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Taerae’s life ends at the ripe old age of 21—he wishes he could say he had a good run, but there’s so much more he wants to do.
He’s being dramatic, of course. Life is not over, no. He’ll continue living, even with his basic human freedoms stripped from him. He’d scraped together a tenuous kind of happiness from bare dust; now, at last, the wind has blown and scattered it irreparably.
He’s betrothed to marry Zhang Hao, his father’s favored court musician, in just a month’s time.
It isn’t fair. His eldest brother, Hanbin, hasn’t yet been forced into a marriage. No, this is a punishment for Taerae, being roped and confined by the shackles of marriage.
The scroll detailing his betrothal had been laid neatly on his pillow, which he had discovered upon returning in the little hours of the morning. Now, he shakes with anger as he stands at his bedside and pores over it, the injustice of it all. He’s trying to find enjoyment in his otherwise stifling life, and his father cannot even begrudge that small endeavor.
There’s a fire crackling merrily in his fireplace, entirely unaware of the ruin that Taerae’s life is about to become. No doubt a servant had lit it, hoping it might draw the prince back before sunrise. And, as if it might erase anything, Taerae casts the scroll onto the burning flames. He knows full well that it can do nothing more than erase the physical evidence of his betrothal; the underlying promise of the thing will not change, nor will his father’s mind.
He will be wed to Zhang Hao in a month’s time, and he will rein in the most outrageous of his behavior.
He’d storm to his father’s chambers now if he knew Gunwook wouldn’t be there to stop him, an impassable stone wall. No, he’ll have to wait for daylight to confront his father. For now, he should bathe and scrub the night’s activities off of him, the stink of sex and the burn of alcohol.
And for the next month, he’s going to make the most of his time before he’s shackled to a goodie-two-shoes strings player for the remainder of his life.
This shouldn’t be happening. He’s a favored court musician—he should be rewarded, not punished. But the king himself had requested that Hao present before his throne. He’d assumed the king wished for music as he presided over his nobles and his subjects. He’d arrived expecting to find his guzheng set up to the king’s side, but there was only a pillow for him to kneel on before the king.
So he’d done so, arranging his pale pink robes around his legs gracefully, so no bare skin showed. “You have done much to bring life to this palace,” the king praised him, and Hao had acknowledged this humbly, with a simple bow of his head. “I owe you many favors, and I cannot begin to repay you, but I can start by doing what I can.”
Foolishly, Hao’s head had begun to spin with possibilities. Riches, finery, jewels, land, titles. It hadn’t been his ambition in becoming a musician—he’d begun with a bare bit of talent and a joy, a passion—but he certainly wouldn’t turn down such things.
And then the king had jabbed a dagger in his gut, to the hilt. “My younger son, Prince Taerae…”
Hao knows of the younger prince—how could he not? The elder, Hanbin, is a picture of grace and refinement. Kind and charming and funny, with a twinkle to his eye and a smile that no one could help but return. He would make a fine king one day, no doubt about it.
Taerae has… a reputation. Maybe it’s the lack of expectations upon him—he’ll likely never be king, and so he had never been handled quite as strictly as his brother. Since his teenage years, he has made a habit of sneaking out of the palace and returning with his robes disheveled and reeking of drink. He seduces servants in the quiet of night and sleeps the daylight hours away. In all, he seems to care very little about anyone other than himself.
Hao keeps his mouth shut, because if he loosens his lips even a little, he feels a horrible, hair-raising scream will come out.
The king continues, “My youngest is in need of a spouse, a calming influence. I feel positive that with someone as graceful and poised as yourself, he can clear his mind and overcome his… vices.”
Hao is grown, he is an adult. He is mature. Nonetheless, he finds himself wanting to collapse the ground and beat at the polished wood beneath him with his fists, to cry and scream and run away. He has never much aspired to love, and he thinks he’s a bit hopeless at romance, but now he’ll never even get the chance to try because he’ll be shackled to the nation’s problem child.
He can’t do any of that, though, not now, and certainly not in front of the king. Instead, he stretches his hands and arms forward to make a reverent bow. He’ll become the king’s son-in-law, and his position will be basically eternally guaranteed in court. That’s something.
He bows and grovels and insists, “Thank you, Your Majesty. It is an honor to be chosen, and I shall do my best for the prince.”
When he rises, the king isn’t meeting his eye—he has an inkling of the life he’s just condemned Hao to, even if it’s framed as a reward. “I have no doubt you’ll, uh, rise to expectations,” he says, marginally ashamed. “You always do, Zhang Hao.”
He goes to his bunk in the servants’ quarter that night, but the king’s own bodyguard, Gunwook, is already there, rummaging through his meager things and throwing them into a chest. It’s one that’s far too nice to belong to Hao—favored or not, his salary leaves a little to be desired.
“I told him not to touch your things!” rings out Yujin’s voice immediately. He has leapt off of his own bed and is pointing a wavering, accusatory finger towards Gunwook, stooped on the ground and unceremoniously stuffing clothes into the chest.
“Ah,” Gunwook says, turning and noting Hao’s presence. He performs an awkward, half-concocted bow. He’s never been someone to be bowed to, and it troubles him. “Your Highness-to-be,” he greets, and his gut twists. “Orders from the king, of course. The prince’s betrothed can’t be sleeping in the servants’ quarters. You’re to be moved to a private chamber.”
Yujin’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “The prince’s betrothed?” he asks, incredulous. “Hao hyung, you—and Prince Hanbin—?”
“No,” Hao shuts down, and his throat closes, his lip threatens to wobble. “Prince Taerae.”
Yujin sucks in a breath before he can stop himself, and then manages to get a grip and forces himself into neutrality—or, as close as he’s capable of getting to it. “Ah,” he says. “Right. Prince Taerae. Um—congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he says softly, the words bitter on his tongue.
“Alright,” Gunwook says, throwing the last of his possessions inside and shutting the lid. It’s unceremonious and rough—sudden, just like this entire situation. Hao feels dizzy from the shock of it all. “That’s everything, I think. Shall I show you to your chambers?”
Yujin rushes forward, grabs Hao by the forearms. “You’ll—you’ll come back and visit me still, right? You promised you’d teach me the guzheng!”
Yujin is young, and Hao has kind of taken the kid under his wing. He’s a more menial kind of servant than Hao—scrubbing floors and clearing cobwebs, those kinds of things—but he has potential. Hao was—and is—certain that the kid has enough pluck to propel himself upwards.
“Hush,” Hao says, gently breaking Yujin’s iron grip from his arms. “I promised I would, so I will. What kind of person would I be if I couldn’t keep a simple promise?”
“Okay,” Yujin says, and his eyes shine with tears; Hao has every intention of leaving before they spill over. He’s not sure he could handle them, truthfully, not when he’s holding back tears of his own.
So, he turns immediately back to Gunwook, easily hefting his chest over his shoulder. “Please show me to my chambers,” he requests politely, and Gunwook nods and turns on his heel, beginning a long march down the corridor.
Hao leaves with a quick squeeze to Yujin’s hand, before circumstances rip him from the only life he can ever remember having.
Taerae wakes to sunlight streaming across his face, the sheets a tangle around his bare legs. A servant has been by to deliver breakfast, which looks cold. For a blissful few moments, all is well, all is normal, and he’s debating whether he should eat his cold breakfast or tough it out to wait for a warm lunch.
And then he feels as if he’s drenched in ice water as the memory of last night returns to him. In the buzz of the alcohol, he’d destroyed the scroll, but the facts have not changed. He will marry the court musician and have every bit of enjoyment wrung cruelly from his body.
His problem is not with Hao—specifically. As far as he can recall, he’s quite handsome. He’s talented, poised, graceful. When he plays or sings, the entire room stops to listen. Taerae had once (as he was finding a new way to sneak out of the palace, but that’s irrelevant) passed a solitary garden and heard Hao humming there as he fed the ducks in the pond. Even that little bit had been enough to capture his attention.
But Hao is… boring? Is that the word? He’s definitely a suck-up, a goodie-two-shoes. He does whatever the king wants without a single complaint. Taerae has seen him endure thinly-veiled innuendo from some of the courtesans with indifference or ignorance, feigned or genuine. He has to be aspirational, a high-climber, and it seems he’s finally achieved the ultimate status symbol for a common person: marriage to a prince.
His father has made him a vessel for his favorite musician’s social aspirations. It’s disgusting, it’s vile. His father probably thought that he could kill two birds with one stone, doing a favor to his court musician while keeping his problem son under a watchful eye.
He’s angry enough that he storms out of his chamber in the robes he’d worn out last night; no one but his father would dare say anything to him about it, anyway. It’s lunch, which his father should be taking in his own chambers. So he storms down the corridor; Gunwook standing outside his chambers is confirmation enough that his father is, in fact, inside.
He halts right in front of Gunwook and crosses his arms over his chest. “I need to speak with my father.”
Gunwook is typically pretty put together and unflappable and that proves true now, but there’s the slightest hesitation, the slightest uncertainty—does he allow the prince entrance? Surely he can want nothing good. After all, Gunwook must know about his betrothal. And he must therefore know that Taerae is absolutely fucking livid about it.
But in the end, he has no reason to deny Taerae entrance, and so he steps aside with a slight bow and opens the chamber door for him. He still follows him inside, as if Taerae might pose a threat to his own father.
His father looks up from his plate as Taerae storms in, then casts his eyes up and down his robes, taking in his appearance. “You know,” he says calmly, “even in our chambers’ corridors, it might be nice to put on fresh robes.”
“What are you thinking, marrying me off to your court musician?” Taerae hisses, clenching his hands into fists.
His father hums and sets his utensils down to grant Taerae his full attention. “I was thinking,” he answers, calm as ever, “that my son has had enough fun for several lifetimes, and there comes a time when he needs to grow up and learn responsibility.”
“Hanbin’s not even betrothed yet,” Taerae points out.
His father shrugs. “And he doesn’t need to be. I think he is not in a rush. Perhaps he could even wait until he is king.”
“This is a ridiculous plan,” he says, exasperated. “What’s to stop me from continuing to do as I please? Husbands haven’t stopped people from doing that in the past.”
This is the wrong thing to say, it turns out; his father’s face turns stern and cold. “Allow me to make myself clear,” he says. “Zhang Hao is my favorite musician, who I am giving up for your benefit. If I hear of any ill treatment or neglect, I’ll see to it that you’re punished. I fully expect you to be a faithful, loyal, loving husband.”
Fruitless. This entire endeavor was utterly fruitless, and Taerae is struck with a deep despondency. It’s hopeless, it’s useless. He will marry Hao in a month’s time, even if he must be dragged down the aisle kicking and screaming.
He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s going to do what he always does and run away from the danger, push it from his mind until it’s too late to do anything about it.
He turns and exits his father’s chambers all in a rush. He’s going to get changed and sneak out to the city to find some sort of distraction, and that’s how he will exist in this, his final month of freedom.
He rounds the corner to his chambers and narrowly avoids slamming his head against Hao, who had been walking hugging the wall just like Taerae.
They gape at one another for a few seconds. Taerae can’t say he’s ever had a conversation with him, or even stood this close to him. It seems as if Hao is trying to overcome his shock enough to work out how he should address the prince, his betrothed, but Taerae has no desire to strike up idle chit chat with the musician.
So, instead, he swoops to the side, his robes swishing around him as he goes, and he continues storming down to his own chambers. His head aches suddenly—he can’t help but feel that it’s the fault of the palace itself. As they say, a gilded cage is still a cage.
He’ll rest in bed until he feels well enough to go out, he decides. He just needs to get this entire thing out of his head, his father’s unfairness and Hao’s wide-eyed bewilderment. And that’s just what he does, slipping under his covers and closing his eyes and trying to force the pounding throb from his head.
He wakes to the dying sunlight and a slight chill in the air—perfect, evening. He’ll wait for it to be truly dark before he creeps out, and so he takes his time getting ready. He bathes, he at last changes last night’s robes. It’s enough that he feels refreshed, almost new, and he’s able to shove his worries (mostly) from his head, which is blissfully silent and pain-free.
He throws his chamber door open and walks straight in the back of Gunwook.
It rattles Taerae, but Gunwook doesn’t even flinch, merely turns to assess Taerae.
“What are you doing here?” Taerae commands, attempting to regain composure. “My father’s chambers are down the corridor.”
“I’m meant to be stationed outside yours,” Gunwook responds with a quirked eyebrow.
His stomach drops. No, he can’t have been saddled with a babysitter. Is this a direct result of confronting his father? Is he being punished for trying to have some amount of agency?
He plays dumb a moment longer, willing it all to be a joke, or a mistake. “I highly doubt anyone would try to break into my chambers and harm me,” Taerae says, trying (and failing) to keep his tone light. He’s almost shaking, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“It’s less to keep others out,” Gunwook says, “than to keep you in, Your Highness.”
It’s Taerae’s worst fear, confirmed by Gunwook, who’s acting as if it doesn’t matter. And probably it doesn’t to Gunwook, but what is Taerae meant to do? Sit? In the quiet? And think? Dwell on his absolute lack of future?
Despite the fact that his chest suddenly feels very tight, he draws himself up to his full height, still a good bit shorter than Gunwook. “I’m a prisoner, then?” he asks.
“Of course not,” Gunwook says. “I’m not meant to keep you confined to your chambers. Would you like to go stroll in the gardens?”
“Yes,” Taerae says, with authority. “I would.”
“Wonderful,” he returns. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s…?” Taerae asks, stunned, not taking one step from his chambers.
Gunwook scoffs impatiently. “Well, obviously, I must go, too.”
“I’m being chaperoned,” Taerae says flatly, which he’d already feared, but the confirmation has his heart beating in his throat.
“Naturally,” Gunwook says. “You’re something of an escape artist. I’m not to let you out of my sight unless you’re in these chambers.”
That’s enough for Taerae. He slams his door shut, straight in Gunwook’s face. Even until the door obscures his face from view, he seems nonchalant, unconcerned—blank.
A month until his wedding and he’s under house arrest. He’s not sure what to do other than rot in bed, waste away. If he paces the floor enough, he might wear enough of a rut in the floor that the wood would just give out beneath his feet.
It’s worth a shot—there’s nothing else to do, after all.
Hao is keeping busy—even if a lot of his plans unfortunately have to do with his impending marriage. He’s given etiquette classes and taken for robe fittings and even consulted on floral arrangements. He knows very little about them and chooses at random—it doesn’t really matter, does it, the floral arrangements at a wedding he doesn’t want in the first place?
The florist, Ricky, had admitted that he should have consulted with the prince on the arrangements, but that he’d locked himself in his chambers and begun to refuse visitors. But honestly, Ricky doesn’t seem too upset about it—the prince’s reputation, again.
And so Zhang Hao receives confirmation of a truth he already knew: Taerae might want to marry Hao even less than Hao would like to marry him. That day he’d stumbled into the prince in the corridor outside the king’s chambers, his face had an undercurrent of rage, which mellowed into mere confusion upon stumbling into Hao.
Probably, he tells himself, it’s not an intrinsic issue with him, but with the situation of the marriage as a whole. It’s certainly better if he holds no grudge towards Hao—he’s never particularly interacted with the prince before, anyway.
Hao has decided that it’s for the best to minimize the suffering he might experience with the prince. It’s already humiliating enough, seeing the pitying looks that everyone throws him. He’s so bright, so promising, so beautiful, and it’s all being wasted on Taerae—how sad. He’s being lamed in the prime of his life, maybe.
That’s how others see him, but, after a day or so of wallowing, he had determined that he wasn’t going to play the victim. He still has some agency, and his destiny doesn’t have to be that of the shunned spouse of the nation’s shameful whore. Maybe it means there’s a small hope that Hao can… what, woo him? Taerae seems to take issue with marriage itself rather than Hao specifically, after all. But he’s not entirely sure how to go about wooing a man who is to be your husband, especially not when he’s locked himself entirely in his chambers.
He doesn’t really know how to be a husband nor the kind of husband that Taerae wants—which seems to be resolutely none. He spends much of his time mulling this over, wondering how he can earn enough of Taerae’s favor that his life isn’t a misery. It used to be something of a talent, winning over aristocrats, but he finds himself useless when he knows so little about his husband-to-be.
He’s wondering about this (and making no progress) in the gardens when he hears a loud crunch behind him. It startles him from his contemplation and he turns to see Jiwoong leaning against a tree trunk, crunching an apple.
Hao hastily bows as best as he can seated on a stone bench—Jiwoong is the son of one of the higher-ranking noblemen, after all. Jiwoong scoffs at this however, and slides to sit beside Hao. “Technically, you rank higher than me now,” Jiwoong points out.
He’s a bit shocked by the proximity. He’s never really conversed with Jiwoong, just knows him from around the palace. He’s often at the balls and things that Hao plays at, and seems to be the center of attention more often than not.
“I—I’m not married yet,” Hao reminds him, suddenly going stiff.
“Still, it’s—what? A week or so away?” Jiwoong asks, leaning comfortably against the bench and entirely ignoring how tense Hao is beside him. “Might as well go ahead and break the habit of bowing to nobles.”
“Perhaps…” Hao murmurs, wondering if there’s an easy way out of this conversation.
But Jiwoong isn’t yet done. “You’re nervous about your marriage, aren’t you?”
Wouldn’t it be more concerning if he weren’t? “Of course I am,” he says, stunned. “I doubt anyone doesn’t feel nervous.”
Jiwoong shrugs, unbetrothed and unconcerned. “Maybe, I guess.” And they fall into silence. Jiwoong makes no motion to leave, and Hao is distinctly uncomfortable, uncertain of what to say. Jiwoong saves him, after he’s crunched a few more bites of his apple. “Taerae’s not a bad guy, you know.”
“I’m sure he’s not,” Hao responds politely, although general opinion of the palace would differ. He’s never much thought about the underlying philosophy—is anyone truly, at their core, bad? He’s a musician; that’s outside his realm. He plays his stringed instruments and sings love tales.
“It’s hard on him, yeah? Hanbin’s the golden child, guaranteed the throne, and Taerae’s an afterthought,” Jiwoong says, possessing much more sympathy and wisdom than Hao would have guessed. “He’s just… unhappy, I think.” And then he turns to Hao, cocking his head. “Isn’t it a husband’s job to make their spouse happy?”
“I don’t know anything about being a husband,” he mutters, kicking at a stray pebble with his slipper. “Nor do I know anything about the prince.”
“The burden’s on you, unfortunately,” Jiwoong notes, placing his hand on Hao’s shoulder, overly casual and familiar. “No one’s going to have this talk with Taerae, the way he’s locked himself up. It’s just… making your partner happy, yeah? I think he’ll come around, anyway. He’s not a bad guy. He just feels trapped.”
“And marriage won’t make him feel more trapped?” Hao asks glumly.
Jiwoong cranes his neck skyward, hands braced on the back of the bench, considering. Hao hears the plop of the apple core on the ground. “That’s—that’s really fucking depressing,” Jiwoong admits. “Marriage as a prison. Marriage as the end. Isn’t it… a beginning?”
He sounds like he’s asking himself, like Hao has shaken some foundational belief of his. He hadn’t meant to, he’s just… Taerae is unhappy with the situation and so is Hao. Maybe that’s marriage. Commiserating in shared misery.
“I shouldn’t think like that, then,” Hao says softly. “I should—I should be more positive?”
Jiwoong casts a sideways look at him, slightly annoyed, like Hao is being the densest person in the world and he can’t believe he has to deign to explain such a simple concept. “Well, no shit,” he says. “What good would it do to decide your life is over because of one simple thing? Work through it together. With your husband.”
Hao takes a second to absorb this. It’s true. He’s not really a fan of the sickening positivity, positivity for the sake of being positive, but Jiwoong has made some good points. There have to be some good parts to Taerae. Whatever his reputation, he’s a person, and there must be a reason for his behavior.
Maybe, if Hao is compassionate enough, he can break through to him, and his marriage doesn’t have to be absolute despair.
Taerae considers what might happen if he resisted. Gunwook is very pointedly waiting for him, and he’s already had servants come by to make sure he’s presentable. What if he just… refused to go?
The answer is easy: Gunwook is probably under orders to drag him to the altar if need be. Believe it or not, he has some modicum of dignity. But rest assured: he is still left without a choice. He is walking to the altar with his own two feet because he is left with no other option.
So he marches to the palace’s chapel, resolutely ignoring Gunwook at his shoulder. He’s wearing his robes properly for the first time in ages, he has his crown glistening atop his head, and he probably looks like a prince for once.
The chapel is decorated for the occasion. There are fresh flowers and floral arrangements everywhere—Ricky’s doing, Taerae would suppose. Wherever it’s not perilous to do so, candles have been lit, casting everything in a soft glow. Taerae has had nothing to do with the preparations and planning, so he can only assume it’s the work of the palace staff and Zhang Hao.
His father’s at the end of the chapel, at the head of the altar and looking regal. Taerae walks stiffly, ignoring the gathering nobles and trying to avoid his father’s eye.
No use. He makes it to the altar (with a tasteful arc of flowers overhead) and his father murmurs, “It’s your wedding day, not a funeral. Liven up.”
“I’m not sure I see the difference,” Taerae admits through clenched teeth.
His father doesn’t offer a rebuff; the music swells, thanks to the remaining palace musicians who are not Hao. And the chapel doors open and Hao steps in tentatively.
He looks lovely, Taerae can admit that. His problem—he thinks—is less with Hao than with his father. He’s in soft pink robes and, in lieu of a crown, there’s a small wreath of greenery and berries wound around the back of his head. He’s walking with small, practiced, graceful steps, and is every bit the picture of a royal spouse.
Except… his expression is flat. Blank. Neutral. Taerae had expected at least a bit of happiness, or even a smug smile, like he’d won a prize. But no, he has a blank mask on, like if he lets any amount of emotion show through, it will be a negative one.
Why? He’s convinced his father to let him marry a prince; he’s worked his way up from humble palace servant to genuine presence in the uppermost echelon of society.
He was after Hanbin, maybe.
Taerae lets his gaze drift over to where his brother stands, at the front of the gathered throng. He’s straight-backed and smiling softly, encouragingly to Taerae. It was foolish of Hao to go after a prince and assume he’d get the better choice.
He reaches the altar, bows before the king, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, joins hands with Taerae. As the king launches into the traditional speech, Hao stares blankly forward. To the crowd, it must look like he’s staring right at his husband-to-be, but from Taerae’s vantage point, it’s obvious that he’s staring past Taerae’s head, at the stone wall behind him.
So neither of them actually want this marriage. That bodes well.
Taerae says his required piece, vows written hundreds of years ago that have no bearing on him and Hao, words about loving and serving and protecting. He doesn’t allow himself to absorb the promise he’s making as he makes it; the words can’t hurt him if they’re only words.
Hao repeats them in the same monotone, the vows contained therein falling flat. Neither of them mean it, but they’ve spoken them into existence, promises they must keep.
And they’re wed. The chapel bell tolls above them to announce their happy union, and Taerae recalls the funerals he’s attended in this same chapter, the same bell dutifully tolling respect for the dead.
There’s a ball before he and his husband (the word sends a shiver up his spine) are released to his own chambers. No doubt a team of maids are tearing his chambers apart at this very moment, scrubbing every square inch of the place.
They’re meant to lead the party to the ballroom. Hao places his arm in Taerae’s stiffly, staring straight ahead and not at all in his direction. A painful evening at the ball before an equally painful evening in Taerae’s bed.
They’re meant to open the ball, and Hao is a competent dancer, at least. They perform the moves robotically, stiffly, but adequately. And then they’re thrown into conversation.
Hanbin congratulates them both most sincerely, actually gripping Taerae by the shoulders and offering a kind smile to Hao. “Don’t take him for granted,” Hanbin says, leaning in to whisper the words in Taerae’s ear. “And don’t you dare mope.”
He knows. As far as nonroyals go, Hao is the cream of the crop. He looks over at his husband engaged in conversation with Jiwoong, of all people, effortlessly and naturally. Actually, they look acquainted, like Jiwoong is offering Hao advice…
Oh, god. Taerae doesn’t want to think about Jiwoong giving his husband tips on how to consummate their marriage. No, he refuses to think about it.
But it’s undeniable that Hao fits right into this world. He’s pretty universally adored, and some of that adoration could slough off to Taerae as well, maybe.
He doesn’t say a word to his husband until the dancing has wound down and they settle at a table for dinner. They’re given their own table, as the couple of the evening, while Hanbin and his father sit at another, slightly elevated above their own. Wedding day or not, the king and the crown prince are undeniably more important.
Hao tilts his head to listen attentively as the king and then Hanbin speak, bidding everyone to enjoy the feast and thanking them again for coming.
Hao rips his eyes away from Hanbin quickly, though, and stares down at his own plate. Taerae hasn’t said a word to his husband yet, and he finds his voice raspy when he tries.
“For both of us,” he says softly, “I’m sorry that it was me and not him.”
That’s all he can expect from this marriage, it seems. Solidarity in misery. Commiserating every day of the would’ve, could’ve, should’ve of it all.
Hao finally looks over at him, blinking a few times. He doesn’t know what Taerae is talking about, it seems, and his own eyes drag over to Hanbin. Hao follows his gaze and suddenly understands, turning back to Taerae immediately, a fire burning in his eyes.
“Do you think I had any say in this?” he hisses. “The king told me I was marrying his son; I could hardly say no or request his other son. I’d rather—I just want to make music. I loved being a musician.”
Taerae leans back, taken aback. “You… didn’t try to marry Hanbin? Or me?”
“Why would I?” Hao asks, softening a little, the fire in his eyes dimming in confusion.
Taerae falters. How can he admit to his face that he’d just assumed that Hao wanted to claw his way up the social ladder? That doesn’t… appear to be the case.
Is Hao just as much a victim of his father’s scheming?
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately. “I—I assumed you wanted this, at least to some extent.”
There’s a light of recognition in Hao’s face, and he automatically turns to gaze at the crowd at the lower tables, eagerly digging into the food before them. His gaze lands on Jiwoong—what had Jiwoong told him?
“Maybe neither of us wanted this,” Hao admits, softly looking back to Taerae. “But we have to make the most of it, right? Neither of us want to be miserable.”
“I don’t know anything about having a husband,” Taerae admits. “It’s just another way for my father to control me, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I don’t know anything about having a husband, either,” Hao says. “I never was sure I’d have one, anyway. But—you can’t look at this marriage as a prison. And I can’t look at it as crippling me. It’s not fair.”
“Crippling you?” Taerae admits, because—what? Hasn’t this opened doors for Hao?
Hao turns to the musicians gathered at the back of the hall. “I just wanted to be a musician,” he admits. “Nothing more. It was aspirational enough for me—I was happy.” His eyes meet Taerae’s, shining with tears he refuses to shed. “It’s gone now. I’m a noble, not a musician.”
Taerae is floored. Hao… had lost something? Marrying him? He hadn’t imagined there’d be anything but gain, there. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately, placing a hand on Hao’s forearm, a pitiful attempt at comfort.
“It isn’t your fault,” Hao says, turning to his plate quietly. “We just have to make the best of things, don’t we?”
Taerae can’t stand the thought of Hao suffering because of him. It was tolerable when he’d assumed that Hao had wanted this—not him, but the title. “The first chance I get,” he swears, “I’ll have a servant bring your instruments into my chambers. Whatever you’d like.”
Hao looks at him with something like a hope, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips for the first time. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Hao deserves this small bit of kindness for tolerating this kind of treatment—he deserves much, much more, but Taerae is unsure how much he can make it up to him.
Gunwook is tasked with escorting the couple up to Taerae’s chambers, once the guests have all been thanked and the king has once again given his blessing. He seems shy now, awkward, knowing exactly what he’s escorting them to their chambers to do. There’s a blush creeping up the back of his neck that Hao tries not to giggle at.
He hasn’t had the royal expectation of purity thrust upon him, and the king must have known this. Then again, he also married him to his renowned playboy son, so maybe he thought it would be an even(ish) match.
Hao doesn’t have any vast wealth of experience, just a few locked lips in broom closets, rushed rendezvous in the quiet corners of the servants’ quarters. It’s not quite enough that the things Jiwoong had blankly described to him at the ball hadn’t made him flush red up to his ears.
Taerae is… experienced. That’s the kind word for it, because it wouldn’t exactly be proper to call the king’s son a whore. And he’s not quite sure what to expect. Taerae seems to have mellowed, warmed up a bit to his husband, but he’s pretty sure he’s still in for an overwhelming evening.
Gunwook is all too eager to shut them up in Taerae’s chambers, to get them out of his sight. His face is bright red by the time he slams the door shut, and Hao jumps a little at the finality of it.
“Right,” Taerae sighs, placing his crown on his dresser and shrugging off his outermost layer of robes. “We’ll muddle through this together.”
“Muddle through…?” Hao wonders, cocking his head. “Um…?”
Taerae glances over his shoulder at Hao, standing stock still and still hovering by the shut door. “I know my own reputation. It’s true, mostly. But if I’m the one consummating this… I’m afraid I have very little experience to draw on.”
Hao wrings his hands in front of his body. “I don’t think I understand,” he admits.
Taerae sighs, seeming annoyed that he has to lay it out in such plain terms. “I’m always the one getting fucked, not doing the fucking.”
“Oh,” Hao says, feeling a surge of warmth in his face. “I mean—is that how it has to be?”
“Traditionally speaking,” he says dryly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Hao blinks. He can’t say he has a preference one way or another, no vast amount of experience either way. He’d really prefer if Taerae, at least, were comfortable. Unbidden, Jiwoong’s advice echoes in his mind: Isn’t it a husband’s job to make their spouse happy?
“How would they know?” he reasons. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Taerae’s eyebrows shoot skyward, intrigued. “What experience do you have?” he asks, a genuine question. He probably assumes that Hao isn’t a virgin—he wasn’t raised to be, after all.
“Um—nothing extensive. Pretty hurried and forgettable rendezvous, to be honest.”
Taerae considers, chewing the inside of his lip. “Alright,” he says softly, crossing the room to Hao. “Let’s get you undressed.”
Still, he hesitates, his fingers pausing at the ties at the top of Hao’s robes. He’s looking to him for approval, for permission, and Hao nods once, swallowing heavily. Taerae is… close, and he’s not sure how to react.
His fingers are deft and surprisingly gentle as he undoes Hao’s robes. His eyes trail down as he slips Hao’s robes off his shoulders—his eyelashes are thick. Pretty. Hao hadn’t noticed before.
He’s backed against the door, but Taerae is astonishingly gentle and reverent as he undresses Hao. Maybe he’s determined to make it good for him—they might as well, anyway. As each layer of robes comes off, he drapes them atop the dresser to their side. They’re nice robes, after all, and it seems Taerae doesn’t want to just cast them to the floor.
Hao shivers when the bare skin of his shoulders is finally exposed, and it has nothing to do with the cool air brushing his skin. “I’ll make it good for you, too,” Taerae promises quietly, undoing the knot at his waist. “I owe you that much—more than that, even.” He leans in to kiss Hao’s cheek softly, the corners of their mouths touching.
Hao is flat against the wall, shuddering when he feels the corners of their mouths brush, teasing. “Can you kiss me properly first?” he blurts, interrupting Taerae’s hand sneaking down his body.
Taerae looks surprised—he hadn’t anticipated that Hao would want that, maybe. He hadn’t anticipated it, either, but—this close, Taerae’s eyes are soft and gentle, as are his touches. He appreciates the tenderness. He hoards it greedily but he wants more.
“Of course,” he whispers back, sliding a hand along Hao’s bare shoulder. He first brushes his lips against Hao’s, but then he properly presses them together. It’s gentle and soft, barely there, but there’s something comforting about it. Unexpectedly, Hao likes it. He wants Taerae to kiss him more, in every circumstance. And—they’re married. This is his husband. He can probably do it as often as he pleases, he thinks giddily.
When Taerae pulls back, Hao leans forward, pursuing him. “Sorry,” Taerae mumbles. “I hadn’t thought you’d want it.”
“Me neither,” Hao admits, clutching a hand in the front of Taerae’s robes. “But I do, a lot.” He drags Taerae back towards him and their lips bump together again. Something about the tenderness of it drives Hao’s head swimmy, ratchets up his desire for Taerae—which he’d erroneously thought was nonexistent.
Their lips move together gently, softly. The noises are quiet and Hao thinks he could stay here forever, in a cozy little cocoon of their kisses.
“Whenever you want,” Taerae promises, more serious than their wedding vows. “I’ll kiss you whenever you want.”
Hao nods, feeling a bit choked for some reason. He hadn’t anticipated this. He’d assumed it would be clinical, awkward, but it’s anything but. There are actual feelings swirling around somewhere, hazy and undefined over their heads—unspoken.
Taerae’s hand at last travels down the length of his torso, and when his palm presses against him, it’s dizzying; his head spins. He hesitates a moment, wrapping his fist around Hao. But then he leans him to peck him on the lips again, keeping his eyes trained on Hao’s as he slowly sinks to his knees before him.
Hao realizes his intention. “Oh,” he gasps, surprised. “I’ve never—”
“I figured,” Taerae says gently. “It’s alright, I like doing it.”
He likes…? That’s as far as Hao’s train of thought gets before Taerae’s lips are running up the length of his cock, still looking him in the eye. He inhales sharply, torn between whether it’s the sensation or the visual of it that’s getting him. He takes the head into his mouth, looking up at him with big, brown eyes, batting his eyelashes, and—it’s both. It’s absolutely both, and Hao has to stifle a yell into his sleeve.
There’s a scurrying on the other side of the door, a startled little noise. Taerae’s brows furrow and he reaches around Hao to smack on the sturdy wood of the door. “Hey!” he calls, pulling off. “Mind your business!”
Nevermind that Gunwook is absolutely under orders to stay out there and probably is no more thrilled about it than they are.
Taerae looks up at Hao, apologetic, and guides his hand to pet his hair, maybe wanting the comfort of it. “Sorry,” he says. “Payback. For keeping me locked up.”
Hao takes it in, the fact that Gunwook is on the other side of the door while he’s actively getting pleasured. He thinks he doesn’t much care, or mind—Gunwook knows what they’re meant to do in here. He shrugs softly, stroking Taerae’s soft hair, and says, “He rummaged through my things, moving me to my new chambers.”
Taerae scowls, smacking on the door again. “Payback!” he calls, informing Gunwook, and Hao’s face breaks into a grin. Taerae’s face matches his once he catches Hao’s expression, and he softens again. “Sorry—do you want to move?” he asks, nodding to the bed.
“In a little bit,” Hao says. “The fucker went through my things, you know? A little bit of payback’s alright.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Taerae says, and then returns his mouth to Hao’s cock. He leaves his hand on Taerae’s head, though he is in no way guiding him. Rather, Taerae moves of his own volition, teasing around the head of his cock and conversely swallowing him to the root with hardly a noise.
He helpfully pins Hao’s hips to the door to leave him at his mercy, and he finds his hand clenching in Taerae’s hair to cope with his lack of movement.
It’s teasing, mostly—Taerae is teasing him. He doesn’t stay in one spot for very long; the moment Hao adjust to being situated down his throat, he’s pulling back to swirl his tongue around the head. Or—maybe it isn’t teasing. Maybe Taerae is just enjoying himself.
And he seems to be, whining around Hao’s cock and grinding his palm down against his robes. He’s broken eye contact in favor of allowing his eyes to slide shut, seeming to revel in the sensation—in Hao.
It affects him more than he might have thought, seeing Taerae actually enjoy this. He’d said it was for Hao—and he’s undeniably feeling good over it—but something unexpectedly possessive surges in him seeing Taerae’s reaction.
“Taerae,” he murmurs, a little urgent, squirming against the rough wood of the door. “Taerae, please.”
“Hm?” he hums, pulling off of him. He leans back on his heels and looks up towards Hao. He’s wrecked, and it’s all his own doing—teary eyes, swollen lips. “Sorry, I—I get kind of into it,” he admits in a breath.
It makes Hao’s stomach clench, looking at him like this. There’s a bulge between his legs, poking up under the layers of robes he’s still wearing.
“I liked the way you taste,” he admits, pupils blown. “The way you smell.”
“Let’s—” Hao says, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. “Bed. Let’s go to bed, Taerae.”
His face falls a little, like he’d like to stay here and pin Hao to the door until he’s coming down his throat, but he nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Another time. Can I suck you off another time?”
It’s risky to offer, but Hao finds himself saying it, even as his voice catches in his throat. “Of course, anytime. Anytime at all.”
Taerae uses the leverage of Hao’s arm to tug himself to his feet; he leans in and presses his lips to Hao’s again, sweet and gentle but with an undeniable longing behind it. “That’s a dangerous offer,” he says sweetly, clutching along Hao’s waist. “You might never leave these chambers again. I might have to drag you into dark closets and hidden passageways.”
“You can,” Hao says, his mouth dry.
And Taerae does nothing but offer him a devious smirk, tugging him for his bed. Hao’s fingers are already tugging at the knots of his robes, mostly in vain. Taerae’s own fingers come down and undo them much more quickly and skillfully than Hao had managed.
Once he’s shucked his robes and chucked them on the floor, with much less pomp than he’d disrobed Hao, his fingers itch towards his nightstand, only to withdraw with surprise. “They moved it,” he complains, immediately throwing the drawer open. He rifles around for a second before coming away with a small, stoppered bottle of oil. “They should have known we’d need this,” he says. “Have you prepped anyone before?” he asks curiously. “Fucked them?”
“Um…” he says, eyes rolling to the ceiling as he thinks. “Not—not properly, I think. Not—in a bed. Not with proper oil.”
“I’ll teach you,” Taerae promises, cupping his jaw and kissing him again. “Let’s switch, okay?”
And so Taerae flips to settle underneath Hao, who hovers uncertainly over him. He props a pillow under his own hips and pours a bit of the oil in Hao’s palm for him, watching as he spreads it over his fingers. And then he grabs Hao’s wrist and brings it between his legs to touch his hole.
“It should be easy to press in,” Taerae says softly. “I know what I’m doing, here.”
Sure enough, Hao presses his middle finger in easily, guided gently by Taerae’s fingers around his wrist. “Okay,” Hao breathes, looking back up to Taerae for guidance. He could take a guess on what he’s supposed to do, but Taerae seems perfectly at ease controlling everything, so he’ll let him.
With Taerae’s help, he fucks his finger slowly in and out, feeling his walls grip even at this comparatively small intrusion.
He adds a second, and then a third, and Taerae loses his composure, throwing his head back against the pillows and letting his fingers fall from Hao’s wrist. He instead drags them up to clutch at the pillow beneath his head, crying out as Hao drags the pads of his fingers, rough from his instruments, over the exact spot Taerae had guided him to.
Hao feels… almost powerful, seeing the way he’s driving Taerae to incoherency. The whines, the moans, the pitiful screwing up of his face as Hao grinds his fingers in deep, strokes teasingly over the spot that makes Taerae’s cock jerk and leak over his stomach.
“Hao,” he gasps, scrabbling at his skin, dragging his nails down his arms. “Just fuck me, please, Hao.”
“I might not know how,” he says innocently, ego marginally inflated from Taerae’s reaction to his fingers.
Taerae chokes out a laugh. “God, I—fine. I don’t care. Just need you in me.” Still, he whines when Hao removes his fingers, sitting up and reaching out for his hips. “Come here,” he says, desperate.
He fumbles between his legs for a second, trying to line Hao’s cock up properly with his hole. When he’s at last got it and feels his head pressing against his rim, his nails dig into Hao’s thighs.
“There,” he breathes. “Just—just press in. All the way.” His voice is shaky, uncontrolled, and when Hao slides in, he gasps and jolts. “Come here,” he breathes. “Come here, baby—need you.”
Hao’s helpless to resist, collapsing atop Taerae and burying his face in his neck. The warm, tight clench of his hole is borderline incomprehensible, overwhelming in the best way. Taerae strokes his hair as Hao whimpers against his skin, although he’s obviously losing it himself.
“You feel so good,” he mumbles. “I—just work to get yourself off, yeah? I’lll—I’ll probably finish, anyway. Make yourself feel good, Hao.”
Hao sets a pace that’s lazy and slow—all that he’s capable of, pinned to Taerae’s chest the way he is. But Taerae seems into it anyway, clawing at his sides and his shoulders, whining as he nuzzles down against his hair.
He murmurs what praise he can manage, telling Hao how good he’s making him feel, how pretty he looks, how lucky Taerae is…
Hao pulls back from where he’s hidden against Taerae’s skin, and he must look wrecked, for Taerae reaches out to rub tear tracks from his cheek. “Oh, baby, no, you just feel so good, huh? Me too, me too…”
Hao mashes their lips together, desperate and overwhelmed. It’s nothing more than a wet smear, a slick slide of lips. And when he gets too into it to properly kiss, Taerae just mumbles little nothings against his lips, rocking his own hips against Hao’s.
It’s too much, the grip that Taerae’s hole has on his cock, the warmth of his insides. He feels himself crashing towards his release, but Taerae edges him out just a little.
His fingernails dig into Hao’s back as he releases. His hole spasms around his cock and there’s a gooey warmth trapped between their rutting bodies.
“Finish, baby,” Taerae instructs him, clutching desperate at his face. “Finish in me—you’re close, right?”
He is—he’s so close. A few more thrusts and he’s spilling inside Taerae, their foreheads pressed together as he releases. He grinds his hips inside until it’s painful, and then he gently eases out.
Taerae pulls him immediately to his lips, kissing him deep, wanting. “You were so good for me,” he praises, panting. “Did it feel good?”
“It did,” he admits in an overwhelmed mumble, falling into Taerae’s arms. His front is sticky, and so is Taerae’s, but neither of them make any move to get up.
“Good, good,” he breathes, letting Hao lounge against his chest. “Rest—we’ll clean up in a little, right?”
It’s later, in the warm, scented waters of their bath, that they properly talk. Hao is tracing little nonsense patterns on Taerae’s arm, content to just exist.
But Taerae runs a lazy hand through his hair and asks, “We made those promises to each other, right?”
“Promises?” he murmurs, blurry. “Our wedding vows?”
“Right,” Taerae says. “In sickness and in health, to have and to hold. All that.”
“Mhmm,” Hao says. “I keep my promises, you know. Always.”
“I do, too,” Taerae says. “So—we’re good?”
It’s vague. It’s a marriage they’ve been thrust into, one that neither of them wanted—-but now it seems like their compatibility is undeniable. Funny, how that works out.
“It won’t be easy forever,” Hao says reasonably. “We have to work on it, you know.”
“Obviously,” Taerae agrees, rolling his eyes. “But—it turned out well for us, right?”
“I’d say so,” Hao agrees quietly. “We’ll work on it more, though. Get to know each other. Spend time together where we’re not naked. Things like that.”
“Eventually,” Taerae says, wrapping his arms firmly around Hao, snuggling against him. “This is basically our honeymoon, let’s not rush it.”
“Okay, but why?” Taerae asks, pouting. His hands are on Hao’s waist, trying edge his way under the long skirt of his robes, nefarious.
“Because I keep my promises,” Hao says shortly. “Sit in the corner and be civil. Or go for a walk. Go do something productive.”
“Making you feel good isn’t productive?” Taerae challenges.
“Later,” Hao insists, feeling his resolve crumble as he presses his lips together. “Go!”
Taerae sulks, but obediently presses their lips together, astonishingly chaste for how tightly he’s gripping Hao’s waist. “I’ll go for a walk,” he decides, sullen.
And he’ll probably return with a fist clutched hopefully full of flowers he’s picked, regardless of how much the gardener, Matthew, yells at him for it. They’re for Hao, and he’ll place them in a little vase on their bedside and then he’ll let Taerae crawl under his robes and swallow him down.
He shakes those thoughts from his head and pecks Taerae on the lips again. “Good,” he says. “Have fun.”
Taerae looks grim at the prospect of having to go out alone, without Hao on his arm, but he slinks to the door anyway.
He throws it open to reveal Yujin hesitating outside, seeming like he’d been trying to work up the courage to knock. “Your Highness!” he says, performing a hasty bow, to Taerae’s amusement.
“He’s waiting for you,” he says kindly, nodding his head to Hao, standing in the corner by his guzheng.
“Oh—right,” Yujin says, shuffling past Taerae awkwardly. “Um—thank you, Your Highness. And—sorry for being late, um…?”
“You can still call me Hao,” he informs Yujin kindly, a smile on his lips. “We’re friends, after all.” Yujin still looks uncertain—Hao is a prince now, and he seems a bit intimidated. “Come on,” he says, nodding to the guzheng. “I promised to teach you, and I keep my promises. Prince Taerae was just going for a walk, anyway,” he says, glaring at him in a warning to go away.
“Forced on a walk,” Taerae mumbles, rebellious, though his eyes are soft and sparkle as he looks at Hao.
“Goodbye,” Hao says pointedly, though he’s smiling now. “Just give us an hour or so, Tae. You’ll live.”
“Oh, um,” Yujin says, not yet seated, looking rapidly between Hao and Taerae. “I can come back another time?”
“No,” Hao denies. “He’s always like this, Yujinnie.”
“Loving your husband isn’t a crime,” he says, poking his tongue out childishly at Hao.
Hao beams at him, his eyes twinkling. “Not at all,” he agrees.
Taerae finally leaves after all the dramatics with a soft smile, closing the heavy door softly behind him.
He’s… settled, somehow, Hao thinks. He doesn’t seem so restless—if anything, he’d be content lock himself and his husband in his chambers forever, if he could. But that’s not good for them, either, so Hao forces him off on his own from time to time.
And, after all, he’d promised to teach Yujin the guzheng, and he takes the promises he makes very seriously—Taerae should know that better than most.