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Summary
“Your hands are shaking.” The Emperor finishes his thought gracefully. It's the first time they've spoken–even their courtship contained no correspondence aside from the many gifts that piled high in Soobin's room at the manor, untouched. Most, if not all, had come with him on the journey. “Are you perhaps cold?”
“Oh,” he says stupidly. “No, your Majesty.”
He clams up immediately after, tongue thick behind his teeth, unable to offer any more clarification than what he's already given. The wine jar settles onto the table without any incident, and Soobin's shaking hands settle atop his knees, smoothing over his robes. Mustering up his courage, he forces himself to continue.
“I suppose I'm just nervous.” Growing up, he'd been encouraged to be truthful. Not that much encouragement was needed–he'd been honest to the point it was a fault. Even so, that changed as soon as his mother decided he was meant for bigger things. She'd swiftly changed her tune–Soobin-ah, if you need to lie, the best way to do so is with a partial truth. Choi Soobin is not cold, nor is he nervous. He is terrified.
(Slow updates.)