Chapter Text
It wasn't supposed to go like this, Jeongin muses, standing in a garden with the king knelt before him, proffering daisies he'd just conjured.
It must be the work of a trickster god—Jeongin had come out of nothing but obligation, and had made no special attempts to charm the king. He’s from a backwater, he's without magic, and he's done little other than make a fool of himself the past couple of weeks.
But this is undeniable, Chan choosing him. It’s unambiguous, direct—bold. And private. Thank heavens it's private, because Jeongin couldn't handle if the others were here, glaring daggers or making snide little comments.
“Well?” Chan asks anxiously, his eyes shining.
“Well?” Jeongin echoes, confused. What is he waiting for? “I—thank you,” he tries, because there’s nothing else to say. He’s confused, certainly, and has about a million questions, but he’s not particularly in any place to ask those questions. But he awkwardly bends at the knee to accept the daisies Chan—the king—offers.
“So you accept?” Chan asks, cocking his head.
Accept? There’s no declining, as far as Jeongin is aware. And he might ordinarily have more tact than to admit that out loud, but—he’s just had a shock, really. “Is there another option?” he asks, more rhetorical than anything else.
Chan’s face expresses polite, silent horror, as if his eyes are screaming and he is trying very hard to cover it up. Jeongin should not have said anything, and this alone proves that he is not fit—
“You are free to reject me, of course,” he says with a frown, and the daisies droop almost imperceptibly in Jeongin’s grip.
“No,” Jeongin says hastily, reaching a hand out to reassure the king. “No, I—I’m only confused. This feels… unexpected.” He lets out a nervous little laugh. “I mean—I didn’t think you even knew my name.” A pause, a breath. “You do know my name, right?”
Chan smiles, seeming somewhat reassured. “I do, Jeongin.”
It sends an embarrassing little thrill through his body, his name rolling so easily off of Chan’s tongue, like it is something he has perhaps rehearsed. Perhaps he’s gazed at himself in the looking glass and practiced saying it, because he does it perfectly—it is soft and reverent and wondrous, and any doubts promptly flee from Jeongin’s mind. It’s a powerful thing, a name—or that’s what his mother had always told him.
But—still. Chan has to be confused, or something. Everyone is going to think that Jeongin managed to slip him a love potion or something.
“I don’t think I understand why,” Jeongin admits quietly. “I’ve no magic, I’m clumsy, I’m from some fluke of a village—”
“You caught my eye the most,” Chan says sincerely, earnestly. “And, if I’m not mistaken, without even particularly trying.”
There have been several dozen other suitors at the castle the past couple of weeks, for the sole aim of finding the king a spouse. Ordinarily, it might have been done while he was still prince, but he’d become king quite suddenly just last year. The tradition is meant to bring a suitor from every village for the prince to choose from. It’s always different, too, the specific prince’s tastes. Whether he goes for the prettiest, or the cleverest, or the most adept at magic. At times, it’s the most politically advantageous village for the throne.
Jeongin is none of that, and he has qualified as his village’s candidate by merit of being the only resident of marriageable age—and indeed, one of the only residents to begin with.
It has been two weeks of balls and mingling and unmitigated free time, which Jeongin has mostly spent to himself. He thought he’d never get another chance in the palace, so he’d surreptitiously cut rare herbs from the garden, torn pages from potions books in the libraries, and tried to puzzle out how anyone could tell the hour from the sundials spread throughout the garden. He hadn’t chased after the king, nor tried to gather his attention. The only time in the past two weeks that all eyes had been on him had been at the opening ball when he’d tripped over the hem of his robe and sprawled flat in the grass of the garden. His pride was more bruised than anything, just a smear of dirt on his chin that couldn’t hide the red of his face.
Jeongin still doesn’t understand what about him has made Chan kneel before him and offer up some freshly-conjured flowers, but he thinks it doesn’t matter. He’s going to say yes, of course, because Chan is the definition of sincerity—Jeongin believes him, even if he can’t understand him. This has the be the trickster’s best work yet.
“Then, alright,” Jeongin says. “I accept, Chan.”
Names are a powerful thing. At Chan’s properly spilling from Jeongin’s lips for the first time, he beams bright and wide, powerfully, and comes to his feet to squash Jeongin in a very improper hug.
“I have a few stipulations,” Jeongin manages to squeak out, crushed in Chan’s grip.
“For you? Anything,” Chan says, and pulls back to let Jeongin breathe, his eyes bright and shining. The crown on his head glitters, but nowhere near as bright as his eyes, Jeongin thinks.
“I can’t face the rest of them,” Jeongin admits with a swallow. “The suitors. They’ll say I’ve entranced you, or something.”
“You have,” Chan insists with a little smirk, tracing designs in Jeongin’s palm—runes, maybe, though Jeongin has never studied them well enough to know for certain.
“With a potion,” Jeongin corrects, a bit desperate.
Chan frowns, his fingers pausing. “You’ve no magic. How would you…?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been faking. I blackmailed another suitor adept at potion magic. I sold my soul for a perfectly-brewed love potion. They’ll say anything.”
“I won’t let them,” Chan promises, and grips Jeongin’s wrist to press a kiss to his palm, making him wriggle. “I’d banish them all now to make you happy.”
Jeongin squirms. “The closing ball.” It’s a thought that now fills him with slight, nausea-inducing dread. “I—you couldn’t cancel it.”
“I could and I would.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jeongin corrects firmly, and takes a deep, steadying breath. Chan still has his wrist caught, and he wonders if he’ll kiss his palm again. He’s—he’s going to marry the king, he realizes concretely for the first time, and he needs to accept that there will often be unpleasant things to sit through, like frivolous little balls where people might spew something hateful and spiteful behind his back.
Chan flips his hand and presses his lips to Jeongin’s knuckles, like he just feels he ought to have some part of his lips touching Jeongin at all times—butterflies well up inside of him, and he’s certain if he had an ounce of magic at all, they’d be erupting from his throat.
“Well,” he mumbles, “I won’t look at anyone but you the whole night, anyway. The other suitors were growing frustrated, I think, for lack of attention, my lack of tact.”
Jeongin lets out another shaky, nervous laugh, shaking his head. “I—I’m certain this is a trickster’s illusion.”
“A trickster?” Chan asks in a mumble, his lips now finding the inside of Jeongin’s wrist, where he’d dabbed his scent oil just that morning. He wonders what it smells like to Chan—to him, it’s always floral, and it smells astonishingly like the daisies he now holds.
“I—you don’t have such tales in the palace? When a handkerchief goes missing, or a brew you’ve worked on diligently goes awry? It’s the work of a trickster.”
Chan raises his eyebrows. “Like a god? Doesn’t he have a name?”
“Well, sure,” Jeongin says—is the trickster his parents told him about really nothing more than some backwater, podunk wives’ tale? “But we don’t know it. A name is a powerful thing; it has the capacity to control, and a trickster isn’t going to just give it out.”
“Powerful,” Chan muses, and runs his nose along Jeongin’s wrist. He’s dying to know what Chan smells there, if it’s the same floral that Jeongin detects or something more exotic. “Is that why I felt a thrill when you said my name?”
Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat. “I—I felt the same when you uttered mine.”
Chan smiles, presses another kiss to his wrist. Jeongin had also dabbed the oil behind his ears, at the nape of his neck, the hollow of his throat. He wishes Chan would find those spots, as well. “It must mean we’re meant for one another, then,” Chan declares. He rubs his nose to his wrist again. “And you smell nice. Like just before a summer rainstorm, when it goes dark and gusty and you know the sky is just about to open up.”
Jeongin’s heart swells. “It’s enchanted,” he blurts. “It smells like flowers to me. Like daisies.”
Chan’s smile doesn’t waver as he readjusts to thread their fingers together. “You know,” he says, squeezing Jeongin’s hand, “my tutors always told me I didn’t have much gift for Sight. But something in me knew you’d like those daisies.”
He offers a shy smile back, his heart thumping. “Perhaps because we’re meant for one another, Chan,” he suggests, though uttering the statement about kills him. He sees it this time, the pleasant shudder that seems to run up Chan’s spine at his name.
“It seems that way, Jeongin,” he agrees, and Jeongin squeezes Chan’s hand back with a more confident smile, swallowing the butterflies that threaten to swarm from his mouth.
Jeongin is lined up with the other suitors, who largely ignore him. The whisperings that he’s heard thus far have been wondering who the king will select, as he’s given no inkling—no inkling to anyone but Jeongin.
He’s in gold robes that he fears are a bit much for him, but the suitors are all meant to be dressed identically, anyway. There are simply metal wreaths twined in everyone’s hair, and Jeongin had actually been dragged off for makeup, little more than blush across his cheeks and strategically-placed shimmer.
Jeongin falls in line, keeping his head bowed as they’re ushered into the ballroom. The palace has more or less come to a standstill the past two weeks, and he imagines that it’s about time to get it going again—it’s good that it only lasts two weeks, finding the king a spouse.
They line up before the king’s throne. Chan isn’t sitting on it, but standing before it, surveying the group before him perfunctorily—and then his eyes fall on Jeongin and unabashedly light up.
And the room holds its collective breath as Chan descends slowly, regally. And once he’s on level ground, he makes no pretense of making anything other than a beeline for Jeongin. He sees his hands move, conjuring a bundle of a few daisies from thin air and tucking them behind Jeongin’s ear with a lock of his hair. He feels the metallic wreath locked in his hair vibrate, and he’s certain that Chan is adding daisies to it, as well.
“A dance?” he asks softly, with an encouraging smile. “Jeongin?”
“Yes,” he agrees, placing his trembling hand into Chan’s and ignoring the vile looks being shot this way. “Chan.”
There’s an awkward transition of Jeongin being tugged out of line and the other suitors grumpily trying to find partners. Jeongin might look back and fret over it, but Chan keeps his eyes locked on him.
“Just look at me,” he murmurs encouragingly. “Those others don’t matter.”
Jeongin stomach rolls, not aided when Chan slides a hand along his waist and the music swells.
To add to his demerits, Jeongin is no dancer. He tries, but he’s a bit too careless, a bit too clumsy. He focuses very hard, but his robe is pretty long, and it’s like his feet keep getting twisted up in it against his will. Chan has to keep a pretty firm grip on his waist to keep him from toppling over, but he seems more amused by it than anything.
“I don’t think your robes were hemmed properly,” Chan says, a teasing edge to his voice. And, yeah, actually—he can't help but feel they'd been an appropriate length at his fitting, but then again, he hadn't attempted to dance in them.
“I—sorry,” he grits out, because it really is taking all his concentration not to fall flat on his face. It’s worse than usual—it has to be his nerves, somehow, his awareness of the glares coming his way from the spinning couples around him.
The dance ends faster than Jeongin anticipates, perhaps because he’s been so focused on his own two feet. It’s a shame—he hadn’t gotten a chance to properly enjoy it.
But Chan seems to agree that Jeongin has had enough and gently tugs him from the dance floor. But the alternative, of course, is conversation. Jeongin doesn’t exactly dread small talk, but with these people, who newly view him as a rival—he isn’t looking forward to it. They’ll scrutinize him, deduce that he’s absolutely nothing special, and carry on with their vicious speculation.
It’s polite for Chan to speak with all of his guests, of course, but he doesn’t take a hand off of Jeongin the entire time, as if to make his intentions clear. Jeongin juts in with little pleasantries and tidbits when there’s an opening for it, but there has to be something about this robe—his feet continue to get twisted in it, and he stumbles along beside Chan as they make their way around the ballroom.
He’s trying to be attentive and polite to the person they’re speaking with, but just over his shoulder—“I’ve never seen a more blatant use of a love potion,” one of the suitors, the frontrunners, the one that perhaps Chan ought to have picked, is stage-whispering. It’s surely meant for Jeongin to hear. “How can anyone see that and decide not to try to slip the poor king an antidote? He’s rigging this entire thing!”
“Excuse me,” Chan says politely to the young lady he’s engaging in conversation. He turns to one of his guards, who has been tailing them all evening. “I don’t think that sort of talk is suitable for polite society,” is all he says to his guard, who looks over at another lining the wall and nods.
Jeongin watches in awe as the guard seizes the offender, a rather handsome young man, around the waist and forcibly drags him from the hall, despite his pleas and apologies. The ballroom goes silent except for his protests for a few stifling moments, and Chan’s hand squeezes Jeongin’s waist reassuringly, catching his eye a moment.
And then he returns his attention back to the young lady and continues their conversation. “I must say, I’m impressed by those with a gift for healing spells. I was never very accomplished at them myself.”
It’s an interminably long evening, though everyone keeps their vitriol about Jeongin subtle enough so as not to get dragged out. Honestly, as far as Jeongin can tell, everyone seems eager for it to end—it’s really just a parade of the fact that Chan has chosen Jeongin rather than any of them.
But Chan doesn’t release him even as he officially bids everyone farewell, thanks them for coming to the palace. They’ll all leave in the morning—except for Jeongin. He thinks there’s usually a more official to-do about selecting the king’s pick, but Chan has made it glaringly obvious to all who he’s chosen.
“I, um,” Jeongin starts, his tongue thick. As ever, he has the Your Majesty on the tip of his tongue, but it feels uncommonly right to call him by his name. “Chan. I must go to the suitors’ chambers, as well.”
It’s dormitory-style sleeping, which has mostly been a nuisance to Jeongin. There’s always a group awake at the stupidest hours of the night, keeping everyone else up with their noise. And now, well—Jeongin is pretty sure this won’t be a fun night for him. He wonders if the man who was escorted out is back in the dormitories, or if his things had been packed and he was sent home shamefully early.
Chan frowns. “I don’t like that idea. The others are unfairly vicious to you.”
“I will be fine,” he promises, dropping his head.
But Chan is still considering him, the case obviously not closed. “You ought to stay in my chambers tonight,” he decides.
Bad idea, Jeongin thinks. The king’s pick or not, they’re not wed, and the rumors spread around the castle can’t be good ones. He doesn’t think Chan has any impure intentions, genuinely. Certainly he doesn’t intend to defile him and then betray him, to go back on his word.
But—maybe Chan doesn’t quite understand how precarious Jeongin’s situation is. He’s here by merit of a promise only—a king’s promise, sure, but things stronger than those have been broken. He trusts Chan, but he doesn’t think he can risk it.
Chan picks up on Jeongin’s hesitation. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he murmurs. “I just—I won’t have you thrown to a pit of vipers.”
“I can’t stay in your chambers,” Jeongin argues gently, because he fears his reputation is damaged enough.
“I’ll stay in guest chambers tonight,” Chan resolves.
“Then why don’t I stay in guest chambers tonight?” Jeongin pleads. It just makes more sense.
But Chan tweaks Jeongin’s cheek, smiling fondly at him. “Because my chambers are more comfortable, of course. I can send a servant to fetch your things and to help you get ready for bed.”
Jeongin, even here, has never had anyone help him get ready for bed. That said, he is a little nervous about getting this metal wreath out of his hair without ripping it all out—so maybe it’s for the best. And he gets the feeling that arguing with Chan over this is utterly futile.
“It’s very kind. Thank you.”
The king raises his hand to pat Jeongin’s head, a dark blue sleeve trailing down. And, his greatest unknown fear—the king’s sleeve gets stuck a moment on the metallic wreath on his head, then tears.
There’s no loose metal, Jeongin is sure—otherwise, he’d have been getting stabbed in the head all night, which he wouldn’t be thrilled about. But Chan pulls his hand back and observes his torn sleeve with apathy, the hem of it hanging down.
Maybe he can sense Jeongin’s panic over it, how sensitive he is around Chan. He feels as if he’ll fall apart at the slightest inconvenience, and he thinks he might feel that way until they take their wedding vows.
So it seems he resolves to be lighthearted about it. He holds the torn sleeve in front of Jeongin’s face and, with a cheeky grin, asks, “And is this the work of your trickster god, as well?”
Chan, thankfully, is not permitted to escort Jeongin to his chambers. A servant arrives to tend to Jeongin, and he is very insistent on shooing Chan off—he leaves Jeongin with another kiss to his hand, another huff at the oil he’d dabbed on the inside of his wrist.
The king’s chambers are expectedly large—bigger than Jeongin’s entire cottage back home. The bed itself might be bigger than his kitchen—and he’s really expected to sleep in the bed? The king’s bed?
The servant makes quick work of the wreath on his head, and it doesn’t escape Jeongin’s notice that his feet quit getting tangled in the hem of his robe the moment he’s out of Chan’s sight. Trickster god, indeed.
The servant helps him bathe, like he’s a child, and he thinks he doesn’t quite manage to wipe the suspicious side-eye from his face as the servant grabs his arm and begins scrubbing for him. Wealthy people are odd, or just truly have so much money they have to invent new ways to spend it—a servant whose responsibility includes bathing him? Really?
The servant takes care of dressing him, too, fussing over the ties of his nightgown like it matters, like anyone else might see Jeongin like this. Is he also going to tuck Jeongin in? Read him a bedtime story? Soothe him if he has a nightmare? He’s not used to such coddling—it strikes him as overwhelmingly infantile.
But at last the servant blows the candles out and allows Jeongin to crawl in the unreasonably large bed, alone. It’s comfortable and luxurious, but also a bit sad, he thinks. He’s in the middle of an island, a large bed and all alone, and he feels strangely hollow about it.
He balls up on his side and curls the covers around him the childish way he had as a child. If it’s pitiful, the servants will be by to remove any evidence of his pathetic way of sleeping before Chan might see.
The pillowcase doesn’t smell like anything but faintly of soap, freshly laundered. Jeongin doesn’t really know well what Chan smells like, hasn’t been close enough to him to guess. But despite his thorough bath, there’s a hint of the enchanted oil he uses still at his wrist; he buries his nose there and inhales the daisies, like the ones Chan had conjured for his hair which now rest in a vase of water at the bedside.
He dreams, which is not usual. Dreams are little crackles of magic, remnants of it, and Jeongin holds no magic. He remembers having perhaps a half dozen dreams his entire life, most of those contained to childhood.
But now, he dreams not of Chan, or of home, or the strange palace he’s found himself in. He dreams of a man he’s sure he’s never seen before, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. He stands at Jeongin’s bedside, and although his eyes are somewhat maniacal, along with his grin, Jeongin doesn’t feel scared.
“Who are you?” he asks, and his voice is distant to himself, dream-like. “Your name?”
The man observes him, cocking his head, and then sinks to the mattress, one leg sliding between both of Jeongin’s, over the covers. “A name is a powerful thing,” he reminds Jeongin, his voice soft. They are words he’s thought himself just this week, with Chan. But he has a hand come up under Jeongin’s chin, like he’s inspecting him. “I think it shall make it worse, if you had my name. I’ll keep it private.”
There’s a little shiver that runs up Jeongin’s spine, a pleasant one. “I have no magic. So—this is your dream.”
“I do not dream,” the man responds, and his leg hitches up higher between Jeongin’s, pressing against him. He exhales shakily, uncontrolled, and stretches out for the man on instinct. “This is yours, dear. I’m merely a visitor.”
“I—I do not dream,” Jeongin argues, though it’s difficult with his jaw dropped, with the man’s fingers propped under his chin to coo at him.
“Everybody dreams,” he says, dismissive. “Everyone has magic, even if only a little. And you might have more magic than you think, Jeongin.”
“I—” he gasps, and his back arches, his fingers dig into the man’s shoulders. It feels real, despite the hazy quality to their voices, the blurriness around the edges. But this—the sensation—feels undeniably, overwhelmingly real, as do the tears suddenly clogging his throat.
“Your name is the most powerful to me, Jeongin,” he says, seeing his reaction. “And I know you think that it’s unfair for me to know your name while you do not know mine. And you are correct. But it’s best this way.”
Jeongin loses the ability to respond, lost in the overwhelming sensation between his legs, his eyes fixed blankly up at this man of his dreams.
“That’s it,” he encourages softly, seeing him struggle to come to terms with the all-consuming pleasure. “I’m making you feel good, it’s okay. You can let go.” There’s a few more moments of labored breathing, and the visitor looks almost sad above him, wistful. “Oh, Jeongin,” he breathes, sounding pitiable. “You were going to be mine. You were supposed to be mine.”
“Y-yours?” he manages, the word gnashed between his teeth, clutched tightly. And then the rocking of the man’s thigh at last proves too much—there’s a peak, a euphoric apex. But he doesn’t plummet from it. He stays and mellows in it, comes down slowly.
In the dark, the man—the one of his dreams—is going translucent, hazy, though his grip on Jeongin is still solid but tender.
“Mine,” he insists, and the word is harsher than any of his others, any of his actions. It’s fierce, insistent, fiery—Jeongin feels it pierce and burn the entire way down into his belly, as if he were being branded. The man softens, his existence in this dream realm becoming tenuous. He flickers like a candle burning low, and when he cups Jeongin’s cheek, it’s a mere ghost of touch. “I will make you mine, Jeongin,” he says, his voice much softer. It’s almost an echo, no trace of the man having been there at all.
Except—except the burning of a promise, a fiery knot in Jeongin’s belly that he thinks is real enough to carry over even from the dream. It’s something he still feels, even as everything blurs and melds together, and his vision goes dark.
He wakes to sunlight streaming across his face, a cold, tacky feeling between his legs, and the disapproving look of the servant. “I was told to allow you to rest,” he informs Jeongin dryly, though the look on his face plainly says that he thinks Jeongin has slept too late. “As if there isn’t a wedding to plan. Come, we’ll bathe first.”
Bathe—right, the servant will bathe him. Except his nightgown is all but glued between his legs, some portion of last night’s dream, which is beginning to slip away from him already, come true.
“I—I can bathe myself,” he insists, sitting bolt upright and leaving the covers in his lap.
“Very good,” he says dryly, uninterested. “However, if you do a poor job, the blame circles back to me, so I’m afraid I must insist.”
He squirms uneasily, but the servant pays no mind, ripping the covers off and tugging him to his feet, hastily untying the strings of his nightgown. And he notes the mess immediately, the reason for Jeongin’s hesitance, and he eyes it disapprovingly.
“That should be saved for your wedding night, as I’m sure you know,” he chides, and Jeongin feels more childlike than ever, being scolded like this.
He bites back his response, because the only one he can give has something to do with Well, I didn’t mean to… which is somehow infinitely more embarrassing to admit.
He’s run through basic etiquette courses after spending what remains of the morning being done up, primped and preened until he’s deemed close enough to acceptable, which is insulting. There’s a meeting with an advisor to run him through his duties as the king’s husband, there are fucking geography lessons, adding to the fact that he’s being treated as an incapable, naughty schoolchild and not as a grown adult man.
He is, at least, permitted to take dinner with Chan, the first time he’s seen him since night. They’re mostly alone, just him and Chan and a handful of servants around the edge of the room, silent and easy to ignore.
“I missed you,” Chan says earnestly, not taking his eyes off of Jeongin while he brushes his lips against his hand. “Have they been too hard on you? Are you comfortable enough?”
He resists the urge to wriggle. He’s exhausted, to be frank, and looking forward to perhaps dreaming again tonight—he doesn’t dream, but the one he’d had last night had been pleasant, even if it’s now a bit cloudy in his mind.
“I have much to catch up on,” he admits.
There’s a slight frown on Chan’s face. “Well, I should like to hear all about it,” he declares, then glances over at their settings for dinner. They’re in a proper hall, which is intimidating, a long, polished table with place settings at extreme opposite ends. Is Jeongin meant to shout so that Chan might hear him?
Chan seems to reach the same conclusion, and marches to the far end to grab the silverware, the cup of wine, the dishes. The servants scramble to help him, and don’t offer a word of protest. Jeongin has a feeling if he had tried it, he’d be scolded, perhaps his hand even slapped.
But when all is said and done, there are two place settings straddling a corner of the table, and Chan pulls out the chair at the foot for Jeongin.
“So,” Chan says, settling in his own chair, “how has everything been?”
Exhausting. Dull. Overbearing. But how can Jeongin admit that to Chan, when what he’s being lectured on is meant to be his new life?
He drops his gaze to his lap. “A bit overwhelming,” he admits softly, because he can’t entirely put on a brave face. “As I said, there’s much to learn.”
Chan reaches for his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “And nobody expects you to master it at once.”
Jeongin begs to differ. All that’s been impressed on him is how urgent it is that he remember every last bit of etiquette, every faux pas that he might accidentally commit. He stays silent, staring down at his loaded plate, yet untouched.
“What can I do to lighten your load?” Chan asks earnestly. “If you’re so worn down after one day, it can be nothing good. I told them to let you rest as long as you desired.”
And the servant had—kind of. But the—the bath. The dressing. Oh, he hates it.
“Well, I’m—” he tries, feeling stupid even voicing it. “I’m being treated a bit like a disobedient child. And I—I can bathe myself, dress myself. I’d prefer it.”
He’s frowning again. “I’ll speak with them about how they talk to you. And certainly you’re allowed to bathe yourself, that’s foolish.”
Jeongin softens, his shoulders relaxing as he smiles gratefully at Chan. “I would appreciate it,” he says softly, and Chan looks enraptured. Maybe—had he accidentally slipped Chan a love potion somehow? Or someone had on his behalf? There’s no reason for him to be so smitten with someone as resolutely everyday as Jeongin.
“It’s a small thing,” Chan acknowledges with a small smile. “And for you, I would move the heavens above.”
It’s oddly embarrassing, the king’s devotion, and Jeongin finds himself squirming in his chair from the intensity of it. He likes Chan, certainly—he’s handsome and considerate and far more obsessed with Jeongin than he ought to be. However, royal subject or not, he’s not sure he can match the king’s devotion to him—but he can try. When they’re wed, it will be easier, and Jeongin resolves to try to at least match the king’s fervor.
“Tell me more,” Chan says quietly, gazing at Jeongin. “Have you slept well? Eaten well?”
And, unbidden, Jeongin recalls that vague dream from last night. It’s hazy in his memories, every last detail blurred and obscured but for the fact that it has been decidedly pleasant. Perhaps much too pleasant, given the state in which he’d awoken.
But that’s not—it isn’t his fault. He wasn’t even aware that he could dream, and his lack of distinct memory of the dream seems to prove that it was a fluke. But still, the fact that he’s dreaming must be significant. Maybe Chan has enchanted him in some way, after all.
“I slept very well,” Jeongin admits, bidding his cheeks not to redden, his voice not to shake. “I… I dreamt.”
Chan’s eyebrows raise in shock, and then he breaks into a wide grin. “So you have some magic after all. What did you dream of?”
It was a pleasant dream—a pleasurable dream. Jeongin can’t remember the details, but who could he have dreamt of besides Chan? He’s never longed after anyone else before, not romantically, not carnally. It can only be Chan.
He drops his voice to a whisper, suddenly aware of the servants posted around the perimeter of the room. “Of you, Chan.”
Chan shudders and groans, stretching his hands for Jeongin’s own, needing to clutch them. “Jeongin,” he breathes through parted lips. “Jeongin, you can’t— say those things.” Jeongin’s stomach turns, and he’s on the verge of an apology, not realizing that it would trouble the king so. But Chan looks desperate, his eyes shining wide as he gazes at Jeongin. “We must be wed immediately,” he decides. “Forgive my crassness, but I can’t wait any longer.”
Jeongin blinks, his insides going swirly. His skin breaks into goosebumps and something stirs in him at Chan’s words. “Immediately…?” he asks, because all he’s been told all day is that he has so much to learn.
“Well, as soon as we can,” Chan says earnestly.
Jeongin shifts uneasily. “I’ve been told I have much to learn.”
“And I’m afraid if you learn it all now, you will have forgotten it by the time the time comes to use it after our wedding,” Chan responds immediately, dismissively. He leans even closer to Jeongin, his voice dropping. “I don’t intend to have you out in polite society for a fortnight, at minimum.”
“I—oh,” Jeongin says, his entire stomach in anxious little knots. It’s anxiety, but a good kind, he thinks. It happens when Chan looks at him, speaks his name, implies things he’d like to do with Jeongin, to Jeongin. “Then… why am I bothering with etiquette, when you clearly intend to disregard it the first two weeks of our marriage?”
Chan grins broadly. “I’m asking myself the same question,” he says, and his head bows to again brush his lips against Jeongin’s knuckles. His lips are quivering, trembling with desire, and it takes a good measure of self control to not just tug Chan to him. “I’ll discuss with my staff,” he promises earnestly. “A royal wedding is a spectacle, but I’ll inquire how quickly one can be put on. I didn’t think I would miss my own bed, but the promise of you there in it is almost too bear missing out on.”
Jeongin’s breath comes out in shaky exhales, their hands still clutched together, their food and wine yet untouched. “I’ll keep it warm for you in the meantime,” he promises, and Chan’s nose again runs along the inside of Jeongin’s wrist, to the oil he’d dabbed there.
“You are so tempting it will drive me mad,” Chan murmurs, his lips brushing against Jeongin’s flushed skin. “And I believe that now, it will be I that dreams of you tonight.”
Jeongin hopes the little flickers of magic that he contains haven’t petered out, so that he may see Chan again in his dreams tonight, without having to worry about a nosy servant washing him in the morning.
He dreams, but—it isn’t Chan. This man is decidedly not Chan, something more delicate and conniving. There’s a vaguely sinister air to him, but oddly, he doesn’t frighten Jeongin in the slightest.
“You are who I dreamt of last night,” Jeongin recalls upon seeing him again, sitting up in his bed.
“And you bade me return again,” he responds, his fingers skimming Jeongin’s jaw as he settles beside him. “You missed me, although you did not recall me.”
“My magic is weak,” Jeongin admits. “Flickers, or sparks. But I—I am betrothed.”
The man’s eyebrow quirks, and Jeongin’s chest erupts in the familiar, fluttery sensation, awfully real for a dream. “And this is a dream. What bearing have dreams on reality?”
Jeongin’s breath quivers. “It feels awfully real.”
“And yet,” the man says dryly. “It is a dream. A dream which you, as someone with barely a flicker of magic, as you say, have little control over and little memory of come morning. But a pleasant one nonetheless, is it not?”
Jeongin’s body is already reacting, which he hates. But he grows stiff, brimming with desire, and—he cannot control what he dreams, really, can he? If this man, the one of his dreams, were to—to have his way with him, well, what is Jeongin to do?
“So,” the man says, his lips a hair’s breadth from Jeongin’s, “shall I kiss you?”
Every hair on his body stands on end, the tautness between his legs almost unbearable, going ignored as it is. “I have no control over what you do,” Jeongin decides, and it is an oddly freely statement, however contradictory it seems.
He doesn’t seem pleased with Jeongin’s answer, drawing back with a frown. “So if I am to kiss you, you would not reciprocate?”
Jeongin stretches for him automatically (for he cannot control himself, he tells himself sternly), his long fingers locking around the man’s wrist, which is decidedly solid, corporeal. “I would have no control over my reaction,” he says firmly. “If I return your affection, it’s only because I am unable to control myself.”
“Oh,” says the man, with a dastardly smile. He brings his hand at last between Jeongin’s legs, pressing harshly down and drawing a gasp from his lips. “You are so tempting. It’s little wonder I find myself battling a king for your affection.”
He brings his lips to Jeongin’s parted ones, tracing his tongue at the edge of his lower lip before prodding it inside. Jeongin is scarcely able to return his affections, after all, his brain again leaking from his ears in light of the pressure on his cock.
“Jeongin,” he mumbles against his lips, commanding, and it threatens to undo him right then and there. “You are too much, too pretty.”
“Please,” he returns, his hand gripping around the back of the man’s neck to keep their foreheads pressed together. “Please, may I know your name? I need to know what to chant, to pray.”
“So reverent,” he praises, nipping at Jeongin’s lips. “So worshipful. But no. Perhaps you may have my name when you are fully mine, but not before. It is too dangerous. But turn it over in your mind; I wish you would think of me often, constantly. Not merely in your dreams.”
Jeongin is on the verge of protest, but has to throw his head back from the sensation. The man’s lips come to his now-bared throat, and he hastily rucks up Jeongin’s nightgown around his waist.
“I am not usually so hasty,” he says, a type of apology as he glides to settle between Jeongin’s legs. “But you humans are not usually so utterly irresistible.”
“You are not human?” Jeongin breathes, although he could not care less. The man is settled between his legs, parted lips poised daintily over Jeongin’s dripping cock.
“Oops,” he murmurs, his tongue darting out to gather a pearl beading at the top. “I am not. Does that frighten you?”
“You are not frightening,” Jeongin insists, and he wraps his lips around the head of his cock. Even this bulges his cheeks out, and Jeongin has to fight back a cry. “Are you—are you an incubus, then?”
“I must seem that way,” he murmurs pensively, his eyes lidded as he looks up at Jeongin, his tongue tracing up the entirety of his length. “But I am not.”
“I—” Jeongin tries, his body going rigid. The man swallows him down again, and it seems the time for talking is over. He cannot focus, anyway, not with the slippery warmth around him, the diligence he is being shown.
And so he must disengage, let his consciousness narrow down to a singular point, to the man of his dreams bobbing rhythmically around his cock, watching him carefully through lidded eyes.
When Jeongin finishes, he takes a few moments to withdraw, apparently relishing the twitchy overstimulation Jeongin feels. But then he primly settles Jeongin’s robes back around his legs and crawls up to his side in the bed.
“And so,” he asks, and offers Jeongin a long kiss, sensual and deep. There’s still a heady taste on his tongue, one that Jeongin can somehow recognize as his own, and he whimpers against the man’s lips. “What am I?”
“You are a man,” Jeongin says decidedly. “Who appears frequently in my dreams. A man of my dreams.”
“I could not have said it better myself,” he praises, his thumb swiping at Jeongin’s lower lip gently. “I do not dream, as I told you, but I believe if I did, I should like to see you there. Very much.”
“And—I shall see you again? In my dreams?”
“And perhaps one day in reality, should you be so lucky,” he confirms. “As you said, you have no control over your dreams. But even if you did, I should like to see you try to shake me from them.”
It’s almost threatening, but the shudder that runs up Jeongin’s spine is a pleasant one, oddly.
Jeongin blinks. “And when I am married?”
“Nothing shall change,” he says immediately, dismissive. “I do not see your betrothed here, in your dreams. And so I am forced to assume that you are not betrothed in your dreams. But it would not stop me, regardless, Jeongin. I want too much.”
“And if my magic flickers out?” he whispers, concerned. “If I cannot dream, if I cannot see you—”
“Hush, dear,” he says, cupping his jaw again as the panic begins to rise in Jeongin’s voice. “I will see to it that that doesn’t happen.”
“You can—you are —imbuing me with magic?” Jeongin asks, incredulous.
“Ridiculous,” he scoffs, his arm sliding now along Jeongin’s waist, pressed together at every conceivable juncture. “I am merely the man of your dreams—who says that I may have so much power?”
Jeongin is clean when he wakes up the following morning, the dream already slipping from his mind.
There’s a servant at the foot of his bed, and he jolts, not expecting it.
“You are permitted to bathe and dress yourself,” the servant informs him flatly. “Though I must inform you, the king is here.”
“The—the king?” Jeongin asks, faint. He’s in a rumpled nightgown, unbathed, his hair mussed. “I—can he wait a moment?”
“The king does not wait,” the servant tells him disapprovingly. “I am merely here as a courtesy, to make sure you were properly awake before greeting His Majesty. He is… insistent.”
He gulps, feeling oddly dirty despite having slept in immaculately clean sheets all night. He reaches to attempt to smooth his hair down. Usually, it flattens easily, but it seems to stubbornly resist Jeongin’s efforts now, of all times. He springs to his feet and hastily throws the sheets up, so it doesn’t appear such a mess.
He teeters, nearly falling over and planting on his face. He blames the king for his recent unsteadiness, his clumsiness. Chan has done something to him, made him stupider and more awkward. It is the only explanation, he thinks, and he has only enough time to rub the sleep from his eyes before Chan is breezing in, the picture of royalty.
He has a luxurious robe draped from his shoulders, a heavy crown glinting at his head. He is meant to be holding court, then, and has for some reason stopped by Jeongin’s bedchambers—or, rather, his own.
“I—Chan,” Jeongin squeaks, ignoring the harsh look from the servant at his familiarity. “I apologize, I could have slept in the guest—”
“Not that,” Chan says, striding immediately across the room and clasping Jeongin’s hands in his own, cradled between their chests. He looks as if he is about to kiss Jeongin, and surely he would, were it not for the servant lingering for decency’s sake. “Tomorrow,” he announces softly, his eyes squinted in delight as he runs his fingers through Jeongin’s bedhead. “We are to be wed tomorrow.”
Jeongin nearly chokes on his own spit, his gasp catching in his throat. “It’s—so soon?” he asks, his heart quickening. “I—I have much to do today, then.”
“You do not,” Chan protests, and his hands come to Jeongin’s waist. Were it anybody but the king, he would be soundly scolded—he would not even be permitted in these bedchambers with Jeongin indecent and half-asleep. “You are to rest today. Relax. Whatever you would like. I daresay you know well enough how to behave at your own wedding tomorrow. I’ve instructed the servants to leave you alone—well, except for just now,” he admits, his eyes darting over to the one standing silently in the corner.
Jeongin blinks. “I am free to roam?”
“Of course,” Chan says with delight. “I intend to keep you locked away immediately after our wedding, and so I must encourage it.” He draws back a little, lets his eyes rake up and down Jeongin’s body. “I… could have waited to tell you. Or had a servant tell you in my stead. I apologize for startling you.”
Jeongin’s eyes glint, a smile creeping up his face. “You only wanted a taste of what is to come,” he accuses, full of mirth.
“I shall strive for more subtlety in my admiration in the future,” he says, slightly sheepish.
“Don’t,” Jeongin orders, his fingers skimming over top of Chan’s, still latched to his waist. “It’s… nice. Refreshing, to have someone be so unashamedly taken by me.”
“I am,” Chan agrees with a smile, and lifts Jeongin’s hand to his lips again. “Did you dream of me again?”
The servant makes a conspicuous choking noise behind them, which they both elect to ignore.
The details have dripped away from Jeongin, part of the shock of being awoken in such a sudden manner. But it had been a pleasant one again, and far less… sticky and messy than the previous night.
How could it have been anyone other than Chan?
“I did,” he admits in a whisper, and Chan smiles. “If I have enough magic only to dream of you, it’s enough.”
Chan bends to rub his nose along Jeongin’s wrist again, inhaling the barest lingering scent that had stuck to him through the night. “You have enough to dream of me,” he reasons, and pulls more daisies from midair, “and I have enough to express the tiniest fraction of my affection for you.”
“It is more than enough,” Jeongin murmurs, accepting the flowers as Chan presses them towards him. “Now, you have duties to attend to.”
“I do,” he mumbles, pressing his lips again to Jeongin’s hand. “Will you dine with me tonight? Perhaps in these chambers?”
“I will,” Jeongin promises, his skin prickling with heat.
“Very good,” Chan returns, eager. “I will look forward to it.”
He brushes his lips once more against the back of Jeongin’s hand and leaves him, stunned and dazed and wondering how much longer until he might know what they might feel like against his own.
Once he’s bathed and dressed, all of his own accord, he departs unaccompanied—free. He is familiar enough with the layout of the palace, having spent already the past two weeks here. He has a small collection of potions ingredients, some dear pages of theory and recipes ripped from books in the library (and he probably ought to apologize for that, now), but he is eager to learn if his trickle of magic, sufficient for dreaming, might also allow him to properly craft a brew.
Jeongin is an excellent potioneer, perhaps the best, for someone with little-to-no magic. Potion work doesn’t require magic, not until the very final step. How Jeongin has made do previously was crafting the entire potion himself, then finding himself someone adept enough at potion magic to do the final step, to murmur the appropriate incantation and stir the concoction themselves.
He is running low on the scented oil that Chan seems to appreciate so much, and resolves to make more of that. It’s a recipe of his own invention and, as such, the ingredients are not expensive nor hard to come by—they exist in the royal gardens here as well as back home, in his own village.
It’s a quick brew, one that he should have finished before dinner, if possible, and it will provide him with more than enough to last him through his honeymoon with Chan.
Nobody bothers him as he stoops in the garden to collect his various clippings. One servant pauses to offer him some gloves, some shears, and it seems that’s as far as they’ve been permitted to interfere when it comes to Jeongin. He really must thank Chan more.
He is left alone, but he has the oddest feeling that he is being watched. More than once, he glances over his shoulder and swears that he catches a glimpse of someone, only for them to disappear the moment he lays eyes on them. It must be the sun driving him loopy, or something.
Once his pockets are stuffed, he begins the walk back to his—to Chan’s —chambers. Right as he’s remembering that he’ll have to find a servant to request a cauldron, the hustle and bustle of the corridor grinds to a halt, and Chan strolls down with his advisor.
He stops short upon seeing Jeongin. “And what are you up to?” he asks kindly.
“Crafting a potion, I hope,” Jeongin returns. “I only need a cauldron.”
And Chan frowns, turns around to his advisor, who immediately perks up attentively. “Bring a cauldron to his chambers,” he orders.
The advisor falters. “And if—if he blows up the royal chambers, or—or burns a hole in the rug?”
“I didn’t ask you to hypothesize, nor to insult my husband-to-be,” Chan scolds. “I believe I only asked you to fetch a cauldron.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says sourly, turning on his heel to presumably go find another servant to do his dirty work.
“They will get used to you,” Chan insists, and when he strokes through Jeongin’s hair, there are little flowers which crop up and weave through it. “They have been slipping me known love potion antidotes all morning, and are astounded that I am still infatuated by you.”
“Because I am not worthy of your affection,” Jeongin points out—even the king’s most trusted advisors can’t seem to work out why Chan likes him so much. It can only be a love potion.
“How can someone that I am so fond of,” Chan murmurs, sliding his hand to cup Jeongin’s jaw, “be so entirely oblivious?”
Jeongin doesn’t quite know how to respond, his skin flushing again, and so he chooses instead to change topic. He presents the inside of his wrist to Chan, informing, “This is what I’m trying to make more of. I’m nearly out; I only brought enough for two weeks.”
Chan takes the opportunity to press a lingering kiss there, and Jeongin’s knees go slightly weak. “Do try to be done by the time I’m over for dinner, then,” Chan instructs. “Or I may just try to bathe in it.”
“I hope to be,” Jeongin says quietly, and Chan flips his hand to kiss across his knuckles again.
“Then I will see you then,” Chan returns, and smiles as he continues on down the corridor, in the opposite direction. He lets their hands stay together as long as they can, until their distance at last obliges him to drop Jeongin’s hand and leave him motionless, breathless in the wide corridor.
Jeongin is not done before dinner, despite sweating and struggling over the brew for the majority of the day.
Everything had gone smoothly enough, but—the final step. Jeongin just doesn’t think the magic he has is sufficient. He tries to urge it into his fingertips, but it seems he’s saddled with the kind of magic which only makes for pleasurable, but frivolous, dreams.
He loses himself, loses track of time, and so he isn’t expecting the sudden courtesy knock on his door. He barely has time to look up from his cauldron before Chan is striding in, a surly-looking servant at his heels.
“I—so you haven’t finished,” Chan observes sympathetically, peering into the cauldron.
“I think I don’t have enough magic, after all,” he admits sheepishly. “Just enough for dreaming.”
Chan cocks his head. “I can’t say I’m particularly adept at potions,” he says, “but I could help you finish it.” And then he leaves no time for Jeongin to deny him, sweeping around so he’s looming over the cauldron and looking to Jeongin. “What am I to do?”
Well—it is simple, since magicless Jeongin had invented it. “No incantation,” he says. “Best I can figure is you’re meant to stir it clockwise a half dozen times with your magic.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Chan says, pushing the sleeves of his robes up. “Apologies in advance if I spoil it.”
“It’s nothing complicated to make,” Jeongin assures him, though he does take a subtle step back from the cauldron.
And he counts as Chan stirs, just be certain. On the fourth pass, a vine swirls down the wooden ladle, extending down into the oil, and from the vine bloom daisies—and Jeongin isn’t sure that that’s biologically correct, but he does nothing more than quirk an eyebrow. Chan does the same, and stirs the remaining two times, in which a veritable garden blooms over top of the cauldron.
“I apologize,” Chan says as he finishes stir, peering through the hovering lawn of wildflowers to look at the cauldron. “I didn’t mean to do any of that—and I swear I never made so many flowers before I met you.”
Jeongin shoots him an appreciate smile, grabbing the ladle to inspect the brew. It’s difficult to ladle out into a dish with the thick canopy over top of it, and a few of the flowers dissolve to shimmer as Jeongin works to break the ladle free.
But at last, a sample of the golden-colored oil rests in a saucer. Jeongin tentatively dips his finger in it and brings it to his nose. The daisy scent is somehow even more potent than before; Jeongin wants to live in it. He hastily dabs more on the inside of his wrist, the sensitive spot behind his ears, the hollow of his throat.
“It turned out well, then?” Chan asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Would you like to smell?” Jeongin asks, but rather than offering the saucer to him, he extends his wrist.
A broad grin spreads across Chan’s face. He ignores Jeongin’s proffered wrist entirely, instead grabbing Jeongin around the waist and spinning him, to press Jeongin’s back to his front. And his nose comes to nuzzle tentatively behind Jeongin’s ear, breathing in deeply. Jeongin’s knees go weak; were it not for Chan’s arms around him, he would have already collapsed to the floor, as limp as a ragdoll.
“Even better than the last batch, I’d say,” he hums, and his lips come to press against the spot, just behind Jeongin’s ear.
“Chan,” Jeongin mumbles, acutely aware of the silent presence of the servant obliged to watch them. “Perhaps we should eat.”
Chan’s hand skims across his stomach, before tightening in the fabric of his robe in frustration. “Yes,” he mumbles, though his lips drop to Jeongin’s neck. “Yes, we should.”
And he at last finds the strength to break away from Jeongin; they separate and eat in relative tension. It’s only there for another day or so; this time tomorrow, they will be wed, and they’ll no longer need a handler for such matters.
Chan is hesitant to leave. He presses an innumerable amount of kisses to Jeongin’s knuckles, his wrist, his palm, seeming downright worshipful. He inhales the scent at Jeongin’s wrist; he slides a hand along Jeongin’s waist to tug them together.
“Will you dream of me again?” Chan asks in a murmur, cupping Jeongin’s cheek.
He’s fucking dizzy. He’ll summon any last bit of magic he possesses to ensure it—he doesn’t think he can handle waiting until the next evening for the real thing, anyway.
“I hope so,” he admits in a pitiful little whine. “I—If I do not, I fear I may come sleepwalking for you.”
“I wouldn’t mind in the slightest,” Chan assures him. He presses a kiss to Jeongin’s knuckles once more, and his eyes remain on Jeongin the entire time he backs out of the room.
And the moment the door shuts behind him, Jeongin takes advantage of his newfound solitude to bar the door behind him. He shucks his robes hastily, like he can’t divest himself of them quickly enough, and hurriedly smears the remainder of the oil from the platter on his hand.
Can he risk making a mess of the sheets? Would the servants judge him too harshly?
He decides he can’t risk it, and curls up in the cold, empty bath instead. It’s not as good like this, kneeling on hard porcelain with his fist working furiously between his legs, but he can’t help but feel that he’s close already, the scent of daisies, of Chan , enveloping him all around.
His free hand clutches the rim of the tub, and there’s no chance of drawing this out, of making this last, of savoring it. This is the release he’s been waiting for, the one he can be conscious for, and even if it bears the risk that he won’t dream of Chan tonight, he has to do this.
It’s desperate, raw, pathetic; a strangled cry rips from his throat as he releases too quickly, spraying down towards the drain, his chest heaving.
And he slumps against the hard and unforgiving porcelain, needing to catch his breath. He ought to run the water to dispel the incriminating evidence he’s just splattered all over the inside of the tub, and he will—just the moment he catches his breath. He splays his fingers across his own chest, feeling his heart slow down again, letting his head fall back against the coolness of the tub.
The man of his dreams is there waiting for him—he’d forgotten, how had he forgotten? How had he mistaken him for Chan again?
Guilt rises like bile in his throat and he does his best to choke it back down, staring at the man with wide, horrified eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’ve started growing fearful,” he murmurs, his eyes tender as he strokes Jeongin’s hair.
“I—I am to be married,” he says as firmly as he can manage. “Tomorrow.”
He sighs. “I know, such a shame,” he says. “This has grown… complicated.” He swings a leg over to straddle Jeongin’s lap, then picks up his hand, flips it over to expose the inside of his wrist. Jeongin had bathed before bed, but scraped the last of the oil from the saucer to smear inside his wrist; he’d fallen to sleep with thoughts of daisies, of Chan.
So how can this stranger be here instead? What is wrong with him, with his magic?
He now delicately sniffs at Jeongin’s wrist, then hums. He appraises Jeongin, cocking his head. “Don’t you want to know what it smells like to me?”
Jeongin swallows thick and heavy. “That seems much more personal than your name.”
He clears his throat, ignoring Jeongin’s comment. “It smells of ash, of cinder—of smoke.”
Jeongin wrinkles his nose automatically; how acrid, how unpleasant. He thinks of the rural folk back in his village burning rubbish, or the time his village tavern had gone up in smoke.
“I was under the assumption it was meant to be a pleasant smell. Have I made it wrong, or just not tested it on enough people?”
He frowns, wrinkles springing up between his eyebrows. “It is a pleasant smell,” he argues. “It’s the smoke of communion. People coming together and sitting round a fire, swapping stories, swapping jokes. And when you go home and lay down at the end of the night, your eyes may sting from it and your clothes may reek of it, but you’re content and satisfied with a lovely evening.”
Jeongin blinks. He wasn’t anticipating something nearly so… profound. But he does have fond memories around a bonfire, he supposes, roasting meat and nuts and the like. It stung to get smoke in your eyes, but it didn’t necessarily detract from the experience, the communion of it.
“I suppose… I suppose it does sound pleasant, put like that.”
“I’m well-versed in things people might traditionally consider pleasant,” he promises, ghosting his fingers down Jeongin’s jaw. “Even if they are confined to a dream.”
But Jeongin reaches his hand up, to capture the man’s wrist in his fingers, halting him. And he looks at him sternly, his brow furrowed.
“You are not real.”
His words are harsh, final, as if he’s chastising him, the man of his dreams.
And the man’s mouth curves into a smile. “Not here. Not quite. This is a dream, and I thought you were incapable of controlling them?” Jeongin doesn’t respond, trapped in a limbo of indecision, staring in horror at this man and his pretty, delicate features, his eyes that look like they would like to eat Jeongin alive. He clears his throat. “You are, are you not?”
Jeongin blinks at him, the warm weight of the man in his lap a comfort. “I never seem to remember you in the morning. Why is that? Is my magic so weak?”
“It is,” he verifies, dragging Jeongin’s chin up with his fingertips to look in his eyes. “And—it might be a detriment to me. Or it might not be. I haven’t decided yet. But maybe my chances with you are slipping away.”
Jeongin clears his throat. “I am to be married. Tomorrow.”
The man sighs, slumping heavily against him, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace. “You are,” he sighs, defeated. “Not that that will stop this—us. This is but a dream. You want me here, or else I would not be granted entrance.”
Jeongin blinks, now cradling the man’s head against his chest. “I—what we do has no bearing on reality?”
“How could it?” he asks. “You are dreaming.”
“And you are… not real.”
“Not as real as I could be,” he insists, nuzzling up under Jeongin’s chin.
His words only confuse Jeongin more, but he has been shifting and readjusting in Jeongin’s lap, and he is once again ready for him.
“But it always feels real,” Jeongin whines, and the man pulls out from his skin to observe him.
“Oh, dear,” he says, cupping Jeongin’s face in his hands. “Oh, dear, you do want me back. What a conundrum for you—for us. Wanting two people at once, you poor dear.”
“One real, one not,” he chokes out between tears—which also feel real, spilling red-hot and shameful over his cheeks.
“I could be real,” he insists, his thumbs brushing away Jeongin’s tears. “If you were amenable.”
“I don’t even know your name,” Jeongin reminds him.
The man’s breath seems to catch in his throat. “I would love to hear you whisper my name, Jeongin,” he admits, fervent. “But you will not refuse to marry the king for me. It is too dangerous, giving you my name.”
“What happens?” Jeongin asks, letting his hands come to rest on the man’s hips. “If I were to know your name?”
“If you were to know my name,” he says, then hesitates. As if he doesn’t even want Jeongin to know that much. But he shakes his head and bobs forward to dust his lips across Jeongin’s. “If you were to utter my name, I’m yours. And I would love to be, Jeongin, but you could—you could cast me away, then. I can’t share my name until I’m certain you wouldn’t just command me to leave. Names are—they are too powerful.”
“Why would I command you to leave?” Jeongin asks, bewildered. “I—you are not real. I have a real husband. There is no conflict, I believe.”
He seems worried now, antsy, shifting in Jeongin’s lap. He pats his cheek absentmindedly. “Enough questions for one night,” he begs, then reaches down to ruck the skirt of Jeongin’s nightgown up. “There is something more pressing I have been waiting for.”
Jeongin realizes what he’s aiming for a few seconds before he manages it—he lifts his own skirts up and plunges himself down onto Jeongin’s cock. He’s tight and slippery and warm, and Jeongin finds his head falling back, a moan escaping his throat before he’s even conscious of it.
“That’s it,” he praises, mouthing along the column of Jeongin’s throat. “You feel so good, I—”
This… this is real. This has to be real. The man is tight and warm around Jeongin, bouncing in his lap. He’s used—he’s used Jeongin’s fucking oil, because the scent of daisies is potent, all around.
“Does it—it smells like smoke to you? Like cinders?” he verifies, his hands white-knuckled on the man’s hips.
“It does,” he confirms with a deranged little smile, lost in his own pleasure. There’s a mad little giggle that bubbles from his chest. “And here we are—communing. Having a pleasant time together. Are we not?”
Jeongin grips his hips tighter, driving his own upwards against the man’s downward movement. He gasps and falls against Jeongin’s chest, his hands scrabbling for purchase.
“Scandalous,” he gasps. “You’ve—you’ve done this before.” Another giggle. “And you are due to marry tomorrow. Impure—unchaste—”
“It’s nothing complicated,” Jeongin argues in a grunt. “And when you—you’re so soft—”
“Oh my—” the man gasps, bringing his hand around to cup the back of Jeongin’s head, to let him hide in his neck for now. “Come. Come in me, Jeongin, please, I—”
It’s not fair, it strikes Jeongin. He doesn’t know this man’s name, but he wants to chant it over and over and over in worship, in prayer, in begging—he doesn’t know and doesn’t care, but he needs his name and he doesn’t have it .
“Your name,” he chokes out again, desperate. “Please—your name—”
“I would love to hear you chant my name,” he insists, and as he slams his hips down once more, Jeongin comes with a strangled cry. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Jeongin,” he continues, but Jeongin is somewhere far off, lost in the sensation of the man of his dreams clenching around him.
“So you should tell me,” he mumbles, dazed, and the man daintily lifts off of him, crawls up the mattress to wrap around him instead. “Your name.”
“And I am confident that you’ll get it one day, Jeongin,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Jeongin’s temple. “I’ll be patient until then.”
And Jeongin has no energy left to protest; he lays with his mystery man, the one of his dreams, and lets himself go still and quiet in his embrace.
It’s a flurry of activity; Jeongin has no time to reflect on his dream last night, and the details of it trickle away from him yet again.
The ceremony itself is quiet and simple. The higher-ranking members of Chan’s court are present as witnesses, but mostly it’s just him and Chan, hand in hand. Jeongin feels himself being scrutinized, and flushes red under Chan’s intense gaze. He has metallic strands of tinsel threaded into his hair, and immediately before the ceremony begins, Chan takes care to conjure more flowers to fill Jeongin’s hair, instead.
Jeongin had feared he might be too nervous to put his full focus on the vow he’s making, the lifelong promise, but Chan sets him at ease, as he always does. He does stumble on his words out of nowhere towards the end of his vows, as if his tongue grows thick. But it’s just one of those flukes, and he powers through it with minimal embarrassment.
Allowing Chan to lead him out of the chapel, beaming, his robes, which he swears were perfectly hemmed, twist around his feet again, and he’s only saved from falling by Chan’s steady hand on his waist.
But it’s okay—he is wed, to Chan, to the king, and he doesn’t even seem to mind Jeongin’s fumbling.
And fumble he does—it only gets worse through the night. It’s like he can’t act properly around Chan. He stumbles over words, over the hem of his robe. He misses his mouth when he tries to politely sip at his wine; he drops his fork and lets it loudly clatter to the floor.
“Are you so nervous for tonight?” Chan murmurs to him stealthily, sipping his own wine effortlessly.
“No, I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me, sorry,” Jeongin says with a sheepish smile. “I think—you’re just distracting.”
Chan seems to approve, a smile ghosting along his lips.
It’s an interminably long time before it’s socially accept for them to fuck off and ditch their banquet guests. Chan stands up before everyone, Jeongin nervously at his side, grateful that his only role for now is to stand and look pretty .
Still, he tries to look attentive as Chan politely addresses their guests and thanks them for coming, for communing with them. There’s something awfully familiar about that word—and Jeongin swears he catches a whiff of smoke in the air. Out in the garden, he remembers, there are small fires lit to keep the bugs at bay.
Chan is wrapping up; his hand comes around Jeongin’s waist, squeezing appreciatively—
There’s a small clatter, a squeak, and then a loud crash as the chandelier overhead smashes into the stairs before them. It’s mere feet from Chan and Jeongin, but smashes benignly on the stairs, out of the way of the spectators before them, as well, a million crystal shards sparkling viciously on the marble floors.
“Are you alright?” Chan asks Jeongin immediately, his eyes scraping over his hands, his face, as if he might have some sort of scratch.
“I’m—I’m fine,” Jeongin insists, shaken but unharmed. The chandelier had been lit by magic, not proper fire, which is a relief. There’s a mess of shattered crystal now littering the floor, balls of magical light still flickering among the shards.
Their guests have backed up, a few fallen to the floor but nobody seeming actually harmed, miraculously.
And Chan looks at Jeongin. Jeongin looks at Chan. It’s strangely bad luck, nasty luck for something so significant as a royal wedding. So who is the cursed one—is this Chan’s fault, Jeongin’s, or somebody else’s entirely?