with purpose.

This isn’t just a coronation—

it is a transition of eras.

Royal messengers, dressed in red and gold, rode through the kingdoms with sealed invitations, their satchels heavy with letters meant for nobles, foreign dignitaries, allied kings, and beloved commoners alike.

The news spread like the first bloom of spring—Crown Prince Seungcheol would ascend to the throne, and the East was ready to celebrate not just their new ruler… but the man he had become.

Inside the palace, every friend had found a role in the preparations.

Wonwoo and Jisoo, calm and meticulous, pored over scrolls and sketches with royal decorators. They walked the palace halls side by side, adjusting flower arrangements, testing fabric swatches, and gently arguing about whether lavender or pale blue suited the spring atmosphere better. Jisoo insisted on golden accents for good fortune, while Wonwoo preferred deep forest greens to ground the vibrancy.

“The gold’s symbolic, Woo,” Jisoo muttered while crouched on a scaffold.

“And the green doesn’t hurt anyone’s eyes,” Wonwoo quipped, placing a new centerpiece with quiet precision.

Mingyu and Seokmin, meanwhile, took on the bulk of security preparations. With their long history in royal training and strategic warfare, both were quick to spot vulnerabilities in the entry points of the palace. Mingyu ran drills with guards while Seokmin doubled security at each gate. Together, they were a storm of discipline and mischief—fierce about protection, but always with a joke waiting at the end of their debriefs.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, had begun wearing the weight of the crown even before it touched his head.

He started taking on his father’s duties—leading court sessions, overseeing policy decisions, reviewing royal economic reports, and slowly easing into the rhythm of being a monarch. His days were filled with meetings, yet no matter how heavy the burden, he carried it with grace—and a small smile whenever he looked down and saw the gold bracelet still clasped around his wrist.

Each night, no matter how tired, a letter would still find its way to the North, or he would mount his horse and ride through the icy trails to be with Jeonghan, even if only for an hour.

Jeonghan, too, had begun his own gentle transition.

He slowly handed over his responsibilities to Mingyu, who, while still cheeky, handled the handover with surprising maturity. Jeonghan toured their lands—walking the markets, speaking with the vendors and townspeople who had watched him grow. Every goodbye was soft-spoken, heartfelt, and deeply personal.

He didn’t want a spectacle.

He wanted them to remember him not as a prince—but as one of them.

He spent more time with his parents than he had in years. Long dinners by the hearth, short walks through the gardens where his mother pointed out every flower she once named after him as a child.

The King would pour him tea quietly and, without looking up, ask things like: “You’ll still visit often, won’t you?” And Jeonghan, with a smile hiding the lump in his throat, would always nod.

Despite the responsibilities pulling them in opposite directions, Jeonghan and Seungcheol always found their way back to each other.

When Seungcheol visited the North, he arrived not as the prince, but as a man in love—always pausing to bow to Jeonghan’s people, walking through the old libraries they used to study in, visiting familiar bakeries and waving to the children who once teased him for always blushing near Jeonghan.

And when Jeonghan visited the East, he didn’t stay in the palace.

He walked the town square, smiling at shopkeepers, helping a little girl pick out a ribbon from a market stall, even rolling up his sleeves to help an elder lift a heavy crate. He learned the names of the people.

The East, once so different from the snow-covered tranquility of his homeland, began to feel more and more like a place he could call home.

The people started to notice.

Whispers turned to headlines.

The growing closeness of The Beauty of the North and The Brawn of the East had become the talk of every kingdom.

Newspapers from the Four Kingdoms ran headlines like:

• “Love Blossoms in the Frost and Flame: Royal Romance Confirmed?”
  
  
• “The Crown Prince and the Northern Rose: A Symbol of Unity or Unrest?”
  
  
• “From Snow to Fire: The Courting of Two Kingdoms”
  
  

Most reactions were overwhelmingly positive. Citizens saw it as a symbol of hope—a future where peace wasn’t maintained by law, but by love.

But not all saw it that way.

Some worried aloud that the bond might shift the balance of power—that love could cloud political judgment, or make one kingdom favor another.

Older nobles voiced concern behind closed doors, though none dared say it too loud.

Still, the world watched, breath held, as the coronation of the East’s future king approached—and with it, the question on every tongue:

Is the union of Seungcheol and Jeonghan simply a love story… or the beginning of a new era?

Chapter Text

The palace is no longer merely buzzing—it is humming with the anticipation of something historic.

The grand coronation is only two weeks away, and while banners are being re-stitched and invitations finalized, Seungcheol had something more personal, more profound, planned in his heart.

—

That evening, Seungcheol entered the King and Queen’s private receiving room. The large windows were open, the breeze faintly carrying the scent of magnolias. His parents looked up from their quiet discussion, the King arching a brow and the Queen smiling gently as if she already knew.

“I would like to speak to you both… alone.”

The guards excused themselves without question.

Seungcheol, dressed simply in soft beige and gold, stood tall but his voice was gentle—as it always became when the topic turned to Jeonghan.

“I’ve made my decision,” he began. “During the dinner party on the night of my coronation… I’m going to propose to Jeonghan.”

There was a brief silence.
Then the Queen gasped softly—eyes widening with glassy wonder.

The King’s shoulders dropped in something like relief and pride.

But Seungcheol continued:

“You’re the first ones I’m telling. Because… you’re my parents. And because everything I’ve become is because of you both.”

The Queen covered her mouth, nodding with wet eyes before she quietly stood. “Wait here.”

When she returned, she held a small, square box of red velvet, adorned with the seal of the Eastern royal crest—a rising sun held in a dragon’s claw. She passed it into Seungcheol’s hands without a word.

Inside is a ring.

Not just any ring—the engagement ring passed down through generations.

The gold was heavy and intricate, carved with old runes for protection and longevity. In its center, a red ruby, cut with painstaking care, glinted like a captured flame. Tiny golden diamonds circled it like petals around the heart of fire.

“It’s yours now,” the King said, his voice strong but reverent. “You’ll give it to the one who walks beside you. And one day… pass it down to your child.”

Seungcheol ran a thumb across the ruby, his breath caught in his chest.

He nodded, the promise of a thousand futures resting in his palm.

—

That same night, Seungcheol gathered the four people he trusted the most in one room—Wonwoo, Jisoo, Mingyu, and Seokmin.

As he shared his plan, the excitement was instant.

Jisoo clapped his hands over his mouth before hugging Seungcheol tightly, mumbling something about finally and thank the stars. Seokmin, with misty eyes and a laugh, jumped into the hug too.

Wonwoo simply stepped forward and tapped Seungcheol’s shoulder, his version of a blessing.

But then, Mingyu asked everyone to leave them alone for a moment.

When the door shut behind the others, Mingyu stood still for a second before finally looking up at Seungcheol. His voice was steady, but layered with something older than friendship.

“You’re my best friend,” he said.

“And Jeonghan… he’s my only brother. My whole life, it’s been him and me. He was always the clever one. The brave one. He’s always protected me even when he didn’t have to.”

He stepped closer.

“I know you’ll take care of him. Maybe even better than we ever could. But Seungcheol—if you ever hurt him… I won’t hesitate. I will take him back.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a vow.

Seungcheol smiled—solemn, steady. “You won’t have to. I promise.”

And Mingyu pulled him into a tight, brotherly embrace.

—

While Jeonghan was teaching a lesson in diplomacy to a group of noble students, Seungcheol traveled north one more time—this time alone.
No crown.

No title.

Just a man in love.

He met with the King and Queen of the North in their winter garden.

He bowed low and explained everything—his plans, his intentions, his love.

“I want your blessing,” Seungcheol said. “Not just as your future in-law, but as the man who will carry part of your son’s life with mine, from this day forward.”

The Queen cried softly as she stepped forward and embraced him, whispering, “Thank you for seeing him. For loving him.”

The King, ever composed, nodded and handed him another box, this one deep sapphire blue with the northern crest of a snow-wolf etched in silver.

Inside was a silver engagement ring, adorned with cascading shades of blue stones—like frozen rivers caught in mid-flow. The King said:

“This ring was meant for his heart. A tradition from the North. Give this to him too. But promise us… never take the North from him. Let him carry both kingdoms.”

“I swear,” Seungcheol said. “I’ll protect who he is. Always.”

—

When Jeonghan finished his final class of the day and exited the marble halls, he wasn’t expecting to see Seungcheol waiting under the evening sky, leaned against a column, bracelet gleaming under torchlight.

Jeonghan grinned and ran.

Without hesitation, he threw his arms around him and kissed the dimple on Seungcheol’s cheek, giggling like they hadn’t seen each other in months, not just days.

“Come with me,” Jeonghan whispered. “I want to show you something.”

He led him to the wing of the palace where his personal chamber had been since he was a boy. The room smelled faintly of mint and old parchment.
Every surface had a memory.

A history.

Seungcheol walked through it slowly, brushing his hand along bookshelves, polished tables, the embroidered pillow on the bed. His gaze stopped at a framed photo on Jeonghan’s bedside—a younger version of them, smiling under a tree.

He turned to Jeonghan, heart overwhelmed.

Their eyes met.

The space between them disappeared.

The kiss started slow, reverent.

But quickly deepened—like a promise whispered against a storm. Seungcheol pressed Jeonghan back gently until his back hit the table. He lifted him easily, setting him on the edge as Jeonghan’s legs wrapped around his waist. One of Seungcheol’s hands slid up his thigh, the other gripping the small of his back.

Jeonghan tugged at his hair, breathy and laughing into his mouth, pulling back for only a second before Seungcheol kissed him again—deeper, urgent, unstoppable.

They were somewhere between a dream and something ancient when—a knock.

They froze, lips swollen and pink, hair tousled, breath unsteady. Jeonghan chuckled first, and Seungcheol couldn’t help but grin too.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss on Jeonghan’s forehead, grounding them both back to earth.

—

And when they walked out together, hands brushing, hearts fluttering, Seungcheol carried two rings close to his chest, and one very certain truth in his heart.

He is going to ask Jeonghan to marry him.

And nothing—not kings, not kingdoms, not history—could stop him.

******

The capital of the East had never seen anything like it in decades. The stone streets, once lined only with routine market stalls and lanterns, now gleamed with silk banners, perfumed petals scattered like blessings, and the unified roar of four kingdoms gathered as one.

Every corner of the kingdom was alive.

Trumpets echoed.

Flags danced with the wind.

Dignitaries poured in like tides.

Today is not just the twenty-fifth birthday of Crown Prince Seungcheol.

Today, he would become King Seungcheol of the Eastern Kingdom.

Inside the palace, everything is hushed behind the doors of the ancestral hall.

Seungcheol knelt on the cushion in front of his family’s altar. The room glowed softly with the golden light of dozens of candles. Beside him, the King and Queen sat in silence, heads bowed in a traditional prayer of succession.

The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and chrysanthemum.

The Queen reached forward and touched her son’s shoulder gently. “May your reign bring peace. May you lead with your heart, not just your head.”

The King followed, his voice firm. “From this day, the crown does not weigh on your head—it rests in your spirit. Let no shadow claim your name.”

Seungcheol looked up at his parents. “Thank you… for raising me not just to rule, but to love.”

They embraced, not as monarchs, but as a family—quietly, completely, and wholly proud.

******

While the royal halls filled with preparations, the people of the East flooded the streets and town squares.

They wore their finest robes. The bakeries gave away sweet buns dusted with edible gold. Children wore paper crowns, and the elderly lit incense in the temples for a peaceful reign.

But whispers danced more feverishly than usual. Because the people weren’t just here for the coronation.

They are waiting.

For someone else.

Two hours before the coronation ceremony, the royal guards at the grand palace gates stood tall as a new cavalcade approached—the northern banners flowing like rivers of silver and ice.

“Now announcing the arrival of Prince Mingyu of the North… and Prince Jeonghan of the North.”

A hush fell across the field as the carriages stopped.
Every breath stilled.

First came Mingyu, tall and dignified, dressed in deep blue with silver brocade, snowflake patterns glimmering beneath the sun. He offered a polite nod to the crowd, ever regal but approachable.

But then—Jeonghan.

The crowd surged forward slightly, as if the world itself leaned closer.

Dressed in matching deep blue, adorned with golden vines that shimmered with each step, Jeonghan emerged like poetry made flesh. His hair was tied elegantly, decorated with small gold and silver flowers—almost as if the East and North kissed on his crown.

And upon his wrist—the gold bracelet, gleaming, matching the one belonging to the man who waited inside.

The cheers erupted like thunder.

Noble families from all corners of the kingdoms watched in open awe.
They had heard whispers—tales of the Beauty of the North, clever and breathtaking—but nothing prepared them for this.

Many bowed instinctively, not just out of tradition, but stunned reverence.

And yet, Jeonghan smiled with ease—soft, warm, unbothered by the awe. As if he had always been meant to be seen.

Once inside the palace gates, Mingyu and Jeonghan were met by their best friends.

Jisoo and Seokmin, suspiciously wearing matching white and green hanboks, immediately beamed at them. Jeonghan raised a brow, but the two only gave mischievous shrugs.
 Wonwoo, in rich beige and crimson, gave Jeonghan a small bow before pulling him into a side hug. The reunion was brief, however.

Before they could take their seats in the royal courtyard, a guard approached.

“Prince Jeonghan… His Highness, Prince Seungcheol, has requested your presence in his chamber.”

The friends exchanged smirks. Jisoo whistled quietly. “Couldn’t wait, huh?”

Jeonghan only smiled and excused himself.

The halls were quiet as Jeonghan walked. Every footstep echoing like a drumbeat closer to something holy.

Outside the door, the King and Queen stood, just about to exit.

They greeted him with warm nods. The Queen leaned closer, her voice playful,
 “Next time, perhaps we can skip the formal bows, hmm?”

Jeonghan chuckled. “I’d like that.”

When he stepped inside, the door closed gently behind him.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in ceremonial robes of ivory and scarlet, embroidered with gold phoenixes. The crown hadn’t yet touched his head, but everything about him radiated sovereignty.

Jeonghan paused for a second, scanning the room.

He saw the crocheted bunny, now sitting proudly beside a set of scrolls. Dried marigolds, carefully pressed in a book on the table. Framed photographs of their childhood and recent meetings scattered throughout.

A life stitched quietly with love.

Without hesitation, Jeonghan crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Seungcheol, pulling him close.

“I am so, so proud of you,” he whispered. “For the man that you are, and for the king you’re about to become. I will be forever grateful to you… and for you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes fluttered closed as he buried his face in the crook of Jeonghan’s neck. Breathing him in. Grounding himself before the world changed forever.

“The next time I hug you,” he murmured, “I’ll be king.”

Jeonghan pulled back and cupped his face, smiling gently. “Then I’ll call you my king, from then on.”

Their lips met—soft and slow, filled with everything they hadn’t said.

When they pulled apart, the air between them shimmered with something deeper than anticipation.

“I have a gift for you,” Jeonghan said.

From his pocket, he pulled a small golden pin—a delicate vine wrapping around a snowflake, the same motif as their bracelets.

“I want you to wear this during your coronation.”

He stepped forward and fastened the pin gently over Seungcheol’s chest, just above his heart.

Jeonghan rose onto his toes, pressed a kiss on Seungcheol’s forehead, and whispered, “I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he turned, leaving the man he loved to become the king he was always meant to be.

******

The Royal Courtyard of the Eastern Palace had been transformed into a breathtaking stage of tradition and majesty. Gold-trimmed banners of the Eastern Kingdom billowed in the breeze, framing the sprawling platform where the ceremony would take place. The four kingdoms sat united, representatives from every realm filling the velvet-lined rows with their regalia.

The high sun gleamed off the rooftops of the palace, and the ceremonial bells rang out in three resounding waves.

The air stilled.

The procession began.

Seungcheol stepped into view.

The gasp that echoed from the crowd was collective. Dressed in his royal robes of ivory and scarlet, embroidered with golden phoenix wings that seemed to ripple as he walked, Seungcheol looked every inch a king. His head was bare for now—but his posture, his gaze, the quiet strength in every step—was already regal.

He walked down the central path, flanked by guards and followed by his closest friends and family.

Jeonghan watched from the side, heart full and eyes shining, as Seungcheol approached the altar, where the King and Queen stood with the High Elder.

The Queen took a step forward and gently removed the symbolic heirloom sash from Seungcheol’s shoulders. The King raised the Crown of the East, an ancient piece adorned with rubies and sunstones, and the elder took it, holding it aloft for all to see.

With the blessings of ancestors, with the unity of the kingdoms, and under the eyes of his people—the crown was placed gently on Seungcheol’s head.

A wave of warmth passed over the courtyard.

The elder turned to the crowd.

 “All hail, His Majesty, King Seungcheol of the East.”

The crowd roared to life.

A standing ovation.

Trumpets rang.

Cheers echoed like thunder across the mountains.

Jeonghan couldn’t take his eyes off him.

The boy he once dared to call "cheolie" is now a king—and yet, when their eyes met across the crowd, he still smiled like the boy who always protected him during snowball fights, the boy who always refused to step outside the Eastern kingdom. 

The man with the crown is the same man who offered him a path- but as Seungcheol walks and greets the crowd, Jeonghan shook his head and smiled. 

This is the man who will forever hold his heart. 

Chapter Text

The palace dining hall had been transformed into a dream. Crystal chandeliers bathed the long tables in golden light. The floors reflected the warmth of the glowing lanterns, and every seat was filled with the finest of the four kingdoms.

Musicians played soft instrumentals from all corners of the continent.

Toasts were raised.

Dances performed.

Food flowed like poetry across the tables.

And finally, King Seungcheol stood.

He moved to the center of the raised platform, now dressed in a deep crimson robe with gold detailing. The pin Jeonghan gave him gleamed near his heart, the symbol of their bond worn for all to see.

The room fell quiet.

He began his speech, voice calm and sure,

“I stand before you today, not just as your king, but as a man born of tradition, grown in the arms of his people, and shaped by the love that surrounds him.
 Today marks a new chapter—not just for the East, but for all of us. A time where unity is not enforced by treaties, but built by trust. And I promise to lead not with fear, but with heart.”

He paused.

“And with your permission, I wish to begin this chapter… not alone.”

The guests whispered.

The music halted.

Seungcheol turned slowly—and extended his hand toward Jeonghan, who was standing among their friends.

“Jeonghan. Prince of the North. My childhood friend, my brightest light, my fiercest confidant…”

He stepped down from the dais and walked toward him.

“You have never needed a crown to command a room. You have never needed armor to fight for those you love. You taught me that tenderness is not weakness, and that devotion, when real, is fearless.”

Seungcheol knelt.

The room gasped.

From his pocket, he retrieved two velvet boxes.

He opened the first—the silver ring adorned with blue stones, a design passed from the King of the North himself.

“This is for where you came from. For the frost that raised you and the strength it gave you. I vow to never let the North fade from your heart.”

He opened the second—the ruby and gold ring of the East, once belonging to generations of kings.

“And this is for where you're going. For the fire we’ll build together, the kingdom we will serve, and the future we’ll share.”

The room is still.

“Will you marry me, Jeonghan?”

******

Jeonghan didn’t hesitate.

His hands trembled slightly, but his smile was sure. His voice was soft, but steady.

“Yes. A thousand times yes.”

The hall erupted.

Laughter.
Applause.

Joy.

Jisoo covered his face with both hands, crying.
Seokmin whooped.

Wonwoo clapped with misty eyes. Mingyu stood with a grin—but not without a tear slipping down his cheek.

Seungcheol slid the rings onto Jeonghan’s fingers, and Jeonghan helped him stand. The moment their eyes locked again, time slowed.

They kissed—not just as lovers, but as future kings.

And for one quiet second, the world bowed to the power of love—not for politics, not for alliance, but for the truth of two souls choosing each other.

******

The celebration continued long into the night—dances, wine, song, and laughter echoing throughout the Eastern Palace.

But eventually, the firelight dimmed, and the crowd thinned as the moon rose high.

Guests departed with flushed cheeks and full hearts. Ministers, nobles, and royals whispered endlessly about the coronation—but more about the proposal. And amidst all the noise, there was only one thing people agreed on:

They had witnessed history.

As the last of the dancers twirled away and the golden halls began to quiet, Seungcheol finally pulled Jeonghan from the crowd. Their friends saw it happen and simply smiled, making no effort to follow.

They walked hand in hand through the now-silent hallway, footsteps soft against the marble. The guards bowed in respect but said nothing.

Seungcheol opened the doors to his private chamber—now the King's chamber—and gestured for Jeonghan to enter first.

Jeonghan stepped in, eyes trailing around. The scent of cedar and warmth. The same crocheted bunny still sitting on Seungcheol’s shelf. Their framed childhood photo now rested beside Seungcheol’s crown.

Neither of them spoke, not at first. They just stood, forehead to forehead, eyes closed.

Jeonghan finally whispered, “You did it.”

Seungcheol chuckled under his breath. “We did it.”

Jeonghan looked up. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this day?”

Seungcheol tilted his head. “The coronation?”

Jeonghan smiled, fingers playing with the red and gold ring on his hand. “No. This. Us. You and me.”

Seungcheol brought his hands to Jeonghan’s waist. “Then let’s never wait again.”

They kissed again, this time without any eyes watching. It wasn’t rushed, or desperate—it was reverent, intimate. A promise sealed again with touch and closeness. Their laughter spilled out between kisses. They were giddy, buzzing, barely able to believe it was all real.

Eventually, they lay beside each other on the bed, fully clothed but fingers laced tightly, heads turned toward one another.

“Married life’s gonna be hell with you, huh?” Jeonghan teased.

Seungcheol smirked, “You’ll love every second.”

Jeonghan bit back a grin. “You’re not wrong.”

And when the candles burned low, and the moonlight stretched across their bodies, they whispered nothings and dreams to each other until they fell asleep—the King and his chosen heart.

******

By dawn, the Eastern capital was already awake. The headlines had exploded.

From silk-scroll dispatches hand-delivered to noble estates, to newspapers distributed across marketplaces, to traveling bards singing about the moment—the East’s new King had proposed, and to the Beauty of the North no less.

The East:
 The people of the East—already in celebration from the coronation—welcomed the news with thunderous joy. The pairing of their strong, noble King with the clever and admired Jeonghan was deemed a blessing. Local children played games re-enacting the proposal scene. Florists sold roses and snowflake motifs by the dozens.

The North:
 The North’s capital erupted with pride. Shops closed in honor of their prince’s engagement. Public squares were filled with people waving both Eastern and Northern flags. Ice sculptures were carved of Seungcheol and Jeonghan. Jeonghan’s parents made a rare public appearance to express their support—an emotional address that moved many to tears.

The West:
 Known for their diplomacy and neutrality, the West released a formal congratulatory statement almost immediately. But whispers followed. Some nobles murmured questions: would this shift the balance of influence among kingdoms? Was the unity strong enough to endure romantic alliances?

The South:
 Ever passionate and outspoken, the South had divided opinions. Some praised the love story as legendary—“a tale for the ages,” they called it. Others raised concerns of favoritism: what if the North and East grew too close? What of the Southern allies? What would the South's representation look like under a new monarchy?

And yet, among even the most skeptical minds, there was no denying it:

The union of Seungcheol and Jeonghan had become a symbol.

Not just of kingdoms converging—but of what could happen when love, friendship, and loyalty were chosen above politics.

Chapter Text

The palace bustled with the same energy as a thunderstorm, though the skies were clear.

Within hours of Seungcheol’s coronation and proposal, the East was already preparing for another grand affair—the royal wedding. Invitations were being drafted on cream parchment with gold ink. Silk samples and floral arrangements arrived from all corners of the continent.

And at the center of it all stood five very busy people.

Prince Seokmin and Prince Jisoo had taken on the aesthetics—color palettes, decor, and music. Naturally, the palace was already filled with samples of ivory, pale rose, and navy. They fought playfully over flower arrangements while pretending not to notice their elbows brushing under the table.

Prince Mingyu volunteered to manage logistics—guest accommodations, dining menus, and travel schedules, while Prince Wonwoo, who had taken a surprising interest in wine pairings, read through every detail with quiet care. Together, they made a perfectly coordinated, chaotic duo.

And Jeonghan?

Jeonghan is everywhere—charming the press, handling nobles, advising Seungcheol’s court and simultaneously choosing between three variations of his wedding hanbok.

Seungcheol found himself wrapped in duties—but today, was different.

Today, he would preside over his first state council as King.

He stood before the tall mirror in his study, adjusting his dark ceremonial robe. His eyes darted to the reflection of Jeonghan sitting calmly on the chaise, legs crossed, brows raised.

“I’ve reviewed you a thousand times,” Jeonghan said, smug. “You’ll be fine.”

Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “If I had your brain, I wouldn’t be this nervous.”

Jeonghan got up, walked over, and fixed the collar of Seungcheol’s robe with slow hands. “You have your father’s integrity, your mother’s poise, and something of your own too—your fire. That’s all you need.”

Seungcheol wrapped his arms around Jeonghan, holding him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “What would I do without you?”

Jeonghan smirked. “Crash and burn, probably.”

They both laughed—and it was that warmth, that lightness, that followed Seungcheol into the council chamber.

The chamber fell silent when he entered.

For the first time, the youngest king of the East sat at the head of the long oval table, flanked by seasoned ministers and advisors. Jeonghan stood beside him, not just as his consort—but as his silent strategist.

The topics were heavy: expansion of the kingdom’s infrastructure, strengthening inter-kingdom collaboration, and funding for education reforms. But Seungcheol spoke with clarity, his voice confident, his answers considered.

The ministers exchanged glances—he wasn’t just his parents' son anymore. He was a king.

And at the end of the session, when the council stood to bow and depart, Jeonghan’s fingers briefly touched Seungcheol’s back—a silent promise:

"You did it."

******

Elsewhere in the palace, as the world talked of kings and weddings, four people kept their secrets quietly burning.

Prince Jisoo of the West and Prince Seokmin of the South are always seen together.

Always laughing, always effortlessly in sync.

Their kingdoms called it diplomacy.

Their friends teased them, lightly. But no one ever truly questioned it.

No one knew how many times Seokmin had shown up at the Western palace under the excuse of trade talks, only to end up sneaking through Jisoo’s bedroom window.

No one knew that Jisoo, ever elegant and refined, had learned how to ride a wild stallion bareback just to spend more time with Seokmin across the fields.

No one saw how their fingers brushed under velvet tables, or how Jisoo would find pressed flowers tucked in his books after Seokmin left.

And when they are alone—naked, tangled in sheets, breathing against each other’s skin—no words were needed.

They aren’t lovers. They aren’t nothing. They are something in-between. Something unspoken.

And neither of them dared ask what that meant.

Prince Mingyu and Prince Wonwoo were different.

Day and night.

Loud and quiet.

Mingyu had always been big in every way—his laugh, his stride, his personality. He’d jump into a lake before checking the water. Wonwoo, soft-spoken and thoughtful, was the one to check the temperature.

They balanced each other without even trying.

What Wonwoo didn’t know was that Mingyu—careless, clumsy Mingyu—had walked into the North’s treasury when he was sixteen, stared the royal guard down, and said he wanted to claim the most sacred engagement ring.

He had been told it was reserved only for royal lineage unions. And Mingyu, with all the certainty in the world, said,

“I’m asking early. I’ll wait. But I know who it’s for.”

He hadn’t told anyone.

Not even Wonwoo.

But every time Wonwoo gently adjusted his glasses, or quietly brought Mingyu an extra towel, or looked at him with those unreadable eyes, Mingyu’s fingers brushed that invisible velvet box in his mind.

The timing is coming, he thought.

He just had to be brave enough to finally open it.

******

The palace grounds had never seen a busier spring. Flower carts rolled in by the hour. Tapestries from all four kingdoms hung side by side on every hallway. Wedding planners shuffled through parchment scrolls while palace staff scrambled to keep up with the endless meetings, tastings, rehearsals, and security walkthroughs.

In the middle of it all, Prince Jeonghan is multitasking in silk robes and soft leather shoes, elegance in motion. He adjusted flower arrangements, reviewed ceremonial sequences, and consulted the cultural council for rites and customs from both North and East.

The royal wedding of the decade was underway.

King Seungcheol, meanwhile, is balancing wedding excitement and royal responsibility. His first weeks as king had been filled with council meetings, audiences, and plans for education, trade, and unity among the four kingdoms. Jeonghan had drilled him before every state council meeting, even quizzed him during breakfast.

“I’m not joking, Jeonghan, if I had your brain, I’d never doubt myself again,” Seungcheol had laughed into his tea.

“You have your charm,” Jeonghan replied with a shrug. “People follow that just as much.”

******

Jeonghan sat by the window of the wedding chamber, organizing table arrangements. A stack of names and royal symbols in front of him. He was meant to be choosing seats.

But instead, his eyes drifted outward—to the palace gardens.

That’s when it happened.

A glance.

A touch.

Seokmin brushing a strand of hair behind Jisoo’s ear. The kind of touch people do without thinking. But Jeonghan knew better.

Then Mingyu—loud as always—laughing at something Wonwoo said, then falling silent as his gaze lingered. Wonwoo didn’t pull away when Mingyu leaned too close. Didn’t need to.

It all clicked.

Every quiet moment.

Every glance.
Every shared silence.

Jeonghan dropped his pen.

“They’re in love,” he whispered, eyes wide. “They’re all—oh my god.”

He rushed down the hall, past startled guards and advisors.

He found Seungcheol in the royal lounge, half-asleep with parchment over his chest.

Jeonghan slammed the door open. “Love! Listen. I figured it out.”

Seungcheol blinked. “What—”

“Seokmin. Jisoo. Mingyu. Wonwoo. It’s all happening. I saw it in the garden!”

Seungcheol squinted. “Happening like... happening?”

“Yes!” Jeonghan dropped beside him dramatically. “There’s something there. Like—real feelings. And if we don’t plan for this, kingdoms are going to start speculating and pressuring and asking questions and—”

Seungcheol sat up slowly.

And at the exact same time, they said:

“We need to plan this.”

Because they knew.

This isn’t just a wedding.

This is the start of a revolution.

Four kingdoms.

Six friends.

A generation born in tradition—but moving toward something more.

Love not as strategy, but as choice.

Jeonghan opened a new scroll, already sketching diagrams.

“We need to create balance. If Mingyu and Wonwoo are really... you know, that’s two North royals tied to the East.”

“Which could be seen as an imbalance if we’re not careful,” Seungcheol muttered, already reaching for his own papers. “We’ll need to redistribute influence across the West and South. Give Seokmin a more public diplomacy role.”

“And create new advisory seats for Jisoo on the cultural council,” Jeonghan added. “Something visible, not just ceremonial.”

The wedding could wait.

Because what they are building wasn’t just a love story.

It is the future.

 A new alliance not rooted in treaties, but trust.
Not dictated by fear, but faith.

Jeonghan grinned as he looked over their growing notes.

“We’re really doing this,” he said softly.

Seungcheol glanced at him, eyes warm. “No, love. You are doing this. You always saw it before the rest of us did.”

Jeonghan leaned in, rested his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder.

Six friends.
Four kingdoms.

One plan.

And it all began with a wedding.

Chapter Text

The plan, as with all things touched by Jeonghan’s meticulous mind and Seungcheol’s steady leadership, began quietly.

In a week’s time, new announcements were released from the royal offices of all four kingdoms.

Prince Seokmin of the South was officially named as the Southern Representative of Inter-Kingdom Youth and Cultural Diplomacy, a role that would have him traveling frequently between regions, especially the West.

No one questioned it—Seokmin had always been well-loved and approachable. But those who looked closer would begin to notice how often his reports, meetings, and appearances aligned with Prince Jisoo’s initiatives in the West.

The West Kingdom, in turn, publicly expanded its educational alliance with the North. And Prince Jisoo was invited to head a new council focused on heritage preservation and foreign relations. Of course, Jeonghan and Seungcheol had whispered to each other that it would give Jisoo more reasons to “coincidentally” cross paths with Seokmin, again and again.

Jeonghan even coordinated the timing of specific ambassador visits so that Jisoo and Seokmin could meet in shared territory—always with a smile, always with “diplomatic” reasons.

Mingyu, now the East’s official head of Defense Coordination, had been subtly pushed forward as a potential bridge with the North, especially with upcoming joint training exercises.
That decision, too, seemed natural. He is charming, a natural leader—and the East’s people trusted him.

No one questioned why Wonwoo, previously quiet in the background, was named Historical Strategist of the East, in charge of compiling and preserving all treaties and cultural narratives. Especially not when he was seen often in meetings with Mingyu, heads close together over ancient texts, or riding together during inspections of the shared borders.

They were careful, deliberate, and subtle.

What they weren’t yet… was public.

And that was exactly what Seungcheol and Jeonghan intended.

“Let them settle into their roles,” Jeonghan said one evening, his fingers dancing over maps and names. “Let them grow into it before the world starts asking questions.”

“And when it does,” Seungcheol finished, “we’ll be ready—with answers and protections.”

From the outside, it looked like a brilliant new wave of diplomacy.

But behind palace walls, it is love given structure, hope given form.

******

Wedding preparations surged into full bloom.

The palace now looked like it had been touched by spring and royalty itself. Musicians rehearsed day and night. Chefs prepared and discarded dozens of sample menus. Embroiderers and jewelers lost sleep over stitching Northern snowflake patterns with Eastern roses on the ceremonial garments.

Jeonghan, graceful in layered silks, still managed to oversee it all—until Seungcheol pulled him away one afternoon and said,

“You’re going to burn out before the wedding. Sit down.”

“But the ceremonial silk for the flower boys—”

“Sit.”

Jeonghan laughed but obeyed, resting on the lounge as Seungcheol gently pulled his legs up on his lap and started massaging his ankles.

“Gods,” Jeonghan groaned. “I might marry you just for this.”

“Might?” Seungcheol raised a brow.

“Fine,” Jeonghan teased, eyes half-lidded. “Definitely.”

They stayed like that for a while. Quiet, comfortable. Jeonghan eventually curled up, head resting on Seungcheol’s chest.

Outside, the sun was soft, golden. Inside, Jeonghan listened to the steady rhythm of the heart that had long become his home.

Later that afternoon, after another meeting with the decorators and another round of taste-testing, Jeonghan found himself sitting with a cup of jasmine tea in the garden—watching again.

It was subtle.

Jisoo placing his hand over Seokmin’s for a second too long.
 Mingyu, leaning just a bit too far into Wonwoo’s space and being met with the softest smile.

There it is again.

Jeonghan’s eyes sparkled.

He sipped his tea and whispered to himself, “Oh, it’s all unfolding beautifully.”

That evening, Jeonghan found Seungcheol in their shared chamber, shirt half-open and papers sprawled around him.

Jeonghan dropped beside him with a grin and whispered, “It’s happening.”

Seungcheol raised a brow. “What is?”

“Them,” Jeonghan said, all teeth and delight. “I saw it. In the garden again. We’re going to have to fast-track the subtle alliance strategy. They’re going to fall hard soon, and when they do—”

“They’ll need protection,” Seungcheol said.

Jeonghan nodded. “And a safe place to land.”

They looked at each other and once again, said in perfect sync:

“We need to plan this.”

Because this wedding isn’t just the end of a love story.
 It is the beginning of something bigger.

The six of them weren’t just heirs anymore.

They are the architects of a new world.

******

The appointment letters had been delivered just after sunrise.

Lavish seals. Handwritten endorsements. Stamped with the royal crest of the East, the documents carried weight, history, and most importantly: trust.

Jisoo, when handed his new role in inter-kingdom education and heritage preservation, had blinked down at the paper and quietly said, “I didn’t expect this.”
 Seokmin, who was stretching beside him with his hair still damp from his morning swim, grinned and said, “Of course he picked you. You’ve been charming nobles since you were twelve.”
 Jisoo rolled his eyes, but the fondness never left his lips.

Wonwoo had said nothing when he was named Historical Strategist and Keeper of the Kingdom’s Treaty Archives.
 He merely nodded and went back to sorting a stack of scrolls, but inside, his chest felt tight.
Overwhelmed.

Grateful.

 Across the room, Mingyu was grinning with his appointment as Head of Defense Coordination. “I mean—of course they picked me,” he said, puffing up.
 Wonwoo didn’t say it aloud, but he had thought the same thing.

They all assumed it was Seungcheol’s hand in the matter. That the king simply wanted his closest, most trusted friends near him.

But Jeonghan, with his quiet glances, his long walks alone in the corridors, his thoughtful nods after every observed interaction—he had made the call.

Seungcheol had asked, once, “Why not let them choose?”
 And Jeonghan had replied, “Because they’ll never ask for the spotlight, but they’ll carry the weight of it better than anyone else.”

Far from the palace, in the heart of the South, where the lake was as still as glass and the water shimmered like jewels, Jisoo and Seokmin met in secret.

Their cloaks were discarded.

Their shoes forgotten.

Their laughter echoed across the water.

It is Jisoo’s favorite place.
Hidden and untouched.

They swam until their limbs ached, floated until the sun dipped low, and finally, when they sat shoulder to shoulder at the edge, Jisoo spoke first.

“I used to be scared of this. Of you.”

Seokmin, damp hair sticking to his forehead, turned his head with furrowed brows. “Me?”

“No,” Jisoo smiled, “Of how you made me feel. Like I didn’t have to carry everything alone.”

Seokmin exhaled slowly. “I’ve been coming to the West just to see you for five straight years.”

Silence.

Then laughter—soft and disbelieving.

And when they leaned into each other, lips brushing, it wasn’t just affection—it was years of patience, of quiet knowing, of their bodies finding home in one another again and again.

They didn’t need a name.
 But for the first time, they gave it one.

Ours.

Back in the East, Mingyu and Wonwoo sat quietly, watching the stars.

Mingyu leaned back, his fingers laced behind his head, and casually said, “You know… I asked for the North’s heirloom ring when I was sixteen.”

Wonwoo’s head tilted slightly. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said with a shrug. “Didn’t say who it was for. Just told my parents I’d know when the time was right.”

Wonwoo looked over at him, something tender in his eyes. “Is it time?”

Mingyu smiled—small, honest. “Almost.”

And just like that, the stars didn’t seem so far anymore.

The following day, Jisoo summoned Jeonghan and Wonwoo into one of the private reading rooms of the East’s royal palace.

“I need help,” Jisoo began, then paused. “I think… Seokmin and I… we confessed.”

Wonwoo blinked. Jeonghan's eyes lit up like a match had been struck.

“You think?” Jeonghan asked, already standing to pace in excitement.

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” Jisoo confessed. “I just.. he said it. I said it. And now I don’t know what we are or what to do.”

“And Jiyoung?” Wonwoo asked gently.

“He’s still five years younger. Still learning. I don’t want to burden him before he’s ready.”

There was a knock—Mingyu and Seungcheol entering, both holding two bottles of the finest plum wine from the East.

“We came to help. Or drink. Both, preferably,” Mingyu said with a grin.

Seokmin joined shortly after and dropped the bomb with a laugh, “I think we’ve technically been seeing each other for, what, four or five years?”

Jeonghan nearly choked on his tea. Seungcheol burst out laughing.

In that moment—the room shifted.

They are no longer just princes and nobles.
They are friends.
Brothers.

Revolutionaries in tailored robes.

And that night, once the laughter settled and the others retreated, Seungcheol and Jeonghan stayed behind.

Maps were unrolled. Markers were placed.

Jeonghan traced paths of trade routes and border transitions. Seungcheol spoke of troop allocations and security checks. Their crowns forgotten, they strategized like the kingdom itself was a chessboard, and every move was made with love at the center.

The maids whispered that they looked like one person split in two.

Not lovers.

Partners.

And the royal council?
 They had seen it too.

A week earlier, during an inter-kingdom council, Seungcheol and Jeonghan had gone head to head—voices raised, ideas clashing over new alliances.

The nobles stared, unsure if they should interfere.

But they watched, riveted, as Seungcheol slammed his hand on the table—just as Jeonghan did the same.

Then the room went still.

And the tension broke only when they nodded at each other, both refusing to back down—but clearly better for having been challenged.

Moments later, the council adjourned.
And outside the chamber doors, Seungcheol wrapped an arm around Jeonghan’s waist.

Jeonghan, without missing a beat, kissed his dimple and whispered, “You looked kind of hot arguing with me.”

They walked away smiling.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything had.

Because it had.

Chapter Text

The evening sky over the North was painted in soft amber and plum. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting golden glows on the long, private dining terrace overlooking the quiet snowy hills.

Inside, the air was rich with warmth, spices, and laughter that had not yet begun but was already waiting to unfold.

The King and Queen of the North had summoned their sons—Jeonghan and Mingyu—for a private “send-off dinner.”

Not formal.

Not political.

Just family.

The table was set with everything Jeonghan loved—sweet rice dumplings, his favorite steamed mushrooms in garlic broth, roasted chestnut soup. And there, at the very end of the meal, tucked neatly under a lace-covered dome, were the lemon tarts. Golden, glistening, with that thin line of sugared zest only their royal chefs knew how to make just right.

“It smells like your birthday when you were eight,” Mingyu joked, dramatically sniffing the tart crusts.

“It does,” Jeonghan laughed, eyes already glinting with nostalgia. “Except you ruined that birthday by throwing the entire cake at me.”

“You stole my sword!” Mingyu gasped.

“It was a toy, Mingyu!”

“It was my favorite toy!”

Their parents—long used to the rhythm of their bickering—only laughed. It was the kind of argument that looped and folded in on itself like a well-loved song.

They moved on to stories.

Of how Mingyu once tried to ride a deer because he wanted to prove to Jeonghan he was braver. Of how they sneaked out together, hiding in the barn when they didn’t want to attend classes on Northern diplomacy.

“How many times did you cover for him?” the Queen asked with a teasing smile.

“Too many,” Jeonghan grinned. “He owes me a kingdom.”

Dinner flowed easily, laughter filling the warm stone room. But when the lemon tarts were placed gently in front of them—still warm, the smell like home distilled into dessert—Jeonghan froze.

He picked up his fork, but his hands trembled.

And then, before he could stop it, a single tear fell on the crust.

“I’m going to miss this,” he whispered, voice breaking. “This dessert. This table. This… everything.”

Mingyu had his mouth open to joke—but the lump in his throat caught him off guard. A shaky, foolish laugh burst out as he reached over and hugged Jeonghan with the kind of force only brothers know.

“I hate you,” Mingyu sniffled.

“No, you don’t,” Jeonghan mumbled into his shoulder.

“No, I don’t,” Mingyu cried harder, laughing at himself as his voice cracked. “Why do you have to get married and grow up and leave me like this?!”

“You’re not twelve anymore, Gyu.”

“I FEEL twelve right now!”

The Queen wiped her eyes with a napkin, smiling softly. The King poured the boys each a small glass of warm wine, voice tender as he said, “Let yourselves feel it. It’s not weakness—it’s proof you’ve loved this home well.”

After dinner, they retreated to the family room—less regal, more worn and loved, like a page in a favorite book.

Mingyu stretched out, his head resting on their mother’s lap. The Queen slowly brushed through his hair with her fingers, just like she did when he was a little boy and couldn’t fall asleep without humming lullabies.

He closed his eyes. “Can we stop time here?”

“No,” she whispered, “but we can remember this moment forever.”

Across the room, Jeonghan sat behind their father, arms wrapped around the king’s back, his cheek resting on his silver-streaked hair.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Jeonghan admitted softly.

“You are,” the King said. “But you don’t have to be perfect. Just be good. Be kind. Be who you’ve always been.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.
It was whole.

Sacred.

The Queen looked at both of her sons, tears in her eyes but pride beaming. “You’ve both grown into such beautiful men. Not just outside—but here.” She tapped her heart. “And that’s all your father and I ever prayed for.”

Later that night, Jeonghan stepped into Mingyu’s chamber, arms crossed as he leaned against the door.

“You should do something about it,” he said casually.

Mingyu, still in his night robe, blinked at him. “About what?”

“About Wonwoo.”

Mingyu’s breath caught.

Jeonghan shrugged. “I’m leaving soon. And it’ll be a shame if you wait another five years just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Mingyu muttered.

“You are. But that’s okay.” Jeonghan stepped closer and flicked his brother’s forehead gently. “Just know me and Seungcheol have your back. No matter what.”

Mingyu looked down, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t far from it. “You’re really annoying, you know?”

Jeonghan grinned. “And you really, really love him.”

That shut Mingyu up.

Jeonghan just winked and walked out, leaving the door open behind him.

******

Two days before the wedding, the skies over the North held a stillness that only Jeonghan could feel in his chest. It was a kind of hush—like the world itself pausing to acknowledge a prince who had loved this land with all he had.

Jeonghan stood outside the palace gates in his navy cloak lined with silver. King Seungcheol, standing beside him in his ceremonial overcoat, quietly linked their hands when no one was watching.

The people of the North had gathered.

Not as citizens bidding farewell to royalty, but as family saying goodbye to their own. Children held up drawings of flowers and bunnies. Old shopkeepers bowed with trembling smiles. The florist from the village Jeonghan visited often gave him a single stalk of marigold, wilted at the edges but still bright.

When Jeonghan hugged his personal maid, he didn’t say much—only held her for five full minutes, his hand gently patting her back. Her eyes were swollen with tears.

“You always made sure I was warm,” he whispered. “Even when I said I wasn’t cold.”

“And you always made sure I was seen,” she replied.

Behind them, the East royal guards were loading carriage after carriage with Jeonghan’s belongings.

His books, alphabetized and bound in leather, were carefully cushioned with his own blankets. His botanical journals—thick with notes and flower sketches—were placed in a chest with dried petals still tucked in their pages.

Maids were bent over crates, gently wrapping each of his potted plants. The greenhouse that Jeonghan spent years nurturing was slowly being emptied, one fern and bonsai at a time.

When the King and Queen of the North and Prince Mingyu came to check the process, they stood at the greenhouse doors for a long while.

“What will we do with all this space?” the Queen asked with a wistful smile.

Jeonghan turned toward them, sun on his face, and gave a knowing smile—his eyes locking with Mingyu’s.
 “In a few months,” he said gently, “it will begin to bloom again.”

Mingyu’s throat tightened.
He nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand yet.

Among the cargo were trunks of Jeonghan’s robes, silks and velvets in North colors—royal blue, moonlit silver, twilight lavender. His jewelry and sacred items were placed in layered cases, each labeled with Jeonghan’s meticulous notes.

And then there was the wooden box, plain and unmarked, but more precious than gold. It held all of Seungcheol’s letters, from their childhood ink-stained notes to the longing-filled letters from the time they have spent apart.

Lastly, Jeonghan gave one final instruction:
 “Make sure the lemon tarts travel separately. We cannot have them crushed.”

He even stopped by his favorite bakery in town, wearing a discreet hood, and asked the owner’s daughter to write down their family’s secret recipe. In return, he gave her a flower pin from his cloak. “To remember,” he said with a wink.

As the East palace gates opened for their return, a new kind of hush fell.

This is not the arrival of a guest. It is the homecoming of a future consort.

Jeonghan stepped out of the carriage, blinking at the brightness of the marble stairs, the grandeur of the East’s courtyard.

Waiting for him was the head of the royal maid staff, bowing low before greeting him with a kind smile.

“Your Highness, welcome. Allow me to introduce your two personal maids, handpicked and trained in both East and North etiquette.”

Two women stepped forward—graceful, calm, with gentle eyes. Jeonghan smiled and bowed in return. “We’ll get along just fine. I promise not to make your jobs too hard… except when I do.”

Behind them, dozens of guards and servants were busy unloading boxes and furniture. The King’s Suite, the largest and highest room in the palace, would now house not just Seungcheol, but Jeonghan too.

Seungcheol’s parents—now former king and queen—had already moved to the royal estate beside Wonwoo’s parents. The transition of power was final. But Jeonghan still gave them a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Your palace still smells like jasmine.”

However, when it came to his things, Jeonghan had issued very specific orders.

“Do not unpack anything yet,” he told the maids. “Place all crates in the new greenhouse or the royal chamber. I will arrange them myself.”

The greenhouse—an entire glass structure nestled beside the East gardens—had been built just for him.

A personal wedding gift from Seungcheol that earned him a passionate kiss and a tight hug filled with gratitude. He stepped into it that evening, lit only by lanterns and stars above, and inhaled deeply.

“It’ll take time,” he whispered to the soil. “But we’ll grow again here, too.”

When night fell and the palace calmed, Seungcheol and Jeonghan finally entered their shared chambers. The room was enormous, grander than any place Jeonghan had ever stayed.

But he wasn’t intimidated.

Because across the wide bed were two robes folded together. And beside the window, a small table with lemon tarts, placed by Seungcheol himself.

They dropped into bed together, still clothed, still tired. Their hands found each other under the velvet covers.

Jeonghan exhaled.

“This is where I belong now.”

Seungcheol looked at him, eyes soft.
 “And I’ll make sure it always feels like home.”

Chapter Text

A Union Between the East and North, A New Era for the Four Kingdoms

Morning of the Wedding – The Rising Sun Over a New Era

The East Palace had never been this alive.

From the break of dawn, thousands of people flooded the capital city, their voices blending into an excited hum. Nobles from all four kingdoms , ambassadors from foreign lands , and even commoners filled the streets, eager to catch a glimpse of history.

The grand cathedral courtyard , where the wedding was to be held, was adorned with thousands of gold and blue silk banners , fluttering gently in the crisp morning air. The grand floral arch at the entrance had been woven with roses from the East and snowdrops from the North—a perfect symbol of the two uniting souls.

Inside the East Palace , the two grooms were separated in their respective chambers, following the sacred wedding traditions.

Jeonghan stood in front of the gold-framed mirror, staring at his reflection.

He was dressed in a magnificent hanbok of ivory and gold , the fabric shimmering under the morning light. Delicate golden embroidery of vines and roses traced the edges, symbolizing his new home. At his waist was a sash woven with silver snowflakes, an ode to his roots in the North.

His long silken hair was tied up with golden and silver pins, tiny flowers delicately tucked between them. His rose necklace rested just above his heart, and on his wrist, the gold bracelet Seungcheol had given him shone brilliantly.

"Hyung," a voice broke through the silence.

Jeonghan turned to see Mingyu , standing at the doorway in his own ceremonial attire—a deep midnight blue robe with silver embroidery, proudly representing the North.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. And then, without warning, Mingyu stepped forward and pulled Jeonghan into a tight hug.

“You’re really leaving,” Mingyu murmured, voice thick with emotion.

Jeonghan chuckled, hugging him back just as tightly. “I’ll visit all the time, you idiot.”

Mingyu let out a shaky laugh, before stepping back and taking a deep breath. “You’re going to make the most beautiful consort in history.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Of course. Did you expect anything less?”

Just then, the doors opened again, revealing Jisoo, Seokmin, and Wonwoo. Jisoo had tears in his eyes as he clasped Jeonghan’s hands. "We’re all so happy for you."

Wonwoo, ever the quiet one, just nodded, a small smile on his lips. Seokmin wiped his tears dramatically, “Hyung, you better not cry when you see him.”

Jeonghan raised a brow. “I make no promises.”

In another part of the palace, Seungcheol stood still as the royal tailors made their final adjustments.

He was adorned in black and gold , the ceremonial robes of an East King, embroidered with dragons and phoenixes , a mark of his new reign. The golden sash tied around his waist had intricate patterns of roses and snowflakes, mirroring Jeonghan’s.

Unlike Jeonghan, Seungcheol’s hair was neatly tied back with a golden clasp , and on his wrist sat their matching gold bracelet.

As he adjusted the snowflake necklace on his chest, a knock sounded at the door.

His father, the former King, stepped in, followed by his mother.

Seungcheol bowed deeply, showing his respect.

“We wanted to see you before you walked down the aisle,” the Queen said, her eyes misty. She gently adjusted the collar of his robe, just as she did when he was a boy. “I am so proud of you.”

His father stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “This is the most important day of your life. Not just as a king, but as a man. Today, you stand not just as a ruler, but as a husband.”

Seungcheol swallowed hard, nodding. “I’m ready.”

The former King’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Of course you are.”

A loud chime of the palace bells rang through the air.

It is time.

The grand cathedral courtyard was breathtaking. Rows of golden silk-draped seats stretched endlessly, filled with nobles, royals, and foreign dignitaries . At the very front sat the royal families of the North, West, and South.

The moment Jeonghan appeared, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Even Seungcheol, standing tall at the altar, forgot how to breathe.

Jeonghan looked ethereal , the sunlight casting a heavenly glow on his golden robes. His expression was soft but unwavering, his lips curling into a small smile when his eyes met Seungcheol’s.

Mingyu, walking beside him, leaned in and whispered, “Hyung, you should see his face. I think he forgot what words are.”

Jeonghan chuckled. “Good. That was the goal.”

When he reached the altar, Mingyu gently squeezed his hand before stepping back. Jeonghan lifted his gaze to Seungcheol.

“I told you not to cry,” Jeonghan whispered teasingly.

Seungcheol, whose eyes were slightly misty, smirked. “Shut up.”

The High Priest stood before them, hands raised in blessing.

“In the presence of the gods and the people of these lands, we bear witness to the union of the King of the East and the Prince of the North.”

Their vows were sacred, spoken in both East and North tongues, binding their souls in tradition and eternity.

Then came the exchange of rings.

Seungcheol took Jeonghan’s hand and slipped on two rings —one with blue stones from the North , the other with a red ruby from the East. Similar to Jeonghan's engagement rings. 

“A remembrance of where you came from,” Seungcheol whispered, “and a promise of where you’re going.”

Jeonghan smiled, eyes glistening. He took the golden band and slid it onto Seungcheol’s finger. “And this, for the man I choose to spend my eternity with.”

The priest raised his arms. “Under the heavens and before all, I pronounce you bonded in heart, soul, and kingdom.”

Seungcheol cupped Jeonghan’s face and whispered, “My King Consort.”

Jeonghan smirked, “My King.”

And then, Seungcheol kissed him —deep, reverent, claiming what had always been his.

The crowd erupted into cheers, applause, and celebration, but for Seungcheol and Jeonghan, there was only the taste of forever.

That night, as the East Kingdom celebrated with feasts, dances, and fireworks, Seungcheol and Jeonghan stood at the highest balcony of the palace.

Jeonghan, leaning against Seungcheol’s chest, watched as the fireworks lit up the night sky.

“Our reign begins today,” Seungcheol murmured against his hair.

Jeonghan smiled. “Then let’s make it legendary.”

And beneath the stars, the first royal kiss of the new era sealed the beginning of a love story that would be written in history books for generations to come.

The moon had climbed high into the sky, casting its silver light through the wide windows of the King’s Suite. The celebration outside had softened, like a wave retreating after a glorious crash. Inside, the world felt smaller—just the two of them, newly crowned in devotion, newly wed in both name and soul.

Seungcheol’s hand lingered at the hem of Jeonghan’s wedding robe.

“You still look like something I could only dream of,” he whispered.

Jeonghan's eyes shimmered. “Then touch me like I’m real.”

The silence between them wasn’t tense—it was charged. Their hands met first, fingers threading with ease, like a memory returning home. Seungcheol leaned in, gently cupping Jeonghan’s face as he kissed him—slow and exploratory, a kiss that wasn’t rushed because they had all night. A kiss that said: I’m yours. I’ve always been.

Layer by layer, the regal robes came undone.

Jeonghan’s fingers trembled slightly as he undid Seungcheol’s sash, the silk slipping through his fingers. Seungcheol’s hands were firmer, sure, tracing down Jeonghan’s sides as if memorizing the lines of someone sacred.

“I want to see you,” Jeonghan murmured, tugging gently at Seungcheol’s robe, revealing golden skin bathed in moonlight. He traced a path down Seungcheol’s chest with the back of his fingers, admiring the soft strength beneath them.

“I’m already yours to keep,” Seungcheol said, voice low and reverent.

Jeonghan stepped backward, letting the last layer of his own robe fall to the ground.

Seungcheol’s breath caught. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”

“Then come here,” Jeonghan whispered, reaching out. “Make me yours again.”

The bed welcomed them with open arms, soft sheets cool beneath their skin. Seungcheol’s mouth was warm on Jeonghan’s collarbone, lips gentle, reverent, as though he were kissing a prayer. Jeonghan arched under his touch, not from impatience, but from the rising tide of something old and holy, something that had been building between them for years.

“I want to remember every sound you make tonight,” Seungcheol whispered against his neck, voice thick with need.

Jeonghan gasped softly when Seungcheol kissed lower, when his hands gripped his hips with practiced patience. “Then listen closely,” he whispered back, threading his fingers through Seungcheol’s hair.

Their bodies moved slowly at first—grinding against one another in a rhythm that spoke more of worship than desire. Each kiss deeper than the last. Each sigh and moan more vulnerable. Seungcheol’s hand slid down Jeonghan’s thigh, pulling him closer, until nothing could exist between them.

They took their time. They had waited long enough.

It wasn’t just their bodies that bared themselves that night—it was their histories, their fears, their hopes. Seungcheol’s lips on Jeonghan’s pulse. Jeonghan’s fingers gripping Seungcheol’s back like a lifeline. Their names fell from each other’s mouths like mantras, whispered between gasps, between thrusts, between moments where they both forgot how to breathe but remembered how to feel.

“You feel like home,” Jeonghan whispered, voice cracking as Seungcheol moved inside him with reverence.

“You are my home,” Seungcheol answered, forehead pressed against his.

They found release together, not loudly, not in dramatic fashion, but like two tides meeting—inevitable and consuming. And in the silence that followed, their hands remained clasped, sweat cooling on their skin, hearts thundering beneath the quiet.

Jeonghan traced lazy circles along Seungcheol’s chest, his cheek pressed to his husband’s shoulder.

Seungcheol turned to press a kiss to his hair. “I don’t want this night to end.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Jeonghan murmured. “We’ve only just begun.”

They lay there for a while, tangled together in the golden sheets that had been embroidered for royalty—but tonight, they were simply two people who had finally, wholly, become one.

And in the faint flicker of candlelight, Jeonghan whispered, “I love you.”

Seungcheol smiled, kissing his crown. “I love you, more than you'll ever know”

The sun peeked gently through the sheer gold curtains, casting soft light onto the silken sheets tangled around two bodies. King Seungcheol stirred first, warmth blooming in his chest before his eyes had even fully opened.

And when they did, the first thing he saw was Jeonghan—sleeping soundly on top of him, bare skin pressed against his, chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of deep rest.

Jeonghan’s cheek was nestled against Seungcheol’s shoulder, one hand lightly curled over his heart. His long lashes kissed his cheekbones, his lips slightly parted, still rosy from the night before.

Seungcheol didn’t dare move. He just lay there, letting the stillness of the moment anchor him.

His fingers slowly traced the soft curve of Jeonghan’s spine, committing every dip and ridge to memory. “My husband,” he whispered under his breath, lips ghosting against Jeonghan’s hairline.

Jeonghan shifted slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible in his sleep. His body pressed closer, like even in dreams he was drawn to Seungcheol’s warmth. And Seungcheol could only smile, breath catching at the intimacy of it all.

Their first morning as a married couple.

A new chapter.

A new forever.

Later, when Jeonghan finally stirred and blinked sleepily up at him, Seungcheol whispered, “Good morning, love.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Hmm… married less than a day and you’re already being too sweet.”

Seungcheol rolled them over, pinning Jeonghan beneath him and grinning. “Get used to it.”

The royal council, in unanimous agreement—and perhaps fearing the consequences of separating the newlyweds too soon—conceded a week of rest to the King. A rare royal privilege. And so, with the kingdom safe and the matters of state momentarily paused, Seungcheol and Jeonghan stepped into their new rhythm together.

That morning, dressed in simpler robes, they made their way hand in hand to the East’s town square.

Jeonghan wanted to know the people. Not just from a distance—but face to face.

The people cheered as they saw them walking together.

Jeonghan’s soft bow, Seungcheol’s proud smile.

The crowd adored them. They aren't just rulers—they are beloved.

Inside the palace walls, Seungcheol introduced Jeonghan to every member of the royal staff: the head cook, the laundry workers, the gardeners, the older guards who had served since Seungcheol was a boy.

Each person Jeonghan greeted by name after hearing it once. Each one received with kindness. His grace wasn’t performative—it was real, and they all felt it.

Later, Jeonghan made his way to the nursery again, where the children ran to him as soon as he stepped inside.

“You promised!” one of the little girls shouted with a grin.

Jeonghan laughed, lifting her into his arms. “And I keep my promises. You’ll see me every day from now on.”

Their cheers filled the room like sunlight.

Back in the East wing, Jeonghan stood barefoot inside his new library, surrounded by dozens of open crates. His books—carefully arranged by genre, author, even mood . His personal maids stood nearby, but he’d insisted on organizing them himself. Each book carried memories. Some carried notes from Seungcheol written in the margins.

He smiled as he tucked away the old wooden box—the one with all of Seungcheol’s letters, hidden behind the poetry shelf, like a secret only he would ever seek.

In the dressing room, Jeonghan directed the placement of his robes, arranged his necklaces by color, and—of course—placed his lemon tart stash securely in a silver box on the topmost shelf of the pantry.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol was outside in the field, guiding a group of teenage boys in their early combat pre-training. Sword grips, stances, discipline. But in between lessons, his eyes flicked up toward the palace balcony, where he could see Jeonghan watching him with a soft smile and a cup of tea in hand.

When the sun dipped below the mountains and the sky turned violet, they met again in their chambers. The king and his prince. The husbands who now shared not just hearts—but a home.

The room was dimly lit, the scent of marigolds faint in the air—Jeonghan had placed dried flowers above the headboard. Their robes fell slowly, piece by piece, until bare skin met silk sheets once again.

Seungcheol pressed a kiss to Jeonghan’s collarbone, slow and reverent. “You feel like a dream,” he murmured.

Jeonghan looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Then don’t wake up.”

The touch was familiar now, but never less electric. Seungcheol’s hands explored slowly, his fingers tracing every part of Jeonghan like a map he had memorized and wanted to study all over again.

Their breaths grew heavier. Jeonghan’s legs tangled with Seungcheol’s, his hands pulling him closer until there was no space left. Their mouths met with practiced ease and desperate hunger.

“I love you,” Seungcheol whispered as their foreheads touched, as their bodies moved together in rhythm with the flickering candlelight.

Jeonghan smiled against his lips. “Then show me. Again.”

And he did.

Again.

And again.

Until the walls no longer echoed with power, but with devotion.

They fell asleep wrapped in each other, limbs and promises tangled, the new chapter of their life just beginning.

******

The golden hues of the early morning sun spilled across the East Kingdom’s palace, signaling the beginning of a new day—one not filled with wedding bells and sweet stolen moments, but of responsibility, politics, and the rebuilding of legacy.

Jeonghan stood in the middle of his newly completed greenhouse, surrounded by rows of budding herbs, flowering plants from the North, and freshly re-rooted blooms he’d started from scratch. The air smelled of soil and citrus, with delicate vines stretching toward the sunlight. His fingers brushed a blooming marigold, and he smiled. It had only been days since they were planted, yet they already thrived.

It mirrored his own rhythm now. The luxury of a wedding had passed, and as much as he adored Seungcheol with every part of his soul, it is time to move—not as husbands, but as partners in the truest sense.

Later that day, Seungcheol and Jeonghan walked side by side into the royal council chamber, no longer wrapped in ceremonial silks or the whispers of romance. This time, they wore tailored garments meant for diplomacy, not display. Their gazes were sharp, minds focused. Fingers brushing briefly beneath the table before the council began—just enough to anchor, not enough to distract.

The formal announcement was made: both had appointed each other as personal royal advisers—a decision that stirred murmurs in the hall.

“They are husband and husband,” one elder nobleman muttered under his breath, not realizing Jeonghan had already picked it up.

“And we are also the most informed and strategic minds in the palace,” Jeonghan replied, calm and polite, but his tone edged with finality.

Some disagreed. Power should be balanced, some argued. But over the weeks, what the court couldn’t deny was the way the room shifted when Jeonghan spoke. He didn’t need a title to command the room—he had clarity, insight, and the ability to unravel the intricacies of political knots that had once paralyzed the kingdom.

And Seungcheol—he sat taller than ever. No longer carrying the weight of the crown alone.

Together, they are a force.

Jeonghan structured his time with precision. His mornings were spent reviewing proposals, listening to petitions from citizens, and debriefing reports from far-off towns. He personally reviewed education plans, outreach schedules, and relief strategies.

Afternoons were dedicated to city center visits , where he mingled with artisans and shopkeepers, his hands often holding a clipboard or gently gripping a child’s hand. The people of the East adored their King Consort. Not because he smiled prettily—but because he listened .

He never missed his weekly nursery visits, keeping his promise to the children who now squealed in delight every time he appeared. He read to them, sometimes brought sweets, and even helped repaint the walls of one of the study rooms.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol handled security, diplomacy, and military strategy. But at least once a day, they found themselves sitting across from one another in the council room, trading ideas, debating policy, presenting joint reforms. Sometimes they agreed. Sometimes they argued.

But they always listened.

Their royal staff quickly learned: the king and his consort may kiss in the hallways and hold hands at night, but inside the council chamber, they are two of the sharpest minds the East had ever seen.

What surprised the nobles and scholars alike wasn’t just Jeonghan’s grasp of foreign policies or internal reforms—it was how natural he looked behind the official lectern, addressing cities and representatives.

How easily he could explain population needs and market trends, then turn to Seungcheol and suggest a cross-kingdom alliance for agricultural trade.

What amazed Seungcheol, however, was something quieter.

He would sometimes walk past the open library doors and see Jeonghan surrounded by maps and historical texts, ink smudging his fingers, muttering about something that happened two reigns ago and how it could help prevent a drought crisis.

He would sometimes wake in the early morning to find Jeonghan out on the balcony, scribbling proposals under the pale light of dawn.

And every time their gazes met, even amid piles of reports or stacks of scrolls, Seungcheol felt it in his chest: This is exactly where we belong.

They fell into rhythm—different chambers, different meetings, but one shared goal.

Their responsibilities were heavy, but not once did Jeonghan falter.

He came to love the weight of responsibility. The challenge of it. The potential of it.

And Seungcheol—he looked at his consort every day with quiet pride. For all of Jeonghan’s beauty and brilliance, it was his grit that impressed him the most.

They are no longer just shaping their marriage.

They are shaping an era.

Chapter Text

One and a half months had passed since the grand wedding bells echoed across the four kingdoms, since the crown kissed Seungcheol’s head again—not just as king, but now as a husband. And beside him, not merely adorned in royal silks or tied to him by ceremony, but standing equally with him in strength and brilliance, was Jeonghan—King Consort, advisor, strategist, and the quiet storm behind the kingdom’s swift rise.

The honeymoon glow had not faded, but it had transformed. Now, it pulsed beneath crisp scrolls and council documents, flourished in gentle touches behind heavy oak doors, and grew stronger each time they stood side by side before the people.

Their schedules were carved with intention. Mornings were meetings, mid-days for visits across the East, evenings for discussions with the council. But as the palace clock struck the final hour of duty, there was one place left to go.

A room.

Not marked in gold. Not lined with maps. No royal guards posted, no ministers allowed.

Only they entered.

This room—deep in the west wing of the palace, with a door that closed softly behind them—held no royal significance. No tapestries or ancient artifacts. Just a long table, a stack of parchment, and two chairs, always side by side.

This is their sacred room.

Where they aren't king and consort, but co-conspirators of the heart.

And tonight, it wasn’t about the kingdom.

It was about their friends.

They settled into the cushions, their fingers brushing briefly before Jeonghan pulled out a pile of hand-drawn notes. A sketch of interconnected names, titles, behaviors. In any other hand, it would’ve looked like a chaotic mess—but in Jeonghan’s, it was brilliance.

“I’ve updated the alignment board,” Jeonghan murmured.

Seungcheol leaned in, eyes scanning the parchment. “Let me guess. Jisoo still pretends he doesn’t know Seokmin likes his tea with two honeys, not one?”

Jeonghan scoffed. “He made it for him last week without asking.”

They both laughed.

But this wasn’t just about teasing. No, his was strategy.

They had seen the glances.

The soft, lingering stares across meeting rooms. The way Seokmin’s hand would ghost behind Jisoo’s back when he didn’t need to, or the way Jisoo always found himself beside Seokmin at every gathering. And Mingyu—loud and chaotic—but always a little quieter when Wonwoo was in the room. A little more grounded. Wonwoo, ever the observer, softening more and more in Mingyu’s presence.

These weren’t fleeting sparks. They were slow-burning stars. And Seungcheol and Jeonghan weren’t just witnesses, they were now determined architects.

“We’re past proving ourselves,” Jeonghan said, fingers moving as he jotted notes. “We’ve shown them that we’re not just in love—we’re capable. We’ve established rhythm. Authority. Balance.”

Seungcheol nodded. “Now, we create that balance for them.”

They’d spent the last six weeks learning how to be both strong and soft. To carry weight while still choosing gentleness. They had faced doubt, expectation, pressure—and through it all, they had held each other steady.

The kingdom now saw them as a force of nature—but what people didn’t know was that their greatest strength came from knowing when to pause. When to lean into love instead of pride. When to trust each other’s instincts.

And that instinct now said: it’s time to push Seokmin and Jisoo. It’s time to nudge Mingyu and Wonwoo.

Jeonghan rolled out a scroll that detailed upcoming royal visits, ceremonies, dinners. He began circling events.

“These three events,” he pointed, “they’ll be seated beside each other. No room for hiding. I’ll handle the pairing logistics, you charm the council into making it look natural.”

Seungcheol smirked. “Already done. They’re assigned.”

They looked at each other, a flicker of mischief dancing between them.

Love.

Strategy.

Kingdom.

Repeat.

It was their rhythm now.

In the last few weeks, they had faced their own challenges—times when Jeonghan had felt overwhelmed by expectations, when Seungcheol’s decisions were questioned, when the weight of their new roles felt heavier than their crowns.

But each time, they returned to this room. To their center.

They learned that love didn’t always have to be loud to be powerful.

They learned that being firm didn’t mean losing softness.

They were still learning—but their foundation was unshakable.

Now, it was time to build foundations for others.

Jeonghan sat back, looking at the parchment of scribbles and plans with a soft sigh. “You know what I realized?”

“What?”

“We’re starting another kind of revolution.”

Seungcheol leaned back beside him. “The kind that no one will expect, but everyone will feel.”

He reached for Jeonghan’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Let’s give them what we have.”

And from their sacred room—the quiet heart of the palace—a new wave of strategy was born. Not of conquest or policy, but of whispers, proximity, and soft beginnings.

Because in this new era, love was not just permitted.

It was the kingdom’s most powerful weapon.

******

Time moved quickly in the palace.

Days blurred into nights, and weeks slipped past in a quiet storm of responsibility, laughter, late-night strategy sessions, and early morning kisses before meetings. Jeonghan and Seungcheol had become a rhythm no one could interrupt. Every plan, every step, was falling into place.

And now, nearly three months into their marriage, they had started to see the ripple effects of their plans.

Prince Seokmin and Prince Jisoo were more obvious now—openly exchanging glances, sneaking touches during state events, and always, always drifting toward each other in rooms packed with royalty and nobility.

Prince Mingyu and Prince Wonwoo were more subtle—but still changing. Mingyu’s loudness softened around Wonwoo. Wonwoo’s quiet steadiness warmed, growing more expressive. They had begun staying late after dinners, walking home together through the garden paths instead of taking separate exits. Their connection didn’t need a declaration. It was simply there.

Everything was moving as intended.

But fate, as it often does, has a way of folding in its own chaos.

One Wednesday Morning

It was still early. The morning air was soft and cool, sunlight crawling slowly over the high peaks of the Western kingdom. Jeonghan was in the middle of organizing another outreach visit when a sealed scroll came through, bearing the West’s crest and Jisoo’s personal signature.

Confidential. For Prince Jeonghan and Prince Wonwoo only. Immediate travel requested.

Seungcheol furrowed his brow as Jeonghan kissed his cheek. “Just Jisoo. I’ll be back before sundown.”

But Jeonghan could already feel it in his chest.

Something wasn’t right.

The moment they arrived at the West Palace, they were led—quietly and without guards—through a private side entrance into Jisoo’s personal drawing room. A place Jeonghan had only seen twice, and even then, briefly.

Jisoo was already there, sitting by the large window. He turned as they entered, and the second Jeonghan saw his tear-stained face, he knew.

“Jisoo…” Jeonghan said carefully, walking closer, as Wonwoo closed the door behind them.

Jisoo stood slowly, his hands trembling. He looked at both of them, as if searching for the right words. As if rehearsing something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

And then—

“I am four weeks pregnant.”

Chapter Text

Silence.

Jeonghan’s breath caught.

Wonwoo froze beside him, the blood draining from his face.

Jisoo’s voice cracked. “It’s Seokmin.”

There were a thousand thoughts racing in Jeonghan’s head—but none of them could be spoken yet. He crossed the room and gently wrapped his arms around Jisoo, pulling him close.

Jisoo broke down completely in that moment, gripping Jeonghan’s tunic, sobs falling from his lips in waves.

“I didn’t know who else to call. I knew I couldn’t say this in front of Seungcheol yet. I needed time—I needed you.”

Wonwoo moved toward them slowly, his eyes full of quiet concern. “Does Seokmin know?”

Jisoo shook his head. “No one knows. Not yet.”

He took a shaky breath. “I’ve been hiding it, trying to think clearly, but everything is so tangled. I don’t know what this means for me, for Seokmin, for the West.”

This changed everything.

The kingdoms were still in the process of building trust under Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s reign.

The weight of Jisoo’s words hung in the air like a storm cloud.

Jeonghan stepped back slightly, still holding Jisoo by the shoulders. “We’ll fix this,” he said firmly. “You’re not alone, Jisoo. We will take care of this together.”

Wonwoo sat down slowly on the velvet couch nearby, running a hand through Jisoo’s hair, his voice soft but steady. “Does anyone suspect? Any rumors yet?”

Jisoo shook his head. “None. I’ve been careful. But I can’t delay anymore… The bump will start to show in a month or so. And Seokmin… he deserves to know before anyone else does.”

Jeonghan nodded, already thinking ten steps ahead.

His strategist's mind kicked in like a clockwork mechanism.

“This doesn’t have to be chaos,” he said slowly. “We’ve built so much already… we can weave this into the plan. But we need to act now.”

He looked to Wonwoo. “You need to tell Mingyu everything. He has to help prepare Seokmin. We need the South and West in complete cooperation before we speak to the court.”

“And Seungcheol?” Jisoo asked quietly.

Jeonghan’s lips pressed into a line. “I’ll tell him tonight. He’ll know what to do.”

But even he isn’t sure how Seungcheol would take it.

Not because he would be upset—Seungcheol adored Jisoo and Seokmin both—but because the timing threatened the delicate political balance they had been slowly establishing.

And the safety of the child?

That would now be a royal priority.

******

Jeonghan stood in front of their shared desk, his fingers tapping against the corner of a parchment sheet. Seungcheol came in, loosening the collar of his robe, his hair slightly tousled from the sparring match he had with the guards earlier.

“Long day?” he asked, smiling as he walked over and leaned in to kiss Jeonghan’s cheek.

Jeonghan caught his hand. “Love. Sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.”

The weight in his voice made Seungcheol pause. He nodded, pulling the nearest chair close and sitting down, eyes focused.

Jeonghan took a deep breath.

“Jisoo is four weeks pregnant. Seokmin is the father.”

Seungcheol blinked.
Once. Twice.

His expression froze in shock, then softened into something unreadable.

“…What?”

“He just told us. Only Wonwoo and I know.”

Seungcheol exhaled a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Wow.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Processing. Thinking.

And then he chuckled—low and breathy.

“I always knew there was something going on behind those diplomatic smiles.”

Jeonghan laughed, a bit of tension easing in his shoulders. “You’re not mad?”

Seungcheol stood and crossed the space, pulling Jeonghan into a tight embrace. “I’m not mad. I’m concerned, yes. This is big, Hannie. But we’ll protect them. All of them.”

The Strategy Room.

Again.

Later that night, the sacred room was lit once again. No longer for broad kingdom planning—but for something more delicate, more personal.

Jeonghan unrolled a fresh scroll.

“Here’s what we do: We talk to Seokmin—gently, with Mingyu’s help. We let Jisoo decide how public he wants to be. Then we go to the court, after we secure full support from the South.”

Seungcheol was already writing. “We can frame this as a union between kingdoms. A child of two royal bloodlines. It’s a strength.”

“And if anyone dares try to question Jisoo’s integrity—”

“I’ll remind them who the King is,” Seungcheol finished with a smirk.

Jeonghan’s lips curled into a smile. “We’re really about to help raise a royal baby, aren’t we?”

Seungcheol glanced at him. “Not just help. We’re going to protect that child with everything we have.”

Their hands found each other’s, fingers intertwined on top of maps and names and plans.

Meanwhile… 

Jisoo lay awake that night in his chambers, hands resting on his stomach. The moonlight filtered through the open windows, casting silver shadows on the walls.

And in the South, Seokmin sat by his lake—the one Jisoo loved—staring at the reflection of the stars in the water, unaware that his life was about to change forever.

The winds of the Four Kingdoms were shifting again.
Not in war. Not in power.

But in love.

In legacy.

And in the beginning of something wholly unexpected.

A child, will born from quiet love behind palace walls.

And the world would never be the same.

******

All six of them stood in a circle now. The room buzzed with nervous energy. Seungcheol and Mingyu had just broken the news to Seokmin after arriving home, and now Seokmin stood frozen, eyes darting to Jisoo’s, still trying to confirm if it was real.

“You’re—?” Seokmin’s voice cracked.

Jisoo met his gaze and nodded slowly. “I’m pregnant, Seokmin.”

There was a full second of silence before Seokmin crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped Jisoo in the tightest embrace, burying his face in his shoulder.

“I… I didn’t think…” Seokmin whispered, voice trembling, “I didn’t think someone like me would ever get to have this kind of future with you.”

Jisoo pulled back, just enough to look at him. “Me too. But here we are.”

“Alright,” Jeonghan announced suddenly, dragging in a large scroll and a collection of ink pots. “Enough crying. This baby is going to be born into a world that’s ready for them. And that starts with us.”

The rest of them blinked as Jeonghan and Seungcheol went into full Work Mode.

“I present: Operation Nest.”

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol warned, trying to suppress a grin.

“We need to map out the press cycle. Assure the public of the bond between the South and West Kingdoms. Plan logistical support. Maternity health access across all four realms. Nobility responses. Regional stability. Future succession plans—”

Wonwoo raised a hand. “I thought we were just here to support.”

Jeonghan smiled, already unrolling the scroll. “We are. By controlling the narrative and protecting our friend’s future.”

Even Mingyu was impressed. “You’ve had this drafted already?”

Jeonghan only winked. “I like to be ready for every possibility.”

They spent hours building plans and contingencies.

By the end of the evening, the six of them had coordinated a month-long state tour for Jisoo and Seokmin to visit each kingdom—this time, not to defend their love, but to celebrate their growing family.

Three Months Later — Royal Wedding of the South and West

The palace in the South was bursting with flowers, sunlight, and music. This wedding wasn’t only about romance—it was about legacy.

About change.

About choosing each other again and again.

Jisoo, now visibly pregnant, glowed in his ceremonial robes.

Seokmin could barely take his eyes off him.

Their friends stood proudly by their sides: Jeonghan and Seungcheol in coordinating gold and pearl accents, Mingyu and Wonwoo smiling softly from the second tier. It felt like a dream. A very long and hard-earned dream.

Back at the East Palace — After the Wedding

Jeonghan leaned against the hallway wall, hand on his chest, trying to slow his breath. Wonwoo and Mingyu exchanged looks as they passed.

“You okay?” Mingyu asked.

“I’m fine,” Jeonghan said automatically. “I think I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ for a week now,” Wonwoo teased, pausing. “You sure?”

Jeonghan smiled, brushing it off. “I’ll sleep for three days once the wedding is done. Now go enjoy each other’s company.”

But as they walked on, Jeonghan’s vision swayed.
His breath caught.

The world tilted.

Then darkness.

He collapsed gently, like a falling petal.

When he woke, he was in his chambers. Seungcheol was beside him, holding his hand like a lifeline.

“You’re awake,” Seungcheol whispered.

Jeonghan blinked slowly. “What happened?”

“You fainted. Scared the life out of me.”

The royal doctor stood nearby. “Your Grace… I’ve double confirmed. You’re pregnant.”

Jeonghan’s mouth opened.

No sound came.

Just tears.

Seungcheol was already weeping, forehead pressed to Jeonghan’s hand. “We’re going to be parents…”

Jeonghan pulled him into a tight embrace. “A new chapter,” he whispered. “Again.”

Outside, the bells of the East tower chimed—announcing the newest royal news to the kingdom.

Inside, Jeonghan and Seungcheol held each other.

And began to dream.

Chapter Text

The announcement of Jeonghan’s pregnancy came like a sunrise after an already vibrant day. With the wedding of Prince Jisoo and Prince Seokmin still fresh in everyone’s hearts, and the lingering joy of unity and celebration echoing in the halls of all four kingdoms, this news only added to the whirlwind of royal happiness that blanketed the land.

In the North, the people gathered in the city square. The Queen of the North herself stood on the royal balcony, holding a golden handkerchief to her nose as she waved to her citizens. “Our son is going to be a parent,” she said proudly. “And we will soon have royal grandchildren from two of our own.”

The bakery that Jeonghan used to frequent rolled out limited edition lemon tarts stamped with a golden crown and a tiny, sugared baby bootie. They sold out within hours.

In the South, celebrations exploded with color and dancing. Fireworks lit up the evening sky, and the people partied as if Seokmin and Jisoo had married again.

In the East, where Jeonghan and Seungcheol resided, the cheers that erupted from the town square were thunderous. The palace bells rang in a celebratory pattern, and crowds sang through the streets with handmade banners that read: “Long live the Royal House of Peace and Light.”

Even the stoic kingdom of the West, known for its poised and proper nature, saw its gardens flooded with townsfolk laying flowers for good fortune. Elegant lanterns floated on the riverbanks, glowing with silent well-wishes.

It was a moment the kingdoms had never seen before — harmony not built on treaties or trade, but on something far more powerful: love, in every form.

******

Still in the early stages of his pregnancy, Jeonghan stood before the full royal council two days after the announcement, dressed in a pale ivory robe that swayed around his ankles. He held Seungcheol’s hand only until he stepped forward to speak.

“I have called this council to share not only the royal news,” Jeonghan began, voice steady but kind, “but to inform you all of a necessary adjustment.”

The room grew still.

“Starting this week,” he continued, “I will be stepping back as the lead state advisor to the King.”

Shocked murmurs rippled across the chamber.

“It is not because I cannot serve. I can. And I will, again. But a leader must know when to lead, and when to allow others to lead in their stead. In my current condition, my judgment may be compromised. I am emotional. I am protective. I am... not as logical as I once was. And I refuse to put our kingdom at risk.”

Seungcheol sat behind him at the head of the chamber, visibly proud.

He didn’t interrupt once.

Jeonghan bowed his head respectfully. “I will continue to advise, just not lead. I trust this council. And I trust my husband.”

No one argued.

Not even the elder councilors, who had once raised concerns about Jeonghan’s proximity to power.

Not today. Not after everything they had seen from him these past months.

The entire chamber rose to their feet in applause.

******

“I’m telling you,” Jisoo huffed, lying on the silk divan in the royal garden, “he’s perfect. His eyebrows? His calm? His voice? I’d marry him again if I wasn’t already married.”

Jeonghan, perched beside him, cradled a lemon tart in one hand and a knitted plush baby giraffe in the other. “No, I would marry him if I weren’t already married. You see how Wonwoo folds laundry? He folds dignity into every shirt. ”

Jisoo nodded fervently. “Exactly! He doesn’t even try. He just breathes and I feel at peace.”

Wonwoo, sitting on a nearby bench with a book, looked up slowly, blinking. “I can hear you.”

“We want you to hear us!” Jeonghan declared dramatically, waddling over and sitting beside him like it was a throne. “You’re perfect. You’re our peace. You’re our comfort.”

“Wonnie,” Jisoo said sweetly from his recline, “can you rub my back? I’m having a moment.”

“And then brush my hair after?” Jeonghan asked.

Wonwoo simply closed his book and sighed in surrender, already moving to oblige.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the garden...

Seungcheol, Mingyu, and Seokmin sat slumped on a picnic blanket, looking like defeated warriors after battle.

“They’ve forgotten us,” Mingyu muttered, chewing on a rice cracker.

“They want Wonwoo,” Seokmin sighed. “Wonwoo is their baby spa. ”

“Wonwoo gets touched. I barely get a glance,” Seungcheol added, eyes narrowed in mock jealousy.

“But I mean... Wonwoo is kind of perfect,” Mingyu admitted.

“Stop agreeing!” Seokmin whined, and they all burst into quiet laughter.

Eventually, the three of them got up, sulking as they trailed after their radiant, demanding love of their lives, only to be welcomed with warm hands and laughter.

"Come," Jeonghan said, tugging Seungcheol’s shirt. "You can help me with the foot soak."

"Why me?"

"Because I said so."

Seungcheol rolled his eyes but smiled, knowing full well he would follow Jeonghan anywhere.

As the sun dipped low behind the palace gardens, the laughter of six royals echoed in the twilight air.

A kingdom in love.

A family in bloom.

And the world had no idea what kind of brilliance, softness, and chaos their next generation was about to bring.

******

The news came at sunrise.

A royal hawk, bearing the golden crest of the South, landed at the East Palace’s highest tower. The message it carried was short but powerful:

“Our heir has arrived. Heesung of the South is born. - King Seokmin”

It spread like wildfire across all four kingdoms. Bells tolled from the southern coasts to the northern peaks. People gathered in squares, singing songs of new life and new leadership.

In the South Palace, King Seokmin stood in the royal nursery with red-rimmed eyes, hair disheveled, and his hands still trembling with awe. In his arms, wrapped in golden silk, lay the tiniest being he had ever seen.

Heesung.

Half of him. Half of Jisoo. A perfect blend of warmth and elegance.

Jisoo was resting just a few feet away, tucked in white linens, glowing from within even in his exhaustion. He looked at Seokmin, smiling weakly. “You’ve cried more than me.”

“I’ve never seen something this beautiful,” Seokmin whispered, kissing his son’s forehead. “And I’ve seen you every day for years.”

The official announcement was broadcast with trumpets. The first-born of the South-West alliance had arrived.

The heir to a new future.

*****

A month later, just as the final petals of autumn were falling, a parade of Northern flags rode up the East Palace steps.

Prince — now soon-to-be King — Mingyu, stepped down from his white steed in ceremonial armor, hair windswept from the ride, his eyes filled with a determination unmatched.

Wonwoo, waiting in the courtyard, tilted his head. “You could’ve just sent a letter.”

“I wanted to say it myself,” Mingyu said, chest rising. “In front of everyone.”

Jeonghan and Seungcheol watched from the upper balcony as Mingyu took Wonwoo’s hand in the palace garden, dropped to one knee, and pulled out a deep sapphire ring — the most sacred gem in the North, passed down to those who were certain of their choice.

“I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known how to speak,” Mingyu said. “And if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my life speaking your name.”

Wonwoo blinked once.

Twice.

Then whispered, “You’re so dramatic.”

Mingyu grinned, already sliding the ring onto his finger. “So… is that a yes?”

Wonwoo nodded, cheeks turning the color of rose tea.

Another celebration.

Another royal engagement.

The kingdoms could hardly contain their joy — it was as though love itself had made a home within the crowns of all four thrones.

******

Two months passed, and the East had been glowing ever since the day Jeonghan began to slow down — the day everyone knew the twins were coming.

The labor was long.

Tiring.

Jeonghan’s hand was bruised from Seungcheol holding it so tightly. Seungcheol’s lips were sore from whispering encouragements through clenched worry.

And when the first cry filled the room, Jeonghan laughed and sobbed at once.

The royal healer announced with glee, “A boy!”

And minutes later—

“A girl!”

Two soft bundles. One with cheeks like apples and a grip like fire. The other with sleepy eyes and a tiny pout that already resembled seungcheol.

They named them Jungwon and Eunchae.

Their names written into the stars, into scrolls, into the legacy of the East.

Seungcheol could not stop staring. “I’m holding everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

Jeonghan, exhausted and glowing, leaned into him. “They’ll change the world. Just like we promised.”

For the first time in history, all four kingdoms held a unified week of celebration to welcome the new era and celebrate what had happened in the past year — for the birth of Prince Heesung , the engagement of King Mingyu and Prince Wonwoo , and the birth of the royal twins of the East.

City centers were filled with lanterns of blue, white, and gold.

Dancers from the South, musicians from the West, ice sculptors from the North, and artists from the East collaborated in shared celebration.

A grand display of unity — forged not through treaties, but through friendship, family, and love.

And at the heart of it all?

Six rulers.

No longer just princes.

No longer just lovers.

But leaders of a revolution — gentle, fearless, and radiant.

As Jeonghan held one twin while Seungcheol rocked the other, he looked across the courtyard to where Seokmin carried Heesung on his shoulders, Jisoo fussing over his sunhat, and Mingyu playfully chasing after a very calm, very resigned Wonwoo.

Jeonghan smiled. “We really did this, didn’t we?”

Seungcheol pressed a kiss to his cheek. “And it’s only the beginning.”

Chapter Text

The Southern Palace shimmered under the golden light of late morning as final touches were placed on the grandest celebration in the four kingdoms this season — Prince Heesung’s third birthday.

Royal banners danced in the breeze, each corner of the marble courtyard draped in silk the color of wildflowers and sunshine. Garden blooms were arranged into sprawling displays across tables, and the scent of freshly baked pastries floated across the wind, drawing even the most disciplined guards to peek around for a snack.

It isn’t just a birthday — it is a celebration of life, unity, and the beautifully chaotic legacy these rulers were now raising with love.

The six core royals, Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Seokmin, Jisoo, Mingyu, and Wonwoo are all running around in controlled chaos, their robes swirling and crowns slightly askew.

“Has anyone seen the lemon tarts?” Jeonghan asked, scanning the dessert table.

“Already on the buffet,” Wonwoo said calmly as he helped Sunoo fix his little gold sash. “Jungwon and Jongseong are circling them like wolves.”

“You made lemon tarts?” Mingyu blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve eaten before coming.”

“You did eat before coming,” Jeonghan pointed out.

Meanwhile, Seokmin is trying to put a flower crown on Heesung, who kept running away, laughing his full, carefree laugh — a sound that carried through the courtyard like sunlight.

“Appa, I don’t want flowers! I want sword!” Heesung declared, his chubby arms raised.

Jisoo sighed, already reaching for a child-safe ceremonial toy blade. “You’ll have both. You’re royalty. It’s your birthright to be spoiled.”

The gates opened to welcome the guests of honor — the extended royal family from other nations.

King Hansol of the Mountain Realms arrived with his warm smile, his husband Prince Seungkwan holding their giggling son, Prince Jaehyun, who immediately ran over to Heesung.

The two clutched hands like they hadn’t just seen each other last month.

King Junhui and Prince Minghao descended from their crystal carriage with grace, their son Prince Jongseong politely bowing to the guards before toddling off in search of desserts — clearly a child after Jeonghan’s own heart.

King Soonyoung practically skipped through the palace gates, Prince Jihoon shaking his head fondly behind him, while their son Prince Sunghoon tugged on their hands, already pointing at Sunoo with excitement.

“Can I poke his cheeks?” Sunghoon whispered to Mingyu and Wonwoo when he reached them.

Mingyu laughed, gently lifting him up. “You have to ask him, not us.”

Sunoo nodded seriously, already wise beyond his two years. “You can poke once. But be gentle. Cheeks are very precious.”

The courtyard was soon filled with the kind of joy only children could bring — pure, unruly, and utterly beautiful.

Heesung and Jaehyun ran hand in hand across the tiled pathways, their footsteps echoing like laughter itself.

Jongseong and Jungwon sat in front of the dessert buffet with matching lemon tart crumbs on their mouths, deep in a serious toddler-level discussion about who should be king of sweets.

Sunghoon continued his cheek-poking fascination to Sunoo, eventually being distracted by Eunchae handing him a flower she picked.

“Eunchae is basically a flower herself,” Jisoo whispered to Jeonghan, who nodded smugly.

“She got the face from me and the softness from his uncle Wonwoo. We are unbeatable.”

Mingyu groaned in the background, “Don’t start that again. You’re already winning at genetics.”

“But Sunoo is all me,” Wonwoo said quietly, proud and soft.

“We’ve been over this,” Jeonghan said with a sly grin. “Wonwoo and Sunoo are made of magic. Mingyu just gave the last name.”

“Hey!” Mingyu whined. “I gave height too!”

As the sun began to set, the six rulers stood side by side on the palace balcony, looking down at the sea of tiny feet, wild laughter, and dancing guards.

The people of all four kingdoms celebrated in their own cities too — fireworks painted the skies, musicians played in every market, and toasts were made to the future being written before their eyes.

They were watching a new generation grow up under peace.
Children who only knew unity, not war. Love, not politics.

Jisoo held Heesung in his arms, swaying gently to the music while Seokmin kissed his temple.

Jeonghan wrapped his arm around Seungcheol’s waist as their twins ran toward them — Jungwon shouting about a bug he found and Eunchae offering a lemon tart she saved.

Mingyu scooped up Sunoo and spun him around, only to get tackled by Sunghoon mid-spin.

They were tired. Their robes were wrinkled. Their shoes lost in gardens. But their hearts?

Full.

“We’ve done something good,” Seungcheol said softly.

Jeonghan smiled, watching their children laugh below.

“We’ve done something great.”

Chapter Text

The royal gardens of the East were alive with late spring — the air sweet with blooming citrus, lavender swaying beside carefully cultivated marigolds, and the soft hum of bees floating past glass-paneled greenhouse windows.

Inside, Prince Jungwon of the East carefully repotted a blooming marigold, its golden petals brushing his knuckles. He didn’t look up when the footsteps approached. He didn’t need to.

“I brought the lemon tart molds,” Prince Jongseong of the Crystalline Kingdom announced from the doorway, brushing the dust off his travel cloak.

Jungwon smirked. “You bring them every time. We already have five sets.”

“Yours are never the right size,” Jongseong replied, setting down a cloth-wrapped package filled with the ingredients he knew Jungwon insisted on using. “And you always say my crust is better.”

“It is,” Jungwon admitted. “But only because I taught you.”

Their banter echoed softly through the greenhouse as the two began working side by side, gloves on, laughter quiet and frequent. Lemon zest and marigold pollen swirled in the golden sunlight streaming in.

Friendship. That’s what it had always been. That’s what it still was. But there was a weight to the way they looked at each other now — a softness in their silences.

Too early to say, too steady to rush. But something might bloom soon. Everyone saw it. Everyone knew. They were just waiting for the boys to catch up.

Far to the north, snow blanketed the royal palace like a downy quilt. The cold never stopped the two most graceful skaters in the Four Kingdoms from gliding across the ice that stretched beyond the castle walls.

Prince Sunoo, cheeks flushed from the wind, twirled once and landed with a clean sweep, laughing as Prince Sunghoon trailed behind him.

“You cheated,” Sunghoon accused playfully, pulling his scarf tighter. “You pushed off before I counted to three.”

“You count slow,” Sunoo grinned. “And I had to beat you. We’re teaching Jaehyun and Eunchae next week.”

“Eunchae will be better than both of us,” Sunghoon muttered, shaking his head.

Inside the palace, two mugs waited for them, both filled with their perfected hot chocolate — extra rich for Sunghoon, lightly spiced for Sunoo. They had a list of every friend’s preferred recipe, stored in Sunoo’s handwriting.

They weren’t loud. They didn’t have to be. They shared a language that only winter-born souls understood. Quiet loyalty, warm silences, and the kind of companionship that never melted.

The palace of the South is louder. Always had been.

Prince Heesung leaned dramatically on a column, sighing deeply. Across the garden, Prince Jaehyun was mid-argument with one of the palace’s musicians.

Again.

“Should I write another apology letter or do you want to?” Heesung asked no one in particular.

“I wrote the last one,” Jaehyun replied as he approached, his usual spark dulled just a little. “You said I overused the word ‘regret’.”

“You did.”

They looked at each other. No one spoke. Then, Heesung rolled his eyes and muttered as he extend his right hand, “Come on, I’ll help you draft it.”

The cycle is endless — confessions, stolen kisses, tears in the rose garden, dramatic exits, reunion letters. Puppy love turned heartbreak.

But still, no one worried too much.

“Let them grow,” Seokmin once told Jeonghan, while watching the two sulk in opposite corners of the palace during a joint state dinner. “They’ll either kill each other or rule a kingdom together.”

Jaehyun and Heesung didn’t know what they wanted yet. But that is okay. The adults aren’t here to decide anymore, just to support, to love, and to pick up the pieces when necessary.

Back in the East, Seungcheol and Jeonghan stood together on the balcony overlooking the greenhouse. The laughter of their son and Jongseong drifted through the air.

Jeonghan rested his head against Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“Did you ever think it would turn out like this?” he whispered.

Seungcheol smiled. “No. But I hoped.”

Below, Eunchae and Sunoo were braiding flower crowns for their next tea party. Sunghoon joined them with quiet ease. Heesung and Jaehyun bickered as they arranged the entertainment lineup for the upcoming ball.

And in the greenhouse, Jongseong had flour on his cheek while Jungwon leaned a little too close, offering a marigold to tuck behind his ear.

Not every story needed a clear ending. Some just needed room to bloom.

And here, in the golden echo of legacy, love, and laughter bloom, they did.

Chapter Text

Mingyu loved birthdays.

Always had, ever since he was small enough to fit in the crook of the queen’s arm. There was something about the way the palace came alive with laughter and color on birthdays that filled him with joy. He loved the decorations, the way silk streamers fluttered in the wind like tiny flags of celebration. He loved the people—courtiers, nobles, kitchen staff, and knights all mingling, their voices overlapping in a low, happy hum. But most of all, Mingyu loved the desserts.

Cakes of every kind, towers of pastries, and tables that groaned under the weight of sweet treats. And nestled in the very center of it all, golden and gleaming beneath a delicate sugar glaze: lemon tarts. His favorite. And Jeonghan’s too.

As the second crowned prince of the North, Mingyu had attended more grand parties than most children could dream of, some elegant and formal, others wild with laughter and magic. But none of them compared to the ones after he turned only three. That was when he met his forever people—the friends who would never leave, the ones who felt more like family than the palace walls ever had.

Today is the day.

Even before the sun rose, Mingyu was awake—far too excited to stay under the covers. His feet thudded softly against the marble floors as he darted into the royal dressing room, still faintly smelling of lavender and warm linen. The palace staff were already bustling, but Mingyu was ahead of them all—dressed in his tiny ceremonial robes, the gold trim slightly crooked from his attempts to put them on himself. His cheeks were flushed pink with anticipation.

Jeonghan, his elder by a year, sat slumped on a cushioned bench, still in his nightclothes, rubbing his eyes like an old man too tired to deal with the world.

“Can you sit still, Mingyu?” he groaned, shielding his face with his arm. “You’re making me dizzy…”

Mingyu giggled and spun in place, arms stretched like a little whirlwind. “Jeonghaaaan! I told you already! no reading books past bedtime!” he scolded, imitating the queen’s voice with exaggerated sternness.

Jeonghan groaned again and let his head fall into his lap, grumbling something about “unreasonable siblings” and “no respect for literature.”

The queen, standing nearby with her gentle smile, watched them with quiet fondness. She carefully lifted Jeonghan’s robes and helped him into them, her fingers practiced and light. “You did tell him, darling,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from Mingyu’s forehead. “But you know your brother and his books.”

Mingyu beamed up at her before hopping onto the velvet stool beside the breakfast table set in the corner of the room. There, the maids had laid out an assortment of pastries and warm tea. He grabbed a puff pastry with both hands, taking a huge bite and leaving a trail of crumbs down the front of his pristine robe.

“Prince Mingyu,” one of the butlers murmured, half-laughing as he knelt to brush the crumbs off the fabric. “Perhaps we save the pastries for after you’re fully dressed?”

Mingyu puffed his cheeks full of pastry and said through a mouthful, “But they taste best when they’re hot! Right, Miss Miran?”

The head maid, Miran, chuckled and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “He’s not wrong, Your Majesty.”

Everyone in the room—the maids, the footmen, the queen—watched with indulgent smiles as Mingyu regaled them with stories of what he thought the day would be like: parades of unicorns, dancing jesters, a cake taller than Jeonghan (who huffed at that part), and most importantly… lemon tarts. Dozens of them.

And outside, just beyond the tall glass windows, the sky was slowly shifting from deep violet to the soft gold of morning—ready to rise, just like the boy who couldn’t wait to celebrate the day he loved the most.

While waiting for the final touches to be made to their travel attire, Mingyu had somehow rallied two of the palace butlers into playing rock-paper-scissors with him in a corner of the royal antechamber. Each round was punctuated by his triumphant giggles or dramatic groans of defeat. The butlers, trying to remain dignified, occasionally exchanged amused glances as they let the little prince win just often enough to keep his spirits soaring.

He was in the middle of throwing out a particularly enthusiastic “rock!” when he heard his brother speak quietly nearby.

“Mother,” Jeonghan asked, his voice still soft with lingering sleep, “what’s the name of the birthday celebrant?”

The Queen, who was selecting a brooch from a velvet-lined tray, turned to her elder son with a gentle chuckle. She reached down and brushed her fingers through Jeonghan’s neatly parted black hair.

“Sweetheart, it’s Prince Seungcheol of the East. He just turned five today. He’s only two months older than you, my love.”

Jeonghan nodded slowly, absorbing the information like a scholar filing facts in a mental ledger. Mingyu, however, gasped loud enough to turn a few heads.

“Mother!” he cried, practically leaping toward her with a mouth still dusted in pastry sugar. “That means… new friend?!”

The Queen couldn’t help but laugh as she crouched slightly to take his small, eager hands in hers.

“Yes, darling,” she said, smoothing down the edge of his robe. “But you both have to behave, alright? It’s your first time going to the Eastern Kingdom, and you’ll be meeting new people. You’re representing the North today.”

Mingyu nodded enthusiastically, while Jeonghan, ever the composed elder, simply straightened his collar and gave a solemn, tiny bow.

Hand in hand, they followed the Queen through the long, gleaming hallways of the Northern palace. Jeonghan walked on her left, posture upright, bowing politely to every guard, every maid, every noble they passed. His expressions were serious but respectful, already mimicking the diplomacy of royalty.

Mingyu, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of motion. His right hand clung to his mother’s fingers while his left waved furiously at everyone they passed. “Good morning!” he called to a group of royal staff polishing the tall windows. “Hi, Mister Arin! Morning, Miss Jae!”

The Queen chuckled softly, her boys such a study in contrast: one solemn and composed, the other sparkling and uninhibited. She loved them both more than words could hold.

They reached the grand front entrance of the palace, where sunlight filtered through crystal glass and spilled across the marble floor like golden syrup. A few royal guards stood at attention, and the Queen turned to the boys.

“Your father will arrive soon so we can go, okay?”

Not long after, the great front doors opened again—and in walked the King of the North.

Regal yet warm, he moved with calm authority, his dark cloak fluttering slightly behind him. At the sight of him, Jeonghan’s solemnity broke for just a moment. With a rare burst of emotion, he ran to his father and wrapped his arms around his waist. The King let out a deep, affectionate laugh as he scooped the boy into his arms.

“Still sleepy, sweetheart?” he asked, gently kissing the top of Jeonghan’s head.

Jeonghan merely nodded, his eyes half-lidded as he nestled into his father’s chest, clearly ready to nap again right then and there.

Mingyu pouted as he looked up at the Queen, his lower lip jutting out dramatically. “Mother… carry me too?”

She arched a brow in playful amusement. “Didn’t you say you were a big prince today?”

“I am!” Mingyu insisted. “But big princes still get carried.”

Laughing, the Queen bent down and lifted him into her arms with practiced grace, planting several noisy kisses on his round cheeks. Mingyu shrieked with laughter and clung to her tightly, his earlier pout forgotten.

The King approached them, reaching over to gently pinch Mingyu’s cheek. “You ready, little comet?” he asked.

Mingyu nodded with a grin, arms still looped around his mother’s neck.

And just like that, the royal family of the North stepped forward: the Queen and the King walking side by side, their hands intertwined, their children safely held in their arms. Behind them trailed guards and attendants, all headed toward the gleaming royal carriage adorned with the Northern crest.

They were bound for the East—to celebrate the birth of a young prince. But none of them yet knew that it would be the day two kingdoms quietly began to knit together. That before the sun set, Mingyu would meet someone who would change his life.

The journey from the North was smooth, quiet, and touched with a sense of wonder. The royal carriage, draped in silver and deep blue banners bearing the crest of the North, rolled gently across the cobbled roads that slowly transitioned from the frosted highlands into lush valleys. The cold, crisp air of the mountains melted away into the warmer, earthy breeze of the Eastern lands.

Inside the carriage, Jeonghan had not left the King’s arms since they departed. His small body was curled like a kitten, fast asleep against his father’s shoulder, soft breaths fogging up the collar of his robes. The King’s large hand rested gently on his back, the two of them a quiet picture of stillness and peace.

Mingyu, meanwhile, was wide awake and filled with endless energy. He sat on the Queen’s lap, legs bouncing, fingers tapping the windows as his eyes devoured every sight passing by. The snow-kissed pine forests gave way to sprawling meadows and blooming hills. The gray-white palette of his home faded into the golds, greens, and soft terracottas of the East.

“The trees are… green!” he exclaimed, pressing his round cheeks and chubby hands to the glass. “Mother, green!” His voice was nearly a squeal of joy.

The Queen chuckled, brushing crumbs from his robe. “Yes, darling. The East is full of flowers and trees all year round.”

Mingyu twisted around, grabbing his brother’s arm excitedly. “Jeonghannnnn, look! Trees! Flowers!”

Jeonghan stirred, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy cat. He leaned over to peer out the window, and when he saw the blooming hills and fluttering petals, his eyes widened.

“Mother!” he gasped, suddenly alert. “It’s so beautiful… like my picture books!”

The Queen smiled, proud and quietly amused. The King gave a low chuckle. “Let’s hope the Eastern prince is as charming as the landscape,” he murmured, amused.

As the pearly gates of the Eastern palace appeared in the distance—wrapped in spiraling vines and vibrant blossoms—Mingyu let out a gasp that echoed through the carriage.

The royal guards standing by the gates bowed low as they opened them wide, and the trumpets blared the ceremonial arrival of the Northern royal family.

The carriage doors opened, and the family stepped out, bathed in sunlight. Clad in shades of frost-blue and silver, the four of them glided like snowflakes into a world of warmth and bloom. Jeonghan held tightly to his father’s hand, chin lifted, gaze composed. Mingyu bounced beside his mother, waving again at everyone, just as he had done in the halls of the North.

The palace grounds were full of guests, nobles, and children from all across the realms. Mingyu’s eyes sparkled as he scanned the crowd.

Then he froze.

There, walking with small careful steps down the grand hallway, was a child. He wore pale green robes embroidered with golden vines. His feline eyes—soft and slightly downturned at the corners—were curious, and in his arms was a small cat plushie, hugged protectively to his chest. Two maids followed closely behind him. His chubby cheeks were flushed, and he looked as though he’d wandered out of a painting.

Mingyu’s mouth fell open.

He turned to ask his mother who that boy was, but before he could, another announcement rang out:

“Announcing the arrival of the royal families from the South and the West!”

Now, six children stood in a hesitant circle in the center of the grand hall. They looked at one another curiously, as if sizing up new toys they weren’t quite sure they were allowed to touch. Behind them, their maids and butlers stood at attention, but kept a respectful distance. The parents, now mingling, had given them their instructions: play nice.

Mingyu was still staring at the boy in green—the one with the plushie—when a louder, more cheerful voice cut through the tension.

“Do you want to play tag?!” Prince Seungcheol, the birthday boy himself, grinned widely. His deep green robes swished as he clapped his hands together.

Mingyu lit up like a lantern. “Yes!” he shouted, and immediately turned to the boy beside him—Prince Seokmin of the South, a round-cheeked boy with a wide sunny grin.

“Let’s play marbles later?” Mingyu offered.

Seokmin nodded eagerly. And just like that, the two took off, bursting into gleeful giggles as Seungcheol ran after them.

Behind them, the staff exchanged looks and sighed—softly, fondly—as they watched the heirs of the Four Kingdoms sprint through the halls like a herd of untrained deer.

In the palace gardens, bursting with wildflowers and trimmed hedges, Mingyu suddenly stopped. “Wait! My brother’s not here!”

The trio turned to look back, and there they were: Jeonghan, Prince Jisoo of the West, and the boy in green—Wonwoo.

The three of them strolled toward the group, laughing quietly. Each had a pastry in hand. Jeonghan raised an eyebrow at his younger brother.

“Why are you three running already?” he asked with mock disapproval. “You’re going to get sweaty… and smelly.”

Mingyu was ready to protest when Seungcheol suddenly darted forward and tapped Jeonghan on the chest. “You’re it!”

Jeonghan blinked. “What—”

But it was too late. Seungcheol was already running away, laughing with his arms flailing behind him.

Mingyu and Seokmin shrieked with laughter and chased after him. Even Jisoo and Wonwoo, still mid-pastry, couldn’t resist the invitation. They tossed their crumbs aside and sprinted after the others.

Jeonghan stood frozen for a second, jaw slack.

Then his eyes narrowed.

He took off like a dart, his sights locked on Seungcheol. “Come back here!”

They ran through the flowerbeds, around stone fountains, weaving between confused nobles. Jeonghan finally caught up and, ignoring Seungcheol’s “timeout” hand signal, tackled the birthday boy into the grass.

By the time the palace staff finally herded them back inside, the six of them looked as if they’d fought a small war.

The Queen of the East looked at her son and the others with a long, exhausted sigh. “Children,” she said, hands on her hips. “The party hasn’t even started and you all look like you’ve rolled down a mountain. Your maids have fresh robes for you—especially you, Seungcheol. And Prince Jeonghan… darling, there are leaves in your hair.”

One chaotic change of clothes later, the six of them reconvened around their next mission: the dessert table.

Mingyu immediately found Seokmin again, and the two launched a full assault on the brownies. Jeonghan, now immaculate again, stood with Jisoo and Wonwoo, carefully picking through the lemon tarts.

Seungcheol stood nearby, arms crossed and lips pursed in exaggerated pout.

Jeonghan noticed. Without a word, he picked up a tart and held it out. “Want one?”

Seungcheol looked at him, then the tart. Then slowly, dramatically, took it—and grinned.

The rest of the party passed in a golden blur: presents, dancing, music, stories. But eventually, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting orange light through the palace windows.

It was time to say goodbye.

Mingyu lingered by the doors, dragging his feet. He hadn’t even played with Wonwoo properly yet. And now Jisoo was crying, clinging to both Wonwoo and Jeonghan while Wonwoo stood quietly, hand holding his plushie a little too tightly.

The adults watched in silence, soft smiles on their faces. Then the King of the East finally spoke:

“Children, you can still send letters to your new friends. And you are always welcome in each other’s kingdoms.”

Mingyu’s eyes lit up. “Letters…!”

He would write letters.

To Wonwoo.

All of them gave each other one last round of goodbyes. Seokmin hugged Mingyu tight. Jeonghan reached out and squished Seungcheol’s round cheeks, making the birthday boy squeal.

Jisoo, still sniffling, waved tearfully from the steps.

And then there was Wonwoo.

He stood quietly behind the others, plushie clutched to his chest. Mingyu caught his eyes from across the crowd—and beamed.

He waved with both hands, full of sunshine.

And for the first time that day, Wonwoo smiled—and waved back, big and bright.

The ride back to the North was wrapped in silence—not the heavy kind, but the soft, contented stillness that came after a long, exciting day. The carriage gently rocked beneath them, the velvet curtains drawn open to reveal the evening outside. The sky was now painted in dusky hues of violet and navy, stars just beginning to peek out behind the hills. The world outside was slowly darkening, but inside the carriage, everything felt warm and golden.

Jeonghan sat curled against the King, arms around his father’s neck, still riding the high of the day’s adventures. His voice rose and fell in bursts of excitement as he recounted, in dramatic detail, how he and Prince Seungcheol had tackled each other onto the grass.

“And then! I jumped, and he was all like ‘AAAHH!’ and we both rolled down and I think I won—right, Father? I won, right?” Jeonghan asked, wide-eyed.

The King gave a low laugh, smoothing a hand through his son’s tousled hair. “You both looked like feral kittens, but yes—let’s say you won this round.”

Jeonghan grinned with pride, snuggling closer.

Across the carriage, Mingyu sat much quieter than usual. His knees were pulled up on the velvet bench, and his cheek was pressed gently to the cool glass of the window. The warm glow from the inside flickered faintly against the reflection of his face, but his eyes were focused beyond—on the hills they passed, now cloaked in deepening shadow.

He wasn’t sleepy, but he was still.

The Queen noticed, her hand reaching to gently brush the hair from his forehead. “Darling,” she said softly, “are you alright?”

Mingyu didn’t look at her right away. His voice, when it came, was small.

“I didn’t play with Prince Wonwoo a lot today…”

The Queen waited, fingers combing slowly through his soft black hair.

“…Mother,” he continued, still gazing out the window, “can I send a letter to him tomorrow?”

Across from them, the King smiled faintly. The Queen chuckled, cupping her son’s cheek.

“Oh?” she said, teasing. “You want to send him a letter already?”

Jeonghan turned his head at that, eyebrows raised in mock disbelief. “Heh, Gyugyu doesn’t even know how to write well yet!”

Mingyu frowned and scooted closer to his mother, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist in protest. “I do know how to write!” he grumbled, before lowering his voice and mumbling, “I’ll just ask the messengers to help me… Is that okay?”

The Queen kissed the top of his head, amused and touched all at once. “Of course it’s okay, darling. We’ll help you. You can write whatever your heart wants to say, and we’ll send it with the royal courier to Prince Wonwoo.”

Mingyu’s grip tightened in excitement. He was already thinking about what he’d say—what he’d draw, what stories he’d tell, what kind of stickers he’d ask the messengers to include. And maybe… maybe he could ask Prince Seungcheol and Prince Wonwoo to visit the North soon. Maybe this time, he’d get to sit next to Wonwoo during dessert.

The carriage bumped gently as it passed a bend in the road, and Mingyu finally looked up from the window.

His heart, once heavy with missed chances, now fluttered with anticipation.

Tomorrow, the real adventure would begin—with a letter.

The next morning, even before the sun was fully awake, Mingyu was.

Still in his tiny night robes—sky blue with little stitched snowflakes at the hem, he slipped out of his bed, tousled hair sticking out in soft peaks. He didn’t bother waiting for a proper robe or slippers. Instead, he grabbed his box of colorful pens with both arms, hugged it to his chest like treasure, and tucked a stack of pastel paper under one arm.

“Letter time!” he whispered excitedly to himself.

He tiptoed past the guards outside his chamber, who only gave him a small bow and an amused smile, long since used to the prince’s spontaneous morning adventures.

As he skipped through the palace corridors barefoot, he sang his own version of a marching song.

“Gonna write a leetterrr~ for my friiieendd~”

“Gonna send it faaast~ with magic speeeed~!”

He greeted every royal staff he passed—maids, butlers, scribes—with bright grins and chirpy “Good morning!”s. One of the kitchen staff called after him, “Do you want breakfast first, Your Highness?”

“No thank you!” Mingyu chirped, hopping down the hallway. “This is more important!”

By the time he arrived at the Royal Post Office, the head messenger and his aides were already arranging scrolls and sealing wax for the day’s dispatches. At the sight of the little prince bouncing in, the whole room paused and grinned.

“Well, well,” the head messenger said, folding his arms with mock seriousness, “if it isn’t His Royal Eagerness.”

Without missing a beat, Mingyu marched over and climbed into the man’s lap as if it were his own chair. Everyone chuckled.

“I want to send a letter to Prince Wonwoo of the East,” Mingyu announced proudly.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the messenger said, bowing his head playfully. “Do you want me to help you write it?”

Mingyu nodded eagerly. “Yes, please! I brought my own pens! And paper! I want this one—” He pulled out a sage green sheet and smoothed it on the table. “Because he wore green. And he looked like a plant.”

The messenger tried not to laugh. “A handsome plant, I hope.”

Mingyu tilted his head. “A plant with nice cheeks.”

He then dictated his letter, pausing often to think of what else a prince might say. He waved his arms dramatically as he spoke, sometimes doodling stars or cats in the corners of the page with his bright gel pens.

Prince Wonwoo,

Hello Wonwoo!

This is Mingyu from yesterday!

I wanted to play with you more but we didn’t and that’s okay but I wanted to still say hiiiiiii again! 😊

How are you??

Do you like brownies or lemon tarts better?? I like lemon tarts like my brother!! But also chocolate a lot too.

What games do you play?

I play tag and hide and seek and also throwing pillows but I’m not supposed to. Do you have lots of books? Jeonghan does but he doesn’t let me rip the pages.

When is your birthday? Mine is not today but I want to know yours so I can make you a card with dinosaur stickers and hearts and maybe glitter if my mom lets me.

Can you visit the North soon? Bring Prince Seungcheol too!! I will show you the snow and my room and my puppy doll named Bingsu.

Okay thank you!!! Byeeeeeeeeeee 🐧🦕💚

Prince Mingyu!!!

Back in the post office, the messenger chuckled as he sealed the letter with the royal wax.

“Would you like me to send it now, Your Highness?” he asked.

Mingyu, legs swinging from the chair, nodded furiously. “Please! Super fast! Faster than wind!”

And as the letter was prepared to travel by swift royal courier to the East, Mingyu finally yawned and rubbed his eyes—his morning excitement giving way to the cozy realization that he hadn’t even eaten yet.

But as he wandered back to the breakfast hall, barefoot and glowing with pride, one thing was clear:

Prince Mingyu had just sent his first letter.

To the one who will changed his life forever.

The next few days stretched longer than any winter night Mingyu had ever known.

Every morning after breakfast, he’d practically fly down the palace halls—robes flapping, slippered feet skidding on polished floors—straight to the Royal Post Office, his heart pounding with hope.

“Did I get a letter yet? From Prince Wonwoo?”

The staff always smiled gently and shook their heads. “Not yet, Your Highness. Maybe tomorrow.”

Tomorrow always felt forever away.

Even Jeonghan noticed, watching his little brother pace by the windows one afternoon.

“Mingyu,” he said, folding his book neatly into his lap, “you have to be patient. It takes time for letters to travel. The East is not next door.”

Mingyu just puffed his cheeks and huffed, “But I said please and everything!”

But then, on the sixth morning—just as the sun crept in and the kitchen staff were putting honey on toast—the head royal messenger entered the dining hall with a proud smile.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing slightly. “You’ve received a letter. From the Eastern Kingdom.”

Mingyu froze, mid-bite of a puff pastry.

Then he screamed—a squeaky, triumphant sound—and nearly fell off his chair as he scrambled down and ran barefoot across the floor, his hands flailing in excitement.

The letter was sealed with green wax, marked with the emblem of the Eastern Dukedom.

He didn’t wait to get back to his room. He ripped it open right there, sat cross-legged on the floor in the hallway, and read it with the help of the royal messenger who read aloud each line slowly, carefully, and with a growing smile.

Prince Mingyu, 💚🌱🐱✿🦕🌼

HI Mingyu

It’s me! Wonwoo from the party!!

You send me letter and now I send you one and this is my first letter too so it is new and exciting and hard to wait! Seungcheol says I write so slow like a slug but I don’t mind because slugs are shiny 🐌

I drew a flower (it’s blue but I don’t know the name) and a plant and also a cat because you are nice like a cat not a scary cat but a soft one 🐱

I want to play next time and not just eat. We can play tag or the snow game you said.

I asked my papa (he’s a duke and has a big red hat) when is my birthday because you asked me and he said I was born in the 7th month but I don’t know what that means. That is not a number I know but mama says it’s summer.

Do you have summer?

Is it cold in the North?

Do you have snow now? I want to play snowball fight with you and Seungcheol wants to come too. He says he will win but I think I am sneaky.

Also do you have a cat? I have a cat plushie. His name is Momo and he is brave.

Write back soon or I will sit by the window forever like a statue!!

Byeeeeeeeee

Prince Wonwoo

🌿🐾✏️🧁❄️💚

Mingyu beamed.

He didn’t even finish breakfast. He was already sprinting back to the royal post office, waving the letter over his head like a victory flag.

“I need paper! I need more green paper!”

He had a new mission now.

A new letter to write.

To his Wonwoo.

******

Over the seasons, the letters between Prince Mingyu and Prince Wonwoo became as regular as the sunrise.

Every week, sometimes twice, little sealed envelopes flew between the East and North—filled with uneven doodles, crayon hearts, curious questions, and the honest musings of two little boys learning the joy of friendship across kingdoms.

Mingyu would write about what he had for breakfast, which bird he chased in the gardens, how Jeonghan told him he can’t put jam on soup (but he tried anyway), and how many stars he counted before bed. In return, Wonwoo would send tales of sneaky cats hiding in the library, secret spots in the greenhouse, and how Seungcheol tried to eat a flower once.

They never ran out of things to say.

And then—almost a full year since that first letter—Mingyu woke up with a mission.

His eyes shot open. His hair was a puff of tangled black clouds.

“Five days!” he gasped, sitting up straight in his bed. “It’s almost time!”

Wonwoo’s birthday.

Mingyu had waited all month to do something special—his first-ever birthday letter.

He jumped out of bed, ran straight to his special box of writing things, and chose mint green paper with gold stars, because it felt like “Wonwoo color” but also “party color.”

He poured his heart into every word—well, he poured his heart through the royal scribe, who tried their best to capture Mingyu’s exact voice.

Prince Wonwoo, 🌿❄️🎂🐱💌🌸

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WONWOO!!!

YOU ARE NOW SO BIG!! (not taller than me, I don’t think, but maybe close) 😁

I wanted to be the first to say happy birthday!! I asked my mom what time mail flies and she said EARLY so I woke up sooooo early and the moon was still sleeping!!! So this is a very early birthday letter.

Today I ate toast and honey and thought about you because toast is your vibe I think. I hope you eat cake on your birthday. A big one! Or 3 cakes! Or cake shaped like a cat! I will ask the royal chef to try and make a cat cake too so we can eat it together next time.

I made a drawing of us throwing snowballs. It’s me, you, Seungcheol, Jisoo, Seokmin and my brother Jeonghan (he’s not smiling in the picture because I made him lose lol). I hope you can come visit again soon and we can do a REAL snowball game, not just draw one.

You are my favorite plant prince. (That means you are calm and cool and smart like a plant that talks nicely.)

I will send you your birthday present in a different box. It’s a secret but you can guess!! (Hint: it is NOT soup, but it is soft and brave like Momo.)

Can't wait to celebrate your birthday!!! Will Seungcheol yell? Will you wear a crown? Will you get 100 hugs? (If not, I will send extra hugs next letter.)

OKAY BYEEEEEEE

🎈🎈🎈🎈🎈

From your best snowy penpal and birthday cheer friend,

Prince Mingyu ☃️

P.S. When you blow your candles, wish for more stickers. It works.

🎂💚🐾💌🌟🐧🦕🌼

******

The royal carriage swayed gently as it rolled through the lush hills of the East. The skies were bright and painted with the soft gold of late morning, birds chirping as if they, too, were preparing for the celebration.

Inside, Prince Mingyu sat bouncing on his velvet seat, unable to contain the fireworks of excitement in his chest. He was dressed in forest-green robes today, with silver embroidery shaped like vines—a quiet tribute to his favorite plant-loving prince. Beside him, Prince Jeonghan, ever the picture of grace, sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, his long sleeves unwrinkled, hair combed to perfection.

Mingyu looked at his brother and whispered, “Do you think he opened it already?”

Jeonghan yawned. “You sent it three days ago with royal priority, Mingyu. He probably opened it five minutes after it arrived.”

Mingyu grinned. He had wrapped the gift himself—twice, actually, because the first time the paper had too many crinkles—and sent it ahead so that Prince Wonwoo would have it in time for today. Now, after weeks of waiting, they were finally on their way to see him.

As they arrived at the grand Eastern palace, the gates swung open with floral garlands wrapped around the iron bars, and royal banners fluttered in the breeze.

“Announcing Their Highnesses Prince Jeonghan and Prince Mingyu of the Northern Kingdom!”

Mingyu nearly fell out of the carriage in his haste.

He sprinted ahead through the garden path, where five familiar voices were already calling his name.

“Mingyu!! Jeonghan!!”

“Finallyyy!”

“You’re late!”

“We saved you cookies!”

The six little royals were back together again.

Seungcheol was the first to tackle Mingyu into a hug that nearly knocked them both into a flowerbed. Seokmin ran circles around them yelling “Birthdayy! Birthdayy!” while Jisoo waved wildly, already holding a plate of snacks. Wonwoo stood a few feet back with his ever-soft smile, his cheeks already a little pink from the excitement. He wore soft cream robes with vine patterns and a little flower crown made by the maids. And beside him? A cake the size of a cart.

“Wonwoo!” Mingyu yelled, brushing grass off his knees.

Wonwoo’s smile brightened the entire courtyard. “Mingyu,” he said simply, and Mingyu swore it was the best thing he heard all day.

All the kids were gathered around the giant birthday cake, shaped like a giant flower bed with cat figurines made of sugar poking out between green frosting leaves. There was even a fondant version of Wonwoo’s plushie Momo curled beside the candle.

“Ready?” Seungcheol asked, elbowing the birthday boy.

Wonwoo took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then slowly exhaled and blew out all five candles. The flames flickered and vanished in a puff of golden smoke, and everyone clapped.

“What did you wish for?” Jisoo asked immediately.

Wonwoo blinked. “More letters.”

Mingyu nearly burst like a balloon.

The gifts were opened on a soft grassy patch under a canopy of hanging vines.

Seokmin gave a set of tiny wind-up animal toys (“they walk like this!”), Seungcheol gave a wooden sword painted with glitter, Jisoo gave a music box shaped like a star, and Jeonghan gave a delicate pressed flower bookmark from the royal library (“very grown-up,” Jeonghan insisted).

And then—

“Open mine!” Mingyu shouted, practically wiggling.

Wonwoo already knew which box it was—wrapped in mint and silver paper with a cat sticker on top. He carefully undid the ribbon and opened the lid.

Inside was a soft hand-sewn pillow in the shape of a snowball, with “For Snowball Fight Practice” embroidered (a little crookedly) on it. Underneath it was a crayon drawing of the six of them throwing snowballs at each other, and in the corner, a glitter heart with “M+W” inside it.

Wonwoo didn’t say anything at first.

He just smiled. Really smiled. The kind of smile where his eyes crinkled and his dimple peeked out and his whole face glowed like a warm lantern.

Then the palace butler handed him the letter that had come with the gift.

He unfolded it slowly and read it in silence. The other kids went quiet too, waiting.

At the end of the letter, Wonwoo laughed softly, then held the paper to his chest.

“I love it,” he whispered.

Mingyu felt something tighten and glow inside him all at once.

This was it.

Not the cake. Not the party.

This.

This was his mission.

To make Prince Wonwoo smile like that, every year.

“I’m going to write you birthday letters forever,” Mingyu declared proudly, stepping closer.

Wonwoo looked at him with the happiest eyes. “Then I’ll always read them first.”

And that was the beginning of their birthday letter tradition—an unbreakable thread that wove the North and East a little closer each year.

******

As time passed, the once-little royals grew taller, louder, smarter — and closer than ever.

By the time they turned ten, their kingdoms had stopped treating their friendships as mere diplomacy. They were family now. The six young royals—Mingyu, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Seungcheol, Seokmin, and Jisoo—were known across the lands. Where one went, the others soon followed.

At ten, their parents finally allowed them to organize monthly weekend sleepovers. One month, the North. The next, the West. Then the South. But the most common location—nearly always, in fact—was the East.

“Because,” Jeonghan once said with a soft smirk, “Seungcheol would sooner face an army than spend three hours in a bumpy carriage.”

And it was true. No matter how much Seungcheol loved his friends, he turned green with nausea every time he had to travel farther than the Eastern borders. At one sleepover, Mingyu caught Jeonghan sitting alone, flipping through a thick book on travel remedies. When Mingyu teased, “Don’t tell me you’re going to make Seungcheol a tea,” Jeonghan only blushed faintly and replied, “I just want him to enjoy the snowball fights again.”

Despite seeing each other every month, Mingyu and Wonwoo never stopped writing letters. It had long outgrown the need for royal messengers—now it was instinct. A part of their rhythm. Between parties, between politics, between the noisy chaos of growing up, the letters were like a quiet place just for them.

The celebration was warm and elegant. Flowers of all kinds draped the Eastern palace. Guests danced in silks and brocade, the halls glittering with chandeliers and laughter. But by nightfall, the six had slipped away to their favorite place: the giant willow tree in the royal garden.

Seokmin was plucking gently at a small travel guitar while Jisoo, with his musical instinct, sat beside him scribbling rhymes on a notepad between bursts of laughter.

Jeonghan was propped against the tree trunk, flipping through a book about archery techniques, while Seungcheol, ever the most affectionate of them all, had his head in Jeonghan’s lap, napping like a contented puppy.

And then there was Mingyu and Wonwoo, sitting close together with sketchbooks open on their laps.

They didn’t say much.

Sometimes they didn’t need to.

Mingyu was drawing lazy shapes—a tree, a cat, maybe a crown. But then he noticed Wonwoo glancing sideways, sketching quickly, almost secretively.

“What are you drawing?” Mingyu leaned over with a curious grin.

Wonwoo startled, eyes widening, and immediately snapped his sketchbook shut. “Nothing.”

But Mingyu had already seen it. Just a glimpse—but enough.

It was him.

A soft pencil sketch. His profile. Hair slightly tousled. A hint of his smile.

Mingyu’s heartbeat faltered.

Not from embarrassment. Not from surprise.

But from that quiet, soul-deep recognition that something inside him had just… changed.

He didn’t say a word.

Just turned back to his page with a warmth blooming in his chest that didn’t fade for hours.

A Few Months Later

It was after Mingyu’s 16th birthday. The palace was quieter now—guests gone, halls cleaned, snow gently beginning to fall outside his window.

A package arrived for him.

Wrapped simply in sage green paper, with familiar neat writing on the tag:

To Prince Mingyu of the North — from Prince Wonwoo of the East.

He opened it carefully.

Inside, nestled in soft velvet, was a framed portrait.

The sketch from that night.

But now fully finished in graphite and ink, with the lightest shading behind his features and even his embroidered collar detailed precisely. At the bottom corner, tiny and discreet, was Wonwoo’s signature. Next to it: a cat paw print doodle.

Mingyu didn’t move for a full minute.

Then he stood, placed the portrait above his writing desk, and sat down.

His hands trembled—not from nerves, but from how much he wanted to hold this moment in his palms forever.

And with a quiet resolve, he walked to the royal treasury.

The guards blinked in surprise. The Crown Prince, without an appointment?

“I’d like to view the heirloom engagement rings,” he said.

The royal keeper, after a pause, obliged. He laid out the velvet box containing the ancient rings—passed down through generations of Northern royalty. Each one imbued with meaning, stories, history.

Mingyu stared at them for a long while.

Then pointed to one.

It was silver and deep green, shaped like ivy curling around a stone.

“That one,” he said. “I want that one.”

The royal keeper hesitated. “For future recordkeeping, Your Highness… may I ask why?”

Mingyu smiled, a little sheepish, but sure. “Because I already know who I’ll give it to,” he said. “When the time comes.”

He didn’t know when, or how, or what the world would look like by then.

But he knew who.

It was always Wonwoo.

And he would keep writing. Keep showing up. Keep making him smile.

Because love, Mingyu realized, wasn’t loud.

It was a pencil sketch held quietly to one’s chest.

A letter sent under moonlight.

A snowball pillow sewn by hand.

A promise wrapped in ivy silver.

And for Mingyu, love was Wonwoo.

Always had been. Always would be.

******

Years passed like seasons — snow giving way to flowers, flowers fading into golden skies, and golden days falling into quiet winter once again. And all throughout, Mingyu loved Wonwoo.

Not with grand declarations.

But with gestures. Letters. Familiarity.

He’d grown so used to loving Wonwoo silently, quietly wrapping it into every letter he sent, every shared pastry, every snowball he saved just for him — that even as they aged into young men, Mingyu never dared to say it out loud.

There were always reasons to wait.

A war council. A royal summit. Political unrest. A missed carriage. A rainstorm. A wrong moment.

And sometimes, Mingyu wondered if part of him was afraid to break what they had — that deep, unshakable bond built across scrolls and soft sketches, weekend fires and birthday cakes.

Until the year everything changed.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol got married first.

Their wedding was the definition of perfection. Mingyu had never seen his brother look more himself — light and strong and unguarded.

Mingyu had smiled, proud.

But that night, beneath the lanterns and sky, he saw the way Seungcheol looked at Jeonghan — like he’d crossed kingdoms and storms just to end up exactly here. And suddenly, something stirred in his chest.

Then, Jisoo and Seokmin married a few months later. They wrote each other vows in the form of a song. Seokmin played the guitar and Jisoo sang through happy tears. The entire garden glowed with the sound of laughter and music.

That night, Mingyu couldn’t sleep.

He sat by the window of the Eastern guest chambers, a letter for Wonwoo half-written on his lap — but this time the words refused to be quiet.

And that’s when he knew.

It was time.

He didn’t plan a grand gesture.

No parade. No fireworks. No trumpet sound.

Just a morning. Quiet, and golden.

They were walking in the eastern gardens — the same place where Wonwoo had sketched him years ago, the same garden where Mingyu learned what his own heart sounded like when it was falling in love.

Wonwoo was talking about a book he had just finished when he noticed Mingyu had stopped walking.

He turned. “Gyu?”

Mingyu took a slow breath.

“I have something for you,” he said, hand trembling slightly as he pulled a small, worn velvet box from his pocket. The very one from the royal treasury. The ivy-wrapped silver ring inside catching the early morning light.

Wonwoo blinked, stunned. “What—”

“I’ve loved you since I was three,” Mingyu said. Not stumbling, not shy. Just true. “I just didn’t know the word for it back then. But every birthday letter, every snowball fight, every time I waited for your reply at the post office — it’s always been you.”

A pause. The world held its breath.

“I’m not just asking you to marry me, Wonwoo,” Mingyu whispered. “I’m asking to keep doing everything we’ve always done. But this time — as yours.”

Wonwoo didn’t cry.

Not right away.

He just stared at him, eyes wide, quiet.

Then he reached out.

Not for the ring.

But for Mingyu’s hand.

And with the softest smile — the one Mingyu had secretly promised to protect since they were children — he whispered:

“Yes.”

The day they announced their engagement, every kingdom celebrated. The North, the East — even the South and West sent gifts and songs.

But to Mingyu, the greatest celebration wasn’t the fanfare.

It was the small envelope he received later that night.

A note from Wonwoo.

Just five words, written in soft black ink:

“It’s always been you too.”

******

The morning light filtered through tall stained glass windows, casting gentle pools of soft color across the marble floor of the North’s royal study. Snow was falling in slow, lazy spirals outside. The fire crackled softly in the hearth.

Mingyu — now King Mingyu of the North — sat at his desk, a familiar sage green paper before him.

Even after all these years, he still used it.

Because green would always be Wonwoo.

His ink pen paused, hovering over the page. And then, in his neat, thoughtful handwriting, he began:

To My Prince Wonwoo of the East,

From the days of our youth, when the world was simpler and the sun shone a little softer, you stood beside me as a constant presence, steady as the tide, gentle as the wind that dances through the trees. Even then, you showed me wonders: that flowers could speak, that trees could sing, and that even the snow, cold and distant in the North, held beauty when seen through your eyes.

You have taught me many things, my Prince. The wisdom of silence. The strength in stillness. The poetry in patience. But above all, you taught me the one lesson I shall carry beyond time: what it truly means to love, and how love, when true, does not demand, but simply is. And in all these years, through all the seasons and changes, it has only ever been you.

You were there in the thunder of my triumphs, in the aching quiet of my defeats. You stood tall when I could not, a fortress when my walls fell, a flame when my light flickered. Your presence has been both sword and shield, not loud, but mighty. Not boastful, but unwavering.

I have admired you for so long, my Prince. I admired not just the grace of your form or the strength of your spirit, but the quiet way you love, the fierce way you protect, the gentle way you endure. In that admiration, I have found certainty, a kind of peace that can only come when one's soul has found its mirror.

And now, as the years stretch ahead like endless skies, I declare with unshakable devotion: I am yours. Entirely. Eternally.

If my breaths are numbered, let them be spent in prayer, and every prayer a whisper of your name. If my days are counted, let each one begin and end in your light. As I promised when I knelt before you and asked for your hand, I shall speak only your name for the rest of my days — as king, as lover, as man.

Today is your day, my love. 

Not just by calendar or decree, but by the stirring of the earth and stars alike. I treasure it as I do the first bloom of your favorite flowers, as I do the first snowfall that touches our Northern lands. This day, like my love for you, is eternal.

Happy birthday, my dearest Wonwoo.

 Forever yours,
 King Mingyu of the North

Mingyu closed his ink pen, sealing the letter with a soft press of the North’s crest — not as king, but as the man who’s loved the same boy since their third year.

The letter still smelled faintly of lemon and snow. It trembled slightly in his hands — not from cold, but from the weight of a love that had never dulled, only deepened.

He stood up, brushing down his velvet robe, and padded softly through the long, familiar halls. No guards trailed him. Not this early, not today.

He entered their chamber quietly, as the morning light was just beginning to pour through the tall frosted windows. The fire was low but still warm. And there, nestled deep in the sea of pillows and thick northern blankets, was his everything.

Wonwoo.

Still asleep, with one hand tucked under his cheek, the other clutching Mingyu’s side of the blanket. His face — peaceful and soft — hadn’t changed in all the ways that mattered. He still looked like the boy who once drew flowers and cats on birthday letters, the boy who sketched Mingyu in secret, who cried quietly when they had to say goodbye as children, who never needed to say much — and yet said everything.

Mingyu stepped softly to the bedside table and gently placed the letter there. Green paper. A familiar fold. Waiting for waking eyes.

Wonwoo stirred a little, his brows twitching as if sensing movement, but didn’t wake. Mingyu smiled, and without a word, climbed into bed beside him.

He slipped under the covers and wrapped his arms gently around his consort’s waist, pulling him close. One hand came to rest over Wonwoo’s heart, the other under his cheek. He pressed his lips softly against his husband’s temple and breathed him in — lavender and cedarwood, just like always.

Wonwoo shifted slightly, instinctively nestling closer. His hand found Mingyu’s under the covers, lacing their fingers together without opening his eyes.

Mingyu whispered, more to himself than anyone else:

“Happy birthday, my heart.”

Outside, the North was waking. Ministers would come, schedules would fill, and the castle would begin to hum with life.

But for now, it was just them — two boys who grew up and found home in each other.

Another birthday.

Another year.

And Mingyu couldn’t wait to spend the rest of forever with his greatest love — still sleeping, still holding his hand.

Chapter Text

A small tap landed on Prince Seungcheol’s cheek.

He furrowed his tiny brows, letting out a soft groan as he tried to burrow deeper beneath his blanket. But before he could fall back asleep, there came another poke—followed by a muffled giggle and the faint sound of someone shifting on his bed.

A gentle hand brushed through his hair. Then, a soft voice—warm and familiar—filled the air.

“Sweetheart, you have to wake up now.”

It was his mother, the Queen.

Seungcheol blinked his eyes open slowly. The morning light was already streaming through the tall windows, painting the room in gold. Standing beside his bed was the Queen herself, smiling down at him, her presence as calm as sunlight. And beside her sat a sleepy little boy in green pajamas—his cousin, Prince Wonwoo, who looked as though he’d only just woken up as well.

“Alright, boys,” the Queen said gently as she stood. “Your maids and butlers will help you get ready, okay? I’ll see you in the dining hall. And Seungcheol,” she added with a playful smile, “please listen to them this time.”

Both boys nodded in unison.

Prince Seungcheol was five years old, and Prince Wonwoo, four—cousins by blood, and nearly brothers by heart. Seungcheol was the son of the King and Queen of the East, and Wonwoo, the son of the Duke and Duchess of the East. The two had spent the previous night together for a royal sleepover filled with whispers, laughter, and dreams of faraway kingdoms.

Now, it is time to begin their day.

Seungcheol rubbed the sleep from his eyes and turned to see Wonwoo already standing before his wardrobe, choosing his robes with great seriousness.

“What are we going to do today?” Seungcheol asked, his voice still heavy with sleep.

Wonwoo turned to him with a bright grin. “Did you forget? Today is Jeonghan’s birthday! We’re going to the North!”

At once, Seungcheol’s drowsiness vanished. “The North?” he repeated, eyes widening.

“Mm-hm!” Wonwoo nodded eagerly. “Father and Mingyu said there’s snow there! We need to wear our wools.”

Snow! The word alone made Seungcheol’s heart race. He had never seen snow before, only read about it in the palace library’s storybooks or seen it painted in the great hall. The thought of soft white flakes and cold air—and of seeing his friends Prince Jeonghan and Prince Mingyu again—filled him with excitement.

Quickly, he picked out his heaviest robes, his small hands fumbling with the buttons in his eagerness. He could already imagine it: running through the snow, playing tag again with Jeonghan, laughing until their cheeks turned pink.

When both princes were ready, their attendants guided them through the marble corridors toward the dining hall, where their families awaited breakfast. The air smelled faintly of honey and warm bread, and sunlight glinted off the silver tableware.

Seungcheol climbed into his seat beside his mother, his legs swinging beneath his chair. He could hardly sit still—his mind filled with snowball fights and grand northern castles.

But just as he was about to take a sip of his warm milk, a sudden thought made him gasp.

“Oh no!” he blurted.

The Queen looked up from her tea. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“I don’t have a gift for Jeonghan!” Seungcheol’s face fell, his excitement dimming into worry.

The Queen smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ve already prepared many gifts for Prince Jeonghan.”

“But… those are from you and Father,” Seungcheol murmured. “I wanted to give him something from me.”

Wonwoo, sitting across from him, perked up. “You can write him a letter!” he suggested cheerfully. “Or draw him something!”

Seungcheol pouted, lowering his gaze. “But I’m not good at writing… or drawing.”

His mother reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You’ll think of something,” she said softly. “The best gifts don’t have to be perfect. They just have to come from the heart.”

Seungcheol nodded slowly, still thinking. As the Queen and Duchess spoke quietly of their journey to the North, the young prince gazed out the window, where the autumn sky stretched endlessly.

He didn’t know what his gift would be yet—but he was sure he’d find it on the way.

******

The morning sun shone warmly over the Eastern Palace, gilding the high gates with gold. The courtyard was alive with servants bustling about, polishing carriages and adjusting the harnesses of the royal horses. The air smelled of fresh bread from the palace kitchens, mingled with the crisp scent of autumn leaves.

Seungcheol, still brushing the sleep from his eyes, stood beside his mother and father, holding his little hand nervously. Beside him, Wonwoo clutched the hem of his green tunic, eyes darting curiously between the horses and the carriage, while his other hand is being held by his mother.

“Do we really have to ride all the way to the North?” Seungcheol asked, his voice small but earnest, tugging gently at his mother’s sleeve.

“You’ll see, my little prince,” the Queen replied, smoothing his hair. “The North is beautiful, and Jeonghan and Mingyu will be so happy to see you.”

Seungcheol wrinkled his nose. “But… it’s a long way.” He glanced at the row of polished carriages lined up, their golden trim sparkling. “Will it be boring?”

His father chuckled, lifting him into his arms. “Perhaps a little, but there are stories, songs, and games to keep you entertained.”

Wonwoo, standing quietly, piped up in his soft, serious voice. “We can play ‘I Spy,’ Seungcheol,” he offered, holding up his small fingers as if counting the possibilities. “Or… we can count the clouds.”

Seungcheol’s face lit up, momentarily distracted from his worries. “Really? You’ll play with me?”

Wonwoo nodded, his small smile shy but determined. “Of course. You’ll feel better.”

Seungcheol clapped his hands excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yay! Let’s play!”

But as soon as the carriage wheels began to roll and the road rattled beneath them, a wave of nausea swept over Seungcheol. He pressed his hand to his stomach, frowning. “Ugh… I don’t feel good,” he murmured, eyes half-closing.

Wonwoo leaned over, his own small hand brushing Seungcheol’s arm. “It’s okay… try holding Momo.” He held out his favorite cat plushie, the soft gray fur slightly worn from love and adventure.

Seungcheol hugged the plushie tightly, burying his face in it. The soft warmth of the toy was comforting, and Wonwoo’s quiet presence made the world feel less wobbly.

“Thank you, Wonwoo…” he whispered.

Wonwoo just nodded, adjusting himself beside Seungcheol so he could offer support without words. The carriage jolted over a small bump in the road, and Seungcheol’s eyes fluttered closed. The rhythmic creak of the wheels and the gentle sway of the carriage made him feel drowsy, though a queasy twist in his stomach lingered.

The countryside rolled past in a blur of amber leaves, rivers glinting like ribbons of silver in the sunlight. Occasionally, the boys’ parents chatted quietly, pointing out landmarks or sharing little stories about the land. Seungcheol tried to listen, but the motion made his head spin. He rested it lightly against Wonwoo’s shoulder, still holding Momo close.

“Do you think we’ll see snow soon?” Seungcheol murmured, his voice barely audible.

Wonwoo’s eyes sparkled at the thought. “Soon,” he whispered back. “I think… the snow waits for us.”

Half an hour passed in soft silence, broken only by the occasional distant clop of hooves from other carriages and Seungcheol’s quiet sighs. Wonwoo leaned closer, speaking in little bursts to keep Seungcheol’s mind off the sickness.

“Remember when you and Jeonghan tripped in the palace garden?” Wonwoo asked softly. “You both fell on that pile of leaves and got all dirty, but you laughed so loud and Jeonghan screamed like a tiny thunderstorm.”

Seungcheol giggled weakly, the sound barely lifting his spirits. “Yeah… I did…”

“You’ll play tag with him again,” Wonwoo said, determination in his gentle tone. “And you’ll win this time.”

Seungcheol hugged Momo tighter, nodding. “I hope so…”

The carriage slowed slightly as the landscape began to change. The leaves thinned, giving way to wide stretches of white-tipped grass. A cold wind brushed against the carriage windows, and the boys pressed their faces against the glass.

And then—tiny flakes began to drift down from the sky.

Seungcheol’s eyes, half-lidded with sleep, widened in wonder. “Snow…” he whispered, his small hand clutching Momo.

Wonwoo leaned over, whispering, “See? I told you… it waits for us.”

The flakes swirled in the pale sunlight, dancing like tiny stars before settling softly on the fields. The sight made Seungcheol forget, for a moment, the queasiness in his stomach. His lips parted in awe, his eyes following the first real snow of his life.

The carriage rocked gently, and the warmth of the quilt and his mother’s lap pulled him further toward sleep. Wonwoo rested beside him quietly, offering the steady comfort of friendship and Momo’s soft fur.

Seungcheol closed his eyes, the first flakes of snow falling outside the carriage signaling that they had crossed the North’s border. Dreams of snowball fights, laughter, and birthday celebrations filled his mind as he drifted into a peaceful slumber, safe in the arms of family and the quiet support of his cousin.

Outside, the North welcomed them in its soft, white embrace.

******

The morning light in the Northern Palace was pale and cool, slipping through the frost-lined windows like a whisper. The world outside was quiet, the snow stretching endlessly beyond the castle walls — soft, silver, and still.

Inside a large, sunlit chamber, a small figure stirred beneath a mountain of blankets.

Prince Jeonghan was still fast asleep, his breathing slow and even, the faintest smile resting on his lips. The warmth of his bed and the gentle hush of winter wrapped around him like a lullaby. It was, after all, his birthday — and he was certain even the sun should let him sleep a little longer.

But peace never lasted long when his little brother was awake.

“BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!”

The shout came like thunder, followed by a loud thump as something (or someone) landed squarely on the bed.

Jeonghan let out a startled groan. “Mingyu!” he mumbled, turning over and burying his face in his pillow. “You’re too loud…”

Mingyu only grinned, bouncing on the mattress, his messy dark hair flying as he chanted again, “It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday!” His laughter filled the whole room, bright and uncontainable, chasing away the morning quiet.

Jeonghan peeked up from under his blanket, his voice small but scolding. “You’re not supposed to jump on my bed. You’ll break it!”

Mingyu stopped bouncing just long enough to flop down beside him, giggling. “But I’m excited! It’s your birthday! That means cake and presents and everyone’s coming!”

Jeonghan sighed — but the corner of his lips lifted despite himself. His little brother’s energy was like sunlight, impossible to resist.

“Alright, alright,” Jeonghan said at last, sitting up and rubbing his sleepy eyes. “But next time, you can just say ‘good morning’ like a normal person.”

Mingyu scrunched his nose. “That’s boring!”

Their laughter filled the chamber, soft and bright against the cold morning air. Soon after, their maids entered, curtsying politely as they set out the boys’ clothes — soft woolen coats and fur-lined gloves, perfect for the snowy day.

As the attendants began helping them dress, Mingyu chatted endlessly — as always.

“Do you think they’ll let us have the big cake this year?” he asked, tugging at the buttons of his vest. “The one with the cherries on top? Oh! And I can’t wait to see Seungcheol and Wonwoo again! I promised Wonwoo I’d show him how to build a snow fort!”

Jeonghan turned to him, smirking. “Hmm? So Wonwoo’s your favorite now?”

Mingyu blinked, caught off guard, then puffed out his cheeks. “He’s not my favorite! I like everyone!”

Jeonghan laughed, the sound light and teasing. “You didn’t say that when you got his letter yesterday.”

Mingyu gasped in mock offense, crossing his arms. “Hyung! You read my letter!”

“I did not!” Jeonghan said quickly, holding up his hands in defense, still smiling. “But you talk in your sleep, you know.”

Mingyu’s cheeks turned pink as he stuck his tongue out, making Jeonghan laugh again. The maids and butlers exchanged amused glances, trying to hide their smiles as they finished dressing the princes.

When the boys were ready, they were ushered down the grand staircase toward the royal dining hall. The scent of warm milk and baked honey bread filled the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of snow carried in through the windows.

As soon as Jeonghan stepped into the hall, he broke into a run, his boots thudding softly on the marble floor.

“Father!” he called out, throwing himself into the waiting arms of the King.

The King, tall and kind-eyed, lifted his eldest son easily, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Good morning, birthday boy,” he said warmly.

Mingyu ran straight for the Queen, laughing breathlessly as she crouched to catch him in her arms. “Happy birthday, my little snow prince,” she said, looking over Mingyu’s shoulder at Jeonghan. “And good morning to you, my mischievous one.”

Jeonghan giggled, hiding his face in his father’s shoulder for a moment before glancing up. “Is everyone coming today?”

The Queen smiled, brushing a hand through Mingyu’s hair. “Yes, love. Prince Seungcheol and Prince Wonwoo from the East are already on their way. And Prince Jisoo and Prince Seokmin from the West and South will also arrive soon.”

Mingyu gasped, eyes wide and sparkling. “They’re coming? All of them?”

“Yes,” the King replied, setting Jeonghan down gently. “Everyone wants to celebrate your special day.”

Mingyu jumped in place, his voice rising with excitement. “Snowball fights! We can all play snowball fights!”

Jeonghan laughed softly at his brother’s enthusiasm. The thought of seeing all their friends again made his heart feel warm, even against the chill of the Northern air.

He looked up toward the tall windows, where the snow still fell gently — the same flakes that had met Seungcheol and Wonwoo on their journey north. For a brief moment, Jeonghan pressed his hand to the glass, watching the white drift lazily against the sky.

He wondered if Seungcheol was watching it too, somewhere far down the road, maybe smiling, maybe sleepy. The thought made him smile without realizing it.

It was his birthday — but more than the presents or the feast, what made Jeonghan happiest was that soon, the palace would be full of laughter again. Full of friends. Full of warmth.

And outside, the snow continued to fall — slow and soft, as if the North itself was celebrating its gentle prince.

******

The Northern Palace courtyard glittered beneath a soft curtain of falling snow. The wind was gentle, carrying laughter and the scent of pine from the gardens. White banners fluttered from the palace towers, and servants hurried about with trays of steaming cocoa, polishing silver, and fixing decorations for Prince Jeonghan’s fifth birthday celebration.

Inside, the royal family of the North waited eagerly near the grand hall’s doors. The Queen kept glancing toward the entryway, smoothing Mingyu’s collar while he fidgeted impatiently beside her.

“When will they get here?” Mingyu asked for what felt like the tenth time.

“Soon, sweetheart,” the Queen said with a fond sigh. “Patience.”

“But I’ve been patient all morning!” Mingyu pouted, stamping his tiny boot on the marble floor. Jeonghan laughed softly beside him.

“Maybe they’re racing to see who gets here first,” Jeonghan teased.

Just as he spoke, the great doors swung open — and a rush of cold air swept in, along with laughter and the jingling of reins.

A butler’s voice rang out clearly:

“Announcing the arrival of His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen of the South, and their son, Prince Seokmin!”

Before the formality could even finish, a flash of color darted across the entryway.

“Mingyu!”

“Seokmin!”

The two boys collided in the middle of the hall, toppling into the snow that clung to Seokmin’s boots. Mingyu threw his arms around his best friend, squeezing tightly. Both of them were laughing so hard that their parents could barely keep straight faces.

Then Seokmin spotted Jeonghan, and his eyes widened. “Jeonghan!” he shouted with pure delight, running toward him. Before Jeonghan could even react, Seokmin flung his arms around him in a huge bear hug — nearly lifting him off the ground.

“Seokmin!” Jeonghan gasped between laughter. “You’re too strong!”

“I missed you!” Seokmin said proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

Their parents could only shake their heads, smiling in quiet amusement. It was astonishing how these little princes — who had only met two months ago at Seungcheol’s birthday in the East — behaved as if they’d known one another their whole lives.

The great hall filled with the sound of soft laughter, the warmth of friendship melting even the chill of the Northern air.

Then, another announcement echoed through the marble corridors:

“Announcing the arrival of His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen of the West, and their son, Prince Jisoo.”

A small figure appeared in the doorway — cheeks pink from the cold, smile brighter than the morning sun. Jisoo was clutching a little puppy plushie, its fur slightly frayed at the ears.

“Jeonghan! Mingyu! Seokmin!” he cried, running forward and hugging them all at once, the plushie squished between their coats. The boys laughed as they stumbled together, the room suddenly alive with the kind of laughter that only children could make — pure, unfiltered joy.

While their parents exchanged polite greetings and warm smiles, the four boys were already bouncing on their toes, planning snowball fights, sled races, and grand adventures.

And then — the sound of hooves outside drew everyone’s attention.

The great doors opened once more. The head butler stepped forward, voice echoing across the hall.

“Announcing the arrival of Their Majesties, the King and Queen of the East, the Duke and Duchess of the East, and Their Highnesses, Prince Seungcheol and Prince Wonwoo.”

A hush fell over the room. The children turned eagerly toward the entrance — but the excitement softened into quiet confusion when they saw the King of the East step inside, cradling a small figure in his arms.

Prince Seungcheol was fast asleep, his little face pale against his father’s shoulder.

Wonwoo followed close behind, his steps small and careful, his expression a mix of worry and calm.

Jeonghan’s smile faded into stillness. His heart gave a tiny ache at the sight — his friend, always so bright and full of laughter, now looking so fragile and tired.

The Queen of the North immediately rose, her gown sweeping softly over the floor as she approached. “Is everything alright?” she asked, her voice gentle but touched with concern.

The King of the East smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Seungcheol’s hair. “He’s alright, Your Majesty. Seungcheol doesn’t feel well on long journeys — he always gets a little dizzy. He just needs to rest.”

The Queen’s expression softened at once. “Oh, poor dear.” She turned to her attendants. “Prepare a guest room at once — a quiet one, near the balcony. Make sure it’s warm.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The maids and butlers bowed and hurried away.

As they began escorting the Eastern royals down the corridor, Mingyu immediately bounded over to Wonwoo, throwing his arms around him. “Wonwoo! You’re here!”

Wonwoo smiled softly, the kind of small, shy smile that still managed to light up his face. “Hi, Mingyu.”

Seokmin tilted his head. “What happened to Seungcheol?”

Wonwoo adjusted the little satchel he carried and said simply, “He always gets dizzy when he travels too long. He’ll be okay soon.”

The children began talking all at once — voices overlapping in a flurry of concern and curiosity.

“Is he sick?”

“Will he wake up soon?”

“Maybe he needs soup!”

“I’ll give him my blanket—”

Amid the cheerful chaos, only Jeonghan stayed quiet. He stood a few steps back, watching as Seungcheol was carried gently down the hall, the faint rise and fall of his breathing visible even from afar. The world seemed to hush around him.

For some reason, seeing Seungcheol like that made something small and tender stir in Jeonghan’s chest — worry, yes, but also something softer, deeper.

He wanted to run after him, to hold his hand or whisper that it would be okay. But his feet wouldn’t move.

The Queen of the North turned back to the remaining children, her tone kind but firm. “Alright, little ones. Prince Seungcheol needs some rest. Why don’t you all go play in the gardens for a while? The celebration will start later once he’s feeling better.”

Mingyu nodded eagerly, immediately grabbing Wonwoo’s hand. “Let’s go! We can show you the snow fort!”

Seokmin reached for Jisoo’s hand, grinning. “Race you there!”

The four of them dashed toward the great doors, laughter echoing through the marble hall.

“Jeonghan, come on!” Jisoo called over his shoulder.

But Jeonghan only waved, his voice quiet. “You go first. I’ll come later.”

As the doors closed behind his friends, Jeonghan turned his gaze back down the corridor where Seungcheol had been taken. The sound of snow fell softly beyond the windows — calm, endless, and patient.

For a long moment, Jeonghan simply stood there, the warmth of celebration humming faintly in the distance, while the first worry of his young heart settled gently inside him.

The snow outside fell thicker now, blanketing the palace grounds in soft white. From his window, Prince Jeonghan could see his friends laughing below — tiny splashes of color against the winter world.

Jisoo and Wonwoo were already building a snowman near the fountain, their gloves and scarves dusted with powdery flakes. Every so often, Jisoo’s laughter would rise above the wind, and Wonwoo would nod seriously as if constructing a snowman was a royal duty of the highest order.

A little farther off, Mingyu and Seokmin were rolling in the snow, shrieking with laughter as they tackled each other again and again. Mingyu’s voice carried across the courtyard like a bell — bright, wild, and full of joy.

But Jeonghan didn’t move.

He rested his chin on the window ledge, watching them through the fogged glass. A faint pout curved his lips. The world outside looked so happy, so full of light — but his chest still felt heavy.

Behind him, soft footsteps echoed through the chamber.

“Jeonghan?”

He turned to see his mother, the Queen, standing in the doorway. Her silver gown shimmered faintly in the light, and her eyes were warm with quiet understanding.

“Why aren’t you outside, my love?” she asked, walking toward him. “Your friends are waiting.”

Jeonghan pressed his lips together and turned back to the window. “I don’t want to play,” he murmured.

The Queen knelt beside him, her voice gentle. “Why not?”

He hesitated for a moment, his small fingers tracing shapes on the frosted glass. “Because… Seungcheol doesn’t feel good,” he said softly. “Everyone’s playing and laughing, but he’s all alone. How can I have fun when he’s not okay?”

The Queen’s expression softened, touched by the tenderness in her son’s words. She brushed a hand through his pale hair.

“My sweet boy,” she said softly. “The royal healers are looking after him. They gave him warm herbs earlier, and he drank them all like a brave prince. He’s resting now — just taking a little nap.”

Jeonghan’s brows furrowed, still unconvinced. “But… what if he wakes up and feels lonely?”

The Queen smiled faintly, her heart warming at his quiet worry. “Then perhaps,” she said, “he would be happy to see a friend.”

Jeonghan’s head turned at once, his eyes brightening. “Can I go see him?”

“Well…” the Queen began carefully, though her tone held hesitation. “He needs rest, darling. Perhaps later—”

But Jeonghan’s voice came out small and earnest — almost a whisper. “Please?”

It was such a tiny word, so soft, but it carried a kind of sincerity that made the Queen’s heart melt.

For a moment, she only looked at him — his wide eyes, his hopeful expression, the faint blush on his cheeks — and then she sighed, smiling.

“Alright,” she said gently. “But be very quiet, understand? Let him rest. You may bring something nice for him — perhaps a small treat.”

Jeonghan’s eyes lit up instantly. “Thank you, Mother!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her neck. “I’ll be really quiet, I promise!”

The Queen laughed softly, hugging him close before calling over one of Jeonghan’s maids. “Please accompany the Prince to the East Wing. Prince Seungcheol is resting in the guest chamber. Make sure the room stays warm.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Jeonghan practically bounced to the table where the servants had placed trays of sweets for the afternoon tea. He stood on his tiptoes to reach, carefully selecting two lemon tarts and two chocolate muffins — his favorites, and he hoped Seungcheol’s, too.

“And please bring a pitcher of warm milk,” he added, his voice serious as he pointed to the maids. “And warm peach tea. Oh — and water too, in case he’s thirsty.”

The maids exchanged fond smiles and hurried to prepare everything. Jeonghan clasped his hands together proudly.

Before leaving, he suddenly stopped. “Wait,” he said, looking thoughtful. “If Seungcheol’s still sleeping… I might get bored.”

He turned toward his own chamber, hurrying down the corridor. Inside, the room glowed softly with the light of a small fire. Jeonghan tiptoed toward his bookshelf — a tall piece of carved pine filled with colorful spines and golden lettering.

He stood there for a moment, tapping his chin like a tiny scholar. “Hmm… not this one — too many words,” he mumbled. “Oh! This one!”

He pulled out a picture book filled with stories of winter heroes and another about a prince who befriends a white deer in the snow. Holding them close, Jeonghan smiled in satisfaction.

When he returned to the hallway, the maids were ready, carrying trays of food and steaming drinks. “All set, Your Highness,” one said.

“Let’s go!” Jeonghan said brightly, his little boots clicking lightly against the polished floors as he skipped ahead of them. His excitement made even the usually silent corridor feel alive.

They reached the guest wing, where the air was warm and quiet. A faint scent of herbs lingered — mint, honey, and lavender. The maid closest to the door opened it carefully, and they stepped inside.

The room was dim, the curtains half-drawn, golden light flickering across the walls from the fireplace. There, on the large bed covered in thick blankets, Prince Seungcheol lay fast asleep.

His small face looked peaceful now, the faint color returning to his cheeks. His heavy robes and wool coat had been folded neatly over a chair, his little boots lined beside them. The only sound was the soft crackle of firewood.

Jeonghan paused, his smile softening. Even asleep, Seungcheol looked delicate — his lashes long against his skin, his breathing gentle and even.

Jeonghan turned to the maids and whispered, “You can put the food there, on the table by the window. I’ll stay with him.”

The maids obeyed quietly, setting the trays down. When they finished, they bowed and slipped out, closing the door with barely a sound.

Now, the room was still again.

Jeonghan padded softly to the chair beside the bed, clutching his books to his chest. He sat down carefully, not wanting to wake his friend, and placed the books on his lap.

For a moment, he just looked at Seungcheol — the rise and fall of his chest, the faint pink on his nose, the gentle curls of his hair against the pillow.

Then, with the carefulness only a child could have, Jeonghan opened his storybook and began to read in a whisper, his voice a soft hum in the quiet room.

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom covered in snow, there lived a kind prince who never liked to be alone…”

As the fire crackled and the snow fell outside, Jeonghan kept reading — page after page — waiting patiently for Seungcheol to wake.

And though Seungcheol didn’t stir, there was a faint smile on his lips, as if somewhere in his dreams, he could hear his friend’s gentle voice.

******

The world felt soft when Seungcheol stirred awake.

Warmth pressed against his skin — the kind of warmth that came from thick blankets, a crackling fire, and a gentle hush that filled every corner of the room. For a long moment, he stayed still, eyes half-lidded, listening to the faint pop of firewood and the softest hum — like someone whispering a story into the quiet.

His lashes fluttered, and when he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a small figure sprawled beside him.

Jeonghan.

The northern prince was lying on his stomach, elbows propped on the bed, brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he stared down at an open storybook. His long hair had fallen slightly into his face, brushing his cheek each time he turned a page. The way his lips pouted a little when he read made Seungcheol blink sleepily — half confused, half amused.

He looked so serious, so focused — like the fate of the entire kingdom depended on the story he was reading.

Seungcheol couldn’t help but stare.

The light from the fireplace danced over Jeonghan’s pale hair, turning it gold at the edges, and Seungcheol thought — very vaguely, in that fuzzy, half-awake way — that Jeonghan looked like the storybook princes his mother used to read about.

And maybe Jeonghan felt the weight of that gaze because suddenly, he lifted his head and grinned.

“You’re awake!” he said brightly, his voice ringing like a bell.

Seungcheol blinked, rubbing his eyes with both fists. “Huh?” he mumbled, still trying to make sense of where he was.

But before he could even sit up, Jeonghan let out a delighted squeak and — without a moment’s hesitation — rolled over so that he was half on top of Seungcheol, using the older boy’s stomach as a pillow.

Seungcheol gasped, a surprised laugh escaping his lips as Jeonghan stretched out on him, still holding his storybook in both hands, the pages fluttering above their heads.

“I was waiting for you to wake up,” Jeonghan announced matter-of-factly. “Because I want to play snow with you!”

Seungcheol blinked again — then smiled. “Snow?” he asked sleepily.

“Mhm!” Jeonghan nodded, his hair tickling Seungcheol’s chin. “Everyone’s already outside! You took too long to wake up.”

Seungcheol’s smile widened despite the drowsiness still tugging at him. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of Jeonghan’s hair away from his face. “I was tired…” he murmured.

Jeonghan lifted his head, his expression instantly softening. “Do you feel okay now?” he asked in a small, worried voice.

Seungcheol nodded, sitting up slowly. “I think so.”

That was all Jeonghan needed. His eyes lit up like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“Yayyy!” he squealed, jumping to his feet and tugging at Seungcheol’s blanket. “Come on, come on, let’s go! The snow’s waiting!”

“Wait—” Seungcheol laughed, still groggy as Jeonghan tried to pull him out of bed with surprising strength for someone so small.

Jeonghan huffed and managed to make Seungcheol sit on the nearby chair. Then, without warning, he cupped Seungcheol’s cheeks between his hands and squished them gently.

“There!” he said triumphantly. “You look okay now! Your cheeks are pink and soft again.”

Seungcheol blinked up at him, face still caught between Jeonghan’s palms, and then laughed — a soft, breathy sound that filled the quiet room with warmth.

Jeonghan grinned back proudly before turning to the table. He poured some water into a small silver cup, his tiny hands careful not to spill a drop. Then he walked back and held the cup right under Seungcheol’s lips.

“Drink,” he ordered with a serious face.

Seungcheol giggled. “I can do it myself,” he said, taking the cup.

But Jeonghan just pouted, crossing his arms. “I wanted to help,” he muttered under his breath, his tone so sulky that Seungcheol couldn’t help but laugh harder.

To distract himself, Jeonghan stomped over to the bed, grabbed Seungcheol’s little boots, and crouched in front of him. “Fine, then I’ll do this!”

He was just about to tug one onto Seungcheol’s foot when Seungcheol blurted out, without even thinking —

“You’re cute.”

Jeonghan froze, his hands halfway through tying the bootstring. His cheeks puffed out. “Hmph,” he huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically as he reached for a lemon tart instead. “You’re so weird.”

He took a big bite, crumbs sticking to his lips. “This is my favorite,” he said through a mouthful, holding it up for Seungcheol to see.

Seungcheol smiled, shaking his head. “You really are cute,” he mumbled again, just to see Jeonghan’s ears turn pink.

Jeonghan ignored him — or at least pretended to. He swallowed the last bite and pointed to the door. “Come on, we have to go before Mingyu eats all the snow!”

“That’s not possible,” Seungcheol giggled, slipping his boots on properly this time.

“Still!” Jeonghan said, bouncing in place. “We have to play! You said we’ll play tag again, remember?”

“Oh right!” Seungcheol exclaimed, his tiredness forgotten. “You’re ‘it’ this time!”

Jeonghan gasped in mock outrage. “No, you are!”

They ended up laughing as they scrambled to finish dressing — gloves and scarves half-tangled, Seungcheol trying to button his robe while Jeonghan impatiently grabbed his hands to help.

When they finally got everything on, Jeonghan snatched Seungcheol’s hand without hesitation and tugged him toward the door.

“Come on!”

Their laughter echoed through the hall as they ran — two small figures in fur-lined coats, boots thudding against polished floors, their squeals bright against the cold marble walls.

When they passed by the grand hall, their parents — the kings and queens of East and North — looked up from their conversation.

The adults exchanged knowing smiles as the boys zoomed past, Jeonghan’s laughter ringing out first, followed by Seungcheol’s gleeful “Wait for me!”

The Queen of the North shook her head fondly. “It seems the little prince has found his strength again.”

The King chuckled quietly beside her. “And his heart,” he said softly.

Outside, the snow waited — untouched, sparkling, and ready for two little princes to make their mark upon it.

The cold air nipped at Seungcheol’s cheeks the moment the great palace doors opened.

Snowflakes danced down like tiny stars, melting against his lashes, soft and fleeting. For a heartbeat, the world outside seemed to shimmer — white and endless, a playground made just for them.

“Wow…” Seungcheol breathed, clutching Jeonghan’s hand tightly. His boots sank into the snow with a satisfying crunch.

Jeonghan grinned from ear to ear. “I told you it’s pretty!”

The courtyard stretched wide before them — the fountain now frozen into glistening glass, the hedges capped with white, and footprints already scattered where the others had been playing.

They didn’t have to look far.

A snowball whizzed past them and exploded harmlessly against a nearby pillar.

“Snowball fight!” Mingyu shouted from across the yard, his laughter echoing. His fur hood had already fallen off his head, hair full of flakes, and Seokmin was beside him, both of them laughing so hard they could barely aim.

“Mingyu!” Jeonghan yelled, puffing up his chest. “You started without us!”

“Come catch us then!” Seokmin shouted, scooping another handful of snow.

Before Seungcheol could even blink, Jeonghan had thrown himself into the battlefield — shrieking and laughing, his scarf flapping wildly as he ran. Seungcheol blinked once, then laughed and charged after him.

Soon, the courtyard was filled with chaos and giggles.

Jisoo was crouched behind a half-built snow fort with Wonwoo, carefully forming perfect, round snowballs like a tiny craftsman. Wonwoo was quieter than the rest, but every time Mingyu laughed, Wonwoo’s small shoulders shook in a quiet giggle, his eyes shining.

“Wonwoo! Jisoo! Cover me!” Jeonghan yelled, dramatically diving into their fort.

Jisoo saluted. “Aye, Commander Jeonghan!”

Seungcheol tried to sneak around them, clutching a snowball behind his back — but Mingyu spotted him immediately.

“Seungcheol! You’re not escaping!”

He came barreling forward, a blur of brown fur and wild energy. But before he could throw, Seungcheol ducked and flung his snowball straight at Mingyu’s chest. It burst perfectly — a puff of white against Mingyu’s coat.

“Got you!” Seungcheol laughed, spinning around — just in time for Jeonghan to throw one right at him.

It hit him square on the arm.

Jeonghan gasped dramatically. “Oh no! Did I hit you too hard?”

Seungcheol blinked, pretending to stagger backwards. “I’ve been defeated!” he declared in a theatrical groan. Then he flopped backward into the snow, arms and legs spreading wide.

“Seungcheol!” Jeonghan squeaked, running to him. “I didn’t mean to—”

But Seungcheol suddenly sat up, scooped a big handful of snow, and gently shoved it onto Jeonghan’s head.

“Got you back!” he said between giggles.

Jeonghan’s jaw dropped. “You tricked me!”

And just like that, the laughter returned — bright and unstoppable.

Wonwoo and Jisoo joined in, pelting both of them with snowballs until everyone was laughing so hard they couldn’t throw straight anymore. Even quiet Wonwoo’s laughter came freely now, his cheeks flushed pink with cold and happiness.

Seokmin and Mingyu were already rolling down the slope beside the courtyard, their coats covered in snow, shouting something about who could make the biggest snow angel.

Jeonghan plopped down beside Seungcheol, panting and laughing. His hair was full of snowflakes, his face red from the cold. “I can’t feel my nose,” he said between breaths.

Seungcheol grinned, his own nose bright pink. “But you look happy.”

Jeonghan looked at him, smiling softly. “You look happy too.”

They sat there for a moment — small princes in heavy coats, surrounded by snow and laughter and friends — and even though their crowns were somewhere far away inside the palace, it didn’t matter.

Out here, they were just children.

Mingyu was now trying to build a wall with Seokmin, Jisoo was decorating the snowman with pinecones, and Wonwoo was carefully making a tiny snow cat beside it.

Jeonghan leaned closer to Seungcheol and whispered, “When the snow melts, we can still play, right?”

Seungcheol turned to him, blinking. “Of course! You promised we’d play tag again!”

Jeonghan’s grin returned — that same bright, heart-shaped smile. “Okay! Then… you’re it!”

He poked Seungcheol’s arm and sprinted away.

Seungcheol gasped, laughter spilling out of him as he scrambled up, nearly slipping. “Jeonghan! That’s cheating!”

Their laughter echoed through the courtyard again, bouncing off the stone walls, mingling with the voices of their friends — pure and unrestrained.

From the grand balcony above, their parents stood side by side, watching.

The King of the North folded his arms, smiling faintly. “It’s good to see them like this,” he murmured.

The Queen of the East nodded softly beside him, her eyes following her son — so alive, so bright again. “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes, joy itself is the best medicine.”

Below them, the princes played until the sun began to dip, their cheeks red, their gloves soaked, and their hearts light.

And though they were young, barely old enough to understand the world, that afternoon in the snow would be remembered — not as a royal event or a noble meeting — but as the day six tiny hearts found warmth together in winter.

By the time the sun slipped behind the mountains, the North Palace had transformed into a hall of golden light.

The great dining chamber glowed with hundreds of candles, their flames flickering against crystal chandeliers and silver-trimmed garlands of pine and snowberries. Long tables were draped in white silk, the scent of roasted chestnuts, honeyed bread, and cinnamon sugar filling the air.

It was one the grandest feasts the young princes had ever seen — but to them, the best part wasn’t the food or the music. It was simply being together again after their long day in the snow.

Jeonghan, wearing a pale gold robe embroidered with silver threads, sat at the head of the children’s table. His cheeks were still flushed from play, his hair brushed neatly but refusing to behave, a single lock curling at his forehead.

Mingyu was sitting beside him, already nibbling on a honey bun before the plates were even served. “Jeonghan, your kitchen is the best!” he mumbled with his mouth full.

Jeonghan laughed. “You say that every time you eat something.”

Across the table, Seokmin was teasing Jisoo, who was almost falling asleep on his shoulder, his eyes blinking slowly after the long day. “Wake up, sleepy prince,” Seokmin whispered. “You’ll miss the cake!”

Wonwoo sat quietly between Seungcheol and Mingyu, carefully slicing his roasted apple pie, occasionally passing a piece to Mingyu when he wasn’t looking.

It was warm, it was noisy, and it was perfect.

And yet — amidst all the laughter and the clatter of dishes — Seungcheol’s smile faltered just a little.

He kept glancing toward Jeonghan, who was laughing with his brother, his laughter soft and musical. Seungcheol twirled his spoon on the table, lost in thought.

He hadn’t brought anything. No gift of his own.

The others had. Jisoo had given Jeonghan the puppy plushie he’d carried since he arrived — “because now we’ll both have one,” he said with a shy grin. Wonwoo had presented a little snow globe, something his father’s craftsmen made from crystal and silver. Mingyu and Seokmin had made Jeonghan a snow fort earlier that afternoon — “a royal fortress of friendship,” they declared proudly.

But Seungcheol had nothing personal.

He had only the grand gifts his parents brought — jewels, silks, a box of sweets — things wrapped in gold and ribbon, too big, too shiny, too impersonal.

When Jeonghan turned to him and smiled, Seungcheol’s heart gave a small, guilty squeeze.

After dessert, when the music softened and the adults began their conversations, the boys gathered by the great hearth. Their cheeks were warm from the fire, their boots drying nearby. Jeonghan was unwrapping Jisoo’s plushie gift, a delighted look on his face.

“Do you like it?” Jisoo asked shyly.

Jeonghan’s whole face lit up. “I love it!” he said, hugging it tightly.

Everyone laughed — everyone except Seungcheol, who sat quietly by the window, his small hands twisting in his lap.

Jeonghan noticed.

He put the plushie down and walked over, his steps soft against the carpet. “Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol blinked up at him. “Hmm?”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “Why are you sitting here all alone?”

The older boy hesitated, cheeks pink. “I… I don’t have a gift for you.”

Jeonghan blinked. “What do you mean?”

Seungcheol’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Everyone gave you something. But I didn’t. I forgot… and I wanted to give you something from me, but…” He trailed off, staring down at his boots. “I didn’t make or bring anything. I’m sorry.”

For a moment, there was only the quiet crackle of the fire.

Then Jeonghan giggled — that light, silvery sound that always made Seungcheol look up.

He reached out and took Seungcheol’s hand. “You’re silly,” Jeonghan said softly. “You already gave me something.”

Seungcheol blinked, confused. “I did?”

Jeonghan nodded. “You came here. You played with me. You made me laugh.” His voice softened. “That’s the best gift I could ever have.”

The warmth that spread through Seungcheol’s chest wasn’t from the fire. It was something quieter — a kind of happiness that made his heart flutter and his stomach feel funny in the nicest way.

He smiled shyly. “Then… happy birthday, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan’s eyes curved into that heart-shaped smile again. “Thank you, Seungcheol.”

The night stretched on with stories and laughter, but eventually, the fire burned low and the stars peeked through the windows like sleepy watchers.

The guests began to leave one by one.

At the grand staircase, the royal families gathered to say their goodbyes. The children, still in their evening robes, hugged each other tightly.

Mingyu clung to Wonwoo like a vine. “You have to write to me right away! Promise!”

Wonwoo nodded, smiling shyly. “I promise.”

“No — pinky promise!” Mingyu insisted, holding out his little finger. Wonwoo linked his with Mingyu’s, sealing it.

Seokmin, yawning, was carrying Jisoo on his back. “He fell asleep before dessert,” he said, laughing softly. “I’ll take him to their carriage.”

“Tell him goodbye for me!” Jeonghan called, waving.

“Will do!” Seokmin said, his laughter echoing down the hall.

Then there were only two left — Jeonghan and Seungcheol.

The air felt still between them, quiet in a way that wasn’t sad, just… full.

Jeonghan stepped forward first. “I’ll miss you,” he said softly.

Seungcheol’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of his cloak before he looked up and smiled. “I’ll miss you too.”

For a moment, they just stood there — two little princes under the golden light of the entry hall, not quite knowing how to say goodbye.
Then, before his courage could vanish, Seungcheol stepped forward and threw his arms around Jeonghan in a small, tight bear hug.

Jeonghan froze for half a second, eyes wide — then melted into the embrace, his own arms wrapping around Seungcheol’s shoulders.

When Seungcheol pulled back, his cheeks were burning, but he still leaned forward and gave Jeonghan a quick, shy peck on the cheek.

“See you soon!” he said, voice bright and trembling all at once.

Jeonghan’s face went warm all the way to his ears. For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe — then smiled so wide his eyes curved into crescents.

“See you soon, Seungcheol.”

Outside, the carriages waited in the snow, their lanterns glowing softly like stars.

The Kings and Queens exchanged farewells, but the children’s eyes met one last time — two little smiles framed in winter breath.

And as the carriage wheels began to turn and Seungcheol looked back through the frosty window, he saw Jeonghan standing there at the palace gates — waving, bright and golden under the falling snow.

The world was quiet again. But in both their hearts, something warm lingered — a promise neither could name yet, but both could feel.

A promise that one day, they’d meet again.

******

The years drifted by like snowflakes, soft and unhurried.

What began as a single birthday celebration soon became a cherished tradition — six royal children meeting each month, their laughter echoing through different kingdoms, their bond growing steadier with every season that passed.

Each visit was its own small adventure.

Sometimes they gathered in the South, where Seokmin would lead them through gardens that smelled of oranges and sunlight, his laughter carrying over the fountains while Jisoo watched fondly from the shade, always ready with quiet, clever ideas for their games.

Other times they stayed in the West, where Jisoo would bring out his small harp, and Wonwoo would hum along softly while Mingyu built forts out of blankets, declaring himself “the knight of snacks.”

But most often — far more often than anyone ever questioned — their gatherings took place in the East.

Because Jeonghan had made it so.

It was his secret decree, one whispered only to the royal stewards and healers of each kingdom. “The East will host again,” he’d say, pretending it was for convenience or comfort. But in truth, he remembered that first journey when Seungcheol had arrived pale and weary from the long trip. He remembered how the older boy had tried to smile through his nausea, how he’d fallen asleep on his mother’s lap before reaching the palace gates.

Jeonghan never wanted to see him that way again.

So the East became their home away from home. A place of laughter, mischief, and sleepless nights.

The others never complained. The gardens there were vast and full of cherry trees, the ponds glittered like glass, and the Queen of the East spoiled them with treats and stories.

And Seungcheol — Seungcheol always looked healthy there.

Still, sometimes Seungcheol would insist they travel. “We can’t always stay in my home,” he would argue with a shy smile. “You’ll get tired of the same palace.”

Jeonghan would pout in return, crossing his arms. “Then we’ll go to the North — but I’ll make sure the royal healers prepare your tea.”

He always did. Every time.

Before the carriages set out, Jeonghan would personally visit the healers. “Warm herbs, always ready,” he would remind them. “And honey tea for the trip.”

He made sure Seungcheol never noticed his quiet arrangements — though he often suspected Seungcheol knew anyway.

As the seasons turned, their bond deepened in quiet, steady ways.

Mingyu and Wonwoo wrote letters to each other every week, their pages filled with doodles of cats, recipes, and secrets.

Seokmin and Jisoo were inseparable travelers, constantly sneaking off to visit one another, returning home with matching scratches, stories, and too much laughter.

But Jeonghan and Seungcheol — they were different.

They didn’t need letters. They didn’t need constant words. Their friendship was something built piece by piece — like a wall of stone laid gently by hand, strong and unshakable, even in silence.

Every time they saw each other, it was as if no time had passed.

Seungcheol would wait patiently during dinners, listening to Jeonghan’s soft voice as he explained his newest obsession — sometimes a story from the kingdom’s archives, sometimes a piece of history about ancient kings, sometimes his fascination with armor and weapon design.

Jeonghan spoke with his hands, his eyes bright with thought, and Seungcheol never once grew tired of listening.

If Jeonghan was the scholar, Seungcheol was his most loyal student.

When Jeonghan practiced his penmanship, Seungcheol would watch quietly, mesmerized by the way the ink curved on parchment. His own handwriting was messy — uneven and clumsy — but he didn’t mind. He liked when Jeonghan corrected him, leaning close, his hair brushing Seungcheol’s arm.

“There,” Jeonghan would whisper, guiding his hand. “Like this — see?”

Seungcheol would nod, pretending to focus on the letters, though his chest always felt oddly tight, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He admired Jeonghan in so many ways.

Not just for his grace, or the way he could speak like a prince even when he was teasing, but for his mind — curious, bright, endlessly kind.

Jeonghan’s thoughts ran like rivers, and Seungcheol could spend hours just following where they led.

When the others fell asleep early after their games, Jeonghan and Seungcheol often stayed awake, whispering under the stars.

Sometimes they lay on the palace balcony, wrapped in blankets, talking about the constellations or faraway lands. Sometimes Jeonghan would read aloud from a book, his voice soft and rhythmic, while Seungcheol simply listened, content to watch the flicker of candlelight on Jeonghan’s face.

The world outside their friendship continued to grow larger — responsibilities, lessons, and expectations piling up like the towers of their kingdoms. But whenever they met, everything else fell away.

For Seungcheol, Jeonghan became something constant — a quiet light he could follow.

Every time Jeonghan smiled at him, Seungcheol felt that familiar tug in his chest. A warmth that spread slowly, like the feeling of holding a cup of tea between cold hands.

He couldn’t name it. He didn’t try to.

He only knew that it was beautiful.

And that it always was — whenever it came from Jeonghan.

******

The North Palace sparkled like frost under sunlight, banners of silver and blue fluttering in the crisp wind. Today, the first crown prince of the North turned eighteen, and nobles from neighboring kingdoms had come to celebrate the grand coming-of-age ceremony.

Seungcheol had never seen Jeonghan like this.

When he finally entered the hall, Seungcheol froze in place, his heart hammering in his chest. Jeonghan was wearing a sky-blue and silver hanbok, layers upon layers of silk and brocade. Tiny silver stones were threaded delicately into his tied-up dark hair, catching the light like a scattering of stars.

He waddled slightly under the weight of the ceremonial robes, moving gracefully despite the effort. Every eye in the room seemed drawn to him, and Seungcheol’s own gaze refused to leave Jeonghan.

The other children and nobles rushed forward to greet him — hugs, bows, handshakes — but Jeonghan was already puffing softly, huffing and ouffing as he navigated through the crowd.

“I’m tired already,” he muttered under his breath, brushing a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to walk anymore.”

Seungcheol stepped closer, his hand brushing gently against Jeonghan’s cheek. “I’ll help you later,” he said softly, trying to calm the rapid beating of his own heart.

Even as he said it, Seungcheol’s eyes wandered over the crowd. Around him, many their age admired Jeonghan openly, some shyly bowing, some lingering with whispers and longing glances. A small ache tugged at Seungcheol’s chest — a pang of jealousy, worry, and something he couldn’t name.

Will he choose someone else? Someone far away?

He sighed quietly, forcing a bitter smile. That day would come. Of course it would. And Jeonghan, radiant and brilliant as he was, would someday choose an alpha. The thought felt like a punch to Seungcheol’s gut.

He shook the feeling away, turning to enjoy the ceremony with his friends. Mingyu laughed loudly beside him, and Wonwoo quietly poured tea. The warm chatter and silver chandeliers distracted him for a moment — but only briefly.

After the ceremony ended, Seungcheol excused himself to deliver a special gift he had prepared for Jeonghan. Once he returned to the dining hall, he froze again.

Seokmin was piggybacking Jeonghan, who was laughing and trying to grab at something Wonwoo held in his hand — a small tray of desserts. Mingyu’s laughter echoed across the hall.

Jeonghan spotted Seungcheol and waved cheerfully.

Seungcheol forced himself to smile, his hands trembling slightly as he handed his gift to one of the maids to hide it for now. His throat felt tight, and he couldn’t explain why his chest was suddenly so heavy. He focused instead on picking at the desserts, trying to ignore the sight of Jeonghan laughing on Seokmin’s back.

He didn’t know that Seokmin’s sharp eyes were on him, observing every small movement. The prince smirked knowingly, shaking his head slightly.

“I’m tired,” Seokmin teased Jeonghan, lowering him gently. “You can ask Seungcheol to carry you instead.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes dramatically, then, grabbing two lemon tarts, walked toward Seungcheol with a pout.

Seungcheol froze. His heart thundered in his chest as Jeonghan stood before him, tiny but determined, his cheeks flushed with exertion.

“I’m tired,” Jeonghan repeated, voice soft but insistent.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, then bent slightly and lifted him onto his back. Jeonghan let out a delighted squeak, gripping him carefully.

They laughed together as Seungcheol carried him across the hall, the world spinning slightly under the mixture of warmth, weight, and sunlight flickering through crystal windows.

Jeonghan’s hands held lemon tarts, and with a mischievous smile, he began feeding Seungcheol, who accepted each bite with small giggles. Their laughter mingled, a private melody amid the grandeur of the feast.

As the evening wound down, the crowd slowly dispersed. Later, alone on the palace balcony, Seungcheol handed Jeonghan the small gift he had prepared: a set of carefully bound books for calligraphy, each page blank and waiting.

Jeonghan took them with a soft smile, his fingers brushing Seungcheol’s briefly, sending a familiar tug through Seungcheol’s chest.

Seungcheol leaned against the balustrade, eyes on Jeonghan. “You have a lot of admirers and suitors,” he said lightly, trying to keep his voice calm. “What happens if you choose someone who lives far away? We won’t see you as often as now…”

Jeonghan paused, the moonlight catching the silver stones in his hair, illuminating his soft profile. He looked at Seungcheol, eyes calm and steady.

“I’ll choose someone near me,” he said simply, a quiet promise hidden in the gentle tone.

Seungcheol felt something unnameable settle in his chest — relief, hope, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight. He smiled softly, a little shy, but his heart felt lighter.

No matter what the future held, he thought, Jeonghan would always be close enough for him. Always.

And in that moment, the night felt infinite — the stars above the North Palace bearing witness to the quiet, enduring bond between the two young princes.

******

Ten Years Later

Seungcheol woke slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains and dusting the room in gold.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he realized — Jeonghan was lying on top of him, his chest pressed against Seungcheol’s, one arm draped lazily over his side, the other curled under his head. Even in sleep, his presence filled the room like warmth made tangible.

Seungcheol smiled quietly, brushing a finger across Jeonghan’s cheek. The delicate lines of his face, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing — he was beautiful, even tired from late-night council meetings, royal work, and caring for their twins, Jungwon and Eunchae.

Almost four years of marriage had passed in what felt like both a blink and a lifetime. Four years of laughter, quiet mornings, shared dreams, and a love that had begun long before they knew the world could call it “love.”

Seungcheol leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Jeonghan’s head, and his eyes drifted to the bedside table. There, atop a neat stack of letters, was the one he had prepared the night before, after reading bedtime stories to their twins. Today is Jeonghan’s birthday, and Seungcheol had written down all the things he had carried in his heart for years.

With a soft exhale, he picked up the letter and began to read aloud to himself in the quiet of the morning, letting each word sink in.

My Jeonghan,

Do you remember us at five years old? Even then, my little heart already knew who it was beating for. From the moment we met, from the very first game of tag, from snowball fights and shared secrets, I have always — quietly, stubbornly — known it was you.

Distance never won between us, not then, not when letters took days to reach, not when seasons separated kingdoms. It was always you and me. Always.

You have been my inspiration, my guide, my joy. I admire you — in the smallest things, like the way your handwriting curves across parchment, and in the grandest, like the brilliance of your mind, your courage, your unwavering kindness. You have shaped me, taught me patience, laughter, and love in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

I am endlessly grateful to love you, Jeonghan — to wake up beside you, to walk beside you through the years, and to be loved by someone as extraordinary as you.

Do you remember my fifth birthday? I blew my candles and made a wish, a wish I didn’t yet understand I was making. Every birthday wish since then, every hope I whispered to the night, led me here — to you.

Seasons may change, empires may rise and fall, but my heart will always be yours. Today is your day, Jeonghan, and I vow to spend every day loving you, making you laugh, keeping you warm, and cherishing you for the rest of our lives.

Happy birthday, my love.

Always yours,

Seungcheol

The sound of a soft stir pulled him from his reverie. Jeonghan’s dark eyes blinked open, sunlight catching the silver stones in his hair, and a sleepy smile curved his lips.

Seungcheol wrapped his arms around him instinctively, pressing Jeonghan close. He pressed small, tender kisses to his lips, each one coaxing a giggle from his husband.

“Happy birthday, my love,” he murmured again and again, voice thick with emotion, holding him as if the world could dissolve around them and only this moment would remain.

Jeonghan pressed his face against Seungcheol’s shoulder, smiling softly. “Birthdays with you,” he whispered, “are always the best. Always my favorite.”

Seungcheol chuckled, holding him tighter. “Then we have so many more to look forward to,” he said, his voice a mix of laughter and reverence.

The morning stretched on, golden and quiet, their twins sleeping soundly in the next room, the palace outside humming with life. And in that moment, Seungcheol pressed one last kiss to Jeonghan’s temple and whispered words they had shared a thousand times, yet never lost their power:

“I love you.”

“I love you,” Jeonghan replied, a soft echo, as if sealing the years of their shared history into a single, infinite heartbeat.

And for Seungcheol, there was no future he could imagine that did not include this — this warmth, this laughter, this love that had begun when they were five and had persevered, unwavering, to this very day.

The world could turn. Kingdoms could rise and fall. Seasons could change. But Seungcheol knew, with every fiber of his being, that he would be Jeonghan’s — always, forever, and beyond.

And in the golden morning light, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Jeonghan woke slowly, drifting upward from sleep as though pulled by a gentle tide. At first, there was only warmth—the familiar cocoon of thick blankets, the lingering comfort of rest. Then came sound. Soft, barely-there giggles. A whisper of laughter muffled by effort, followed by the unmistakable thump of a small body bouncing against the mattress.

His brow furrowed. A low groan slipped from his lips as he shifted beneath the covers, turning slightly toward the sound. Almost immediately, there was frantic movement—someone shushing too loudly, hurried whispers that only made things worse. The giggles dissolved into whines, small and indignant, as if disappointment had been physically felt.

Jeonghan blinked his eyes open.

Morning light filtered in through sun-kissed windows, hues of yellow and orange against the stone walls of the royal bedchamber. And there—standing at the foot of the bed like a scene plucked straight from a dream—was his husband.

Seungcheol was already dressed in his royal robes, rich fabric falling neatly over broad shoulders, the quiet weight of the crown evident even without it resting on his head. In his arms, he held their four-year-old twins, each pouting dramatically as though the injustice of the world had found them far too early in the morning.

Jungwon was still in his red pajamas, but a small royal cape hung proudly from his shoulders, slightly crooked, clearly donned with great seriousness. Eunchae, equally determined, wore her own red pajamas—and atop her messy hair sat a toy crown, tilted but cherished, its plastic jewels catching the morning light.

All three of them froze the moment Jeonghan’s gaze met theirs.

For a heartbeat, the room was still.

Then chaos.

Jungwon and Eunchae wriggled free from Seungcheol’s hold with impressive determination, slipping from his arms like practiced escape artists. They dove toward the bed with squeals of delight, the mattress dipping under their small weight as they crawled over blankets and pillows straight to Jeonghan.

“Baba!”
“Christmas! Christmas!”

Giggles turned into happy screams as they flung their arms around him, pressing sloppy kisses to his cheeks—too wet, too enthusiastic, entirely unavoidable. Jeonghan burst into laughter, the sound warm and unrestrained as he wrapped his arms around them, pulling their small bodies close.

Their laughter filled the room, bright and ringing, bouncing off stone walls that had once known only silence and duty. They chanted the word Christmas like it was a spell, like saying it enough times might make the day arrive faster.

Jeonghan finally pushed himself upright, still holding them close, pressing kisses into their hair before gently teasing, “Why are you jumping on our bed while Baba is sleeping, hm?”

Jungwon gasped dramatically, eyes wide as though accused of the gravest crime. “Baba!” he exclaimed, pointing accusingly behind him. “Father told us to wake you up!”

Behind them, Seungcheol mirrored the gasp with exaggerated offense, as if caught red-handed. He crossed the room and sat beside Jeonghan on the bed, the mattress dipping once more as he slid an arm around Jeonghan’s waist. He rested his chin on Jeonghan’s shoulder, voice soft and amused.

“Love,” he said, pretending innocence, “I was in my office. These two barged in demanding I wake you up.”

Eunchae, clearly unconcerned with the accusations flying around her, stood proudly on the bed and spun in a careful circle, arms outstretched. “I’m wearing my crown!” she announced happily. “Jungwon gave it to me last night!”

Jeonghan laughed again, reaching out to lightly pinch both their cheeks, earning indignant squeals. Then he turned his gaze to Seungcheol, eyes glittering with playful accusation.

“So,” he said lightly, “the king is at fault here?”

Seungcheol only tightened his hold, pulling Jeonghan closer as their children resumed playing across the bed, rolling and giggling between blankets like little sparks of joy. Jeonghan reached up, cupping Seungcheol’s face, his thumb brushing softly along his cheek before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Why are you up so early?” he murmured. “You should’ve woken me.”

Seungcheol chuckled quietly, brushing Jeonghan’s hair back with practiced tenderness. “Christmas Eve was tiring,” he said softly. “I just needed to send a few last-minute letters to the other kingdoms.”

Jeonghan smiled at that, contentment settling deep in his chest as he leaned into his husband’s warmth. Outside, the eastern kingdom lay blanketed in crushed leaves and fallen flowers—quiet, peaceful, wrapped in the hush of autumn. For a moment, the world felt still.

Then—

Grrrrrr.

The sound cut through the silence with shocking clarity.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol both looked down at their children. Jungwon froze, hands clutching his stomach. His cheeks flushed pink before he looked up shyly, breaking into a sheepish grin.

“Oh,” he said earnestly, patting his belly. “My stomach is calling for everyone’s attention.”

Laughter erupted—full and uncontrollable—as the warmth of family and the promise of Christmas filled the room completely.

Eventually, the laughter softened into warmth—the kind that lingered quietly in the chest. Seungcheol pressed one last kiss into Jeonghan’s hair before reluctantly pulling away, the weight of duty settling back onto his shoulders.

“I’ll finish my last errands,” he said gently, already rising from the bed. “I won’t be long.”

Jeonghan nodded, watching as his husband straightened his robes and glanced back once more, eyes soft despite the crown waiting for him elsewhere. The twins waved enthusiastically, Eunchae nearly losing her balance as she did so, Jungwon saluting with far more seriousness than necessary.

Once the doors closed behind Seungcheol, the room felt different—not emptier, but gentler. Morning had fully arrived now. Autumn light spilled across the floor, reflecting off sunlight-laced windows, turning the chamber into something bright and hushed.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said, clapping his hands softly. “Bath time.”

A chorus of groans followed immediately.

“But Baba,” Eunchae whined, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “It’s Christmas!”

“And Christmas means clean princes and princesses,” Jeonghan replied sweetly, lifting her effortlessly. Jungwon followed close behind, already chattering about what colors he wanted to wear today.

The bath chamber was warm, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling as Jeonghan helped them undress. Eunchae splashed first, laughing wildly, while Jungwon dipped his fingers cautiously into the water before committing. Jeonghan washed their hair with practiced care, fingers gentle as he rinsed soap away, listening to their voices echo off marble walls—stories tumbling out of them faster than he could keep track of.

They talked about leaves, about their favorite flowers, about the northern snow, about the southern music, about food, about gifts they definitely weren’t supposed to talk about.

Once dried and wrapped briefly in towels far too big for them, Jeonghan helped them into their robes—soft fabrics trimmed with eastern embroidery, ceremonial but comfortable. Jungwon insisted on fastening his own sash, tongue poking out in concentration. Eunchae spun again once dressed, the robe fluttering around her legs.

“You both look perfect,” Jeonghan said, smiling as he adjusted Eunchae’s sleeves and smoothed Jungwon’s hair.

They made their way to the dining hall together, the scent of warm bread and spiced fruit already greeting them. Breakfast was laid out generously—steaming porridge, honeyed pastries, fresh fruit preserved from autumn. The twins barely sat still long enough to eat.

“We’re going to the Southern Palace today,” Jungwon reminded everyone, as if this were news of great urgency.

“With Heesung and Sunoo!” Eunchae added, bouncing in her chair.

“Yes, yes,” Jeonghan laughed, pouring them warm milk. “But you have to eat first.”

Seungcheol returned shortly after, his presence grounding the room instantly. He shed his outer cloak and joined them at the table, smiling as he watched his children talk over one another, excitement spilling out of them uncontrollably.

“Did you check your gifts?” he asked calmly, slicing bread.

The twins froze.

Jungwon’s eyes widened. Eunchae gasped.

“Our gifts!” Eunchae squeaked.

Jeonghan raised a brow, amused. “For Heesung and Sunoo.”

“Yes!” Jungwon nodded vigorously. “They’re ready!”

“And your letters?” Seungcheol added gently.

That earned him matching groans.

“To Uncle Jisoo,” Jeonghan continued smoothly.

“And Uncle Seokmin,” Seungcheol said.

“And Uncle Mingyu,” Jeonghan added.

“And Uncle Wonwoo,” Seungcheol finished.

The twins exchanged looks, then nodded solemnly, the weight of responsibility settling dramatically on their small shoulders.

“We’ll finish them,” Jungwon promised.

“After breakfast,” Eunchae amended quickly.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol shared a glance over the table—one filled with warmth, familiarity, and the quiet satisfaction of a life built together.

Outside, snow continued to fall softly over the northern kingdom. Inside, laughter rang bright and steady, carrying the promise of a Christmas morning that would be remembered long after the season passed.

The carriage rocked gently as it began its journey southward, wheels rolling smoothly over the stone roads that led away from the Eastern Palace. Outside the narrow windows, the world was painted in autumn—trees crowned in amber and gold, their leaves drifting lazily through the air, the scent of earth and ripened fruit lingering faintly even inside the carriage.

Jeonghan sat against the cushioned seat, one arm wrapped around Eunchae as she leaned against him, her small fingers pressed eagerly to the glass. Jungwon sat across from them beside Seungcheol, knees bouncing with restless excitement, his royal cape folded carefully in his lap this time—reminded gently not to wrinkle it.

“Baba,” Eunchae said suddenly, voice hushed with wonder, “will the Southern Palace really have orange trees everywhere?”

Jeonghan smiled, brushing her hair back. “Not everywhere,” he said softly, “but many. The air smells sweeter there. Like ripe fruit and warm wind.”

“And no frost?” Jungwon asked immediately, eyes bright. “Not even in the morning?”

Seungcheol chuckled. “No frost,” he confirmed. “The Southern Kingdom holds onto autumn longer. The leaves fall slowly there.”

Jungwon hummed thoughtfully, clearly trying to imagine it. “Do you think the ground crunches when you walk?”

“Sometimes,” Jeonghan answered. “Especially in the palace gardens.”

That seemed to satisfy him—for about three seconds.

“Will Heesung like his gift?” Jungwon asked next, twisting slightly in his seat.

“And Sunoo?” Eunchae added quickly, not to be outdone. “Will he think my drawing is pretty?”

Seungcheol reached out and squeezed her hand. “They’ll love them,” he said with certainty. “Because they’re from you.”

The carriage passed through open countryside now, sunlight filtering through branches heavy with fading leaves. The twins shifted constantly, peering out the windows, asking question after question—about the Southern Palace halls, the colors of the gardens, whether their cousins would be waiting at the gates or running toward them like last year.

“Do they still have the big pond?”
“Can we run this time?”
“Will Uncle Mingyu pick us up again?”
“And Uncle Wonwoo will read to us, right?”

Jeonghan answered each one patiently, voice calm and fond, even as Eunchae eventually climbed halfway into his lap to get a better view of the road ahead.

At some point, the excitement softened. The steady rhythm of the carriage lulled Eunchae first—her questions slowing, her head drooping until she finally rested against Jeonghan’s chest. Jungwon lasted longer, stubbornly fighting sleep until Seungcheol pulled him gently closer, a firm hand resting between his shoulders.

“You can rest,” Seungcheol murmured. “We’ll wake you when we arrive.”

Jungwon nodded solemnly… then promptly leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut.

Jeonghan watched them both—one child asleep in his arms, the other curled against his husband—and felt something quiet settle deep inside him. Contentment. Gratitude. The kind of peace that didn’t need words.

Outside, the leaves continued to fall.

Ahead of them waited the Southern Palace, warm with autumn light, full of laughter and familiar voices. And for now, within the gentle sway of the carriage, the journey itself felt like part of the celebration.

The Southern Palace rose ahead of them in warm stone and sweeping arches, its gates thrown wide as though the palace itself were welcoming them home. Autumn vines climbed the outer walls, leaves in shades of gold and rust fluttering down as the carriage slowed, wheels crunching softly over the path.

Before it had even come to a full stop, the twins were awake again.

“We’re here,” Jungwon whispered urgently, already halfway off his seat.

Eunchae pressed her face to the window. “I see them! Baba, I see them!”

Jeonghan barely had time to smooth their robes before the carriage door opened. The moment their feet touched the ground, the world exploded into motion.

“Heesung!” Jungwon shouted.

“Sunoo!” Eunchae screamed right after.

And they ran.

“Wait—!” Jeonghan called instinctively, stepping forward with both hands outstretched. “Don’t run—!”

Too late.

Five-year-old Heesung had already spotted them. He let out a delighted yell and bolted forward—boots forgotten entirely, feet bare against the stone as he sprinted down the steps of the palace like he’d been launched from a cannon.

Behind him came three-year-old Sunoo, laughter bubbling out of him as he toddled as fast as his short legs would allow, arms lifted high. On his head sat his beloved toy crown—slightly too big, slightly crooked—

—or rather, it had been on his head.

Because Mingyu was wearing it now.

“Come back here, Your Majesty!” Mingyu called dramatically, waving Sunoo’s toy wand in the air as he chased after his son, entirely committed to the bit.

Wonwoo followed several steps behind, hands tucked into his sleeves, shaking his head in long-suffering amusement. “That’s not how royalty behaves,” he muttered, though the fondness in his voice betrayed him completely.

“HEESUNG—!” Seokmin shouted, already sprinting after his son the moment he noticed the missing boots. “Where are your shoes?! You can’t—!”

Heesung paid him no mind, skidding to a stop just long enough for Jungwon and Eunchae to crash into him in a tangle of limbs and laughter. They collapsed together in a heap, hugging, shouting, talking all at once—words overlapping, excitement spilling out faster than they could form sentences.

Sunoo finally reached them too, immediately wrapping his arms around Eunchae’s leg and laughing as Jungwon crouched to pull him into the hug.

Jeonghan stood frozen for a moment, heart lodged firmly in his throat, before letting out a breath and pressing a hand to his chest.

Seungcheol, beside him, was openly laughing now—head thrown back slightly, eyes crinkled with delight. “You tried,” he said, nudging Jeonghan gently. “But you knew it wouldn’t work.”

Jeonghan sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips as he watched their children reunited in a flurry of autumn leaves and joy. “I know,” he admitted softly.

At the top of the steps, Jisoo watched the chaos unfold—barefoot child, chasing parents, tangled cousins, toy crown now slipping dangerously sideways atop Mingyu’s head. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

“They’ve been here five minutes,” he said to absolutely no one, “and the palace is already under siege.”

Seungcheol stepped forward then, calling out warmly, “Merry Christmas.”

The words seemed to settle over the scene like a blessing.

Laughter echoed across the courtyard. Leaves continued to fall. And beneath the autumn sun, the Southern Palace felt fuller, brighter—alive once more with the joyful disorder of family.

The children eventually scattered again, laughter carrying them across the courtyard as they chased fallen leaves and one another, their voices blending into a joyful din that filled every corner of the Southern Palace. Guards stepped aside with fond smiles; servants paused in their work, already accustomed to the particular kind of chaos that only family could bring.

In the brief pocket of calm that followed, Jeonghan stepped forward and caught Mingyu by the sleeve.

Before Mingyu could react, Jeonghan pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Hey—” Mingyu laughed, startled at first, then immediately melting into the hug. He wrapped his arms around his older brother without hesitation, resting his chin briefly on Jeonghan’s shoulder. “You’re early,” he said softly.

Jeonghan smiled against his hair. “I missed you.”

Nearby, Seokmin and Seungcheol collided in their own greeting, laughter bursting out as they hugged with the easy familiarity of people who had shared years of responsibility, worry, and joy. Seungcheol clapped Seokmin’s back, the sound warm and solid.

“It’s good to see you,” Seungcheol said sincerely.

Wonwoo approached Jisoo then, holding a small pair of boots by their laces. He extended them with a quiet sigh that carried unmistakable fondness.

“Soo,” he said calmly, “your child is like a thunderbolt.”

Jisoo accepted the boots, blinking once before a soft laugh escaped him. “I know,” he replied, shaking his head. “I truly know.”

They all turned their attention back to the courtyard, where the children ran in wild loops—Sunoo giggling as Mingyu chased him halfheartedly, Heesung shouting something triumphant as Jungwon attempted to keep up, Eunchae spinning in place until she nearly fell over.

Mingyu crossed his arms, watching Sunoo with a fond smile. “He couldn’t even sleep last night,” he said. “Kept asking if it was morning yet. I don’t think he closed his eyes at all.”

Wonwoo hummed beside him. “I’m convinced he runs purely on excitement.”

Seokmin laughed softly. “Heesung woke up before us today,” he said, still sounding slightly in disbelief. “For the first time in five years. Jisoo and I weren’t even out of bed yet.”

Jisoo shook his head, amused. “He was already at the desk,” he added. “Finishing his letters. Said he didn’t want to forget any of his uncles.”

Seungcheol smiled at that, gaze drifting instinctively to where Jungwon and Eunchae were now trying—and failing—to coordinate a game with Sunoo. “Sounds familiar,” he said. “Our twins woke Jeonghan up before sunrise.”

Jeonghan glanced at him, fond exasperation written plainly across his face. “They jumped on the bed,” he admitted. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

The adults shared a quiet laugh then—soft, understanding, the kind born from shared mornings and sleepless nights, from love that had grown steadier with time.

Before long, Eunchae shrieked with laughter as Sunoo tripped into a pile of leaves, Jungwon declaring victory far too loudly. Heesung followed, boots still conspicuously absent.

Jisoo sighed, already moving to intervene—boots in hand—but he was smiling as he did.

Amid the noise, the movement, the endless energy of children on Christmas morning, the parents stood together, watching. Content. Whole. Knowing that these fleeting moments—these stolen pauses amid chaos—were the ones they would carry with them long after the day ended.

And for now, that was enough.

It took effort—gentle hands on shoulders, soft calls of names, and more than a little negotiation—to finally usher the children inside. The Southern Palace doors opened wide, warmth spilling out to meet them, carrying the familiar scents of baked sweets, citrus, and spiced tea.

Inside, the halls glowed. Lanterns cast soft golden light along stone walls draped in autumn garlands, ribbons woven through branches of dried leaves and berries. The children’s footsteps echoed as they ran ahead, voices rising in excitement as they spotted wrapped gifts stacked neatly near the hearth.

“Presents!” Eunchae cried, already tugging at Jungwon’s sleeve.

“Wait,” Jeonghan called, laughing as he followed them in. “Shoes off—Heesung, boots on first.”

Eventually, everyone settled into the grand sitting room, the hearth crackling quietly as they gathered in a loose circle. The children sat cross-legged on thick rugs, barely containing themselves as gifts were passed around. Paper tore. Laughter burst out. Gasps followed every reveal—wooden toys, handmade trinkets, soft scarves sewn just a little too long.

Then came the letters.

One by one, the children shuffled forward, clutching folded papers with uneven edges and careful handwriting. Heesung stood straighter than usual as he handed his letters out, pride evident in his eyes. Sunoo offered his with both hands, bowing slightly before immediately hiding behind Mingyu’s leg. Jungwon recited his aloud halfway through before realizing he wasn’t supposed to. Eunchae hugged hers tightly before giving it up, as if reluctant to let go.

The adults read quietly. Some smiled immediately. Others paused, eyes softening, fingers lingering on the page.

As the children drifted back into play, the parents remained where they were, letters still in hand, watching them move through the room like sparks of light.

Wonwoo broke the silence first, gaze distant but fond. “I still remember the snow fights we used to have in the north,” he said quietly. “We’d come back inside soaked and frozen, pretending we weren’t.”

Jeonghan laughed softly at the memory. “Mingyu cried the first time snow went down his collar.”

“That’s not true,” Mingyu protested immediately, though he was smiling.

Jeonghan tilted his head thoughtfully. “You’re right. You didn’t cry.”

Mingyu relaxed—until Jeonghan continued.

“You did spill hot chocolate in front of everyone,” Jeonghan said cheerfully, “because you were trying to add more marshmallows.”

Seungcheol chuckled. Seokmin burst out laughing. Even Jisoo shook his head, amused.

Mingyu groaned dramatically. “I was eight!”

“And greedy,” Jeonghan added kindly.

Their laughter was interrupted by suspicious giggling near the table.

Sunoo and Jungwon sat far too close together, shoulders hunched, hands hidden between them. Crumbs dotted their robes. Powdered sugar dusted their lips.

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. Then he gasped loudly. “Are you two eating lemon tarts without me?”

Sunoo froze. Jungwon tried—and failed—to swallow discreetly.

“You didn’t save me any?” Mingyu demanded, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “Not even one?”

Sunoo giggled, cheeks full. Jungwon laughed so hard crumbs fell onto the rug.

Jeonghan leaned back, watching the scene unfold—children laughing, adults teasing, letters clutched loosely in their hands—and felt something deep and steady settle in his chest.

This was Christmas.

Not the gifts, not the palace, not even the traditions—but this: shared memories, old stories, new laughter, and the quiet joy of watching their children create a world just as full.

And for a moment, as the fire crackled and voices overlapped in warmth, time itself seemed content to pause and listen.

The palace had grown quiet.

Not empty—never empty—but softened, as though even the walls understood the hour. Lanterns burned low, their light warm and drowsy, shadows stretching lazily across stone floors now scattered with the remnants of joy: a forgotten ribbon, a crumpled scrap of wrapping paper, the faint scent of citrus and firewood still lingering in the air.

One by one, the children had surrendered to sleep.

Jisoo held Heesung carefully in his arms, the boy’s head tucked beneath his chin, bare feet dangling as his small chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. Seokmin walked beside them, a hand hovering on Jisoo's back out of instinct more than necessity, his steps slow and measured as they escorted their friends toward the gates.

Mingyu followed, Sunoo asleep against his shoulder, tiny fingers still curled into the front of his robe as if afraid to let go even in dreams. Mingyu’s free hand was intertwined with Wonwoo’s, their fingers fitting together easily, familiarly. Wonwoo glanced down once, adjusting Sunoo’s blanket without a word.

Jeonghan cradled Eunchae against his chest, her cheek warm where it pressed beneath his jaw, lashes resting softly against her skin. One small hand clutched his collar, the other curled loosely at her side. Beside him, Seungcheol carried Jungwon, who fought sleep just enough to keep his brow faintly furrowed, arms looped securely around his father’s neck.

No one spoke above a whisper.

They paused at the edge of the courtyard, where carriages waited silently, lanterns dimmed. Goodbyes were exchanged with soft smiles, nods, gentle touches to shoulders and arms—careful not to jostle, careful not to wake.

Because if one child stirred—
they all knew—
there would be tears, and laughter, and no one would be leaving anytime soon.

Seungcheol broke the silence softly, voice barely more than breath.
“Don’t forget,” he murmured, glancing at each of them in turn. “New Year’s in the Eastern Kingdom.”

Mingyu smiled faintly.
“A week,” Wonwoo echoed quietly.

Seokmin nodded, adjusting Heesung just slightly.
“We’ll be there.”

Jeonghan met their eyes, warmth settling deep in his chest. “We’ll see you soon.”

One last look was shared—at sleeping children, at familiar faces, at a day already turning into memory.

Then, gently, they parted.

Carriage doors closed with muted thuds. Wheels rolled softly over stone. Lanterns dimmed further as the palace settled into rest.

As Jeonghan stepped into his own carriage, Eunchae shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep. Seungcheol adjusted Jungwon’s weight against his shoulder, pressing a quiet kiss to his son’s hair before settling beside his husband.

The doors closed.

And as the carriage moved forward into the night, autumn air cool and calm around them, the day lingered—not loudly, not brightly—but the way the best moments always did.

Soft.
Whole.
And held close.