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Chapter Text

February 1909

The seas were calm and blue on the last day of Seonghwa’s old life. He clutched his leather suitcase in one hand and held onto his hat with the other as he stared up at the S.S. Runic, looming large above him like a ferry come to take him across the River Styx.

The ship was a marvel to him, painted in the signature black and white of the White Star Line and towering three decks high, with four masts and a single pink funnel in the center.

“Ticket, sir?”

Seonghwa looked up. A tall, handsome man in a cap smiled down at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yes, of course,” Seonghwa replied, fumbling with his passport and ticket while he read the man’s brass badge. “What time is afternoon tea, Mr. Jeong?”

“4 p.m. Australian Eastern Standard Time, Lord Park,” he replied, looking down at Seonghwa’s passport. He punched the ticket and handed it back to him. “Mr. Choi here will lead you to your cabin.”

“San,” the steward introduced himself with a nod. “Right this way, my lord.”

They stepped onto the gangway and entered a grand foyer with polished oak paneling and a stained glass dome overhead. Seonghwa had been on a boat before, but the passenger steamship to get from New Zealand to Australia was nowhere near as grand as this. He looked up at the beams of colored light streaming through the glass, captivated by the colors dancing over the spotless walls and floors. 

They made their way deeper into the ship, passing by the dining saloon. The clinking of silverware and soft hum of conversation faded as they entered a labyrinth of hallways lined with cabin doors.

“Here we are, my lord,” San said, opening a door near the end of the last hallway. He stepped aside with a bow and gestured for Seonghwa to enter.

“Thank you, Mr. Choi,” Seonghwa replied, closing the door behind him.

The room was small but cozy, crammed full with a bed made up with crisp white linens, a mahogany wardrobe, and a writing desk underneath a porthole. Seonghwa smiled at his luck, looking out the tiny window to see a view of the harbor, the water shimmering in the early afternoon light. 

His other belongings had already been brought to the room and stacked in a corner. Seonghwa pulled an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and dusted the wardrobe before unpacking his clothes. 

This would be his home for the next forty days, so he might as well settle in. There was no use moping. 

Once his things were neatly stowed away, Seonghwa replaced his handkerchief with a fresh one and headed to the observation deck to watch their departure. 

He removed his hat, holding it at his chest with one hand and running the other through his long, wavy black hair. Below on the dock, his parents stood like statues, his father’s face as stoic as ever and his mother’s lips pursed into a tight-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. He raised a hand to wave goodbye as the ship began to move, neither of them waving back. 

Seonghwa had lived his whole life for duty, for the family who sired him and the family he was supposed to sire. But they couldn’t spare him a simple wave for the long journey ahead. It was a wonder they even came to see him off. 

A knot of resentment tightened in his chest as he headed back to his cabin. In forty days, what little freedom he had would end. 

In forty days, he was to meet his bride.

Seonghwa sighed and sat at the desk with the Mechanics Made Easy set he purchased for the trip. He opened the long tin and pulled out several metal rods, each with holes that could be aligned and bolted together in infinite ways. He lost himself in it, fashioning a rough skeleton of the S.S. Runic before he was interrupted by the sound of his stomach grumbling.

He checked his pocket watch, an old Swiss model that also depicted the phases of the moon, a gold moon peeking out through tiny steel clouds in the center. Almost tea time already.

Seonghwa ventured out into the hall, pausing at a crossroads as he tried to remember where San had pointed out the dining saloon. Was it left or right?

He took a left, and then a right, and then he was lost. The air grew hotter as he descended a set of narrow stairs, knowing that it couldn’t be right. The walls around him darkened and the air grew thick with smoke. 

Somehow he had wandered into the boiler room, the domain of several intimidating men wielding sharp-looking iron shovels.

As he backed away, his heart pounding, he bumped into someone behind him.

“Ah, sorry!” he yelped, spinning around.

The man was a couple inches shorter than him, with a small, sloped nose and a pointed chin. He was dressed in a greatcoat, two rows of brass buttons gleaming in the dim light. A single yellow braid encircled either arm, marking him as a junior officer.

The officer looked him up and down before speaking. “What are you doing down here?”

Seonghwa blushed. “I didn't mean to be down here. I got lost—I was looking for tea.”

“Of course,” the officer said with a slight smile. “You look like a tea drinker. Follow me.”

Seonghwa fell into step behind him, taking in the neatly shaved hair at the nape of the officer’s neck, the sharp cut of his uniform, and his shiny black shoes. 

What must it be like to be the woman who took care of such a man? To listen to his fears and dreams, to keep his secrets, to bear him sons?

“I’m Park Seonghwa,” he introduced himself, his cheeks turning pink again.

The officer glanced at him in surprise. “I’m Third Officer Kim,” he said, hesitating before adding, “You can call me Hongjoong. But only in private.”

Seonghwa gave him a sidelong glance. Would they be in private again? 

“Why do I look like a tea drinker?”

Hongjoong suddenly giggled, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle the sound. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the blouse.”

Seonghwa looked down. He was wearing a white ruffled shirt beneath his three-piece tweed suit, lace peeking out above his waistcoat.

“This is a men’s shirt,” he said indignantly.

“Okay, sure,” Hongjoong replied with a wink.

Seonghwa furrowed his brow. Were all officers this smug?

“Well,” Hongjoong said in a low voice. “I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Park.”

Seonghwa blinked, looking around. He hadn’t realized they were at the dining saloon already. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Officer Kim,” Seonghwa replied, forcing himself to hold his gaze.

Hongjoong’s mouth quirked up in a small smile, his eyes lingering on Seonghwa for a moment before he nodded and walked away, leaving him standing at the threshold.

Seonghwa watched him go, wondering if he would ever have the chance to call him Hongjoong. He sighed as he stepped into the dining hall. 

It didn’t matter. His life was planned out already. 

Long rectangular tables filled the room, each covered with a white tablecloth and set with china and silver. There was no official class system on the Runic, but there were two perpendicular tables at the front of the room with cushy chairs that he assumed were for officers.

Seonghwa took a seat at an empty table, unfolding his napkin. Though he tried to think of anything else, his mind shifted back to Hongjoong and when he might see him again. 

“Is this seat taken?”

A handsome black-haired man with silver-rimmed glasses gestured toward the seat next to him. 

Seonghwa looked around, confused. The whole place was full of empty seats.

“No, it’s not.” He stood before continuing, “I’m Park Seonghwa.”

The man extended his hand, which was bigger than Seonghwa would have expected for a man of his stature. 

“Jung Wooyoung.”

Seonghwa smiled at him.

“I like your blouse.”

Seonghwa’s smile turned into a frown. 

“It’s not a—thank you,” he sighed, his face reddening as he returned to his seat.

The steward from earlier approached with a tiered serving platter filled with small sandwiches and pastries. He was broader than Seonghwa had first realized. No longer wearing his black greatcoat, his white uniform was tight around his shoulders and arms.

“Hi, Mr. Choi,” Seonghwa said as Wooyoung slid in next to him.

San looked up and caught his eye. “Hi,” he replied, dimples framing his pretty smile. “Just San is fine.”

“Park Seonghwa, you helped me earlier.”

San looked him up and down. “I remember, my lord.” He blushed. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ll be right back with your tea.” 

Just then, Seonghwa saw Jeong Yunho heading toward the table at the front. He caught his eye and waved, smiling as Yunho waved back with a grin. He looked handsome without his cap, his long brown hair parted in the middle to show his forehead.

“What the fuck?” whispered Wooyoung.

Seonghwa’s eyes widened at his profanity. “I beg your pardon?”

“How do you know every attractive man who works on this ship already? It’s only been a few hours!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Seonghwa replied, his expression now guarded. 

His whole life had been predicated on his ability to hide himself—his safety and social standing depended on it. Had he been so obvious? 

Wooyoung snorted. “Don’t pretend. I saw you talking to that hot officer before you came in.”

Seonghwa froze, processing his words. He slowly met Wooyoung’s eyes.

“Are you…?” Seonghwa asked, too afraid to finish his sentence. 

Wooyoung’s bravado faded, his face paling. “Oh god, are you not?”

Seonghwa’s heart leapt in his chest as he whispered back, “No, I—I mean, yes, I am.” 

Wooyoung placed his hand over Seonghwa’s beneath the table for a fleeting moment, squeezing before he removed it, looking around. 

“I thought so,” Wooyoung murmured with a small smile.

Seonghwa sighed. “Was it the blouse?”

Wooyoung squealed, throwing his head back with laughter. “Yeah, that and the expression on your face when you were talking with that hot officer.”

“His name’s Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said quietly. “And he’s a little rude.”

“Oh, is he now?” Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. “We’ll have to figure out when and where these boys get loose after work.”

Seonghwa stared at him. Get loose? 

“Is there an ‘after work’ on a ship?” Seonghwa asked.

A pot of tea suddenly appeared before them, held by strong-looking tan hands.

“Thank you, San,” Wooyoung said, looking up at him over his round glasses. “Jung Wooyoung.”

San’s ears turned crimson as he leaned over them and filled each of their cups with tea. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

Wooyoung leaned close to his ear and murmured, “Call me Wooyoung. Pleasure’s all mine.”

San jumped back as if the tea had burned him. “Let me know if you—if you need anything,” he stammered, hastily setting the pot on the table with a thud. 

Wooyoung gave him a devilish smile. “Oh, I will.”

San bowed, backing away slowly before turning and breaking into a speed walk away from them. 

“You’re so brave,” Seonghwa said in awe. 

Wooyoung smirked at him. “It’s only brave if he’s blushing in response. If he’s not blushing, I’m just friendly.”

Seonghwa mimed taking notes. Wooyoung giggled, smacking him on the arm.

“He basically ran away,” Seonghwa remarked. “I don’t know if that counts as friendly.”

Wooyoung leaned back, folding his arms over his chest and looking quite pleased with himself. “Well, I’ve got to find the line somehow.”

Seonghwa shook his head, smiling as he refilled Wooyoung’s tea and then his own. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Wooyoung said with a wink, spooning copious amounts of sugar into his teacup.

Seonghwa reached for a scone that looked more like a rock than a pastry, spreading a bit of fig jam over it to make it palatable. He sawed it in half and offered a piece to Wooyoung, who accepted it with a sweet smile.

Just then, San returned, hovering nearby as if debating whether to approach them again. “Is everything all right here?” he asked, his eyes flicking between them.

“Everything is perfect,” Wooyoung replied in a sultry voice, holding San’s gaze just a second too long. “Just how I like it.”

Seonghwa almost choked on the dry scone, stifling a cough as a few crumbs flew out of his mouth. 

San didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at Wooyoung as if hypnotized, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. “Very good, sir—I mean, Wooyoung.”

Seonghwa raised his teacup to hide his grin as San backed away again, looking even more flustered than before. When he was out of earshot, Seonghwa leaned close to Wooyoung. “So, what’s your next move?”

Wooyoung tilted his head, considering. "Maybe I’ll follow him around, see how many blushes I can collect by day’s end. I’m at two so far." 

Seonghwa sipped his tea, feeling warmth spread through him, both from the drink and the company. “Do you think he’s interested?”

“Only one way to find out,” Wooyoung said, polishing off his scone with a look of disgust on his face. “That was horrific.”

“Well, you still ate the whole thing.” Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh. “The sandwiches aren’t bad. Think it’s tacky if I pocket a couple for later?” He held his hand over the smoked fish sandwiches, wiggling his fingers.

“I can spot a kindred spirit a mile away,” Wooyoung snickered next to him. “Oh, that’s so pretty,” he added, pointing at the handkerchief Seonghwa had just pulled out.

“Thank you. I embroidered it myself,” he said proudly, running a long thumb over the small silver stars before folding a few finger sandwiches into it.

“Is it a constellation?” Wooyoung asked.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said. “Antinous, the drowned lover of a Roman emperor.” 

Wooyoung’s gaze lingered on the delicate stitching. “Please don’t tell me you’re on this ship to drown yourself. I was looking forward to spending the next few weeks with you.”

Seonghwa’s smile faded as he looked down at the folded handkerchief, placing it carefully in his pocket. “I’m not planning to jump, but... I’m headed to England to marry a woman I’ve never met. Which feels like drowning, just very slowly. A lifetime of it.”

Wooyoung’s playful demeanor slipped away, his face becoming determined. “Well, we’ve got forty days to figure a way out of that, don’t we?”

𓊝

“Why do you get a full length mirror in your room?” Seonghwa asked a few days later, pouting as he followed Wooyoung into his cabin for the first time. It looked almost identical to his own, with polished mahogany walls and furnishings—except for the ornate gold-framed mirror propped up in the corner.

“You don’t? I would raise hell.” Wooyoung set down the small Mechanics Made Easy flower Seonghwa had made for him on the desk before crouching to rummage through one of his suitcases. 

“I bet you would,” Seonghwa snorted.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Wooyoung shot a glare at him over his shoulder before pulling a pain au chocolat out of his trunk and offering it to him. 

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped as he accepted the pastry. “Where on earth did you get this?”

“I made them before we left so I could slowly transition from old pastries to shitty boat food.” Wooyoung winked at him, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. “The food’s better than I expected, though. This is my first time on a White Star liner, the food on the Aberdeen Line is absolute garbage.”

Seonghwa took a bite, moaning at the buttery taste. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Wooyoung’s smile softened. “When we get to Liverpool, come to London with me. I’ll bake you a fresh strawberry tart—strawberry’s your favorite, right?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa replied, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “It would be nice to have a friend,” he added quietly. Having Wooyoung around might make the unbearable life in front of him worth living.

“Why do you have to marry some fussy Knightsbridge woman you’ve never met?” Wooyoung asked with his nose scrunched up. “Are you a prince or something?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “An earl, which means basically nothing except that I have no marketable skills and have to suffer to receive a pittance.”

Wooyoung frowned. “But I’ve known you less than a week and I’ve already seen two of your skills,” he said, picking up the metal flower and admiring it. “You could be an engineer. Or an artist.”

“Tell that to my parents,” Seonghwa sighed. “It’s an important match for my family.”

“Aren’t you almost thirty?” Wooyoung asked, taking a seat next to Seonghwa on the edge of the bed. 

Seonghwa glared at Wooyoung. “You’re too old to do what’s expected of you, then?”

“First of all, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do,” Wooyoung responded, his voice firm. “Never have. And second, there’s no one to expect anything. My family disowned me years ago.”

Seonghwa finished his pastry and dusted the crumbs from his trousers. “How do you manage on your own, then?”

“I own two bakeries in Australia,” Wooyoung replied proudly. “I’m heading to London now to open number three.” 

“That’s incredible,” Seonghwa replied in awe. “I’ve never done anything on my own.”

“I started out with a broken cart selling pastries and coffee on the street,” Wooyoung said with a shrug. “All you need to do something on your own is a little capital and the nerve to do it.” 

Wooyoung met his gaze, reaching over to intertwine their fingers on Seonghwa’s lap. 

“I don’t think you should marry her,” he said quietly, giving Seonghwa’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Seonghwa stared down at their laced fingers. What if he was brave, like Wooyoung? 

Wooyoung leaned in close. “I think you should fuck the hot officer.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Seonghwa replied with a huff, pulling his hand back. “And his name’s Hongjoong.”

“I think you should fuck Hongjoong.”

Seonghwa scoffed and gave Wooyoung a shove, sending him tumbling off the bed. 

“Oh god, sorry,” Seonghwa laughed, moving to help him up. Wooyoung accepted his hand, only to pull him down to the floor, both of them squealing as they each tried to wrestle the other into submission.

Wooyoung managed to pin him down, straddling Seonghwa’s waist and holding his wrists against the parquet floor. Much to his horror, Seonghwa could feel his body responding, his face and chest suddenly burning.

“Ooh,” Wooyoung cooed, leaning down. “Do you like being on the bottom?”

“Get off me!” Seonghwa shouted dramatically, breaking free of his grasp and throwing him to the ground with a loud thud.

Wooyoung was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Seonghwa moved his hands to Wooyoung’s throat, pretending to choke him while he laughed, “You bratty little–”

The door flew open. “Is everything okay in–”

Seonghwa and Wooyoung both snapped their faces toward the door, where San was staring at them as if he’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“Um, this isn’t–”

“It’s not what you think–”

“I wasn’t thinking anything–”

They all spoke at the same time, then fell silent. San’s eyes darted from Wooyoung to Seonghwa, who was still pinning Wooyoung to the floor. Seonghwa retracted his hands from around Wooyoung’s neck, a guilty expression on his face. 

“I can explain–”

“Seonghwa was just–”

“I heard the sound and–”

All three stopped talking again, and then the room erupted with the sounds of their laughter.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then!” San laughed, turning to leave with a jovial wave. 

“Wait, San!” Wooyoung called, panting to catch his breath and scrambling out from under Seonghwa.

San paused, peering back in through the cracked door.

“Do you ever get any time off?” Wooyoung asked from the floor. 

Seonghwa glanced at Wooyoung, raising his eyebrows. 

San blinked. “I only work day shifts, so I’m off at 6:30 every night.”

“Come back to my room for dinner tonight after your shift ends,” Wooyoung replied breathlessly.

San looked from Wooyoung to Seonghwa.

“Um, I won’t be here,” Seonghwa said awkwardly.

Wooyoung elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Ow!” Seonghwa exclaimed. “What was that for?”

“Okay,” San replied quietly, his face bright red as he shut the door behind him without another word. 

Seonghwa and Wooyoung stared at each other in stunned silence before breaking into excited whispers, playfully hitting each other.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Seonghwa said, still shocked. “I bet he’s skipping down the hallway right now.”

“Or running—he looked terrified,” Wooyoung giggled, already moving to his armoire. “Thank god you’re here. You can help me pick an outfit. 6:30 is only four hours from now, and I need to figure out dinner too. I guess I can just nick a couple of plates from the saloon?”

Seonghwa crawled back on the bed, leaning against the wall as he watched Wooyoung drape different shirts in front of himself. “So how do you know if he’s…?”

“You know when you know,” Wooyoung said cryptically. “Is this too scarlet woman for a first date that might not be a date?” he asked, holding up what was surely a dress.

“Is that a chemise?” Seonghwa asked, dumbfounded. 

“Okay, I’m going to take that as a ‘yes, too scarlet woman,’” Wooyoung replied, stuffing it back in the drawer. 

Seonghwa laughed, settling into a warm contentment as he watched Wooyoung sift through his wardrobe. His laughter evaporated when Wooyoung unbuttoned his shirt, removing it to reveal a short sleeve undershirt. 

Seonghwa could probably count on one hand the number of times he had seen a bare arm. Wooyoung’s were thicker than his own and more heavily muscled, veins criss-crossing over his forearms like a map of the London underground.

“You’re drooling,” Wooyoung teased.

“Oh god, sorry,” Seonghwa replied, averting his eyes from his pale skin. “I just haven’t—I haven’t seen many arms,” he finished, shame washing over him.

Wooyoung smiled as he approached the bed, tilting Seonghwa’s chin up to look at him. “It’s okay, you can look,” he murmured, removing his undershirt with his eyes locked onto him. 

Seonghwa’s mouth fell open. He had never seen another man without his shirt. He didn’t even know men could look like this. 

Muscles sloped from Wooyoung’s neck down to his shoulders, creating triangular valleys above his sharp collarbones. His chest was defined, casting a thin shadow over his ribs, which were just barely visible above his soft stomach. Wooyoung’s nipples were right in front of his face, smaller than Seonghwa’s, a dark pink that was almost brown.

“Good god.”

Seonghwa covered his mouth, mortified. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.” 

Wooyoung cackled as he crossed the room to stand in front of the mirror and take off his glasses. Seonghwa smiled weakly, moving to sit at the edge of the bed and glancing at the door, wondering how soon he could escape without looking rude.

“We’ll have to acclimate you so that you don’t embarrass yourself in front of the hot officer.” Wooyoung flashed him a wicked smile.

Seonghwa gazed up at the ceiling, kicking his feet and trying to avoid staring at Wooyoung’s broad shoulders and toned back. Was he born looking like that?

“Acclimate me?” 

Wooyoung looked almost demonic as he turned back toward Seonghwa, unbuttoned his trousers, and let them drop to the floor. Wooyoung’s long cotton underwear left little to the imagination, clinging to his thick thighs and strong-looking calves, ending just above his slender ankles. Seonghwa swallowed. 

“Yeah, acclimate you,” Wooyoung whispered, crossing the room to stand between Seonghwa’s legs. He combed his fingers through Seonghwa’s hair. 

Seonghwa closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. His heart swelled and then deflated again as a sudden realization hit him. 

This would be as close to a man as he would ever get to be.

“I’m glad I met you,” Seonghwa said quietly. He giggled softly before adding, “And not just because you’re almost naked right now.” 

He opened his eyes to see Wooyoung peering down at him, a strange expression on his face.

“Me too, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked down to Wooyoung’s nipples and then back up to his face. “Okay, I’m acclimated now,” he said quickly, his face red with embarrassment. 

Wooyoung laughed, turning around to rifle through his wardrobe again.

Seonghwa laid back on the bed, gazing out of the porthole. He allowed himself a moment to daydream about living the rest of his life on the S.S. Runic, joking around with Wooyoung, building models, and surviving off of increasingly stale pastries. 

He wished he could live like Wooyoung—doing what he wanted instead of what was expected of him. 

But he didn’t know how.

𓊝

Wooyoung decided on a casual black suit with a scandalous sleeveless white shirt hidden underneath, “just in case.”

Finding himself with some alone time, Seonghwa settled into a sunny corner of the deck, embroidering a circular yellow braid on a handkerchief with two silver stars at its center. 

His stitches were precise, but his thoughts were scattered. He hadn’t seen Hongjoong since the day they met. Each time an officer passed, his heart leapt, only to plummet when it wasn’t him.

Seonghwa looped the delicate yellow thread around the needle and passed it through the fabric, repeating until it became the twin to the braid on Hongjoong’s uniform. He wove in the ends with a sigh, carefully folding the handkerchief and slipping it into an envelope alongside a note he had rewritten three times:

Thank you for helping me find my way, Hongjoong.

Yours heartily and affectionately,
Room #117

He felt foolish, but he had to do something to “flush out the snake,” as Wooyoung called it. Wooyoung had assured him that if he was wrong about Hongjoong, the gesture could be dismissed as strange, overbearing politeness.

But if he was right… Well, he hoped he was right.

Even if he couldn’t allow anything to happen. Even if the most he could hope for in return was one flirtatious glance, the memory of it would be enough—a life jacket to keep him afloat for the rest of his miserable life. 

With the envelope tucked safely into his jacket pocket, Seonghwa made his way up to the officers’ quarters, casting nervous glances over his shoulder. He shielded his eyes as he crossed the main deck, the late afternoon sun reflecting brightly off the ocean and the polished wood railings. 

The corridor up on the boat deck was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ship’s engines beneath his feet. The stillness was unnerving compared to the constant commotion on the rest of the ship, his own heartbeat loud in his ears. 

This part of the ship felt different, secluded, the floor worn and smelling faintly of varnish. The corridor was narrow, more like a passageway than a hallway. Small, brass-framed portholes let in beams of light, each glittering with a thousand tiny specks of dust. 

After a few dead ends, Seonghwa finally found the door marked “Third Officer.” He hesitated, the ship’s gentle rocking suddenly more noticeable as he crouched to slide the envelope underneath the door, his hand trembling. 

No going back now. 

Seonghwa straightened and turned to go, feeling an instant flood of relief—until, for the second time that week, he nearly collided with someone standing right behind him.

“Are you always in the habit of sneaking around, Mr. Park?”

Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat as he found himself looking into Hongjoong’s amused eyes. The officer leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I—I wasn’t sneaking,” Seonghwa stammered, his face warming.

Hongjoong’s smile widened. “Of course not. Just… delivering a handkerchief?”

Seonghwa stared at him in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I saw you working on it earlier,” Hongjoong said, stepping away from the wall. “Didn’t expect it to be for me, though.”

Hongjoong moved closer until they were just centimeters apart, his breath warm on Seonghwa’s face. He smelled like salt and leather.

“Don’t let anyone catch you up here again,” Hongjoong said, his voice low and dangerous. 

Seonghwa swallowed. “Or else?” he asked, unable to stop himself. 

Did he imagine Hongjoong’s eyes flitting from his eyes to his mouth?

“Or else I could lose my job.”

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble,” Seonghwa replied softly, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

Hongjoong tilted his head, studying Seonghwa with an intensity that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“I’m not so sure you are.”

Seonghwa withered under Hongjoong’s gaze, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

Wooyoung could make a man squirm with nothing but words in his arsenal. What would he have said? Something bold, probably.

“Maybe I’m not,” he replied with his chin tilted up, surprising himself with the surge of defiance in his voice.

The space between them crackled. Seonghwa’s words hung in the air, and his gaze drifted. Hongjoong had a dark freckle on his neck, right above his collar. 

“Be careful, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong murmured. “You’re walking a fine line.”

Seonghwa’s pulse quickened at the sound of his name in Hongjoong’s mouth, his eyes flicking from his chapped lips to the long tendon in his neck. 

“And if I want to cross it?” Seonghwa asked, breathless. 

He wondered what Hongjoong looked like without a shirt on. He was probably built like Wooyoung, but tanner, his hands rough from a life of labor. 

Hongjoong’s gaze locked onto Seonghwa, dark and searching. A single drop of sweat slid down the center of Seonghwa’s chest, hidden beneath his shirt. 

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. Hongjoong brushed off his coat and backed away, putting a respectable distance between them as if nothing had happened. 

“Then I suppose we’ll have to see how good you are at keeping secrets,” he replied, turning on his heel and leaving Seonghwa in the dusty corridor. 

Seonghwa didn’t know how long he stood there alone, his errant heart cutting through the silence like a war drum. 

But it was long enough to realize that a few flirtatious glances would no longer satisfy him.

𓊝

Chapter Text

“He said what?” Soup dripped from Wooyoung’s spoon, paused halfway to his mouth. 

“‘Don’t let anyone catch you up here again,’” Seonghwa mimicked in a sultry whisper. 

“Ugh, I can picture him saying that,” Wooyoung groaned.

“But he kept looking at my mouth, I swear it!” Seonghwa added, throwing his hands up in exasperation and almost knocking his sandwich off the table. “What does it even mean? Does he like me or not?”

Only yesterday, Seonghwa had convinced himself that all he wanted from Hongjoong was the thrill of a passing flirtation. A brief, stolen moment to hold onto in the sprawling estate that was to become his prison.

But today, just the thought of him had Seonghwa burning beneath his skin, and he was desperate to know if he felt the same. 

“Well, it sure as hell doesn’t mean ‘don’t come up here again,’” Wooyoung said wisely, the napkin on his lap now splattered in soup. “It means ‘don’t let anyone catch you.’”

Seonghwa’s pulse quickened, excitement bleeding into his voice. “But then he added something like, ‘I’ll see how good you are at keeping secrets.’ Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Oh my god, he wants to fuck you,” Wooyoung exclaimed far too loudly.

“Shh!” Seonghwa hissed, glancing around the dining saloon nervously. He flushed at the thought, his head spinning. What would that even look like? He tried to suppress the vivid images flashing through his mind, lowering his voice as he continued, “Then why was he speaking in riddles?”

“Sweet, simple Seonghwa,” Wooyoung replied, shaking his head with mock pity. “Because it’s a criminal offense. He has to be sure.”

“I embroidered a handkerchief for him,” Seonghwa deadpanned. “If he’s not sure, he’s even more oblivious than I am.” 

Wooyoung burst out laughing, the sound like a flock of seagulls circling a dead fish on a pier. “Truer words have never been spoken, my friend.” He finished his soup with a satisfied hum, mopping up the last of it with a piece of crusty bread. “Well, he knows where to find you now if he didn’t already, so I’d say it’s his move.”

Seonghwa stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, revealing the White Star Line logo in the center of the blue china plate, a rippling red flag with a banner beneath it. “What about you?” he asked, his voice muffled. “How was your date last night? Was it… well, did it end up being a date?”

“I'm not really sure yet, but I hope so.” Wooyoung smiled sweetly, turning his eyes into uneven, round lines behind his silver glasses. “I could tell he liked the outfit you picked, though,” he added softly, looking down at his hands. “He’s shy. And… sweaty.”

Heads turned toward them as Seonghwa started choking. Wooyoung clapped him on the back and he coughed, dislodging whatever it was that slid down his throat when Wooyoung said that San was–

“Sweaty? How do you know he’s sweaty?” Seonghwa wheezed, still recovering from the shock.

“Calm down, I don’t need you dying on me,” Wooyoung muttered, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s not like that, he was just—he was nervous. That’s all.” 

“Because you stripped down to your underwear in front of him?” Seonghwa quipped, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up, I did not!” Wooyoung turned pink, tossing his napkin on the table with a huff. “I just took off my jacket, and he was just like you, his dick got hard just from seeing my arms–”

“Excuse you, my dick did not–”

“Oh whatever, ‘good god’ isn’t that what you–”

“How dare you–”

“What are you two bickering about?” 

Seonghwa and Wooyoung both froze, slowly lifting their heads to find Hongjoong staring down at them in his crisp uniform.

Seonghwa swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His cheeks flushed, and he blinked quickly, trying to shake off the images that came to him unbidden—Hongjoong without his uniform, those rough hands gripping him, their bodies twisted together like boating knots–

“Mr. Park, you have something…” Hongjoong’s voice cut through the haze in his mind, smooth and deliberate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief Seonghwa had embroidered for him. 

Seonghwa’s eyes widened as Hongjoong reached toward him and dabbed it gently on the corner of his mouth, licking his lips as he did so. 

“There,” Hongjoong murmured. “That’s better.”

Seonghwa’s heart hammered in his chest. He stole a quick glance at Wooyoung, who looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head.

“Um, Hong—I mean, Officer Kim—this is my friend, Jung Wooyoung.” Seonghwa stumbled over his words, his mind in shambles. 

Hongjoong didn’t look at Wooyoung, keeping his eyes locked on Seonghwa as he replied, his voice low, “A pleasure.” 

Seonghwa could feel the word in his body. He held Hongjoong’s gaze, feeling like he might burst into flames and take the whole ship down with him. 

“Well, enjoy the rest of your tea, boys,” Hongjoong said with a wink, his lips curving upward as he turned away.

Seonghwa and Wooyoung both watched him strut out of the dining hall, momentarily speechless.

“Boys?” Wooyoung whispered, sounding scandalized. 

Seonghwa was unable to hide his giddiness, gripping Wooyoung’s arm as he whispered loudly, “Did you see the handkerchief?”

Wooyoung let out a high-pitched giggle, covering his mouth with one hand. “Oh, you are so fucked,” he teased, shaking his head.

Seonghwa’s mind spun. He could still feel the faint press of the handkerchief against the corner of his mouth. Did that count as a move? Was it Seonghwa’s turn now? 

Or was Hongjoong just toying with him, testing how far he could push?

Wooyoung opened his mouth to speak again, but Seonghwa cut him off, changing the subject before he could tease him more. 

“So,” Seonghwa said quickly, “What did you and San do that required taking your jacket off? Don’t think you can get out of telling me.”

Wooyoung’s grin grew wicked as he scooted closer, lowering his voice to a furtive whisper. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, leaning in until his mouth was nearly brushing Seonghwa’s ear.

Seonghwa tilted his head toward him, holding his breath, bracing for whatever sordid tale was about to spill from Wooyoung’s lips.

“We did nothing.” 

Seonghwa groaned, his disappointment loud and theatrical. 

Wooyoung threw his head back, cackling. “You have to keep them wanting more,” he explained with an exaggerated wink. “The trick is to act mysterious and withholding the first few times you’re alone, that’s how you lure them in.”

Seonghwa grabbed a fork and pretended to jot notes in the air, earning himself another loud laugh.

“San has at least another week before he gets anything from me,” Wooyoung declared, pulling up his sleeve to show off a veiny forearm. He sighed dramatically. “I guess I’ll just have to burn off all this energy with you instead.”

“You harlot,” Seonghwa scoffed, but his cheeks warmed despite himself.

Wooyoung scanned his face, then grinned mischievously. “I think we both need more acclimation,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Want to come to my room to play for a bit?”

Seonghwa tried unsuccessfully to hold in his grin. “Sure.”

Wooyoung drained the last of his tea as Seonghwa carefully wrapped a few biscuits in his handkerchief, tucking them into his pocket before they both moved toward the door.

As Wooyoung stepped out, his foot caught on the threshold, sending him stumbling with a dramatic yelp. He clung to the doorframe for balance while Seonghwa, unfazed, gave the offending wood a swift kick.

“What was that?” Wooyoung asked as he straightened up.

“Just teaching it some manners,” Seonghwa replied with a smile. 

Wooyoung shrieked with laughter, grabbing Seonghwa’s arm and linking them together. He grinned broadly at every passerby in the corridor, his mood infectious. 

By the time they reached his cabin, Seonghwa realized he was smiling wide too, his conversations with Hongjoong and Wooyoung lighting him up like secret candles in his chest. 

Wooyoung closed the door behind them with a cheeky smile. “Now, where were we?” he teased, pulling Seonghwa closer by the lapels on his jacket. “You should probably practice having your shirt off.”

“What! Why?” Seonghwa smacked Wooyoung’s hand off of him.

“Why? Why?” Wooyoung threw his hands up. “Have you ever been naked in front of anyone before? Be honest.”

Seonghwa pretended to think it over, but he didn’t really need to. 

“No,” he replied in a small voice.

“Exactly, do you want the first time to be in front of Hongjoong? He’s scary even with your clothes on.”

Seonghwa looked away from him, his face warming as he pictured himself naked on a bed, Hongjoong looming over him with a sinister look on his face, sizing him up like prey. 

He shivered. Wooyoung had a point.

“Plus,” Wooyoung added with a sly grin, “I want to see you without your shirt.” 

Seonghwa groaned but made no move to stop Wooyoung as he began undoing the buttons on his jacket. With practiced ease, Wooyoung slid it off Seonghwa’s shoulders and tossed it onto the chair by the desk, revealing a plain linen shirt beneath.

“This is for your own good,” Wooyoung declared with mock solemnity, already reaching for Seonghwa’s shirt buttons.

“You’re insufferable,” Seonghwa said with a laugh, though his lack of protest said otherwise. His gaze dropped, watching Wooyoung’s knobbly fingers nimbly work each button. 

Wooyoung glanced up at him, their eyes meeting as he tugged Seonghwa’s shirt off, leaving him in nothing but his snug undershirt—short sleeves clinging to his arms, the three buttons at the collar undone just enough to show a collarbone.

“Take yours off too,” Seonghwa said, his voice raspier than he meant it to be.

“Okay.” Wooyoung shrugged his jacket off and grabbed Seonghwa’s from the chair, hanging both neatly in the wardrobe. Turning back, his eyes trailed over Seonghwa’s arms, a flush rising in his cheeks.

“You have nice arms,” Wooyoung murmured, stepping closer. “Want to practice unbuttoning my shirt?”

Brazen from the compliment, Seonghwa reached toward him, his slender fingers making quick work of the buttons. He bit his lip, trying not to imagine unbuttoning Hongjoong’s officer’s uniform, his quickening breaths warm on his face.

“You first this time,” Wooyoung whispered, tugging Seonghwa’s undershirt over his head. Wooyoung began removing his own undershirt with a dramatic slowness that made Seonghwa roll his eyes, his arms flexing subtly as he pulled it off.

They stared at each other in silence, studying the curves and folds of each other’s bodies until, without warning, Wooyoung’s hand darted out and poked Seonghwa right in the belly button.

“Hey!” Seonghwa batted his hand away and jabbed Wooyoung back. His belly button was higher than he would have guessed, his body mostly legs.

“Seonghwa! I didn’t poke you that hard,” Wooyoung snapped, shoving him.

Seonghwa grabbed Wooyoung as he fell, dragging him down to the bed with him. Breathless and chaotic laughter filled the cramped cabin as they wrestled like boys.

Seonghwa hadn’t grown up with friends. His afternoons had been consumed by private tutors—classical studies, astronomy, lessons in politics and estate management. 

But maybe this is what it would have felt like. 

They tumbled around on the bed in a frenzy of limbs. Seonghwa’s cheeks ached from smiling, but his guard slipped when his hand accidentally brushed Wooyoung’s chest, his palm grazing over a hard nipple.

He froze, jerking his hand away. “I—sorry–” he stammered, his face flushing.

Wooyoung took advantage of his compromised position, pinning his arms to the mattress and climbing on top of him. He gave him an evil smile, leaned down, and whispered in his ear.

“I bet I could make you hard if I wanted to.”

Seonghwa’s face burned as he shoved him off, adjusting himself through his pants as he replied, “I am not taking that bet.”

Wooyoung rolled off the bed in a fit of giggles, his body shaking with laughter. “Pants, take off your pants!” he squealed, scrambling to the foot of the bed and tugging at Seonghwa’s trousers.

“Stop that!” Seonghwa protested, kicking his legs wildly and managing to knock Wooyoung over again with a loud thud.

“Ow, Seonghwa!” Wooyoung groaned, rubbing his lower back.

Seonghwa sat up and unbuttoned his pants, much to Wooyoung’s surprise, based on the stunned look on his face from where he sat frozen on the floor. He slid his trousers off, trying to suppress his giggles and look sultry as Wooyoung’s eyes raked over his long underwear, his mouth hanging open.

“I think you actually did acclimate me to this.” Seonghwa met Wooyoung’s gaze with a shy smile. “You deserve an award.” 

“How about a reward instead?” Wooyoung proposed with a wink, sitting up on his knees. “Show me your dick, please.”

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped, his hand moving to adjust himself again. “No way.”

“Please!” Wooyoung pleaded, a soft, needy whine in his throat when Seonghwa touched himself. “I haven’t seen a dick in months, over a year maybe, I’m begging you. I’ll show you mine!”

Seonghwa paused. It was a tempting offer. But he didn’t know if he wanted the first other dick he ever saw to be Wooyoung’s. 

“No thank you,” he said firmly.

“No thank you?” Wooyoung groaned. “My dick is incredible!”

“You haven’t even taken your trousers off!” Seonghwa shot back, laughing. “How do I know you won’t just look at mine and then make me leave?”

Wooyoung stood abruptly, his hands flying to his waistband. “Fine. Watch and weep.”

He dropped his trousers in one swift motion. Seonghwa’s laughter died in his throat.

Wooyoung was wearing the same skin-tight white underwear as the day before, but this time, he was unmistakably hard beneath them, the cotton stretched taut.

Seonghwa wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, worried he might have actually drooled at the sight of Wooyoung’s thick cock straining against the fabric. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he thought he could see the outline of a vein running up the length of it.

Was Wooyoung hard because of him? 

He looked up into Wooyoung’s eyes, unsure of how long he had been staring down at him.

“It’s,” Seonghwa started, his voice weak.

Wooyoung’s face spread into his familiar sly smile, a fox tricking a vole into being eaten.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Seonghwa admitted in a resigned voice. “It’s incredible.”

Wooyoung bowed with a little flourish of his arms, his expression smug. “Thank you, my lord, I’ve had no complaints.”

“I’m still not showing you mine,” Seonghwa replied firmly.

Wooyoung yawned. “Okay, okay, maybe some other time,” he said hopefully. He flopped back onto the bed, his smugness replaced by a sudden softness. “I’m tired, want to take a nap with me? We’re already dressed for it.”

Seonghwa’s heart felt too big for his chest. “Nothing has ever sounded better.” 

Wooyoung beamed and slid under the covers, patting the space next to him. “I have a feeling we’re both little spoons, but I’ll spoon you if you want since I scared you with my dick.”

“You just want to rub your dick on me,” Seonghwa laughed as he climbed in beside him, rolling to face away and thinking that it didn’t really matter because he had never been any kind of spoon. Hongjoong was almost certainly a big spoon.

“You got me,” Wooyoung replied, giggling sweetly behind him. 

Though he was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep with Wooyoung’s bare chest pressed against his back, Seonghwa drifted off almost instantly, his mind lingering on Hongjoong and whether he liked to wrestle, too.

The nap was so good that he awoke disoriented, unsure of the time or where he was. His heart did a backflip when he realized he wasn’t alone. 

He reveled in the feel of Wooyoung’s strong arms around him for a few minutes, then slid out to grab his jacket from the wardrobe. He checked the time—just past 10 already, they must have missed dinner.

Seonghwa grabbed his clothes from the floor and pulled them on, deciding to leave a note on the desk before he left.

Your incredible dick will haunt me forever. Join me for breakfast at 7 after you get your full twelve hours of sleep.

Ever your affectionate friend,
Park Seonghwa

He slipped quietly into the empty corridor, where he found the stale biscuits from afternoon tea in his pocket. He nibbled on them as he made his way toward his cabin, his steps echoing in the darkness. 

When he reached his room, he had a note of his own waiting for him just inside the door, the text scrawling compared to Seonghwa’s elegant, loopy script.

meet by the main mast at 11 tonight. wear your blouse.

your most humble and obedient servant

Seonghwa mouthed the signature line, reading it multiple times and blushing. He had been with Wooyoung all day. The note could only be from one person.

Who did he think he was, giving him orders?

A tiny voice in the back of his head answered. His most humble and obedient servant, that’s who. 

He checked his pocket watch. 10:30 and a full moon.

Seonghwa sighed, a soft, resigned sound, as he undressed for the second time that day. He rummaged through his wardrobe and pulled out his white shirt with the ruffled collar. 

There was no point in pretending to resist—he was already halfway to the deck in his mind.

With just seconds to spare, Seonghwa walked outside, his stomach still growling. He could see Hongjoong’s moonlit silhouette where he waited beneath the main mast, a little sharper tonight, framed by a black newsboy cap in place of his officer's hat. It softened his usual air of authority, giving him a rakish edge that Seonghwa hadn’t been prepared for. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” Hongjoong said, though his expression gave nothing of his true feelings away. 

I was afraid.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Seonghwa replied, his mouth suddenly tingling where Hongjoong had touched it with the handkerchief.

Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on the lace peeking out from Seonghwa’s greatcoat. His arm twitched toward Seonghwa, as if to wrap around his waist. But he pulled it back, awkwardly stuffing his hand into his pocket like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Do I make you nervous, officer?” Seonghwa quirked up one corner of his mouth into a teasing half-smile.

“I don’t get nervous, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa took a bold step closer to him, the two of them staring silently at each other with the ocean crashing and roaring below them. He could see their breath mingling in the frigid night, floating up like clouds. 

Hongjoong must have been the most beautiful man Seonghwa had ever seen, with his small, pointed nose and kissable mouth. 

It hurt just to look at him. The only people who might understand how he felt were tourists standing in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles or beneath the Sistine Chapel ceiling—knowing it was their one chance to witness such beauty before returning to their mundane lives, their factories, their offices. 

Their sprawling estate prisons. 

“I thought we’d go somewhere more private,” Hongjoong finally said. “Up to the crow’s nest. It’s a clear night, perfect for stargazing, and we have a short window before the next watch starts.”

Seonghwa’s blood ran cold. The crow’s nest. He felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Not here, not to him. 

He forced a smile. “Stargazing? How romantic.” His face reddened when he realized the implication of what he had said. 

Hongjoong tilted his head, his eyebrows knitting together. “I thought you might be interested in stargazing because of the handkerchief. But if you’re not up for it–”

“I’m fine,” Seonghwa lied, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Lead the way.”

Hongjoong gestured toward the metal ladder behind them. “You first. That way, if something happens, I can catch you.”

What the fuck does that mean, Seonghwa thought. But he kept his thoughts to himself and nodded.

Seonghwa's heart pounded as he climbed rung after rung. He felt like Sisyphus, forced to push a boulder up a hill until the end of time as a punishment from the gods. Was he even any closer to the top? 

He could hear Hongjoong following close behind. Was it just his imagination or was the air getting thinner? He swallowed and shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, climbing for what felt like years until his hand met something solid—he was finally in the crow’s nest. 

A short metal railing enclosed a small, worn wooden platform, empty other than a small bench. As Hongjoong came up behind him, his usual mask slipped away. “Are you all right, Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa forced a shaky smile. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.” Hongjoong reached out, placing a gentle hand on Seonghwa’s arm. “You’re trembling.”

Seonghwa could barely speak through the fear gripping him. “I don’t like heights.”

“What the fuck, why didn’t you tell me?” Hongjoong’s words were sharp, but his expression was concerned. He suddenly wrapped his arms around Seonghwa, one hand on his shoulder, the other at the nape of his neck.

Seonghwa gasped at his touch. Hongjoong was smaller than him, but his arms felt so strong around him. He let his head fall to Hongjoong’s shoulder, closing his eyes and wondering if this meant the same thing to Hongjoong as it did to him. 

Hongjoong turned his head, his lips grazing Seonghwa’s ear. Goosebumps prickled all over him as he whispered, “I have an idea.”

“I’m listening,” Seonghwa replied quietly, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Let’s lay down and look at the stars. Then you could be anywhere,” Hongjoong murmured. 

Seonghwa swallowed hard. Moving from standing to lying down at this height might actually kill him. How would Hongjoong get his body down? 

“Can you help me?” Seonghwa asked in a small voice. 

Hongjoong smiled, sliding an arm under Seonghwa’s knees and another behind his neck. With surprising ease, he lifted Seonghwa as if it were their wedding day and gently laid him on the birch floor.

Seonghwa felt Hongjoong settle in beside him, his breath warm against his neck as he whispered, “Open your eyes.”

Seonghwa opened them to find Hongjoong staring up at the stars. He turned his own gaze upward, his breath catching at the vast, glittering sky. Orion was right above them, immortalized by Artemis in the stars after she struck him down with an arrow.

“Does it make up for the climb?” Hongjoong asked.

“No,” Seonghwa replied honestly, his eyes tracing the stars leading from Orion’s belt to his bow.

Hongjoong blinked. “What?”

Seonghwa turned toward him. “No, it doesn’t.”

A beat of silence, then their laughter filled the crow’s nest, floating up into the never-ending sky. Hongjoong looked even prettier when he laughed, his eyes nearly closed and his mouth wide, showing his straight teeth. 

They watched each other as their laughter faded, lying on their backs with their heads turned toward each other. 

Seonghwa bit his lip to try to quell the longing inside him. He had never felt this way before, never yearned this deeply—maybe because he had never died of thirst, never fallen in love. 

His eyes dropped to the mole on Hongjoong’s neck. Did freckles map the skin beneath his collar too?

Seonghwa’s breath hitched as Hongjoong inched closer. Their eyes met, and desire, doubt, and shame fought for dominance within him, burning through him from the inside out. 

Could it be that Hongjoong longed for him too? The thought barely took shape before a voice snuffed it out—sharp, familiar, too much like his mother’s.

You’re not the kind of person someone like him would want.

But then Hongjoong leaned in, close enough that they shared the same breath, closer still until there could be no doubt about his intentions, until Seonghwa’s shame evaporated into the sea breeze.

Seonghwa closed his eyes, surrendering as Hongjoong closed the distance between them. 

His lips were dry from years spent at sea. But his kiss was tender, a soft and sweet dagger piercing Seonghwa’s heart.

He reached a hand to Seonghwa’s face, running calloused fingers over his cheek and back through his long hair. Seonghwa parted his lips for him, and Hongjoong pressed his tongue inside.

Seonghwa couldn’t stop a soft moan from escaping him at the feel of Hongjoong in his mouth. He leaned back, embarrassed.

“I don't know,” Hongjoong teased. “It sounds like you’re having a good time up here to me.”

Seonghwa’s cheeks burned. “Don’t flatter yourself, officer.”

Hongjoong’s hand slipped between them, fanning the flames in Seonghwa’s body. He gently took Seonghwa’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and placed a gentle kiss on the back. 

His eyes locked onto Seonghwa’s as he murmured, “Too late for that, Mr. Park.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply as Hongjoong reached down into his trouser pocket, pulling out his golden watch.

“And it’s too late for stargazing, the next watch is about to start. You okay climbing down?”

Seonghwa took one final look at the sky. The stars looked like distant ships in the night, glittering specks in a black ocean.

He wondered if there was another planet out there where there was no next watch, where two men could lie beneath the stars forever. 

“Yes, I think so.” Seonghwa tried to steady the rapid beating of his heart as Hongjoong returned his watch to his pocket, his hand lingering on Seonghwa’s thigh. 

“Me first this time,” Hongjoong said, standing and extending a hand down to him.

Seonghwa let Hongjoong pull him up, gripping his hand even after he was standing. “Could you really catch me if I fell?” 

“Certainly not.” Hongjoong brought Seonghwa’s hand to his lips again, holding his gaze as he kissed it. “But I could cushion your fall with my body.”

As Seonghwa followed him down the rungs, he realized he no longer feared the descent—maybe because the ship awaited him instead of a dark tower of doom. 

It wouldn’t be such a bad way to die, though.

“I suppose this is goodnight, then,” Hongjoong said softly behind him as Seonghwa’s feet hit the deck.

It struck Seonghwa then that these moments were numbered, that the evenings they’d bid each other goodnight were finite. He turned toward Hongjoong and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

Maybe he could put Hongjoong in the stars the way Artemis had with Orion, and then he could have him every night. He brushed his fingers across Hongjoong’s cheek, and it felt like a confession. 

He tried to memorize Hongjoong’s face and the way he looked in the moonlit night. 

Hongjoong seemed to understand. He didn’t say anything else, just placed his hand over Seonghwa’s, holding it against his cheek for a few heartbeats. Then he turned away, his figure soon swallowed by the shadows of the ship. 

Seonghwa watched him go, feeling each step like a thread pulled tight from his chest. 

Up there, close to the sky with Hongjoong, anything had seemed possible. But now, as the cold night air wrapped around him, the reality of his predicament settled in, heavy and unyielding. His engagement. 

Wooyoung had been right. He was so fucked.

𓊝

Chapter Text

“Don’t drop any on your dick,” Wooyoung giggled, sitting cross-legged on his bed in only his underwear, his lunch balanced on his lap.

“Believe me, I’m trying,” Seonghwa muttered, hunched over his plate to keep from dripping hot oil on himself. 

Wooyoung swiped a slice of baked apple from Seonghwa, humming as he chewed. “Come with me when we stop in Cape Town. I want to go shopping.”

“Shopping for what?”

“Does it matter? Just come.” Wooyoung stuck out his bottom lip. “I’ll buy you something pretty.”

“All right, just don’t bankrupt yourself trying to impress me.” Seonghwa slid the rest of his apples onto Wooyoung’s plate with a small smile. 

“Deal.” Wooyoung grinned triumphantly as he polished off the last of their dessert. He set aside his plate and leaned back on his hands. “Tell me about the kiss again,” he sighed. 

Seonghwa’s eyes darted down to Wooyoung’s lap, then quickly back up to his face.

Wooyoung laughed. “You can look at me,” he said. “I want to look at you too.”

Seonghwa smiled shyly as he set aside his empty plate, letting himself look at Wooyoung for the first time. They were both shirtless, clad in only their long cotton pants. 

“One minute, we were laying down and looking at the stars, and the next, he was kissing me and running his fingers through my hair.” Seonghwa ran his own hand through his hair as he spoke, imagining he was back in the crow’s nest. “He put his tongue in my mouth—just a little—but I could feel it everywhere.”

“That is so romantic,” Wooyoung said dreamily. Then he smirked. “And also hot.”

Seonghwa let his gaze drift back down to Wooyoung’s lap. “Does it matter how big—does the way it looks matter to a man?” he asked suddenly.

Wooyoung cackled. “Why don’t you show it to me, and I’ll give you a review?”

Seonghwa marveled at how strange this conversation would have seemed before he set foot on the Runic. Maybe it would seem strange to him again when he looked back on it years from now, growing old with some faceless woman in the confines of his family’s estate. He forced down the thought.

He had spent his whole life weighed down by shame, its presence so constant he’d mistaken it for a part of himself. But two weeks with Wooyoung had shown him otherwise. 

“Can I still see yours?” he asked recklessly.

Wooyoung’s laughter bubbled over as he sprang out of bed, yanking down his long underwear with dramatic speed like a magician revealing his greatest trick. 

Seonghwa clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his breathy laughter, struggling to keep it together as Wooyoung stood there, entirely naked and unashamed.

Wooyoung leaned closer, his large hands hovering near the waistband of Seonghwa’s underwear. “May I?”

Seonghwa’s laughter faded as he nodded, eyes wide, trying to focus on Wooyoung's eyes and nothing else. Sunlight streamed in through the porthole, heating the room and painting Wooyoung’s face golden.

“Don’t be nervous,” Wooyoung said quietly. “It’s just me.”

He slipped his thumbs under Seonghwa’s waistband, slowly pulling his underwear down to the floor, pausing to study him. Seonghwa cleared his throat as he felt his warm breath on him.

Wooyoung stood, getting back onto the bed and sitting cross-legged again. He patted the blanket in front of him, and Seonghwa climbed up after him. He mirrored him, their bare knees touching.

Seonghwa’s breath caught as he finally allowed himself to look—he had never seen a man naked before, but he doubted many looked like Wooyoung. They stared down at each other in silence, the moment stretching into what felt like an hour as they watched their bodies slowly respond to each other.

“What do you think about it?” Seonghwa whispered, his cheeks turning pink.

“What do I think about what—your dick?” Wooyoung giggled.

“My dick,” he answered softly. “You’re the first person to ever see it.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Wooyoung tilted his head as though he were examining a work of art, his expression surprisingly thoughtful. He replied in a frank voice, “It’s pretty. Really pretty.”

Seonghwa scoffed, looking up to meet his eyes. “How can it be pretty?”

Wooyoung threw his head back, filling the room with his bright laughter. “Do you want me to describe it to you?”

“Maybe,” Seonghwa shrugged, trying to look indifferent. “I’ll describe yours.”

“What a fun game!” Wooyoung squealed, clapping his hands. “Okay. It’s a pretty pink color, and it’s long, and just the right size around.” He thought for a moment before adding quietly, “It looks like it would fit in my mouth perfectly.”

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. “Wooyoung!” he exclaimed as he smacked Wooyoung’s bare thigh, though beneath him, his cock betrayed him.

“Ow!” Wooyoung shrieked, hitting him back sharply, the loud slap echoing around the room. He looked down at Seonghwa and cooed, “It looks really pretty now. Okay, your turn.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. His gaze trailed back down, the sun casting alluring shadows on Wooyoung’s body.

“Yours is bigger than I thought it would be. I didn’t know dicks could be that big around.” Seonghwa began speaking faster, before he could get too shy. “And it’s veiny, like the rest of you. Which I didn’t know I like, but I guess I do.”

He glanced up to see Wooyoung looking both smug and stressed, his hands gripping the blanket, knuckles white.

“I don’t think this is burning off my energy anymore,” Wooyoung said in a strained voice. 

“Yeah, I—I think I need some time alone.” Seonghwa’s cock was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

He got up to get dressed, but Wooyoung caught his wrist. Seonghwa paused, looking down at him.

“Bye, Seonghwa,” he said in a low voice, his eyes flicking from his cock up to his eyes.

“Bye, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa croaked, acutely aware that his now raging hard-on was right at face-level with Wooyoung, and desperately trying to forget what he’d said about his mouth.

Wooyoung scooted against the headboard, and Seonghwa was struck by the image of him on the bed, arousal clouding his mind. He wondered if Wooyoung would touch himself once he was gone. Would he make a mess?

“Next time we should play cards naked, and if you get hard, you have to drink,” Wooyoung said, breaking the spell with a wicked grin.

Seonghwa forced out a laugh as he dressed hurriedly, thinking that he would almost certainly lose that game. He waved goodbye as he bolted out into the hall before he could further embarrass himself. 

His entire body throbbed as he shuffled down the corridor, his mind now on Hongjoong and what his small mouth would look like wrapped around him. He reached into his pocket and gave himself a squeeze to take the edge off, sighing with relief. 

Seonghwa had nearly made it safely back to his room when he collided with Hongjoong.

“Where have you been?” Hongjoong asked, eyeing Seonghwa curiously.

Seonghwa looked down at himself, his face warming as he took in the state of his wrinkled clothing and the way the fabric clung to his body—his hair must have been a mess too. Worst of all was the hand still buried in his pocket, which he shifted awkwardly in an attempt to cover himself. 

“Nowhere.” 

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you take your meals in the dining saloon anymore?”

Seonghwa hesitated, searching for the right words and trying not to stare at Hongjoong’s mouth. How the hell was he supposed to explain that? 

“I do, occasionally. It’s just that, well, Wooyoung and I like to eat in his room sometimes.”

“I see.” A flash of annoyance appeared on Hongjoong’s face and then disappeared. “Join me for dinner at the officers’ table in the saloon tonight,” he added firmly.

“Are you asking me on a date, officer?” It sounded more like an order than an invitation.

“There will be other people there,” Hongjoong replied with a tight-lipped smile.

“That’s not a no,” Seonghwa said, turning around to hide his blush. “I’ll see you at seven.”

𓊝

Seonghwa headed back to Wooyoung’s room before dinner, his mind racing. He knocked and waited for a response.

Wooyoung was midway through tucking his shirt into his trousers when he opened the door. “You’re here early. I thought we would meet at the dining saloon like usual.” He looked him up and down suspiciously. “Why do you look so handsome?”

Seonghwa stepped inside, smiling at the compliment. He had worn his white blouse again beneath a black waistcoat and jacket, pairing them with pinstripe trousers that were tight around his thighs. “I ran into Hongjoong in the hallway.”

“Wait, just now or after you left earlier?” Wooyoung asked, closing the door behind him.

“After I left earlier.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, did you still have a massive erection?”

Seonghwa blushed as he sat on the edge of his bed. “Do you think it’s massive?”

Wooyoung stood in front of him and laughed. “That’s not what I meant, but yeah, it’s a nice size.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “What does ‘nice’ mean?”

“Seonghwa, please focus,” Wooyoung replied sharply, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “I’m asking if Hongjoong saw you with your dick hard or not, I need to know.”

“Yes, he did. I tried to hide it, but–”

“But it’s so massive that you couldn’t,” Wooyoung finished with a grin.

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa said, exasperated. “I just came by to tell you he asked me to join him at the officers’ table for dinner tonight.” 

“What! In front of everyone?” Wooyoung’s jaw dropped. “Do you think the other officers know?”

“Oh no!” Seonghwa slid off the bed dramatically, falling to his knees. “Wooyoung, I was so excited I didn’t even think about the witnesses,” he wailed.

“Well, bully for you,” Wooyoung replied with a pout. He walked over to the mirror, buttoning up an emerald green waistcoat. “That means I’m going to have to eat alone. San eats in the crew’s quarters.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes from the floor. ”Wooyoung, I’m having an actual crisis here. Why don’t you just grab food for both of you and eat in your room again?”

Wooyoung’s face brightened as he shrugged on a matching green jacket. “That’s not a bad idea. I just have to find him soon so he doesn’t eat without me first.” He reached both arms down to help Seonghwa up. “Don’t be nervous, it’s totally normal for an officer to ask a hot male passenger to join him for a friendly dinner. Not suspicious at all.”

Seonghwa let himself be pulled to his feet. “Do you think I’m hot?”

“I have eyes.” Wooyoung held Seonghwa’s hand until they were in the corridor, letting go to turn toward the crew’s quarters. “Report back at breakfast?” he called over his shoulder. 

“Of course. You too, I expect a full report,” Seonghwa replied, saluting him with a grin before turning down the corridor. 

Seonghwa’s heart beat faster the closer he got to the dining saloon. Why had Hongjoong invited him to dinner? The question hit him with a sudden jolt—what had he even been doing in their corridor? San was the steward for their wing, and as Third Officer, surely Hongjoong had more important duties than patrolling the guest cabins. 

Maybe he’d come just to see Seonghwa, to ask him to dinner.

Seonghwa straightened his jacket as he entered the dining saloon, his eyes darting over to the officers’ table. There was Hongjoong, sipping from a small green glass, the amber liquid catching the light. Seonghwa’s breath hitched as Hongjoong looked right at him, holding his gaze as he drank.

Hongjoong set his glass down and stood, meeting Seonghwa in the middle of the room. “Good evening, Mr. Park,” he said, looking him up and down with a small smile.

Seonghwa blushed. “Good evening, officer.”

A sudden rush of panic washed over him as Hongjoong leaned in, his lips brushing against his ear. “You look divine,” he whispered, his voice traveling into Seonghwa’s ear, down through his spine, and straight to his dick. 

“Thank you,” Seonghwa mumbled, trying to keep himself together as the kiss they’d shared in the crow’s nest filled his mind, along with the question of whether they’d share another, future plans be damned.

Hongjoong placed a hand on the small of Seonghwa’s back, guiding him toward the table and pulling out a chair for him. Seonghwa swallowed as he sat, Hongjoong’s brazenness catching him off guard. 

To his right, Yunho stood politely and offered a smile before taking his seat again. “Good evening, Lord Park.”

"Good evening, Yunho," Seonghwa replied, cheeks warming once more. "You can just call me Seonghwa."

He caught Hongjoong’s eyes lingering on him, a slight tension in his expression. “Lord Park?”

“I—it’s nothing.” Seonghwa looked down, embarrassed.

“Sorry Seonghwa,” Yunho said with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

Seonghwa tilted his head slightly, eyes shifting between the two officers. Did Yunho know?

He jumped at the sound of their plates hitting the table, piled high with curried chicken, roast turkey, rice, cranberry sauce, and green peas.

“I don’t see Mr. Jung tonight,” Hongjoong remarked as he scanned the room. 

Seonghwa paused, looking up from his plate. Why would he notice that?

“He’s probably occupied,” Yunho said around a mouth full of turkey.

“What does that mean?” Hongjoong’s tone had a sudden edge to it.

“Nothing,” Yunho replied quickly. “Not my place. Maybe you’ll hear about it over drinks tomorrow.”

Seonghwa’s ears perked up. Drinks? He stole a glance at Hongjoong, who was still eyeing Yunho and frowning.

You look divine.  

He repeated what Hongjoong had said earlier in his head for courage before slowly stretching out his leg beneath the table, his foot brushing against Hongjoong’s.

Hongjoong’s eyes shifted to him, throat bobbing as he swallowed. 

Seonghwa leaned in close so that only Hongjoong would hear him, his voice barely a whisper. “Drinks tomorrow?”

“Crew drinks,” Hongjoong murmured, his heated gaze burning a hole through Seonghwa. “A few of us gather in the officers’ smoke room some nights.”

Seonghwa tried to hide the excitement budding in his chest as he pictured the look on Wooyoung’s face when he briefed him over breakfast. This was shaping up to be quite the report. 

“Do you ever get a plus one?”

Hongjoong’s eyebrows arched. “Are you asking me on a date, Lord Park?”

Seonghwa bit his bottom lip. “There will be other people there.” 

“Yes,” Hongjoong whispered, his voice dark and smooth. “Why don’t you join me?”

Before he could respond, Hongjoong’s boot slid up his leg under the table. 

Seonghwa tried to hide his quickening pulse, giving Hongjoong a small, coy smile and a curt nod. His stomach tightened as he felt Hongjoong’s boot press firmly against his leg.

Their empty plates were soon replaced with biscuits and coffee. Seonghwa was on edge as they finished dessert in silence, wanting more of Hongjoong, but also desperate to get away so he could breathe. 

When the meal finally ended, Seonghwa followed Hongjoong out of the dining saloon. They paused just outside the door, facing each other in the corridor. Seonghwa’s mind was once again consumed with the memory of Hongjoong’s rough lips, but there were too many people here, too many witnesses.

As if he was thinking the same thing, Hongjoong reached up, swiping his thumb gently over Seonghwa’s bottom lip. 

“Good night, my lord,” Hongjoong murmured. ”Thank you for joining me.”

Seonghwa stood frozen as he watched him go, his lip tingling where Hongjoong had touched him.

He walked toward the cabins, trying to decide where to go. He wasn’t sure if he could wait until breakfast to debrief with Wooyoung, but he also didn’t want to interrupt him if he was with San. 

He thought back to what Wooyoung had said about his withholding strategy. Even if he had seen San, this would only be meeting number two, so Seonghwa was probably safe. 

Driven by reckless excitement, Seonghwa began speeding down the corridor, his heart racing. He knocked on Wooyoung’s door, hoping he would find him alone.

Wooyoung answered in his cotton underclothes, his hair tousled.

“Seonghwa?”

“I think I’ve discovered where the day shift boys let loose,” Seonghwa said breathlessly.

“Oh? Do tell,” Wooyoung replied, stepping aside and gesturing for Seonghwa to enter.

“Officers’ smoking room tomorrow night. You’re coming with me.”

Wooyoung raised his eyebrows and beamed at him. “I can’t wait to pick out our outfits.”

Formalities gone, Seonghwa hung up his jacket in Wooyoung’s wardrobe and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Coming to bed, dear?” Wooyoung asked in a joking voice, crawling back under the covers. 

“I was considering it,” Seonghwa said with a grin. “Is that okay?”

“As long as you’re not teasing me. I don’t think I can take it,” Wooyoung replied miserably.

Seonghwa folded his shirt and trousers, placing them neatly on the armchair by the desk. “What do you mean?” he asked, sliding in next to Wooyoung in his underclothes and rolling on his side to face him.

Wooyoung scooted toward him, close enough to share breath. “I mean I don’t want to wake up alone,” he murmured. “Will you stay with me all night?”

“Of course,” Seonghwa whispered. “Do you want to be little spoon?”

Wooyoung pouted and nodded before rolling away from him. 

“Did it not go well?” Seonghwa asked softly in his ear, wrapping his arms around him. 

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung sighed. “I still can’t get a good read on him. I don’t know if he wants to fuck me or if he just wants to be my ever affectionate friend.”

Seonghwa giggled behind him. “I don’t think those are mutually exclusive.”

“Seonghwa!” Wooyoung rolled over again and smacked him on the chest. They stared at each other, Seonghwa taking in the details of Wooyoung’s face and the feel of him in his arms. 

He wondered if his life would have been different if he’d met Wooyoung sooner, if they’d been boys together. He pictured himself in his family’s study, but instead of being alone, as he was in all his memories, there was a smaller boy next to him, distracting him and knocking over his ink pot. Maybe they would have spent their afternoons together in the gardens, Wooyoung running ahead, laughing loudly while he pulled Seonghwa by the hand through the manicured hedges. 

Seonghwa broke the silence first. “Can I borrow one of your shirts for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung murmured, his eyelids suddenly looking heavy.

“Goodnight, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa whispered.

“Goodnight, Seonghwa.” Wooyoung leaned close and gave him a long kiss on the cheek before he rolled back over, pressing himself into Seonghwa.

Never in his wildest dreams would Seonghwa have ever imagined himself here. Before he met Wooyoung, life had felt like a series of tasks he had to endure just to make it back to bed. Everything was different now that he had a friend. Maybe, for a few glorious days, he would also have a lover. 

It was almost too much to hope for in one lifetime. Greedy, even. 

Seonghwa buried his nose in Wooyoung’s hair, wanting to stay awake and savor every moment of his first night sleeping beside someone. But Wooyoung was too warm, their shared secrets too intoxicating, and he soon succumbed to sleep.

𓊝

“I can’t wear this,” Seonghwa said, fidgeting with his waistcoat. They had gone straight to his room after a late afternoon tea, Seonghwa complaining the entire time that it wasn’t going to take him five hours to get ready. 

But like usual, he was wrong. 

Wooyoung glanced up from the January issue of Vogue he had been reading on Seonghwa’s bed, a woman in a voluminous hat topped with roses gracing the cover. 

“Why not? You look hot.”

Seonghwa flushed. “Because I can’t just not wear a shirt, Wooyoung!”

He stood with one hand awkwardly in his pocket, dressed in the outfit Wooyoung had picked out for him: an olive suede waistcoat over loose linen trousers, and nothing else.

“What do you mean? You are wearing a shirt,” Wooyoung said with a smirk. “It makes your shoulders look incredible. Please wear it.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “I can’t wear this in a room full of drunken sailors, they’ll eat me alive.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Wooyoung set the magazine down and crossed the room to the armoire, rummaging through it. He handed Seonghwa a black satin smoking jacket. “You’ve got to wear a jacket anyway. You’ll really only be showing a little clavicle. Live a little!”

Seonghwa smiled despite himself as he slipped on the jacket, trying to catch his reflection in the circular mirror above his dresser. He let out a frustrated sigh.

“We should have gotten ready in your room since you have a bigger mirror,” Seonghwa grumbled.

“Maybe we can convince San to give you one too,” Wooyoung replied. He was wearing one of Seonghwa’s shirts—a lavender chiffon button up with ruffles at the ends of the sleeves that Seonghwa had insisted was not a blouse. Seonghwa thought it necessitated an undershirt, but Wooyoung wasn’t wearing one, his little rosebud nipples peeking through the fabric.

“If you ask him wearing that, you could probably convince him to live in here and hold it up for me,” Seonghwa laughed. 

Wooyoung cackled, smacking him on the shoulder. “Don’t get my hopes up.”

Seonghwa slapped his hand away with a smile, pulling out his watch. “You ready?”

Wooyoung slipped into his own smoking jacket, navy blue satin with silver accents that shimmered under the soft glow of the cabin’s sconces. He glanced in the small mirror, tilting his head to the side. With a soft sigh, he looked over at Seonghwa. “I guess. How do I look?”

Seonghwa’s gaze swept over him, taking in the sheer folds of fabric, his exposed collarbones, and the snug fit of his black trousers stretching over his thick thighs.

“I’ve never seen anyone like you,” he replied, his voice low and genuine. “You look like a painting.”

Wooyoung’s expression brightened instantly, his smile illuminating his entire face. He looped his arm through Seonghwa’s and steered them toward the door. “Careful, my lord, you’ll make me blush.”

They walked down the corridor and outside, the lights of the ship glittering on the ocean beneath them as they headed up to the boat deck.

As they neared, Seonghwa noticed a lone figure silhouetted against the railing. It was the first time he had seen Hongjoong fully out of uniform. The soft velvet smoking jacket clung to his body, revealing a more muscular build than Seonghwa had pictured.

Hongjoong’s face was cast in shadow, but as they approached, he lifted his chin, the deck lights catching his face just enough for Seonghwa to see his expression shift. His eyes flicked from Seonghwa to Wooyoung, emotions flashing across his face—first surprise, then annoyance, before his usual cool, composed mask settled back into place. The shift was so quick, Seonghwa wondered if he had imagined it.

“You brought a date,” Hongjoong remarked.

Seonghwa flushed, embarrassed by the implication. “No, I brought a friend,” he corrected quickly. “You remember Jung Wooyoung.”

“How could I forget?” Hongjoong’s tone was neutral, but there was an edge to it. Seonghwa’s chest tightened, the realization hitting him like a wave.

Hongjoong was jealous.

The air felt charged, the tension thick between the three of them. Seonghwa tried to hide his unease, but his heart was racing. He glanced at Wooyoung, who, for once, was silent, watching the exchange and looking like he was trying to hold in a laugh.

“Follow me, boys,” Hongjoong said, turning and leading them into the ship, through the officers’ promenade and into the small, dimly lit smoking room. He gestured for them to enter. Wooyoung gave Hongjoong a playful, exaggerated bow before entering first.

As Seonghwa moved to follow, Hongjoong’s gaze locked onto him. The moment Seonghwa stepped into the light, Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. Without a word, he pushed the door shut in front of Seonghwa and backed him into the corridor.

Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat as his back hit the wall. He looked around nervously. The hallway was empty—just the two of them and their shadows stretching out under the dim lights. Hongjoong’s face was so close that Seonghwa could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Hongjoong hissed through clenched teeth.

Seonghwa swallowed. He knew he shouldn’t have listened to Wooyoung’s fashion advice. “What do you mean? Do you not like it?”

Hongjoong placed a hand on Seonghwa’s bare chest, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “I like it too much.”

Seonghwa gasped, unable to stop himself from looking down at Hongjoong’s mouth as his heart thundered in his palm. 

“Am I interrupting?”

Both men turned to see Yunho, standing a few feet away, arms crossed with a smirk on his face. Hongjoong barely glanced at him, rolling his eyes.

“Always,” Hongjoong muttered, stepping back from Seonghwa but keeping his body angled protectively in front of him.

Seonghwa let out a breath, offering Yunho a small smile. “Good evening, Yunho.”

Yunho’s smirk softened. “Good evening, Lord Park. Thank you for joining us tonight.”

Seonghwa’s smile tightened at the title. “Please, call me Seonghwa,” he insisted, the words coming out almost too quickly.

Yunho nodded with a slight bow, ushering them inside. The scent of tobacco lingered in the air, a thin haze visible under the low lights. Seonghwa’s eyes immediately landed on Wooyoung, who had already ensnared San, the two speaking in low voices in a corner.

Seonghwa paused, catching bits of their conversation. “...officers’ ball,” San said, looking nervous under Wooyoung’s intense gaze.

“But you don’t get to go, right? You’re not an officer,” Wooyoung teased, trailing a finger down the center of San’s muscled chest.

San flushed red, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “It’s just called that. It’s for the whole crew.”

“Seonghwa!” Wooyoung suddenly shrieked, gesturing for him to join them. His excitement was so genuine, it made Seonghwa laugh. As if they hadn’t already spent the entire day together. As if they hadn’t spent every day together for the last two weeks.

Seonghwa smiled, but he felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest. Maybe it was fear—that San wouldn’t be good to Wooyoung the way he deserved. But it was irrational. San had shown Wooyoung nothing but kindness, bordering on reverence. 

Seonghwa brushed it off, but the sight of San, red-faced and flustered, lingered in the back of his mind.

“San, Seonghwa and I need a full-length mirror in his room,” Wooyoung pouted. “It’s hard for us to get ready without one.”

San smiled sweetly. “I think we have an extra somewhere you can have, Seonghwa. I’ll see what I can do.”

Wooyoung caught Seonghwa’s eye, and his thoughts drifted back to their earlier conversation—when Seonghwa had said that San would do anything for Wooyoung in that outfit, his nipples peeking out through his sheer shirt. They both turned pink and started giggling at their private joke. 

San’s eyes darted between the two of them as Wooyoung playfully slapped Seonghwa’s shoulder, confusion and something else flickering behind his polite expression. 

“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Hongjoong said, suddenly standing directly behind Seonghwa. “I need to talk with Seonghwa.”

Wooyoung raised his eyebrows. “I bet you do,” he replied, stepping back with a wink.

Before Seonghwa could respond, Hongjoong was already pulling him out of the room, leading him through the ship. The night air was cool against Seonghwa’s flushed skin as they stepped onto the empty promenade.

Hongjoong sank down to the deck, the ocean stretching out endlessly before them. He patted the spot next to him. “Stargaze with me.”

Seonghwa hesitated, then sat down beside him, a mixture of excitement and desire pooling low in his abdomen. The ship’s rhythmic vibration was more noticeable here, a steady pulse beneath him like the heartbeat of a living creature. 

“I wonder how many of these I’ve had,” Hongjoong said vaguely, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

“Tonight?” asked Seonghwa, his voice a little too tight. 

Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on the glass before he tilted his head back, taking a long swig of the amber liquid. A few drops escaped, trailing down the corner of his mouth and following the curve of his neck. Seonghwa bit his bottom lip, unable to look away, consumed by the thought of tasting whiskey off of Hongjoong’s tan skin.

“No, ever,” Hongjoong said. “Ten thousand? A hundred thousand?”

Seonghwa imagined the man next to him and his hundred thousand whiskeys. 

Had he taken a hundred thousand lovers too? 

He glanced upward. The stars felt closer than usual, the sky merging with the ocean as if they were floating in a glittering black marble. The constellation Cetus rose from the waves, its reflection forming a second sea monster in the water, the two appearing locked in battle.

Seonghwa looked back over to find Hongjoong already watching him.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Hongjoong confessed softly. 

Seonghwa flushed, surprised by both the admission and his vulnerable tone. 

He should be brave. He only had two weeks left on the Runic. Two more weeks of freedom. 

“It feels easier to say hard things tonight,” Seonghwa observed. His eyes fell back to Hongjoong’s throat, watching the way it moved as he swallowed.

What happened at the end of this? If he let himself give in now, would it be worth it? 

Was it possible to die of a broken heart?

“What hard things do you wish to say to me?” Hongjoong whispered, setting his glass down and lying back on the deck. 

Seonghwa laid down beside him, his gaze finding Orion’s hunting dogs in the night sky, doomed to forever chase animals they would never catch. 

He moved his hand to graze Hongjoong’s smaller one, then turned his face to lock eyes with him.

Hongjoong inhaled sharply at his touch. “God,” he murmured, leaning in closer. “You are fucking exquisite.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened at the compliment, a wave of heat spreading over his body. “You curse like a sailor,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hongjoong giggled, a sweet, bubbly sound that Seonghwa wished he could take with him. He didn’t know if he could bear the day that he would not hear it again, a day that was already closing in on him.

Seonghwa was suddenly hit by the familiarity of their positions, lying on their backs on the deck, their faces turned toward each other, lit by the stars.

“I want you to kiss me again,” Seonghwa breathed, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Hongjoong licked his lips, leaning closer to Seonghwa until their noses were touching. 

“I would give you anything, my prince,” he whispered.

“I’m not a–”

Hongjoong silenced him with his mouth, kissing him fiercely. He rolled on top of Seonghwa, pressing his tongue into his mouth. 

Seonghwa’s hands went to Hongjoong’s face, a moan escaping him at the feel of his heavy body moving on top of him. Flames shot through him from every point they touched—his mouth, his chest, everywhere.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong murmured into his mouth, the word reverberating through Seonghwa’s chest. Seonghwa whimpered as Hongjoong ground his hips against his with a single sharp thrust.

Then, just as abruptly, Hongjoong pulled back, collapsing beside him, chest heaving. He met Seonghwa’s gaze and interlaced their fingers between them. “Can’t do this here,” he said, voice rough.

Seonghwa wasn’t sure how long they laid on the deck, staring at each other in silence, maybe minutes, maybe a lifetime, until Hongjoong broke the silence. 

“Let me walk you to your room,” he murmured. 

“But we’re already by the officers' quarters,” Seonghwa said. 

“So eager to rid yourself of me?” Hongjoong replied as he stood, offering his hand to Seonghwa on the deck. 

Seonghwa flushed, taking his hand. “No, I just don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble.” Hongjoong looked around, then placed a gentle kiss on Seonghwa’s cheek. “It’s a flimsy excuse for more time with you.”

Seonghwa smiled shyly. This late, the decks were empty. They walked hand in hand until, too soon, they were at Seonghwa’s room.

“Kiss me again.”

Hongjoong pressed him against the door, their faces close. His eyes roamed over Seonghwa’s face before he kissed him again. He slid a hand down to Seonghwa’s lower back, slipping beneath his smoking jacket to touch his bare skin. 

Hongjoong exhaled a long breath. “Your skin is so soft, my prince.”

“I’m not a prince,” Seonghwa said, exasperated. “Will you stop with that?”

“Agree to disagree.” Hongjoong brought Seonghwa’s hand to his lips, kissing the back as he held his gaze. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

“Goodnight, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa whispered.

He entered his room, sliding to the floor and leaning against the door. Everything felt so different tonight—Hongjoong was different, and not just because of the whiskey. 

It almost felt like he was courting him.

𓊝

Chapter Text

Seonghwa squealed in delight when he awoke to a small linen envelope in front of his door. He ripped it open to find the details of the officers’ ball he had overheard San talking about with a messy, hand-written note scrawled in the corner:

can’t stop thinking about you. be my date.

Unable to contain his excitement, Seonghwa sprinted down the narrow corridor, practically flying to Wooyoung’s room. When he reached the door, he pounded on it so hard that Wooyoung’s neighbor cracked open her door, made eye contact with Seonghwa, then quickly closed and latched it.

When Wooyoung finally swung the door open, his expression was a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “My god, I thought you were a battering ram.” 

Seonghwa waved the invitation in his face, his eyes wide with anticipation. “Did you get one?” he asked breathlessly.

Wooyoung’s smile widened as he reached into his pocket and pulled out an identical envelope. “You bet your ass I did!”

Seonghwa barged into the room and flopped onto Wooyoung’s bed, clutching the invitation to his chest like it was a golden ticket.

“He wrote me a little note, too,” he sighed dreamily. 

Wooyoung gasped. “Are you kidding, San just wrote a time and a place on mine. Go on then, read it!”

Seonghwa read it aloud, tracing Hongjoong’s words with his fingers with a look of pure bliss on his face. But as the initial excitement wore off, his smile faded. “Oh my god,” he muttered, sitting up suddenly. “I have absolutely nothing to wear.”

“Did you forget we’re stopping in Cape Town today?” Wooyoung’s face lit up with a mischievous grin. “I have some ideas for you already,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a villain plotting his next move.

Seonghwa giggled, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess, I’ll be naked.”

“Why hide your light under a bushel basket?” Wooyoung quipped, stripping off his undershirt with an easy confidence Seonghwa envied.

All pretenses gone, Seonghwa leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed behind his head, watching as Wooyoung pulled a fresh shirt on, flexing the muscles rippling down his back. After fastening his trousers, Wooyoung bent over to lace up his boots, his black hair falling across his face.

Still bent in half, Wooyoung shot him a sultry look over his shoulder. “Are you admiring my ass?”

Seonghwa scoffed. “Obviously.”

“What a catch,” Wooyoung replied with a wink. “Good taste is so hard to come by these days.”

Seonghwa followed Wooyoung out to the deck, both of them cracking jokes the whole walk there. The sea stretched out endlessly behind them, but ahead, the dark silhouette of Table Mountain and Cape Town’s bustling port were beginning to materialize on the horizon.

As the ship closed in on the harbor, Yunho called out over the deck.

“Anyone disembarking, be back by 6:00 sharp for a 6:30 departure,” he announced, tipping his hat at Seonghwa and Wooyoung as he passed by.

Passengers lined up eagerly to descend the gangway. Wooyoung expertly navigated the crowd, pulling Seonghwa by the hand with barely restrained energy. He cut through the line and secured them a spot close to the front, Seonghwa casting nervous glances at the people they’d passed.

The city was alive with activity—street vendors shouting about fruit and roasted nuts, carriages rattling up and down the cobblestone streets, and the smell of fresh pastries wafting over from nearby bakeries. 

Wooyoung bought a baguette from the first cart they passed, tearing off a piece for Seonghwa and another for a stray cat weaving through the crowd. Seonghwa took a bite, groaning as the crisp, buttery crust gave way to a soft center that was still warm.

“I forgot what good bread tastes like,” he said, already halfway through his portion. In three large bites, it was gone, and he brushed the crumbs from his hands before Wooyoung had even taken his first bite.

They strolled through the winding streets until the city opened up around them, the colorful buildings a sharp contrast to the Runic, all mahogany and brass. Wooyoung led them down a narrow alleyway to a high-end looking shop with a wooden sign that read “Corsetière.”

Seonghwa glanced over at Wooyoung, eyebrows raised. “A corset shop?”

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” Wooyoung said with a mischievous smile. “Or maybe Hongjoong will.”

The shop had a red glow and smelled faintly of lavender. Displays of silk and lace lined the walls, which were covered in ornate wallpaper with gold leaf designs.

A small, slender man with long blonde hair came out from behind a curtain. “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Yeosang, please let me know if I can offer you any assistance.”

Seonghwa looked around, suddenly self-conscious. He walked over to a rack of satin corsets, letting the delicate fabric slide through his fingers. He pictured himself wearing one, Hongjoong’s strong fingers undoing the laces as though he were unwrapping a present. 

His heart sank as he looked through corset after corset, flipping through them quickly like the pages of a magazine. They were all tailored for women. 

“Are you picking something for your wife, sir?” Yeosang asked as he approached him with a smile. “What a lucky woman. I’m happy to assist, what does her daily clothing look like?”

Seonghwa felt heat creep up his neck, guilt pooling in his stomach as the faceless image of his future wife took shape in his mind. But he’d lived his whole life for the future, following the plan laid out for him for the good of his family name. 

Today, just this one day, he would seize for himself. 

“No,” he said firmly, boldly meeting Yeosang’s eyes. “It’s for me.”

A flush darkened Yeosang’s cheeks, obscuring the red birthmark on the side of his face. “My apologies, sir,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

“Actually, it’s my lord,” Wooyoung called from across the shop, half-buried in a trunk of gloves and hats. 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Oh really, Wooyoung–”

“My apologies, my lord,” Yeosang cut in with a charming smile. “Give me one moment, please.”

Yeosang disappeared into the back of the shop, returning a few minutes later with three leather corsets that were different from the others—simple, structured pieces meant to sit beneath the chest rather than over it.

“These might suit you better, my lord,” Yeosang said with a small bow. 

Seonghwa accepted them with both hands as though they were a precious gift. “Thank you,” he replied quietly. He glanced over at Wooyoung, who gave him an encouraging nod.

Yeosang walked toward the front of the shop, flipping the sign in the window to read “Closed.” He walked back toward Seonghwa with an understanding smile. “Would you like to try them on?”

Seonghwa nodded, feeling his throat tighten. Yeosang led him to a small room separated from the rest of the shop by a heavy maroon curtain. 

“Take as long as you need, my lord.”

Seonghwa slipped inside and hung his coat on a hook. He picked up the first corset, attempting to put it on over his shirt. He turned his back to the mirror as he fumbled with the straps from behind. When that didn’t work, he tried lacing it backward, figuring he could turn it around after.

He sighed in defeat. There was no way he was going to get it on by himself. 

Reluctantly, he drew back the curtain—and found himself face-to-face with Wooyoung, who seemed to have been standing guard. 

“Ah!” Wooyoung yelped, jumping back. 

“I was just about to come find you,” Seonghwa laughed, a bit embarrassed. “I need a hand.”

Wooyoung’s face lit up. “Don’t mind if I do.” He stepped into the cramped room and pulled the curtain closed behind him. He gently wrapped the corset around Seonghwa’s torso and laced it up over his shirt. Seonghwa turned his head toward Wooyoung instinctively, inhaling sharply.

“Too tight?” Wooyoung asked softly, looking up. 

His reply came out strained. “No, it’s fine.”

Wooyoung giggled as he loosened the laces slightly before tying them into a bow. As he stepped back, his laughter faded. 

“My god,” Wooyoung murmured reverently. 

“What?” Seonghwa turned to the mirror. 

He hardly recognized himself. The corset cinched his waist and emphasized his broad shoulders, giving him a regal look unlike anything he’d ever seen on anyone. He pictured Hongjoong seeing him like this, stripping away each layer until he was laid bare before him. 

“This is definitely the one,” Wooyoung said as he carefully unlaced it. He opened the curtain, making his way over to Yeosang and pulling out his coin purse.

“You don’t have to–” Seonghwa started, but Wooyoung interrupted him. 

“I want to,” he said, handing the payment to Yeosang without a second thought. 

As Seonghwa joined him at the counter, he noticed Wooyoung handing Yeosang a small pile of black leather. 

“What else did you get?” Seonghwa asked curiously. 

“Just something to match your corset,” Wooyoung said with a wicked smile. “What time is it now? Do we need to head back?”

Seonghwa checked his pocket watch, his eyes widening. “We definitely need to head back, or else you’ll be opening your next bakery in Cape Town.” He glanced over at Yeosang. “Thank you for your help. I’m Park Seonghwa by the way, and my friend here is Jung Wooyoung.”

Yeosang nodded with a smile. “My pleasure. Come see me the next time you’re in Cape Town, Lord Park.”

“Seonghwa, please,” he replied, returning the smile before turning to Wooyoung. “Ready?”

Wooyoung nodded, looping his arm through Seonghwa’s as they stepped back onto the bustling street. 

“Let’s hurry, I don’t want to get yelled at by Yunho.” Wooyoung let out a bright squeal of laughter. “On second thought, maybe I do.”

𓊝

The following night, they found themselves back in Wooyoung’s room, Wooyoung busily tightening the corset around Seonghwa’s slender waist.

“Isn’t this a bit much?” Seonghwa asked, looking down and eyeing himself skeptically. He had borrowed a sleeveless white shirt from Wooyoung, the lace collar draping delicately over the leather. 

Wooyoung snorted, adjusting the long, black leather gloves he had bought for him. “Yeah, too much to keep Hongjoong from blowing his load in his trousers when he sees you.”

Seonghwa shot him a horrified look. “Wooyoung, please!”

Wooyoung grinned. “Relax, they’ll be hidden under your tailcoat. No one will know they’re not regular men’s gloves.” He reached for a small tube of red lipstick, dabbing it on himself before standing close to Seonghwa and running it over his lips.

Seonghwa’s heart began to pound as Wooyoung traced his lips with the lipstick, their faces inches apart. He had never been this close to anyone before the Runic, much less a man. It was intoxicating.

Wooyoung touched the tip of the lipstick, using his finger to gently smudge red onto Seonghwa’s cheeks and around his eyes. “Done,” he murmured. He wrapped an arm around Seonghwa’s waist as they admired their reflections in the mirror. 

Wooyoung looked striking in a high-collared white shirt with a keyhole cutout, offering a teasing glimpse of his muscled chest. His own corset, sleek and black, had two thick straps looping over his shoulders on either side that Seonghwa could easily imagine San tugging on from behind. The thought made him blush beneath the rouge on his cheeks.

“We look so hot,” Wooyoung declared with a self-satisfied smirk. “If we don’t bring them back to our rooms tonight, let’s just fuck each other and tomorrow we can pretend it didn’t happen.”

Seonghwa glanced at Wooyoung in the mirror, his eyes darkening. “You got it,” he said in a low, sultry voice.

Wooyoung turned pink, uncharacteristically flustered, and punched Seonghwa on the arm. “Shut up,” he mumbled.

They both pulled on their tailcoats, Seonghwa fumbling briefly as he retrieved his pocket watch. He glanced at the time and nearly jumped out of his skin. “They’re probably already waiting—we should go!” He kissed Wooyoung quickly on the cheek. “Good luck.” 

Wooyoung winked at him, still blushing slightly as they headed out, hand in hand.

“Would you top me?” Seonghwa asked.

Wooyoung let out a shrill laugh. “No fucking way. We would probably just rub our dicks together and then cry ourselves to sleep.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

They were still giggling when they reached the observation deck. San and Hongjoong were standing near the railing looking dashing in their tailcoats and bowties. Both turned a furious shade of red as they spotted Seonghwa and Wooyoung walking toward them. 

Wooyoung leaned in close to Seonghwa. “I think they’re about to combust,” he whispered with a snicker.

Seonghwa smirked, his confidence growing. He leaned down to kiss Hongjoong on the cheek—a perfectly normal gesture to anyone watching, he told himself. But as soon as his lips brushed Hongjoong’s skin, he heard a low, heated voice in his ear.

“You look beautiful, my prince,” Hongjoong murmured.

Seonghwa’s heart skipped a beat, his playful expression faltering at Hongjoong’s tone. He glanced over at San and Wooyoung, who seemed to be having a staring contest. 

When he looked back at Hongjoong, he was pulling a slim black box out of his greatcoat. 

“For you,” he said quietly. 

Seonghwa’s breath hitched as he accepted the box, his hands trembling. “For me?” he whispered, not trusting his voice.

“Open it.” Hongjoong watched him expectantly, a hint of apprehension on his face. 

Seonghwa lifted the wooden lid to reveal a thin golden collar the size of a crown. 

“It’s perfect,” he said softly. The design was simple and elegant, but also unique, striking. He looked up, eyes wide. “Really, it’s—it’s just my taste.” 

Hongjoong took the necklace from the box and moved to fasten it around Seonghwa’s neck, his fingertips brushing Seonghwa’s skin as he clasped it in place.

“When?” Seonghwa asked, his voice barely audible as he touched the necklace with a gloved hand. 

“I saw it in Cape Town,” Hongjoong murmured, just as quietly. “It wasn’t my choice, really. The necklace decided—it needed a beautiful neck, and I couldn’t deny it.”

No one had ever given him a gift like this before. Seonghwa turned to look at Hongjoong, hoping his eyes could speak truths his voice could not. 

Nothing in my life will be better than this. No one will ever mean more to me than you. 

Hongjoong’s eyes burned black as he met Seonghwa’s gaze, as if he were speaking back to him. 

No one could love you the way I could. 

Wooyoung cleared his throat, breaking their reverie. “Are you two done swooning yet?”

Seonghwa shot him a glare, but Hongjoong surprised him with a low, rare laugh. “Patience, Wooyoung,” he said, eyeing him in a way that was almost fond. “If you’re that eager, lead the way.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. San gave Seonghwa an apologetic look before taking Wooyoung’s hand. The two of them turned, their footsteps echoing faintly across the deck.

Once they were out of earshot, Seonghwa hesitated, biting his lip. “Can I… take your arm?”

Hongjoong’s smile faded. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if for strength, before offering his arm. Seonghwa looped his arm through Hongjoong’s, feeling the warmth of his skin even through layers of clothing as they followed San and Wooyoung into the heart of the ship.

There was no ballroom on the S.S. Runic, instead, the regular tables had been cleared from the dining hall, transforming it into a makeshift dance floor. The ship’s band played lively tunes from where the officers’ tables once stood. 

Seonghwa dropped Hongjoong’s arm to lead them into the room with Wooyoung. The two of them drew stares from all corners, the sharp lines of their tailcoats barely concealing the scandalous details underneath.

As they moved toward the cocktail tables at the back of the room, Wooyoung glanced around. “Do you think we have to pay for drinks?”

Seonghwa giggled. “I don’t know if other people do, but we definitely don’t.” He glanced back at Hongjoong and San walking behind them, glaring menacingly at anyone they caught staring at them. “I’m surprised they’re not already at the bar pouring us drinks themselves.”

“Careful, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong replied as he caught up to them at the table. “I might take you up on that and make you drink whiskey.”

Seonghwa had just opened his mouth to retort when two elegant women approached them, their eyes sparkling with interest. “Gentlemen,” one of them said, her gaze flicking between Seonghwa and Wooyoung. “Would you care to dance?”

Seonghwa and Wooyoung exchanged a quick, evil look, making a silent pact. Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely,” he said smoothly, taking the first woman’s hand.

Seonghwa placed a gentle kiss on the other woman’s cheek, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “It would be my pleasure.”

As they walked onto the dance floor, Wooyoung nudged Seonghwa with his elbow, gesturing back toward San and Hongjoong with his head. “Let’s make them work for it,” he whispered. Seonghwa giggled softly, his nervousness fading as they began to dance. 

Seonghwa soon forgot all about their plan, caught up in the music as he spun and twirled alongside Wooyoung. His new dance partner was stunning, with a few strands of dark, wavy hair framing her face and the rest twisted into a large bun on top of her head. Her dress was the vivid yellow-green of summer grass, cut daringly low at the back—it was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Hongjoong standing by the table, eyes locked on him, tongue pressing against his cheek as he raked his gaze over Seonghwa’s body.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, his movements faltering. The woman he was dancing with noticed, following his eyes. “Is he your lover?” she asked, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“No,” he replied quickly. Maybe the outfit had made him brave, because he added, in a quieter voice, “Not yet, anyway.”

She laughed, a beautiful, lilting sound. “Let’s give him something to be jealous of, then.” With a mischievous smile, she leaned in close enough that Seonghwa could smell her, blackberry vines mixed with roses. She ran a finger down Seonghwa’s chest, sending a shiver down his spine.

Before Seonghwa could react, a firm hand gripped his shoulder. Hongjoong stepped in, his harsh voice cutting through the music. “Seonghwa, I need to talk to you. Now.”

Without waiting for a response, he pulled Seonghwa away from the dance floor and into the empty hallway. In one swift movement, he slid his hand to Seonghwa’s throat, pushing him against the wall.

“Hongjoong–” Seonghwa choked out. Hongjoong’s eyes were smoldering, his hand still around Seonghwa’s throat as he pressed his mouth to his, rough and tasting of salt and whiskey.

Seonghwa moaned as Hongjoong sucked in his bottom lip, biting down and pressing his body flush against him. Hongjoong’s hand tightened on his neck, a thumb slipping beneath the golden band. Seonghwa could feel the pressure of it pulsing through his entire body. 

He felt like the ship, engines blazing, lit from within. 

“The officers’ quarters are empty now,” Hongjoong muttered, gravel in his voice.

Hongjoong’s hands moved to Seonghwa’s hips, lifting him effortlessly and pinning him against the wall. He was stronger than his size suggested, his grip firm as he guided Seonghwa’s legs around his waist.

“So?” Seonghwa replied, trying to sound bold and hoping Hongjoong wouldn’t see through his false confidence.

Hongjoong smirked. “So, I’d like to fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow,” he growled. “And I can’t do that in this hallway.” He leaned forward, his nose grazing Seonghwa’s ear. Hongjoong buried his face in the crook of his neck and bit him, and a sudden clarity hit Seonghwa like a wave—he’d never wanted anything more than this. 

Could he allow himself this? Just once?

Seonghwa wrapped his arms around Hongjoong’s neck and pressed his mouth against his ear. “Then take me, officer,” he murmured.

Hongjoong kissed him again, deeper this time, licking his tongue into his mouth. Seonghwa moaned at the taste of him, tangling his fingers into Hongjoong’s hair and rolling his tongue. 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong said, pulling his face away. “Stick out your tongue.”

“What?” Seonghwa replied, taken aback.

“You heard what I said.”

Slowly, Seonghwa extended his tongue, and Hongjoong’s gaze turned intense as he leaned forward and gently sucked it into his mouth. Seonghwa gasped in surprise and then groaned into him. 

Hongjoong pulled away and stared into Seonghwa’s eyes before setting him down, grabbing his hand, and dragging him toward his quarters. Their walk soon turned into a run, the tension between them breaking as they sprinted hand in hand, filling the empty corridors with their laughter. They stopped in front of Hongjoong’s door, panting.

“After you,” Hongjoong said, gesturing for Seonghwa to enter first. 

The moment Seonghwa stepped over the threshold, Hongjoong was on him.

He pushed Seonghwa onto the bed, laying on top of him and kissing him with a fierce, unrelenting hunger—like a man starved, desperate to consume him. Seonghwa slipped his hands beneath Hongjoong’s tailcoat, pulling out his tucked shirt so he could feel his skin for the first time.

Hongjoong’s back was slick with sweat, scarred skin stretched over taut muscle, intensifying Seonghwa’s desire. He shoved Hongjoong off of him, quickly stripping off Hongjoong’s coat and yanking his shirt up to expose his torso.

Seonghwa stared at his body in awe, silently thanking Wooyoung. If he hadn't been practicing with Wooyoung, he definitely would have embarrassed himself. Seonghwa bit his lip, overcome with the desire to taste him. Would he be salty like the ocean?

He pushed Hongjoong back onto the bed, straddling him before bending down to lick the creases beneath his defined chest.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong groaned. “Your tongue—it’s so long.”

Seonghwa giggled. “Is it?” He traced small circles around each of Hongjoong’s nipples, then licked the sweat pooling in the center of his chest. Seonghwa moaned softly at the sound of his quiet gasps, not believing his luck that he got to do this to him. 

“God, I can’t wait to see you naked,” Seonghwa whispered, pulling Hongjoong into a sitting position beneath him to remove his shirt. 

Hongjoong leaned into him and licked his throat beneath the golden collar. “Your neck is long too,” he whispered against his skin. “It’s beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful.” 

No one had ever worshiped Seonghwa like this. He felt like he was melting, pouring over Hongjoong like water as he unbuttoned his own tailcoat and tossed it aside. Hongjoong’s jaw dropped as he took in the details of Seonghwa’s outfit.

“Oh shit,” Hongjoong cursed. He flipped them over again as if Seonghwa weighed nothing, pinning him to the bed. His eyes moved from Seonghwa’s face down to his bare shoulders, his gloves, his corset. “Oh shit,” he said again, breathless.

Seonghwa smiled nervously. “What?”

Hongjoong closed his eyes over him. “I’m worried I’m going to cum just looking at you, and I desperately want to fuck you.”

Seonghwa bit his bottom lip at the admission. Maybe they weren’t so different.

Anxiety began to cloud his desire as he realized he should be honest too, that there was no way Hongjoong wouldn’t be able to figure it out. 

“I have something I need to tell you.” Seonghwa’s face warmed. “Maybe I should have told you before, I’m sorry.” 

Hongjoong stilled over him, his expression becoming unreadable. 

Seonghwa took a deep breath before he continued, “I’ve never done that before.”

“You’ve never done what before?” Hongjoong’s words were slow and measured.

“I’ve never—no one has ever–” Seonghwa broke off his sentence, grimacing at the vulgarity of it, “Fucked me before,” he finished quietly.

Hongjoong tilted his head. “You mean…”

Seonghwa was a little offended by the confusion on Hongjoong’s face, like the thought of Seonghwa fucking someone was outrageous. 

He wasn’t wrong, though. 

“I’ve also never—I’ve never fucked anyone before,” Seonghwa added in a small voice. 

Hongjoong nodded, moving off of him. “Okay. I need a minute.”

Seonghwa sat up. Did he scare him? “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before, I just didn’t know how to bring it up, it’s embarrassing. I know it’s strange at my age, I just–”

“It’s not that,” Hongjoong said, his voice strained as he moved to the wash basin on the dresser. “It’s just that—you look like—like you, and you’re telling me I get to be the first to–”

Hongjoong stopped talking and took a deep breath. “I promise I’m not usually like this, you’re just—I just need a fucking minute.”

Seonghwa felt his face warming. “Oh,” he said quietly.

Hongjoong splashed water on his face and ran his wet hands through his hair, droplets rolling down his neck. He grabbed a cushion from the couch, tossing it on the bed before he came back to Seonghwa, taking his gloved hand.

He looked into Seonghwa’s eyes, his damp hair now plastered to his forehead, and licked his glove from the elbow up to his hand. Seonghwa gasped as Hongjoong bit the leather above his middle finger, removing it with his teeth. 

“You are magnificent,” Hongjoong murmured as he moved to the next hand, pulling that glove off with his mouth too. He looked at Seonghwa from beneath half-lidded eyes as he wrapped his lips around his index finger. Seonghwa gasped at the wet heat of his mouth and then again at the cold air as Hongjoong pulled off, pushing him so that he was laying flat on the bed. 

Hongjoong leaned over Seonghwa, unbuttoning his trousers and tossing them to the floor. “I bet your cock is just as pretty as the rest of you,” he rumbled. 

Seonghwa let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine as Hongjoong pulled his underwear down, anticipation flooding his body. 

But Hongjoong didn’t touch him, he just studied him silently, Seonghwa growing uncomfortable under his stare. This felt so different from when Wooyoung had looked at him. 

“Can I touch you?” Hongjoong finally asked, his voice rough. 

Seonghwa inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he breathed, swallowing his desperation. “Please.”

Hongjoong traced a finger over his cock, already hard and growing damp at the tip. A whimper caught in Seonghwa’s throat. 

“Look how wet you are for me already,” Hongjoong remarked. He moved his hands to Seonghwa’s pelvis, tilting him up as he slid a cushion underneath him. 

“Have you ever fingered yourself?” he asked quietly.

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. “I don’t even know what that means.” 

Hongjoong groaned, tilting his head up to expose his throat. He licked his lips and nodded at Seonghwa, slow first, then fast. Seonghwa’s breath hitched at the sinister look on his face, desire and fear filling his body in equal parts.

Hongjoong grabbed a small jar of what looked like coconut oil from under his bed, slicking up a finger. He placed his other hand on the corset and moaned as he pressed a finger against Seonghwa’s rim. Seonghwa gasped. Was he really going to put his fingers there?

“I’m going to fucking cum in my trousers doing this to you,” Hongjoong said, sounding strained.

“Wooyoung said that might happen,” Seonghwa replied flippantly.

“What?” Hongjoong slowly pushed the tip of his finger into Seonghwa, pulling a sharp gasp from him. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he said, his voice slipping into a whine. 

Seonghwa wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. It didn’t feel good, it just felt like weird pressure. Hongjoong didn’t seem deterred, though. He slipped his finger in slowly, the glide smooth but burning. 

Hongjoong’s eyes stayed locked on Seonghwa’s face, like he was waiting for something. He rested his finger inside of him for a moment, then began moving it, slow and deliberate, as though beckoning someone toward him.

A noise Seonghwa had never made before escaped him. “What are you doing to me?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Hongjoong slipped his finger out, then slowly pressed two back in, stretching him. “Oh fuck,” Seonghwa breathed, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. It still burned, but it also filled him with a paralyzing pleasure. He whimpered, and Hongjoong groaned in response.

Seonghwa looked down to see Hongjoong staring up at him with a demonic look on his face. A sudden burst of electricity shot up his spine, a sensation unlike anything he'd ever felt. “Oh, Hongjoong,” he gasped. “If you keep doing that, I think something’s g-going to happen–” 

Hongjoong moaned, rutting against the bed, matching the pace of his fingers. “Shit, Seonghwa, I could do this all fucking night if you’d let me.”

Hongjoong added a third finger, pumping them in and out, hitting that spot inside of him over and over again. If this was what three fingers felt like, he didn’t know how he would take Hongjoong’s cock.

Seonghwa’s back arched, his body a battleground between burning pressure and overwhelming pleasure. His chest was tight, his skin on fire, and he was desperate for more. 

He couldn’t get the image of Hongjoong’s cock out of his head—imagining what it might look like, how full he’d feel with it inside him. He tried to hold in his moans, but Hongjoong must have felt him tensing. 

“Let me hear you.” Hongjoong’s eyes were glazed over, as though touching Seonghwa had made him drunk. 

“Fuck, officer,” Seonghwa moaned, his decorum pooled on the floor somewhere with his clothes. Hongjoong inhaled sharply at the title, swirling his fingers inside Seonghwa in a way that made him feel like he was about to explode. 

“You feel so good,” Seonghwa whimpered, his words melting together. His spine was tingling, and more than that, he felt full in a way that made him feel like he’d spent his whole life empty up until this moment. 

Seonghwa soon dissolved into a moaning mess, trapped in a universe that was only Hongjoong, the rhythm of his calloused fingers and the way he moved against the bed. A new pressure began to build below his stomach, somewhere in between pleasure and pain, like a balloon threatening to pop.

“I d-don’t know how much more I can take,” Seonghwa gasped, his chest heaving. He could barely think—the feeling of Hongjoong working his hand inside him was taking over his entire body. He felt like he could feel him everywhere. “If you want to—to fuck me, I think you have to—stop–”

“Oh fuck, I can’t,” Hongjoong groaned, his voice low and raspy. “I’m going to cum,” he panted, grinding against the bed and slamming his fingers into Seonghwa. “Fuck, Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa tried to be quiet, but as blinding pleasure spread through his body and then ruptured, he couldn’t. He screamed as he came untouched, ropes of cum shooting out of him and covering his corset. 

Hongjoong moaned, moving faster as he worked Seonghwa through his orgasm. One hand smeared the mess on his corset while the other still stretched him, making him feel like he was being torn apart.

Seonghwa screamed Hongjoong’s name, he screamed profanities, and then suddenly, he had no idea why, he started crying.

He felt devastatingly empty as Hongjoong pulled his fingers out of him, a wail threatening to wrench itself from his throat as the truth hit him, harsh and inescapable. 

He hadn’t yet lived through thirty summers, but his best days were already behind him.

“You did so well. So, so well, sweet prince,” Hongjoong whispered. 

Seonghwa tried to hold it together as Hongjoong placed tender kisses on his thighs and underneath him, everywhere he could reach. 

“I’ll be right back,” Hongjoong whispered, rising to dip a small towel into the basin on his dresser. Seonghwa turned his head away to hide his face but kept his body still, afraid to make more of a mess on Hongjoong’s bed.

He felt a gentle touch on his thighs as Hongjoong washed him, moving up Seonghwa’s body to carefully clean his softening cock. He turned his attention to the corset next, running the cloth over each crease.

When Hongjoong finished, he quickly stripped off his own trousers, cleaning himself with a few rough passes before returning his focus to Seonghwa. He coaxed him onto his side, expertly unlacing the corset and removing the shirt underneath, leaving him bare except for the golden collar around his neck. Pressing himself close, Hongjoong ran his hands over the angry red marks on Seonghwa’s skin as he trembled beneath him, tears streaming down his face. 

Hongjoong’s warm and vulnerable body wrapped around him was an exquisite torture, because in a week, Seonghwa would step off the Runic and never see him again. 

Seonghwa closed his eyes, a sudden wave of shame rising within him. “I’m sorry, it was just so good. I just wish,” his voice faltered, a choked sob breaking his words, “I just wish it could be like this forever.”

Hongjoong tightened his hold on him. “Why can’t it be?”

Seonghwa let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, coming here, crossing lines he had no way to uncross. He must not have been thinking at all.

“Because I might look good in a corset, but I'm not a woman, Hongjoong.” The words burned as he spoke them. “I can’t bear you sons. I can’t be your housewife.”

“Then don’t be,” Hongjoong whispered, licking the salt of Seonghwa’s tears from his cheek. “Be my husband, or my bed warmer, or my friend. I’ll take whatever you will give, gratefully, for as long as you will give it.”

Seonghwa sniffled quietly in his arms, saying nothing. He could be none of those things.

He could only be Antinous, a lover doomed to drown.

𓊝

Chapter Text

Seonghwa waited until Hongjoong’s breaths were deep and even before slipping out of bed. He moved as quietly as he could, collecting his clothes from where they lay scattered around the room. 

His hands trembled as he picked up his rumpled tails and corset, and for a moment, he stood by the door staring back at Hongjoong. His hair was a soft mess against the white linens, his face half-buried in the pillow, lips slightly parted.

Had he ever seen anyone so beautiful? 

A lump formed in Seonghwa’s throat as he closed the door. The corridor was dim and blessedly empty. He hugged his clothes to himself, careful to keep his face down, expression neutral. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this—disheveled, wearing half his evening wear and looking like he’d just been pulled from a shipwreck. 

He kept his steps brisk, focusing on the rhythmic tapping of his shoes and imagining the relief of letting himself cry the moment he was alone in his room. He almost looked forward to it. 

By the time Seonghwa made it back to his cabin, his head and heart both ached from the strain of holding it all in. He fumbled with the handle, his tails and corset tucked under an arm. He sighed with relief as he closed the door behind him, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.

He yelped—someone was already in his bed.

“Wooyoung?” Seonghwa’s cheeks flushed pink as he took in Wooyoung, lounging on his bed in the dark in nothing but his cotton underclothes. “How long have you been here?”

“A fucking eternity,” Wooyoung huffed, but his expression softened as he took in Seonghwa’s face. “Have you been crying?”

Seonghwa’s blank expression slipped away, the corners of his mouth turning down.

Wooyoung sat up, moving to the edge of the bed and holding his arms outstretched. “Come here.”

Seonghwa’s grip loosened, and the clothes fell to the floor. He let out a sob as he climbed onto Wooyoung’s lap, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

“Seonghwa, what happened?” Wooyoung brought his hands to the back of Seonghwa’s neck, gently unclasping his collar necklace and setting it aside.

“He—we–” Seonghwa stammered, his voice wavering.

Wooyoung’s voice sharpened. “Did that bastard hurt you? I'll kill him.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Seonghwa let out a shaky laugh, trying to catch his breath. “Jesus, do you think you could?”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” Wooyoung murmured, kissing his cheek. “I’d do anything for you, dear Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa smiled despite himself. “We sort of…” he started, not knowing how to put what they had done into words. “Well, he, um–”

Wooyoung gasped. “Did he finger you?”

Seonghwa's face reddened. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god.” Wooyoung’s cheeks turned pink.

Embarrassed, Seonghwa tried to move away, but Wooyoung’s fingers tightened on his hips.

“Done crying, then?” 

“Yes, you’ve made me feel much better now,” Seonghwa replied, his tone laced with sarcasm.

“You say that as if it’s not true,” Wooyoung teased. “Let's get you freshened up, my lord.” He began unbuttoning the shirt Seonghwa had borrowed from him, slipping it off his shoulders and folding it neatly, the way Seonghwa would have. 

“You tell me about your night first,” Seonghwa said as he pulled away to wash his face at the basin, “Then I’ll tell you about mine.”

Wooyoung let out a deep sigh. “I sucked his dick.”

Seonghwa dripped water all down his front. “You did WHAT?” He spun around, eyes wide. 

Wooyoung stuck his tongue into his cheek, moving his hand in front of his face in a lurid gesture. “It was so fat, I thought I might finish just looking at it.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Seonghwa stammered, vaguely aware of the water dripping from him onto the floor. 

“Fat, thick. A proper jollocks.” Wooyoung grinned, tongue between his teeth. “Heaviest dick I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Heaviest?” Seonghwa didn’t need to know that. “How did you—how does one–” 

“Want a demonstration? Just say the word.”

Seonghwa could see his ears burning red in the tiny mirror above the dresser. “Did he, um… return the favor?”

“Nope, didn’t get the chance. I sucked him off and disappeared.” Wooyoung flopped back onto the bed, arms behind his head with a strange expression on his face.

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t.” 

“Didn’t you do the same? Got fingered and ran?”

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa tossed his washcloth at him.

Wooyoung swatted it away midair. “What? Is that not what happened?” 

“Ugh,” Seonghwa groaned. He climbed over Wooyoung and buried himself in the covers. “I guess it is.”

Wooyoung crawled in next to him, their faces close under the blanket. He looked more tired than Seonghwa had realized. “Did you run because you were scared?”

“Not exactly,” Seonghwa whispered. He felt like a child telling secrets in a fort, their breath warming the small space beneath the blankets. “I just felt… sad.”

“Why?” Wooyoung brought his hand to Seonghwa’s face, tracing the tear tracks still staining his cheek. “Do you think he doesn’t like you?”

“No,” Seonghwa murmured, closing his eyes. “I think he likes me too much, and I have to get married, and I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Wooyoung whispered back. 

“Easy for you to say.” Seonghwa opened his eyes and felt like he was seeing Wooyoung for the first time. His eyes were rimmed red, and his bottom lip looked like it had been bleeding. “Wooyoung, are you okay?” 

Wooyoung bit his lip, a fresh drop of blood blooming beneath his teeth. 

“Stop that,” Seonghwa scolded gently, pushing the blanket off them and rolling over to grab a handkerchief from the side table. 

A fresh wave of shame washed over Seonghwa as he dabbed the blood from Wooyoung’s mouth. He had been so absorbed with himself that he hadn’t seen through Wooyoung’s false bravado, hadn’t considered how strange it was for Wooyoung to be in his room at four in the morning, awake and waiting for him to return. 

“Why did you run?” Seonghwa’s voice softened. He hesitated—he didn’t want to believe it, but he had to ask. “Did San… did he hurt you?”

“No, I just—I like him,” Wooyoung confessed. “And it was a mistake. A moment of weakness that ruined everything.”

Seonghwa frowned, brushing Wooyoung’s hair from his forehead. “How was it a mistake if you like him?”

“Because now that he’s used me up, he’s just going to throw me away.” A tear slid down Wooyoung’s cheek, and he suddenly looked so young, like a child scorned. “I tried so hard to draw it out so I could keep him longer, but I messed up.”

“I don’t think San would do that.” Seonghwa pictured San in the smoking room, red-faced and flustered. “He might not say the words, but how he feels about you is written all over his face. Did you say anything to him before you left?”

“No, I left while he was in the bathroom,” Wooyoung admitted, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Seonghwa said quickly. “Whoever made you feel like you could be used and thrown away—they don’t deserve you.” 

Seonghwa’s hand tightened on the handkerchief. They didn’t deserve Wooyoung, and they didn’t deserve to live.

Wooyoung gave him a weak smile. “Thank you, Seonghwa.” 

“Done crying, then?” Seonghwa teased, folding up the handkerchief and placing it back on the table. 

Wooyoung shoved him with a huff. “Yes, you’ve made me feel much better.” He rubbed his eyes. “Can we just nap until breakfast? I’m tired of talking.”

Seonghwa pulled Wooyoung closer. “Maybe until lunch, I’m exhausted.” 

Wooyoung snuggled into his embrace, wrapping his legs around him. Seonghwa’s stress melted away, and he drifted into a deep sleep, dreaming of a slow afternoon with Wooyoung and the soft clinking of teacups, Wooyoung’s stained red with blood. 

It seemed like only a minute later that Seonghwa was woken by a knock at the door. His body felt heavy, and for a moment, he didn’t register that Wooyoung was still curled up like a cat in his arms, their bodies tangled together.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Seonghwa groaned, brushing Wooyoung’s hair off of his face. “Who…?”

Wooyoung stirred, yawning as he shifted, but made no move to get up, instead tightening his arms and legs around Seonghwa. “Mmm, who cares, tell them to go away…”

With a sigh, Seonghwa peeled Wooyoung’s limbs off him and pulled on a fresh undershirt before stumbling to the door. He cracked it open just enough to peek out.

It was San, holding a tray piled high with pastries and two cups of coffee. Next to him, Hongjoong balanced a full-length mirror between them, his expression unreadable. 

“You missed breakfast,” San said, trying to peer around him through the small crack in the door. “Figured you’d both be here.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, a flush rising on his chest as he avoided Hongjoong’s eyes. “You figured right. Um, just give us a minute?”

He shut the door hastily, turning back toward the bed where Wooyoung was now sprawled out like a starfish. “Get up, we have to get dressed,” he hissed, panic rising in his chest like a wave about to break. 

Wooyoung kept his eyes closed, his voice muffled as he spoke into the pillow. “Why? Are we entertaining?”

Seonghwa scrubbed his face vigorously. “It’s San and Hongjoong.”

That got Wooyoung’s attention. He shot up from the bed, wide-eyed. “What the fuck, why didn’t you lead with that?” He rushed to join Seonghwa by the basin, frantically washing his face. “Shit, Seonghwa, I can’t wear my trousers from last night!”

“Why not?” Seonghwa teased. “Are they soiled?”

“Shut up!” Wooyoung yelped, smacking him hard on the arm. 

“Ow!” Seonghwa saw red, shoving Wooyoung back onto the bed and climbing on top of him. “Say sorry, you scoundrel–”

“This tray is really heavy!” San shouted from the hallway. 

Wooyoung squirmed free, gasping for breath as he slid off the bed. He crossed to the wardrobe, grabbing Seonghwa’s linen trousers. “I’m borrowing these,” he called over his shoulder to Seonghwa, not waiting for a response as he scrambled to pull them on. “Just a minute!” he yelled toward the door.

Seonghwa stood and slipped on his black trousers. He stared blankly at the top of the dresser, where the necklace Hongjoong had given him gleamed in the late morning sun. 

His mood dropped sharply. How could he face Hongjoong so soon?

Wooyoung must have been thinking along the same lines, his expression grim as he put on his glasses. “Let’s just wear undershirts. They can’t be mad at us if we’re half-dressed.”

“Wooyoung, we’ll look ridiculous.”

Wooyoung flexed playfully. “Whatever, our arms will look good.”

“Ugh,” Seonghwa groaned. “San’s not even going to be mad, it’s Hongjoong we have to worry about.”

“If we go down, we go down together,” Wooyoung said in a serious voice.

With one last deep breath, they composed themselves—mostly—and Seonghwa opened the door. San and Hongjoong were right where he’d left them, their gazes immediately dropping to Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s bare arms then snapping back to their faces.

Seonghwa blushed, stepping aside to let them in. “Thank you for the mirror.”

“No problem,” San replied, setting the tray down on the desk. He grabbed the mirror from Hongjoong and propped it up in a corner, stealing nervous glances at Wooyoung through the reflection. 

“And thank you for breakfast.” Wooyoung stepped close to San and boldly kissed his cheek. San looked surprised but pleased, his eyes softening. 

Seonghwa glanced around the cramped cabin, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really have anywhere for this many people to sit.”

“We can just sit on the floor,” Wooyoung suggested, grabbing the tray and setting it in the middle of the floor. He plopped down in front of it, gazing up at San and patting the floor next to him invitingly. San smiled for the first time and took a seat beside him. 

Seonghwa handed Wooyoung one coffee and kept the other for himself, perching on the bed’s edge. He caught the way San’s hand lingered close to Wooyoung’s and quickly looked away, wishing he could go back in time and strangle Wooyoung before he could tell him what San’s dick looked like.

“So…” Hongjoong leaned against the door, his eyes flicking between Seonghwa and Wooyoung. “Do you two sleep together often?”

Seonghwa choked on his coffee, sputtering as his face turned crimson. “I—what?”

Wooyoung’s smirk was infuriating. “Why, are you jealous?”

Seonghwa shot daggers at Wooyoung with his eyes.

Hongjoong’s cool expression faltered, a brief shadow crossing his face before he shrugged. “Just curious.” He opened the door and looked down at San. “Time to get back to work.”

San nodded, his smile fading as he stole a quick glance at Wooyoung. A faint blush crept up his neck, deepening as Wooyoung leaned in and murmured something in his ear.

San’s face turned crimson as he stumbled to his feet. “See you later,” he said, flashing Seonghwa a small, dimpled smile before leaving.

Hongjoong stared pointedly at Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung sighed dramatically. “Guess I should go get my own pants,” he said, meeting Seonghwa’s glare with a playful wink. “See you at lunch.” 

Wooyoung stuffed a pastry in his mouth, gathered various articles of clothing from around the room, and disappeared into the corridor, arms and mouth full. 

Hongjoong shut the door firmly behind him. He gazed at Seonghwa intensely as he approached him on the bed, moving closer until he was standing in between his legs. 

“Why did Wooyoung get to wake up next to you this morning instead of me?” he asked sadly. 

Seonghwa stared up at Hongjoong from his seat on the bed, surprised by the softness in his voice. 

He allowed himself a moment to imagine that it wasn’t a woman who took care of Hongjoong, but him instead. That it was his hand guiding the razor along the nape of Hongjoong’s neck. His bed that Hongjoong came home to, his kitchen that Hongjoong took his meals in, full of natural light and lined with floral wallpaper they’d put up themselves. 

A life both ordinary and impossible.

Seonghwa wrung his hands together and looked down at the parquet floor, resisting the urge to touch him. “I was sad,” he whispered, his eyes tracing the designs in the wood. An understatement. Devastated was more like it. 

Hongjoong placed two fingers under Seonghwa’s chin, tilting his face back up to look at him. “Why?”

Seonghwa suddenly felt suffocated by the need to be honest with him—and honest with himself, the image of himself cooking breakfast for an aged Hongjoong evaporating.

“Because I can’t see you again, Hongjoong,” he said, his voice breaking. “It—it can’t be.”

“Because we’re both men?” Hongjoong dropped to his knees in front of Seonghwa, taking one of his hands in his own. “It wouldn’t be easy, but Seonghwa, it’s not impossible. There’s a community in London, I can show you.”

Seonghwa felt like his heart had been cleaved in half, the future he couldn’t have dangling just out of reach. Waves of despair crashed over him as he gazed down into Hongjoong’s pleading eyes.

“No,” he finally whispered, his voice raw. “It’s not just that. The whole reason I'm on this ship is because I’m supposed to marry a woman in England.”

Hongjoong’s expression shifted. He dropped Seonghwa’s hand as though it had burned him. “What?”

Seonghwa’s heart twisted, and he had to look away, unable to meet Hongjoong’s eyes. “Listen–” he started.

But Hongjoong shot to his feet, his small frame now towering over him. “So it means nothing to you.”

“No, that’s not what I–”

“I’ve been falling in love with you for weeks!” Hongjoong’s face flushed red with anger. “And you—you just wanted to have some fun before your real life starts.”

Seonghwa froze.

“You’re a liar,” Hongjoong spat, his voice bitter. “I bet you’re fucking Wooyoung too, aren’t you,” he added under his breath, more to himself than to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa felt the blood drain from his face. Incriminating images flooded his mind. Wooyoung’s laughter as he struggled beneath him. Their limbs tangled as they whispered secrets in the dark. Their bare knees touching on the bed, eyes raking over each other’s bodies.

A lump formed in his throat as he realized how long he had been silent. He tried to speak, his tone defensive, desperate. “That’s not true, we’re just friends–”

“Farewell, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong said, his voice now eerily calm, which was somehow worse than his rage. He walked right past him, flung the door open, and stormed out.

“Hongjoong—wait!” Seonghwa ran into the hallway after him, not caring who might overhear. “Wait!” 

Hongjoong stopped, still facing away. “For what?” he asked. Then he kept walking until he disappeared down the dark corridor, not once looking back.

Seonghwa’s chest tightened, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He stumbled back into his room and sank to the floor against the back of the door, disintegrating like a glass statue turning back into sand.

You just wanted to have some fun before your real life starts.

The worst part was that Hongjoong wasn’t wrong. It didn’t matter that Seonghwa had never felt this way, that he probably never would again. He had known all along there was an expiration date on whatever this was between them—yet still, he had kept his mouth shut and gone along with it.

Seonghwa dropped his head between his knees, gripping the edges of his sleeves as though he could hold himself together that way, and wept. 

He cried like that for hours, until no more tears came. He ignored Wooyoung’s frantic knocking and piercing yells twice, once at lunch and again at teatime. Both times, Seonghwa stayed slumped against the door, unable to face him. 

Finally, his body drained and hurting, he dragged himself to his feet and collapsed onto the bed. As the room darkened around him, Seonghwa thought sadly that Wooyoung must’ve given up on him.

But then he heard the unmistakable clicking of his door being unlocked. 

He shot up, squinting as light streamed in from the corridor, illuminating San, keys in hand. Wooyoung stood behind him holding a plate of food.

“Seonghwa?” Wooyoung said hesitantly. 

Seonghwa sniffled at the sound of his name and flopped back down on the bed, covering his head beneath the blankets to hide his tears. The sheets glowed orange around him as the sconces came on. 

He imagined Wooyoung, who hadn’t been able to ask San for what he needed, instead mustering up the courage to ask him to unlock Seonghwa’s room, his bottom lip cracked and bleeding as he pretended everything was fine between them. 

The bed dipped with the weight of someone sitting on the bed. A hand traced Seonghwa’s back.

“What happened?” Wooyoung murmured.

Seonghwa couldn’t bring himself to speak, the words turning to water in his throat. 

I bet you’re fucking Wooyoung too, aren’t you.

“You should eat something,” San said gently from across the room.

Seonghwa blinked away tears and peeked out from under the covers. San was right—he was starving.

Seonghwa sat up and reached for a piece of turkey. “I told him about my engagement,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Wooyoung and San exchanged glances. “And he… didn’t take it well?” San asked carefully.

Seonghwa downed the entire glass of water they had brought him, San’s question hanging in the air. He ate half the turkey and a hard piece of bread before he answered. 

“I told him it couldn’t happen, that I couldn’t see him again.”

“You are such an idiot.” Wooyoung muttered, shaking his head.

Seonghwa stared at him. “Why am I an idiot?” His voice came out sharper than he meant it to be. “It’s not like I have a choice. It’s my duty, and besides, I don’t want to renounce my title. It’s mine.”

“You’re ending it with him because you don’t want to abdicate?” Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “It’s not like you’re the king!”

Seonghwa could feel his face warming. “Wooyoung, it’s not that simple–”

“Seems pretty simple to me,” Wooyoung interrupted. “You’d rather live a shitty life as an earl no one’s going to remember than have to make your own decisions.”

San shifted uncomfortably by the door. “Wooyoung…”

Wooyoung glared at San, who quickly shut his mouth. “You told me your title didn’t even mean anything,” he continued indignantly. “I thought you only got a pittance anyway!”

“It’s my birthright, Wooyoung. It would be like giving up my name! I don’t care about my allowance, I—well, I guess I do, actually.” Seonghwa’s face turned from angry to miserable as he considered the full extent of his predicament. “I can’t just walk away from my family’s estate, what would I do—where would I even go?”

Wooyoung stared at him, thinking. His face brightened. “I could use some help with the bakery,” he said excitedly. “You can stay at my flat, and we can figure everything out together.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. “That’s… you would do that?”

“I would do anything for you, remember?” Wooyoung’s voice softened. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, it’s just—you act like you don’t have a choice, but you do.”

Tears stung Seonghwa’s eyes. He didn’t deserve Wooyoung. A bitter thought struck him, and he shot a resentful glance at San. 

No one did.

He shifted his gaze back to Wooyoung. “But what about the girl?” Seonghwa asked, afraid to hope. “I can’t just leave her out to dry.”

Wooyoung scoffed. “Talk to her. She probably doesn’t even want to marry some dandy she’s never met.”

San cleared his throat, his face turning red.

“I’m not a dandy!” Seonghwa protested, smacking Wooyoung’s arm.

“Ow!” Wooyoung rubbed the spot where he had hit him. “Whatever, have you seen yourself hold a glass?” 

“What is that supposed to–”

“So dainty and you always curl your pinky–”

“Ugh, it doesn’t matter, Wooyoung!” Seonghwa cut in, his indignation dissolving back into despair. “Even if I give up my estate—you should’ve seen him. He won’t believe anything I have to say, if he’ll even deign to be in the same room as me.”

“Don’t worry,” Wooyoung said confidently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll think of something.” 

Seonghwa nodded without conviction. Wooyoung stood suddenly, heading toward the door. 

Seonghwa stared after him, surprised he was leaving so soon. “Um… thanks for bringing me dinner. And for the offer.”

Wooyoung flashed him a bright smile that Seonghwa didn’t feel like he deserved. “Just think about it. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow morning. We’ll go for a stroll before breakfast.”

Seonghwa offered him a weak smile in return before laying back down and covering his face with the blanket. 

“Good night, Seonghwa,” San said softly.

“Night,” Seonghwa mumbled. The light from the sconces faded to black before he heard the click of the door closing. He rolled onto his side, staring at the moon through his porthole. 

He had lived his whole life for duty—breaking his engagement seemed impossible. A betrayal of not only his family, but his life’s purpose. 

I’ve been falling in love with you for weeks.

But what was there a purpose in living if he had to do it without Hongjoong?

Excitement swelled in his chest, terrifying and fragile, as he realized he had made his decision. Maybe the first true decision of his life. 

He just hoped it wasn’t too late. 

𓊝

Seonghwa and Wooyoung lay side by side in silence, fingers intertwined as they stared up at the ceiling from Seonghwa’s bed. 

It had been a full week since Seonghwa’s fight with Hongjoong, and he had neither seen nor heard from him, despite many coordinated attempts with Wooyoung to stake out the places he used to frequent. 

Seonghwa’s despair had slowly twisted into anger—at himself, for not fighting for Hongjoong sooner, and at his family, for molding him into the type of man who knew nothing but constellations and duty. He’d replayed their conversation a thousand times, each time imagining a better way to handle it.

Maybe if he was braver, he wouldn’t have agreed to a doomed engagement in the first place. The thought of it now felt suffocating, like a chain he had willingly wrapped around his own neck. 

But if he hadn’t agreed to the engagement, he never would have even met Hongjoong—or Wooyoung, for that matter.

“Before I met you, I’d never even known another man who liked to look at other men,” Seonghwa said quietly, his gaze trained on the ceiling.

Wooyoung snorted. “Not that you know of.”

Seonghwa smiled faintly. It was a comforting thought—that other people might be hiding themselves too, that it wasn’t just him. His face turned serious. 

“Is there really a place for people like us in London?”

“Of course there is, you prude,” Wooyoung shot back, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Haven’t you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

“Wait, have you read The Picture of Dorian Gray?” Seonghwa raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Because it’s not exactly a selling point.”

“I’m not talking about the plot,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “I’m talking about the author, Oscar Wilde. He’s a dandy, just like you.”

“Didn’t Oscar Wilde die in exile after being in prison for sodomy?” Seonghwa quipped, choosing to ignore the dandy comment.

“Details, Seonghwa.” Wooyoung smirked, rolling on his side to face him. “Look, nothing’s going to happen to us. We’ll be too busy sipping tea and opening up the best damn bakery in London. We’ll be national treasures.”

Seonghwa sighed, trying to imagine the two of them as Englishmen walking a collie together down Park Lane.

“First I have to break off my engagement,” Seonghwa muttered dejectedly, his mood sinking again.

“I’m telling you, just talk to her once we get to London. You’re supposed to meet with her anyway,” Wooyoung said. “She’ll want to make it seem like breaking the engagement was her idea, and then you won’t even have to give up your title.”

“How do you figure that?” Seonghwa asked doubtfully.

“Because if everyone knows you ended it, she’ll never get another good match. People will think she wasn’t good enough for you. But if she calls it off? Maybe it’s just because you’re a dandy or something.”

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa kicked him in the shin. “And what about Hongjoong?” 

They only had one night left—one last chance for Seonghwa to patch things up with Hongjoong before he disappeared from his life forever.

“I think it’s finally time,” Wooyoung said mischievously. 

“Time for…?” Seonghwa replied cautiously.

“My backup plan. Operation Prostrate.”

“Jesus, can you not call it that?” Seonghwa groaned, shoving Wooyoung’s shoulder.

“Prostrate with an ‘R,’ you sick freak!”

“My god, you are intolerable!” Seonghwa sat up and grabbed a pillow to smother him with. 

Wooyoung laughed, raising his arms to protect his face. “All right, all right! Calm down.” 

Seonghwa tossed the pillow aside. “So tell me about Operation Prostate.”

“With an ‘R,’ Seonghwa!” Wooyoung gave Seonghwa a poke in the ribs before he sat up beside him. “It’s simple. San told me that Hongjoong’s been taking dinner in the crew’s quarters at seven every night. While Hongjoong’s out, San will unlock his door so you can wait in his room for him to return. All you have to do is apologize before he has a chance to get all worked up again.”

Seonghwa furrowed his brow. “So why is it called Operation Prostrate?”

Wooyoung’s smile turned wicked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because you’ll be on your knees.”

𓊝

Seonghwa fidgeted with the collar of his white blouse as San quietly unlocked the door to Hongjoong’s cabin. 

“Thank you,” Seonghwa whispered, shaking San’s hand but not letting go, holding it too long. “I know you could get in trouble for this.”

“It’s okay.” San glanced down at their joined hands, his expression softening. “Good luck, Seonghwa,” he said, pulling him into a hug. “Just… tell him how you feel. It’ll be okay.”

San rubbed his back reassuringly, giving him one last squeeze before Seonghwa stepped over the threshold into Hongjoong’s room. He knew he wasn’t worthy of San’s kindness, but he would take it. 

The dim cabin was lit only by the pale lights of the boat and the moon streaming in through the porthole. Seonghwa sank to his knees in the pool of white light in the center of the room, his hands trembling in his lap. 

He felt like Andromeda, bound in the moonlight, awaiting sacrifice to the sea monster Cetus.

The empty room soon filled with ghosts—Hongjoong pressing him to the bed, Hongjoong splashing water on his face at the basin. His beautiful face pressed against the pillow, unaware he would soon wake alone. His voice, gravelly with longing: I’ll take whatever you will give.

And Seonghwa, selfish, offering nothing in return.

His whole life, he’d been trained to enter the British aristocracy, molded into the perfect heir. But now, he would burn it all to the ground just to see that side of Hongjoong again.

His legs were beginning to fall asleep by the time the door finally creaked open. Hongjoong stepped inside, still in his officer’s greatcoat, his cap in hand. He froze at the sight of Seonghwa.

Seonghwa held his breath, wondering if Hongjoong was Cetus come to consume him or Perseus here to save him. 

He expected anger—he expected Hongjoong to yell, to demand an explanation for what the hell he was doing in his room. 

He did not expect him to cry.

The color drained from Hongjoong’s face. His eyebrows knit together, and he turned away quickly so Seonghwa wouldn’t see.

“Hongjoong, please,” Seonghwa pleaded, his voice breaking. “Just listen to me.”

Hongjoong’s hand fumbled for the doorknob, his shoulders stiff. Seonghwa’s heart pounded, his breaths quickening as panic crept in.

“Don’t leave,” Seonghwa begged, his desperation rising. This was his last chance, and for all his rehearsing, he still had no idea how to make it right. “Please. Just–”

Hongjoong opened the door in silence. He was halfway into the corridor before Seonghwa blurted out the only thing he had to give. 

“I’m not going to marry her!”

Hongjoong froze, one foot in the corridor, one in the dark cabin. He stood there, his hand still on the doorknob. After a tense pause, he stepped back in, closing the door behind him. He leaned against it and looked at Seonghwa expectantly, his eyes still glistening but his expression cold. 

“What are you saying?”

“I’m so sorry, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa choked out, forcing himself to meet his gaze. “I wasn’t thinking–”

“You weren’t thinking?” Hongjoong’s voice cut through him like a blade. “When? When you asked me to kiss you? When you came on my fingers? Or when you left me to crawl into bed with someone else?”

Seonghwa flinched. “I meant—I wasn’t thinking about what would happen after. I was too focused on what I wanted right then.” His voice faltered at the look on Hongjoong’s face. 

The man before him was a stranger—harder, so much more closed off than the man who had called him exquisite, and magnificent, and prince. 

“I know why you thought… the things you said,” Seonghwa continued, unable to repeat them. “It's because I never told you how I feel.”

“And how do you feel?” Hongjoong’s voice was measured now, his expression unreadable.

Seonghwa gazed into Hongjoong’s round eyes. He could barely feel the hard floor under his knees or the tears streaming down his face—only the water filling his lungs, the burning in his heart. 

“I feel like I’d give up my family for one more night with you. My inheritance, my name—all of it.” Seonghwa’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll have to, won’t I? If you’ll still have me.”

Hongjoong walked slowly toward Seonghwa until he stood directly over him, as if he were about to knight him. He reached down, lifting Seonghwa’s chin with two fingers and forcing his gaze upward. His cold expression cracked, vulnerability peeking through again. 

“Only one night?” Hongjoong murmured, his voice a little lighter, almost teasing. 

“Are you open to negotiations?” Seonghwa asked weakly. 

Hongjoong’s eyes bore into him, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “What would you ask of me?”

“Can you kiss me again?” Seonghwa’s voice broke. “Please?” 

Hongjoong’s response was immediate. He hauled Seonghwa to his feet, guiding him to the bed. Seonghwa didn’t resist, his body slack with surrender. Hongjoong pushed him down to the edge of it and straddled him, his hands cradling Seonghwa’s face. 

Seonghwa closed his eyes and tilted his chin, waiting for a kiss that didn’t come. 

The air thickened as Hongjoong leaned down and bit him on the neck, as if to claim him.

Seonghwa gasped, his arms tightening around him instinctively. His body felt electric as Hongjoong licked the tears from him, his tongue rough against Seonghwa’s sensitive skin as he traced the long line of his throat up to his cheek, consuming his despair.

When he finished, Hongjoong sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Seonghwa’s face.

“Don’t cry for me anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa whispered, unable to stop the apologies. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid–”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hongjoong interrupted firmly. 

“It doesn’t?” Seonghwa asked, incredulous. 

“No.” Hongjoong’s voice softened, though his hard expression remained. “Not if you’re mine now.”

“I’m yours,” Seonghwa vowed. A plea and a promise.

Hongjoong’s reply sounded like a command. “Only mine.” 

“Only yours,” Seonghwa agreed, trying to let himself believe it. He hesitated, then moved his hands to Hongjoong’s waist, wishing he could feel the skin beneath his coat. His voice dropped to a whisper. “What happens now?”

Hongjoong cupped Seonghwa’s cheek, running his calloused thumb over it. “I have two weeks off in England before the Runic sets sail for Sydney again. Then three months at sea.” 

Two weeks. It was nothing—a flicker, a breath. 

Would Seonghwa trade his title, his prospective wife, his meticulously planned future, for only two weeks, with no certainty of more?

“Two weeks,” Seonghwa repeated. “Two glorious weeks.”

He would. 

Hongjoong’s lips curved, not quite into a smile—it looked more like a frown—but close enough.

“Then let’s not waste them.”

𓊝

Chapter Text

After weeks at sea, Seonghwa could have kissed the sodden Prince’s Dock. He looked up at the imposing Baroque building before them, the corners topped with hexagonal stone turrets, each crowned with a massive glittering lantern.

“Wow,” Seonghwa breathed, elbowing Wooyoung and pointing up at the magnificent dome in the center of the building. “We don’t have grand old buildings like this in New Zealand.”

Wooyoung shrieked with laughter, startling a flock of large, haggard-looking seagulls nearby. They took flight, casting disdainful glances at them as they flew overhead.

“What?” Seonghwa gave him a playful shove. “It’s my first time here. Sorry I’m not as worldly as you–”

“No, it’s not that,” Wooyoung cackled. “It’s just that—this is the Port of Liverpool building, it’s brand new. It wasn’t even finished the last time I was here.”

Seonghwa reddened. “Then why does it look like that?”

“That’s the style now,” Wooyoung replied with a shrug. “Have you set your watch yet?”

Seonghwa nodded, pulling it out. “Just past 10 a.m.” 

“Let’s grab an early lunch while we wait for San and Hongjoong to wrap up. My treat.” Wooyoung removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped away the sea spray with his shirt before putting them back on. “I miss proper food.”

“Your treat, because I have nothing of value to my name,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice nearly lost in the chaos of the docks—workers yelling, passengers greeting friends and family, carts stacked with goods bouncing down the cobblestone street.

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

Seonghwa looked over at him, the sea breeze whipping Wooyoung’s hair around his face and threatening to blow his cap off. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” Wooyoung flashed him a sly smile as he reached up to keep his hat in place. “Your family’s back in New Zealand. Even if you broke it off with the girl tomorrow, your letter would still take a month or so to reach them.”

“Your point?” 

“Break off the engagement, have a nice couple of guilt-free weeks with Hongjoong in London… and then you can give me a tour of your estate,” Wooyoung said with a wink. 

Seonghwa gave him a blank look. “You want to see the estate I’m going to have to give up?”

Wooyoung let out a long-suffering sigh that made Seonghwa want to strangle him. “No, we could set it on fire for all I care. What I want is to help you borrow some family heirlooms.”

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. “We can’t just steal–”

“Oh look, we’re here!” Wooyoung exclaimed brightly.

Seonghwa tore his eyes away from Wooyoung to gaze at the brick building in front of them. It was a striking Victorian, five opulent stories of wrought-iron balconies, columns, and arched windows, topped with a steeply pitched slate roof.

“Is this a restaurant?” Seonghwa asked in disbelief.

“The Adelphi Hotel,” Wooyoung said wistfully, tugging at his gloves as they walked up the stone steps. “I heard a rumor they’re demolishing it soon to build a new one, so this might be our only chance to try the turtle soup.”

“I’m sorry, the what soup?”

Wooyoung ignored him, removing his hat as two bellmen swung open a set of massive carved wooden doors. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Wooyoung said airily, breezing past them like he owned the place.

Seonghwa glanced around the lavish lobby, taking in the chandeliers glittering like stars overhead, the plush armchairs, and the faint hum of a string quartet. 

“This place is spectacular,” he said, astounded.

“Lord Park,” Wooyoung replied in a mock-stuffy voice, “Have I impressed you?”

Seonghwa gave him a small, genuine smile. “I believe you have.” 

They walked down a richly decorated corridor that smelled faintly of cigars with gold-framed oil paintings stacked one above the other on the walls. At the end of the hall, they stepped into a dining room so vast it could have been a ballroom. Marble pillars loomed between tables dressed in crisp white linens, each set with silver candlesticks and crystal glasses. Velvet drapes in deep maroon framed tall windows, giving the room a hushed, sacred quality.

“Welcome, gentlemen. This way please.” A waiter in black tails and a crisp white apron bowed and gestured with an arm. “We’re currently serving a prix fixe luncheon.”

They were seated near a window, the heavy curtains pooling on the carpet beneath them. Seonghwa’s fingers traced the curve of his cloth napkin, folded into a perfect fleur-de-lis. He looked up as the waiter returned bearing two delicate porcelain bowls, both steaming.

Seonghwa stared at his bowl, his stomach twisting. The broth was a rich amber color speckled with tiny flecks of parsley. Was it just his imagination, or was there a tiny foot floating around?

“You have to try it,” Wooyoung urged, already spooning up a mouthful. “It’s their specialty.”

Seonghwa hesitated, his mind conjuring up an image of their waiter standing waist-deep in a pond, raising a net with white-gloved hands as a baby turtle paddled away helplessly. 

“Do they… catch the turtles?”

“Not exactly,” Wooyoung replied with a laugh, setting down his spoon. “They raise them in heated tanks in the basement.”

Seonghwa blanched. “That’s even worse! This hotel has its own turtle death camp?”

Wooyoung shrieked with laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. “Where do you think the fried chicken on the Runic came from? There was a chicken death camp on the ship.”

“It feels different.” Seonghwa pushed his bowl toward the center of the table. “You can have mine.”

The waiter returned just in time, whisking away their bowls and replacing them with roast chicken served alongside buttered green beans and tiny potatoes. 

“Did you grow up with friends, Wooyoung?” Seonghwa asked, popping three of the fingerling potatoes into his mouth. “Because I think you might be my first friend.”

Wooyoung paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. His expression softened. “No, not really.”

“Really?” Seonghwa blinked, genuinely surprised. Wooyoung was gregarious, handsome, and fiercely loyal—who wouldn’t want him as a friend? 

“I lived on the streets of Sydney for most of my childhood,” Wooyoung said quietly, staring at his plate. “Friends on the street aren’t like regular friends. They’re about survival—and I was always small for my age.”

The Wooyoung before him was suddenly replaced with the shadow of the boy he had once been. Small and scrappy, curled against a brick wall in the cold as he hid from the bigger boys.

Seonghwa placed his hand gently over Wooyoung’s. “Thank you,” he said. “For telling me, and for being my first friend. I couldn’t imagine a better one.”

“You too,” Wooyoung replied with a small smile.

The waiter returned with a small plate of biscuits and a lemon sponge pudding topped with a dollop of thick cream. Wooyoung passed him a small fortune while Seonghwa polished off his dessert in record time, the tang of lemon bright on his tongue.

“Our things and our men should’ve arrived at the station by now.” Wooyoung placed his napkin on the table and scooted his chair back. “Let’s head out.”

Seonghwa looked around to check for witnesses before folding the last two biscuits into a handkerchief and pocketing them. They walked back through the lush Adelphi, Seonghwa taking in the oil paintings as they passed them in the corridor. 

He paused in front of one, painted in a style that mimicked high renaissance art. A man with golden ringlets leaned back in a chair wrapped in a flowing crimson sheet, one hand covering his eyes. Another man—a boy, really—lay limp in his lap, his head tilted as though asleep. 

“These artists love their naked men, huh?” Wooyoung quipped. “Who are they?”

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh. “Apollo and Hyacinthus.”

“I know Apollo, who’s Hyacinthus? Is he napping?”

“No,” Seonghwa said quietly. “He’s dead. Apollo killed him.” 

Wooyoung’s playful grin faded as his eyes traced Apollo’s face, which looked more tired than sad. 

“Why did he do that?”

“It was an accident.” Seonghwa pointed to the blooms in the painting. “He was so heartbroken, he turned all his blood into flowers.”

Wooyoung turned to meet Seonghwa’s gaze. “Do their lovers always die?”

Seonghwa shrugged. “The Greeks loved tragedies,” he replied softly. 

“Well, I don’t,” Wooyoung huffed as he led them away from the painting into the lobby. They applauded politely as the string quartet finished Death and the Maiden, then made their way back onto the street. 

The sun warmed Seonghwa’s face despite the day’s chill, forcing him to continuously take his greatcoat off and then put it back on as they walked. Morning carts and coffee sellers were just starting to thin out, making way for the bustling midday vendors. 

A flower stand caught Seonghwa’s eye, early spring bulbs in large baskets beneath a dirty green and white striped awning. The florist, a man about Seonghwa’s height with a long, handsome face, smiled as they approached. 

“Do you have any hyacinths?” Seonghwa asked. 

“I believe I have a few left from yesterday. One moment,” the florist replied, crouching to check beneath the counter.

“He’s cute,” Wooyoung whispered to Seonghwa. “What’s a hyacinth? Wait, like Hyacinthus?”

Seonghwa nodded as the florist stood and presented a simple bouquet—three large purple blooms tied with a red ribbon. Each flower was made up of a dozen smaller blooms that resembled tiny purple lilies.

“My last three,” he said with a smile, his eyes turning into slivers.

“Thank you,” Seonghwa replied warmly, paying him from his coin purse. The man held the coin gingerly, putting it away and then immediately wiping his hands with a handkerchief. 

Wooyoung leaned casually on the counter, looking up at the florist from beneath his lashes. “What’s your name?” 

“Xu Minghao,” he replied. “And yours?” 

“Jung Wooyoung,” he said with a disarming smile. Instead of a handshake, he held Minghao’s fingers delicately, the way a gentleman would before kissing the back of a lady’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.” 

Minghao blushed. “Will you be in Liverpool long?” 

Seonghwa’s knees almost buckled at the scene unfolding before him. What was going on?

Wooyoung bit his bottom lip. “No, but I pass through often. Are you usually here?”

“Every afternoon but Sunday.” Minghao’s eyes flicked down Wooyoung’s body then back up to his eyes. 

“Maybe I’ll see you again, Minghao,” Wooyoung said with a wink, tipping his hat before striding toward the docks.

Seonghwa quickened his pace to catch up, nearly stumbling as he fell into step beside Wooyoung. “What the hell was that?”

“Language, my lord!” Wooyoung teased, grinning. “Just having a bit of fun.”

“Just hedging your bets, you mean?” Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp.

Wooyoung waved him off and gestured at the hyacinths. “Are those for you or for Hongjoong?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Seonghwa snapped, stepping in front of him to block his path. “What are you doing flirting with the florist?” 

“His name is Minghao,” Wooyoung corrected with an exaggerated huff, sidestepping him easily. “It’s harmless, I might not even see him again. It’s not like he’s going to break my heart.” 

Seonghwa’s lips pressed into a thin line as he caught up again. “But San will?” 

Wooyoung stopped short, forcing Seonghwa to do the same. For a moment, he looked ready to brush it off, but then his expression darkened. “Don’t be delusional,” he said, his voice tight.  

“I don’t think anyone’s good enough for you,” Seonghwa said quietly. “Not San, not anyone. But he’s a good man, he wouldn’t–” 

“Yeah, exactly. Good men like San don’t stick around for men like me. They meet us on boats or in alleyways and then they marry girls from nice families and think about us when they’re fucking her.” Wooyoung’s voice softened as he interlaced their fingers. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m going to handle things my way.” 

“You always do,” Seonghwa muttered. 

“And it’s worked out for me so far, hasn’t it?” Wooyoung replied breezily, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Seonghwa sighed in defeat, gesturing to a plume of smoke rising in the distance. “Is that it?” 

Wooyoung nodded. The platform came into sight on the northwest side of Prince’s Dock, near where the Runic was moored. Seonghwa squinted through the haze as they approached, whistles of departing trains piercing the air. 

“Is the train electric?” Seonghwa asked curiously, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the horses waiting with parked carriages. 

“No, there wouldn’t be as much smoke if it was. They’re about to start a modernization project to electrify it, but until then the trains are old as shit.” Wooyoung smirked. “Almost as old as you.” 

“You little scamp,” Seonghwa said with a laugh, yanking his hand away to hit him with it. “You’re only a year younger than–” 

“Yeah, but you act old as–” 

‘So you admit you’re childish–” 

“And you aren’t childish at all,” San cut in smoothly, appearing behind them with Hongjoong. 

Seonghwa hastily pulled his hands away from Wooyoung, flushing. “How long have you two been standing there?” 

“Long enough,” Hongjoong said, his gaze flicking between them, unreadable. 

“Well, let’s get a move on then,” Wooyoung replied, motioning for them to follow him through the crowd of travelers. 

Seonghwa hung back with Hongjoong as San jogged to keep up with Wooyoung, who was weaving mercilessly through the crowd and bumping shoulders with anyone who got in his way.

His heart pounded in the silence, loud enough that he was sure Hongjoong would be able to hear it. Seonghwa stole a glance at him—he looked so handsome in profile, the graceful swoop of his small nose leading to his plush mouth. He had swapped his officer’s uniform for his black newsboy hat and a simple suit. 

Hongjoong met his gaze, but remained silent. 

“Hi,” Seonghwa said softly. 

Hongjoong gave him his tight-lipped smile, the corners of his mouth turned down like a frown. “Hi.”

“I, um, I got these for you.” Seonghwa handed him the hyacinths, his cheeks warming. 

Hongjoong’s lips parted as he accepted them. He looked down at the bouquet, hesitating before he replied, “No one’s ever bought me flowers.”

“I’ve never bought anyone flowers either.” As he said it, Seonghwa couldn’t help but wonder if Hongjoong had ever given flowers to someone. He must have. 

Hongjoong lifted the bouquet to his nose, his eyes widening. “They smell so sweet.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to reply, but they’d reached the ticket counter. A harried clerk shuffled through slips of paper behind a wrought-iron grille, pretending not to notice the growing line.

Hongjoong cleared his throat. “Four second-class tickets to London,” he said, sliding a few coins through the narrow slot. 

The clerk muttered something unintelligible, then handed over the tickets, his fingers smudged with ink.

“Thank you.” Wooyoung reached around Hongjoong to snatch the tickets, then turned to the others. “Come on, we’ve got to go if we want to catch the next train.”

“Oh, now you’re in a hurry.” Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “San and I have been waiting here for–”

“Can’t hear you, come on!” Wooyoung interrupted, plowing a path through the bustling crowd.

The train was a steel leviathan on the tracks, its paint dulled by decades of coal dust. Wisps of steam hissed from the undercarriage, spilling onto the platform like creeping fog.

Seonghwa trailed his fingers along the varnished wooden handrails as they climbed aboard. Wooyoung split off from the group, aggressively scouting for an empty compartment.

“Here’s one!” Wooyoung called out from across the carriage, his piercing voice carrying easily over the hum of activity. 

The compartment was compact, just two opposing bench seats upholstered in green velvet that was wearing thin in places. Brass luggage racks hanging close to the ceiling gleamed faintly in the early afternoon light. 

“Cozy,” Seonghwa murmured, sliding onto one of the benches beside Hongjoong.

The seats were worn but comfortable, the faint scent of coal smoke and damp wool lingering in the air. No sooner had they settled than the train gave a lurch, and a steady rattling began as it pulled out of the station. 

“So,” Seonghwa said, breaking the silence, “Where are you both staying in the city?”

San, seated near the window on the opposite bench, glanced up from where his chin rested on his palm. “The George in Southwark,” he replied casually, his free hand on the bench near Wooyoung’s.

Seonghwa blinked, recognition flickering in his mind. He’d never been to London—but from what he’d heard, Southwark was a bit off-color. “That’s... quaint.”

“I’ve been there, that place is a dump,” Wooyoung said bluntly, his head tilting back as he lounged in his seat. He nudged San lightly with his elbow. “You should both stay with me instead. I’ve got a whole flat in Chelsea to myself, right off King’s Road.”

Seonghwa arched a brow, glancing at Wooyoung. “A whole flat? Extravagant.”

“I’ve got one in Sydney too,” Wooyoung said proudly, leaning across the compartment toward Seonghwa as if to share a secret. “And I suppose it’s our flat now.” 

They were interrupted by a knock that rattled the frosted glass door. A woman with a trolley cart peered in, offering a practiced smile. “Refreshments, sirs?”

The trolley was laden with small packets of sandwiches, pork pies, and biscuits, along with cups of steaming tea. Wooyoung sprang to his feet with enthusiasm. “I’ll take one of everything,” he said, digging into his pocket for coins.

Hongjoong gave him a dry look before taking a single sandwich. Wooyoung began distributing food to Seonghwa and San. “Can I also get four–” He broke off his sentence, eyeing the expression on Hongjoong’s face before continuing, “Three cups of tea?” 

Wooyoung sat beside San sipping his tea as Hongjoong unwrapped his food with deliberate precision, taking small, measured bites. Seonghwa, meanwhile, devoured his pork pie in two mouthfuls, earning an amused glance from Wooyoung. 

“Hungry, are we?” Wooyoung teased, shoving a pastry in Hongjoong’s face and forcing him to take it. 

Seonghwa shot Wooyoung a glare but didn’t reply, already reaching for a biscuit. 

“You eat like you’ve been starving for days,” Wooyoung laughed. 

“And you talk like you’ve been drinking for days,” Seonghwa retorted.

Wooyoung let out a squeal, shoving Seonghwa before tucking into his sandwich and pastries. They fell into conversation, light and easy, as the train carried them toward London. 

Seonghwa chewed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the passing countryside. Trees blurred into an impressionist haze, and a pang of homesickness swept over him. He pushed it away—this country would be his home now.

He was broken from his reverie by Wooyoung giggling quietly. He looked around the compartment to find that the others had both fallen asleep, Hongjoong slumped against the window and San curled up like a cat on the seat.

“What’s so funny?” Seonghwa asked, smiling. 

“I was just thinking—I left Sydney a single man, and now I have a whole family.” His eyes turned into crescents, and Seonghwa’s heart swelled at the word. Family. 

“We’re the kids, obviously, and you two are the mother and father,” Wooyoung continued, pointing between Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

Seonghwa’s smile slipped into a frown. “Let me guess, I’m the–” 

“Oh you’re definitely the mom, are you kidding–”

“You little brat–” 

“That’s just what a mother would say!”

Seonghwa got up on instinct, climbing onto Wooyoung’s bench and silently tackling him. Wooyoung struggled for breath beneath him as he tried and failed to push him off. 

Careful not to disturb San, Seonghwa straddled Wooyoung’s lap and pinned his arms to the wall. 

“Say I’m the father,” Seonghwa whispered threateningly. 

“Or else what?” Wooyoung said through his teeth, looking up at Seonghwa as he tried to free his hands. 

Seonghwa glanced over at San. “Or else I’ll kiss you and wake San up so he sees.” 

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Are you testing me?” Seonghwa leaned in, their faces inches apart. 

Wooyoung stared at him, his defiance fading. “Okay, okay, you’re the father!”

Seonghwa giggled, then covered his mouth to stifle it. He looked over—both still asleep. 

Seonghwa suddenly felt tired too, the distance they had traveled in one day finally catching up to him. He yawned, slumping down on Wooyoung’s shoulder. Wooyoung wrapped his arms around him, and Seonghwa meant to just close his eyes for a moment, but it was so comfortable. 

He dreamed he was the Spartan prince Hyacinthus. But in his dream there was no blood, only sunlight, warm and golden as Hongjoong laughed beside him on the banks of the Eurotas. 

Seonghwa woke to find himself still draped over Wooyoung, a damp spot on his shoulder marking where his mouth had been. Careful not to wake Wooyoung, he extricated himself and settled back onto his seat beside Hongjoong. 

Seonghwa’s gaze drifted out the window again, his mind wandering back to the rolling green hills of New Zealand. His eyes fell on Hongjoong, bronze in the late afternoon sun. How different his life had become—a life full of choices. 

They hadn’t been alone since his prostrate apology, but Seonghwa could feel the shift between him and Hongjoong, a wall that wasn't there before. A barrier he’d have to chip away at, piece by piece. 

Hongjoong stirred, his head tilting slightly, and his eyes fluttered open. 

“What?” he murmured, his voice low and rough from sleep. 

Maybe it was the haze of sleep, but Hongjoong’s expression looked so open, so honest, that Seonghwa could feel himself unraveling onto the bench. 

“I was just thinking—I’ve never chosen anything for myself, not really,” Seonghwa confessed, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Except for you.”

Hongjoong straightened slightly, his gaze sharpening. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.” 

“It’s the truth,” Seonghwa replied, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” 

Hongjoong studied him for a long moment, his expression carefully neutral. “The truth doesn’t always get you what you want, Lord Park.” 

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Seonghwa said softly. “I just wanted you to know. And—and I’m probably not going to be a lord anymore.” 

Hongjoong exhaled, his jaw tightening. His eyes darkened, and for a moment he looked like he would argue, but no words came. 

Instead he leaned forward, curled his fingers into Seonghwa’s shirt, and pulled him into a bruising kiss. 

Seonghwa froze in surprise, his eyes darting toward San and Wooyoung, but then Hongjoong bit down on his lip and something inside him broke free. His hands found Hongjoong’s lapels, clutching them as he kissed him back just as fiercely. 

Hongjoong threaded his fingers through Seonghwa’s hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He licked into Seonghwa’s mouth, devouring every stifled moan, every quiet whimper that escaped him. 

Hongjoong moved closer until he was nearly on Seonghwa’s lap, one knee pressing firmly between his legs. He left a trail of kisses and bites along Seonghwa’s jaw while Seonghwa dug his hands into his back, gasping against him and wishing he could feel the sweat on his skin again. 

Seonghwa shivered as Hongjoong’s fingers slid up his thigh. 

“Hongjoong–” 

“Shh, you’ll wake the boys,” Hongjoong murmured. 

Seonghwa choked back a moan as Hongjoong cupped him through his trousers. His face burned with humiliation—he was so close already, just from this. 

“Stop,” Seonghwa breathed, his eyebrows drawn together in ecstasy as Hongjoong squeezed him. “I—I don’t want to make a mess.” 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong groaned, a low rumble in his throat. He kissed Seonghwa again, biting his swollen bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. He gave Seonghwa a single, tight pump that sent a jolt of electricity through him, the fabric rough against his skin. 

“Ah–” 

“So sensitive,” Hongjoong growled, his voice dropping lower as he pressed his forehead against Seonghwa’s. “I can’t wait to make a mess of you again.” 

Seonghwa swallowed hard, his chest heaving as his eyes flickered to San, out cold, and Wooyoung, whose eyelashes were fluttering suspiciously. 

Hongjoong pressed a gentle kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek and leaned back, straightening his jacket. His sharp eyes flickered over to Wooyoung. “You can stop pretending now.” 

Wooyoung cracked one eye open. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been in the deepest sleep of my life.” 

Hongjoong gave him a pointed look before rising to his feet. “I’m going to go stretch my legs,” he said, moving toward the compartment door. “So you boys can gossip all you want.” 

He glanced back at Seonghwa, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, before striding out into the corridor. 

Seonghwa stared at the door in a daze, then looked over at Wooyoung, his cheeks pink as he adjusted himself. 

“Did you… hear all that?” Seonghwa grimaced. 

“No, I really just woke up,” Wooyoung said with a yawn, stretching out his arms and legs. “I was just toying with Hongjoong.” 

Seonghwa let out a sign of relief, running his hands through his hair to try to make it presentable. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out the biscuits from lunch. 

“I saved these from earlier, want one?” 

“I don’t know…” Wooyoung gave him a wicked smile. “I wouldn’t want to make a mess.” 

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. Heat rose to his cheeks as he shot to his feet, ready to throttle Wooyoung, but San chose that moment to wake up. 

“Are we there?” San asked, bleary-eyed. 

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed at Wooyoung. “Almost,” he muttered, sitting back down and crossing his arms with a huff. 

He slid over to the window seat, watching as the countryside blurred into the city. Fields and farms gave way to soot-streaked rooftops; there were more buildings than sheep now. 

Anxiety twisted in his stomach. The closer they drew to London, the closer he came to his reckoning—in just over a week, he’d have to face his fiancée. 

The train car jolted, snapping him back to the present. Across from him, San had already dozed off again, his head swaying with the carriage. Wooyoung was watching him sleep, a soft look on his face as he combed his fingers through San’s hair. 

Seonghwa glanced toward the compartment door. Hongjoong’s shadow flickered across the frosted glass as he paced in the hallway. 

He wondered if they would have a future together or if they would only have this: the few weeks between winter and spring, an interlude. 

For the first time in his life, Seonghwa didn’t know what was coming next. The world stretched out before him, vast and uncertain. 

Maybe if Hyacinthus had lived, he would have become king. 

Or maybe he would have become nothing, maybe he would have just been a boy blooming in sunlight by the river.

𓊝

Chapter Text

Euston Square looked like a drawing out of one of Seonghwa’s books about ancient Rome. The station entrance opened to a massive sandstone arch propped up by four towering Doric columns. Seonghwa held his breath for luck as they walked beneath it, trailing his fingers over the stone and finding weathered grooves where thousands of travelers had done the same. 

As soon as they emerged onto the street, Hongjoong and San started toward a small hansom cab pulled by a single horse, but Wooyoung stopped them. 

“Let’s wait for a hackney coach,” he suggested, dragging one of Seonghwa’s enormous portmanteau trunks behind him. “That way we can all ride in one. I’ll cover the cost.” 

They each sat on one of Seonghwa’s trunks, looking like the four horsemen of the apocalypse as they waited at the curb. A larger carriage soon pulled up, this one on four wheels and drawn by two horses. 

“Where to, gentlemen?” The cabbie hopped onto the sidewalk, loading up the coach with their luggage. Seonghwa’s trunks, massive and unwieldy, stood out next to the modest suitcases the others carried. 

“102 Edith Grove in Chelsea,” Wooyoung replied, removing his hat as he settled onto one of the black leather benches. 

San climbed in after him, newsboy cap in hand. He waited until the cabbie had resumed his position with the horses before placing his hand on Wooyoung’s thigh. 

Wooyoung sighed as he gazed out the window, the carriage rocking gently beneath them. “I love it here, but this city smells like shit.” 

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa burst out laughing, covering his mouth to stifle it. 

Wooyoung wasn’t wrong though. So far, London smelled like an unpleasant combination of horses, coal, and the distinctive stench of sewers. 

“I like it,” San said with a sweet smile, his eyes crinkling into crescents. “I grew up here though, so I’m used to it.”

“Where did you grow up?” Seonghwa asked, casting a sidelong glance at Hongjoong. He placed his hand between them, fingers brushing the edge of the bench, hoping Hongjoong might take it. 

San turned red. “Oh, it’s not that interesting–” 

“Don’t deflect,” Wooyoung said sharply, nudging him playfully. “Where did you grow up?” 

“Near the river,” San said quietly, his voice barely audible over the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestone street. “In Southwark.” 

Wooyoung stared at him like he was seeing him for the first time. “Oh,” he said, blinking. “Was that why you were going to stay at the George?” 

San nodded, his shoulders falling. “I know it’s—well, I’m not posh like you’re probably used to.”

Wooyoung opened his mouth and then closed it again, pausing. “I haven’t always been posh.” 

Hongjoong scoffed. 

Wooyoung glared at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Hongjoong muttered. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

“Then I did fool you,” Wooyoung shot back. His voice was sharp, but his jaw tightened, like the words cost him. “Because I grew up in the Rocks of Sydney—sleeping on old newspapers and pickpocketing to get by.” 

“You did?” San asked, his eyes full of wonder, as though Wooyoung had just revealed he was the heir to a great fortune. 

“I did,” Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair. Beside Seonghwa, Hongjoong’s smirk faded. “But it’s not something I go around bragging about.” 

“You should,” Seonghwa said softly. 

Everyone turned toward him—he’d been silent for most of the ride. 

“I grew up with everything,” Seonghwa added. “And I haven’t done anything with it. You should be proud of where you came from and what you’ve done for yourself.” 

Wooyoung reached across the carriage and took Seonghwa’s hand in his own, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Thank you,” Wooyoung murmured, brushing his thumb over Seonghwa’s knuckles. “And it’s not too late for you.” 

Seonghwa turned his hand over, gripping Wooyoung’s for a moment before letting go. He looked up, his eyes finding San’s again. 

“How did you get out?” Seonghwa asked quietly. 

San pointed at Hongjoong with a smile. “I was thirteen when he found me. I’d already been working the docks for six years by then–” 

“Six years?” Seonghwa interrupted. “But what about school?” 

San let out a humorless laugh. “School’s for kids who don’t have smaller mouths to feed. I ran messages when I was lucky and loaded up ships when I wasn’t. Then I slept for five hours and did it all over again.” 

Now that he knew, Seonghwa thought he could see it in the way San held himself. His lean frame, as if hunger had imprinted itself so deeply on him that even a decade of decent meals couldn’t erase it. The broadness of his shoulders, the tightness of his body—evidence of a childhood stolen by labor. 

“When I found him, he’d been worked half to death already,” Hongjoong said bitterly. “Bloody knuckles, skin and bones, filthy–” 

“It’s not like that anymore,” San cut in with an embarrassed smile. 

“No,” Hongjoong replied quietly, his face softening. “Not anymore.” 

Seonghwa looked at Hongjoong out of the corner of his eye. Had he misread Hongjoong’s coldness toward Wooyoung? Perhaps it wasn’t jealousy—not entirely—but a desire to protect his friend. 

Maybe knowing Wooyoung would soften Hongjoong, just as San had softened Seonghwa. 

The carriage jolted as it came to a halt on a wide street lined with trees, brick row houses, and shops. Chelsea seemed like a neighborhood where artists must live, the eccentricity of the residents spilling out onto their stoops and gardens in the form of brightly colored flags, wrought-iron sculptures, and exotic plants in ornate pots. 

“Here we are,” Wooyoung announced, pushing open the carriage door with a flourish. He tossed the driver a coin and helped unload their luggage, each of them juggling their own suitcase while also wrangling one of Seonghwa’s trunks. 

“I’ve got the first and second floor. There’s another tenant on the third,” Wooyoung said, gesturing at the Victorian terraced house in front of them. A wrought iron railing led up the steps to a glossy black door with a brass knocker shaped like a cat. “The garden in the back’s mine, but we share the stairs and a housekeeper.” 

San’s mouth fell open, his suitcase slipping slightly. “You have two floors? And a housekeeper?” 

Wooyoung bit his bottom lip as he gazed at San, smiling wickedly and looking like he wanted to eat him. “I’m full of surprises.” 

Seonghwa glanced over at Hongjoong, who was already watching him intensely. It struck him then that they weren’t the only ones who would only have two weeks together. 

Two weeks, and then into the unknown. 

Hongjoong tilted his head toward the building across the street. “Let’s stay at the hotel for a couple nights. Give these two some privacy.” 

From afar, it was almost indistinguishable from the other row houses save for a small iron sign. It looked like three had been combined, judging by the matching white lace curtains hanging in all the windows. 

Seonghwa’s cheeks turned pink. “I’d like that.” 

Hongjoong passed him his own small suitcase and hoisted up one of Seonghwa’s heavy trunks. “Lead the way,” he said to Wooyoung. 

They followed Wooyoung inside and up a flight of narrow wooden stairs, San and Hongjoong struggling under the weight of Seonghwa’s trunks. The two of them went back down to grab the last of the luggage, leaving Wooyoung and Seonghwa alone in the flat. 

“Do you want to see your room?” Wooyoung asked warmly, taking Seonghwa’s hand in his own. 

“Please,” Seonghwa said, his eyes on the tin coffered ceiling. 

“I haven’t spent much time here, so you’ll have to help me decorate.” Wooyoung led them through a sitting room filled with carved wooden furniture and a plush fainting couch. 

There was a Victor Talking Machine in the corner, a worn Yvette Guilbert record left out next to it. Behind it hung a print of an avant-garde Klimt painting, a topless woman clutching a severed head. Someone had gone over the details with gold leaf. 

“I like it the way it is,” Seonghwa replied. 

He’d never been allowed to decorate anything—as far as he knew, the rooms in his family home had looked the same for decades, frozen in time like museum exhibits. Being hundreds of years older, the estate was probably even worse. 

“I want to take you to Jubilee Market sometime. That’s where I found these.” Wooyoung pointed to the botanical drawings lining the hallway, their delicate shapes and folds oddly suggestive, reminiscent of body parts. 

“This one’s yours.” Wooyoung opened a door at the end of the hallway. “It’s not that big, but–” 

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa interrupted, stunned. “It’s beautiful.” 

Natural light filled the room, the walls papered in a whimsical pattern with birds and flowers. The bay window had a velvet seat and a perfect view of Wooyoung’s garden. It even had an ensuite bathroom, the hardwood floors transitioning to green and white checkered tiles beneath a marble threshold. 

Seonghwa pictured himself sitting in the window with a cup of coffee, morning light filtering through as he listened to the chatter of starlings in the garden. 

Would he live here long enough to see the seasons change, to see the crocuses of spring give way to summer peonies? 

The thud of a trunk being dropped made Seonghwa turn his head. Hongjoong leaned against the doorframe, shirt damp with sweat, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms smudged with soot from the bottom of the trunk. Veins stood out on his neck, and Seonghwa had to force himself to look away, clearing his throat. 

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said, the tightness of his voice surprising him, “Hongjoong and I are going to stay at the Mist across the street for a few days so you and San can, um, settle in.” 

Wooyoung raised his eyebrows, clearly suppressing a smile. “How considerate.” 

Seonghwa turned to Hongjoong. “I just need to pack a bag, and then–” 

“Another bag?” Wooyoung teased with a smirk. 

Seonghwa shot him a glare. “An overnight bag. Now get out of my room so I can pack it.” 

Wooyoung laughed, draping his arm affectionately around Hongjoong’s shoulders as he steered him out, Hongjoong shrinking away from his touch. 

Seonghwa opened a portmanteau, pausing as he looked around the room. 

His room. This was his room now.  

Guilt crept in like ivy, wrapping around his lungs and constricting his throat. He still had to write the letter to his parents, set the stage for his broken engagement. Still had to break it off with the girl. Then it would be real. 

He swallowed his guilt and resumed unpacking. Twenty minutes later, he was gripping his black linen doctor bag, leaning in to kiss Wooyoung on the cheek. 

“Don’t run away after,” Seonghwa murmured. 

“I’m done running,” Wooyoung said, cupping Seonghwa’s cheek. 

“Me too,” Seonghwa replied with a faint smile. 

One letter. He just had to write one letter, then he could deal with the rest next week. 

Seonghwa descended the stairs and opened the door to find Hongjoong waiting at the bottom of the stoop, a hotel key dangling from his fingers. The late afternoon sun had surrendered to evening, but there were no stars here, only the dull glow of streetlights in the fog. 

Hongjoong’s face shifted as he smiled, his brow softening and his mouth pressing into a thin line. He bowed slightly and offered Seonghwa a hand. 

Seonghwa bit his bottom lip and took it as he stepped down. “What a gentleman,” he remarked. 

“Only for you,” Hongjoong replied softly, taking Seonghwa’s bag. “Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my reputation.” He raised his arm to stop Seonghwa as a carriage rattled past, then led him safely across the street. 

Up close, the three row houses comprising the Mist Hotel were quite different from one another. One was cloaked in ivy, with moss sprouting from cracks in the bricks; the second, mid-repair, had cut strands of ivy hanging off the facade like shorn hair. The last gleamed with fresh mortar, its seams a bright gray. 

Walking in, Seonghwa thought of the three Fates—the sisters who spun, measured, and cut the threads of mortal lives. 

“We’re on the second floor,” Hongjoong said, leading him through a gleaming lobby, under a glittering chandelier, and into a dark, carpeted stairwell. Their room was in the center of the hallway—the second sister, who measured the length of life. 

Hongjoong opened the door with a small bow. Seonghwa smiled shyly as he stepped inside and glanced around. 

A large canopy bed dominated the room, draped in plum velvet curtains and scattered with decorative pillows trimmed with gold rope and tassels. There was a small writing desk in front of one of the tall windows, layers of white lace curtains pooling delicately beneath it. 

“It’s getting late, you must be starved,” Hongjoong said, crouching at his bag for his coin purse. “I’ll go down and grab us some dinner.” 

“Can you ask for hot water too?” Seonghwa asked, setting his bag on the leather luggage rack at the foot of the bed. “I want to freshen up.” 

He felt like he hadn’t been truly clean for months, and more than that, he wanted to freshen himself up for Hongjoong tonight, just in case. His face warmed at the thought.  

“The hot water’s on tap here,” Hongjoong replied. 

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. “What?” 

“Go see for yourself.” 

Hongjoong gestured toward the door in the corner, and Seonghwa padded into the bathroom in his woolen socks. 

The floor and walls were tiled in white ceramic hexagons with intricate navy blue designs. A porcelain clawfoot tub sat in the center, its brass pipes gleaming like jewelry. Everything smelled faintly of lavender soap and freshly polished metal. 

Seonghwa approached the tub and twisted one of the gleaming taps. Steaming water poured out, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He blinked in disbelief, sticking his hand under the flow to test the temperature. It was perfect. 

“Hot water on demand,” he whispered to himself, a small smile spreading across his face. Hongjoong must think he was terribly provincial. 

The tub filled quickly, steam rising in soft tendrils as he leaned down to shut off the taps. He tugged at his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, shivering slightly as the cool air met his skin. Piece by piece, he stripped down until he stood bare beside the tub, the tiles cold beneath his feet. 

Seonghwa slipped into the water, letting out a soft moan as the heat enveloped him, soothing his muscles and washing away the grime of travel. He tilted his head back against the curved rim of the tub, eyes fluttering closed. Such comfort felt sinful. 

He listened for any sound from the room beyond. The faint creak of floorboards had vanished—Hongjoong must have gone to get them dinner. He exhaled and sank deeper into the water, letting it lap into the hollows of his neck and collarbone. 

Underneath the water, Seonghwa’s hand drifted, his fingers grazing over his stomach and lower, sliding between his legs. 

His breath hitched as he brushed his fingertips over his rim. He would have done this last time too if he’d known Hongjoong was going to put his fingers there. 

He pressed a finger gently against himself, biting his bottom lip as he pushed past the ring of muscle up to the first knuckle. His chest rose above the water, the heat of the bath mingling with the heat pooling low in his belly. Carefully, he moved his finger in slow circles, trying to focus on cleaning himself.

But he couldn’t help the way his body responded. 

His other hand gripped the edge of the tub as he worked his finger inside his hole. The memory of Hongjoong touching him came to him unbidden, and he could feel himself hardening as he remembered the desperation in Hongjoong’s voice as he did it. 

Seonghwa swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending his finger was Hongjoong’s. The water rippling as he moved felt impossibly loud in the quiet bathroom, his breathing even louder. 

He brought his other hand to his cock, squeezing himself as he slipped his finger in deeper with a stifled moan. He wondered if he could fit in two from this angle. 

Would Hongjoong still want him if he knew the depths of his depravity? 

He pumped his cock slowly in the water, humming with pleasure as he tried to slide two fingers inside himself. 

He wondered how thick Hongjoong’s cock was—four fingers? Five? 

Seonghwa gasped softly, his movements faltering. Was that a footstep? 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

The voice was low, teasing, and far too close. 

Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open as he yanked his hands away from himself, sloshing water over the sides of the tub. 

Hongjoong was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on Seonghwa like he’d seen everything. 

“I thought you’d gone,” Seonghwa said, his voice shaky. 

“I couldn’t leave,” Hongjoong replied, his lips curling into a smirk. “Not when you were making such pretty sounds.” 

Seonghwa felt his flush creep down his neck to his chest. “You startled me,” he said weakly. “I was—I was washing myself.” 

“Were you now?” Hongjoong’s tone was mocking, but the expression on his face was warm, his cheeks pink. He took a step toward him. “I would’ve knocked, but you left the door open.” 

Seonghwa blinked. He’d left the door open? He sank a little lower into the water, wishing it could swallow him whole, but there was nowhere to hide. 

“You seem tense,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice like a slow drip of honey as he moved closer. He crouched behind Seonghwa, positioning himself at the head of the tub. “Can I help you relax?” 

Seonghwa hissed at the feel of Hongjoong’s cold, rough hands on his skin. Hongjoong pressed his mouth to Seonghwa’s ear, exhaling a steady stream of warm air that sent a shiver through him. 

“You don’t have to stop on my account,” Hongjoong breathed, squeezing Seonghwa’s soft chest. “Keep going.” 

Seonghwa’s breath caught, his body rigid against the tub’s edge. “I–” 

“Tell me,” Hongjoong said, catching a nipple in each hand and rolling them between his fingers. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself?”

Seonghwa bit back a moan, thinking there was no way he was going to answer that, but his silence only seemed to embolden Hongjoong, who bit his neck as he twisted his nipples. 

“Ah–” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hongjoong said smugly. “Show me how you do it.” 

Seonghwa looked down. His nipples were becoming red and puffy beneath Hongjoong’s fingers, and his neglected cock wasn’t faring much better. 

“Show me,” he repeated. 

Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Seonghwa lowered a trembling hand, sighing with relief as his fingers closed around himself. 

“That’s it,” Hongjoong murmured in his ear, a low rasp that made Seonghwa’s hips twitch upwards. “Show me how you make yourself feel good.” 

Seonghwa hesitated, his strokes tentative, the water magnifying every motion. But the heat of the bath combined with the scent of Hongjoong’s sea-salt musk made him feel intoxicated. 

He exhaled shakily, his resolve melting beneath Hongjoong’s whispered encouragement. Soon, his hand moved with purpose, pumping himself steadily and swiping his thumb over the sensitive tip, just the way he liked it. 

Hongjoong dug his short nails into Seonghwa’s chest and he cried out, quickening the pace of his hand. His body arched, his head tipping back against Hongjoong’s shoulder as he gasped for breath and let out a strangled moan. 

“That’s not all you were doing,” Hongjoong said darkly. 

Seonghwa’s brows drew together as a mortifying, high-pitched whine escaped him. “Please.” 

“Please what?” 

“Please—will you do it?” Seonghwa whispered. 

“I want to hear you say it first,” Hongjoong growled. “Say you think of me.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, his body trembling as he fisted his cock. “I do—I think of you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “When I touch myself. You’re all I think about.”

Hongjoong smirked, his teeth grazing Seonghwa’s earlobe. “Good.”

Seonghwa’s body tensed as Hongjoong stood behind him. He heard a soft rustle of fabric and turned his head to see Hongjoong unbuckling his trousers and letting them pool on the floor, a stark contrast to Seonghwa’s pile of neatly folded clothes. 

His hand quickened beneath the water as his eyes feasted on Hongjoong’s fully naked form for the first time. His bronze skin was marked by scars and small black tattoos, his body an alluring mix of hard muscle and soft flesh, much like his personality. His ankles were slender, but his thighs were solid and muscled. 

And his cock—six fingers thick, maybe more. 

Water spilled over the edge of the tub as Hongjoong stepped in, his hands firm as he guided Seonghwa’s knees up, spreading them to make space for himself. 

“Look at you,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice thick with desire. His eyes trailed over Seonghwa’s flushed skin, lingering on his heaving chest and the hand working his cock beneath the water’s surface. 

Hongjoong’s eyes burned into Seonghwa as he pressed two fingers to his rim and slipped them in, angling them to find his sweet spot.  

Seonghwa’s orgasm took him by surprise. As soon as Hongjoong’s fingers breached him, he came, his body betraying him. Pleasure ripped through him like a lightning bolt, sharp and fast. 

“Hongjoong,” he moaned, embarrassed to be finishing so soon, but it felt too good to stop, so he kept pumping himself until there was nothing left.  

Seonghwa’s face burned with shame when he saw the mess in the water. “Oh god, I—I didn’t mean to–” 

“Shh, don’t be ashamed.” Hongjoong climbed over him, laying flush on top of him and kissing him fiercely. “You’re perfect,” he growled between messy kisses, threading his fingers into his hair. 

Seonghwa’s hands flew to Hongjoong’s shoulders, clinging to him as he shivered, his mind spinning. He forgot the chill of the rapidly cooling water as Hongjoong licked into his mouth, teasing his tongue and making his overstimulated cock ache between them. 

When they finally broke apart, Seonghwa’s lips were swollen and his breaths uneven. He stared up at Hongjoong and pouted, his brain clouded by longing. But Hongjoong pressed a hand to Seonghwa’s chest. 

“You need food,” Hongjoong stated firmly. “I can’t relax knowing you’re hungry.” 

Seonghwa blinked, still dazed, but he nodded. He watched as Hongjoong climbed out of the tub, his body glistening in the dim light. He moved with an unhurried confidence, pulling up his trousers but leaving his shirt discarded on the floor. 

Seonghwa waited until he was sure Hongjoong had left before draining the tub and drying himself. He tugged on his long cotton underwear and gathered the dirty clothes into a neat pile, folding Hongjoong’s forgotten shirt with care. 

He crawled onto the plush bed to wait, the oil lamps flickering around him. His body still hummed with residual desire, his skin sensitive where Hongjoong had touched him. 

Seonghwa’s mind jumped back to the day of their fight, when Hongjoong said he’d been falling in love with him. 

Was he still? 

When the door opened, Seonghwa looked up. His breath caught as Hongjoong stepped inside. 

He was carrying a silver tray laden with food, his trousers clinging to his thick thighs, the fabric shifting with every step. Seonghwa felt like a changed man now that he knew what Hongjoong looked like beneath his clothes. 

Hongjoong set the tray down on the desk and unbuttoned his greatcoat, revealing he’d been wearing nothing under it. Seonghwa couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the shadows the lamps cast on his defined chest. 

“You’re staring,” Hongjoong said, unbuckling his belt to remove his trousers. 

Seonghwa flushed, his eyes snapping up to meet Hongjoong’s. He barely registered the food as Hongjoong began describing it—something with creamy mashed potatoes and fresh bread, along with a delicate trifle for dessert. 

Every word slid right over him as his eyes fell back down to Hongjoong’s chest, then lower, to the bulge beneath his cotton underwear. 

“What do you want to taste first?” Hongjoong asked as he poured two glasses of wine at the table. 

Seonghwa licked his lips. “You,” he said softly. “I want to taste you.” 

Hongjoong nearly dropped the glass he was holding, his jaw dropping. “You—what?” 

Seonghwa slid off the bed and dropped to his knees at Hongjoong’s feet. He looked up at him. “You heard me.” 

Hongjoong’s hand tightened around the stem of the wine glass, his sharp gaze locking onto Seonghwa’s. He set the glass down with a clink. 

“You’re full of surprises tonight.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are.” Seonghwa slid his thumbs under the waistband of Hongjoong’s underwear. “I… haven’t done this before,” he admitted, gazing up at Hongjoong from beneath his lashes. 

Hongjoong sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, but paused Seonghwa’s ministrations with a firm hand. 

“You’re not doing anything until you eat something.” 

Hongjoong grabbed one of the crystal goblets, filled to the top with layers of strawberries, sponge, custard, and whipped cream. Ignoring the delicate dessert utensils, he scooped a generous bite with a serving spoon. 

“Open,” Hongjoong ordered. 

Seonghwa’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, parting his lips and sticking out his tongue. He let out a soft moan as the trifle filled his mouth. The early season berries were tart and the custard rich, but not too sweet. 

Hongjoong had a sinister look on his face as he gazed down at him, still on his knees. He fed him in large bites, turning the spoon over after each one so Seonghwa could clean off the cream. 

When the glass was empty, Hongjoong leaned against the desk, his cock now straining against his underwear. 

Seonghwa’s breath quickened as he finally pulled Hongjoong’s underwear down and freed him, the thick length slapping against his bare stomach. He met Hongjoong’s eyes and stuck out his tongue. 

Hongjoong’s mouth fell open as Seonghwa licked him from base to tip like a spoon full of cream. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Hongjoong said in a strained voice, his fingers threading through Seonghwa’s hair, tightening slightly as Seonghwa popped the head into his mouth. 

The sharp scent of lavender combined with Hongjoong’s musk overwhelmed his senses, driving him to take more. Seonghwa wrapped his hands around the backs of Hongjoong’s thighs as he slid down as far as he could. 

“God, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong groaned, his hips jerking forward, the tip of his cock brushing the back of Seonghwa’s throat. 

Seonghwa gagged but didn’t pull back, determined to keep going, hoping his enthusiasm made up for his lack of experience. He glanced up, his watering eyes meeting Hongjoong’s as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked. 

Hongjoong cupped Seonghwa’s face and wiped a tear from his cheek. 

“You look so pretty like this.”  

Seonghwa moaned at the praise, the vibration drawing a muttered curse from Hongjoong. The sound of it—the way Hongjoong’s voice cracked—made Seonghwa’s arousal unbearable. He shifted on his knees, the fabric of his underwear growing damp against his skin. 

Seonghwa began bobbing his head up and down, moving one hand to the base of Hongjoong’s cock and twisting. His tongue worked against the underside, heavy and salty with precum. 

Hongjoong’s breathing grew uneven, his thigh tensing beneath Seonghwa’s palm. The hand in Seonghwa’s hair tightened, pulling just enough to make him pause. 

“Stop,” Hongjoong growled, his voice hoarse. 

Seonghwa released him with a slick sound, his lips swollen and wet. “Did I do something wrong?” 

“No,” Hongjoong said, his hand on Seonghwa’s jaw, thumb brushing over his sensitive lips. His eyes looked feral. “You’re perfect.” 

Hongjoong stepped back slightly, stroking himself with quick, practiced movements, his bottom lip between his teeth. The sight made Seonghwa’s mouth water, but he stayed still, watching as Hongjoong’s gaze locked on him. 

“You want it?” Hongjoong asked, his voice rough. 

“Yes,” Seonghwa whispered. He kept his eyes on Hongjoong’s, refusing to look away. He wanted to watch Hongjoong come undone, all because of him. Wanted to feel it. 

“Open.” 

The sharpness in Hongjoong’s tone made Seonghwa shiver. He barely had time to react before hot streaks of cum shot across his face, dripping down his flushed skin. He gasped softly, his lashes fluttering as some of it caught on his cheekbones, his lips, and in his open mouth. 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong groaned, his body shuddering with the aftershocks. 

Seonghwa reached up instinctively to wipe his face, but Hongjoong’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. 

“Wait.” Hongjoong’s thumb swiped through the mess, dragging some of it across Seonghwa’s bottom lip. “I want to look at you like this.” 

Seonghwa held Hongjoong’s gaze as his tongue darted out to clean his thumb. The bitter taste made him flush deeper, his heart pounding in his throat. Hongjoong bit his lip again and hummed with pleasure as he looked down at him. 

“I think I need another bath,” Seonghwa whispered. 

“Stay right there, my prince,” Hongjoong said, his eyes glazed over as he rubbed Seonghwa’s cheek. “I’ll run a bath for you.” 

Seonghwa stayed kneeling on the carpet, the sound of running water filtering in through the bathroom. He could feel Hongjoong’s mess cooling on his face, but he didn’t reach for it. The heat in his chest hadn’t yet faded, his cock still half-hard. 

And echoing in his head, Hongjoong’s voice. 

Open.  

Moments later, Hongjoong strode back into the room. “You’re a mess,” he said, bending down to scoop him up with ease. 

“That’s your fault,” Seonghwa replied sleepily. His head rested on Hongjoong’s shoulder, his pulse in his ear. 

The tub was almost full now, steam curling over it and filling the room. Seonghwa was in a daze as Hongjoong pulled down his underwear and placed him gently in the tub. Heat engulfed him, the water scented with eucalyptus this time. 

Hongjoong settled on a stool beside the tub, dipping a small towel into the water. He wrung it out before gently washing Seonghwa’s face. 

“I can wash myself,” Seonghwa said softly, though he made no move to take the washcloth. 

“I know,” Hongjoong replied, lathering his chest. “But I want to do it.” 

Seonghwa’s gaze flickered up to Hongjoong’s face, trying to read his expression. Was it guilt that he saw, or sadness? 

When he finished washing him, Hongjoong walked into the bedroom, returning with the dinner tray. He speared a perfect bite of beef, potatoes, and peas, holding it to Seonghwa’s lips. 

“Eat,” he murmured. 

Seonghwa stared at him for a long moment, the tension thick between them as he opened his mouth and took the bite. 

He recognized the look on Hongjoong’s face now. It was the same one his neighbor had worn when his wife wasted away from scarlet fever. 

A look of finality, of letting go. 

Seonghwa saw these two weeks as the beginning, but maybe Hongjoong saw them as the end. 

Seonghwa opened his mouth for another bite, barely tasting it as he plotted. He wasn’t going to let their relationship end so easily, cut from the vine before it could flower. 

He would find a way to keep him, no matter the consequences. 

𓊝

London, England
March 26, 1909

My dearest Mother and Father,

        I write to inform you of my safe arrival. The Runic reached Liverpool without incident, and I have since made my way to London.

        During the voyage, I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with a most agreeable gentleman, Mr. Jung Wooyoung. He is a businessman of considerable charm and enterprise, owning two bakeries in Sydney and intending to establish a third here in London. He has extended his hospitality to me, and I am presently residing at his apartment while I prepare to meet Miss Yoo next week.

        You have always encouraged me to seek out meaningful connections, and I find in Mr. Jung a kindred spirit. I look forward to sharing more of this adventure with you in my next letter. 

With all my love,

Your devoted son,
Park Seonghwa

𓊝

Chapter Text

Morning came too soon. 

The night before, Wooyoung had dragged them out of the hotel to see A Visit to the Seaside, a short film of ordinary people doing mundane things—dancing, sunbathing, strolling—but in vivid color, as if it was all really happening. Seonghwa was clutching Hongjoong’s hand, watching with wonder, when it hit him. 

His life before Hongjoong had been a black-and-white photograph. Now, it was saturated.

Seonghwa yawned, rolling over to face him. In the past week of stolen time, Hongjoong’s hair had grown unruly, curling at the nape of his neck like the downy tail of a duckling. Seonghwa combed his fingers through it, wishing he could stay in bed longer. 

Time was slipping through his fingers like sand. They only had two days left, and he’d yet to secure any promise of a future from Hongjoong. 

He knew why. He hadn’t broken off his engagement, and it remained an unspoken barrier between them. 

But today was the day. 

Hongjoong stirred, his eyelids fluttering open as soft light filtered through the lace curtains. A couple of days at the Mist had turned into a week and a half, the city outside mostly forgotten in favor of room service, shared baths, and lazy mornings that stretched endlessly.

“My love,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep. 

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. He’d never called him that before. 

Seonghwa scooted closer, draping a leg over Hongjoong’s waist to pull him into a kiss, unbidden but not unwelcome. Hongjoong hummed low in his throat, a sound Seonghwa swallowed eagerly, pressing his tongue into his mouth. 

He rested his forehead against Hongjoong’s, his breath uneven. “I’m nervous,” he admitted. 

Hongjoong brought a hand to Seonghwa’s hip beneath the covers. “About meeting the girl?” 

Seonghwa nodded, his fingers tracing idle patterns over Hongjoong’s chest. 

“What’s there to be nervous about?” Hongjoong asked, digging his thumb into Seonghwa’s hip and pulling a sharp gasp from him. “Isn’t Wooyoung coming with you? He’ll probably talk the whole time. You’ll barely have to say anything.” 

Seonghwa laughed, his cheeks flushed. “But I’m the one who has to say all the hard things!” 

“Is it so hard to be mine?” Hongjoong rasped in his morning voice, capturing his lips in another bruising kiss. 

“No, that part’s easy,” Seonghwa murmured into his mouth. “The hard part is convincing her to claim breaking the engagement was her idea.” 

He was willing to give up his birthright to keep Hongjoong. But now that the time had come, he couldn’t help but cling to the hope that he wouldn’t have to. 

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. “And if that’s not enough to satisfy your parents?” 

Seonghwa stilled, his words giving shape to a fear he had pushed down. He leaned in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of Hongjoong’s mouth. “It will be,” he said with more conviction than he felt. Then he slid out of bed to get dressed. 

Hongjoong sat up, reaching for his water glass on the nightstand. The blanket slipped down his torso, revealing his shoulders and the firm lines of his chest. 

Seonghwa paused mid-motion, his trousers forgotten in his hands as he watched Hongjoong tilt the glass back. His throat bobbed with each swallow, sunlight carving shadows along the tendons in his neck. 

“You’ll never leave if you keep staring,” Hongjoong said, setting the glass down and locking eyes with him. 

Seonghwa forced his focus back to his trousers and tugged them on. “You make it hard to leave.” 

Hongjoong rose from the bed, unhurried and bare, crossing the room to Seonghwa in a few purposeful strides. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly, his hands moving to button Seonghwa’s shirt. 

Seonghwa’s throat tightened as he averted his eyes from Hongjoong’s naked body. “Not today, you mean.” 

“One day at a time, my prince.” Hongjoong brought his hands to Seonghwa’s face, brushing his cheekbones with his calloused thumbs. “Just come back to me.” 

“I will,” Seonghwa replied firmly as he pulled Hongjoong into a hard kiss. He slid his arms around him, his fingers tracing the ridges of old scars on Hongjoong’s back. “Believe me, I’ll be running back here.” 

Hongjoong caught his lower lip between his teeth, drawing out a gasp. “Good luck,” he whispered. 

Seonghwa cleared his throat, his voice thick as he reached for his coat. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

Hongjoong gave him a slow smile, watching as Seonghwa closed the door behind him.

Outside, the city stirred to life. Spring had swept through overnight, fading hyacinths giving way to clusters of bright daffodils nodding in the wind. Fresh ivy crept up each of the three Fates of the Mist Hotel, its green tendrils reaching for the sun. 

Seonghwa thought of Achilles, standing at the crossroads the Fates had foretold: a glorious, short life or a long, forgotten one. Ivy cut down just as it bloomed, or left to wither where it grew. 

Today, he would choose glory—and hope the girl wouldn’t aim for his heel. 

Seonghwa shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he crossed the cobblestone street to Wooyoung’s flat. He hesitated, then grasped the brass tail of the cat-shaped door knocker and rapped three times. 

The door creaked open to reveal Wooyoung, shirt half-buttoned and suspenders hanging loosely around his waist. His hair was a beautiful mess, as though he’d only just rolled out of bed. 

“Well, well,” Wooyoung drawled, leaning lazily against the doorframe. “If it isn’t London’s most tormented lover.”

Seonghwa sighed, his cheeks warming as he took in the state of Wooyoung’s undress. “Good morning to you, too.”

Wooyoung grinned, finishing up the last of his buttons. “You ready, my lord?”

“Are you?” Seonghwa countered, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh stop, I just need my jacket and a cap,” Wooyoung replied, pulling up his suspenders and stuffing his unkempt hair into a Homburg hat. He grabbed his jacket from a nearby hook and pushed past Seonghwa onto the street, raising a hand to hail a cab. 

They settled into an open hansom cab, the horse setting off at a steady clip through the bustling streets. Wooyoung leaned back against the worn leather seat, pulling off his cap to let the wind ruffle his hair. 

“So,” Seonghwa ventured over the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone. “How’s it going with San?”

Wooyoung shifted in his seat, combing his fingers through his hair before replacing his hat. 

“It’s... complicated,” he admitted after a pause. “He’s sweet. It’s good. But there’s not much time left, and after...” His words trailed off as he gestured vaguely toward the city, where the eclectic townhouses of Chelsea had changed into the more uniform stucco buildings of Knightsbridge. 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa murmured. 

There wasn’t much more to say, their mutual heartache and uncertainty filling the space between them like fog. Wooyoung silently intertwined his knobbly fingers with Seonghwa’s slender ones for the rest of the ride. 

The café was tucked into a quiet corner of Knightsbridge near the Victoria and Albert Museum. Wisteria climbed the black storefront, swaying gently in the breeze above them as they entered. 

She was sitting beneath a window, shadows of ivy and flowers dancing across her pretty face. Her silhouette was soft, and her hair was short for a woman, cropped above the shoulders. She looked like she belonged among artists, or maybe revolutionaries. Seonghwa wouldn’t be surprised if she owned trousers. 

She stood as they approached, but didn’t smile. 

“Yoo Jeongyeon,” she said with a curtsy. “You must be my captor.”

Captor? 

Seonghwa flushed, bowing and pressing a kiss to her hand. “Park Seonghwa, how do you do?”

“I’m dreadful, absolutely ghastly,” she replied in an airy tone. Her eyes shifted to Wooyoung, and she appraised him openly, from his coat down to his boots. “You brought a date.”

“I brought a friend,” Seonghwa corrected hastily, his cheeks warming. “This is–”

“Jung Wooyoung, my lady,” Wooyoung cut in sharply, taking her hand with practiced grace. 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Jeongyeon said, gesturing for them to sit. Her eyes lingered on Wooyoung. “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to sit before taking his seat. “You in the market for a second fiancé?”

“Perhaps,” she replied with a coy smile as she poured them each a cup of coffee. “If you’re better company than my first.”

Seonghwa snorted, struck by how similar Jeongyeon seemed to Wooyoung. In another life, she and Seonghwa might have been happy together. 

But not in this one. 

“I was actually hoping to discuss the terms of our engagement,” Seonghwa said awkwardly. 

“Oh?” Jeongyeon said in a bored voice. She raised a hand to summon the server. “Be a good lad and bring me a pint.” 

The young man stared at her. “Madam, it’s—it’s ten in the morning.” 

“I didn’t ask for the time, but thank you for illuminating me.” Her tone was somehow both polite and scary. Seonghwa exchanged a nervous glance with Wooyoung, who smirked. 

The waiter bowed, backing away before breaking into a fast walk. 

Seonghwa fidgeted with his coffee cup. “So… about the engagement–” 

“At least wait until I’ve gotten a drink in me,” Jeongyeon quipped, her eyes moving back to Wooyoung. “You look familiar.” 

“Must be my common face,” Wooyoung said smoothly. “I haven’t been in London for… going on two years, I believe.” 

“I’d like to visit wherever you’re from if you think that face of yours is common,” Jeongyeon replied with a flirtatious grin. “Ah, and here’s my beer.”

The server placed the glass on a small white doily in front of her before scurrying away. 

“All right,” Jeongyeon said, downing half the glass in one go. “I’m ready to discuss the terms of my surrender.” 

Seonghwa suppressed a smile. “You’re much different than I was expecting.” 

“That’s funny.” Jeongyeon downed the rest of the glass, slamming it on the table with more force than necessary. “Because you’re exactly what I was expecting.”

The smile slid off Seonghwa’s face. “What do you mean by—never mind,” he sighed. “I’d like to break off our engagement.”

Jeongyeon raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Why, is there another woman?” She snapped her fingers at the waiter, pointed to her glass, and raised three fingers. 

“Not another woman, per say,” Wooyoung said with a wicked grin. 

Seonghwa snapped his head toward him. “Wooyoung!” 

“What?” Wooyoung replied innocently. “She seems trustworthy.” 

“I take it back. I wasn’t expecting you to be so bohemian, Lord Park,” Jeongyeon said with a wicked smile. “I’m impressed.” 

The waiter set down three pints. “Thank you, good sir,” Wooyoung said, distributing the glasses. 

“Cheers,” Jeongyeon said, clinking their glasses. “Here’s to never surrendering!” 

“To giving no quarter,” Wooyoung chimed in. 

Seonghwa drank his beer, warmth spreading through his body. “So—you’re okay with it?” 

“Well, I won’t lie and pretend you’re not easy on the eyes,” Jeongyeon laughed, batting her eyelashes. “But I have no interest in settling down, even if it’s with a looker like you.” Her smile faded. “But we’ll need a plan, otherwise the bastards will keep trying to marry us off. And the next candidates might not be so… agreeable.” 

Seonghwa hadn’t considered that. He‘d been naive, thinking he could keep both Hongjoong and his title. 

Hongjoong had been right. It wouldn’t be enough. 

He looked over at Wooyoung. “What do you think?” 

Wooyoung drained his beer in two swallows, belched loudly, then dabbed his mouth daintily with a napkin. “What if you don’t break off the engagement?” 

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed. “How is that a solution?” 

“I mean, what if you just delay it? You can tell your parents the two of you are courting while you help me get the bakery up and running,” Wooyoung said, tilting his head toward Jeongyeon. “And you? Is there anything you’ve been wanting to do?”

“What did you say about a bakery?” 

“I own two bakeries in Australia,” Wooyoung said with a smile. “I’m opening my third here in London. I’ve got a space but I’ve only just gotten started—I still need to set up the café, test out local recipes, find suppliers…”

“Sounds like a daunting task,” Jeongyeon said, her eyes now trained on the table. She looked up, her voice hesitant for the first time. “I used to dream of becoming a baker. But that was before I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to become anything.”

“Your life’s not over yet. Who’s to say you can’t become anything?” Wooyoung’s eyes sparkled. “A local who speaks with authority would be invaluable. What do you say? You can tell your parents you’re helping with one of Seonghwa’s investments.” 

Jeongyeon slumped back in her chair, the fight visibly draining from her posture. “They’ll never believe that. They think I’m useless. It would be suspicious that you’d even want my help.” 

“Rubbish,” Wooyoung replied sharply. “Tell them you’ll be handling society introductions for me. Meanwhile, you’ll actually be twisting the arms of these damned discriminatory suppliers who don’t want to deal with foreigners. I’ll teach you to bake and run the front of house, but your parents don’t need to know that part.” 

Jeongyeon blinked, her guarded expression softening. “You’d really do that?” 

“It’s not an act of charity,” Wooyoung said, swiping her half-finished beer and draining it with ease. He set the glass down with a thud. “I think you’d excel at it. If anything, I’m exploiting your labor for my own ends.” 

She stared at Wooyoung like he’d just hung the moon, her resolve flickering back to life. “Thank you.” 

“It’s settled then.” Wooyoung extended his hand, shaking hers with a firm grip and a grin. “Welcome to the family.” 

Seonghwa watched the exchange, torn between amusement and unease. “I hate to interrupt this touching moment, but how do you intend to explain me to your parents if we’re not breaking it off? They’re expecting an engagement, not a business partnership.” 

Jeongyeon tapped her chin, her confidence returning. “Wooyoung’s right—I’ll tell them we’ve decided to take things slow, get to know each other better. That should keep them satisfied for at least a year, maybe longer.” 

“And after a year?” Seonghwa asked skeptically. He’d sacrifice his title and lands to keep Hongjoong if it came to that, but what was Jeongyeon’s endgame? 

“By then, we’ll have built lives of our own,” Jeongyeon said, her voice firm. “What our parents want won’t matter anymore.” 

Seonghwa studied her. Would she risk it all for him—or would she do it for no man at all, simply for the chance at independence? 

“Besides,” Wooyoung interjected, waving down the server for another round, “If things go south, we’ll come up with something. Won’t we, partner?” 

Seonghwa swallowed. He wouldn’t want to find himself on the wrong side of these two. 

Jeongyeon’s answering smile was sharp and bright. “That’s right. We’ll think of something.” 

𓊝

“Are you drunk?” Hongjoong leaned against the open hotel room door, shirtless and barefoot, his trousers slung low on his hips. 

Seonghwa swayed, grinning. “What?” He let out a breathy laugh as he stumbled inside. “It’s only one in the afternoon. I just had a few pints at—well, I guess it was technically at breakfast.”

“Hmm.” Hongjoong caught Seonghwa with a firm arm, steadying him before steering him toward the bed. “Let’s get you some water.”

“Wait,” Seonghwa protested, his tone dipping into petulance as he wriggled free of Hongjoong’s grasp. “Not in my outside clothes.”

Hongjoong snorted. “Fine. Stay still, and I’ll strip you first.” 

Seonghwa’s breath hitched at the thought of Hongjoong’s hands on him, heat rising to his cheeks. He willed himself to stay upright, fighting the growing temptation to be horizontal. 

His coat was the first to go, then his shirt, Hongjoong’s fingers steady and confident as he worked the buttons open. Each touch seared his skin. 

“How did you even make it here?” Hongjoong asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he pulled down Seonghwa’s trousers and tossed them aside. 

Seonghwa giggled weakly, his mind buzzing and unfocused. “I’m not sure,” he murmured, shrugging off his undershirt before slumping forward onto Hongjoong’s bare chest. Did he always smell this good? 

Hongjoong sighed, half-carrying him to the bed. He poured a glass of water and pressed it to Seonghwa’s lips. 

“Drink,” Hongjoong commanded.

The authority in his voice sent an unexpected rush through Seonghwa’s body. He swallowed obediently, the water cool against his parched throat. When Hongjoong lowered the glass, Seonghwa’s gaze locked onto his. 

Without thinking, Seonghwa grabbed his wrist, dragging Hongjoong down onto him in one swift motion. 

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong said, his tone like a warning, but Seonghwa ignored it. His hands roamed over Hongjoong’s back, clawing desperately at his skin as his weight pressed him into the mattress. 

“You feel so good,” Seonghwa whispered, his words slurred and pleading. 

Hongjoong froze for a moment, his body taut like a bowstring. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re drunk,” Hongjoong said gently. 

The rejection landed like a blow. Seonghwa’s heart pounded in his chest, disappointment welling up inside him as Hongjoong’s weight shifted off him. 

“But—but what if I want you to?” Seonghwa pouted. 

Hongjoong’s expression softened, and for a moment, Seonghwa thought he might relent. But then he shook his head. 

“Sleep, temptress,” Hongjoong murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. His lips lingered for a fraction too long before he drew back. “We’ll talk when you wake.”

Seonghwa wanted to argue, to beg, but his body wouldn’t listen. Exhaustion swept over him like a tide, his limbs and eyelids suddenly heavy.

When he woke, his mouth was dry but his head was much clearer. He squinted against the late afternoon light streaming through the curtains and spotted Hongjoong at the desk, shirtless with a pen in his hand. 

Embarrassment flooded Seonghwa as fragments of their conversation came back to him. 

“Thank you,” he croaked, his voice hoarse. “For taking care of me.” 

Hongjoong didn’t look up. “How did it go?”

Seonghwa sat up slowly, wincing as he massaged the stiffness from his neck. “She’s like-minded. We’ve agreed to pretend to date so our parents stop hounding us about marriage.”

Hongjoong’s pen stilled. “Sounds like a temporary solution.” 

“It is,” Seonghwa said firmly. “It buys us a year to get on our feet, and then I’m done with it all.” 

Done with his title, his lands, his responsibilities. Cut from the vine. 

Hongjoong set the pen down, turning toward him. “You could really give everything up so easily?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Seonghwa replied, arching his back as he stretched.

“Did you sleep all right?” Hongjoong asked, his gaze lingering on Seonghwa’s chest. His eyes darkened. “Are you feeling more like yourself now?”

Seonghwa nodded, trying to gauge his expression, but Hongjoong offered no clues. Instead, he rose smoothly, crossing the room to refill Seonghwa’s glass. He handed it over, watching silently as Seonghwa drank, the cool water soothing his dry mouth. 

When Seonghwa glanced up, Hongjoong’s eyes were on his throat. 

“Then let’s finish what you started.” 

Seonghwa inhaled sharply as Hongjoong took the glass from him and placed it on the table. He reached toward the waistband of Seonghwa’s underwear, slipping his thumbs beneath it. 

“You’re trembling,” Hongjoong teased. 

“I am not,” Seonghwa muttered, but he could hear the lie in his voice. 

“You are,” Hongjoong countered, pulling Seonghwa's long underwear down in one fast motion. He stepped back, taking Seonghwa in like a predator sizing up prey. He smirked as his eyes followed the groove in the center of Seonghwa’s chest, trailing lower to his cock, already half-hard for him. 

Heat rushed to Seonghwa’s face. Hongjoong’s gaze felt exactly as he’d imagined it would in Wooyoung’s room on the Runic weeks ago—and exactly as he’d fantasized in the weeks since. 

“Exquisite,” Hongjoong whispered. He climbed on top of him, the stiff wool of his trousers rough against Seonghwa’s bare thighs. He kissed him fiercely, and between each kiss, he murmured it again and again, every syllable dragging over Seonghwa’s body like heavy wool. 

Exquisite, exquisite, ex-quis-ite. 

Hongjoong thrust his hips sharply against Seonghwa’s hardening cock, forcing a soft, involuntary cry from him. He gave him one more searing kiss and then pulled away, leaving him exposed to the cool air of the room.

Still clothed from the waist down, Hongjoong stood by the bedside, studying Seonghwa again with an intensity that made him squirm. 

“Now you’re all mine,” Hongjoong rumbled, his eyes dragging hungrily over Seonghwa’s naked body. With a sudden, effortless motion, he grabbed him and bent him over the edge of the bed. 

Seonghwa buried his face in a pillow, his heart pounding. He couldn’t see Hongjoong, but he felt his presence as he loomed behind him. 

“Stay still,” Hongjoong commanded, his voice low and firm. 

Seonghwa obeyed, his breathing shallow as the pop of a jar opening cut through the silence. The cool press of a slick finger sent flames through him, every nerve alight.

The teasing began slowly. Hongjoong’s finger glided over his rim, tracing the same path again and again. When his fingertip finally breached him—just to the first knuckle—it was gone again in an instant, leaving him aching for it. 

“Relax,” Hongjoong murmured, his free hand kneading the tension from Seonghwa’s lower back. “Let me take care of you.” 

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, letting himself sink into the mattress. Hongjoong rewarded his compliance by pressing his finger back in, deeper this time, grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa moaned. “Right there–” 

Hongjoong obliged, alternating between stretching him and teasing his prostate. The knot in Seonghwa’s chest began to loosen as Hongjoong worked him open. A second finger followed, then a third, curling and twisting until Seonghwa was writhing beneath him. 

Seonghwa gripped the sheets, his fingernails scraping against the fabric—and then, without warning, Hongjoong withdrew. 

Seonghwa winced at the sudden emptiness, but then the blunt head of Hongjoong’s cock replaced his fingers. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over Seonghwa’s ear. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you like this,” Hongjoong breathed, his voice thick with restraint. 

Seonghwa's heartbeat thundered in his ears as Hongjoong pressed against him. His body seemed to resist the intrusion, until, with a burning stretch, the tip slipped inside. 

Seonghwa whimpered as Hongjoong slowly pushed forward. He could feel it all—every ridge, every pulse, every inch of him. 

The coarse wool of Hongjoong’s trousers scratched the backs of Seonghwa’s thighs when their hips finally met, stealing the air from his lungs. Hongjoong stilled, letting out a deep moan. 

Seonghwa wasn’t a religious man. He didn’t pray, didn’t believe in miracles. But when Hongjoong filled him completely for the first time, something inside him cracked open, and he thought he glimpsed the face of God. 

His mind turned to static, a ripple of waves crashing endlessly as Hongjoong began to move. His cock filled him in a way that made his whole body feel alive, every part of him sensitive to Hongjoong’s touch. 

“Seonghwa–” Hongjoong’s voice broke, sending a shiver through him. He gripped Seonghwa’s hips, his fingers digging into his skin with enough force to bruise. “You’re so tight—so perfect–” 

Seonghwa dared a glance over his shoulder, and the sight nearly undid him. Hongjoong exuded power, still half-dressed as he fucked him, his trousers clinging to his thighs. 

He quickened his pace, thrusting deeper. The rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breaths and the creak of the bed. 

“You’re taking me so well,” Hongjoong growled, snapping his hips against him. 

Seonghwa moaned at the praise. Desperation began to twist inside him, a need to be everything Hongjoong wanted, to give him everything, to take everything. His body rocked back to meet each thrust, greedy for more. 

Pleasure built at the base of his spine, blinding and all-consuming, helped by the friction of the bed against his cock. Just as his body teetered on the edge, Hongjoong pulled out. 

A whimper escaped Seonghwa’s throat, but before he could voice his protest, Hongjoong’s hands were on him, flipping him onto his back. He guided Seonghwa down with surprising care, as though he might break. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa murmured, his voice unsteady. “Take your trousers off.”

Hongjoong threw his head back and laughed. “As you wish.” 

Hongjoong’s hands moved fast as he shed the last barrier between them. He angled Seonghwa up with a gold-tasseled pillow beneath his hips, then plunged into him again. 

Laying on his back, Seonghwa could now see the sweat forming on Hongjoong’s chest and dripping down his soft stomach. He committed the sight to memory—the sheen of Hongjoong’s bronze skin, the way his muscles flexed with each movement. 

How many months before he would see it again?

The thought dissolved as the sensations in his body overtook him. The sight of Hongjoong was intense, but the new angle was devastating. Every thrust hit its mark, sending lightning bolts of pleasure through him and shattering whatever composure he had left. 

Hongjoong’s hand wrapped around Seonghwa’s cock, pumping him in time with his movements. It took only a few strokes before pleasure coiled tight in Seonghwa’s abdomen again—a boating knot pulled too tight, about to snap. 

“Hongjoong, Hongjoong–”

Seonghwa’s words broke into a scream as he came, painting his chest and stomach, his breath coming in short bursts. His back arched off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through him. 

This time, there were no tears—only Hongjoong’s name, a breathless benediction. 

Hongjoong thrust mercilessly, chasing his release as Seonghwa trembled beneath him, overstimulated and raw. Pleasure twisted into sharp-edged pain and back again, until it became indistinguishable. 

The bed seemed to vanish. All Seonghwa could feel was Hongjoong, each thrust sending aftershocks through his body. 

“Seonghwa–” Hongjoong groaned, his rhythm faltering. With a final thrust, he buried himself deep, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as he spilled into Seonghwa, warmth flooding him and dripping down his thighs. 

He collapsed onto him, his breath hot on Seonghwa’s neck. “Prince,” he murmured, low and reverent. “My prince.” 

Seonghwa’s body felt boneless, his limbs heavy as he let his eyes drift shut. The room spun faintly, the sweat-slicked sheets clinging to his skin as Hongjoong pressed soft kisses to his collarbone. 

Minutes passed before Hongjoong rose from the bed, moving languidly. He cleaned Seonghwa gently with a warm washcloth, then poured himself a drink at the desk, the amber liquid glinting in the gaslight as he downed it in one smooth motion. 

“We only have two days left together,” Hongjoong said quietly, setting his empty whiskey glass on the desk with a heavy clink. The gas lamps cast wavering shadows over his bare skin as he reached for the bottle to pour another. “What would you like to do? What would make you happy?” 

Seonghwa propped himself up on one elbow, sinking into one of the velvet pillows. From where he lay, the sight of Hongjoong, naked at the desk with his glass of whiskey, was like a dream. But in two days, the dream would end.

Melancholy always loosened Seonghwa’s tongue.

“Being with you forever,” he murmured.

Hongjoong let out a breathy laugh, tipping his head back to down the drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sauntering over to the bed.

“You’re young and beautiful,” Hongjoong said, climbing back on top of him. His body pressed flush against Seonghwa’s, their noses nearly touching as he continued, “You don’t know what forever means.”

Seonghwa felt his throat tighten. He fought back tears that blurred the edges of Hongjoong’s face. “And you do?”

For a long moment, Hongjoong studied him, his gaze heavy and searching. Then he reached down, his fingers threading gently through Seonghwa’s hair.

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “I believe I do.”

“If you’re so wise,” Seonghwa whispered, no longer trusting his voice, “Then what does it mean?”

Hongjoong’s mouth twitched, his expression between amusement and sorrow. “Have you read any Emily Dickinson?” 

Seonghwa arched a brow but said nothing. The truth was, he had not. His studies had been focused elsewhere, on politics and the classics. 

And despite living in New Zealand, his parents thought poets from the colonies were beneath them. 

What would they think of Hongjoong? 

Hongjoong leaned down to brush his lips against Seonghwa’s ear, his breath warm and laced with whiskey. 

“Forever is composed of nows.” 

𓊝

Morning light reflected off the hexagonal tiles of the Mist bathroom as Seonghwa moved the straight razor along Hongjoong’s neck, the blade singing over his skin. His hand remained steady, but his heart thundered, wild and loud like hooves on stone. 

It was their last day, and it had come too soon. 

Tufts of black hair fell to the floor like feathers. Seonghwa had the fleeting thought that he could fashion them into wings and haunt Hongjoong across the seas, a crow that never left him.

“It’s only a few months,” Hongjoong said, his eyes catching Seonghwa’s in the mirror. 

Only a few months. But they’d only spent a few weeks together, and now, on the cusp of goodbye, Seonghwa felt like Achilles mourning Patroclus—ash on his skin, hair in his hands. 

“It’s nothing compared to the lifetime I wish to share with you,” Hongjoong continued. 

Seonghwa paused, the blade hovering mid-air. “What?”

His body suddenly burned with the same intensity as the first time Hongjoong touched him, aflame with too many feelings at once. 

“It’s only a few–”

“Not that part,” Seonghwa interrupted. “You want to spend a lifetime with me?”

Hongjoong’s gaze turned guarded. “Is that not how you feel?”

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Of course that’s how I feel.” 

Hongjoong studied him with a cool, calculating look. “Then a few months, or a year, should be nothing.” He tilted his head slightly, inspecting his reflection. “You missed a spot.” 

Seonghwa stood frozen, a lock of Hongjoong’s hair between his fingers. A year? The casual way Hongjoong said it unsettled him. Did he already expect to be gone that long? 

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong prompted, meeting his gaze again. 

Seonghwa swallowed, shaving the last curl. “You’ll look nice and sharp for your first day back,” he said, his voice tight. He set the razor down and gently patted Hongjoong’s skin with a damp washcloth. 

“Thank you.” Hongjoong stood, turning to hold Seonghwa’s face in his hands. “It won’t always be like this. When your affairs are in order, when I’m First Officer—we’ll see the world together.” 

When his affairs were in order. More like when he burned them all to the ground. 

“Together,” Seonghwa repeated, a whispered prayer. He looked down to check his watch. A waning gibbous moon peeking out from behind the clouds, and nearly eight. “They must be waiting downstairs,” he said sadly.

“We’ll need to say goodbye here.” Hongjoong swiped a thumb over Seonghwa’s mouth. “We can’t on the street.”

Seonghwa nodded, fighting back tears as he leaned down and pressed his lips to Hongjoong’s, soft and plush after two weeks away from sea. 

They were in the bathroom at the Mist, and then suddenly they weren’t. They were in the crow’s nest, kissing for the first time beneath Orion, a soft and sweet dagger piercing Seonghwa’s heart. 

Hongjoong’s tongue brushed his, and Seonghwa wondered if he could taste his despair. 

They broke apart, descending the stairs in silence.  

Outside, Wooyoung leaned against a black streetlamp, his arms crossed and gaze fixed on San’s modest suitcase. San’s eyes were pink and puffy, his dimples flashing as though he was trying to hold back a sob. 

Hongjoong’s hand slipped from Seonghwa’s as he walked straight toward San. He gripped his shoulder gently, murmuring something that turned San’s ears a bright red. San nodded, straightening his posture. 

A hansom cab approached, its wheels rattling over the cobblestones. Hongjoong raised a hand to signal it. 

San turned to Seonghwa, his hand outstretched. “Bye, Seonghwa,” he said quietly. 

“Goodbye, San.” Seonghwa clasped his hand in both of his own. “I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

San bit his lip, his gaze darting to Wooyoung before returning to Seonghwa. He nodded, though his eyes brimmed with tears. 

Behind him, Hongjoong was already handing their luggage to the cabbie. He turned toward Seonghwa, and time slowed, the world around Hongjoong’s face blurring. 

Hongjoong tipped his hat, a faint smile on his lips. “Goodbye, my prince.”

“Goodbye, officer.”

Hongjoong glanced at Wooyoung. “Take care of him, and I’ll do the same,” he said with a nod before climbing into the cab. San followed without a word.

The carriage began to move, the distance between them growing with each rattle of the wheels.

But then something seemed to snap in Wooyoung. He took a step forward, then another, until he was jogging after the cab. 

Wooyoung cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “San, I’ll—I’ll write to you!” 

San leaned his head out the carriage, his face softening as he called back, “I’d like that, Wooyoung!” 

San’s smile stretched wide, his dimples deep enough to see from a block away, until the carriage turned the corner and his light disappeared with it.

𓊝

London, England
April 8, 1909

My most esteemed Mother and Father,

        It is with the utmost respect and affection that I write to inform you of my recent meeting with Miss Yoo. I am pleased to report that we find one another in excellent accord and have resolved to observe a proper courtship prior to entering into matrimony, as is customary among the British aristocracy.

        Miss Yoo has graciously offered her assistance to Mr. Jung. She intends to introduce him to several persons of influence in her circle who may be interested in investing in his enterprise. Her resourcefulness and character have left a most favorable impression on us both. 

        I look forward to sharing more as our relationship continues to unfold and remain ever devoted to fulfilling your expectations. 

With all my love,

Your affectionate and dutiful son,
Park Seonghwa

𓊝

Chapter Text

May 1909

Seonghwa set his teapot on the iron garden table alongside two teacups, one empty, the other full of birdseed. The garden was alive with color, a rainbow of pink azaleas, bluebells, purple foxgloves, and yellow poppies.

It had finally warmed enough for Wooyoung to bring his palm outside, now soaking up sunlight in the corner by the tidy herb garden. Seonghwa pulled a chair out, settling in the shade of Wooyoung’s towering oak tree with his leather-bound diary on his lap. 

His mornings used to begin early, with a valet helping him with grooming and dressing. He’d then sit down to a formal breakfast with his parents in silence before beginning his lessons. He might tour the family’s lands after, meeting with tenants or inspecting farms, returning in the afternoon to take lunch and write his correspondences. 

But this had become his new morning routine. Sitting in the garden and writing love letters he would never send. 

Seonghwa poured himself a cup of tea, and then he heard it—the song of the bright green bird who sometimes visited him, its chatter eerily reminiscent of Wooyoung. He’d told Seonghwa not to feed it, that it was a parakeet, non-native, probably an escapee from some rich old lady. 

Not unlike Seonghwa. 

“Bukbuk,” Seonghwa called in a singsong voice. “Breakfast is served.” 

Scattering the seeds on the stone patio, he smiled as the parakeet flew down from the oak tree for its prize. He reached into his pocket for his fountain pen, a birthday gift from Wooyoung. 

Seonghwa had sent Hongjoong the first letter he wrote, back when the air was still cool. Barely a letter, really. It was just four sentences, folded in three and sealed with a wax star. 

London, England
April 17, 1909

My dearest officer,

        I cannot see the stars through London’s haze, but each night, I imagine you on the deck of the Runic, glass of whiskey in hand and your face tilted skyward. Do you think of me when you see the stars? 

        Would that I could see the North Star and follow it to your bed. Would that I could see the dark mole on your neck and follow it down to your heart, down further, to the parts of you that are only for me. 

Until July,

All my heart,
Park Seonghwa 

Sending more than one without waiting for a response had felt indulgent, overbearing. But the words poured out of him, so he wrote them down anyway, though they were doomed to wither away in his journal. 

The garden filled with the sound of Bukbuk’s pecking and the scratching of Seonghwa’s pen as he sketched the bird, giggling as he drew him a jaunty little hat. 

The garden gate creaking broke his concentration. 

“Are you feeding that damn parakeet again?” 

Seonghwa didn’t look up, his pen still poised on the page. “His name is Bukbuk,” he replied with a smile. 

“He’s an escaped convict.” Wooyoung slumped into the chair opposite him, an empty teacup in hand. Without asking, he filled it from Seonghwa’s teapot. 

Seonghwa’s brow furrowed as he took in Wooyoung’s expression. “What is it?” 

“I received a letter,” Wooyoung muttered, pulling it from his pocket and setting it carefully on the table. “From San. I’m scared to read it.” 

“From San?” Seonghwa said in disbelief. “But it’s been less than a month, for it to have arrived today he would’ve had to write it–” 

“–the day after they left,” Wooyoung finished, tapping the stamp. “That’s what the postmark says.” 

They both stared at the letter in silence, Bukbuk’s pecking and the soft rustle of leaves the only sounds in the garden. 

“Well, are you going to read it?” Seonghwa asked finally. 

“You read it,” Wooyoung said quickly, sliding the folded paper across the table. “Then you can tell me if it’s safe or if I should toss it in the icebox.” 

Seonghwa sighed, taking the letter and popping the seal open with a thumb. 

Liverpool, England
April 9, 1909

Wooyoung,

        Hongjoong says I should wait for your letter, but I can’t. What I have to say is too important to wait. 

        I lack your confidence to say it in person and your skill with words to say it in a letter. Still, I know this much: I love you. 

        You say I’ll leave you for some port-town maiden, but no maiden could ever match you. Not in wit, nor in beauty. 

        You say I’ll leave you to start a family, but I don’t want a family. I want you. 

        Forgive me for not saying more when we’re together. I’ll try to be better, I swear it. We sail tomorrow morning, and if fortune is kind, we’ll return for a week in July. Perhaps then, Seonghwa can teach me to write the sort of love letters you deserve. For now, this will have to do. 

Until then, 

Always yours,
Choi San 

“Well?” Wooyoung pressed, his face pale. 

Seonghwa slid the letter toward him, averting his eyes. “Read it,” he said softly. 

Wooyoung hesitated, his hands trembling as he unfolded the paper. His eyes darted back and forth as he read, widening and then filling with tears, his face crumpling. 

“He loves me?” Wooyoung whispered, his voice breaking. He looked up at Seonghwa, wide-eyed. “Oh no.” 

Seonghwa frowned. “What do you mean, ‘Oh no?’” 

Wooyoung sat back, pressing the letter to his chest as though it might steady his racing heart. “Can you help me write a response?” 

“Do you love him back?” Seonghwa asked, flipping to a new page in his journal. 

Wooyoung slumped deeper into his chair. “I thought I was in love, once.” 

Seonghwa watched Bukbuk finish the seeds, thinking that maybe if he didn’t say anything, Wooyoung would continue, but he didn’t. Bukbuk looked up at him, tilting his head and chirping once before disappearing back into the oak tree. 

“Well, how does San make you feel?” Seonghwa asked gently. 

Wooyoung’s gaze drifted up to the sky, his eyes following the clouds. “Like I matter,” he admitted. “Like I’m worth protecting.” His voice faltered. “But then he looks at me—and he’s so good, so pure—and I feel like the most wretched thing alive.” 

A lump formed in Seonghwa’s throat as he carefully wrote down Wooyoung’s words, but he said nothing, letting his confession hang between them. 

“He’s kind,” Wooyoung continued, steadier now. “Strong. Handsome—lord help me, he’s handsome. He’s like some god of truth and beauty.” 

“Apollo,” Seonghwa supplied. 

Wooyoung groaned, burying his face in his hands. “He makes me feel good and also like absolute garbage. He deserves someone perfect, and I’m far from it.”  

“But he doesn’t want someone perfect,” Seonghwa said quietly. “He wants you.” 

“No one’s ever been nice to me like this.” Wooyoung let out a shuddering breath, his voice muffled by his hands. “It’s like he’s cracked open some new world I didn’t know existed.” 

Seonghwa ripped the page from his diary and handed it to Wooyoung. 

“That sounds like a good start to me.” 

𓊝

July 1909

The sun was low in the sky at the Prince’s Dock, but the Runic was nowhere to be seen. 

Seonghwa removed his cap, brushing the sweaty locks from his forehead. The day had been long and hot, and they’d spent most of it pacing, taking turns leaving to buy provisions from the street vendors. 

“Maybe they’re just a little delayed,” Seonghwa ventured hopefully. 

Wooyoung didn’t respond, absorbed by a little boy working the docks. He couldn’t have been more than ten, his hands black with soot as he struggled under crates twice his size. He heaved the boxes onto a splintered cart, his back already curved from years of labor. 

Seonghwa watched as Wooyoung walked over to the boy, crouching to speak with him. He laughed brightly, ruffling the boy's hair before filling his hands with coins. 

The boy stared down at the fortune in his hands, then looked up at Wooyoung, his eyes wide as saucers. 

Wooyoung murmured something to him as he stood. The boy nodded solemnly, stuffing the coins into his pockets before clasping Wooyoung’s large hand in both of his small, soot-streaked ones.

Then the boy turned and ran, disappearing into the bustling crowd, leaving Wooyoung, the docks, and the ragged cart behind without a second glance.

When Wooyoung returned, his smile was gone. 

“They moored yesterday.” 

“What?” Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. “So where–”

“Gone,” Wooyoung sighed. “Apparently they picked up another route and had to leave immediately.” 

Seonghwa’s face fell. “Oh.” 

“I’m tired,” Wooyoung said, his eyes on the river, as if they might still arrive at any moment. “Let’s stay in Liverpool tonight and catch the first train back tomorrow morning.”

Seonghwa could feel Wooyoung waiting for his response. He made a noncommittal sound, his heart somewhere between Liverpool and Cape Town, afloat on the Runic with a glass of whiskey in hand. He could almost hear the roaring of the ocean beneath the ship, almost see the reflection of the sun on the sea. 

Three months of waiting, only to be left waiting again. 

“How about the Adelphi?” Wooyoung proposed, his tone lifting in a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood. 

Seonghwa finally met his gaze. He’d be lying if he said the thought of staying at the Adelphi didn’t cheer him up a bit. 

“Come on, then.” Wooyoung interlaced their fingers, dragging Seonghwa down the riverwalk. He stopped to buy them some pickled whelks from a cart, generously seasoned with malt vinegar and white pepper. 

Seonghwa held his newspaper cone gingerly, spearing the whelks with a toothpick. He tried not to dwell on how many hands might have touched the paper before it reached him. Distracting himself, he glanced up, his steps faltering as they passed a massive concrete structure he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Was that here last month?” he asked, slowing his steps. 

“They’d just started on the foundation then,” Wooyoung replied. “The Royal Liver Building—it’ll be another Baroque behemoth, like the Port.” 

Seonghwa frowned, his eyes lingering on the stone skeleton. “Things change so quickly here.” 

“Things change quickly everywhere.” Wooyoung’s eyes fell to the ground. “Especially by the sea.”

“Wooyoung–”

“Let’s go,” Wooyoung said shortly. 

They finished the rest of the walk in silence, their hands brushing occasionally. By the time they reached the hotel, the sky had fully darkened.

Seonghwa stared up at the arched windows and wrought-iron balconies, wondering which would be theirs for the night. He followed Wooyoung through the enormous carved doors, quietly thanking the liveried doorman as they passed. 

“Checking in, gentlemen?” he asked politely. 

“Yes, sir,” Wooyoung replied, removing his cap. 

The doorman escorted them beneath a cascade of chandeliers toward reception, a gleaming mahogany desk. Behind it stood a stuffy-looking man in a pressed suit. 

“Good evening, sirs.” The receptionist opened the heavy leather-bound ledger in front of him and spun it around toward Wooyoung. “Do you prefer adjoining rooms?” 

“One room will suffice,” Wooyoung replied smoothly, placing his cap on the counter as he picked up the pen. “A single.” 

The man reddened, his lips thinning. “Any other preferences, sir?” 

Seonghwa stiffened, but Wooyoung seemed unbothered, signing both their names with a flourish. 

“A high floor if available,” Wooyoung replied, his tone brisk as he handed the pen back. “With a private bath,” he added with a wink. 

The man hesitated, his eyes lingering on the entry in the ledger. He turned, retrieving a brass key from the wooden wall of pigeonholes behind the desk. 

“Enjoy your stay, Lord Park, Mr. Jung,” he said, passing the key to a porter. “Please let us know if there is anything else we can do for you.” 

“Thank you, sir. We certainly will,” Wooyoung replied evenly, gesturing for Seonghwa to follow as the porter led the way. 

The marble staircase was a marvel of Edwardian opulence, a plush red runner softening the sound of their steps. Seonghwa trailed his fingers up the brass handrails, wishing he’d thought to bring an emergency change of clothes. 

The porter led them up to the fourth floor, raising his eyebrows as he checked the key, maybe realizing it was a room with a single bed. With a deep breath, he unlocked the door and stepped aside, bowing slightly.  

“I hope you... enjoy your stay, gentlemen,” he said awkwardly, his tone betraying a mix of professional courtesy and discomfort. 

“Thank you, good sir. I’m sure we will,” Wooyoung said politely, slipping a generous tip into the man’s palm. 

The porter bowed again, backing out into the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut, Wooyoung kicked off his shoes with a huff. “What a bunch of stuck-up assholes,” he muttered. 

Seonghwa burst out laughing, the tension from the lobby dissolving. “I’d wager they don’t get invited to many sleepovers.” 

Wooyoung let out a squeal of laughter, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around him. “Their loss,” he said. “Come on, let’s see if the view makes up for it.” 

He guided Seonghwa to the window, pushing the heavy red curtains aside to reveal Liverpool’s twinkling lights. 

Maybe Hongjoong was looking out at the night sky, too. 

Maybe his view was colored by stars instead of gas lamps, and his mind was on Seonghwa and the nights they’d shared beneath the endless sky. Maybe Hongjoong remembered the stories he’d told him about the constellations—Orion with his doomed hunting dogs, Perseus rescuing Andromeda. 

Or maybe he’d forgotten it all. 

Wooyoung nudged him. “Think they’d faint if we ordered champagne?” 

Seonghwa snorted. “They’d probably send a chaperone with the bottle.” 

“Let them,” Wooyoung said, grinning. “We could use a third.” 

Seonghwa gave him a shove. “Ew.” 

Wooyoung shrieked with laughter, smacking him on the arm before stumbling over to the bellpull. 

Seonghwa shrugged off his jacket, hanging it in the gleaming wardrobe as Wooyoung cracked the door open to place their order with the bellboy. 

“Two lobster thermidors and a bottle of champagne, please,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. His voice dipped into a stage whisper loud enough to carry across the room. “And an order of strawberries Romanoff for my love. We’re celebrating.” 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes as he loosened his trousers. He pulled off his undershirt, hanging it with his coat. Pausing with his hand on the wardrobe knob, he left the door slightly ajar—better to let the clothes air out if he had to wear them again tomorrow. 

Wooyoung closed the door with a smirk that widened when he saw Seonghwa, shirtless in only his long cotton underwear. 

“Oh hello,” Wooyoung teased, tossing his jacket to Seonghwa before unbuttoning his own shirt. 

Seonghwa caught it in mid-air, hanging it next to his. “Could you try not to get us forcibly removed from the hotel?” 

He turned back around to see Wooyoung kicking off his trousers. “Oh it’s fine,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “What are hotels for, anyway?” 

Seonghwa sighed, grabbing Wooyoung’s trousers from the floor and hanging them neatly in the wardrobe. He trudged to the bathroom to freshen up. 

He knew rationally that Hongjoong and San weren’t important enough to influence the ship’s schedule. But that didn’t stop his heart from aching, wondering how they could have left without seeing them first. 

Seonghwa sighed, wetting a washcloth to run over himself. When he stepped back into the room, the porter was standing in the doorway, a silver tray laden with food in his gloved hands. 

"Your dinner, sir, my lord," the porter said, offering a stiff bow to each of them. "Two lobster thermidors, strawberries Romanoff, and the champagne." 

“Thank you,” Wooyoung said smoothly, stepping aside to let him enter. “You can place it on the table.” 

The porter hesitated, clearly thrown by the sight of two shirtless men standing before him, but he quickly caught himself and moved to set the tray down on the dining table. 

“Oh no, not that table.” Wooyoung’s wicked grin reappeared as he gestured to the end table by the bed. 

Seonghwa pursed his lips to hold in his laugh as the porter’s face flushed crimson, nearly dropping the tray as he set it down on the nightstand. 

“Thank you, kind sir,” Wooyoung said, slipping a few coins into the porter’s hand. The porter backed into the hallway, breaking into a near-run as soon as he was out of the room. 

Wooyoung giggled as he shut the door. “That went well.” He clapped his hands together, then gestured grandly toward the bed. “Dinner in bed, just like we deserve.” 

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh, arranging himself against the headboard. Wooyoung uncorked the champagne bottle with a quiet pop, as though he’d done it a hundred times before. He poured two glasses, handing one to Seonghwa. 

Wooyoung climbed onto the bed beside him, raising his glass. “To England’s most tormented lovers,” he said with mock solemnity. 

Seonghwa brought his glass to Wooyoung’s. “To not getting kicked out of the hotel,” he said, a grin spreading across his face as he added, “Yet.” 

Wooyoung squealed with laughter, throwing his head back and draining the entire glass in one go. He set it down with a satisfying clink, then reached for the cloches covering their dinners, lifting them to reveal the lobster, still steaming. 

The scent of brandy and herbs mixed with the aroma of champagne as they ate, the lobster disappearing quickly. When Seonghwa finished inhaling his dinner, Wooyoung replaced it with the strawberries Romanoff. 

“Are you not having any?” Seonghwa asked. 

“It’s just for you,” Wooyoung replied with a small smile, handing him a delicate dessert spoon. 

Seonghwa frowned. “Well, at least try a bite.” He scooped a strawberry and a generous dollop of cream, then held out the spoon. 

Wooyoung didn’t take it. Instead, he opened his mouth. 

Seonghwa hesitated, his grip tightening on the spoon. Wooyoung took the bite slowly, his lips brushing the metal. He stuck out his tongue to lick off the cream, his eyes never leaving Seonghwa’s. 

“Sweet,” Wooyoung murmured, his voice low and satisfied as he leaned back, closing his eyes. Then, with complete nonchalance, he slid off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. 

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. His gaze lingered on the spot Wooyoung had just vacated, but it wasn’t Wooyoung that filled his mind. 

It was Hongjoong, feeding him trifle on his knees. 

The way he leaned against the desk, his sinister expression as he gazed down at Seonghwa. Open, and the gravel in his voice when he said it.

The sound of running water snapped him back to the present. The moment Wooyoung stepped out, Seonghwa darted past him, avoiding his curious gaze. 

At the sink, Seonghwa splashed cold water on his face, dragging his hands down over his eyes. He looked up, barely recognizing his half-crazed reflection—eyes wide, water streaming down his face in rivulets.

His hands tightened around the edge of the porcelain basin. He scrubbed harder, as though he could cleanse his traitorous mind, wash away the ghost of Hongjoong’s touch. 

Seonghwa knew Hongjoong wasn’t here. He knew that. 

But his body refused to believe it. 

When he returned to the room, Wooyoung had already extinguished most of the lights. The flickering gas lamp on the nightstand cast restless shadows on the walls, their shapes moving like phantoms. 

Seonghwa hesitated by the bed. They hadn’t slept together since the Runic, with moonlight streaming through the porthole and the steady rocking of the ship beneath them. 

The bed creaked as he climbed in. Wooyoung didn’t move, not until Seonghwa turned onto his side to face him. Then, Wooyoung pulled the covers over their heads, and just like that, they could’ve been back on the Runic, the world reduced to their breaths and hearts slowly syncing up. 

Wooyoung shifted closer. “You okay?” he whispered. 

A dull buzzing suddenly filled Seonghwa’s ears, like the sound of the ocean roaring. 

Seonghwa swallowed, willing it away. “No.” 

“Do you think they’ve forgotten us?” Wooyoung asked sadly. 

Seonghwa’s hand moved on its own, finding Wooyoung’s. “I don’t think San could ever forget you.” 

Wooyoung’s legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, like ivy creeping up the Mist Hotel. 

“You say that like Hongjoong could forget his prince,” Wooyoung muttered sleepily, his breath warm against Seonghwa’s neck. 

Seonghwa breathed in the scent of Wooyoung’s hair, an exotic, woody aroma, like wild cardamom in an evergreen forest. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of Wooyoung’s breath pull him under. 

He dreamed of stars mirrored on the sea, of the sea monster Cetus locked in battle with his own reflection. 

When they woke, the world had shifted again. 

Their day-old suits clung to their bodies, stiff and uncomfortable. The weather was nice at least, a cool sea breeze washing over them as they stepped onto the street. 

“Look who it is,” Wooyoung said under his breath. Seonghwa followed his gaze to the familiar flower stand up ahead, where Minghao stood, as handsome as ever, his hair falling in messy waves over his face. 

“Jung Wooyoung!” Minghao called, his face lighting up with a smile so wide it almost seemed too big for his features. “I was just thinking about you.” 

Wooyoung removed his hat with a flourish, running a hand through his hair. He leaned on the counter, flashing Minghao a playful grin. “Good thoughts only, I hope.” 

“Not entirely.” Minghao’s gaze flicked to Seonghwa, his smile taking on a sharper edge. “I’m hosting a little gathering tonight. We’re meeting at a molly house, then back to my flat. Care to join?” 

Seonghwa stifled a groan. He could feel the grime of travel on his skin, could already imagine the hours he’d have to spend in a haze of alcohol and hollow conversation. He just wanted to go home. 

But Wooyoung surprised him, as he often did. 

“No,” Wooyoung replied. “Not tonight. But we’ve just opened a bakery in Chelsea—Ambrosia. If you’re ever on King’s Road, stop by.” 

Minghao looked caught off guard by his shift in tone, his smile faltering. “I’ll do that,” he said, though his disappointment was clear. 

As they continued toward the train station, Seonghwa glanced at Wooyoung, trying to read him. It surprised him how easily he’d turned Minghao down. 

Maybe he had decided his loneliness was a gift to San—a sacrifice at Apollo’s altar. 

“We should get back before Jeongyeon burns down the bakery,” Wooyoung said shortly. 

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Seonghwa replied with a smile.  

Wooyoung didn’t respond, looking lost in thought. They trudged to the station in silence, boarding the train quickly and settling into an empty compartment. 

Seonghwa leaned against the window, staring out at the passing countryside. His mind drifted to the last time they’d taken this route, Hongjoong’s knee pressing between his legs, his tongue in his mouth. 

For thirty years, he hadn’t known his body could feel that way, like it could conduct electricity. But now that he knew, the prospect of enduring even one more day without it—without any promise of when or if he’d feel it again—seemed unbearable. 

By the time they reached the flat, they were exhausted. Wooyoung shut the door behind them as Seonghwa lit the lamp, then froze. 

Two letters lay on the doormat. 

Seonghwa bent to pick them up. One was addressed to him, the other to Wooyoung. They exchanged a glance, then tore them open. 

Cape Town, South Africa
June 17, 1909

My sweet prince,

        I have tried three times to match the beauty of your letter, yet I fear I have failed.

        I am devastated to inform you that my schedule dictates I will not be in England in July as planned. Let us hope for December instead. By then, you will be a true Londoner. I look forward to you showing me the city. 

        Though I am accustomed to months alone at sea, I know you are not. I would not hold it against you if you found a paramour in my absence. Eight months is a cruel stretch of time to be alone. 

        Just do not forget who your heart belongs to, and I will guard mine just as fiercely. 

Yours ever,
Kim Hongjoong 
Third Officer, RMS Runic 

Seonghwa stared down at the letter, his heart sinking deeper with every line. He read it three times, as though the message might change. When he glanced up, Wooyoung was already watching him. 

“Yours came with a package,” Wooyoung said, his voice unusually flat. He held out a long, thin parcel wrapped in brown paper. 

Seonghwa accepted it with trembling hands, Hongjoong’s words echoing in his mind. 

I would not hold it against you if you found a paramour in my absence.

Seonghwa slipped a finger beneath the seam of the paper, pulling it open with care. It was a new Mechanics Made Easy set—a flying machine based on the Blériot XI. 

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped as Seonghwa held it up for him to inspect. “That’s the aeroplane that just crossed the Channel!” He leaned in closer, his brow furrowing. “That was barely a week ago—how did he get this?” 

Seonghwa traced the small print on the packaging. “It says it was made as a promotion for the Paris Aero Salon last December.” 

“It must’ve been a nightmare to track down,” Wooyoung murmured, sounding awed. 

“I would rather have had him instead.” Seonghwa’s words wavered, tumbling out before he could stop them. “I’m going to bed.” 

The corners of Wooyoung’s mouth fell, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Yeah, me too.” He leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek. “Tomorrow’s a new day.” 

Seonghwa nodded faintly, already turning away. “Good night, Wooyoung.” 

A knot tightened in his chest. Sleeping together in the apartment felt like a line they shouldn’t cross, but going back to sleeping alone sounded miserable. 

Wooyoung’s voice was small behind him. “Good night.” 

Seonghwa ascended the stairs in silence, walking beneath the botanical drawings until he reached the door at the end of the hallway. He set the parcel and letter on the weathered writing desk he and Wooyoung had found at the Caledonian Market. 

With a sigh, Seonghwa sank into the chair, the desk drawer creaking as he retrieved his pen. 

London, England
July 30, 1909 

My dearest officer,

        I cannot describe the ache your letter brought, though I cherished every word. How I longed to see you this month, only to find myself waiting again. I will wait for December the way the barren field waits for rain, as the tired army awaits surrender.

        You may have spent months adrift at sea, but I have spent years adrift in myself. I would rather die alone, barren and untouched as the desert sands, than take a lover who is not you.

Until December, 

All my heart,
Park Seonghwa 

P.S. Thank you for the gift. I suspect Wooyoung is jealous. Perhaps you could suggest to San that he send Wooyoung a parcel the next time you have access to the post. 

𓊝

December 1909

The bakery hummed with activity, even as closing time approached. They’d established a loyal following, mostly eccentric Chelsea regulars, though a steady flow of curious tourists wandered in too, their practical clothing a dead giveaway. 

It was Tuesday afternoon, which meant Jeongyeon and Wooyoung were off at their weekly high society tea, leaving Seonghwa to close alone. Jeongyeon had offered to take him instead, but he’d declined. Dodging questions about his future and the estate didn’t sound like a fun way to spend an afternoon. 

Besides, he liked closing—bidding farewell to his favorite regulars, wiping every surface until the bakery gleamed. He checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes to go. 

He began clearing the tables, stacking plates and cups neatly onto a large silver platter. Like Seonghwa, Ambrosia appeared aristocratic at first glance. Blue-and-white wallpaper stretched across the walls, resembling a traditional china landscape pattern, framed by black wainscoting and dentil crown molding. But hidden among every scene, whimsical animals lurked—a dignified horse reclining under a tree, a chicken in an apron tending her garden—each puffing a cigar, the smoke curling into intricate patterns. 

“Come back soon, Mrs. Ashdown!” Seonghwa called, waving to the older woman as she gathered her coat. “We’re taking limited orders for Christmas cakes and puddings starting tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, dear.” She smiled sweetly, and Seonghwa bolted the door behind her.

He returned to the kitchen and hauled his suitcase onto the counter, popping it open to reveal the tangle of garlands he’d spent weeks assembling. Climbing onto a chair, he carefully strung ribbons across the walls, each adorned with strands of ivy he’d sewn by hand. Boughs of spruce and balsam came next, draped over the windows in fragrant, sweeping arcs. 

Seonghwa hummed a carol as he worked, the sharp scent of evergreen cutting through the aroma of freshly baked bread. This would be the first Christmas he’d ever looked forward to—the first with friends to share it with. 

A Christmas card from his parents had arrived the week before, if it could be called that. Their first response to his many letters. Really, it was his mother who had written it, though his father had at least signed his name. 

Sydney, Australia
October 15, 1909 

Lord Seonghwa,

        As this letter should reach you around Christmas, we wish you a pleasant holiday. We are presently in Sydney due to Lord Park’s health complications. He is receiving excellent care at Sydney Hospital. 

        We are surprised, though pleased, that you are getting along with Miss Yoo and have made a profitable investment. However, Miss Yoo is approaching thirty, and we expect you to marry by the summer of 1910 and resume your place at the estate to continue the Park bloodline. 

Your parents,
The Right Honorable Earl and Countess Park 

Seonghwa hadn’t known his father was having health complications, and his mother hadn’t thought to include the details. But it was the last sentence that weighed most heavily on him. 

The expiration date on their temporary solution had come sooner than expected, the months passing quickly as though powered by steam. 

Seonghwa grabbed the last decoration, moving the chair to tie it above the door frame. It was a kissing ball, an intricate arrangement of holly and mistletoe he’d crafted with one thought in mind.

Hongjoong, and their first Christmas together. 

He shut the lights off and stepped onto the street with his empty suitcase, heading back to the flat he shared with Wooyoung. He moved automatically, unlocking the door and hanging his coat in the dark before lighting the gas lamp. 

His heart sank when he saw a letter wedged in the slot, addressed to him. 

Seonghwa used to tear into any post with excitement, but now he knew better. The postman only ever brought bad news. 

Southampton, England
November 29, 1909

My sweet prince,

        It grieves me to write I will not be with you next month as we had planned. I have been offered the position of Third Officer aboard the Adriatic. If I sail immediately, they will permit San to join me as my apprentice, a rare opportunity for a steward, and rarer still for a man of his background. 

        I hope we may reunite by the summer of 1910. Until then, keep your bed warm and your spirit unbroken. 

        I swear, no matter the distance or trials between us, I will return to you. When I am First Officer, I will command my own schedule, and these separations will be behind us.

My deepest apologies, 

Ever yours,
Kim Hongjoong 
Third Officer, RMS Adriatic 

P.S. Merry Christmas.

Seonghwa stood frozen, his eyes locked on the return address as the sound of waves crashing filled his ears. So Hongjoong had been in England.  

He clutched the letter and trudged up the stairs, heading straight to his room. He almost set it down on the desk but hesitated, turning instead to the window. With a soft click, he lifted the brass latch. 

Keep your bed warm and your spirit unbroken. 

Why would he say that? Did Hongjoong already have someone else to warm his bed? 

The cool night air bit at Seonghwa’s face as he crumpled the letter and tossed it into the garden. 

He shed his clothes and let them fall in a careless heap. The apartment closed in on him as he sank into bed, staring at the ceiling. He heard footsteps, then the creak of the stairs. Wooyoung, probably. 

Tears stung his eyes as he imagined it was Hongjoong coming home to him. 

The roaring of a phantom ocean washed over him, and he wondered if Wooyoung had received a letter too. If he laid in his own bed, staring at the ceiling. If he ever pretended Seonghwa’s footsteps in the apartment were San’s. 

𓊝

June 1910

Seonghwa walked briskly to the post office, the ostentatious feather in his hat swaying with each step. He was beginning to feel like Prometheus—chained to a rock to suffer the same punishment night after night for daring to defy the gods and dream of fire. 

Hongjoong had delayed his visit again. Promoted to Second Officer on the Adriatic, he now sailed endlessly between Southampton and New York City, caught in a punishing cycle that left no room for Seonghwa. San, meanwhile, had completed his apprenticeship and was already a lookout, well on his way to becoming a junior officer—a meteoric rise from the docks where he’d spent his youth. 

All the while, Wooyoung and Seonghwa withered away in Chelsea, their loneliness a sacrifice to gods they no longer believed in. 

A sudden rush of ocean sounds filled Seonghwa’s mind. It was faint at first, then swelled until it seemed to crash all around him. He stopped in the middle of the street, willing the tide to recede. 

He didn’t have time for this. The post office closed in ten minutes, and his letter needed to be postmarked today.

He forced himself forward, his gaze flickering over the faces of strangers, framed by bowler hats and clouds of pipe smoke. A handsome man with slicked-back hair and a faint scar over his eye tipped his hat and smiled as he passed, his eyes lingering suggestively. 

Seonghwa didn’t return the smile. His stomach twisted at the thought of what might follow if he did. The idea of touching anyone made him feel ill. 

The sound of the ocean surged again, drowning out the city’s noise. By the time he reached the post office, it was deafening. 

“Good day,” the postmaster greeted with a polite nod. “How may I assist you?” 

Seonghwa forced a tight smile. “I need to send this to New Zealand.” 

Hongjoong’s delays had one unexpected effect—they made Seonghwa realize he no longer wanted to abandon his meticulously planned future for him. 

He wanted to do it for himself. For a chance at independence. 

The postmaster took the letter, turning it over in his hands. “That’s quite a distance. Likely won’t arrive ‘til mid-August.” 

“I imagine so,” Seonghwa replied. He handed over the payment, and walked back onto the street, empty-handed.

Outside, the peonies were beginning to fade in their flower boxes, their colors dimming in the summer heat. Soon, they’d be replaced with lavender and roses, as they were the year before, and the year before that. 

Time moved on, relentless, dragging Seonghwa along with it. 

𓊝

London, England
June 21, 1910

My most esteemed Mother and Father,

        I write on the eve of the summer solstice to inform you that I will not proceed with my engagement to Miss Yoo or to any other woman. 

        It is my sincere hope you will accept me as your son and heir, even as an unmarried man. Should this prove unacceptable, I am prepared to face whatever consequences you deem appropriate. 

        I await your response with hope. Please also share news of father’s health, as it remains a concern close to my heart. 

With love and respect, 

Your son,
Park Seonghwa 

𓊝

Chapter Text

August 1910

The day everything changed started like any other, with an empty bed and a steaming cup of coffee waiting on the nightstand. 

Seonghwa sat up and stretched, his gaze landing on the print of Matisse’s Bathers with a Turtle hanging above his desk. His parents would have hated it—a degenerate depiction of three nude figures inexplicably gathered around a tiny turtle. It was the first piece of art he’d ever chosen for himself, a reminder of his lunch at the Adelphi with Wooyoung. Now, it brought him back to Portobello Road Market and Wooyoung’s shriek of laughter when he first saw it. 

He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and slid out of bed, settling on the window seat. Outside, the hydrangeas had finally bloomed, filling the yard with idyllic pinks and blues. He smiled at the sight of Wooyoung at the garden table and raised a hand to rap on the glass, but then froze as he took in the scene below. 

Wooyoung sat slumped over the table, his head in his hands and a stack of letters scattered before him. Even from the second floor, Seonghwa could see how worn they were, as if he’d read them a hundred times. 

His heart sank. He wasn’t the only one who had been delayed time and time again. 

Seonghwa dressed quickly, throwing on an undershirt and black trousers. Taking the stairs two-by-two, he grabbed the tin percolator from the kitchen before stepping outside.

The air felt cooler than he expected. Another season, come and gone. 

“Good morning,” Seonghwa greeted as he approached, topping off Wooyoung’s coffee. 

Wooyoung didn’t look up. “I suppose.” 

Their days often began this way, sadness ebbing and flowing between them, one always leaning on the other. 

Seonghwa eyed the stack of letters. “I don’t reread mine.” 

“I know. I’ve been picking yours up around the garden for months.” Wooyoung finally lifted his head, a teasing smile on his face, though his eyes betrayed him. “But I like to torture myself.” 

Seonghwa set down the percolator and pulled out the chair across from him, sipping his coffee as he changed the subject. “My parents might’ve gotten my letter by now.” 

“They might’ve,” Wooyoung agreed. “But any reply won’t come until late September at the earliest.” 

“And?”

“Now’s your last chance to show me your estate,” Wooyoung said, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “Maybe bring back some souvenirs.”

Seonghwa let out a soft huff. “The bakery’s doing fine.” 

“This one is,” Wooyoung replied with a shrug. “But what if we opened another?” 

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“What about New York City?” Wooyoung’s grin returned—small, but familiar. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

Seonghwa’s mind drifted to the bustling streets of New York and then to Hongjoong. 

Was Hongjoong so quick to encourage Seonghwa’s indiscretions because he had a lover of his own waiting for him in the city? 

Seonghwa caught himself staring at Wooyoung and quickly pushed the thought aside. 

He didn’t want to wallow anymore. He wanted to cheer up Wooyoung. 

“It’s the bank holiday today,” Seonghwa said impulsively. “No work.”

Wooyoung’s face lit up in surprise. “Are you implying what I think you are?” 

“I am.” 

Wooyoung shoved back his chair, nearly toppling it. “I’m getting dressed, then I’ll hail a cab!” 

Seonghwa sighed, averting his eyes as he stood. “We should probably just use my driver,” he muttered. 

Wooyoung froze mid-step, turning sharply. “What the hell did you just say?” 

Seonghwa blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Since when do you have a driver?” Wooyoung demanded, his voice rising an octave.

“There’s been one at the estate since last year,” Seonghwa admitted, looking down at the percolator in his hands as they walked inside. “In preparation for my arrival.”

Wooyoung crossed his arms, his expression shifting from confusion to indignation. “Then why the hell have we been walking and taking carriages everywhere?”

“I can’t just use the driver without living at the estate,” Seonghwa explained defensively. “But it would look suspicious if we showed up in a cab. They’d never let us leave with anything.”

“I cannot believe you forced me to walk during the winter of my discontent,” Wooyoung replied, throwing his hands up dramatically. 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, setting the pot down in the kitchen. “Let’s get dressed,” he said, leading them up the stairs. “Then we can use the phone at the Mist to call for it.”

Wooyoung gave him a mock bow. “Whatever you say, your royal highness.”

Seonghwa shoved him playfully, and Wooyoung almost lost his balance on the stairs. “You know, if a few royals had more timely deaths, I could’ve been a real prince.”

Wooyoung shot him a skeptical glance, gripping the railing to steady himself.

“No, seriously!” Seonghwa laughed. “A couple hundred years ago, a Park married a princess. But, unfortunately, her brothers lived long, happy lives.”

“So unfortunate,” Wooyoung deadpanned, his lips twitching before he broke into laughter.

“Her tiara has its own bedroom at the estate,” Seonghwa said as they reached the top of the stairs. “Maybe we can swipe it and use it as a paperweight.” 

Wooyoung’s eyes lit up. “Forget that! Let’s do a photoshoot with it.” 

“While we’re at it, we could get a portrait painted,” Seonghwa quipped. 

Wooyoung stopped in his tracks, his hand frozen on the door knob. He turned slowly, his face dead serious. “That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard in my life.” 

“I was joking,” Seonghwa said, struggling to contain his laughter. “What, me in the chair with the tiara, you standing behind me with your hand on my shoulder?” 

“Fuck yes,” Wooyoung exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Oh my god, they could paint Bukbuk in the foreground, like those royal portraits with dogs.” He slapped a hand over his mouth, letting out a high-pitched giggle. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited about anything. Meet you downstairs in ten!” 

Seonghwa had almost reached his room when Wooyoung’s voice rang out in the hallway again.

“Wait, what are you wearing?” His head poked out from his bedroom, panic etched across his face. “Tails? A cravat?”

“A cravat?” Seonghwa leaned against the doorframe, laughing. “No, just a regular suit. You can wear a morning coat if you’re trying to charm the butler.”

Wooyoung gave him a sharp nod and disappeared into his room.

Seonghwa rifled through his wardrobe, pulling out a smoke-colored shirt with ruffled sleeves and a charcoal gray suit. He slicked back his hair, put on black gloves, and grabbed his empty doctor bag on the way out. Just in case. 

Wooyoung was already waiting out front when he came down, looking sharp in his black morning coat and gloves. 

“But you’re not wearing a morning coat!” he whined, gesturing to Seonghwa’s outfit. 

“I’m not trying to impress the butler,” Seonghwa replied, adjusting his lace cuffs. “Come on, then.”

Seonghwa led them across the cobblestone street to the Mist, his heart pounding as the heavy door closed behind them. He hadn’t been inside the Mist since his last morning with Hongjoong—ash on his skin, hair in his hands. 

He waited for the hum of the ocean to wash over him as they passed beneath the glittering chandelier, but nothing came. 

The receptionist smiled as they approached. “Seonghwa, it’s been a while,” he said, leaning forward over the rough-hewn oak desk. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Is this your new guy?”

Wooyoung’s hand darted toward Seonghwa’s waist, but Seonghwa slapped it away with a glare.

“Hello, Jooheon. This is Jung Wooyoung, my roommate,” he said, flushing. “I was hoping to use your telephone to arrange for a car.” 

“Roommate, huh?” Jooheon replied with a wink. He straightened his navy frock coat and stepped out from behind the desk. “Of course you can use it. Right this way.” 

He led them down a short corridor to the telephone room, where a curved sofa hugged the bay window, its white satin upholstery dotted with colorful embroidered birds. A black candlestick telephone rested on a small oval table in front of it, positioned atop a plush royal blue rug. 

“Thank you, Jooheon,” Seonghwa said, taking a seat beneath the window. He picked up the receiver and turned the crank handle, listening as the line crackled to life. 

“This is the Mist switchboard. How many I assist you?”

“Good morning, this is Lord Park Seonghwa. I need to speak with the butler at Park Estate, please,” Seonghwa said, ignoring the disgusted look Wooyoung gave him. 

“Of course, my lord. Please hold for a moment while I connect you.”

The line hummed faintly as Seonghwa waited, rolling his eyes as Wooyoung whispered, “We could’ve walked there by now.” A click followed by a shuffle came on the other end.

“Good morning, Lord Park, this is Mr. Choi. How may I assist you?”

Wooyoung pointed to an embroidered lime-green bird on the sofa, mouthing, “Bukbuk.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat. “Hello, Mr. Choi. Can you kindly send a motorcar to the Mist Hotel in Chelsea for myself and a companion? I’d like to make a visit to the estate.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up, his expression incredulous as he mouthed, “Companion?”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “A visit today, my lord?”

“Yes, please,” Seonghwa replied, grimacing. He should’ve anticipated the need for more notice. Too late now.

“The car will arrive in twenty minutes, my lord. Safe travels.”

“Thank you, good sir.” Seonghwa placed the receiver back on the switch hook, turning to Wooyoung. “Twenty minutes.”

“Let’s wait outside,” Wooyoung said, already unbuttoning his coat. “It’s stuffy in here, and this thing feels like I’m wearing a furnace.”

They stepped back onto Edith Grove, the morning air still crisp. Seonghwa adjusted his gloves while Wooyoung leaned against the lamp post, his sharp eyes scanning the street. His head snapped to the left at the distant sound of a motorcar’s engine growing louder.

“Is that…?” Wooyoung’s voice trailed off as a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost pulled up, the top removed to expose the tufted leather seats. 

A tall man in a flat cap stepped out, extending a hand toward Seonghwa. “Lord Park, Choi Minho at your service,” he said in a smooth voice. “May I offer you a hand?”

“Thank you, Mr. Choi,” Seonghwa replied, taking his gloved hand as he climbed in.

Wooyoung remained rooted in place, his jaw slightly slack as he stared at the car. “Holy hell.” 

Seonghwa glanced back. “Coming?” 

Snapping out of his daze, Wooyoung ran his fingers along the polished side panel before sliding into the backseat beside Seonghwa.

Once they were both seated, Minho tipped his hat and returned to the driver’s seat. The car pulled away, the engine’s rumble filling the street. 

Wooyoung leaned closer to Seonghwa, his voice an excited whisper. “I’ve never been in a motorcar before.”

“Mr. Jung,” Seonghwa said in a mock-stuffy voice, “Have I impressed you?”

Wooyoung flashed him a bright smile. “I believe you have.” 

They bore matching grins as they drove up King’s Road, the breeze cool on their faces. The neighborhood looked even more charming by car, and they both pointed excitedly at Ambrosia when they passed it. 

“Getting close now,” Seonghwa said nervously as they drove by Buckingham Palace Garden. 

“What the fuck,” Wooyoung whispered. “It’s by the Palace?”

Seonghwa flushed, glancing out of the car. “Yes. It has a view of the Green Park.”

The car slowed as they approached the iron gates of the estate. The Park House loomed ahead—one of the first neoclassical buildings in London, evidence that obsession with classical antiquity ran in the family. It spanned three opulent floors, each dominated by seven massive arched windows. The top floor was adorned with eight pillars, and on the roof stood three marble statues of Greek nymphs: Echo, Chloris, and Daphne. 

Silence, renewal, and transformation.

The driver pulled up in front of the towering entrance, and a uniformed valet immediately stepped out to greet them, tipping his hat as he opened the car door.

“Welcome, Lord Park,” he said with a bow. 

Wooyoung stared up at the limestone residence towering over them, his mouth agape. “I don’t know… I could die alone if it was in a house like this.”

Seonghwa shot him a reproachful look as they followed the valet up the stone steps and through the grand entryway. 

Sunlight filtered through a narrow window, casting the centerpiece of the room in shadow—a bust of Asclepius, the god of healing. Wooyoung’s eyes widened as they were met by a line of servants, including the housekeeper, the cook, the head footman, and the groundskeeper. 

The last to greet them was the butler. “Lord Park, welcome home.” He wore a black dress coat over a white shirt, paired with oxfords and perfectly pressed black trousers. His hands were clasped neatly in front of him, his posture rigid.

Seonghwa smiled. “You must be Mr. Choi. Call me Seonghwa, please.”

“Well met, Lord Park. I suppose you may call me Jongho,” he replied, giving him a tight smile, as though it pained him to let go of formalities.

“This is my, um, business partner, Jung Wooyoung.”

“Master Jung,” Jongho said politely. “I trust the journey was to your satisfaction?”

Wooyoung beamed at him. “Life-changing.”

Jongho gave him a pointed glance, then turned and led them down the vaulted hallway. Recesses in the cream-colored walls housed marble sculptures on pedestals, soft morning light reflecting off their smooth faces. 

“Tea will be served shortly in the sitting room,” Jongho said, his voice flat and direct, as if this were a task to be completed efficiently rather than enjoyed. He opened a set of stained glass parlor doors, gesturing for them to enter.

The sitting room was designed to intimidate guests. It was overly large, the red walls decorated with tapestries depicting classical tragedies: blind Orion searching for the rising sun, Daphne turning into a laurel tree to escape Apollo’s affections.  

“I’ll return shortly with your tea,” Jongho said with a bow. 

The doors closed behind him, and Wooyoung let out a low whistle as he took in the room. “How the hell do you live in a place like this?” 

“You get used to it,” Seonghwa replied grimly, taking a seat in one of the wooden chairs that seemed to be designed by someone who had never sat in a chair before. 

Jongho entered a moment later, carrying a silver tray laden with a delicate porcelain teapot, two matching teacups, and a display of tea sandwiches and pastries that put the Runic to shame. 

“Would you care for a moment to acclimate before we discuss estate matters, my lord?” 

“Estate matters?” Wooyoung repeated, his eyes darting between Seonghwa and Jongho as he grabbed a Victoria sponge cake.

Seonghwa shot him a sharp look, but Jongho answered in a patient voice. “Indeed, Master Jung. In particular, we should discuss the management of the estate.”

“We can discuss it now,” Seonghwa said, grabbing a finger sandwich from the tray before continuing with feigned nonchalance, “And then I think we’d like to explore a bit, if you’ll permit us.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Seonghwa sighed. “Seonghwa, please.”

“It is likely that you will soon become Earl of Park–” Jongho started, but Wooyoung cut him off again. 

“Wait,” he said, turning to Seonghwa. “I thought you were already an earl.”

“It’s just a courtesy title,” Seonghwa replied softly, his eyes still on Jongho. “Unless my father dies.”

“As I was saying,” Jongho continued, “As you must know, the Right Honorable Earl Park is… in ill health. The countess wishes for you to resume your place at the estate as soon as possible.”

Seonghwa’s face flushed. He hadn’t been prepared to have this conversation, at least not today. 

He pushed back his chair and stood abruptly, the wood scraping loudly against the stone floor. “I changed my mind. I’d like to see the lord’s chambers—I mean, my bedroom, first.” 

Jongho’s expression softened as he took in Seonghwa’s reaction, mistaking it for grief. “I know this must be overwhelming, my lord. Forgive my insensitivity. Shall I escort you–”

“I know where it is,” Seonghwa interrupted, his voice firm. “Thank you, Jongho.”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. He carefully set his teacup down on the silver tray, following without question. 

“It’s upstairs,” Seonghwa said quietly, walking past the pedestals to the winding staircase. He led them upstairs and down the corridor, opening a heavy wooden door. 

The room was painted a muted sage green with gold wainscoting, capped by vaulted ceilings inlaid with frescoes of Pompeii. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the gardens, where rows of cherry laurel trees lined winding paths. 

Wooyoung wandered into the dressing room, calling back to Seonghwa. “Why are there two bedrooms?”

“One for the lord, one for the lady,” Seonghwa answered in a flat voice. 

The estate, much like the aristocracy itself, was not designed for lovers. 

Seonghwa crossed to the dressing table, opening the top drawer to reveal a velvet jewelry box. He lifted the lid but then left it ajar, quickly moving on. 

He turned toward the armoire, checking its base. Sure enough, there was a false bottom, but when he removed it, he found only a few minor trinkets inside. 

Then his eyes caught a faint seam in the wall.

Seonghwa stepped closer, running his fingers over the line. He pressed on it, and a hidden cabinet slid open. His face broke into a triumphant smile as he stood on his tiptoes to reach the stack of intricately carved boxes on the top shelf.

He carried them to the bed, laying them out to inspect. The first box held a garish choker, its fringe made of heavy, gleaming emeralds.

Perfect. That would more than cover a bakery.

He set it aside, moving to the next box, which contained a massive, pear-shaped pearl hanging from a ruby-set choker. He froze, his eyes widening. It was their oldest family heirloom, immortalized in paintings by Rubens and Velázquez. 

He hesitated for a moment, then pocketed it for Jeongyeon.

It should have been hers, anyway.

Seonghwa quickly packed up the remaining boxes, hiding the empty ones at the bottom of the stack. As he was about to close the first drawer he’d opened, a thick signet ring with an engraved “P” caught his eye.

He pictured it on Hongjoong’s finger, gleaming as he stood on the deck—a little piece of Seonghwa to carry with him. He imagined the look on Hongjoong’s face when he gave it to him, like when he’d given him the hyacinths, his eyes wide and lips parted.

If Seonghwa ever saw him again. 

With a resigned sigh, he slipped the ring into his pocket. 

Suddenly, Wooyoung shrieked. 

“What?” Seonghwa asked, whirling around. 

“Can I have this?” Wooyoung asked eagerly, holding up a grotesque statue—a baby with a grown man’s face strangling a snake in each hand, each with human heads. It was the ugliest thing Seonghwa had ever seen. 

Seonghwa looked up at Wooyoung skeptically. “Why?” 

“Are you kidding?” Wooyoung grinned, holding it up proudly. “Just imagine this in the bakery window. The other shop owners will be so jealous.”

“Will they?”

Wooyoung stuck out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout. “Please?”

With a sigh, Seonghwa snatched the statue from his hands and shoved it into his doctor’s bag, where it barely fit. “Fine,” he muttered. “But it’s hideous.”

Wooyoung’s face brightened. “Thank you, Seonghwa!” he squealed. “You won’t regret this.”

Seonghwa gave him a dry look. “I already do.”

Laden with treasure, they stepped back into the corridor, where ancestral portraits watched them make their way toward the grand staircase. 

“The tiara’s bedroom is on the ground floor,” Seonghwa murmured, his hand gliding over the carved banister as they descended. 

“How do you even know that?” Wooyoung asked. “I thought you’d never been here before.”

“Because I’ve studied every inch of it,” he replied shortly. 

It was supposed to be his home—more than his home. 

His burden, his inheritance, his legacy.

When they reached the bottom, Seonghwa stopped to orient himself. “This way,” he said, nodding toward a pair of ornate doors.

The Palm Room was the most dramatic place in the house. Towering white columns lined the walls, gilded with golden bark and leaves to resemble palm trees. In the center of the room, beneath a domed apse inlaid with gold tiles, stood a statue of Daphne, her face twisted in agony as she transformed to escape Apollo’s obsessive love. 

Marble leaves sprouted from her head, and perched on top of them was a delicate tiara, the sapphires glinting in the light. They were rare color-changing sapphires, cerulean in the dark, but violet in the sunlight. 

Seonghwa’s gaze lingered on the roots growing from Daphne’s legs. He could feel it now—the ocean about to surge. 

Would Hongjoong rather bear the glossy leaves of a laurel than be with him? 

“No fucking way,” Wooyoung said, breaking the silence. 

Seonghwa jumped, startled. “What? Are you losing your nerve?” 

“I don’t want to die in prison,” Wooyoung grumbled, his eyes flicking nervously between the tiara and the door. 

Seonghwa laughed softly. “Then we’ll do it the lord’s way.”

“What does that mean?” 

“We demand it.” 

Without further explanation, Seonghwa strode into the corridor and cornered Jongho, who had been following them at a respectful distance.

“I’d like to commission a portrait using the Sophia Tiara,” Seonghwa said, his voice steady. “I’ll need to take it off the premises, but I’ll provide a letter acknowledging it’s in my possession.”

Jongho’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “My lord, are you certain? It’s an irreplaceable piece, one that cannot be–”

“I’m certain,” Seonghwa said, cutting him off. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

After a long pause, Jongho gave him a curt nod. “When do you expect to return it?”

“Portraits take time,” Seonghwa replied smoothly, though his heart was racing. Would they return it at all? “Two years, perhaps.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. After all, two years was nothing in the span of an estate that had been standing for centuries. 

And Seonghwa’s words had not been a request. 

“I will prepare its box, my lord,” Jongho said, bowing as he left. 

Wooyoung wandered over to a gold-framed portrait of Seonghwa’s great-grandfather. His eyes moved over the portrait, from the silver signet on his ring finger up to his stern face, then up further, to the vaulted ceiling. 

“I can’t believe you’d give all this up for him.” 

“I’m not,” Seonghwa said firmly. “I’m doing it for myself. Besides, I don’t want to live in a museum.” 

Wooyoung studied him, narrowing his eyes like he could see right through him. 

Jongho’s heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor as he returned, carrying a round velvet box with a ridiculous little window, as if the tiara were a pet that needed air. He removed his gloves, setting them aside before pulling a fresh pair from his pocket. Wooyoung pressed his lips tightly together, clearly struggling to suppress a laugh.

Small violet shadows danced on the walls as Jongho lifted the tiara from Daphne’s branches. He set it carefully in the box and handed it to Seonghwa, who accepted it with a deep bow. 

“Thank you, Jongho,” he said. “Could you kindly call for the motorcar?” 

“Of course, my lord.” Jongho led them toward the front of the estate, pausing to send a footman to fetch the driver. 

The sun was high when they reached the entrance. Jongho turned to Seonghwa, his expression unreadable. “Why do I get the feeling I won’t be seeing you anytime soon?” 

Seonghwa glanced nervously at Wooyoung.

“It’s all right,” Jongho said quietly, his eyes darting to Seonghwa’s conspicuously lumpy bag. “I won’t tell your mother.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened. Loyalty was the best quality a butler could have. 

“Thank you, Jongho,” Seonghwa replied. “You must be the most splendid butler in all of London.”

Jongho stood a little taller. “Thank you, my lord—I mean, Seonghwa.” 

Seonghwa climbed into the car, clutching the velvet box tightly as Wooyoung settled in beside him. The estate disappeared behind them, and with it, the life he could’ve had—the life he hadn’t chosen. 

“It could still be yours, you know,” Wooyoung said, his gaze lingering on Buckingham Palace as they passed it.

“That seems wildly optimistic,” Seonghwa replied dryly. “I’m almost certain they’ll disinherit me. The letter just hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Do you regret it?” Wooyoung asked, casting him a sidelong glance. “Now that you’ve seen it up close?”

“Not for a second.”

Wooyoung let out a disbelieving snort, his tone sharpening. “Liar. You don’t have to act like you’re above it all, you know. Not with me.”

“I’m not acting,” Seonghwa shot back. “Empty riches and a bed chamber built for one? If anything, being there reminded me why I’m leaving it all behind.”

“So you’re really okay with giving up a life of beauty and extravagance to work in a bakery?” 

“Yes,” Seonghwa replied without hesitation. 

Wooyoung leaned back against the seat, his voice softening as he stared out of the car. “And if they don’t come back?” 

The question hung heavy between them. Seonghwa pulled off his hat, letting the wind tousle his hair as he considered it.

“Then I’ll be happy just being your friend and baking bread.”

“You’re getting better at that,” Wooyoung said with a sad smile.

“What?”

“Lying.”

The car came to a stop in front of the flat. Minho stepped out, tipping his hat before opening the door for them.

“Thank you, Mr. Choi,” Seonghwa said. 

“My pleasure, Lord Park,” Minho replied with a polite bow. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, waited for them to make their way safely up the steps, then started the engine.

After the estate, the flat felt alive. 

One of Seonghwa’s Bukbuk sketches was framed on the console table, a gift to Wooyoung. Books teetered in uneven stacks along the stairs, and by the door, a basket of nectarines waited, meant to spare Wooyoung from a cranky Seonghwa if he arrived home hungry. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of their lives intertwined. 

Beauty and extravagance, indeed. 

As they climbed the stairs, Seonghwa realized he’d gone the entire day without hearing the phantom ocean. Maybe Wooyoung was Asclepius, with the power to raise the dead. 

When they reached the top, Wooyoung turned to him with a shy smile. “Do you want to take a nap together?”

They’d gone over a year without sharing a bed in the flat, their restraint an unspoken point of pride. But today felt like a fresh start, and Seonghwa was too touch-starved to resist. 

“Yes,” he replied, his voice soft. “I would love to.” 

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Seonghwa said with a smile. “Mine’s miserable in August.”

Wooyoung laughed softly, opening the door to his bedroom. Sunlight spilled over the rumpled sheets, and the faint scent of lavender drifted in from the bathroom. He gave Seonghwa a searching look as he shed his jacket. 

“I’m not just a poor substitute, am I?”

“You’re not a substitute,” Seonghwa answered firmly, folding his trousers neatly on the desk before climbing into bed with him. He rolled away from Wooyoung, pressing his back toward him in a silent request. He let out a content hum as Wooyoung obliged, wrapping his arms around him. 

His love for Wooyoung wasn’t just something to fill a void. Seonghwa had never known a friendship like this—perhaps no one had. It was hard to imagine men killing each other or starting wars with a friend like Wooyoung by their side.

Besides, Hongjoong had carved his name into Seonghwa’s heart, shown him what love could give, and what it could take. 

There could be no substitute. 

𓊝

March 1911

“Don’t you need three?” Jeongyeon asked, leaning against the counter as she handed over two leftover baguettes.

Seonghwa frowned. “One for me, one for Wooyoung. Why would I need three?”

“One for the ghost you left me for.”

He sighed, tucking the bread under his arm. “I didn’t leave you.”

“In what world did you not leave me?” she shot back, hands on her hips.

“Jeongyeon–”

“Oh, don’t Jeongyeon me,” she interrupted with a smirk. “Just wondering if I’ll ever get to meet this specter who’s part of your elaborate plan to ruin me for all other men.”

Her fingers absently twirled the massive pearl dangling from her throat, which she told anyone who asked was a beautiful but worthless reproduction, definitely not the same necklace worn by at least three Spanish queens. 

Seonghwa flushed, biting back a smile. “That would be quite the long game. And he’s not a ghost.”

“Then where is he?” she pressed. 

“On a ship, you know that.” 

“Wow, you really are determined to keep him as far away from me as possible.” 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but after two years with Jeongyeon and Wooyoung, he’d grown immune to teasing. “See you tomorrow, Jeongyeon.” 

He stepped onto the street, where daylight was beginning to fade. The cafés and shops were closing, while pubs were starting to set up their bistro tables. 

It was true that Hongjoong had become something of a ghost in his life. His letters had grown fewer and shorter, his promises increasingly abstract. 

When I get promoted, I’ll have control over my schedule. I’ll finally be able to take care of you. You can join me on voyages. I just need a little more time. 

Seonghwa had given him time, or perhaps Hongjoong had simply taken it. But somewhere along the way, he stopped believing him. 

Every time he sat down to write back, the words twisted into accusations, barbed and bitter. Each draft was worse than the last. Eventually, he stopped trying.

Maybe it ran in the family. His parents never responded to his summer solstice letter, not even with an update on his father’s health, as if ignoring everything would preserve their false image of him, their perfect heir.

“Lord Park?”

Seonghwa glanced up. A distinguished older gentleman with a serious mustache sat outside one of the pubs, cigar in hand. He had a sketchbook open in his lap and was seated with a Welsh man Seonghwa recognized from the bakery.

“I didn’t know you were a lord!” the regular exclaimed with glee. “I thought you were just a baker.”

“I am,” Seonghwa replied shortly. “How do you do, Albert?” He glanced back at his companion. “Forgive me, sir, do I know you?” He wondered if this was the man Albert always bought pastries for.

“You wouldn’t. John Singer Sargent,” he said, extending a hand. “I painted your last family portrait—I recognize you from the reference photos. Didn’t realize you were based in London now.”

“Nice to meet you. Wait…” Seonghwa’s face lit up. He hadn’t thought about Wooyoung’s portrait idea in months, nor the priceless tiara gathering dust beneath his bed. “You’re a portrait artist?”

“Yes,” John replied, his chest puffing out with pride. “My best work is Madame X, but it’s the lords and ladies who keep the bills paid.”

“Madame X?  What about your portraits of me?” Albert pouted. “The Times said they ‘cross the boundary of what is proper!’”

“Would you consider painting a portrait of me and my, um, business partner?” Seonghwa cut in. 

Albert snorted into his pint. “Business partner, huh?”

Seonghwa shot him a look. “Yes, and my roommate.”

“Oh, they’re roommates!” Albert laughed. 

John made a slow show of looking Seonghwa up and down. “I would be delighted,” he replied in a low voice, handing him a calling card. “I have openings in June.” 

Seonghwa flushed. “Thank you. I’ll reach out to set up a time. It was… nice to meet you.”

Nice was a strong word. Still, Seonghwa beamed as he made his way home, imagining his royal portrait with Wooyoung. Maybe he’d ask Jeongyeon to borrow the necklace for it too. He wondered if John would be able to use a sketch of Bukbuk as a reference. 

Seonghwa balanced his baguettes under one arm as he unlocked the door. He hung his cap on a hook and lit the gas lamp, bending to grab a handful of cherries from the fruit basket by the door. 

Then his heart sank. 

Next to the basket, a letter lay on the mat, its sender unmistakable. He sighed as he picked it up. 

Southampton, England
February 23, 1911

My sweet prince,

        I’ve missed your letters. I keep rereading the old ones, hoping to find something I overlooked, some new piece of you.

        I have news, and I hope it will bring us closer to the life we’ve dreamed of. I’ve been promoted to First Officer aboard the Olympic. You could come with me now, if you still wish to.

        With this promotion, I finally have some say over my schedule. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough for me to come to you soon. Tell me when you can spare the time, and I’ll arrange everything.

        There’s so much I want to say, but not in a letter. I’ll visit as soon as I can. Until then, write to me—let me know how you’ve been.

Yours always,
Kim Hongjoong
First Officer, RMS Olympic

P.S. San’s been promoted too. He’ll serve as a junior officer aboard the Olympic. Perhaps Wooyoung would like to join you. 

Seonghwa stared at the message, forcing himself to not read it more than once. He climbed the stairs to his room, crumpling the paper in his fist as he went. 

RMS Olympic. It must have been named for the Olympian gods on Mount Olympus, a place forbidden to mortals. 

Standing at the window, he unlocked the brass latch and flung the letter outside, watching it float down into the garden.

He had no use for empty promises. Maybe Bukbuk could use it for a nest. 

𓊝

May 1911

“Thank you,” Seonghwa said, handing the bag of pastries to the young woman in front of him. “See you tomorrow!” 

The bell above the door chimed. Seonghwa glanced up, but instead of a customer, Jeongyeon burst through the door, her face flushed. 

“Seonghwa!” she called, breathless. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Come outside,” Jeongyeon insisted. “You have to see this.” 

Seonghwa stepped out from behind the counter. “Why? What’s going on?” 

“Just come, please!” Jeongyeon begged, practically sprinting toward him. She grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the door. 

“Jeongyeon, what–” 

But she was already pushing him onto the street. “I’ll watch the register, just go!” 

Before he could protest, Seonghwa found himself out on the sidewalk, looking around for whatever had captured her interest. The street was bustling with pedestrians, but there was nothing that explained Jeongyeon’s urgency. 

Then he saw him. 

He was both familiar and unfamiliar. Seonghwa’s memory was a black-and-white photograph, and the man before him was A Visit to the Seaside. 

He was a waterfall compared to a faucet stream, the surface of the moon after a lifetime of gazing at it in the night sky. 

Hongjoong. 

“What are you–” Seonghwa began, but before he could finish, Hongjoong was there, his strong arms wrapping around him with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs. He lifted him off the ground, kissing him fiercely, his lips rough and insistent. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa whispered insistently. “People will see.” 

“I don’t care,” Hongjoong giggled. He spun Seonghwa in a dizzying circle, his legs briefly airborne, before kissing him again. 

Hongjoong set Seonghwa down and held him at arm's length, his gaze roaming over his face with awe. “My god,” he breathed, “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.” 

Seonghwa flushed, glancing away. “I’m surprised you even remember what I look like.” 

Hongjoong’s smile faltered, and then, with a sudden, dramatic movement, he dropped to his knees on the cobblestone street, grasping Seonghwa’s hands. 

“I love you,” he said, his voice raw. “I’ve known for months—for years—but I’ve been waiting to confess in person.” 

Seonghwa blinked, his heart lurching. He saw Hongjoong’s lips move, but his words were lost beneath the roar of waves crashing—resurfacing after months at bay to drag him under like a siren’s song. 

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong’s face was filled with apprehension, as if he’d sensed the shift in him. 

Seonghwa couldn’t speak. His hand slipped from Hongjoong’s, leaving a cold space between them. He took a step back, his vision blurring. 

From tears or the static in his mind, he couldn’t tell.  

“Seonghwa, I’m sorry I left you alone so long.” Desperation seeped into Hongjoong’s voice as he rambled. “I’ll make it right, I swear I will. I—I can take care of you now. And I’ll be here for a whole month, and then—come with me. On the Olympic. There’s never been a ship like her.” 

Seonghwa gazed down at Hongjoong, searching his face. His hair had grown long, dark curls peeking out from under his flat cap. 

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong repeated, his voice breaking. 

“I’m not the same person you left,” Seonghwa said quietly, averting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t be.” Hongjoong stood, his hand hovering hesitantly before landing on Seonghwa’s shoulder. “People change,” he said firmly. “And I’ll love every version of you, from now until we’re old men. I’ll prove it.” 

Seonghwa’s eyes burned, and a sob broke loose before he could stop it. He pressed a hand to his mouth, but the tears came anyway. 

Hongjoong pulled him close, holding him as he cried. His scent was intoxicating—musk, leather, and vetiver. 

The shadows stretched long around them by the time Seonghwa’s tears finally ran dry. He shivered as Hongjoong ran his fingers through his hair, his nails grazing against his scalp. 

Then, Hongjoong leaned in, brushing his lips against Seonghwa’s ear, sending an unexpected surge of heat through his body. 

“So,” he murmured. “When can I meet Bukbuk?” 

Seonghwa laughed weakly. “I get off in an hour,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve. He must look like a mess. “Come inside, I’ll show you the bakery.” 

Hongjoong’s eyes widened, as though he hadn’t expected to be invited inside. He removed his hat, holding it awkwardly in both hands. “I’d like that.” 

He reached past Seonghwa to open the door for him, and the sound of crashing waves faded as they stepped inside.

His laurel tree, now a nymph once more. 

𓊝

Chapter Text

June 1911

“What are you thinking about?” Seonghwa asked.

Wooyoung sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that made him regret asking. “Just wondering if I’m ever going to get fucked again.” 

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa hissed, looking around frantically for witnesses. 

It was their last session posing for John Singer Sargent, and he’d just stepped out for a fresh jar of linseed oil. Thankfully, the coast seemed clear. 

Wooyoung crossed his arms, leaning against a massive tapestry on the wall. “Why’d you ask if you didn’t want to know the answer?” 

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you and San still aren’t sleeping together either?”

“You don’t think I would’ve told you if we were?” Wooyoung shot him a reproachful look. “Honestly, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa shrugged. “Has he confessed his love yet?” 

“No,” Wooyoung replied, absently reaching into one of John’s pretentious porcelain pots, no doubt a souvenir from his world travels. “Not since his letters. What about you?”

“Not since I lost my mind outside the bakery,” Seonghwa admitted. 

They were taking it slow. Medieval torture slow. 

That first night, Hongjoong pressed him to his bed in the flat, and Seonghwa panicked. His throat constricted, and his lungs burned as though he were drowning. Hongjoong ended up holding him through half the night while he cried. 

Now, it was the opposite. His body burned with desire, but Hongjoong seemed afraid to touch him, hesitant to say anything that might set him off. They’d been apart for nearly a week while Hongjoong and San worked in Southampton, and the flames had only grown worse in his absence. Seonghwa could barely last a few hours without touching himself. 

The door creaked open, and John returned, a jar of bright yellow oil in hand. “Back to work,” he announced. 

Seonghwa adjusted the tiara in his hair and sat up straight, his hands clasped in his lap. The sound of brush strokes resumed, and Wooyoung placed his knobbly fingers on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. 

John used a small knife to cut oil into the paint on his palette, a thick sheet of glass balanced precariously on a tall table. “So, what’s the gossip?”

Seonghwa furrowed his brow. “What?”

“What did you boys talk about while I was gone?” John asked. “Seonghwa, relax your face. Do you want to be immortalized with a scowl?”

Seonghwa’s face reddened. “We were just–”

“We’re sailing on the Olympic’s maiden voyage in a few days,” Wooyoung interjected smoothly. “So we were trying to figure out what fashion is appropriate for New York. Aren’t you well-known there?”

“Why yes, I am.” John flashed them a smug smile that made Seonghwa purse his lips to hold in a laugh. “Seonghwa, for the love of god, relax your face.”

Seonghwa’s expression faltered for a moment before he regained control, keeping his features neutral. “I’m relaxed.”

“Will you be there the morning of the 22nd?” John asked. “A photographer friend of mine, perhaps you’ve heard of him—Alfred Stieglitz—runs a gallery at 291 Fifth Avenue. He’s hosting an exclusive opening for a Matisse exhibit during the coronation. I can write you a letter of introduction if you’d like to go.”

“The turtle painter,” Seonghwa muttered under his breath to Wooyoung. “That would be wonderful, thank you, John.”

“My pleasure,” John replied, swapping his large filbert brush for one as small as a needle. “And the two of you are a bit… flashy for New York. The dandies look less like dandies there—I’d pack some black. Seonghwa, I’m begging you to relax your face.”

Seonghwa could feel Wooyoung’s silent laughter behind him as he struggled to relax after the dandy comment. They posed in silence for the next hour, until finally, John set his brush down. 

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Faces are done. The rest will take a few months, but it’s blocked in if you want to take a look.”

Seonghwa exchanged a quick glance with Wooyoung before rising from his seat. They walked over to the canvas, taking it in for the first time.

The shadows on their faces were tinged with pink, giving them a flushed, lifelike quality. Seonghwa’s smile was subtle, his eyes bright, and he’d gotten Wooyoung’s grin just right—halfway between sultry and wicked. 

Large shapes mapped the folds of Seonghwa’s brown leather pants and matching morning coat, draped over his bare chest like a dress. The sapphires in his tiara glinted blue and violet in the light, and around his neck lay the thin gold collar Hongjoong had given him on the Runic. Behind him, Wooyoung stood in a charcoal gray suit, his black hair slicked back with a few loose strands framing his face. 

It was more realistic than flattering, but it was beautiful. 

“It’s magnificent, John,” Seonghwa said quietly. 

Wooyoung pointed to a green shape in the foreground that looked like a lime. “Is that going to be Bukbuk?”

“One and the same,” John replied with a laugh, turning to his desk. “Here,” he said, scribbling a quick note. “For Stieglitz. You’ll know the gallery because it has a sun-disk emblem on the door.” 

“Thank you, John,” Seonghwa said, tucking the note into his pocket and shaking his hand. 

John gave his hand a firm squeeze before letting go. “No, thank you. After I show it in Boston next year, it’s all yours.” 

They hid their eccentric clothes beneath oversized summer jackets and stepped onto the busy street. Seonghwa laced his fingers into Wooyoung’s, their hands swinging gently as they made their way back to the flat. 

It was hard to believe that in just over a week, they’d be in New York City—closer to Boston than to home. 

𓊝

The signet ring burned in Seonghwa’s pocket as he searched for the Red Lion, the Southampton inn where he was supposed to meet Hongjoong. Rumor had it that Henry V visited in the 15th century, condemning traitors to death in the pub for conspiring against the crown. 

Wooyoung had been in the port city for a day already, but Seonghwa had stayed behind to prepare Jeongyeon to run the bakery in their absence—leaving him to wander the streets of Southampton alone as daylight waned.

He reached a crossroads and sighed with relief. High Street, at last. A quick right turn, and he spotted Hongjoong standing in front of the pub, its half-timbered facade adorned with a red lion mascaron. 

Hongjoong hadn’t seen him yet. He was alternating between leaning against the building and pacing to the curb, scanning the street with a sharp, nervous energy. Seonghwa smiled at the sight, his fingers absently toying with the ring in his pocket. 

He wasn’t sure how he’d give it to him, but it had to be tonight. He wanted to see the glint of his silver initial on Hongjoong’s finger when they boarded the Olympic in the morning. 

Hongjoong looked up, and his entire demeanor changed. The tension left his shoulders, his eyes curving into crescents as his lips parted into a boyish smile. 

“Seonghwa,” he called out, striding toward him with purpose. 

Seonghwa’s heart swelled, his body tensing in anticipation of Hongjoong pulling him into the hard embrace he craved. But instead, Hongjoong stopped short, his arms hovering awkwardly at his sides. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said, frowning. “I’m not going to break.”

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t want to upset you,” he replied gently. 

“Well, you are upsetting me,” Seonghwa shot back, placing a hand on his hip. “I waited two years for you. I’m tired of still missing you when you’re standing right there.” His face fell as a thought struck him. “Unless… have you been seeing someone else?”

Hongjoong’s face paled. “What? No. Why would you even–”

“Because, in your letters–”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hongjoong said quickly, guilt flickering across his face. “I just didn’t want you to be alone.”

Tears stung Seonghwa’s throat. “Then do you just not want me anymore?” 

“Not want you?” Hongjoong’s jaw tightened as he took a step closer. “My want for you consumes me.” 

“Then why–”

“Because I’m trying to take care of you, Seonghwa. You tell me where the line is, and I’ll stay behind it.” His gaze lingered, burning a slow path from Seonghwa’s thighs to his chest. “But don’t think for a second that I don’t want you.” 

“Then show me,” Seonghwa breathed, their faces now only inches apart. 

Hongjoong leaned in, his breath warm against Seonghwa’s ear. “Let me take you inside,” he whispered. “And I’ll show you whatever you want.” 

The heavy door to the Red Lion creaked as Hongjoong opened it, the air thick with the hearty smells of freshly baked bread and fried fish. The interior mimicked the exterior, with a vaulted half-timbered ceiling reminiscent of a Tudor great hall. 

Hongjoong guided Seonghwa through the bustling pub, his hand boldly placed on the small of his back. The banging of tankards on wooden tables and the clatter of silverware on plates faded as they ascended a narrow wooden staircase. At the top, Hongjoong paused in front of an unassuming door, gesturing for Seonghwa to enter first. 

The room was small and spare, furnished with little more than a bed, a washstand, and a chair angled toward the window. Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on Seonghwa, as if searching for the right words to bridge the silent chasm that stretched between them. 

Months of longing boiled over, and Seonghwa snapped. 

He shoved Hongjoong against the door, swallowing his startled gasp with a bruising kiss. It was messy and desperate, a frantic clash of tongues and teeth that rattled the wooden frame. 

Seonghwa moaned into the kiss, his tongue sweeping into Hongjoong’s mouth. Heat surged through him at the feel of Hongjoong’s lips—soft now, but destined to be roughened by days spent on the deck of the Olympic. 

Without thinking, Seonghwa grabbed Hongjoong’s wrist with a firm, possessive grip. He dragged it downward, biting Hongjoong’s bottom lip hard enough to draw out a hiss as he forced his hand past the waistband of his trousers.

“Touch me,” Seonghwa whispered.

The moment Hongjoong’s fingers closed around him, Seonghwa’s mouth fell open, his knees threatening to buckle. He was already hard, his body humming with exhaustion and months of pent-up desire. 

He’d spent the past week sleeping in Wooyoung’s bed, followed by days consumed by the bakery and travel. There had been no time to take care of himself. His body ached for relief, for Hongjoong. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa groaned, his forehead pressing against Hongjoong’s. Each stroke of his hand sent jolts of pleasure through him, and it took every ounce of strength he had just to stay upright.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Hongjoong muttered, his teeth grazing Seonghwa’s jaw as his thumb swiped over the slick head of his cock, spreading it down his length.

Seonghwa tilted his head back with a choked moan, letting the sensations consume him. “I was hoping you’d be the one ruining me.” 

“Oh fuck,” Hongjoong groaned, his hand tightening. “Gladly.” 

But then his hand stilled, his expression shifting to curiosity. “What’s this?”

Before Seonghwa could answer, Hongjoong withdrew his hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out the engraved signet ring.

Seonghwa froze, blinking the lust from his eyes. “It’s–” His voice wavered. “It’s for you. From the estate.” 

“For me?” Hongjoong repeated softly, turning the ring over in his hand. He glanced up at Seonghwa, studying his face. “How long have you been carrying it?” 

Seonghwa’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson. “Almost a year,” he admitted, taking the ring from Hongjoong and sliding it onto his finger. 

Hongjoong’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, his hands flew to Seonghwa’s jacket, tugging it off roughly and tossing it on the chair. The room filled with the rustle of fabric as their clothing fell to the floor, piece by piece. 

Hongjoong’s fingers tangled in Seonghwa’s hair, dragging him along as he stumbled backwards toward the bed. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he dropped onto the edge, pulling Seonghwa onto his lap.

Seonghwa’s heart thundered in his chest, the sound filling his ears. It was the first time he’d felt Hongjoong’s bare skin against his own in two agonizing years. 

His night at the Adelphi with Wooyoung resurfaced, when Hongjoong had been nothing but a phantom in the room. Now, Hongjoong was here, flesh and bone beneath him. 

Yet still, his body screamed a different, cruel truth: that he wasn’t.

“Don’t leave me again,” Seonghwa whispered, not trusting his voice. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Hongjoong pressed his calloused fingers into Seonghwa’s thighs, gripping him so tightly the ring left a red mark on his skin. 

Seonghwa hid his face in Hongjoong’s neck, inhaling the musky scent of salt and leather he’d almost forgotten. Memories of the nights they’d spent apart clawed at the edges of his mind, and he tried to force them back. 

“Look at me,” Hongjoong said firmly. 

Reluctantly, Seonghwa pulled back, meeting Hongjoong’s gaze. The intensity in his eyes made his throat tighten. 

Hongjoong trailed a hand up Seonghwa’s back, bringing him closer until their bodies were flush, scarred bronze skin meeting smooth pale skin. 

“I mean it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Seonghwa’s collarbone. “I’m not going to leave you again.”

Seonghwa shivered as Hongjoong’s teeth found his neck, grazing his sensitive skin before biting down hard enough to bring him back into the present. The sting melted into heat, and Seonghwa’s breath hitched as he felt Hongjoong hard beneath him.

“Please,” Seonghwa whimpered. 

Hongjoong’s response was a sharp pinch to Seonghwa’s thigh that made him yelp. Then he reached beneath the pillows, retrieving a small jar. 

Their eyes met as Hongjoong cracked it open, releasing the faint scent of coconut. He dipped three fingers into the thick oil, pumping them slowly in a motion so obscene it made Seonghwa’s cheeks burn. 

Hongjoong held his gaze, his lips parting as he brought a slick finger to Seonghwa’s rim. 

Seonghwa squirmed, his hands gripping Hongjoong’s shoulders. “Please,” he repeated, his voice breaking. 

Hongjoong kissed him again, softer this time. Then, slowly, he pressed inside. 

Seonghwa gasped at the intrusion, his body tightening. After two years without it, just the burning feeling of being breached was exquisite. Hongjoong filled him knuckle by knuckle, resting his finger inside him to let him adjust.

“Are you all right?” Hongjoong whispered, pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. “We don’t have to–” 

“I’m all right,” Seonghwa interrupted in a breathy voice. His back arched involuntarily as Hongjoong’s finger curled, coaxing out a wave of pleasure that rippled through him.

“God,” he moaned, rutting on Hongjoong’s lap. “Give me another.”

“Patience,” Hongjoong said against his mouth as he swirled his finger. “I want to take my time.” 

“Two years,” Seonghwa groaned, burying his face in Hongjoong’s neck again. “You’ve had two years to take your time.” 

Hongjoong pulled his finger out entirely, circling his hole again before pushing back inside, deeper this time. Seonghwa whimpered, clutching Hongjoong tighter as he worked his finger inside him. 

The second one came without warning, sliding in alongside the first with a stretch that stole Seonghwa’s breath. His body responded instantly, a lightning bolt coursing through him, sharper and more intense than before. He moved instinctively, rocking onto Hongjoong’s hand, desperate for more. 

“Slow down,” Hongjoong said in a strained voice. His free hand gripped Seonghwa’s hip, holding him steady as he continued his careful movements. 

“Can’t,” Seonghwa gasped, his voice breaking. 

Hongjoong’s fingers began to scissor, building the pressure inside of him until it bordered on pain. Seonghwa looked down between their bodies, whimpering at the sight of himself leaking all over their stomachs, his cock red and aching. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as pleasure washed over him. 

“Hongjoong, oh—oh what the fuck–”

The stretch of Hongjoong’s third finger was blinding, almost too much, but it was the unexpected chill of the heirloom ring slipping inside him that made Seonghwa’s mind go blank. 

His body tensed as the sensation sent shockwaves through him. The weight of the ring, the feel of the smooth metal inside him, and the memory of seeing it in the portraits lining the halls of his ancestral home—it overwhelmed him. 

Every nerve in his body was on fire as he rode Hongjoong’s fingers, his body screaming for release but never finding it. It felt like it would never end, an unbearable slow burn. 

“Please,” Seonghwa begged, digging his nails into Hongjoong’s shoulders. “I need—please touch me. I can’t—Hongjoong, please–”

Hongjoong’s eyes darkened, his free hand wrapping around both of them. 

The first stroke sent Seonghwa’s head falling back, the second had his chest seizing, and by the third, he was gone.

His orgasm tore through him like an earthquake, his vision disintegrating into spots as his mouth fell open in a silent scream. He barely registered Hongjoong’s guttural groan or the warmth of Hongjoong’s release dripping down his stomach. 

Seonghwa collapsed onto him, pushing them both backwards onto the bed. His skin was slick with sweat and cum, his body drained, but he couldn’t stop the instinctive thrust of his hips. 

“Insatiable,” Hongjoong murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

They didn’t speak after that, the world fading into comfortable silence. After a makeshift bath at the basin, they crawled under the covers, their limbs heavy with exhaustion. Without a word, Seonghwa curled into Hongjoong’s arms, his head on his chest. 

They fell asleep with their limbs twisted together in the dark, desperate and tight, like drowning men clinging to each other. Seonghwa dreamed of climbing Mount Olympus, of Apollo waiting for him at the peak.

He woke to a sharp knock at the door. Squinting, he rolled over to find the bed empty, a note on the pillow. 

off to the docks, my love. wear your shirt with the lace cuffs. 

Seonghwa fumbled around the nightstand for his pocket watch, looking at it with bleary eyes. Six in the morning. 

The knocking increased in volume, as if the visitor was trying to break the door down. 

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said hoarsely. “Hold your horses, my god.” 

He looked around for something to cover himself, but fell short. Not that it really mattered. Wrapping the quilt around his waist, he shuffled to the door and cracked it open.

“Good morn–” Wooyoung’s eyes flicked to Seonghwa’s bare chest. A grin crept across his face as his tone turned teasing. “Good morning.” 

“Why are you here so early?” Seonghwa grumbled. “We don’t have to be on the ship for another four hours.”

“The paper said ten thousand spectators are expected,” Wooyoung replied, slipping past him into the room. “I was thinking we could beat the crowd and surprise them.” 

He kicked off his shoes and sat at the edge of the bed in his linen suit, looking far too comfortable for someone who just barged in.

Seonghwa flung the quilt onto him. “You couldn’t have told me that plan yesterday?”

Wooyoung caught the blanket with a dramatic flourish, but then yelped as he caught sight of Seonghwa crouching naked in front of the luggage rack.

“Seonghwa!” Wooyoung wailed, throwing the quilt over his head. “Warn a man first, for god’s sake!”

“You’re the one who woke me up at six in the morning,” Seonghwa muttered. He rifled through his suitcase until he found the shirt he was looking for. 

“For summer?” Wooyoung asked, lowering the quilt just enough to peek at Seonghwa, tying the strings at the wrists into delicate bows.

“Hongjoong requested it,” Seonghwa said, slipping into his gray suit. He stepped to the basin to slick back his hair. 

Wooyoung froze, his eyes narrowing. “Oh my god.”

Seonghwa made eye contact with him in the mirror. “What?”

“You two fucked, didn’t you?”  

Seonghwa flushed scarlet, splashing water on his face. “Maybe.”

Wooyoung groaned, flopping back on the bed dramatically. “I’m going to die a maiden.”

“You’re not a maiden, Wooyoung.” Seonghwa grabbed his hat and bag, already halfway to the door. “Are you coming or not? Why’d you wake me up just to–” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Wooyoung said, rolling out of bed to follow him out.

The journey to the docks took less than thirty minutes, Southampton Water quickly coming to view as they walked down High Street. By the time they reached Berth 44, a small crowd had already begun to gather. 

The ship was colossal, a gleaming steel Mount Olympus blocking out the sun. Seonghwa froze as they approached, his eyes snapping to the deck. 

It was the first time he’d seen Hongjoong in his summer uniform—a single-breasted, fitted white jacket paired with matching trousers that set his imagination on fire. Five brass officer’s buttons led from his neck down to his clasped hands, where light glinted off the Park heirloom ring. 

Seeing Hongjoong standing on the deck made Seonghwa feel like a whale returning to the waters in which it was born—a homecoming, their love ancient, inevitable.   

San appeared beside him, dressed in the same crisp white uniform, save for the single yellow band on his arm marking him as a junior officer. 

Wooyoung beamed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “San!” he yelled, his voice piercing the morning air. “You look so handsome!”

San stiffened, and even beneath his cap, Seonghwa could see the tips of his ears turning red. 

Hongjoong smirked as they came down the gangway to meet them. “Do I get a compliment too?” Though he spoke to Wooyoung, his gaze lingered on Seonghwa and the lace at his collar.  

Wooyoung waved dismissively. “You already know you look good. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“I didn’t expect to see you two this early,” Hongjoong said, absently twisting the ring on his finger. 

Seonghwa averted his eyes, trying to will away the memory of the cool metal slipping inside him. “We wanted to beat the crowd,” he said, his voice calm despite the pounding of his heart. He gestured to the growing throng of people behind them. “Though it seems we didn’t quite make it.” 

The dock was already teeming with onlookers, their numbers swelling with every passing moment. Men in straw boaters and women in elaborate hats with feathers and flowers craned their necks for a better view of the ship. Children darted through the onlookers, their laughter ringing out as vendors hawked newspapers and refreshments. 

Seonghwa glanced up to see Hongjoong leaning in close, his mouth brushing against his ear. 

“You look divine in that shirt, my love.”  

Seonghwa shivered as Hongjoong stepped back, adjusting his uniform. His tone reminded him of the Runic, of clandestine compliments at the officers’ table. 

“We need to return to our stations to prepare for departure.” Hongjoong gestured toward a young man with a face like a fox. “Mr. Seok is one of the second-class stewards—he can help you two get settled.”

“Thank you for coming,” San said shyly, tipping his hat before moving to stand by the gangway door.

“Gentlemen, allow me to assist you with your luggage,” the steward said with a bow, taking their suitcases. “Right this way.”

Seonghwa bit his lip as he watched Hongjoong walk away, his hips swaying slightly with each step. A sharp nudge from Wooyoung’s elbow jolted him out of his trance.

“Stop staring and come on,” Wooyoung said, rolling his eyes.

“Second-class accommodations span seven decks near the stern,” Mr. Seok recited, leading them across the bridge deck toward the second-class entrance. “The main staircase connects all seven levels, or you may use the hydraulic elevator. Facilities include the smoking room down the hall, the library on C-deck, the dining room on D, and the gymnasium on F.”

Seonghwa’s ears perked at the mention of a library. He made a mental note to find a book to enjoy out on deck if the weather stayed pleasant.

They followed Mr. Seok down a wide oak staircase that spiraled through the ship. Each landing looked nearly identical, with oak-paneled walls and red-and-cream linoleum tiles patterned with fleur-de-lis. Only C-deck stood out, where a man in a suit played There is a Green Hill Far Away on a black Steinway Vertegrand piano. The melancholic melody followed them down the stairs as they stepped onto E-deck. 

Mr. Seok led them through the corridors to their cabin, unlocking the door. The room was compact yet elegant, with glossy white enamel covering the steel walls and a maroon floral-patterned rug softening the floor. A small mirror hung above a wide mahogany washstand with twin basins, framed by matching wardrobes. 

He placed their luggage on the leather racks at the ends of the narrow beds occupying each corner. “If you need anything, my name is Matthew,” he finished with a polite smile. 

“What’s your name if we don’t need anything?” Wooyoung asked, straight-faced. 

Matthew blinked, tilting his head. “I—what?”

“Don’t mind him,” Seonghwa cut in, offering a faint smile. “Thank you, Matthew.”

Matthew bowed before closing the door behind himself. Wooyoung looked at the layout of the room, then turned to Seonghwa. 

“Two beds instead of a single. Rude,” Wooyoung quipped, tossing his hat onto the sofa. 

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh, leaning against the washing table. "Do you think they're trying to send us a message?" 

“Who cares.” Wooyoung kicked off his shoes and opened the wardrobe, putting his suits away.

Seonghwa turned toward the wash basin, fiddling with the brass taps. “This ship has running water!”

“Luxurious,” Wooyoung said, smoothing out his trousers as he hung them. 

When they both finished unpacking, Seonghwa washed his hands at the basin and fixed his hair. 

“Should we go watch the departure?” Wooyoung suggested.

“Certainly,” Seonghwa replied with a smile, adjusting his waistcoat. 

Together, they navigated the corridors, climbed three flights of stairs, and finally emerged onto the deck. By the time they reached the promenade, they were both out of breath. 

“So this is what ten thousand people look like,” Seonghwa remarked, taking in the massive crowd on the quay. He lifted his hand to wave, though no one in particular was looking his way.

“So that’s what climbing up ten thousand steps feels like,” Wooyoung panted.

Seonghwa’s gaze swept the deck. San was assisting a few late arrivals up the gangway, carrying a black notebook, while Hongjoong stood on the bridge wing, commanding the deck crew with quick, authoritative hand motions. 

The roar of the crowd seemed to fade as Hongjoong met his gaze, tipping his hat with a small smile. 

The ship's whistle bellowed, the sound a thousand times louder than a train. Cheers and waving handkerchiefs faded as the vessel slowly drifted away from the dock.

“I can’t believe this trip is only supposed to take five or six days,” Seonghwa said, watching the receding Southampton shoreline.

“I know,” Wooyoung replied, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’m excited to meet some New York dandies.”

“You would be,” Seonghwa laughed. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Should we check if they’re serving lunch yet?”

“Yes, I’m starved,” Wooyoung said, stretching. “Lead the way.”

Seonghwa nodded, guiding them toward the stairs. They descended two flights to the dining saloon, stopping in awe as they stepped inside. 

Oakwood walls and towering columns supported a beautiful, intricately carved Moroccan ceiling. The room was enormous, spanning the full width of the ship. 

Endless rows of six-top tables lined either side of the room, while two long tables ran down the center, each seating upwards of fifty people. They settled at one of the smaller tables, the white cloth draping over their laps. 

“This reminds me of when we met,” Wooyoung said with a smile. 

Seonghwa smiled at the memory. “Remember how you scared San?”

Wooyoung let out a short, high-pitched laugh. “No, I only remember how red his face was.”

Before Seonghwa could reply, a voice with a slight accent, much like Wooyoung’s, interrupted them.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” 

Seonghwa looked up to see a handsome man in a black three-piece suit, a white apron wrapped neatly around his waist. His face had an almost ethereal quality, framed by long blonde hair that caught the light. 

He looked like one of the Olympians—maybe golden Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and desire.

“My name is Mr. Yoon, and I have the pleasure of serving you today. Have you decided on your courses?”

Seonghwa glanced at Wooyoung, who was uncharacteristically quiet, staring up at Mr. Yoon with his mouth agape. The waiter met Wooyoung’s gaze, then flushed, quickly shifting his attention to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa suppressed a grin, thinking that history was about to repeat itself. He tapped the menu. “We’ll both start with the sheep’s head broth, then the sea pie with boiled potatoes. Baked apples and coffee to finish, please.”

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Yoon said with a polite bow, backing away respectfully before turning toward the kitchen. 

Wooyoung continued to stare after him, his expression unreadable. 

“What was that?” Seonghwa teased with a laugh. Wooyoung didn’t need Aphrodite, he already had Apollo under his thumb. “He’s handsome, sure, but you’ve got–”

“It’s not that,” Wooyoung said, his voice distant and his eyes fixed on the empty space Mr. Yoon had just vacated. “I know him.”

Seonghwa’s smile faltered. “What do you mean you–”

“I recognize him—from the Rocks.”

Seonghwa blinked. “You mean, from the street?” 

Wooyoung nodded grimly. 

“He’s done well for himself,” Seonghwa said quietly. 

“Looks that way,” Wooyoung said, shifting in his seat.

The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, the only sounds the ambient hum of conversation and clinking of silverware on fine china. Seonghwa studied Wooyoung, wanting to ask more, but he knew better. The past was the one thing that could make Wooyoung hold his tongue. 

The last time he’d let anything slip about himself was years ago, in the garden as they read San’s first letter. 

I thought I was in love, once. 

Seonghwa cleared his throat. “Do you think he recognized you?” 

“Maybe.” Wooyoung’s fingers drummed a restless rhythm, his eyes focused on the white tablecloth. “But probably not. It’s been fifteen years. And Jeonghan wasn’t small like me, but… he was delicate. We were both outcasts, more focused on staying alive than–” 

They were interrupted by the clatter of bowls on the table. 

“Your sheep’s head broth, gentlemen,” Jeonghan announced, setting down their dishes before disappearing without a glance in Wooyoung’s direction. 

Wooyoung’s eyes followed him until he was out of sight, then dropped to his bowl. He ate without speaking, his spoon moving mechanically while Seonghwa watched him from across the table, unsure of what to say. 

Each course passed the same way, the air between them growing heavier. By the time the baked apples arrived, Seonghwa felt like he was on fire with the things he wanted to say. Instead, he picked up his fork, halved his fruit, and slid one portion onto Wooyoung’s plate. 

When they finished their coffee and dessert, Wooyoung reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large banknote. He slid it across the table, tucking it beneath his empty mug. 

Seonghwa frowned at the amount. “What’s that for?”

“He might not remember me,” Wooyoung said softly. “But I remember him.”

For a moment, Seonghwa wanted to push. It was clear that he was wrong, that Jeonghan did remember him. It was obvious. But he nodded anyway, honoring their unspoken agreement to leave the past where it belonged. 

They rose in silence, making their way out of the dining saloon and into the hallway. As they descended the stairs, Wooyoung sighed. “That meal really took it out of me.”

Seonghwa gave him a sidelong glance, trying to gauge his mood. “How about a nap?”

Wooyoung shrugged but didn’t protest. They walked through the corridor, tension trailing after them like a shadow. 

Inside their cabin, they kicked off their shoes and hung their jackets without a word. Wooyoung crossed the room, tapping the foot of one of the beds. 

“Will you help me with this?”

Seonghwa stared blankly at him for a moment before he realized what he meant. He moved to the head of the bed, and together they pushed it flush against the other. 

Seonghwa’s mind lingered on Jeonghan as Wooyoung climbed into the makeshift bed. 

Was Jeonghan the ghost Wooyoung carried with him? 

“There,” Wooyoung said softly, patting the spot next to him. “Now it’s just like home.” 

𓊝

They'd been on the ship for three days, making two stops for mail and new passengers, and Seonghwa still hadn’t made it to the second-class library. But with the weather so mild, he figured he might as well enjoy a book out on the deck. Wooyoung was busy anyway, burying his problems beneath vigorous exercise in the gymnasium, a habit he’d picked up during their months of solitude. 

They hadn’t talked about Jeonghan since their first afternoon on the ship, and they hadn’t seen him in the dining saloon either. Seonghwa wondered if Jeonghan had switched to serving third class to avoid them. 

He stepped onto the C-deck landing and started toward the library. John had recommended The House of Mirth to him, an Edith Wharton novel about a woman’s descent from New York City’s high society into poverty and obscurity. Seonghwa had been offended initially, but he had to admit it sounded interesting.

He was just about to enter when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“I was looking for you,” Hongjoong said breathlessly, a flush coloring his cheeks. 

Seonghwa turned, surprised. “You were?” 

Hongjoong nodded, his gaze intense. “I was.” He gestured back toward the landing. “Come on.”

Seonghwa hesitated for a moment before he followed, wondering where he was being taken. 

Hongjoong stopped in front of the caged lift, speaking to the lift attendant. “I’ve got it from here, thank you, Mr. Lee.”

Mr. Lee looked between them, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. 

“I’ll bring it back,” Hongjoong added with a wink. “Just taking my friend here for his first ride.” 

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Lee replied, bowing before stepping out onto the landing.

Hongjoong held the lattice door open, ushering Seonghwa inside before closing it with a sharp click. The moment the door shut, he pulled the brass lever. The lift hummed as it began its slow descent. 

But then it jolted to a halt between decks. 

“What are you–” Seonghwa started, but Hongjoong stole the words from his mouth, pressing him against the gleaming mahogany wall. His mouth was on Seonghwa in an instant, kissing him hungrily all over his face—his lips, his nose, his cheeks. 

Surprise and desire flooded Seonghwa’s senses as Hongjoong’s hand slid to his throat, squeezing with a gentle pressure that sent flames through his body. 

“It’s been torture,” Hongjoong muttered, his thumb on Seonghwa’s pulse. “Seeing you all over the ship… and not being able to touch you.” He tilted Seonghwa’s head to the side, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up his neck. 

Seonghwa’s heart pounded as he slid his arms around Hongjoong’s waist. He wished he could feel the muscles rippling down his back, the scars on his skin. 

“For me too,” Seonghwa admitted, his fingers curling into Hongjoong’s shirt. “Every time I see your ring, I remember how it felt inside me.” 

Hongjoong groaned against Seonghwa’s neck. “Fuck, I want to feel you,” he growled. “Now.” 

His hand slid between them, cupping Seonghwa over his trousers. 

“Oh–” 

“Shh,” Hongjoong whispered, his thumb brushing over the head of his cock. 

A low, rumbling sound escaped Hongjoong’s chest, and Seonghwa bit down on his bottom lip, fighting the moan threatening to slip out. He could feel his body responding to Hongjoong already. Sweat dripped down the center of his chest, his cock straining painfully against the linen. 

Slowly, Hongjoong began pumping him through the fabric. The friction against Seonghwa’s skin made his head spin, a devastating mix of pleasure and overstimulation. 

Decorum forgotten, Seonghwa fumbled to untuck Hongjoong’s shirt, sighing as he felt the rough, sweat-slicked skin beneath. His nails dug into Hongjoong’s back, a shiver running down his spine as Hongjoong whispered obscene promises into his ear.

“You always get so sweaty,” Hongjoong murmured, his teeth grazing Seonghwa’s earlobe. “When we get to New York, I’m going to drink the sweat from your chin.” His hand quickened, his voice dropping even lower. “I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll have to limp back onto the ship—and then I’ll fuck you again.”

Seonghwa’s legs trembled, his breathing uneven. He shuddered, the pleasure coursing through his body becoming impossible to ignore as Hongjoong worked his cock through his trousers. 

“Hongjoong, please–” he stammered, panic creeping into his voice. “I don’t want to make a mess of, of myself here—please, I’m going to–”

But before Seonghwa could finish, Hongjoong was already on his knees, yanking Seonghwa’s waistband down just enough to free him.

Seonghwa’s eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping as the cool air met his flushed skin. His cock was raw from the friction, sensitive to even the lightest touch. 

Hongjoong kept his eyes locked onto Seonghwa’s as he swallowed him down.

The warmth of his mouth took Seonghwa by surprise. His hands flew to Hongjoong’s hair, tugging him closer, his hips bucking instinctively into the perfect, wet slide of his mouth. 

The combination of pressure and heat was unlike anything Seonghwa had ever felt. Hongjoong’s lips and the deft flicks of his tongue ignited a chain reaction through his body, sending shockwaves of pleasure through him. 

“Oh god,” Seonghwa gasped, his head falling back against the wall with a thud. 

His world narrowed to the warmth of Hongjoong’s mouth and the exquisite sensation of being consumed, of being wanted with such desperation that Hongjoong would take him here, in the cramped confines of an elevator between decks, where time collapsed into nothing. 

A world between worlds, like Mount Olympus. 

Hongjoong’s tongue was already too much, but then, just as Seonghwa thought he couldn’t take anymore, Hongjoong added his hands. One twisted at the base, the other cupping his balls as he bobbed up and down. 

Seonghwa’s entire body began to tremble as he spiraled, every muscle clenched as he plummeted toward the edge. 

“H–Hongjoong,” he cried out, louder than he meant to, his chest heaving with shallow breaths as the tension inside him finally snapped. 

“Hongjoong,” he gasped again, unable to stop himself, his fingers pulling at Hongjoong’s hair as he spilled into his mouth. 

Hongjoong took it all, moaning as he did so, the vibrations around Seonghwa’s sensitive skin almost unbearable. When Seonghwa pushed him away, overwhelmed and tender, Hongjoong placed a soft, lingering kiss on the tip of his cock and tucked him back into his trousers with care.

Standing, Hongjoong wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then reset the lever, the lift beginning its ascent.

As the doors slid open on C-deck, Hongjoong tipped his hat to Mr. Lee, whose face betrayed nothing. Without a word, Hongjoong stepped out, leaving Seonghwa to collect himself.

𓊝

Tuesday on the Olympic was miserable, the sun beating down on the deck relentlessly. Inside wasn’t much better, the air thick and cloying. The cool ocean was looking more and more inviting with each passing day.

“Thank god we moor in the morning,” Wooyoung muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow as they walked inside. “Another day in this heat, and I’d jump.”

Seonghwa nodded absently, his gaze falling on the D-deck broom closet. His face flushed at the memory of Hongjoong in the cramped space—specifically Hongjoong’s hands on him, breaching him with the ring again. 

“There’s no line for the elevator,” Wooyoung remarked. 

Seonghwa shot him a look of mild distaste. “It’s one floor, Wooyoung.”

“One floor on a ninety-degree day,” Wooyoung grumbled, looking like he might melt into the linoleum. “I’m not walking it. Good evening, Mr. Lee.”

“Good evening, Master Jung,” Mr. Lee said, closing the grate behind them. “Which deck, sir?” 

“E-deck, please.”

Seonghwa could feel his cheeks burning the entire ride down to E, nervous sweat dripping down his chest as his mind filled with the image of Hongjoong in the elevator, looking up at him from his knees. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Wooyoung asked, eyes narrowing as he studied Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa swallowed, hoping his voice didn’t betray him. “Nothing.”

He could’ve sworn he heard Mr. Lee stifle a laugh, the sound quickly masked by a forced cough.

Wooyoung looked between Seonghwa and Mr. Lee, his eyes widening as the realization hit him. "You didn’t." 

Seonghwa’s face went from pink to crimson. “Can we not talk about this right now?” 

Mr. Lee, ever the professional, gave them a tight-lipped smile, his expression unreadable as he guided the elevator to their stop. "E-deck, sirs." 

“Thanks, Mr. Lee," Wooyoung said, stepping off the elevator with Seonghwa close behind. The moment the grate slid shut, Wooyoung pounced. “You fucked him in the elevator, didn’t you?”

Seonghwa’s flushed chest and ears told Wooyoung all he needed to know. 

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung groaned. “San still won’t even touch me, and you’re getting fucked in elevators?”

“Shh,” Seonghwa hissed, quickly scanning the empty corridor for witnesses. “Has he said why?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “He says he wants to treat me like a gentleman would, in a way that implies I’m supposed to be the lady.” 

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh, pressing his hand to his mouth. “It’s also his first stint as an officer. He'll probably loosen up in New York.”

Wooyoung sighed as he stepped into their cabin, kicking off his shoes. “I suppose.”

Seonghwa hung his shirt in the wardrobe, then turned toward Wooyoung with a sly grin. "What if you made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?" 

Wooyoung shot him a suspicious look. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

Seonghwa stepped over to the basin to wash his hands. “I don’t know… Did you pack your corset?” He glanced up at the mirror, catching the flush spreading across Wooyoung’s cheeks.

“Maybe.”

Seonghwa dried his hands, his grin widening as he crawled into bed. "Well, they’ll have to stay on the ship for a while when we moor. What if you were already waiting for him on the bed when he gets to the hotel?"

“Wearing the corset?” Wooyoung slid in next to him, rolling away from him. “I don’t think that’ll work. I basically begged him to fuck me in Southampton and he told me he wanted to ‘make it special.’”

Seonghwa giggled as he leaned closer, pressing his chest against Wooyoung’s warm back. “I mean just the corset,” he clarified, his voice dipping an octave. 

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder. “Okay, now you’re onto something.” 

Seonghwa’s hand slid down Wooyoung’s arm, tracing the solid muscle beneath. Had Wooyoung been stress-exercising so much that his arms had grown thicker? He had spent every waking moment in the gymnasium since their departure, no doubt trying to drown out his thoughts.

Seonghwa hesitated, his fingers stilling on the curve of Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Have you... seen Jeonghan since lunch the first day?” he asked carefully.

Wooyoung stiffened. “No,” he said softly. “I haven’t.” 

Seonghwa’s hand shifted, tracing the ridges of Wooyoung’s back. There was no mistaking it now—Wooyoung had definitely filled out, his body more defined than before. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Seonghwa murmured. “But if you’re ever ready to talk, I’m here. Always.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the rustle of the blanket as Seonghwa rubbed Wooyoung’s back. When Wooyoung finally spoke, his voice was thick with tears. “I left him out there,” he confessed. “I saw my chance to get out, and I took it.”

Seonghwa’s heart twisted. “Why not talk to him? His face when he saw you—I’m sure he remembers you.” 

“Because he probably thought I was dead this whole time,” Wooyoung said, his voice breaking. “What could I even say?”

What would it feel like to lose Wooyoung—or to see him return from the dead?

Seonghwa tightened his grip, pulling him closer. “You could say you’re sorry.”

“It’s too late, Seonghwa,” Wooyoung whispered. “He let me go. I’ve got to do the same.”

As Wooyoung slowly relaxed in his arms, Seonghwa pictured it—Jeonghan wandering the slums of Sydney like Aphrodite searching for Adonis, his tears mixing with blood to stain white roses red. 

He could think of no crueler fate.

𓊝

Chapter Text

The Hotel Chelsea looked like an American’s attempt at a Gothic cathedral, its twelve-story brick facade crowned with a steep mansard roof. Inside, the marble lobby gave way to a winding wooden staircase framed by a floral wrought-iron railing, mirroring the delicate balconies outside. 

“I think I’ve climbed enough stairs this week to last me the rest of my life,” Wooyoung huffed, wiping his brow. 

“Tenth floor means we’ll get a nice view,” Seonghwa said optimistically. 

Wooyoung shot him a withering look. “Putting us on the tenth floor when the lift is broken is just spiteful. I bet it’s because of our accents.” He groaned as they reached the landing. “Fucking finally.” Squinting at the brass number plates, he waved vaguely down the corridor. “Yours is that way.”

Seonghwa leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck with Operation Corset.”

“Thanks,” Wooyoung replied with a wink. “I’ll report back at breakfast tomorrow.” 

“At breakfast?” Seonghwa exclaimed. “It’s only noon!” 

Wooyoung flashed him a wicked grin. “Right. See you at breakfast.”

Seonghwa laughed, giving him a playful shove before heading down the hall. 

The Hotel Chelsea had a reputation for eccentricity, each suite styled differently, but Seonghwa was still surprised when he opened the door. 

An enormous purple sofa took up half of the room, its velvet upholstery glittering in the sunlight. In front of it, a bright red wooden trunk repurposed as a coffee table held a small marble bust of a bear and a worn copy of The Country of the Pointed Firs. Violet bedding piled high on the bed matched the wardrobe and side tables, set off by a sprawling yellow-ochre rug and equally garish yellow wallpaper. 

Seonghwa set his luggage on the rack at the foot of the bed and checked his pocket watch. Still about an hour before Hongjoong and San were due to arrive. 

He unpacked methodically, transferring his neatly folded clothes into the violet wardrobe, then sat on the sofa with his hands clasped in his lap, trying not to stare at the door. Despite their stolen moments aboard the Olympic, his body still burned for Hongjoong. It was a wonder he’d made it through the morning without combusting.

Two years. Two long years since Hongjoong had been inside him. Hopefully a few nights alone in New York would change that.

A soft rap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. He frowned. Not loud enough to be Wooyoung, too early to be Hongjoong. 

Rising quickly, Seonghwa crossed the room and opened the door, blinking in surprise.

“Wooyoung?”

“I need your help,” Wooyoung said, his voice tight and eyes shifting nervously around the corridor. He was wrapped in a fluffy white robe, his hair mussed. 

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply, silently following Wooyoung to his room.

His suite was so unlike Seonghwa’s it felt like stepping into another hotel, save for the identical rectangular windows. The ceiling and walls were a bright azure blue, broken up with enormous sunflowers the size of umbrellas. An ornate gold mirror hung above the bed, accenting the golden thread in the duvet, patterned with shimmering peacock feathers. 

Wooyoung locked the door then stepped into the center of the room. He looked at Seonghwa for a moment, taking a deep breath. 

“Don’t laugh,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching nervously. 

Before Seonghwa could respond, the robe fell to the floor.

His jaw dropped. It had been over a year since he’d seen Wooyoung naked, maybe longer, and he looked… different. His thighs were thicker, and he seemed to be bursting out of his black corset, his muscled chest peeking out of the top. His center was thicker too, his soft stomach now framed by defined obliques.

“Good god,” Seonghwa muttered, heat rushing to his face as he tried to avoid looking between his legs. “What could you possibly need help with?” 

Wooyoung flushed a matching shade of red. “I guess I've, um, grown a bit,” he said, clearing his throat. “And, well, I can't get the damn thing on.”

He turned, exposing the wide bands of muscles rippling down his back. The corset hung loose, nowhere near laced.

Seonghwa swallowed a laugh, stepping closer. “Hold still.” He tugged the strings out, adjusting them to fit before threading them back through the grommets. The leather creaked as he pulled it taut, the strings just barely long enough to tie into a small bow.  

“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Wooyoung turned to face him again, and Seonghwa’s gaze instinctively dropped before jerking back up to meet his eyes. 

“They’ll be here any moment,” Seonghwa said, clearing his throat. “And I definitely do not want to be caught in here with you looking like that.” 

Wooyoung laughed as Seonghwa started toward the door, his earlier nerves melting away. “Wait!” he called, following him. “Help me with how to pose before you leave.”

Seonghwa’s face warmed as he turned and took in the sight of him from the front again. “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously. 

Wooyoung flashed him a seductive smile, putting a hand on his hip. “I mean, what would make you want to put your dick inside me?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Literally nothing,” he deadpanned. 

Wooyoung smacked his arm, his grin shifting into an exaggerated pout. “You nasty little liar,” he shot back, eyes darting downward. “I can see you’re hard through your trousers.”

Seonghwa’s head snapped down in alarm, and Wooyoung let out a piercing cackle reminiscent of a dolphin in distress. 

“I’m leaving,” Seonghwa huffed, crossing to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

“All fours,” he said, his voice low. “Ass facing the door.” 

The stunned look on Wooyoung’s face was priceless. Seonghwa didn’t bother hiding his smile as he stepped into the hallway, giggling to himself the whole way back to his room.

Leaving the door unlocked for Hongjoong, Seonghwa fetched the Edith Wharton book from his bag and reclined on the sofa to enjoy it. He had never read contemporary fiction before. His head was always in the clouds instead, on constellations and ancient myths. 

John said the book might help him, and reading it, Seonghwa couldn’t help but wonder which parts he meant. Maybe when Lily said goodbye to her old self, or maybe when she realized the world outside her glittering cage wasn’t as bleak as she’d once thought. 

But those weren’t the parts that stayed with him.

Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me… 

The words blurred on the page as his eyelids drooped, the warmth of the room lulling him into an unintentional nap.

When he woke, the light had shifted. Groggy and disoriented, he rubbed his eyes before looking to see what had woken him up.  

Hongjoong stood in the doorway watching him, his face illuminated by the sun. His bag slipped from his hand, thudding softly against the rug.

He looked like celestial fire, like the sun rising over Mount Olympus.

“You look comfortable,” Hongjoong said, crossing the room in a few strides. 

“Welcome home,” Seonghwa said with a sleepy smile.

Hongjoong paused mid-step, pressing his lips together like he was trying to suppress a smile. Seonghwa stretched languidly, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Hongjoong was kneeling beside him.

“What do you want to see while we’re here?” Hongjoong asked, his voice low and tender, like a prayer.

Instead of answering, Seonghwa tugged at his hands, pulling him closer. Hongjoong let out a light laugh but didn’t resist, shifting until he was lying on top of him. 

Seonghwa gazed up, struck by the sight of him. Hongjoong had never looked more beautiful, bronzed from a week spent on the deck, his face haloed by sunlight.

“Only the inside of this room,” Seonghwa whispered, weaving his fingers into Hongjoong’s hair and tugging him into a kiss. 

Hongjoong kissed him gently, then propped himself up on his hands. His bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Can I court you instead?”

Seonghwa giggled. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean it,” Hongjoong said firmly. “Let me court you properly.”

“No thank you.”

Hongjoong frowned. “What do you mean, no thank you?”

“I mean we’re already past that,” Seonghwa said with a dismissive wave. “I just want–”

“What about the flying cage at Bronx Court?” Hongjoong cut in, his face lighting up. “We could send Bukbuk a postcard.”

Seonghwa gave him a long, searching look. He wasn’t joking. “I suppose that… sounds nice.”

“The flying cage it is.” 

Hongjoong stood, stepping over to his bag to unpack while Seonghwa stayed on the sofa, watching him move around the room with quiet fascination. He placed his worn razor beside Seonghwa’s pristine one on the washbasin, then hung his suits next to Seonghwa’s longer ones in the wardrobe. 

A few days of their lives intertwining felt like a gift. 

But what would come after? 

Seonghwa sat up, his voice hesitant. “In Southampton… you said you wouldn’t leave me again. What did you mean?” 

Hongjoong paused, his hands stilling on a small stack of folded handkerchiefs. He exhaled softly, turning to face Seonghwa. 

“I meant I won’t leave you alone for months at a time,” he said. “I’ve put in the work to have more flexibility. And as First Officer, I’ll earn enough to not have to take every trip.” 

Seonghwa studied him. “Could you commit to only taking trips where you’re gone no longer than a fortnight?”

Hongjoong shook his head, looking regretful. “That’s impossible.”

Seonghwa’s heart sank, his body melting back into the sofa. 

“But,” Hongjoong added, “I could commit to trips no longer than three weeks. A week there, a week back, and a few days in between.”

Seonghwa perked up. “Three weeks,” he repeated, hope filling him again. He could live with that. 

Hongjoong nodded. “But will you come with me? Not every trip,” he said quickly, “But maybe–”

“Every other trip,” Seonghwa interrupted. “Yes, if you’ll come to London and stay with me at the flat when you’re not at sea.”

Hongjoong’s face lit up with a boyish grin. “I would love that.” He clapped his hands together. “So, the aviary now, and then lunch? That neighborhood’s known for its Italian restaurants. We could get pasta.”

Seonghwa leapt off the sofa with exaggerated speed. “You had me at pasta.” 

Hongjoong laughed as he grabbed his flat cap from the top of the wardrobe, striding into the corridor. 

Seonghwa paused by his trunk. He checked to make sure Hongjoong was out of sight, then he slipped a small jar of coconut oil into his jacket pocket before following him downstairs. 

Just in case. 

Outside, the city was alive, the sunny sidewalk packed with pedestrians heading to lunch or clutching shopping bags. Seonghwa and Hongjoong waited on the curb until a bright red Darracq taxi rounded the corner, open in the front like a hackney coach, as though the driver was steering a team of horses instead of a motorcar. Hongjoong nodded in the direction of the taxi, which was enough to bring it to a halt.

The driver stepped down from the front seat, opening the door to the cab for them. “Where to, gentlemen?”

“The flying cage at the Zoological Park,” Hongjoong replied smoothly, offering Seonghwa a hand to enter first.

Seonghwa blushed, a jolt of electricity shooting up his arm as he accepted Hongjoong’s gloved hand. Hongjoong climbed in after him, and they were off. 

The car rattled past Madison Square Park and took a left up Fourth Avenue, continuing until Fourth turned into Park. They drove by enormous homes that almost rivaled the grandeur of the estate, an eclectic mix of symmetrical Georgian Colonial homes and lush Gothic Revival buildings.

But Seonghwa barely saw the city, too focused on the feel of Hongjoong’s leg pressed against his. He pulled his glove off, then ran his bare fingers up Hongjoong’s thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath his hand.

He wondered if he could make Hongjoong ruin his trousers.

Leaning closer, Seonghwa pressed his lips to Hongjoong’s ear, inching his hand higher. “I think I’m more excited to go back to the hotel room than to see the birds.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes before responding, as if for strength, then moved Seonghwa’s hand to the leather bench, interlacing their fingers. 

“Let me do this the right way, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa blinked, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Hongjoong turned his gaze to the window, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. He pointed as they neared a bridge. “Look, we’re about to cross the river.”

But Seonghwa’s gaze stayed on Hongjoong’s face, rather than the view. 

The cab jolted to a sudden stop. The driver stepped down, opening the door for them with a courteous bow. 

“The New York Zoological Park, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing ahead as they stepped onto the pavement. “The flying cage is just through Baird Court.” 

It was hard to believe they were still in the city. On one side, the concourse was flanked by lush trees and greenery, on the other, a large lake, where cascading waterfalls filled the park with sounds not unlike the ones that had plagued Seonghwa in Hongjoong’s absence. 

Hongjoong thanked the man and pressed a folded bill into his hand. He turned to Seonghwa with a nervous smile. “Ready?”

Seonghwa nodded, stealing glances at him as they strolled through a colonnade of sharply pruned trees. Dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy above, painting Hongjoong’s delicate face golden and pink. He looked like a lotus flower floating among lily pads. 

They wove through vendors selling popcorn and fairy floss, stopping briefly at a few exhibits—bored-looking lions and lumpy hippopotamuses wrestling in a pond—before stepping into the clearing that contained the flying cage. 

Seonghwa’s mouth fell open. It was an enormous dome made of steel pipes and wire netting, tall enough to house two mature hickory trees and an oak twice as tall as the one in the garden at the flat. Birds of every shape and color flitted between branches or splashed in a sprawling pool of water, bordered by a mix of sand, grass, and shrubbery. 

A sprawling estate prison for birds. 

Seonghwa watched as a massive eagle flew the same path over and over, like a sentry on patrol. Below, the flamingos in the pool were less pink than he had imagined they would be, perhaps dulled by captivity. 

He could’ve stood there forever, mesmerized by the patterns in their flights and their beautiful songs and chatter. Maybe they were content to fly in circles, to swim in their little pond, simply because they didn’t know they were being kept from a whole infinite world. 

“Seonghwa?”

He turned, meeting Hongjoong’s gaze. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Seonghwa said softly. “They’re beautiful.”

Hongjoong glanced around the clearing. When he was sure no one was watching, he leaned in, pressing a bold kiss to his lips. Seonghwa chased his mouth, but he pulled away with a teasing smile.

“Will you allow me to feed you now?” Hongjoong asked.

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh. “I’ll allow it.”

They walked hand in hand past the Zebra House and up 187th, until the street became more densely packed. Pushcarts crowded the Belgian blocks with vendors hawking fruits, sausages, and hand pies. Checkered awnings in every color cast shadows over intimidating men in aprons, standing outside their restaurants and glowering. The smell was incredible—tomato vines, red wine, and fresh bread. 

Seonghwa’s steps slowed as they passed an alleyway, a brief reprieve from the crowd. Impulsively, he tugged Hongjoong into the narrow street, pushing him up against the cool brick wall. 

His lips brushed Hongjoong’s ear before moving to capture his mouth in a kiss, but Hongjoong stopped him, grabbing him by the arms. His firm grip sent a fresh wave of heat through Seonghwa’s lower half.

“Let me buy you lunch first,” Hongjoong said softly, his voice uncharacteristically earnest. “Please.”

For a moment, Seonghwa stood frozen, the rejection stinging more than it should have. He forced a smile and let Hongjoong take his hand as they stepped back onto the bustling street.

But as the noise of the city swallowed them, a thought crept in, unwelcome and insistent, like ivy weaving through a trellis.

Had Hongjoong cracked open his glittering cage only to place him back inside?

𓊝

A gentle knock startled Seonghwa awake. He slipped from bed, careful not to disturb Hongjoong sprawled across the sheets, his arm draped over the pillow Seonghwa had just vacated. 

The evening had been strange, bittersweet. Hongjoong had ignored his advances—not coldly, but with a gentleness that stung even more. He insisted he wanted to hold him instead, though the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressed against Seonghwa’s back for half the night. 

Seonghwa pulled on the fluffy white hotel robe, tying it loosely around his waist as he padded to the door. He opened it to find a bellboy standing stiffly in the hallway. 

“Morning wake-up call, sir,” the boy said politely.

“Thank you,” Seonghwa replied, placing a coin in his hand. The boy tipped his cap, then retreated down the corridor. 

Seonghwa shut the door, leaning against it for a moment as his gaze drifted back to Hongjoong. His face was pressed against the pillow, his delicate profile softened by sleep. Beside him on the nightstand, the heirloom ring nestled inside the gold collar Hongjoong had given him on the Runic.

He didn’t understand what had changed between the Olympic and the Hotel Chelsea, why Hongjoong suddenly seemed content to let his fire simmer beneath the surface. Maybe being surrounded by reminders of domestic life had tempered him, made him hold himself back. 

Seonghwa sighed, moving quietly around the room. Hongjoong, and probably San too, would want to sleep in, their week in New York a rare respite from the fractured rest they got at sea. 

Seonghwa grabbed a bar of soap, a towel, and a fresh set of underclothes from the wardrobe. The Chelsea didn’t have ensuite bathrooms, but sharing one tub with the other tenth-floor guests was a luxury compared to two tubs for all of second-class aboard the ship, so he might as well take advantage of it. It was unlikely anyone else was up this early anyway.

Slipping out of the room, he headed to the bathroom at the end of the corridor. As he cracked the door, he jumped—someone was already there.

Wooyoung stood beside the clawfoot tub, one foot poised to step in. His head whipped toward the door at the sound, but his expression quickly relaxed into a mischievous grin as he realized who it was.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” he teased, lowering himself into the steaming water. “Hop on in.”

Seonghwa laughed as he turned to leave. “I didn’t think anyone else would be up this early. Sorry, I should’ve knocked.”

“Don’t be, I forgot my soap, and I know you brought some,” Wooyoung said with a yawn. “Come on, there’s plenty of room.”

Seonghwa hesitated, but then closed the door, making sure to bolt the lock. He hung his robe on the back of the door next to Wooyoung’s, then stepped into the warm water. They settled opposite each other, knees knocking together as they adjusted. Wooyoung took the soap from Seonghwa and lathered his hands.

“Turn around,” he instructed, motioning with a finger.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, shifting to let Wooyoung scrub his back. “So, was Operation Corset a success?” he asked over his shoulder.

The soap paused briefly against his shoulder blade. “You could say that.”

“Oh?” Seonghwa teased. “Care to elaborate?”

“Absolutely not,” Wooyoung said. “What are you wearing to the gallery?”

“I’m going with John’s suggestion and doing my black linen summer suit,” Seonghwa replied, turning around and taking the soap to wash under his arms. “But I’m going to wear my corset instead of a waistcoat, spice things up.”

Wooyoung groaned. “I wish I could do that, but–”

“–But yours is soiled?” Seonghwa interrupted.

Wooyoung shrieked with laughter, splashing water into Seonghwa’s face. Seonghwa sputtered, slipping as he tried to get on his knees to retaliate. The two of them wrestled in the tub like children, their laughter echoing in the white-tiled room. Seonghwa was reminded of the hippos in their pond at the Zoological Park. 

“All right, all right!” Wooyoung gasped, shoving Seonghwa back into his corner and sending water sloshing over the sides of his tub. Wet hair clung to Wooyoung’s forehead as he wiped his face. 

Seonghwa stood and reached for a towel, dripping onto the floor as he dried off. “Borrow my long leather gloves for the gallery,” he suggested. “Still black but adds a bit of flash.”

Wooyoung’s face brightened. “That’s perfect!”

Seonghwa pulled on fresh underclothes. “Meet me out front once you’re dressed?”

“Sounds good,” Wooyoung replied, raking a damp hand through his hair. “Bring the gloves.”

Back in the suite, Seonghwa dressed as silently as he could, slicking his hair back at the washbasin before putting on his own gloves. He grabbed a soft felt derby hat on his way out, closing the door softly and heading toward the stairs.

He spotted Wooyoung waiting by the entrance, his hair still damp beneath his cap. Wooyoung grinned and wiggled his fingers as Seonghwa pulled the leather gloves from his pocket and helped him slip them on.

“You’ll have to come up with an excuse to take off your jacket to show these off,” Seonghwa said, pulling the leather up to Wooyoung’s elbows.

Wooyoung cackled, gesturing to Seonghwa’s corset. “If we take our jackets off, they’ll think we’re the entertainment.”

Seonghwa laughed as they stepped onto 23rd Street. Even at 7:30 in the morning, the city was bustling with pedestrians, cyclists, and pigeons. Vendors pushed carts yelling about bagels, while men with briefcases shoved past them. He wondered if they might really open a bakery in New York one day, if this could become their second home. 

John wasn’t kidding about the fashion. While the streets of Chelsea were filled with a variety of colors and silhouettes, New Yorkers seemed to have a uniform—a casual black suit topped with a bowler hat for men, and a boxy black dress for women, obscuring the shapes of their bodies but showing their ankles. Seonghwa wasn’t used to seeing so much skin.

Especially lately. 

“Hongjoong won’t fuck me,” Seonghwa said abruptly.

Wooyoung nearly tripped over his own feet. “Excuse me?”

Seonghwa sighed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “We’ve done other things, but he hasn’t actually fucked me since before they left.”

“Hold on.” Wooyoung stopped in his tracks, planting his hands on his hips as if preparing for an argument. “In Southampton, you made it sound like–”

“I know,” Seonghwa interrupted. “I thought we were getting there, but now it’s different. It’s like he’s holding back.”

Wooyoung groaned dramatically, resuming his pace beside Seonghwa. “Oh, he’s pulling a San.”

Seonghwa frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Wooyoung gave him a sympathetic look. “You’re the lady.”

“I am not the lady.” 

“Right,” Wooyoung said, snickering under his breath. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Seonghwa flushed, his scowl deepening as he averted his eyes, watching the faces of strangers as they passed. A flash of familiar blonde hair caught his attention—ethereal, almost otherworldly. 

Wooyoung’s ghost. 

The figure turned down Sixth Avenue, vanishing into the morning haze before Seonghwa could be certain. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look, just as a passing bicycle startled a large flock of pigeons. 

The pigeons took flight in a chaotic flurry, heading straight for them. Seonghwa instinctively threw up his arms to cover his head, but one flew too close, grazing his cheek with its grimy wing.

Seonghwa recoiled, swiping at his face. “Disgusting little beast!”

Wooyoung squealed with laughter, grabbing Seonghwa’s shoulder for balance. “I thought you liked birds!”

“Pigeons aren’t birds,” Seonghwa snapped, suppressing a gag. “I need to go back to the hotel and wash my face.”

“Seonghwa,” Wooyoung started, his voice strained from holding in his laughter, “There’s no way we’re going back. We’d miss the whole event!”

“That pigeon touched me, Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung pressed his lips together in a poor attempt at hiding his grin. “I heard if a pigeon touches you, you’ll have good luck all year.”

Seonghwa glared at him. “Who told you that? A pigeon!?”

Wooyoung lost his battle, doubling over in laughter. Seonghwa’s anger faded, and he started laughing too, only made worse by the stone-faced New Yorkers staring at them as they clutched at each other, gasping for breath with tears streaming down their faces.

They finally managed to compose themselves as they turned onto Fifth Avenue. After several blocks, Wooyoung slowed, his eyes on a shopfront displaying polished wooden cabinets. Seonghwa glanced at the number plate.

291 FIFTH AVENUE

“This can’t be it,” Wooyoung said. “Where the hell is it?”

Seonghwa tilted his head and looked up. On the fifth floor, a backlit sculpture of a woman’s head loomed in front of the window, grotesque even when viewed from the street, her features distorted at unnatural angles. 

“Up there.”

Wooyoung squinted. “That’s… unsettling.”

“That’s art,” Seonghwa replied grimly. “Let’s go up.” 

The staircase was narrow and winding, lit by faint bulbs dangling from exposed wires. Seonghwa touched the wall for balance, and his glove came away dusty.

“Cozy,” Wooyoung muttered.

They reached the fifth floor and walked down the corridor until they found the door with the emblem John told them about, a golden sun with a strange face in the center of it. 

Wooyoung knocked loudly.

Seonghwa elbowed him. “What are you doing?”

“Knocking?”

“You’re pounding. It’s a gallery, not a pub–”

The door creaked open, interrupting their bickering. A sharp-dressed man with a finely groomed mustache sized them up. Seonghwa flushed and fumbled in his jacket for the letter of recommendation, but the man just winked and stepped aside. 

“Please, gentlemen,” he said, his eyes on Wooyoung’s waist. “Enjoy the exhibit.”

The gallery was narrow like the hallway, but that was where the similarities ended. The walls were alive with paintings, including the original of the print hanging in Seonghwa’s bedroom. There was almost no furniture, just a single built-in shelf circling the walls, crowded with strange statues. 

“I’m going to look for refreshments,” Wooyoung whispered. Seonghwa nodded, then made his way over to the window they’d seen from the street. 

Up close, the bust was even worse. Maybe it was because of his recent assault at the wings of a pigeon, but to Seonghwa, the sculpture looked half-woman, half-pigeon, with feather-like ridges running down the back of her head instead of hair. He grimaced.

“Do you like what you see?” 

“Not really,” Seonghwa said without thinking. He winced as he turned. 

A short, handsome man who looked to be around his age stood behind him holding a Brandy Alexander, his dark hair slicked neatly to one side. He laughed, his voice deep and smooth.

“Well, I haven’t heard the truth in quite some time.” He extended his free hand. “I’m Pablo.”

“Seonghwa,” he replied, shaking his hand. Pablo’s gaze lingered on Seonghwa’s corset before meeting his eyes again.

“Do you like my exhibit?” Pablo asked, an amused tilt to his mouth.

Seonghwa frowned. “Your exhibit?” Matisse was French, but this man had a Spanish accent.

“Yes,” Pablo said, leaning against the wall in what was clearly meant to be a seductive pose. “My first in the States.”

“Oh,” Seonghwa said awkwardly. “Um, congratulations?”

Pablo chuckled. “You haven’t heard of me?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Pablo Picasso. I invented cubism so my friend Henri Matisse would have something to do with himself.”

Seonghwa blinked, unsure how to respond. “Nice,” he said vaguely, scanning the room for Wooyoung.

“I like your jacket,” Pablo remarked, boldly touching the breast pocket. He raised his drink and flashed him a sultry look. “Can I get you a–”

A gloved hand clapped onto his shoulder. “Lord Park, please tell me you’re ready to get—oh.” Wooyoung froze mid-sentence, his eyes darting to Pablo. “Whoops, sorry–”

“Lord Park?” Pablo started, leaning in a little closer.

“Welcome to Gallery 291 and the first Matisse and Picasso exhibit this side of the Atlantic,” a booming voice interrupted. Seonghwa used the distraction to take a small step away from Pablo. “I’m Alfred Stieglitz,” the man continued. 

“Do you think he and John are friends because they both have mustaches?” Wooyoung muttered. Seonghwa stifled a laugh.

Alfred raised his drink. “As you know, at 8:40 a.m. New York City time, a very important event is happening in England—the electric clock at the Royal Liver Building in Liverpool is being set into motion.” 

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Same sense of humor too,” Seonghwa said under his breath. Wooyoung disguised his laugh with a cough.

“And I suppose another King George is being crowned at Westminster Abbey,” Alfred added with a smirk, lifting his glass higher as a chime sounded behind him. “It’s time! To art, and to clocks.”

“To art and clocks!” the crowd echoed.

Seonghwa leaned toward Wooyoung. “Can we leave now?”

Wooyoung sighed in relief. “God, I thought you’d never ask.”

They slipped out quietly without saying goodbye. As soon as they reached the dingy staircase, Wooyoung groaned. “What a bunch of pretentious dandies.”

Seonghwa laughed. “Why did I think it would just be paintings of turtles?” 

They stumbled onto Fifth Avenue, still giggling as they reimagined turtles into each of the strange, abstract pieces from the exhibit. 

“Pablo was eyeing me like he wanted to paint me,” Seonghwa said with disdain. He reached up to adjust his pocket and flushed as he pulled out a calling card with a hotel room and a single name written on it. 

PICASSO

Wooyoung eyed the card and snorted. “Oh, he wanted to do more than just paint you.” 

Seonghwa’s laughter faded, his mind drifting back to his predicament. He reached for Wooyoung’s hand as they wove through the crowd, heading back toward 23rd Street. 

“Wooyoung, do you—um, what do you think I should do?”

Wooyoung didn’t ask him to clarify. “Ask for what you want,” he said simply. “He can’t read your mind.”

Seonghwa nodded, but his heart sank. Easier said than done. 

𓊝

Like all good things, their trip was over too soon. 

On their last evening in New York, Seonghwa stood on the staircase of the Chelsea, blindfolded with one of Hongjoong’s ties. He gripped the railing with one hand and Hongjoong’s steady hand with the other, his pulse thundering in his ears. 

He’d laughed on the Olympic when Wooyoung said San wouldn’t touch him because he ‘wanted to make it special.’ But after a few romantic days in New York spent untouched despite every opportunity, Seonghwa wasn’t laughing anymore. 

The blindfold seemed promising, though.

“One more step up,” Hongjoong said softly, his other hand resting on Seonghwa’s lower back, guiding him carefully. 

The moment they reached the top, cool air swept over Seonghwa’s face, carrying the faint, sweet scent of dogwood blossoms.

Hongjoong untied the blindfold, the silk whispering against Seonghwa’s skin as it slipped free.

“Surprise,” Hongjoong said, sounding nervous. 

Seonghwa blinked, his breath catching as his eyes adjusted. A lush expanse of flowers and tall trees stretched before him, interspersed with seemingly random architectural features. Stairs leading nowhere, fragments of columns, panels of stained glass reflecting the moonlight. The only other light source streamed from the windows of a strange, shingled cottage shaped like a tall pyramid. 

It was a place straight out of Arcadia, the pastoral utopia where nymphs lived.

“Where are we?” Seonghwa asked, looking around with wonder. 

“On top of the Chelsea,” Hongjoong said. “One of the first rooftop gardens. Perfect for stargazing.” 

In the center of the garden, a thick quilt was spread over a brick clearing, a small picnic basket perched on top. 

“I rented it out,” Hongjoong added, watching Seonghwa closely. “It’s ours for the night.”

Seonghwa bit his bottom lip, his gaze lingering on the blanket’s careful placement—nestled between the trees, far from the roof’s edge, as though they were on solid ground rather than twelve stories up.

He turned to Hongjoong. “It’s perfect,” he whispered. “Thank you.” 

Hongjoong’s hand found his again, guiding him to the quilt. Moss and small wildflowers grew from cracks in the mortar, making the rooftop feel like an abandoned building the earth had slowly reclaimed over decades. 

Seonghwa sat beside Hongjoong on the blanket, watching as he rummaged through the picnic basket. After a moment, he pulled out a small wooden box, setting it in front of Seonghwa and nervously biting his bottom lip. 

“For me?” Seonghwa asked.

“Sort of.”

Seonghwa slid off the lid, his brow furrowing as he peered inside. Nestled within was a tiny stuffed bird, not unlike a lime. He laughed softly, lifting it for a closer look. It had small jewels for eyes and a tiny golden beak. 

“It looks just like Bukbuk,” he remarked with a smile. “When did you get this?”

“I found it while you were out with Wooyoung,” Hongjoong replied. “I thought he could keep you company when I’m away—or keep Bukbuk company when you’re traveling with me.”

“Thank you,” Seonghwa said, kissing him softly on the cheek. “I love him.”

Cradling the little parakeet against his chest, Seonghwa laid back onto the quilt, his eyes on the stars. He heard Hongjoong shift beside him, then felt the brush of his shoulder. 

“Tell me about Ursa Major,” Hongjoong murmured. 

Seonghwa glanced at Hongjoong, taking in his profile, the gentle slope of his nose and lips pointing to the stars. Hongjoong knew them by different names, for their navigational use rather than their stories. 

“The Great Bear,” Seonghwa said, lifting his face back to the night sky. “Callisto was a nymph, and Zeus forced to break her vow of chastity because he wanted her. When the other nymphs found out she was pregnant, they turned her into a bear as punishment.” 

Hongjoong frowned, turning to look at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Seonghwa said, absently running his thumb over the bird’s feathers. “Later on, her son didn’t recognize her—he thought she was just a bear. He hunted her, so Zeus turned them both into constellations to save them.” He gestured toward Ursa Minor. “The Little Bear.”

“But it was his fault to begin with,” Hongjoong replied indignantly.

“Zeus is the king of the Olympians,” Seonghwa said. “You could argue everything is his fault.”

He turned his head to the side to find Hongjoong already looking at him. 

“Is there a god who chooses who you love?” Hongjoong whispered. 

“Eros,” Seonghwa answered, his gaze drifting to Hongjoong’s mouth. He set the bird aside on the blanket, where it watched him with its glittering eyes. 

“Is he fair?” Hongjoong asked. 

Seonghwa swallowed. “No,” he murmured, his gaze now lingering on the mole on Hongjoong’s neck. “None of the gods are fair.” 

Hongjoong licked his lips. Their eyes locked, and then he moved. 

The shift was sudden, a blur of motion as Hongjoong rolled on top of him. The world tilted as Seonghwa’s back landed against the quilt, knocking the air from his lungs. Hongjoong’s lips found his, kissing him sweetly at first, the way he’d been kissing him all week. 

But then he gave it to Seonghwa the way he wanted, licking and biting at his mouth. The blanket scrunched beneath Seonghwa’s back as Hongjoong rolled his hips, catching him off guard and dragging a wanton moan out of him. 

Seonghwa’s mind was already foggy, clouded with desire and the bitter knowledge that this was their last night in the city. He slid his hands up Hongjoong’s shirt, digging his nails into his back as he remembered his whispered promises in the world between worlds on the Olympic. 

Before he could reconsider, Seonghwa surrendered to impulse and took Wooyoung’s advice. 

“Fuck me,” he said, his voice firm, like he was stating a fact. A demand, not a question. 

The lord’s way. 

Hongjoong froze above him. “What?” he asked, incredulous.

“You heard me.” Seonghwa’s jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts. “Fuck me, right here, right now. Or I’ll go find someone who will.”

For a moment, Hongjoong didn’t move. Then his expression twisted. “What the hell did you just say to me? What’s gotten into you–”

“I said, fuck me,” Seonghwa repeated, his voice rising with desperation. “I’ve wanted you all week—all month—ever since you came back, and for months before that. Please, I’m ready–”

“Ready?” Hongjoong bit his lip, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “Seonghwa, I regret—If we were courting, it wouldn’t have happened like this–”

“We’re not courting,” Seonghwa snapped, his heart pounding in his chest. He was unsure when this had turned into a fight, but it had, and he wasn’t going to back down. “I’m not a woman, remember?”

Seonghwa stuck his index finger into his mouth, wetting it before slipping his hand into the back of Hongjoong’s trousers. Hongjoong stiffened, his eyes widening. 

“What are you doing?” he rasped.

Seonghwa’s voice dropped an octave. “Even if I was a woman,” he said, his finger pressing inside him, just past the first knuckle, “I wouldn’t be a lady.”

Hongjoong’s body jolted. He growled, his lips crashing down on Seonghwa’s again in a kiss that bordered on violent, the heat between them reigniting with a sharper edge. 

When Hongjoong pulled back, his voice was tight, like he was struggling to control himself. His arms trembled with the effort. “I’m trying to treat you right, Seonghwa. I want to–”

“Well, no one’s asked me what I want.” 

Hongjoong stilled. “What do you want?”

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, the tension within him spilling over into words darker and more honest than he intended. 

“I want you to use me,” he said, his voice low. “I want you to split me open. I want you to have to carry me back to the ship in pieces, and then I want you to hide me in your room all week, so you can use me whenever you want.”

“Jesus Christ–” Hongjoong started, but he didn’t have a chance to say more.

Seonghwa surged upward, pushing Hongjoong onto his back and climbing over him. Their mouths met again as Seonghwa clawed at Hongjoong’s shirt, pulling at the buttons with clumsy urgency. He yanked it off, casting it aside before slipping his thumbs beneath Hongjoong’s waistband, tugging his trousers and underwear down. 

Hongjoong opened his mouth to speak, but whatever protest he had died in his throat when Seonghwa rose, shedding his own clothes until he stood bare and silver in the moonlight. For once, he folded nothing, leaving their clothes in a messy pile. 

“Seonghwa, I don’t have–” Hongjoong’s sentence trailed off as he watched him kneel. 

Drunk on the power of Hongjoong’s full attention, Seonghwa arched his back into a delicate curve as he reached into his jacket pocket for the small jar he’d been carrying around all week. 

Seonghwa dipped his fingers into the oil, spreading it over his hand as he gazed at Hongjoong, who was staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time. He straddled Hongjoong’s legs, lifting his hips just enough to press a finger into himself. 

“Oh fuck, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong breathed, his eyebrows arching in the middle of his face. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch, his eyes flickering as they followed the motion of Seonghwa’s hand. 

Seonghwa whimpered as he worked himself open, more at the feeling of Hongjoong’s eyes on him and the sounds he was making than his own touch—low, throaty hums and curses. 

He quickly added a second finger, sliding it in with a desperate push as he took in the sight of Hongjoong beneath him, his hands clenched into fists, his cock leaking against his stomach. 

Seonghwa scissored his fingers, but it didn’t feel the same as when Hongjoong did it, not even close. He was too impatient, more focused on preparation than pleasure. He tried to slip in a third, but the angle worked against him. 

Frustrated, he yanked his fingers out and grabbed Hongjoong’s hand, guiding it between his legs. 

“Oh,” Hongjoong gasped, biting his lip as Seonghwa lowered himself onto three of his fingers. Hongjoong immediately curled them, sending sparks flying through his body like shooting stars. 

“God,” Seonghwa moaned, his body stretching to accommodate Hongjoong’s hand. “Why does it feel so much better when you do it?”

Hongjoong’s thumb teased the sensitive skin between Seonghwa’s rim and his balls, making his hips jerk. “Maybe because you like giving me control.”

The words made Seonghwa shiver, and he began rocking his hips, desperate to drive Hongjoong deeper. The stretch burned in the best way, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

He pulled Hongjoong’s fingers out, even as his body screamed to let him keep going. With trembling hands, he scooped out a generous amount of oil from the jar, then reached for Hongjoong’s cock, wrapping his slick fingers around it. 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong groaned, his voice deep and wrecked as Seonghwa pumped him, spreading the oil with slow strokes until he glistened under the faint light of the stars. “Are you sure you’re—you’re ready–”

Seonghwa didn’t reply, instead positioning himself above him, tense with anticipation as he lined up their bodies. Slowly, inch by inch, he began to lower himself. 

The moment the head breached him, Seonghwa looked up toward the stars and let out a keening wail that echoed across the garden. It was simultaneously perfect and too tight, warm and scorching hot—like being filled by the sun, or consumed by it. 

Hongjoong’s hands found his hips, gripping him tightly. “Oh shit, Seonghwa,” he rasped, his voice raw with awe and lust. “You look incredible up there.” 

Seonghwa sank down until Hongjoong filled him completely, taking a shaky breath as he adjusted to the fullness. Then he began to grind his hips in tight, deliberate circles, moaning as Hongjoong’s cock reached new places inside him. 

Hongjoong’s head fell back, his fingers digging into Seonghwa’s hips. “Jesus,” he muttered. 

Seonghwa lifted himself, the drag of Hongjoong’s thick cock inside him almost too much to bear, then sank back down slowly, seeking the right angle. When he found it, flames of pleasure licked up his spine, lighting him up from the inside out. 

“You feel so good,” Seonghwa breathed, leaning forward to sink his hands into Hongjoong’s chest. He repeated the motion, faster this time, his pace building as he worked himself into a steady rhythm. 

The garden around them felt surreal, like it was everything at once, civilization, forest, and bedroom. The sounds of the city below—distant shouts and engines, the clatter of hooves on stone—blended with the rustle of leaves, and now the sounds of their love, of skin meeting skin.

Seonghwa’s thighs ached, his muscles straining as he rode Hongjoong, but the pleasure was addictive, a fiery crescendo he didn’t want to end. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolling down his temples and cheeks. He reached up to wipe it away, but Hongjoong caught his wrist.  

Seonghwa froze, his chest heaving as their eyes met. 

Hongjoong sat up abruptly, one hand sliding to Seonghwa’s waist, the other bracing himself on the ground. He thrust upward, hard enough to make Seonghwa cry out. 

Then his tongue darted out, catching the sweat dripping from Seonghwa’s chin. 

It was so intimate, so vulgar that Seonghwa felt the pressure inside him begin to peak as Hongjoong continued fucking up into him. Hongjoong’s hand tightened on his waist, forcing him down to meet each of his thrusts. 

Seonghwa’s pace faltered, and Hongjoong seemed to notice the shift immediately. In one swift motion, Hongjoong flipped them, pressing Seonghwa into the blanket. 

Hongjoong gripped his slick thighs, spreading him wider before angling him up. He bent Seonghwa nearly in half, nipping his ear as he murmured, “Let me take care of you.”

Seonghwa couldn’t respond, couldn’t think beyond the overwhelming pleasure of Hongjoong’s next thrust. He moaned, his back lifting off the ground as fire exploded through his body. The pace was brutal, every snap of Hongjoong’s hips sending waves of pleasure twisted with pain crashing over him.

He clung to Hongjoong’s back, his nails digging into the taut muscles as his mind fractured, every coherent thought dissolving into a haze. Seonghwa’s head tipped back, his lips parting in a helpless moan as tension coiled tighter within him, unbearable and infinite. 

He felt like he was floating in Arcadia, in a new world where only the forest, Hongjoong, and the sensations in his body existed. His release built again, his body trembling with the mounting pressure. Hongjoong’s hand found its way between them, wrapping around Seonghwa’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts–

And then it hit him, a never-ending swell of ecstasy, breaking and building in waves, each crest more intense than the last. He arched into Hongjoong as he filled the endless black night with his screams. The pleasure didn’t ebb but surged again and again, leaving him gasping and writhing between the trees. 

Hongjoong fucked him through his high and then kept going, prolonging the aftershocks until Seonghwa’s body was raw and pliant beneath him, melting into the bricks. 

“I’m close,” Hongjoong said in a strained voice, his pace becoming erratic. 

Desperate to push him over the edge, Seonghwa reached behind him, breaching Hongjoong with a single slick finger. The sharp intake of breath and look of surprise on Hongjoong’s face sent a surge of deep satisfaction through him as he curled his finger. 

“Oh, fuck,” Hongjoong choked out. His body tensed, and then he was cumming, a guttural cry tearing from his throat.

Hongjoong’s eyes rolled up to the sky, and he screamed, so loud Seonghwa wondered if the stars might fall, if their love and pleasure was so strong it could turn Callisto into a nymph once more. 

Finally, Hongjoong’s thrusts slowed, and he collapsed, still buried inside him. He planted his arms on the ground to lift himself, just enough to grab the edge of his undershirt and hastily clean the mess between them. 

“No one else gets to fuck you,” Hongjoong murmured hoarsely, his eyes darting down to where they were still joined. “Only me.” 

He buried his face in the curve of Seonghwa’s neck, his body flush against him as he peppered soft, lingering kisses along his skin.

Seonghwa hesitated, his fingers trailing over the sweaty line of Hongjoong’s spine before he asked, softly, “Then why did I have to beg you to do it?” 

Hongjoong stilled. For a moment, the sounds of the city and the forest rushed back in, the world loud despite the silence between them. 

Then he gently thrust into Seonghwa, flooding the garden with his whimpers. 

“Because I realized you’re it for me,” Hongjoong whispered into the curve of Seonghwa’s ear, as though he couldn’t face him. “And I wish I could take it all back and do it properly.” Hongjoong’s face grew damp against his skin, his voice thick with shame. “I’ve been acting like an animal. I was weak—I’m still weak.” 

“You have me already,” Seonghwa said quietly. “You don’t need to be anything different than what you are.”

Hongjoong lifted himself, showing his face. His lips parted, and then he nodded, resting his forehead against Seonghwa’s as he let out a shuddering breath. 

“Still, I regret leaving you,” Hongjoong whispered, closing his eyes. “And not courting you first, as I should have.” 

“Your ambition isn’t a crime against me.” Seonghwa traced a hand over the ridges of Hongjoong’s back. “I ached for you, it’s true—but I never had the chance to do anything on my own until you left.”  

Seonghwa wove his fingers into Hongjoong’s hair, tugging him upward so he could see his expression. Then he clenched around him. 

Hongjoong’s mouth fell open in stunned pleasure, his brows knitting together. He leaned down to kiss him, sweet and soft, though Seonghwa could feel his cock stirring to life again inside him.

“I’m powerless against you,” Hongjoong murmured, gently rolling his hips, as if he couldn’t help himself. 

Seonghwa arched instinctively to meet his movements, the fire between them sparking back to life as Hongjoong began thrusting into him in earnest. 

Stripped bare beneath Hongjoong and the starlight of Callisto, on the cusp of an infinite evening, Seonghwa’s mind drifted to the pages of The House of Mirth. 

Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well—you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. 

It has always helped me. 

𓊝

Chapter Text

Seonghwa lounged on Hongjoong’s bed, flipping through his borrowed copy of The Country of the Pointed Firs as the ship swayed beneath him. 

Borrowed might be a stretch. But he’d left the Wharton novel behind at the Chelsea, so it was an even trade, as long as Pointed Firs found its way to the ship’s library when he was done.

He stretched across the large featherbed, reaching for his coffee. Morning sun streamed in through a wide square window, reflecting off the brass astrolabe on the drafting table. Navigational tools and charts cluttered every surface, even the top of the wardrobe. 

Hongjoong’s cabin on the Olympic was far more spacious than his quarters on the Runic, partially due to the luxurious nature of the ship, partially due to his increased station. Unlike the second-class accommodations, the room included a private bath, making it easier to keep their arrangement clandestine. 

Seonghwa had to wake up hours before Wooyoung for Hongjoong to sneak him into the officers’ quarters. He sipped his coffee, though it was a poor substitute for the sleep he’d missed, then turned the page. 

Pointed Firs reminded Seonghwa of Wooyoung. It was a love story without a love interest. 

The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift… but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair. 

Then again, maybe the widow wasn’t just her roommate. 

The door clicked open, and Seonghwa’s head snapped up. Hongjoong stepped inside, his movements brisk as always. He wore his summer uniform, the crisp white fabric tight around his chest and thighs.

“I only have fifteen minutes before I’m needed on the bridge,” Hongjoong said, bolting the door behind himself. “Have you eaten?”

Seonghwa’s heart sank. Fifteen minutes wasn’t enough time for Hongjoong to rip him apart and put him back together. 

“I’m not hungry,” he lied. 

But it was better than nothing. 

Sliding Picasso’s calling card between the pages to keep his place, Seonghwa set the book on the drafting table alongside his journal. Without another word, he peeled off his undershirt, then slid his long underwear down his legs. 

Hongjoong’s eyes raked hungrily over Seonghwa’s naked body. He hung his cap on the corner of the wardrobe before crossing the room in three long strides. 

Seonghwa’s pulse quickened as Hongjoong climbed onto the bed, pinning him down. He yanked Seonghwa’s head to the side by the hair, scraping his teeth along the delicate curve of his neck. 

“Oh,” Seonghwa gasped. He slipped a hand down the back of Hongjoong’s stiff trousers, gripping the soft flesh underneath. “Off,” he whined, tugging at his waistband. 

“On,” Hongjoong muttered in his ear. 

Hongjoong slid down to the foot of the bed. His hands gripped Seonghwa’s thighs, spreading them apart to make space for himself.

Seonghwa moaned as Hongjoong took him in his mouth, pressing the flat of his tongue against him and sinking down to the base.

“Hongjoong,” he choked out, reaching for his curly hair. 

He couldn’t keep his hips from rolling up, his body desperate for the warmth and pressure of Hongjoong’s mouth. Minutes passed like seconds as Hongjoong swirled his tongue around him. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa gasped. “Close, I’m close–”

Hongjoong hollowed his cheeks then suddenly slid off, leaving Seonghwa’s cock slapping against his stomach. 

Then he stood without a word, reaching for his cap. 

“Where are you going?” Seonghwa demanded, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I thought you said you wanted me to use you whenever I want,” Hongjoong replied with a smirk, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Isn’t that why you’re in here?” 

“I didn’t mean–”

“And don't touch yourself. I’ll know if you do,” Hongjoong cut in sharply. His hand lingered on the knob as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Just imagine how good it’ll feel when I make you cum in London.” 

Seonghwa’s face paled. “What do you mean in London?”

Hongjoong didn’t answer. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he replied instead, flashing him a sinister grin before locking him in. 

Seonghwa flopped back onto the bed with a groan, throwing an arm over his face. 

He should’ve never listened to Wooyoung. 

He was so hard it hurt, and he couldn’t get the image of Hongjoong out of his head—sunlit on the deck, barking orders to a bunch of sailors who were unaware he’d had a cock in his mouth only moments before. 

Seonghwa rolled onto his stomach, hoping the pressure of his weight would offer some relief. But the friction only made it worse, the sparks between his legs igniting the memory of Hongjoong’s tongue on him. 

“Fuck, officer,” he whispered, grinding his hips against the mattress. 

He wasn’t really touching himself. Hongjoong couldn’t be mad. 

Seonghwa rutted on the bed, pleasure pooling in his abdomen as he imagined Hongjoong beneath him, taking everything he had to give. 

But then Hongjoong’s voice grew so loud it drowned out the hum of the ship’s engines. 

I’ll know if you do. 

Clenching his hands into fists, Seonghwa forced himself to stop. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and staggered to the washroom. He soaked a cloth with cold water and pressed it against himself, hissing through his teeth. The chill bit into his skin, numbing the desire in his body.

But the yearning in his mind burned on, unreachable.

A knock at the door made the towel fall from his hands, landing on the tiled floor with a wet slap. He stood completely still, scared to give himself away. 

Another knock. Without moving his feet, Seonghwa stretched for the washroom door, easing it shut as quietly as he could. 

“Seonghwa, open the damn door. I know you’re in there.”

He exhaled a long breath. Just Wooyoung. 

“Just a second,” Seonghwa called, hurriedly grabbing a fresh set of underclothes and pulling them on. He opened the door a crack, eyes darting down the hall. “Did anyone see you?”

“No witnesses,” Wooyoung declared with a grin, proudly holding up a breakfast tray as if it were a fish he’d just caught. He stepped inside and cleared a spot on the drafting table, moving the small stuffed parakeet to make room. 

Seonghwa barely waited for him to set it down before snatching a pastry. “Thank you. My stomach was starting to eat itself.”

Wooyoung slipped off his shoes and hung his jacket in the wardrobe. He sat on Hongjoong’s bed like he owned the place, leaning against the headboard and sliding his feet under the covers. 

“Are you really going to leave me out there to fend for myself all week? I haven’t slept alone in ages.” 

“Why don’t you ask San to stay with you?” Seonghwa asked around a mouthful of scone, settling beside him on the bed. 

“His hours are awful, so he has to sleep near the bridge,” Wooyoung complained with a pout. “Plus, he’s stuck sharing a room with the fourth and sixth officers, so I can’t visit him either.”

Seonghwa gave him a sympathetic look, brushing crumbs from his hands and setting the napkin on the nightstand. His gaze drifted back to Wooyoung, lingering on his shoulders, which seemed broader than he remembered.

Had he spent the morning hiding in the gymnasium?

“Have you seen Jeonghan?” Seonghwa asked quietly.

“No,” Wooyoung replied, averting his eyes. “I asked San about him, though. Apparently he switched to serving first class.”

“To avoid you?”

Wooyoung’s laugh was humorless. “Why else?”

Seonghwa bit his lip, fiddling with the blanket. “Maybe you could write him a letter?”

Wooyoung grimaced. “I suppose I could.” He leaned back against the headboard. “So, what are you going to do in here all day by yourself?”

Seonghwa flushed, glancing out the window. “Read.”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, his gaze dropping pointedly to Seonghwa’s crotch. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Seonghwa scowled, yanking the blanket over his legs. “Books, Wooyoung. I’m going to read books.”

Wooyoung stretched lazily like a cat before dropping his head onto Seonghwa’s lap. “Fine, be that way.”

Seonghwa raked his fingers through Wooyoung’s hair, gently pulling out knots as he spoke. “Hongjoong’s making a game out of it.” 

“A game?” Wooyoung shifted to stare up at him, his interest clearly piqued. “What do you mean?”

“He’s not letting me… you know. Finish,” Seonghwa muttered, tracing the line of Wooyoung’s shoulder absently. “Not until we get to London.”

Wooyoung bolted upright, his mouth agape. “He’s not letting you? What, are you his prisoner in here?”

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling over. “If Hongjoong comes back and he leaves because you’re here, I’ll murder you,” he snapped.

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, crossing to the wardrobe to fetch his jacket. “God, you’re so mean already. What are you going to be like on day six?”

“Day six, I’m getting fucked in London, so–”

“Okay, okay,” Wooyoung cut him off with a grin as he moved to the door. “Is Hongjoong feeding his pet, or should I bring dinner too?”

Seonghwa bit back his retort, his need to secure himself dinner winning out. “Hongjoong lives off fumes and power. I don’t think he knows what dinner is.” 

“Noted,” Wooyoung said, slipping on his shoes. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” 

Seonghwa smiled as the door clicked shut. Wooyoung’s visit had accomplished one thing—the buzzing in his body had dimmed to a manageable hum. He leaned back against the headboard, finishing his last bite of scone before pulling the book onto his lap.

In the life of each of us, I said to myself, there is a place remote and islanded…

He barely made it through the sentence before exhaustion crept over him. His eyelids grew heavy, and the book fell shut in his hands.

He dreamed of Mount Vesuvius. Divine punishment and ash falling like snow.

A sharp knock woke him. Yawning, Seonghwa rubbed his eyes and padded over to the door. No visitor awaited him, only a dinner tray with a hastily scrawled note. 

San has an hour break, so I can’t stay. We’re going to go ‘read’ in your bed. 

Love always,
Wooyoung

Seonghwa shook his head with a laugh, carrying the tray to the drafting table. At least Wooyoung would be able to take advantage of his absence in the suite. He tucked into lamb, cranberry sauce, and mushy peas, then finished with warm bread pudding. 

Full and sleepy again, Seonghwa stretched out on the bed, letting the book pull him back in. 

Then the door creaked open. 

Hongjoong. 

Their eyes met, and Seonghwa’s body reacted instantly, all of his senses on edge. 

“Please tell me you’re done for the night.”

Hongjoong removed his cap, hanging it on the wardrobe. His back remained turned as he spoke, his voice low and smooth. “I’ve got seven hours. Four to sleep, one to wash up.” He paused. “Which leaves us two.” 

“For what?” Seonghwa asked weakly, though beneath the covers, his cock was already filling out. 

He felt like a volcano on the brink of eruption, and Hongjoong hadn’t even touched him yet. 

Hongjoong turned, his gaze molten. “For me to use you.”

His eyes swept over Seonghwa, commanding without speaking. 

Seonghwa swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he pulled his shirt off under Hongjoong’s watchful gaze, folding it carefully on the chair. He slipped out of his pants next, adding them to the neat pile. 

Hongjoong’s sweat-darkened uniform dropped to the floor, and then he crawled over Seonghwa, his eyes dark with hunger. Seonghwa tilted his face up, expecting a kiss, but Hongjoong licked the curve of his jaw instead. 

Seonghwa’s hips moved instinctively, chasing friction as his fingers traced the old scars on Hongjoong’s back. Hongjoong shifted, and their cocks brushed, drawing a strangled moan from him. 

“God, you sound divine already, and I haven’t even started,” Hongjoong breathed, giving him a sharp thrust that made Seonghwa cry out. He leaned down, kissing the hollows of Seonghwa’s neck before sliding between his legs. 

Barely touching him, Hongjoong began stroking Seonghwa’s cock, each graze against his skin electric. 

“Tell me if you’re going to cum,” Hongjoong murmured.

Seonghwa nodded quickly, desperate for more.

Hongjoong relaxed his hand, pausing his movements as he glanced up at Seonghwa, his expression sharp, like a threat. 

Seonghwa stared at him for a moment before he realized what he wanted. “I’ll tell you,” he blurted out. “I swear.”

Hongjoong licked his lips, then sucked a finger into his mouth, his eyes never leaving Seonghwa’s. Slowly, he trailed it from the head to the base, over his balls, and lower to his rim. He pressed inside, cursing under his breath. Seonghwa gasped, muscles tensing, but Hongjoong stopped after the first knuckle, holding it still. 

With his other hand, he resumed stroking Seonghwa’s cock, his grip loose and slow. Seonghwa whimpered, his body taut as a bowstring. The touch was so faint, so featherlight, that he wondered if Hongjoong was touching him at all, or if he was just imagining it. 

Then Hongjoong leaned down, taking Seonghwa’s balls into his mouth. Sparks shot through him, his thighs jerking as pleasure wracked his body.

“I’m close,” Seonghwa cried out, his voice high-pitched and strained. 

Hongjoong froze, releasing him with an audible pop. He tilted his head, smirking. 

“Already?”

“Don’t tease me,” Seonghwa whined, his voice breaking. “It hurts.”

Hongjoong’s expression turned wicked. “Does it?” he asked, dragging a single finger up the length of Seonghwa’s cock. The sensation made him jolt, his body strung tight between pain and pleasure. “Or does it feel good?”

Seonghwa moaned, his breath coming in short gasps. “Both,” he whispered. 

“I’m going to make you feel so good on this fucking ship,” Hongjoong murmured, withdrawing his hands and climbing over him. “You’ll be able to feel me even when I’m gone.”

His mouth found Seonghwa’s nipple, licking over the sensitive bud before rolling it in his mouth. He left a trail of kisses across his sternum, then grazed his other nipple with his teeth. 

Seonghwa’s back arched, his hands clutching at Hongjoong’s shoulders. The sharp stimulation on his chest combined with Hongjoong’s weight pressed against him was too much. 

“Close,” he whispered, closing his eyes in embarrassment as the heat between them threatened to consume him. 

He felt like the goddess Hera, so wild with fire and longing she’d started a war.

Hongjoong lifted his head slightly, his breath ghosting over Seonghwa’s skin. “Just from this?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe. 

Seonghwa nodded, his breath shallow, squeezing his eyes shut as the pressure inside him plateaued.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Hongjoong said softly, his tone unexpectedly tender. “You’re perfect.” 

He flicked Seonghwa’s nipple with his tongue, then took it gently between his teeth again, lifting his hips to remove the friction from his cock. 

Seonghwa gasped, every nerve awake and humming. His hands tightened on Hongjoong’s shoulders, instinctively trying to force him down, desperate for more contact. 

Hongjoong reached a hand down between them, trailing it gently over his cock, lighting Seonghwa’s body on fire. Then he slid onto the floor, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Kneeling beside the bed, he gripped the base of Seonghwa’s cock, staring up at him. 

Seonghwa’s mind conjured the image of Romans preserved in ash in Pompeii. He pictured Hongjoong frozen like this for eternity, on his knees, his face set in a look of pure devotion. 

Future generations would gaze upon him and understand exactly how Hongjoong had loved him. 

Then Hongjoong’s mouth was on him again, and the room vanished. 

It was different from anything he’d ever felt. It wasn’t a slow build—it was instant, all-encompassing, like he’d been struck by lightning. Seonghwa clawed at the sheets as agonizing pleasure took over his body and time unraveled around him. 

Hongjoong sucked the head into his mouth, squeezing the base with one hand while his other traced patterns up Seonghwa’s thighs. He alternated between swirling around the tip and simply letting it rest against his tongue, never sliding down further. His grip seemed to be stopping the blood flow to Seonghwa’s cock, trapping him in a firestorm. 

Seonghwa closed his eyes and let the sensations consume him. He had no idea how much time passed—he wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing. He knew only the intensity coursing through his body. 

And then, just like that, it was gone. 

Seonghwa blinked, looking around the room in a daze as his mind struggled to catch up. He glanced down to find Hongjoong holding a wet washcloth, gently wiping the mess of precum from his stomach. 

“Are you—why are you stopping?”

Hongjoong laughed, his own voice sounding as wrecked as Seonghwa felt. “Two hours is up.”

Two hours? Seonghwa hadn’t even realized. 

Hongjoong slid into the bed beside him, pulling Seonghwa into his arms. He was asleep in seconds, but Seonghwa stayed awake, his heart beating faster with every breath Hongjoong took.

Two hours had been enough to rip him apart, but not enough to put him back together. 

𓊝

By the second day, Seonghwa was certain he could sense Hongjoong approaching from two corridors away—by sound, scent, or something else, he wasn’t sure. By the third, the constant friction of his underclothes became unbearable, so he abandoned them entirely, lounging nude on the bed all day and only donning a robe for Wooyoung’s brief visits. 

Besides, if he was naked, he would be ready for Hongjoong. 

He felt raw, as though his skin had thinned—it was like discovering a new layer of himself. He imagined that if a flower petal landed on his chest, he’d know its shape and color, even the kind of flower it came from, without needing to look. 

By the fourth day, he was unraveling completely. 

Seonghwa had been half-hard all morning, leaking onto the sheets at every creak in the corridor. His hand kept finding its way to his cock on its own, his body seeking relief from the relentless tension. 

He dragged himself out of bed, moving toward the washroom. A cold bath was the only option. 

The shock of the water against his skin jolted him out of his fog. He washed himself roughly, then stepped out, intending to reach for his towel. 

But instead his hand hovered over Hongjoong’s, his depravity surging. He hesitated, looking around nervously, though he knew he was alone in the cabin. 

Then he leaned close and inhaled. 

Leather, salt, and Hongjoong. 

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, dressing quickly in a simple black suit. As he slicked his hair back in the mirror, he flushed, heat creeping down his neck. Maybe it was because he knew, but he thought he could see it in his reflection. 

The fire burning in his eyes, the molten core hiding beneath his flesh. 

With a sigh, he stepped into the corridor, feeling the thrum of his pulse reverberating through his body. He didn’t know how he’d managed to focus long enough to finish The Country of the Pointed Firs, but he had, and he was in desperate need of a new distraction to get him through the next two days. 

Writing in his journal was impossible. His thoughts were nothing but vulgarity and yearning. 

Seonghwa pushed through the heavy door onto the boat deck, his heart sinking as he took in the view. He had been hoping to see the ocean, but the ship was surrounded by a thick blanket of fog, as though it too was lost in a haze. 

He descended to C-deck, turning the corner and stepping into the second-class library. The room was spacious—half the size of the dining saloon—although with only a few bookshelves, it felt more like a sitting room than a proper library. The top half of the walls were paneled with carved sycamore, the bottom half a darker mahogany. Large square windows almost created the illusion of being on land, save for the view of the cloud they were drifting through. 

Seonghwa tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone as he wove through clusters of maroon armchairs and small oak tables. He placed Pointed Firs on a random shelf at the back of the room, then ran his fingers along the spines in search of a new book. 

When Knighthood Was in Flower sounded promising—the romanticized tale of Mary Tudor shirking her duty to marry a commoner. 

He grimaced and put it back. Living through it once was enough, he didn’t need to read about it too. 

The floor creaked behind him. Seonghwa panicked, grabbing the first book he could reach. His eyes were glued to the carpet as he rushed through the library and back into the corridor, where he collided headlong into someone. 

“Oh, sorry–” Seonghwa started, but then he froze. 

It was Jeonghan.

“No, no. It’s quite all right,” Jeonghan said hastily, his face blooming red. He sidestepped Seonghwa, almost stumbling, then continued quickly down the hallway.

Before Seonghwa could think better of it, he called after him. 

“Are you based in London?” 

Jeonghan paused, his back stiffening. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression guarded. “I am.” 

Seonghwa forced a nervous smile. “We have a bakery in Chelsea. Ambrosia, on King’s Road. If you're ever in the area... you should come by.” 

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Jeonghan pressed his lips into a thin line, gave him a curt nod, and walked away without another word. 

Seonghwa exhaled a shaky breath, watching him walk away. He must’ve gone mad. How was he going to tell Wooyoung? 

The fog still clung to the deck, as if they were sailing through the skies rather than over the sea. Seonghwa slipped into Hongjoong’s room unnoticed, hung his clothes neatly in the wardrobe, and collapsed onto the bed stark naked. 

Only then did he glance at the book in his hand. 

The last time he’d thought about it was with Wooyoung aboard the Runic. Back then, the idea of living together in England had been little more than a dream out of reach, a bittersweet fantasy. 

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by fellow dandy, Oscar Wilde. 

𓊝

“News from San, and you’re not going to like it,” Wooyoung said, sitting cross-legged on Hongjoong’s bed with a bowl of mashed potatoes. 

“Are you only eating potatoes?” Seonghwa asked, a disgusted look crossing his face. 

Wooyoung glanced up with a neutral expression. “You’re so charming today.”

“I’m suffering.”

A slight exaggeration. Maybe it was because he was on the cusp of relief, but he was starting to see the appeal of Hongjoong’s game. Every day on the ship had been framed by stolen moments of pleasure, and tomorrow—release. 

“Well, you ate two pieces of strawberry cake for breakfast, so maybe leave me alone,” Wooyoung said, shoveling more potatoes into his mouth like he was deliberately trying to annoy him.

Seonghwa fought back an eye roll. “Are you going to tell me your news or are you just going to lecture me?”

“There’s more fog over the Atlantic,” Wooyoung said, setting his empty bowl in his lap. “The trip’s going to take an extra two days.”

Seonghwa felt the blood drain from his face. 

Two more days.

Wooyoung sucked his lips in, clearly suppressing a laugh. “You should just take your own advice, we should’ve been back in London tomorrow anyway.” 

Was it possible to die from orgasm withdrawal?

“What are you suggesting?” Seonghwa asked instead, trying to hide his frustration. 

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Wooyoung said with a sultry smile.

Seonghwa’s stomach flipped, a familiar heat rushing south. “Ugh,” he groaned, adjusting himself through his robe. “Just the implication is causing me physical pain. Can we talk about something else?”

“Like what, the weather?” Wooyoung laughed. “Heavy fog.”

Seonghwa hesitated, biting his lip. “Actually, um—I ran into someone yesterday.”

“I thought you weren’t leaving the room.” Wooyoung tilted his head curiously. “What person of interest could you possibly run into on a ship, anyway? San?”

“Jeonghan.”

Wooyoung froze. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Seonghwa rushed out, his cheeks burning. “I bumped into him when I snuck out to get a new book. I also, um–” He trailed off, wishing the words could stay stuck in his throat. “I accidentally invited him to the bakery.”

The spoon clattered in the bowl as Wooyoung stood abruptly. He pressed a hand to his mouth, his shoulders stiffening. “You did what?”

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa blurted out. “It just—slipped out. I know he’s important to you, and I thought–”

“It wasn’t your place,” Wooyoung snapped, anger flashing in his eyes. “You don’t even know what happened!”

“I’m sorry, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said, tears stinging his throat. “But—I don’t know what happened because you won’t talk about it. I know you think it’ll just disappear if you ignore it–”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wooyoung let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Just drop it.”

“I know enough,” Seonghwa pressed. “I know whatever happened still hurts you.” 

Wooyoung stared at him with his jaw clenched. For a moment, it seemed like he might storm out, but instead, he sank back down onto the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done,” he admitted quietly, his voice cracking. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Seonghwa bit his lip, then slowly reached out to take Wooyoung’s hand in both of his. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I probably won’t understand. But I’ll love you anyway. Please, let me help you write him a letter.”

Wooyoung’s shoulders sagged, a tear sliding down his cheek as he met Seonghwa’s gaze. “Why?” he asked hoarsely. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because I’d be dead without you.”

“That’s—don’t say–” Wooyoung started.

“It’s the truth,” Seonghwa interrupted. “Dead at thirty-five or dead at sixty, it doesn’t matter. I’d still have died at that estate, known by no one, with nothing behind me but a life unlived.”

Though he didn’t really know him, he wanted to do it for Jeonghan, too. For the image of golden Aphrodite searching through bloodstained flowers for Adonis and never finding him.

Wooyoung sighed heavily, placing his other hand atop Seonghwa’s. “Okay,” he whispered.

Seonghwa immediately stood, grabbing his leather-bound journal and fountain pen from the drafting table before Wooyoung could change his mind. He returned to the bed and sat cross-legged, facing Wooyoung so their knees touched. 

“Can you help me make it poetic?” Wooyoung asked, a flush coloring his cheeks.

Seonghwa gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Just say how you feel. That’ll be enough.”

Wooyoung hesitated, then nodded. As he began to speak, Seonghwa’s pen scratched against the paper, his hand steady even as his heart ached.

RMS Olympic
July 2, 1911

Jeonghan, 

        I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to you in person. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, no more than I already have. 

        I’m sorry for disappearing these past fifteen years, for not writing or visiting. I thought leaving the Rocks behind would erase everything, but I was wrong. 

        Most of all, I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. It was the worst mistake of my life. Though we rarely spoke, you should know I loved you from afar. It was me who left the roast bird at Christmas, the blanket in the winter of ‘95, and the coinpurse the day I left. The golden wattles were from me, too. Perhaps you knew already.

        I was too ashamed to say goodbye properly, and there was no way to take you with me. You see, I sold myself to the man who funded my first bakery. 

        Now that I’ve shared my greatest shame, let me end on something brighter. You look well, Jeonghan. You’ve come so far on your own that I can finally breathe, and no longer be haunted by the memory of your fifteen-year-old face. I hope you are no longer haunted by mine either, if you ever were. 

        Please take Seonghwa up on his offer and visit us at Ambrosia. You’ll always have a place, wherever I am. 

Take care, 
Jung Wooyoung 

𓊝

Day six was judgment day.

For Wooyoung, it was the day Jeonghan would receive his letter. 

He’d carried it for a full day before San found it. If he hadn’t, Wooyoung might have kept it forever, another burden to bear. San took the letter from Wooyoung’s jacket pocket and delivered it himself, slipping it beneath the door of the room Jeonghan shared with the other waitstaff. 

San hadn’t yet mustered the courage to tell Wooyoung he loved him in person, but it was obvious. 

For Seonghwa, it was his day of reckoning. 

The door clicked shut behind Wooyoung, and Seonghwa sprang into action. He had less than an hour before Hongjoong returned for the night—or at least for seven hours of it. His hands flew to his waistband, fumbling in his haste as he stripped down to the black corset Wooyoung had cinched tightly around his waist.

Seonghwa pulled the stolen candlesticks from his bag, goosebumps prickling his bare flesh. San had risked smuggling them up from first class, and now their moment of glory had come. Hands shaking, he struck a match, lighting one candle and using it to ignite the rest. 

The room awash in a golden glow, Seonghwa climbed onto the bed, contemplating the best way to present himself. 

First, he tried laying on his side facing the door, propped up on one arm with The Picture of Dorian Gray open in front of him. 

Too forced. 

He shifted, reclining against the headboard with his knees up and spread apart, the corset emphasizing the curve of his waist and the soft breadth of his hips. 

Too stiff. 

As the vivid image of Wooyoung at the Hotel Chelsea flared in his mind, he crawled to the center of the bed. 

All fours, ass facing the door. 

Perfect. 

He watched the shadows flickering along the walls as he waited. After nearly a week of being edged, he was already hard, just from the idea of Hongjoong seeing him like this. It was only a matter of time now. 

The door clicked open.

Everything inside him tightened as soon as Hongjoong’s scent hit his nose—a heady mix of rope and the musk of a sun-soaked day of labor.

A sharp breath cut through the silence. Seonghwa looked over his shoulder, meeting Hongjoong’s wide, disbelieving eyes.

“What’s all this?” Hongjoong asked in a strained voice.

Seonghwa deepened the curve in his back, his cock hanging heavily between his legs. “This is the day we should’ve been in London.” 

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. “Give me three minutes.” 

The door shut behind him. Seonghwa held his breath, counting each agonizing second that passed until Hongjoong returned. 

The click of the lock turning echoed in the quiet room. 

“Where did you go?” Seonghwa asked hoarsely, unable to hide the desire in his voice. It was futile anyway, the proof of his desperation dripping onto the blanket beneath him. 

He heard the rustle of fabric, perhaps the hanging of a jacket. 

“Making arrangements,” Hongjoong said. “To cover the ship for the rest of the night.”

Seonghwa glanced back, his knees weak. “The rest of the night?” 

Hongjoong’s eyes never left him as he moved closer. He climbed onto the mattress, the frame creaking beneath his weight. 

Kneeling behind Seonghwa, Hongjoong placed his hands on his waist, fingers splayed over the leather. He let one arm drop to the bed as he draped himself over Seonghwa, pressing his mouth to his ear. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Because I’m going to make you cum three times tonight.”

Seonghwa whimpered as Hongjoong wrapped an arm around his front, gripping his chest. A sharp twist of his nipple made him gasp. Teeth sank into the base of his neck, and Hongjoong let out a deep, animalistic sound that made Seonghwa’s legs threaten to give out.

Could he cum just from this?

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” Hongjoong growled, his voice singing Seonghwa’s body electric. 

Seonghwa’s fingers curled into the sheets. “Show me.”

Hongjoong stood from the bed, strutting around to the other side to face Seonghwa. His white undershirt clung to his chest, damp enough to reveal every lean muscle. He still wore his work boots, though he’d removed his cap, his curls falling messily over his forehead.

He looked like he’d been ripped from one of Seonghwa’s fantasies—a celestial reward, or perhaps divine punishment, Seonghwa couldn’t decide. 

Hongjoong unbuckled his belt, letting his trousers pool around his ankles. The sight of his thick cock glistening in front of his face made Seonghwa feel like he’d lost his mind. 

Grabbing a fistful of Seonghwa’s hair, Hongjoong tilted his head back until their eyes met.

“Open,” he ordered. 

Seonghwa obeyed without hesitation, his mouth watering as he parted his lips. He was just as desperate for Hongjoong’s pleasure as he was for his own—maybe more. Hongjoong hadn’t cum all week either, Seonghwa was sure of it.

A calloused thumb brushed over his bottom lip before pressing into his mouth, holding his tongue down.

Seonghwa whined, his expectations shattering. 

“Not what you wanted?” 

Seonghwa shook his head as best he could with Hongjoong’s thumb pumping in and out of his mouth. 

Hongjoong pulled his hand free, tilting his head. “Then ask.”

“I want to taste you, officer,” Seonghwa rasped. Then, for good measure, he added, “Please.”

Hongjoong groaned, throwing his head back and exposing his veiny neck. One hand held Seonghwa’s face while the other wrapped around his own cock, giving himself a few slow strokes. 

Seonghwa whimpered, the ache between his legs unbearable. “Please, Hongjoong, give it to me.” 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong muttered, guiding himself toward Seonghwa’s face. “Such a perfect prince, but look at you now.” He tapped Seonghwa’s lips with it, smearing wetness over his mouth. “Begging for my cock.”

Seonghwa’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling as he let out a wanton moan, pleasure and humiliation twisting together inside him. Hongjoong’s hand tightened in his hair, pulling him closer. 

Seonghwa’s lips parted eagerly, and he sucked the head into his mouth, teasing the ridge with his tongue. He watched Hongjoong’s muscled thighs flex, a small thrill running through him. He tightened his lips and swirled his tongue around him, eager to see him flex again. 

“That’s it,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice strained with pleasure. 

The sound of the ocean and the ship’s engines faded as Hongjoong’s breathing grew louder, a steady rhythm Seonghwa matched without realizing. He opened his jaw wider, relaxing his throat to let Hongjoong push deeper, until his nose brushed against his skin. Hongjoong stilled, letting Seonghwa adjust before setting a slow pace. 

Seonghwa arched his back as Hongjoong thrust into his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks and lost himself in it, drunk on the smell of Hongjoong’s arousal. 

The salty taste of precum hit his tongue, and he moaned, the vibrations drawing a muttered curse from Hongjoong. Seonghwa glanced up, his lashes wet with unshed tears, wondering if Hongjoong would let him finish him like this. 

But just as the thought crossed his mind, he pulled out, leaving Seonghwa gasping.

Hongjoong cupped Seonghwa’s cheek. “Don’t move.”

Seonghwa was so still, his heart may have stopped beating. He watched the candles flicker around the room as Hongjoong kicked off his boots and stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes. Naked and glistening, he circled the bed, kneeling behind Seonghwa on the mattress again. 

“Lord forgive me for what I’m about to do,” Hongjoong muttered under his breath. 

Seonghwa gasped as he felt the press of a slick finger. He tried to push himself back onto it, but Hongjoong gripped him tightly, locking him in place by the corset. 

“No,” Hongjoong said firmly. “Take what I give you.”

A second finger joined the first, and Seonghwa clenched the sheets beneath him, his body taut with anticipation. Hongjoong was taking his time stretching him, carefully avoiding the spots where Seonghwa craved contact. 

Seonghwa tried to focus on the candles, the dancing phantoms they cast on the walls and the smell of melted wax, but it was impossible. Every inch of his body screamed for more, and he couldn’t stop the pitiful whine that escaped his throat. 

Hongjoong leaned forward, his free hand wrapping loosely around Seonghwa’s cock to tease him as he worked him open. When he added a third finger, the ache inside Seonghwa grew unbearable—he was right there, standing at the edge of a cliff, unable to fall. 

Seonghwa was surprised to feel tears slide down his face, followed by a soft, unbidden sob. 

“Please,” he whispered. “I can’t do it anymore.” 

Hongjoong draped his body over Seonghwa’s, his cock resting heavy against him. 

“I won’t make you wait any longer, my prince,” Hongjoong whispered in his ear. He trailed his lips along Seonghwa’s damp neck, kissing his flushed skin before sinking his teeth in, biting hard enough to leave a mark. 

Seonghwa’s whole body tensed, another sob ripping from his throat. Every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire.

Then, finally, Hongjoong thrust into him. 

Seonghwa’s hands twisted in the sheets as Hongjoong filled him, stretching him completely. He stayed fully seated for a breath, then he slowly drew back his hips, only to slam forward again, harder this time.

Each thrust sent shocks of pleasure radiating through Seonghwa’s body, the pressure inside him like nothing he’d ever felt before, like a rock being compressed into a diamond. Hongjoong’s breaths became more desperate as he quickened his pace, fucking him with a merciless intensity. 

The pressure inside him continued to build, so heavy it took over his body, took over the room. Seonghwa was delirious, releasing a steady stream of moans and curses as Hongjoong’s thrusts hit their mark. 

It didn’t take long. 

The diamond inside him shattered, and he came hard, his vision bursting into stars and dissolving into endless constellations. 

Seonghwa tried to be quiet as Hongjoong pounded into him, but it was impossible. He filled the cabin with his screams, wondering vaguely if someone would hear him, if they’d come running to see what was wrong. But the thought was fleeting, drowned out by the endless waves of pleasure crashing over him. 

It felt like it would never end. He came more than he ever had before, emptying his mind and body and painting the featherbed beneath him. His throat burned from screaming, the candles flickering wildly around them as Hongjoong drove him higher still, ripping him apart and putting him back together in the same breath.  

After what felt like hours, Seonghwa’s pleasure crested, his body teetering on the edge of exhaustion. His shoulders gave out, his front half collapsing onto the bed, his back half only upright because of Hongjoong’s iron grip. His skin felt paper-thin again, as though he could feel the smoke rising from the candles, the sea breeze from beyond the window.

And finally, Seonghwa got what he truly wanted. 

What he had imagined every night at the Chelsea, touching himself in the dark while Hongjoong lay sleeping beside him.

For Hongjoong to use him.

His fingers dug into the corset, pulling him back to meet each thrust. Seonghwa could tell Hongjoong was close—his pace was erratic, the force bruising. The continuous stimulation burned through him, a rapture so sharp it was indistinguishable from pain, amplifying everything he’d felt all week to an unbearable level. 

Hongjoong drilled into him, the sound of their bodies colliding loud and obscene, until his rhythm faltered. With a gravelly groan, he spilled into Seonghwa, so much that he could feel it dripping down his thighs and onto the ruined bed. 

But Hongjoong wasn’t finished. 

He pushed Seonghwa down onto his stomach, his weight pinning him to the bed. The fabric beneath him clung to his skin, sticky with sweat and their shared pleasure. Hongjoong began thrusting his release back into him, slowly at first, his cock dragging relentlessly over the sensitive nerves inside him. Then he found a punishing pace again, grinding Seonghwa into the mattress. 

Seonghwa had nothing left to give, his body limp, broken by the force of it, but he didn’t want it to end. So he just laid there and took it. His eyes fluttered shut, a contentment settling over him as Hongjoong’s thrusting finally slowed.

He jolted as Hongjoong’s warm breath ghosted against his ear. 

“One down,” Hongjoong murmured. “Two to go.” 

Seonghwa shivered as Hongjoong slipped out of him, his warmth disappearing. He hated the feel of the sticky mess beneath him, but his body refused to move. 

Hongjoong returned with a warm washcloth. He unlaced the corset with deft fingers before rolling Seonghwa onto his back, murmuring soft encouragements. 

“You were amazing,” Hongjoong whispered, tracing a slow path across his body as he cleaned him. “Beautiful and strong. I’ll give you a proper bath when we’re done, I promise.” 

Seonghwa could only blink up at him, his body too spent, his mind too hazy to form words. He felt like he was floating on the edge of consciousness, weightless, like the Olympic drifting through the clouds. He allowed himself to be handled like glass, though he was desperate for closeness. 

Hongjoong slid his rough hands beneath Seonghwa’s neck and knees, picking him up and setting him down in the armchair. He stripped the soiled blanket so that only the clean sheet remained, then returned Seonghwa to the bed, tucking a pillow beneath him. Seonghwa’s vision was unfocused as Hongjoong settled between his legs. 

Then Hongjoong lowered his head, taking Seonghwa into his mouth.

“Ah–” Seonghwa gasped, his back arching off the bed. 

He was still sensitive and soft, and for a moment, he thought there was no way he’d be able to cum again—not now, not for a week, maybe not ever. But Hongjoong’s mouth was so warm, and the sight of his mess of dark curls bobbing between his thighs was so beautiful. 

Seonghwa realized, with a growing sense of helplessness, that he was wrong. 

Hongjoong held him in his mouth as he traced love letters on his thighs. He moved a hand underneath Seonghwa, gently rolling his balls before his fingers found their way to the base of his cock.

He coaxed him to half-mast with ease, Seonghwa’s sensitivity giving way to pleasure with each swirl of his tongue. Hongjoong’s hand began twisting, and Seonghwa couldn’t help but groan at the feel of himself filling out again inside Hongjoong’s mouth.

When Seonghwa dared to look down, Hongjoong met his eyes. He popped off, just far enough to let a long, vulgar strand of spit drip onto Seonghwa’s cock. 

Seonghwa gasped as Hongjoong spread the slickness over him. Biting his swollen bottom lip, Hongjoong lowered himself again, working the head with his mouth while his hand pumped the shaft. 

Seonghwa writhed beneath him, fully hard now. His hips moved uncontrollably as he thrust into Hongjoong’s mouth, his fingers twisting into dark strands of hair as he sought more. But then, overwhelmed by embarrassment at the greed of his body, he quickly brought his hands back to the sheets and forced himself to stay still. 

Hongjoong noticed immediately. He paused, pulling off before shifting both of Seonghwa's hands back to his head. 

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

Seonghwa didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers tightened in Hongjoong’s curls, and he thrust upward, chasing the pleasure Hongjoong was so expertly giving him. His release built faster than he expected, maybe because the past week had sharpened his control over it.

“Close,” Seonghwa choked out, his mind a blur of pleasure as he fucked into Hongjoong’s mouth. Hongjoong moaned around him, and that was it. 

“Cumming,” he breathed, his voice cracking into a groan. “Cumming, Hongjoong. Cumming–”

His orgasm tore through him as Hongjoong sucked him dry. Seonghwa trembled violently, the sensation sharper, more intense than before. He couldn’t control his mouth, moaning a messy, endless stream of cumming and Hongjoong.

He didn't know how Hongjoong managed to breathe, buried to the hilt with his nose pressed against his abdomen. Only when Seonghwa’s tremors subsided did Hongjoong pull away, his eyes glassy with tears but his lips curved into a dark, satisfied grin.

He stood from the bed, giving Seonghwa a brief reprieve as he poured a glass of water. Returning to his side, Hongjoong tipped the glass to his lips, his voice firm.

“Drink.”

Seonghwa hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the cool water rushed down his throat. He drained the glass in one long gulp. Hongjoong filled it again, and Seonghwa drank half before turning his head away. 

Hongjoong set the glass aside, then sat at the edge of the bed, slapping his thighs.

“Come here,” he commanded.

There was no mistaking it for a request. 

Seonghwa was exhausted, but he obeyed. His legs felt weak beneath him as he crawled toward Hongjoong. He straddled him, then slumped over, his head falling into the crook of Hongjoong’s neck. 

He gasped as he felt a finger slip inside him, his hole still stretched and slick. This time, Hongjoong curled it, rubbing against Seonghwa’s prostate. 

He was caught in a mysterious place, another Mount Olympus between worlds, half-asleep and half-hard. Hongjoong slipped in a second finger, twisting and curling inside him until Seonghwa wasn’t even sure what he was doing.

By the time Hongjoong added a third, Seonghwa’s cock was aching. He was still sliding in and out of consciousness, a ship lost at sea. 

He dreamed of his life before, of duty without pleasure, back when he was always hiding and never felt desire or desired. He dreamed of his valet helping him get dressed, of silent breakfasts, of meeting with tenants.

He dreamed of Hongjoong fingering his limp body as he slept. 

Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open, suddenly fully awake. 

Hongjoong had slipped in his pinky, now working him with four fingers. 

“Oh my god–” 

Seonghwa arched as Hongjoong stretched him further than he thought possible. It felt like he was playing his insides like a flute, his four fingers touching him in new places, in new ways. 

Hongjoong pressed his mouth to Seonghwa’s neck, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin as he ripped him apart from the inside out.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Seonghwa said in a tight voice. 

There was something new building inside him that he didn’t recognize. Hongjoong switched from tapping and curling his fingers to thrusting his hand into him, hard and fast. The sensations blurred together, and Seonghwa wondered if his entire fist was inside him. 

And then suddenly he was cumming, or at least he thought he was, because nothing was coming out of his cock. It was a feeling that just kept growing, as though his body was infinite, filling the room. 

He let out a low moan, and it seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have. He lost track of time, lost track of everything. He couldn’t tell where his body ended and the space around him began.

He felt like Mount Vesuvius, erupting continuously for thirty years after thirty years dormant.

The eruption wasn’t violent, but slow and relentless, an unending pull that didn’t fade but kept spreading. Pompeii was doomed.

And then everything went black. 

When Seonghwa opened his eyes again, he was no longer floating. The room was back, sharp and defined, and Hongjoong was hovering over him, his expression full of concern.

"I think I came so hard I blacked out," Seonghwa rasped, giggling deliriously, though his body still trembled from the aftershocks of whatever just happened. 

“Did you now?” Hongjoong caressed his cheek. “I’m going to run you a bath,” he added softly, kissing Seonghwa on the forehead.

“No,” Seonghwa said quickly, catching his wrist. “Don’t leave me.”

“Come with me, then.” 

Hongjoong scooped up him like he once did in the crow’s nest, back when they were both in their twenties and an entire evening together seemed impossible. He held Seonghwa in his lap as he filled the tub, combing his fingers through his sweaty hair. 

Seonghwa closed his eyes, dozing off again. He woke to Hongjoong placing him gently in the water while lavender scented steam curled around him. He tried to watch Hongjoong wash him, but his eyes kept fluttering closed.

“San and I will need to stay on the ship for an extra night when we arrive in Southampton,” Hongjoong said, trailing the washcloth up Seonghwa’s legs.

“I’m desperate to get back,” Seonghwa replied sleepily. “I’m worried Bukbuk’s forgotten me.”

Hongjoong gave him a small smile. “You and Wooyoung can go ahead, and we’ll join you the evening after. We’ll have two weeks before the next trip—I’m forcing White Star to keep San on my schedule.”

Seonghwa nodded, his eyelids heavy again. The last thing he saw was Hongjoong, his beautiful expanse of bronze skin as he knelt naked by the tub, washing him reverently after spending hours devoted to his pleasure. 

Seonghwa dreamed he was the wooden statue of Hera being washed in the sea. 

Worshipped, purified, and made a maiden once more.

𓊝

“When will London get more motorcar taxis?” Seonghwa asked, stepping out of the hansom cab onto Edith Grove. “I never see them here, but they were everywhere in New York.”

Wooyoung snorted, waving toward the flickering gas lamp on the street corner, its dim glow barely cutting through the fog. “On this side of the pond? Give it five years. Maybe ten. Your estate’s older than their whole country.”

Seonghwa giggled, grabbing Wooyoung’s bag for him as he fumbled with the keys. “I can’t wait to see the look on Bukbuk’s face when he meets Bukbuk the Second.”

“Hopefully he doesn’t think it’s his replacement,” Wooyoung replied, pushing the door open. 

“Bukbuk isn’t the jealous type.” Seonghwa paused mid-step, his face ashen. “Oh no.”

“What?” 

Seonghwa's eyes were fixed on a letter lying on the mat, the Australian postmark stark against the pale parchment like a distress signal. 

“Oh no,” Wooyoung echoed quietly.

Their eyes met.  

“Will you…?” Seonghwa trailed off.

Wooyoung nodded. “Of course.” He shut the door and bent down to pick up the letter. “You ready for it?”

“Not really.” Seonghwa forced a laugh. “Let’s unpack first and wash up. Whatever it says, it’s not going to change.”

It could only be bad news. They hadn’t heard from Seonghwa’s family in over a year, not since he'd refused to marry.

They trudged upstairs in silence. Seonghwa set Wooyoung’s bag down by his door, then continued down the hall beneath the botanical drawings until he reached his own room. 

Seonghwa popped open his trunk, placing his neatly folded clothes in the housekeeper’s basket. He set the stuffed parakeet down on his desk, then padded into the bathroom to freshen up. He was just pulling on clean underclothes when Wooyoung knocked, peeking his head in.

“Ready?” Wooyoung asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

They climbed into Seonghwa’s bed together, the worn mattress sagging slightly under their weight. Wooyoung held the letter tightly between his fingers, knuckles pale.

“You read it first,” Seonghwa said, bracing himself. “Tell me if it’s safe or if I should stuff it in the icebox.”

Wooyoung managed a grim smile and broke the seal with a thumb. His eyes darted over the page, his face turning ashen.

“Seonghwa…” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. He snatched the letter from Wooyoung’s trembling hands.

Wooyoung draped an arm and a leg over him, holding him firmly as he read it. 

The words blurred almost immediately, tears streaking the ink until the letter was nearly illegible. Seonghwa read it again and again, but the message remained unchanged. 

“I won’t do it,” Seonghwa said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “They can’t make me.”

The words tasted childish on his tongue, hollow and weak.

“I know,” Wooyoung said quietly, pressing closer. “We’ll figure out something. If we go down, we go down together.”

Seonghwa nodded vaguely, staring at the letter, the future he didn’t want looming over him like a guillotine ready to fall. 

Sydney, Australia
May 18, 1911

Lord Seonghwa,

        I regret to inform you that your father has left this world. 

        You are now required to assume his seat in the House of Lords. Your father and grandfather deferred this duty in service to the crown in New Zealand, but as you are based in London and serving no purpose, you are fully expected to fulfill this obligation. 

        Vacate your flat and return to the London estate with Miss Yoo immediately. I will soon depart for New Zealand to manage our local affairs and would prefer not to be forced to travel to England to seek intervention from the Crown. 

Your mother, 
The Right Honorable Dowager Countess Park 

𓊝

Chapter Text

September 1911

Candles cast flickering shadows around the room as Seonghwa sipped his coffee. He signed the letter under Bukbuk the Second’s unblinking stare, then leaned back, skimming the words one last time. 

Weeks of searching for a way out had led nowhere. Debrett’s Peerage, Burke’s Peerage, The Parliament Act of 1911—he’d read them all. At best, refusing his peerage would mean political and social ruin, the bakery gone, Hongjoong out of a job. At worst, his mother would rally support to charge him with treason. 

But Wooyoung saw it differently. 

It came to him last Tuesday afternoon, at his weekly society tea with Jeongyeon. Not from poring over legal texts, but from two whispered pieces of gossip.

Apparently, Lord Lansdowne had long avoided his seat in the House of Lords, and Lord Stamford had opted not to marry, living as a recluse without consequence. Seonghwa had been so focused on the legalities of renouncing his peerage that he’d overlooked the simpler truth—there was no penalty for refusing his seat or for avoiding marriage altogether. 

There might not be a way out, but there was a way through.

London, England
September 21, 1911

Lady Park,

        It is with great sorrow that I acknowledge the passing of my father. Despite our differences, I continue to hold his service to our family and our King in the highest regard.

        I will accept the peerage and resume my duty to the estate. However, I regret that I will be unable to take my seat in the House of Lords. My business commitments in New York City demand my continued presence.

        I have appointed Choi Jongho as Estate Manager to oversee all matters including lands and properties for the weeks I am abroad. He is both capable and trustworthy.

        As I have written previously—and for the last time—I will not be marrying Miss Yoo or any other woman.

Your son,
The Right Honorable Earl Park

Seonghwa folded the letter in three, lining up each crease carefully. From the drawer, he retrieved the sealing wax and held it over a candle flame until red droplets pooled along the seam. He pressed his seal firmly into the soft wax.

The design was his own—a star with tiny points inside it forming the constellation of Antinous. A quiet symbol of his defiance and despair, twin demons concealed in plain sight.

The wax hardened beneath his fingers. It was done. 

Seonghwa shrugged on his jacket, tucking the letter into his pocket. With his journal and oil pastel pencils in hand, he headed downstairs to the garden.

Wooyoung was already there, his feet propped up on the table and an unopened newspaper in front of him. The garden was bright with vibrant marigolds, purple asters, and a familiar, trilling birdsong. 

The London grounds spanned half an acre, and the Park country estate stretched across 13,000. Neither compared to the sight of Wooyoung in the garden, surrounded by flowers he’d planted himself. 

“Took you long enough,” Wooyoung remarked without looking up. “Bukbuk’s been fussing all morning.” 

Seonghwa sat across from him, cracking open his sketchbook in his lap. “Had to write my letter.”

Wooyoung raised a brow. “How’d it go?”

“We’ll find out in a couple months.” 

Bukbuk flitted down from the trees, hopping toward the table in search of seeds. Seonghwa tossed a few from his pocket, then picked up the green pencil to sketch his little face before he flew away. 

“I’m proud of you,” Wooyoung murmured, unfolding the newspaper.

Seonghwa smiled, his eyes on the drawing. He reached for a bright blue pastel, shading in the cere above Bukbuk’s beak. “Anything interesting in the paper today?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung replied, setting his mug down. “Mona Lisa was stolen from the—oh my god.”

Seonghwa glanced up. “What?”

The color drained from Wooyoung’s face. 

“There’s been a collision,” he whispered. 

The pencil slipped from Seonghwa’s fingers, clattering onto the pavers. Bukbuk flew off, perching high in the oak tree with a reproachful look on his face.

“The Olympic collided with a Royal Navy warship,” Wooyoung continued, his eyes darting frantically over the page. “In the Solent, near Portsmouth.”

Seonghwa shot to his feet. “And?” He rushed around the table, reading over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Is there anything about injuries or—or deaths?”

“Fuck,” Wooyoung muttered. “I don’t see anything… damage to the stern, flooding in two compartments… they were forced back to Southampton.” He put the paper down, looking up at Seonghwa, his eyes round with fear. “What the hell do we do?”

“We’ll use the telephone at the Mist,” Seonghwa said, forcing his voice steady for Wooyoung’s benefit. “We can call White Star’s office in Southampton.” 

“You think they’ll just give out information to anyone?” Wooyoung asked sadly. “It’s not like we’re married.”

“They might not,” Seonghwa admitted, his mouth pressed into a firm line. “But they’ll give it to me. Come on.”

They hurried through the house and onto Edith Grove. The heavy door slammed behind them as they rushed toward the front desk, where Jooheon was waving cheerfully.

“Hello, boys.”

Wooyoung scoffed under his breath. “What is he, like five years older than me?”

Seonghwa ignored him, pulling off his cap. “Jooheon, can we use your telephone?”

“Yes, of course.” Jooheon’s smile faded. “Everything all right?” 

Seonghwa shook his head. “We just saw it in the paper—the Olympic collided with a warship yesterday.”

“Jesus.” Jooheon hurried out from behind the counter. “Any word on the crew?”

“Nothing yet,” Seonghwa said, following him down the corridor to the telephone room. 

He sat on the curved sofa beneath the bay window and reached for the candlestick telephone. Wooyoung settled beside him, chewing his lip.

Jooheon squeezed Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Let me know what you hear.”

Seonghwa met his gaze with a firm nod, wasting no time cranking the handle. “Thank you, Jooheon.”

The receiver crackled. 

“This is the Mist switchboard. How may I assist you?”

“Good morning, this is Lord Park Seonghwa. Connect me with the White Star Line office in Southampton, please.”

“Of course, my lord. One moment.”

The line hummed faintly, nearly drowned out by the pounding of their hearts.

Seonghwa tapped Wooyoung’s lip. “Stop biting.”

“White Star Line, Southampton. How may I direct your call?”

Wooyoung leaned in, pressing his cheek against Seonghwa’s to hear. Seonghwa laced their fingers together on the satin sofa. 

“This is Lord Park Seonghwa, Earl of Park. I’m calling about the collision,” he said, straightening his posture. “Two friends of my family were aboard. Were there any injuries?”

“No, my lord,” the White Star operator replied. “No fatalities or serious injuries reported.”

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, relief flooding his chest. 

“No serious injuries?” Wooyoung whispered. “What counts as serious?”

Seonghwa tightened his grip. “Thank you, that’s excellent news. Could you connect me with First Officer Kim or Fifth Officer Choi?”

“They’re still on board completing post-collision procedures, my lord.” 

“Well, can you at least–” Seonghwa paused, taking a deep breath. “My apologies. Can you send a telegraph directing them to call Lord Park and Mr. Jung at the Mist when they have access to a telephone?” 

“Of course, my lord. But I can’t say how long it will take.”

Seonghwa nodded, as if she could see him. “We’ll wait. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Wooyoung. 

“What now?” Wooyoung asked. 

“We wait.”

They stared at each other, love and fear passing between them in quiet glances. 

Seonghwa rarely studied Wooyoung, but looking at him now, he could see the difference two and a half years had made. His dimples lingered even when he wasn’t smiling, and faint lines creased over his brows from the way he laughed with his whole face. 

What a privilege to have a friend, to watch him grow and change.

Their heads snapped toward the door at the sound of a sharp knock. Jooheon peeked his head in, his eyebrows arched.

“Well? Any news?”

“No serious injuries,” Wooyoung muttered with a look of disgust, as though the words had spoiled in his mouth. 

“What the hell does that mean?” Jooheon asked, stepping into the room.

“Who knows!” Wooyoung threw up his hands dramatically. “The operator’s going to tell San and Hongjoong to call us back here, but she couldn’t say how long it would take.”

Jooheon patted Wooyoung on the shoulder sympathetically. “I’ll go to the restaurant and bring you boys some lunch.”

Wooyoung glowered as Jooheon retreated down the corridor. “If he calls me a boy one more time–”

“He’s not calling you specifically a boy,” Seonghwa said, suppressing a smile. “You thought it was hot when Hongjoong did it.” 

Wooyoung shot him a glare. “I did not.”

“Sure.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes. 

Wooyoung gave him a gentle shove, then flopped down and rested his head in his lap. Seonghwa combed his fingers through Wooyoung’s hair, his mind now on the letter burning in his pocket. 

“I’ll have to move into the estate soon,” Seonghwa said softly. 

“I know.” Wooyoung met his eyes. “How will I live without you?”

“You could come with me.” Seonghwa touched the tip of his finger to each of Wooyoung’s freckles. “Live in the lady’s suite.”

Wooyoung squealed. “Can I make all the servants call me Lady Park?”

“Jongho might quit if you do that.” 

Wooyoung giggled, but then his smile faded. “Edith Grove is my home.” His face brightened again. “But I could sleep over on weekends?”

“Perfect.” Seonghwa smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Wooyoung’s forehead. “And we’ll still see each other most weekdays at the bakery.”

“Then it won’t be that different,” Wooyoung mused. He bit his lip thoughtfully. “Are you going to ask Hongjoong to move in?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t really live anywhere, does he? Just out of a suitcase—on the ship, in hotels, at the flat–”

“Yeah, because no one’s asked him to move in with them.”

Seonghwa frowned. “Well you haven’t asked San either–”

“That’s different. He and I–”

“How is it different? We all–”

“Lunch is served!” Jooheon called from the hall, rolling in a black wicker tea cart. He lifted each silver cloche with a flourish and a dimpled smile. “Scotch woodcock, green salad, and Seonghwa’s favorite—strawberry trifle.”

Seonghwa flushed, his gaze dropping to the plush blue rug. “Thank you, Jooheon.”

“Anything for you, my lord,” Jooheon replied with a wink, setting the plates down on the coffee table. “Cheer up, boys. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“Thanks,” Seonghwa muttered, ignoring Wooyoung’s offended huff. 

Jooheon wheeled the cart away, and Seonghwa eyed the dish in front of him—creamy scrambled eggs on toast spread with black pepper and Gentleman’s Relish, the Mist’s preferred brand of anchovy paste. 

They ate mostly in silence, save for Wooyoung’s suggestion that Gentleman’s Relish could also mean something else. 

One hour passed. Then two. The sun climbed higher, heating their backs through the window.

Seonghwa checked his pocket watch again. Three hours and a waning crescent moon.

Then, at last, the telephone rang.

Seonghwa snatched the receiver. “Hello, Lord Park speaking.”

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong’s voice crackled over the line.

“Finally.” Wooyoung pressed in close, his ear flush against the receiver. “What the hell happened? Are you two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Hongjoong replied. “Both of us.”

“We were astern of the Hawke in the Solent when the Captain took too sharp a turn–” San started in the background, but Hongjoong cut him off, his voice low, like he didn’t want to be overheard.

“There’s going to be an inquiry,” he said quietly. “White Star’s already moving to pin it on the Hawke’s captain. They can’t afford the bad press—Olympic’s out of commission for repairs, and now they’re talking about delaying Titanic’s maiden voyage until next April.”

Seonghwa imagined the two massive ships colliding, metal crumpling against metal, drowning out a chorus of screams and chaos. Like gods at war, the old Titans battling the new Olympians, neither willing to bow. 

“How bad was it?” Seonghwa asked.

“Ripped open a section of the stern,” San said. “Took on water in two compartments. Scariest part was the swimming pool—22,000 gallons rushing down F-deck. I’m surprised no one was–”

“What do you mean, swimming pool?” Wooyoung asked in a scathing voice. He turned to Seonghwa. “Did you know there was a swimming pool?”

Seonghwa shook his head. “I don’t think Matthew mentioned a swimming pool in his tour.”

“Because it’s only for first class,” Hongjoong said dryly.

Wooyoung scoffed. “First class gets a 22,000-gallon swimming pool, and second class gets two bathtubs for 200 people to share?”

Seonghwa swore he could hear Hongjoong smirk. “Life’s not fair, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung opened his mouth to retort, but San spoke first. “We’ve got good news, too. White Star’s putting us on a paid sabbatical through the rest of the year, maybe longer.”

Wooyoung and Seonghwa exchanged a stunned look. 

“We’ll be in Southampton at least another two weeks,” San continued, “But after that, we’re coming back to London—to stay.”

Seonghwa barely had time to process before Wooyoung threw his arms around him, knocking the receiver out of his hand.

“Three months together!” Wooyoung exclaimed.

Seonghwa laughed gleefully, smoothing his hand down Wooyoung’s back. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he picked up the telephone. “Anything else to report, officers?”

Hongjoong snorted. “We’ll wire our full report by morning.”

“See that you do.” Seonghwa bit back a grin.

Wooyoung swiped the receiver from his hand. “Tell San I expect a gift.”

Seonghwa could hear San laugh in the background. “Noted.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Hongjoong added. 

“I should say the same to you,” Seonghwa replied.

A pause. Then, softer, “We’ll see you soon.”

The line clicked off.

“Three months together,” Seonghwa said. “Seems like a good time to ask them to move in, don’t you think?” 

Wooyoung’s grin widened. “You asking me or yourself?” 

Seonghwa gazed out the window, where long strands of ivy swayed in the breeze. “Maybe both.” 

It should’ve been an easy question. Hongjoong already stayed at the flat when he wasn’t at sea. But the flat was borrowed time, a stretch of weeks at most, with Hongjoong a visitor, his suitcase by the door. Moving into the estate meant something else entirely—converging their belongings and their lives under the scrutiny of nearly thirty servants.

He pictured it. Hongjoong fucking him in the bed of his forefathers, his grip tight in Seonghwa’s hair, his voice rough against his ear. The two of them taking coffee in the Palm Room beneath Daphne after, the morning sun glinting off the gilded leaves and Hongjoong’s golden face. 

And just like that, Seonghwa had his answer. 

𓊝

October 1911

“It’s still crooked,” Seonghwa said, hands on his hips.

“Then you fix it while I bark orders,” Wooyoung muttered, stepping down from the chair.

They’d spent the day—really the past fortnight—decorating the flat for Hongjoong and San’s homecoming. Seonghwa adjusted the banner, tilting it until it was level.

He checked his watch. “Nearly nine.”

“They’ll be here any minute,” Wooyoung replied. “How do I look?”

Seonghwa looked him up and down, taking in the gray suit he’d worn for their portrait, now snugger across the shoulders. 

“You look like a painting.” His go-to compliment for Wooyoung, though it was never a lie. 

Wooyoung beamed, right as a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“They’re here!” Seonghwa whispered loudly, smacking Wooyoung’s shoulder. He smoothed his waistcoat as Wooyoung reached toward him, sweeping a strand of hair out of his face. 

“Are you asking him tonight?” Wooyoung raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Seonghwa nodded. “Are you?”

“Yeah… I think I will.”

They gazed at each other as the truth settled between them. This would be Seonghwa’s last night in their flat, and then it wouldn’t be theirs anymore. It would be Wooyoung and San’s. 

Seonghwa pressed a kiss to Wooyoung’s cheek, then opened the door. 

It had been nearly a month since they’d seen each other, and Hongjoong was even more handsome than he remembered. He and San were both still in uniform, the brass buttons on their greatcoats gleaming in the flickering gaslight. 

“I come bearing gifts!” San announced brightly, stepping inside. 

Hongjoong trailed behind him, his mouth dropping open as he took in the flat. “What’s all this?” he asked, his cap in his hands. 

“Welcome home,” Seonghwa said softly. 

Wooyoung had arranged a dozen vases of hand-picked flowers around the room, set atop doilies Seonghwa had crocheted with delicate ships and nautical symbols. On the console table, Jeongyeon had tied intricate silk bows onto a large basket of hand pies and tartlets. 

Bukbuk’s contribution was a trail of tiny footprints stamped across the banner—now perfectly straight—with “Welcome home, officers” painted in Seonghwa’s best script. 

Seonghwa looked up to find San standing in front of him, holding out a colorful tin. 

“For me?” Seonghwa asked, tilting his head.

San nodded. “A sailor from New Zealand said these were popular there,” he said shyly. “Thought you might like them.” 

Seonghwa pried open the tin, which was filled with hokey pokey honeycomb candies. “I haven’t had these in years,” he said with wonder. “Not since I was a kid.”

On impulse, Seonghwa kissed San on the cheek, giggling as his ears turned bright red. Clearing his throat, San turned to Wooyoung and pressed a small velvet box into his hands. 

“My turn?” Wooyoung said with a smile. He popped it open, revealing a silver chain made of ornate crosses that looked like snowflakes. He gazed down at it, his expression unreadable for a moment before he glanced up at San, eyes shining.

Hongjoong elbowed Seonghwa. “Maybe we should give them some privacy.”

Seonghwa nodded, smiling at the look on Wooyoung’s face. He led Hongjoong upstairs to his room, lighting the lamp while Hongjoong knelt at his suitcase. The flickering shadows made the birds on the wallpaper look alive.

“Wait—you might want to hold off on unpacking everything.”

Hongjoong’s hands stilled. His dark eyes flicked up to meet Seonghwa’s. “Why?”

“Because, I, um–” He paused, trying to think of how to ask. “I’m going to accept my peerage. So I have to move.”

A shadow crossed Hongjoong’s face. His fingers curled around the suitcase’s handle, knuckles paling as he looked around the room, his gaze falling on Seonghwa’s packed portmanteau.

“Oh, it’s not—I’m not marrying anyone,” Seonghwa said quickly. “And I’ll still live my life how I want, work at the bakery—just from the estate.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders eased. He studied Seonghwa for a moment, then asked, “And for the weeks I’m not at sea…?”

Seonghwa crouched down on the floor beside him, prying his hand from his luggage to hold it. “I wanted to ask if you’d consider moving in with me.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened. “Move in with you?”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Seonghwa added, squeezing his hand. “You can just stay like you’ve been doing. It doesn’t have to mean anything more.”

Hongjoong’s gaze softened, his lips curving at the corners. “But what if I want more?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Then take it.”

Hongjoong laughed, light and breathless, then pushed Seonghwa back against the floorboards and kissed him. “Yes,” he whispered. “I’ll move in with you.”

Seonghwa hummed with satisfaction, tangling his fingers in Hongjoong’s hair. He couldn’t stop himself from giggling into the kiss, couldn’t stop picturing it—his hand guiding the razor along the nape of Hongjoong’s neck, his bed that Hongjoong came home to. 

It wouldn't be a woman who took care of Hongjoong. It would be him. 

They stood from the floor and undressed each other in devout silence. Seonghwa hung Hongjoong’s crisp black uniform beside his soft suits in the wardrobe while Hongjoong held him from behind, his fingers tracing the ridges of his abdomen.

Now bare, they laid together, Seonghwa pressing his back into Hongjoong’s warmth. Hongjoong held him close, his lips brushing the nape of his neck. Like always, Hongjoong was asleep in minutes, his breaths slow and steady against Seonghwa’s skin.  

But Seonghwa stayed awake, listening.

Tomorrow, he would wake in this room for the last time. The room where he’d found happiness and sorrow, where he’d come to rely on Wooyoung and himself, where he’d learned his desire made him weak, but also strong. 

Seonghwa dreamed he was both Apollo and Hyacinthus, grieving and grieved.

He woke to sunlight touching his face, pulling him into the day. He left Hongjoong sleeping—they’d have plenty of time together later. Stepping over the marble threshold, he freshened up in the washroom, then dressed quickly. 

Downstairs, Seonghwa gathered a handful of seeds from the kitchen and stepped outside. Wooyoung was already waiting for him in the garden, a somber look on his face.

He set down his newspaper. “Today’s the day,” he murmured.

“Today’s the day,” Seonghwa echoed. 

He walked past him to the base of the oak tree and knelt on the pavers, his palm open. As if he’d been waiting for him, Bukbuk emerged from the flowers, his tiny feet tapping against the stone. His beak darted into Seonghwa’s hand, gently pecking at his life line, plucking up seeds one by one.

Then the bird paused, glancing up at him and tilting his head. 

“Goodbye, Bukbuk,” Seonghwa whispered. Tears blurred his vision, salty on his lips. “I’ll visit you every weekday before work, I promise. You—you won’t even know I’m not here.”

Bukbuk chirped once, as if he understood, then took flight. From the oak tree, a low, mournful lament drifted down.

Seonghwa stood, brushing off his trousers. A hand settled on his back, and he turned to find Wooyoung watching him, eyes round and glassy. 

Wooyoung pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He smelled like the flat they’d shared, like flowers and smoke, like all things destined to fade. 

Seonghwa’s mind drifted to The Country of the Pointed Firs, now stranded in Southampton, waiting on a shelf aboard the wounded Olympic. 

So we die before our own eyes; so we see some chapters of our lives come to their natural end.  

𓊝

December 1911

Seonghwa woke to an empty bed, which was unusual. He stretched beneath the heavy coverlet as he gazed at the vaulted ceiling, inlaid with frescoes of Pompeii. Romans living ordinary lives—eating focaccia in a modest dining room, lounging at a thermae—unaware they’d soon be buried under fire and ash. 

“Mr. Wen?” Seonghwa’s voice came out rough with sleep. 

The door to the dressing room opened at once. Wen Junhui entered, already dressed in his crisp morning suit, a tray balanced in one hand. 

“Good morning, my lord.” He set the tray on the side table, then poured a delicate stream of tea into a pink teacup. “May I draw you a bath?”

Seonghwa sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Yes, please.”

Junhui disappeared into the adjoining washroom, the sound of rushing water following a moment later. He returned to help Seonghwa into his robe, bowing before retreating to the dressing room. 

Wooyoung had helped Seonghwa redecorate the washroom, much to Jongho’s dismay. The wallpaper was whimsical, reminiscent of Seonghwa’s bedroom at the flat—peachy pink with green ferns framing a dogwood tree. A familiar parakeet flitted between branches, its blue cere set with a turquoise stone. In the corner, a peace lily basked in tendrils of fragrant steam rising from the water. 

Seonghwa groaned as he sank into the cast-iron tub, the celadon enamel smooth and cool on his neck. Reaching for the washcloth, he bathed quickly, though he wished he could linger. 

He toweled off and slipped into his robe, eager to find where Hongjoong had gone. Junhui was waiting with a pressed suit when he reached the dressing room. 

“Have you seen Hongjoong this morning?”

“Yes, my lord,” Junhui replied, buttoning Seonghwa’s waistcoat. “I passed him in the hallway on my way in. He was… just standing there.”

Seonghwa frowned. “Standing where?”

“Right outside, in the portrait hall.”

“Thank you Mr. Wen,” Seonghwa said, heading out of the dressing room and into the corridor. 

Hongjoong was exactly where Junhui said he’d be, staring at a portrait near the staircase. He was wearing his gray velvet suit, the laces on the front of his trousers hanging loose. 

“What’s wrong?” Seonghwa asked.

“It just hit me,” Hongjoong replied, absently spinning the silver heirloom ring on his finger. “What you’re giving up to be with me.” 

Seonghwa followed his gaze to a portrait of his great-great-grandfather, blushing as his eyes landed on the signet ring. 

“I’m no stranger to legacy,” Hongjoong said, putting his hands in his pockets. “My parents died when I was young, but my father was a Royal Navy captain, and his father before him.” He finally turned to Seonghwa. “My brother has a family back in Scotland, but when you die, your peerage dies with you. There will be no more Earls of Park.” 

Months away from sea had made Hongjoong paler and softer, like a winter flower. Seonghwa leaned in, pressing a kiss to the stubble on his cheek before brushing his lips against his ear. 

“Forever is composed of nows,” he whispered. “I’ll write my own legacy.”

“Lord Park, Lord Kim.”

They turned as Junhui approached, his gloved hands neatly clasped in front of him. “My apologies for disturbing you. Are you ready to take breakfast, my lords?”

Seonghwa smiled. Beyond these walls, they had to hide. But here, the servants all treated Hongjoong as his Count, affording him the proper respect of the title. 

“Yes, Mr. Wen,” Seonghwa replied. “In the Flower Room in thirty minutes. I’d like to take a walk first.”

Junhui dipped his head. “Very good, my lord. I’ll ensure breakfast is ready upon your return.”

Hongjoong squeezed Seonghwa’s hand as Junhui led them down the grand staircase and through the first-floor corridor. A footman awaited them at the backdoor, helping them into their greatcoats before they stepped outside.

Sunlight warmed their faces despite the December chill, casting long shadows across the frost-dusted gardens. They descended the stone steps and wandered into the labyrinth, where a brick path twisted beneath tall hedges. 

“How do you like being a Count?” Seonghwa asked, his voice light and teasing.

Hongjoong huffed a laugh. “It’s even stuffier than I imagined.” He wrapped an arm around Seonghwa’s waist, pulling him close as they walked past flower beds glittering with frozen dew. “But I’m enjoying being your Count.”

His grip sent a wave of heat through Seonghwa, a stark contrast to the cool morning. The scent of damp earth and flowers clung to them, mostly white blooms this time of year—Christmas roses, snowdrops, and narcissus, named for the boy who fell in love with his own reflection.

“I miss the sea,” Hongjoong murmured, stopping to pluck a snowdrop. “But the grounds make up for it. They’re very pretty.” He tucked the flower into Seonghwa’s buttonhole, his fingers lingering on his chest. 

“You’re prettier,” Seonghwa breathed, their faces inches apart as Hongjoong adjusted the stem. 

Hongjoong flushed and glanced away, yet Seonghwa couldn’t look anywhere else—his wide-set eyes, the delicate slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, parted as though he wanted to speak but thought better of it. 

Seonghwa wished there was a wall to press him against.

A strong breeze stirred the bare branches overhead, knocking them together like a wind chime as Seonghwa led them deeper into the maze. Hongjoong shivered.

“Isn’t this a dead end–”

The words died in his throat as Seonghwa sank to his knees.

Hongjoong stiffened. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “Seonghwa, it’s freezing, and someone could–”

Seonghwa didn’t let him finish. His fingers found the laces of Hongjoong’s trousers, his leather gloves creaking as he tugged them loose. Hongjoong’s protest crumbled into a groan as Seonghwa freed him and took him into his mouth. 

“Shit,” Hongjoong hissed through his teeth. His hands flew to Seonghwa’s shoulders, gripping his coat. 

Seonghwa took his time, rolling Hongjoong’s soft cock around in his mouth. There was something so satisfying about having him like this—cold, vulnerable, pliant. He pressed him to the roof of his mouth, moaning at the feeling of his cock filling out on his tongue.  

He popped off just long enough to bite the tips of his gloves, yanking them off with his teeth. The winter air was sharp against his bare skin as he wrapped his fingers around the base of Hongjoong’s cock, twisting his hand as his tongue teased the ridge, coaxing him to full hardness.

When Hongjoong grew heavy in his palm, Seonghwa pressed his tongue into the slit, lapping up the beads of precum as they formed. He knew the taste well by now—sea salt and earth like Hongjoong’s scent—but it still sent a thrill through him, like he’d tasted ambrosia and was about to be granted immortality. He sucked gently on the tip, savoring every last drop. 

Then, without warning, he opened his throat and took him to the hilt.

Hongjoong groaned, tilting his head back against the hedge. A handful of tiny goldcrests burst from the branches, startled into flight. “God, Seonghwa, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Seonghwa pulled back to glance up at him, his lips slick, his hand still stroking Hongjoong’s cock to keep him warm. His words formed a cloud as he spoke, floating up to Hongjoong’s flushed face. 

“What would the servants say if they could see their lords now?”

Hongjoong groaned. “I don’t care anymore.” He brought his hands to Seonghwa’s face, his brows knitting together. “I’ll fuck you all over that manor if you'll let me.”

Seonghwa wrapped his mouth around the head again, his eyes rolling up to the sky as he pictured Hongjoong bending him over in the library. He pulled off, lips dragging over the tip, then took him back in, deeper this time.

Hongjoong didn’t hold back. He snapped his hips, each thrust rougher than the last.

Seonghwa’s breath warmed the small space beneath Hongjoong’s shirt, his face damp with sweat and spit. He hollowed his cheeks, tightening his lips around him while his fingers stroked the shaft. Reaching his free hand underneath him, he pressed on Hongjoong’s perineum, rubbing in slow circles. 

“Oh fuck that’s good,” Hongjoong cried out, stilling his hips to let Seonghwa have his way with him.

Seonghwa glanced up, moaning at the sight of him. Hongjoong’s mouth was parted in ecstasy, his chest heaving, while the warmth from their bodies curled around him like mist. Seonghwa imagined it spreading through the grounds and melting the frost, filling the garden with color once more. 

He felt Hongjoong’s balls tighten and opened his throat again, letting him sink deeper. 

Hongjoong moaned, his thighs tensing through the velvet. “Fuck.”

Seonghwa adjusted his knees on the cold bricks, his own cock straining against his woolen trousers. He wondered if the servants would be surprised if they found them in the library, or if they knew Seonghwa would be the one to submit. 

“Seonghwa—I’m close–”

With a shudder, Hongjoong spilled down his throat, a wanton moan escaping him that made Seonghwa’s toes curl in his boots. Seonghwa took everything, warmth pooling deep in his abdomen as Hongjoong trembled in his grasp. 

Slowly, Seonghwa pulled off, licking his lips. He gently tucked Hongjoong back into his velvet trousers, pulling the laces tight before rising to his feet. Hongjoong bent to retrieve his discarded gloves, his fingers brushing over Seonghwa’s knuckles as he held them out for him.

“Breakfast?” Seonghwa asked casually, slipping his gloves back on and pulling out his embroidered handkerchief.

Hongjoong let out a breathless laugh. “You’re not satisfied?” 

Seonghwa dabbed his forehead dry and wiped his mouth. “I’m just making sure you start your day with a warm meal.”

Hongjoong snorted, looping his arm around him as they made their way back through the grounds. “Insatiable.”

The marble statues atop the Park House soon came into view—Echo, Chloris, and Daphne. Seonghwa thought Echo might’ve been the most tragic of all the nymphs, cursed to never speak first, only to repeat the words of others.

Crisp morning air gave way to the warmth of the house as they stepped inside, a waiting footman taking their coats with a polite bow. Junhui was already there, inclining his head as he spoke. 

“My lords, breakfast is served in the Flower Room.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wen,” Seonghwa replied with a smile, holding Hongjoong’s hand as they followed him through the corridors. 

The Flower Room was meant for informal meals, though it was hardly modest. A domed, coffered ceiling framed enormous masterworks in gold-gilded frames. Unlike the Great Room, there were no fresh flowers—only paintings of the men who’d died and become them. The Death of Hyacinthus, Venus and Adonis, and the jewel of the collection, Narcissus by Caravaggio.

Footmen strode in and out, setting a small mahogany table for two. From across the room, Jongho bowed. “Good morning, my lords.” 

The smell of bread and freshly brewed coffee made Seonghwa’s mouth water as they entered. Two footmen stepped forward, pulling out their chairs before disappearing into the service hall. They returned swiftly with the first course, a grand display of fruit. Grapes cascaded over the rim of a silver bowl, which held melon in all shades—pink, yellow, orange, green—sliced and arranged like flowers, with little leaves made from pears. 

Hongjoong rolled a grape between his fingers, glancing at Seonghwa. “I can’t believe you’re used to a breakfast like this every day.”

Seonghwa hummed, spearing a pear with his fork. “The meals were this elaborate, but it was a much bleaker affair.”

He’d barely spoken to his parents growing up. Perhaps that was why he’d felt more sadness saying goodbye to Bukbuk than hearing of his father’s passing. Silent breakfasts, a formal visitation in the afternoons, and the occasional dinner when they had a visitor from the motherland—that was it. The rest of his time was spent with tutors or alone, left to daydream about stars and tragedies.

Next came a selection of porridges—barley with currants, oatmeal with honey and cream, rice porridge. Hongjoong, never one for grains, took a single spoonful before setting it aside. A footman came to pour them coffee from a silver urn as another brought the main course, beefsteak served alongside poached eggs on toast and a salad of sliced tomatoes. 

Seonghwa claimed a slice of toast, eyeing Hongjoong’s empty plate.

“You’re not eating.”

“Still full from earlier.” Hongjoong smirked, taking a small bite of steak. “Although I suppose you’re the one who got filled.”

Seonghwa flushed. “Stop that.” 

Hongjoong laughed brightly, allowing Seonghwa to slice several pieces of steak for him. 

“Don’t eat so much that you get tired,” Hongjoong said softly. “I have a favor to repay.”

Seonghwa bit his lip, eyeing him over the top of his coffee cup. “All over the house?”

“We could start with the Palm Room.”

Seonghwa withered under Hongjoong’s sharp gaze, unsure if he was being serious. Would he breach him with the ring beneath paintings of its likeness, with Daphne as his witness?

The final course was the bakery’s signature Chelsea buns, made with orange zest instead of the traditional lemon peel. Jongho found Seonghwa’s job endlessly appalling, but he never complained about the leftover pastries Seonghwa brought home. 

Just as Hongjoong reached for a bun, a footman entered carrying a silver tray. He approached Jongho, who plucked a piece of paper from it and brought it to Seonghwa.

“My lord,” Jongho murmured, bowing as he presented the letter. 

Seonghwa wiped his hands on his napkin before taking it, his breath catching as he saw the postmark. He slid a finger beneath the wax seal and unfolded the letter.

His insides went cold.

Hongjoong frowned. “Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa shot to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. He turned sharply to Jongho. “I need to use the telephone. Now.”

“Right away, my lord,” Jongho replied, already moving.

Seonghwa followed the butler through the corridors in silence, his heart pounding out of his chest. 

Similar to the one aboard the Olympic, the Park House library wasn’t much of a library at all, just two mahogany shelves of books no one had perused in decades. Portraits of dead Parks lined the walls, standing guard over tufted floral chesterfields and matching armchairs. 

Seonghwa settled on the gossip bench, a cushioned seat attached to a side table that held the telephone. “I need to speak with the Mist, Jongho.”

Jongho nodded and picked up the receiver, turning the crank quickly. 

“Lord Park needs to be connected to the Mist Hotel in Chelsea at once, please.”

He handed the telephone to Seonghwa, bowing and taking his leave. The line crackled as the call connected. 

“This is the Mist switchboard,” said a familiar voice. “How may I assist you?” 

“Hello, this is Lord Park. Is Jooheon available?”

“Oh, Lord Park! We all miss you around here. I’ll patch you through.”

A few minutes passed. Then, at last–

“Seonghwa?”

“Jooheon,” he exhaled. “I hate to ask this, but can you send a bellboy to check if Wooyoung’s home? I need to speak with him urgently.”

“Of course, Seonghwa. Is everything all right?”

Seonghwa sighed, touching two fingers to his brow. “No. I’ve just received a letter from my mother.”

On the other end, he swore he heard Jooheon cringe.

“I’ll send our fastest boy. Sit tight.”

The line went dead.

Seonghwa returned the receiver to its hook, leaning back in the chair. His gaze drifted to the large potted palm in the corner of the room, thinking of his first spring in the Edith Grove flat, when Wooyoung had set his palm outside. 

He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. If Wooyoung wasn’t home, he’d have to just take the motorcar to the bakery. 

Seonghwa stood, moving over to one of the shelves to see if there were any volumes he recognized. Ovid’s Metamorphoses caught his eye, and he cracked it open to the page about Echo and Narcissus, a story of obsession, silence, and selfishness. 

He darted across the room as the phone rang, snatching up the receiver before the first chime had finished. 

“Is everything all right, Seonghwa?”

Hearing Wooyoung’s concerned voice nearly undid him. 

“No,” he said quietly. “My mother’s written.”

Silence stretched between them. 

“Out with it, then,” Wooyoung said. 

Seonghwa sighed, then began to read. 

Wellington, New Zealand
November 2, 1911

Lord Seonghwa,

        I hoped it would not come to this, but you leave me no choice.

        A former employee of the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool has come forward willing to testify that you and Jung Wooyoung are guilty of unnatural offenses. If you persist in shaming this family and refusing your obligations—both to the Crown and to the Park lineage—I will see to it that Mr. Jung is ruined in the fashion of Oscar Wilde.

        You stand in the shadow of nearly five centuries of service to Crown and country. I urge you, for the final time, to reconsider your present course. If I do not receive word of your matrimony by the end of March 1912, I will press charges.

Your mother, 
The Right Honorable Dowager Countess Park 

“What are we going to do?” Seonghwa asked, his voice wavering. 

“What do you mean? You don’t think she’s serious, do you?”

Seonghwa’s throat tightened. “Of course I think she’s serious. Should we move to New York?” 

As he said it, his heart sank. There probably wasn’t a city in the world far enough to escape his mother’s reach.

“I don’t want to live in New York!” Wooyoung huffed. “A few months out of the year for the new bakery is enough—they’re so pretentious there. Besides, I have you to protect me.” He laughed, light and careless. “Does she not know who you are?”

“Wooyoung, that’s the problem. Who I am.” Seonghwa clenched his jaw. “Do you not understand what happened to Oscar Wilde? He was fucking Bosie—I mean Lord Douglas—and his father exposed them. Then Oscar went mad in prison, had to use his soft writer’s hands to build ships–”

“You worry too much. Why would I be afraid of some old bat who lives a two-month journey away? No offense,” Wooyoung said in a breezy voice. “I’m not scared of her.”

Seonghwa closed his eyes. “You would be if you knew her.”

“Mmm, doubt it,” Wooyoung replied dismissively. “Anyway, I’m coming up this weekend. San says he needs an afternoon alone for something he won’t tell me about, so it’ll just be me. You’ll have to make Hongjoong sleep in the lady’s suite so we can cuddle.”

The tension bled from Seonghwa’s chest as he giggled against his will. “He’ll be cranky all weekend.”

“Adversity builds character.” Wooyoung’s smile was audible. “See you soon.”

Seonghwa replaced the receiver with a sigh. There was a knock at the door, and he looked up to find Jongho peering in the doorway. He stood, holding out the letter.

“Wooyoung isn’t worried,” Seonghwa murmured. “But he never knew Bosie.”

Bosie had been bold enough to stand by Oscar—but maybe bold wasn’t the right word. Their obsession with each other was a cycle: passion, betrayal, reconciliation, repeat.

He’d been to New Zealand a few times, though they weren’t friends. Seonghwa remembered one visit when Bosie had bragged about rewriting Oscar’s work in translation. One should look only in mirrors became One must not look in mirrors. A small change that wasn’t small at all.

Now, instead of poetry, Bosie wrote long essays about the evils of foreigners and homosexuality, as if the trials had purged him of everything but his bitterness. One must not look in mirrors. 

Jongho frowned as he scanned the parchment, his expression darkening. 

“Seonghwa… I hope you know we all stand behind you,” he said, returning the letter to him. 

“I know, Jongho.” Seonghwa placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He trudged back to the dining room, where Hongjoong sat beneath the gaze of Narcissus. The boy was absorbed in his own reflection, caught in the moment before his ruin—when he’d claw at his own face, bruise his chest purple, and fade into nothing but delicate white flowers.

Hongjoong looked up, his expression tense.  

“I’m sorry for leaving,” Seonghwa murmured. “I panicked.”

“It’s fine,” Hongjoong replied quickly. “Is everything all right?”

Seonghwa hesitated. Just as Echo had been cursed to become a reflection of others, so had Seonghwa been cursed to live by the will of his mother, his bloodline, and his country. 

He held out the letter. Hongjoong took it, his eyes widening as he read it. 

“What are you going to–”

A voice from the hall interrupted him.

“My lord.”

Seonghwa turned. A footman lingered at the threshold, eyes lowered in deference.

“There’s a visitor at the door.”

His stomach dropped. They never received visitors. He and Hongjoong exchanged a meaningful glance. 

“I’ll be right back,” Seonghwa said, his voice tight. He pressed a chaste kiss to Hongjoong’s cheek before slipping from the room, each step twisting the knot in his stomach tighter. 

Winter air rushed in when the footman opened the door. Jeongyeon stood on the threshold, wrapped in a heavy coat, a suitcase at her feet. Her face was pale, eyes pleading.

“I need help,” she said. 

The footman looked awkwardly between the two, then bowed and took his leave. 

Seonghwa swallowed. “What kind of help?”

“My parents kicked me out.” She sighed, her breath floating up like smoke. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Seonghwa stepped aside. “Come in,” he said, taking her suitcase with one hand and wrapping the other around her shoulders. “You’re always welcome here.” 

“Thank you,” she replied, her footsteps echoing against the marble floors. “Only until I can find my own place. I’ve got money from the bakery squirreled away and some useless heirlooms to offload.”

Seonghwa shook his head. “We’ve got nothing but space. Stay forever if you want.” At the top of the stairs, he paused between two portraits outside the largest guest suite. “I should’ve invited you as soon as I moved in,” he added. “You’ll be happier here anyway, and the lady's maid will finally have someone to fuss over.”

She let out a hollow laugh. “I won’t be happy anywhere. I’m absolutely, royally fucked.”

Seonghwa glanced at her. “It can’t be that bad.”

Jeongyeon exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her temple. “I assure you, it is.”

Seonghwa opened the door, but paused with his hand on the knob, turning to Jeongyeon.

“Will you just tell me what happened? Did you murder someone? Because I promise, whatever it is, we can figure–”

“I’m pregnant.”

Seonghwa’s hand slipped from the doorknob. 

“You’re–” 

“Pregnant,” she finished, voice flat. 

His mouth opened, then shut. Somehow this was more surprising than if she’d killed someone. 

“How did that happen?” 

Jeongyeon shot him a look. “Do you need me to explain it to you?”

His ears burned. “No, I just–” He raked a hand through his hair. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing I can do.” Her voice was dull, like she’d already gone over this a hundred times. “Except hide until I give birth, give him up, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

“Him?”

“It’s a boy,” Jeongyeon said, her throat bobbing. “I can tell.” 

Now that he knew, he thought he could see it in her face. Despite her defeated expression, she was glowing, her face fuller. 

“Is that what you want?” Seonghwa asked, quieter now. “To pretend it never happened?”

“No.” A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away roughly. “But I can’t keep him. Not unless we hide here forever. And then what kind of future is there for him?”

Seonghwa’s gaze drifted to the portrait of his great–great-grandfather, staring down as though urging him to see beyond his own reflection. 

The idea washed over him like it had always been there, like a memory—or a premonition. 

“I can think of a future he could have.”

𓊝

Chapter Text

January 1912

Seonghwa stood at the end of Grafton Street, certain he was in the wrong place. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the notes he had scribbled during his call with San. 

Saturday at 10 a.m in Mayfair. Park on Grafton, take a right. Meet outside 24 Albemarle St.

But there was no Albemarle. Grafton simply ended. 

Gas lamps flickered around him as he flipped the parchment over, hoping he’d forgotten something. In Chelsea, lamplighters doused the lights at the first whisper of dawn, but in Mayfair, they burned endlessly—a quiet display of wealth.

Seonghwa wondered if the fussy residents of the townhouses lining the street were peering down at him through their lace-curtained windows, watching him struggle. He could certainly feel Minho judging him from the motorcar. 

San hadn’t even explained why he’d called him here. Whatever it was, it required a nobleman, otherwise he would have asked Hongjoong or Wooyoung.  

He walked a little further before realizing his mistake. What he’d thought was another street around the corner was still Grafton. 

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called back to the driver, “I’m going down here. Do you want to wait?”

Minho barely looked up from his newspaper, lifting a hand in a lazy salute. 

Seonghwa turned the corner, finally taking a right onto Albemarle. A large neoclassical building loomed ahead, crowned with a mansard roof similar to the estate, though without the tragic nymphs. He squinted to read the sign, double-checking the address against his notes.

Why would San want to meet at the crown jeweler?

He’d seen a photo of the building in the paper a few months back. Garrard had only recently moved to Mayfair, flush with profits from designing a set of jewels for the Queen to wear at the Delhi Durbar, where she and the King were crowned Emperor and Empress of India. 

Then they’d gone on a hunting trip to shoot some of Nepal’s few remaining tigers. Long may they reign.

A tap on his shoulder made Seonghwa jump. He turned quickly.

“Sorry,” San said, pink blooming across his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

“That’s quite all right,” Seonghwa said awkwardly. He glanced toward the jeweler. “So—what are we doing here?”

San pulled off his leather newsboy cap, twisting it in his hands. “I, um—I wanted to ask if you’d help me pick out a ring.”

“A ring?” Seonghwa repeated. Just a few months ago, San had found a necklace to Wooyoung’s liking on his own. Why would he need help choosing something as simple as a–

The warmth drained from his face. 

“A ring?” he croaked.

San nodded. “I’ve been saving my wages for months to get Wooyoung something special. I tried picking one out myself, but… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed. “And by something special, you mean–”

“I’m going to ask him to marry me.”

The city pressed in on him. Blackbirds trilled in the trees while automobiles rattled past on the cobblestones. Pedestrians strolled by, oblivious to the sudden and massive shift in the world. 

“But you can’t.”

“I don’t care,” San replied in a firm voice. “And I don’t think Wooyoung will either.”

Seonghwa looked at San and felt like he was seeing him for the first time. Sweet eyes set in a masculine face, a chiseled jawline framing a nervous mouth. 

He was beautiful in the way ships were beautiful—strong and earnest, built to carry great burdens. 

He squeezed San’s shoulder. “Then let’s go pick out a ring.”

San said nothing, but his dimples flashed, his eyes bright.

A doorman opened the door for them with gloved hands, ushering them into a bright white showroom lined with glass display cases. From behind a heavy curtain, a man in a crisp white waistcoat and black tails appeared, his eyes widening as they landed on Seonghwa.

“Lord Park,” he said, bowing. “My apologies, we were not expecting you.”

The Parks had been patrons of Garrard since the 18th century—they’d designed the emerald-fringed choker Seonghwa pawned to fund the New York bakery.

Seonghwa smiled. “We’re here on a whim.”

“Ah, very good.” The jeweler continued past them, locking the door with a polished brass key. He retrieved a small sign from beneath the counter and hung it in the window. “We’ll close the showroom so you may browse in private, my lord.”

San let out a low whistle. “Maybe I should start bringing you along for all my errands.”

Seonghwa smirked. “Glad to be of service.”

The jeweler clasped his hands together. “May I prepare anything specific for you, Lord Park and Mister…?”

“Officer Choi, Royal Navy Reserve,” Seonghwa corrected. “Yes, could you show us your finest selection of men’s rings?”

“Right away, Lord Park, Officer Choi.” 

He disappeared behind the curtain, returning moments later with a tray lined in dark blue velvet. The rings gleamed under the showroom’s chandeliers—gold and silver bands in every size, some plain, others intricate and set with precious stones.

San leaned in to study them, then frowned. “These all look the same to me.”

Seonghwa laughed, shaking his head. “Then I’m glad I’m here.” He ran his fingers over the selection, assessing them with a practiced eye. “Wooyoung wears silver, so we can eliminate the gold. Do you want a stone, or no?”

San nodded. “But something he wouldn’t mind wearing every day.”

Seonghwa turned to the jeweler. “Thank you, sir. This was very helpful. Could we see thick silver bands set with modest stones? You specialize in sapphires, is that right?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

The jeweler took the tray and returned with a more refined selection. San’s eyes caught on one—a wide band with an intricate, twisting design, almost like metal lace. Each swirl featured a tiny sapphire, eight gems catching the light like scattered stars.

“That’s the one,” San said, voice firm.

Seonghwa squeezed San’s shoulder. “Excellent choice,” he said, and it was. The perfect balance of masculine and feminine, just like Wooyoung. “He’ll love it.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

As they approached the front for San to pay, Seonghwa’s eyes flickered toward another display. Women’s engagement rings, set on stands of ivory satin.

It had been a business proposition. Jeongyeon would gain a future for herself and for her son; Seonghwa would gain an heir and finally get his mother off his back. They’d shaken hands on it and agreed to a marriage on paper at the register office with Wooyoung and Hongjoong as their witnesses. 

But maybe he could still make it nice for her. 

His gaze landed on a delicate silver ring with a large ruby in the center. The setting echoed the design of La Peregrina, the Park heirloom necklace she wore. As though they could have been a set. 

“I’ll take this one as well,” he said.

The jeweler’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Will there be an announcement soon?” His smile was eager—no doubt already imagining the gossip he could peddle to his wealthier clientele.

“Give my friend a discount, and I’ll tell you,” Seonghwa said with a wink. “You’ll be the first to know.”

He let out a jolly laugh, then named a price that was more than fair. He tucked Wooyoung’s ring into a black leather box, handing it to San. 

“Yes,” Seonghwa said smoothly. “I’ll be asking Miss Yoo to marry me.”

The jeweler clapped in delight. “Oh, the socialites will be both thrilled and devastated,” he chuckled. “They love speculating about you.”

“I bet they do,” Seonghwa replied dryly, taking Jeongyeon’s ring box. “Thank you, sir. Very fine work.”

He turned to find San frowning at the box in his hands.

“Something wrong?”

San pointed at the heart-shaped box the jeweler had given Seonghwa. “Can I have one like that?”

The jeweler hesitated. “For a man’s ring, officer?”

San crossed his arms, emphasizing his broad, muscled frame. “I like hearts.”

Flushing, the man reached beneath the counter, handing San a matching box. 

Purchases secured, Seonghwa and San stepped back onto Albemarle Street. Minho was waiting for them just around the corner, tipping his hat as they climbed into the Rolls-Royce.

“Successful trip?” he asked.

“Yeah,” San said, eyes shining. “I think it was, Mr. Choi.”

“Call me Minho, Mr. Choi is my father—is that a ring?” Minho asked gleefully. He spun the wheel, turning onto Berkeley. 

“It is,” Seonghwa cut in. “But it’s a secret.”

Minho mimed sewing his lips together, glancing over his shoulder at them with a grin. 

“When are you going to ask him?” Seonghwa asked. 

San rolled the ring box between his palms. “I was thinking tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Before I lose my nerve,” San said, flushing. “Or someone ruins the surprise.”

“If you’re talking about me, I’ll have you know I’m an excellent secret keeper,” Minho said sharply from the front.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “And he never eavesdrops, either.” He looked to San. “So—tonight?”

“We’ll all be at the estate for dinner to celebrate,” San replied. Then his face fell. “But I don’t really know how to do it.”

Seonghwa pictured the long dining table in the Great Room, Wooyoung sitting across from San, unaware of what was coming. It wasn’t that long ago Wooyoung sat across from Seonghwa in the garden, a letter from San in his hands and anguish etched across his face. 

He deserves someone perfect, and I’m far from it. 

“You could tell him all the things you love about him,” Seonghwa suggested, gazing out the window at Green Park in the distance. “So he knows why you want to be with him.”

“I’m not good with words like you. I’d only mess it up.”

“He kept all your letters. Your words have power over him.” 

True, but not the whole truth. Wooyoung had reread San’s letters every day, the parchment slowly turning to dust in his ink-stained hands. Two years of torment, of love and anger woven together in the shape of a noose. 

Seonghwa cleared his throat. “You could use notes so you remember what to say. He needs to hear it, trust me.”

San nodded, gripping the velvet heart so tightly his knuckles went white. “I think I can do that.”

Seonghwa covered San’s hand with his own. “You can.” His voice was steady, certain. “Let’s go to the kitchens when we arrive. See if our chef can find a bird for the occasion.”

Minho pulled up to the entrance, and Junhui stepped out almost immediately to open the car door. Seonghwa wondered if he’d been standing at the window the whole time he’d been gone. 

“Good luck,” Minho said to San with a wink. 

San gave him a dimpled smile. “Thanks, Minho.” 

“My lord, have you two taken lunch?” Junhui asked, leading them into the house. 

“Not yet, but I’d like to stop in the kitchens for a word with Chef Kim,” Seonghwa said. “I’ll grab something quick—we don’t need the full affair.”

“Very good, my lord,” Junhui replied, turning to lead the way. 

“We can find it,” Seonghwa said quickly. The fewer people who knew anything, the better. Wooyoung had a way of making even the most discreet man want to divulge his secrets. 

The valet hesitated just long enough to make Seonghwa wonder if he was offended, then nodded, taking his dismissal.

“This way,” Seonghwa told San, leading him into a narrow hall. The kitchens were at the back of the house, tucked away through the servants’ quarters. 

Bright white walls reflected sunlight onto Moroccan tiles, inlaid with delicate patterns of white, orange, and cerulean. The chef hovered over a massive gas range, barking orders at three scullery maids like a general orchestrating a battlefield. 

“My lord!” he said brightly. “To what do I owe the interruption?”

San’s ears turned red, his eyes flicking toward the door, but Seonghwa just laughed. “Seokjin, it smells delicious in here.” He leaned against one of the butcher block tables, careful to avoid a pot of crabs fighting for freedom. “We have a special occasion tonight–”

“Oh do we?” Seokjin replied, adding salt to one of the pots on the stove. “First I’m hearing about it.”

Seonghwa grimaced. “Do you think you could get a bird?”

“Oh, I can get a bird no problem. I’ll go strangle a couple pigeons for you right now,” Seokjin quipped. “Now a slaughtered, prepared, and cooked turkey in”—he made a big show of pulling out his pocket watch—“less than six hours? Impossible.”

“I know a regular chef couldn’t do it,” Seonghwa said. “But I thought you might be able to.” 

“If you think flattery works on me,” Seokjin started, “Then you’re absolutely right.” He let out a joyful, squeaky laugh that sounded like someone scrubbing a window. “Is San finally proposing?”

San’s jaw dropped. “How did you…?”

“It’s obvious,” Seokjin replied, sampling the soup before adding more salt to the pot. “I’ll make the bird happen.”

Seonghwa grinned. “Thank you, Seokjin.”

“Of course, Seonghwa. We much prefer cooking for you boys over that old Gorgon.” 

Seonghwa grinned as the maids around them voiced their agreement. He supposed his mother wasn’t that different from a Gorgon. No snakes for hair, but she did have an unfortunate fondness for elaborate, villainous hats.

Seokjin gave him a meaningful look. “Have you written her about your plan yet?”

Seonghwa’s gaze dropped to the tiles. “No.”

He’d tried twice, but both times, anger had risen in him like fire, threatening to burn down the estate and everyone in it. He knew it was the right course of action—for Jeongyeon and her unborn son, for himself, for his family—but the scorned child inside him hated giving his mother what she wanted. 

“It doesn’t count if she doesn’t know about it, Seonghwa. You’ve got to think of Wooyoung.” 

“I know, I know,” Seonghwa sighed. “I’ll go do it now.”

Seokjin was only six years older than him, but he treated Seonghwa the way he imagined a real father would. 

“Better run before she turns you to stone,” Seokjin said with another loud laugh. “And you’re both looking peaky,” he added in a sharper tone. “Eat something before you get sick.”

Seonghwa and San each filled plates with bread, fruit, and cheese, then headed back through the servants’ quarters. When they reached the main corridor, Junhui was waiting for them. 

“Mr. Wen, do you know where Wooyoung and Hongjoong are?” Seonghwa asked, popping a grape into his mouth.

“I believe Mr. Jung and Lord Kim are in the gardens playing lawn games, my lord,” Junhui replied. He paused, his expression tightening. “Or at least, they appear to be chasing each other with large sticks.”

Seonghwa met San’s eyes, then looked away quickly, trying to keep a straight face. “Could you take San to my private study and ensure Wooyoung doesn’t walk in on him? He has some important notes to write.”

San raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Yes, you do,” Seonghwa said firmly. “Tell Hongjoong I’m in the library when he comes in—I’d like a word with him. And if Wooyoung needs a distraction, send him to Jeongyeon’s door.”

“It will be as you say, my lord.” Junhui bowed, then gestured for San to follow him. 

Seonghwa moved through the corridors, turning right past the marble bust of Perseus. Hongjoong already knew his plan, but Seonghwa needed to speak to him before he saw the ring—before he got the wrong idea. 

He wanted to give his friend a good life, her son a good name. But every dream of his own still began and ended with Hongjoong. Golden Hongjoong, kissing him beneath Orion on the Runic, or on his knees outside Ambrosia, or laying a picnic blanket atop the Hotel Chelsea. 

Or a dream yet to come. 

Gray Hongjoong, looking back on a life well spent. A life spent together.

Sunlight pooled in the center of the library, framing a palm tree a servant must have moved for better light. Seonghwa sank into the armchair at the worn wooden desk. Family legend claimed it had once belonged to Princess Sophia, the Park who might have made him a prince if not for her eleven older siblings.

He set down his lunch and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the drawer. As he wrote, resentment burned hotter, his mother’s last letter still sharp in his mind.

I will see to it that Mr. Jung is ruined in the fashion of Oscar Wilde.

But the Gorgons weren’t inherently evil. Medusa could turn men to stone with a glance, but she’d been asleep when Perseus cut off her head. Perhaps his mother truly feared the end of their bloodline. Perhaps she believed she was protecting his legacy. 

History remembered Perseus as the hero. No one ever considered Medusa’s perspective. 

Seonghwa crumpled up his first draft, then started anew.

January 12, 1912
London, England

Lady Park,

       I trust this letter finds you in good health. I write to inform you of two joyful occasions. First, my marriage to Miss Yoo, now the Right Honorable Countess Park Jeongyeon.

       Second, that our union has already been blessed. The Countess is with child, and in time, when I am called to join my father, our son shall serve the Crown as the 20th Earl of Park.

       I hope the prospect of becoming a grandmother will bring you the peace you deserve.

Your devoted son,
The Right Honorable Earl Park

Seonghwa stood, letting the ink dry as he glanced at the ancestral portraits lining the room. Would they be pleased? Horrified? He supposed he’d never know.

He turned toward the door—only to find Hongjoong leaning against the frame.

His curls were slicked back from his forehead, his white button-up damp with sweat. If Seonghwa squinted, he could see the shadows of his nipples peeking out through the fabric. His gaze jerked upward.

Hongjoong smirked. “You’re staring.” 

The words Seonghwa meant to say evaporated. 

“Hello, Officer Kim,” he breathed. His eyes dipped lower again, tracing the curve of Hongjoong’s chest beneath the thin cotton. 

Hongjoong stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “It’s Lord Kim now.” He took another step. “Or is it the Right Honorable Count Park?” 

Another step closer. 

Seonghwa bit his lip, heat creeping up his neck as his lungs filled with Hongjoong’s musk. He was suddenly haunted by his fantasy of Hongjoong taking him in the library, under the watchful gaze of his dead forefathers. 

His back hit the desk. Hongjoong filled the space between them, his palms pressed to the wood, caging him in. 

“Junhui–” Seonghwa swallowed, his voice tight. “He’s always around the corner.”

Hongjoong tilted his head. “I told him I needed a word with you in private.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

Hongjoong pressed a soft kiss to his mouth that sent sparks through him. Seonghwa didn’t think he’d ever tire of the taste of him or the thrill of being this close. Hongjoong slid his tongue between Seonghwa’s lips, letting out a quiet, sweet moan. 

Then Hongjoong gripped his hips, spun him around, and bent him over the desk. 

The movement knocked the wind out of him. Seonghwa barely had time to catch his breath before Hongjoong pressed him down, the pockmarked wood rough against his cheek. Deft fingers reached around him, unfastening his trousers and shoving them to the floor. 

Seonghwa heard the unmistakable sound of the oil jar opening, followed by the obscene suction of Hongjoong’s fingers dipping inside. Had Hongjoong come to the library expecting to claim him like this? 

Hongjoong traced a fingertip over his entrance. Seonghwa relaxed, ready to take it—but instead of pushing inside, Hongjoong reached lower, cupping his balls with an oiled palm. 

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. He glanced over his shoulder. “What are you–”

Hongjoong swallowed the rest of the sentence, leaning down to kiss him fiercely. Seonghwa gasped into his mouth, his cock filling out against the desk as Hongjoong traced patterns beneath him.

He bit his lip to keep quiet as a single slick finger finally breached him. Seonghwa whimpered, already desperate, and Hongjoong must have known—he didn’t make him wait.

Another finger curled alongside the first. Hongjoong opened him expertly, confidently, as though it were his own body. 

“Do you need three?”

“No.” Seonghwa’s fingers scratched at the desk. “I need you.”

Hongjoong hummed, draping his body over him to nip at his earlobe. “I bet all the society ladies dream of you taking them like this,” he growled, his teeth grazing over the sensitive spot on Seonghwa’s neck.

Seonghwa groaned. “Please Hongjoong. Fuck me first, talk later.”

“One asked about you, you know.” Hongjoong pulled away, his tone conversational. “Last week, when I visited the bakery.”

A rustle of fabric, then the soft thump of something hitting the floor. 

“She asked if you were a gentleman, but I just realized what she really meant,” Hongjoong mused, his voice dipping lower. “Does the pretty earl who bakes bread fuck?” 

Seonghwa turned his head to see the exquisite sight of Hongjoong slicking himself up, large in his small hand. He was teasing himself as much as he was teasing him.

“But you want to be fucked, don’t you?” Hongjoong stroked himself slowly as his eyes feasted on the view of Seonghwa sprawled over the desk. 

Seonghwa’s mouth went dry. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want you. Please.”

Hongjoong slid his fingers up Seonghwa’s shirt, tracing his spine. “Do lords always get what they want?”

Seonghwa exhaled shakily and reached both hands back, spreading himself open.

Hongjoong stilled, his jaw slackening.

“No,” Seonghwa whispered, watching the way Hongjoong’s eyes darkened. “But I do.”

It was true. Everything he’d ever wanted was in this room. 

Hongjoong let out a low, sinister laugh, then pressed against him. 

Seonghwa gasped as the tip slid in with a pop, his tidy nails digging into Princess Sophia’s desk. Inch by inch, Hongjoong pushed forward, forcing him open. Their hips met, and they moaned in unison—too loud, the sound filling the library. 

Hongjoong folded his body over Seonghwa again, lips brushing his ear. “Shh, my pretty prince,” he murmured. “The servants will think I’m hurting you.”

His movements were slow, torturous. Seonghwa pulled his lip between his teeth to stifle his moans, the unrelenting drag of Hongjoong’s cock almost too much to bear without being fully stretched. But despite the burning settling into pleasure, despite the tears pricking his eyes–

It wasn’t enough.

“Harder,” he whispered. 

Hongjoong paused. “You think you can take it?”

Seonghwa tasted iron, biting down on his lip as a fresh surge of arousal hit him. “I can take whatever you give me.”

A grunt was his only warning before Hongjoong drove into him. Seonghwa choked on a moan, his body arching as Hongjoong pulled back and slammed in again, like he was trying to break down a door. Hongjoong adjusted the angle of his hips, and the next thrust hit its mark. 

“Oh fuck, officer,” he whined, flushing at the breathy pitch of his voice. 

Hongjoong growled, snapping his hips harder. But instead of pulling out, he stayed fully seated, grinding his hips and lighting Seonghwa’s body on fire. 

The room blurred. Sweat dripped down Seonghwa’s forehead, stinging his eyes. Each roll of Hongjoong’s body pressed him harder into the antique desk, the wood groaning beneath them. His thighs trembled with the effort of holding himself upright.  

He wondered if any other Parks had loved this fiercely. Had they burned like this, beneath the stars or beneath the images of those who came before them?

Then his pleasure crested, and the thought was lost. His body tightened, and he moaned helplessly as he spilled across the desk in thick spurts. Hongjoong’s hand found his mess, smearing it across the rough-hewn wood as he started thrusting again, chasing his own pleasure.

Seonghwa clenched around him, drawing out a ragged, unearthly groan. Hongjoong slammed in deep, burying himself fully as he came. 

Their breaths were loud in the quiet room. Seonghwa slowly came back into his body, first from the ache between his legs, then from the heat on his thighs—Hongjoong’s release dripping out of him.

Hongjoong peeled off his soiled shirt, using it to wipe Seonghwa clean before tending to the desk. He draped his jacket over his bare chest and huffed a laugh. “Hope the servants know better than to pry.”

Seonghwa laughed. “After four months of us living here, I’m sure they do.”

“God willing, we won’t run into Wooyoung or Jeongyeon in the corridor either,” Hongjoong said, buttoning his trousers. “I don’t know if I could bear the teasing at dinner.”

“That reminds me,” Seonghwa said, glancing away, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Hongjoong sank into one of the floral chesterfields, sweeping his damp curls back. “I’m listening.”

Seonghwa leaned against the desk. “I bought a ring for Jeongyeon.”

“A ring?”

He nodded. “An engagement ring.”

Hongjoong’s expression hardened. “I thought this was a business arrangement.”

“It is,” Seonghwa said quickly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t make it nice for her. She’s my friend.”

Hongjoong studied him. “And she'll soon be the mother of your child.”

Seonghwa crossed the room and sat on Hongjoong’s lap. “Yours too, if you want,” he said softly. 

“Me? A father?”

“If you want.”

Hongjoong’s hands settled on Seonghwa’s thighs, his gaze searching. “A family’s… not something I ever thought I could have.”

“I never thought I’d have a lot of things,” Seonghwa admitted.

“You have me.” Hongjoong brushed a thumb along Seonghwa’s cheekbone. “For as long as you want me.”

A half-truth. Seonghwa had learned during his two years of solitude that their relationship was a negotiation—push and pull, like the tide. 

He would always have to share Hongjoong with the sea.

Seonghwa covered Hongjoong’s hand with his own. “What if I want you forever?”

Hongjoong smiled faintly. “Then I suppose you’ll have to put me in the stars like Orion.”

Seonghwa bent down to kiss him, slow and deep. 

They slipped quietly into the corridor, tiptoeing to the lord’s chambers to wash up properly. By the time they’d finished bathing—and getting dirty again, then bathing once more—it was nearly time for dinner.

“Not the Flower Room tonight?” Hongjoong asked as Seonghwa steered him toward the Great Room. “Who’s the guest?”

“No guest,” Seonghwa said vaguely.

“Then why are we eating in here?”

“You’ll see.” 

Three crystal chandeliers cascaded from the domed coffered ceiling, inspired by the Basilica of Maxentius. The room could seat a hundred, though it was rarely set for more than ten. Since the bakery was closed on Sundays, they had family dinners on Saturday evenings, followed by breakfast together the next morning. Their rotating cast of guests included some bakery regulars like John Singer Sargent and Albert de Belleroche; Jeong Yunho, now First Officer on the Carpathia; and Jooheon, whom they often sent the motorcar to fetch. 

Wooyoung and San were already sitting across from each other at one end of the long table. Seonghwa took his place beside Wooyoung, facing Hongjoong and one of the more horrific paintings in the house, The Fall of the Titans. Ten feet long, it depicted larger-than-life Titans tumbling into hell after losing their war with the Olympians—apparently stark naked, which must’ve been no fun. 

Jeongyeon ambled past a neglected Steinway piano and sank into the overstuffed armchair at the head of the table with a groan. A month ago, she’d barely looked pregnant. Now, she seemed to be bursting at the seams.

“I’m starved,” she said, eyeing Seonghwa resentfully. “This baby has your appetite.”

He kept his retort to himself. If Jeongyeon before was a bobcat, Jeongyeon pregnant was a tiger. 

Three footmen entered with the first course, small bowls of clear soup—light but warming, preparing them for the multi-course battle to come.

Jeongyeon blew on a spoonful and glanced at Wooyoung and Hongjoong. “You two work up a sweat chasing each other with sticks again?”

“It’s called la canne, actually,” Wooyoung replied with a scowl. 

Jeongyeon smirked. “And here I thought you were playing pirates.”

The footmen replaced the broth with the fish course. San picked at his poached cod, his face paler than usual. Beside him, Hongjoong muttered under his breath, eyes sharp with concern. San shook his head, brushing him off.

As the fish dwindled, Seokjin appeared in the arched doorway. Seonghwa glanced around, only now noticing the shift in the room. Every servant in the household seemed to have slipped in, trying—and failing—to look inconspicuous. Seokjin and Minho must have sounded the alarm.

“Chef Kim?” Wooyoung said, delighted. He leaned into Seonghwa, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why does it feel like we’re about to witness a coup?”

Seokjin wheeled in the next course, a dark, gleaming turkey that appeared fried rather than baked. Hongjoong blinked at it, then turned to Seonghwa.

“Is it a special occasion?”

Seonghwa only shrugged as Seokjin carved the turkey, his eyes darting between the bird and San, as if urging him to get on with it. Seokjin stepped back, hovering in the corner by Minho and the scullery maids. 

San pushed out his chair and stood, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. He looked like he might faint. 

Wooyoung frowned. “What are you doing?”

Seonghwa squeezed his thigh beneath the table. “Just listen,” he murmured.

San cleared his throat. “Wooyoung, I meant to write down everything–” His voice cracked, and he shut his eyes for a moment, then started again. “I meant to write down everything I love about you, but there aren’t enough words.”

A hush settled over the room. Beside Seonghwa, Wooyoung’s hand froze halfway to his goblet, his eyes wide.

“I don’t know as much as you and Seonghwa,” San admitted. “But I know you’re brave. And fierce.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Too fierce, really.” His voice grew steadier. “I know I could cross the world a hundred times and never see a prettier sight than your face. No ocean sunrise could match the way you look first thing in the morning.”

He slowly moved around the table, his footsteps loud in the silent room. 

“I know there’s no sound brighter than your laugh, and I know there’s no better friend than you.”

He stopped in front of Wooyoung, his eyes shining. 

“I know you hate depending on anyone,” he said, softer now. “I know you’re afraid of being loved—of being seen.”

Wooyoung’s hands came up to his mouth as San dropped to one knee.

“But I don’t need to see all of you to love you. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

He pulled the heart-shaped box from his jacket pocket, tears running down his face as he opened it.

“Jung Wooyoung, will you marry me?”

For once, Wooyoung was quiet. His voice, when it finally came, was small, like nothing Seonghwa had ever heard from him.

“Me?”

San let out a wet laugh, wiping his face. “Was that not clear? Yeah, you.”

Wooyoung reached a trembling hand toward him.

“Yes.”

The room erupted. Servants whooped and applauded as San slid the ring onto Wooyoung’s finger. Minho scooped up a scullery maid and kissed her on the cheek while Seokjin pulled Jongho into a bear hug, ruffling his hair, much to Jongho’s dismay.

“That’s my boy,” Seokjin said proudly. “My boys!”

Seonghwa pulled Wooyoung into his arms, holding him tight. “You’re worth everything,” he murmured. “San, and the world, and more.”

Wooyoung clutched his arm, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Seonghwa’s sleeve. “Thank you.” And by the look on his face, Seonghwa thought he might’ve believed him.

San met his gaze over Wooyoung’s shoulder, grinning. Seonghwa clasped his hand, squeezing tight.

They were suddenly surrounded by servants fawning over Wooyoung, laughing and clapping him on the back. He soaked it all in, blooming under their attention, his smile dazzling. At the table, Seokjin had disappeared, the footmen distributing plates of turkey in his place.

The clatter of wheels against the floor cut through the noise. Seokjin reappeared from the hall, pushing a wicker cart laden with glasses and dark green bottles of champagne and whiskey. “Well, we can’t toast with tea, can we?” he boomed, popping the cork. Foam spilled over his fingers as he poured, flutes passing from hand to hand around the room.

Together with the servants, they ate and drank their way through six more courses. By the time Jongho moved to the Steinway, Seonghwa wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to eat again. 

San and Wooyoung spun wildly across the floor, Wooyoung’s bright laughter ringing around the vaulted room. Seonghwa escaped the dancing to stretch in his seat, sipping his champagne as he watched the party wind down. Most of the servants had called it a night, slipping away one by one.

But one person hadn’t done much celebrating. 

At the head of the table, Jeongyeon still sat in the armchair, her hands resting lightly over her belly, her gaze distant. 

Seonghwa set down his drink. “Jeongyeon?” 

She blinked up at him, her expression sharpening. “Seonghwa.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

In three years of friendship, he’d never seen her look so melancholy, though she was clearly putting on a brave face. 

“Come on,” he said softly, offering his hand. 

She hesitated, then took it, smoothing her skirts before following him into the corridor. He led her onto the back terrace, the cool air biting his champagne-flushed skin. Slipping off his jacket, he draped it over her shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Jeongyeon was quiet for a long moment. 

“I never wanted a real husband,” she finally said. “Honestly, just the thought of it makes me feel a little ill,” she added with a dry laugh, shaking her head. “But watching them tonight…” Her fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket. “That door is shut to me forever. There’s a life I’ll never get to live.”

Seonghwa watched her as she spoke, her shining eyes and downturned mouth. He tilted his head back, scanning the sky. The city lights had drowned out most of the stars, but he could just make out Andromeda, the chained princess.

“You deserve a thousand lives,” he said. “I’m sorry you only get one.”

She let out a soft breath, blinking quickly.

Seonghwa bit his lip. “I was planning on just giving this to you at the register office, but maybe you should have it now.” His words floated up like steam, disappearing into the night. “I can’t give you a love confession. But I can promise to stand by you, the way you’ve stood by me.” 

She stared at him. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying—I would be honored to share my name with you.”

He pulled the ring box from his pocket and popped it open. 

“Jeongyeon, will you marry me?”

She stared at him, then at the ring. Her lips parted.

“Seonghwa, I…” Her voice caught. She shook her head, but she was smiling. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

“Well, obviously yes.” She laughed, holding out her hand and wiggling her fingers. “You really have ruined me for all other men, Lord Park.”

Seonghwa slid the ring onto her finger, and before he could say anything more, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He caught her, twirling her once, her laughter ringing out through the night sky. 

“All right, enough,” she giggled. “Your son’s getting squished.” 

Seonghwa flushed. His son. 

Hand in hand, they made their way back inside. The Great Room had transformed in their absence. The chandeliers had dimmed, their bright light replaced by the warm flicker of candle flames. Only a few stragglers remained, and San and Wooyoung were nowhere to be seen. 

Behind him, Jeongyeon yawned. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good night, my lady,” Seonghwa said with a smile. 

He turned back to the room—and found Hongjoong watching him.

In the corner, Hongjoong stood beside Seokjin, the candlelight casting his face in shadow. He was listening, or at least pretending to, the glass of whiskey in his hand barely touched. His gaze flicked to Jeongyeon as she disappeared, then back to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa braced himself as Hongjoong set down his glass. He murmured something to Seokjin, shook his hand, and crossed the room. 

“Can we talk?” Hongjoong asked.

Seonghwa straightened. “All right.”

Hongjoong didn’t speak again as he led him through the deserted halls. The farther they walked, the deeper the hush grew. 

Seonghwa followed him into the Palm Room, weaving between columns gilded with bark and leaves. The gold-framed portrait of Seonghwa’s great-grandfather loomed above the marble bench where Hongjoong sat, patting his thighs in invitation. 

Seonghwa stalled, trying to read his expression. “You’re angry.”

“No.” Hongjoong’s fingers drummed against his knee. “Should I be?”

“Hongjoong–”

“I know what’s expected of you.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Seonghwa’s throat tightened. “What do you want me to say to that?”

Hongjoong let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Something childish.” His hands curled into fists. “Say this is a means to an end. That you don’t want it.” His voice dropped lower. “That you wish it was me.”

Seonghwa wet his lips. “You know I do.”

“Say it.”

“I wish it was you.”

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening. Then he tapped his thighs again. “Come here.”

Seonghwa stepped between his legs. Hongjoong gripped his hips, pulling him closer. One hand traced the waistband of his trousers before toying with the laces.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said with a laugh, “I’ve finished twice today already.”

“Surely you’ve got at least one more in you.” He tugged at Seonghwa’s waistband. “Off.”

Hongjoong pulled the jar from his pocket while Seonghwa kicked off his shoes and trousers. He climbed onto him, bare from the waist down, Hongjoong’s woolen clothing scratchy beneath his thighs.

Hongjoong reached a slick hand between them, trailing up and down Seonghwa’s cock as he murmured, “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’re only mine.”

“I’m only yours,” he whispered. “In every way that matters, for as long as I live.”

Hongjoong tangled his fingers into Seonghwa’s hair, pulling him down into a lingering kiss. Beneath him, his other hand slid lower, and without hesitation, he pressed his middle finger into him. Seonghwa gasped, though his body yielded easily, still open from earlier.

“I’m yours too, my prince. Until the ocean pours me from the earth, I’m yours.”

Hongjoong added his ring finger, and the cool metal of the signet ring slid into him with it. Seonghwa’s gaze flicked upward—to the portrait, to the painted ring gleaming right at eye level.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined they were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Their own apartment, with no legacy hanging over them but the one they’d written themselves. His cooking Hongjoong enjoyed, not Seokjin’s. A bed that was only theirs, in a regular room without a name. 

A life both ordinary and impossible. 

“Are you all right?” Hongjoong asked softly, his fingers stilling inside him.

Seonghwa opened his eyes.

He rolled his hips, taking Hongjoong deeper. 

“Never better.”

𓊝

February 1912

Seonghwa waited outside Westminster Register Office with Hongjoong, shifting the small bouquet of pink daphne flowers from one hand to the other. He shouldn’t have been nervous—it wasn’t as if this were a real marriage—but his palms were clammy nonetheless.

They’d walked from the estate after Jeongyeon refused to share the car, claiming it was bad luck. She hadn’t offered an explanation, and Seonghwa hadn’t asked. If she wanted to uphold superstitious traditions while breaking every other rule of propriety, he wouldn’t stand in her way.

He pulled out his pocket watch. “They’ll be here any moment.”

Hongjoong glanced toward the street, then spoke without looking at him. “Before they arrive, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

“What?” 

“White Star’s offered me a new position. A promotion.”

Seonghwa held his breath. Five months together at the estate had been a dream carved from circumstance. He’d always known that. 

But the Olympic had just lost a propeller blade, so he’d thought they’d have more time to pretend.  

“A promotion?” he said carefully, smoothing out the pink chiffon shirt beneath his jacket. 

“They’ve offered me Chief Officer on the Titanic. If I take it, they’ll make San Third Officer.”

Seonghwa’s fingers curled tightly around the flower stems. “Chief Officer,” he echoed. “Wow.”

Hongjoong frowned. “What is it?”

It would be selfish to deny Hongjoong the ocean, to keep him tethered to land. And San—he deserved this chance.

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Hongjoong said sharply. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What’s wrong with staying on the Olympic?”

“The Olympic’s out of commission for who knows how long, and they’re offering me Chief Officer, Seonghwa. Is there a reason you don’t like the idea?”

There was. 

In the battle of the Titans, the Titans lost. 

“Not a good one,” Seonghwa admitted. “The name just feels like a bad omen.”

Crius was the only Titan he even remembered. The fallen god of constellations, with the power to command the night sky. But he’d tumbled into hell with the rest of them, doomed to never see the stars again.

“There’s been something wrong with the Olympic every other month since the Hawke collision. Surely that’s a worse omen?” Hongjoong glanced around for witnesses, then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek. “Come with me on her maiden voyage. It’s not until April, so you’ll get two more months to enjoy me soft and pale.”

It made no sense to deny him. There was no reason other than the gnawing in his gut, his reading of the stars.

Seonghwa was saved having to respond by a rumble from the east. The Silver Ghost pulled up beside them, Minho tipping his hat as he slowed. The engine idled, filling the air with the scent of motor oil. 

From the front seat, Wooyoung emerged in a sharp black suit. He stepped down, opening the back door with a deep bow. 

“May I present to you,” he declared, “Miss Yoo Jeongyeon, the future Right Honorable Countess Park, the sharpest tongue in central London, with beauty to match her brains–”

“All right, all right,” Jeongyeon cut him off. “I’m boiling in here.”

A small, white-gloved hand appeared from the door, grasping Wooyoung’s larger one, and then she stepped out.

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped.

She was wearing a delicate dress of white silk and lace that clung to her before pooling around her ankles like water. The sleeves were voluminous, billowy folds of fabric gathered into tight cuffs at the wrist. The shape did nothing to conceal her condition—she looked like an ethereal symbol of fertility.

Seonghwa hastily offered her his arm, his cheeks as pink as his shirt as he steered her toward the register office, Hongjoong and Wooyoung close behind. 

“What are you wearing?” Seonghwa asked under his breath as Hongjoong held the heavy arched door open. He hadn’t even worn a morning coat. “I thought we were going casual.”

Inside, oak-paneled walls gleamed over a broad desk that carried a heavy register book. The registrar, a balding man with round glasses, looked up from his paperwork.

Jeongyeon laughed airily. “Well, it’s probably going to be my only marriage, so I figured I should make it count.” 

Her smile stiffened as she realized the registrar had heard her, his gaze flicking between Seonghwa and the obvious bump in her belly. Seonghwa fought back a laugh.

“We don’t often get lords in here,” the registrar remarked, dipping his pen into an inkwell.

“I imagine not,” Seonghwa replied.

The registrar cleared his throat. “Let us begin.”

He drove right into the Marriage Act as Seonghwa filled out their paperwork. “I require and charge you both that if either of you know any lawful impediment why you may not be joined in matrimony, you do now solemnly declare it.”

Silence.

Satisfied, the registrar proceeded. “Please repeat after me, Lord Park. I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Lord Park Seonghwa, do take thee, Lady Yoo Jeongyeon, to be my lawful wedded wife.”

Seonghwa met Hongjoong’s eyes, and as he spoke the words, he imagined he was speaking them about him. 

“I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Lord Park Seonghwa, do take thee, Lady Yoo Jeongyeon, to be my lawful wedded wife.”

The registrar turned to Jeongyeon, his tone dry as parchment. “Please repeat after me, my lady. I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Lady Yoo Jeongyeon, do take thee, Lord Park Seonghwa, to be my lawful wedded husband.”

Her eyes glistened as she repeated the words, gazing at Wooyoung. He gave her an encouraging smile.

The registrar nodded. “Then by the authority vested in me, I declare that you are now man and wife.”

There was no kiss. No applause. Only the quiet scratch of a fountain pen as Seonghwa signed first. Jeongyeon followed, pausing briefly before writing her new name in careful strokes.

Then came the witnesses. Hongjoong stepped forward, shoulders squared, his expression grim as he signed. Wooyoung made a production of it, twirling the pen between his fingers before scrawling his name with a dramatic flourish, twice the size of Hongjoong’s.

The registrar slid a crisp certificate across the desk. “For your records, Lord Park.”

“Too late to change your mind now,” Wooyoung murmured.

“A shame,” Jeongyeon quipped, taking Seonghwa’s arm again. “I might have received a better offer.”

Seonghwa scoffed. “Doubtful.” 

“Are those for me, by the way?” Jeongyeon asked, pointing to the flowers he held. “Or did you just bring them because they match your blouse?”

“This is a men’s shirt,” Seonghwa said with a glare as he held the door open. “They were for you, but maybe I’ll just keep them.”

“They’re very pretty.” Jeongyeon snatched the flowers with a bright giggle, breathing them in. “Very pretty flowers from a very pretty lord.”

Outside, Minho put his newspaper down, standing to open the car door. Mindful of her elaborate skirt, Jeongyeon slid in first. Seonghwa followed, then Hongjoong, their shoulders pressing together in the snug backseat. Wooyoung resumed the passenger seat next to Minho, who gave the crank a sharp turn before the engine rumbled to life. 

Jeongyeon held her hand in front of her as they started back toward the estate, admiring her ring in the sunlight.

As he watched her, it struck Seonghwa that the Park name was not the only legacy their union would perpetuate.

The words left him before he could reconsider. “Do you think it’ll be okay—for your son to grow up without two parents who love each other?”

Jeongyeon didn’t lower her hand, the ruby casting shimmering red circles on the leather seats. “That’s rude,” she said, though her tone was light. “I love you. I didn’t realize it was one-sided.”

Seonghwa flushed. “You know that’s not what I meant, of course I–”

“And he won’t just be my son,” she cut in. She gestured loosely around the car. “He’ll be ours.” 

Hongjoong smiled beside him, and though Wooyoung was facing forward, Seonghwa could tell by the shift in his posture that he was smiling too. 

“He’ll have five parents who love each other,” Jeongyeon said softly. “Five very different examples of independence and bravery. That’s more important anyway.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe some of his ancestors had love stories too, just not the kind that fit neatly into their family history. 

Like Medusa.

In Hesiod’s telling, she was born a Gorgon, monstrous from the start. And yet, Poseidon had been so taken with her that they’d laid together in a meadow of wildflowers. Centuries later, Ovid rewrote her—now a beautiful maiden, ruined by Poseidon, cursed into something unlovable. 

Because no one could love a monster, and a monster could have no love in its heart. 

Seonghwa looked at Hongjoong, at the way the light caught the texture of his skin, the umber in his eyes. They may need to keep their love a secret from Crown and country, but if his family could ensure the legacy of a desk was remembered, he could ensure their son and the sons who came after knew the truth. 

Their love wouldn’t be rewritten as a curse. 

𓊝

Chapter Text

April 7, 1912

Cool spring air rushed into the foyer as Hongjoong and San burst through the door, nearly hitting Jongho in the face. The butler withdrew his hand from the knob, stepping aside with a flat, unimpressed look. 

“We’re here,” San panted. “Are we too late?” 

“Yes,” Wooyoung said, arms crossed. “We’ve written you out of the family.”

Minho had driven to Southampton the afternoon before to fetch them, only to call from the Red Lion and say they’d be there in the morning instead. But morning had come and gone.

Seonghwa elbowed Wooyoung in the ribs. “No, you’re just in time.”

“Ow! You’ve wounded me.” Wooyoung staggered dramatically, nearly knocking the bust of Asclepius over. Jongho caught it mid-topple with a glare. 

“The photographer’s with Jeongyeon now,” Seonghwa continued, ignoring him. 

Hongjoong brushed past Jongho, who stiffened as if expecting another disaster. He leaned in close to Seonghwa, brushing his lips against his cheek. 

“Happy Easter, my love,” he murmured. “You look beautiful.”

Seonghwa breathed him in, wishing he could kiss him the way he wanted to, but propriety demanded otherwise. 

“Thank you,” he whispered instead. “Come on, we’ll be needed soon.”

Jongho led them to the sitting room, where the photographer was adjusting the lens on his wooden bellows camera. In front of him, Jeongyeon sat in a parlor chair, murmuring softly to the baby on her lap. Collapsible gas lamps lined the room, bolstering the natural light from the tall windows. 

“Gentlemen, how nice of you to join us,” the photographer said dryly. “Walter Benington at your service. Do stand over there, will you? You’re blocking my light.”

They moved to the corner beneath the tapestry of Daphne, caught mid-transformation between nymph and laurel tree. Hongjoong fidgeted with his stiff company dress uniform, a stark contrast to Seonghwa’s own satin suit, which poured over him like water. 

Seonghwa trailed his fingers over Hongjoong’s chest, more muscled than he remembered. Two months of trips to Belfast had hardened him again. His skin was golden, his hands rough with half-healed cuts and fresh callouses. Evidence of the work that shaped him. 

“You’re so handsome, officer.”

Hongjoong looked at him through half-lidded eyes, reaching for the pearls at Seonghwa’s throat. 

“Thank you,” he replied in a low voice, rolling the pearls between his thumb and forefinger. “My lord.” 

Each time Hongjoong returned, his body was different, reshaped by the endless labor of preparing the Titanic for sea. A new version of him to explore, solid and rough beneath Seonghwa’s unblemished hands. 

Seonghwa suddenly couldn’t wait for the portrait session to be over. 

Hongjoong seemed to be thinking the same thing, his gaze sweeping over Seonghwa’s soft suit—until he did a double take toward the center of the room. 

“What the hell is she doing?” 

Jeongyeon now sat motionless beneath a black drape, the baby perched on her lap. She looked like the grim reaper come to take him.

“I didn’t realize we were wearing costumes,” Wooyoung quipped from the corner. “Are you supposed to be a harpy?”

Seonghwa bit back a laugh. Even unseen, he could tell Jeongyeon was seething. 

“The camera has a five-second exposure time,” Walter explained, loading a glass plate into the camera. “Lady Park needs to keep the baby still.” 

True to her superstitious nature, Jeongyeon insisted on waiting until the baby’s 100-day celebration to name him. She was even scarier now, so Seonghwa hadn’t argued, though he was getting tired of referring to him as “the baby.” 

Wooyoung cackled. “Maybe you should pose as a tree instead. The drape’s a bit–” 

“Can you shut it?” Jeongyeon snapped, jostling the fabric covering her face. “I’m trying to hold a baby over here.” 

Walter didn’t dignify the exchange with a response. “Keep still.”

Jeongyeon went rigid as he lifted the lens cap.

“One… two… three… four… five.” 

She exhaled through her nose, fluttering the drape. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes. The alternative was strapping him into the chair.” Walter peered into the camera, nodding in satisfaction before sliding the plate into a metal case. “All right, which of you boys is next?”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed at the diminutive. He opened his mouth, perhaps to pick a fight about it, but Seonghwa spoke before he could. 

“We’ll go,” he said, tugging Hongjoong forward by the hand. 

Jeongyeon stood, handing Wooyoung the baby as she folded the drape. 

“Very good, my lord.” Walter adjusted the camera’s focus, barely looking up. “Lord Park, please have a seat. Officer, stand behind him.”

Seonghwa sank into the chair while Hongjoong hovered over him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He reached up to hold it, his fingers trailing over the three golden braids at Hongjoong’s cuff. 

Walter peered through the viewfinder. “That’s perfect. Hold for five seconds.” He removed the lens cap. “One… two… three… four… five.” 

He gestured to Wooyoung and San as he prepared a fresh glass plate. “You two next.”

Wooyoung passed the baby to Hongjoong, striking a dramatic pose in the chair with his legs crossed, elbow on the armrest, and chin in his palm. San stood behind him stiffly, hands clasped like a schoolboy.

“Officer, relax your shoulders. Mr. Jung, less… flair.”

Wooyoung scoffed as he leaned back, resting his hands on his thighs instead. He gazed up at San. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he whispered. 

“No,” Walter said quickly. “Just like that.”

The shutter opened and closed, sealing the moment in silver and glass—Wooyoung looking up with a whisper on his lips while San stared back, eyes ablaze, like he’d set the whole world on fire for him. 

“Everyone now.” Walter moved one of the lamps to account for the shifting daylight. “Lord Park in the center, since he brought you all together.”

Wooyoung stood by San, gesturing toward the chair with a flourish. “Your throne, Lord Park.”

Hongjoong and Jeongyeon crossed the room to join them, but Seonghwa stood frozen. 

Wooyoung was the one who had given him the courage to pursue Hongjoong. He’d also given Jeongyeon a path to freedom, and San his first home. 

“No, that’s not right,” Seonghwa said, shaking his head. “Wooyoung brought us together.” 

Wooyoung flushed as murmured ascents filled the room. Hongjoong and San each grabbed one of his arms, dragging him toward the chair. 

“All right, all right!” Wooyoung squealed, collapsing into it. 

Jeongyeon handed him the baby, and Wooyoung rocked him as the others arranged themselves around him. San stood directly behind him, his fingers curling firmly around the nape of his neck, a habit of his. Jeongyeon placed a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, the baby reaching up to touch it. 

And on the right side of the frame, Seonghwa pressed a kiss to Hongjoong’s cheek, making sure to hold for five seconds. 

Walter wasted no time in packing up, sliding the last exposed plate into its case. “I’ll have these ready in two hours, my lord.” 

“Thank you for the quick turnaround, Mr. Benington,” Seonghwa said. “We’ll send a footman for them this afternoon.”

“No trouble at all. You lot are far more pleasant to work with than John and Alfred.” He turned to follow Jongho out of the room, then hesitated, looking back. “Good luck to you. It’s a hard world for soft people.”

Wooyoung scowled as the door shut behind him. “Who’s he calling soft?”

“He means love makes you vulnerable. More to lose,” Seonghwa replied. He took the baby from Hongjoong, instinctively swaying on his feet. “I’ll miss you, baby boy.”

“I’m so jealous,” Jeongyeon sighed. “I want to see John’s American mansion.” 

Seonghwa and Wooyoung would be abroad for two months, fitting in a stop in Boston for John’s exhibit. In addition to their portrait, John had started a watercolor series during his estate visits that was debuting at the Museum of Fine Arts. 

“When he’s old enough, we’ll all go together,” Seonghwa said with a smile. 

San reached for the baby in a silent request, making impatient grabbing motions with his hands. 

Jeongyeon raised a brow. “All of us?”

Seonghwa nodded, kissing the top of the baby’s head before handing him over to San. He smelled like summer, though he’d only known winter and spring.

Before, Hongjoong and San had been anxious to get back to sea, Seonghwa and Wooyoung eager to join them. But the moment their son was born, all four began to dread their departure. At barely seven weeks old, he was different every day. 

“I’d like to live in America someday,” Jeongyeon said in a dreamy voice, eyeing the graphic tapestry in front of them with disdain. “I could take over the New York bakery. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with the vain vultures–” 

“The what?” Seonghwa interrupted. 

“The vain vultures,” Wooyoung repeated in a matter-of-fact tone. “The society ladies.”

Jeongyeon nodded. “They’ve gotten worse since…” She trailed off, gesturing toward the baby. 

“Has nothing to do with him,” San said. He propped the baby upright against his shoulder, patting his back until small burps bubbled out. “They’re just jealous.”

Jeongyeon scoffed. “Jealous of what?”

“They think you get to fuck Seonghwa,” Wooyoung chimed in.

Her lip curled. “Ew.”

Seonghwa frowned. “What do you mean ew?”

“I mean ew. How many interpretations–”

“That is so rude–”

Hongjoong cleared his throat loudly. “We need to get back to Southampton.”

Seonghwa’s head snapped toward him. “I thought you were leaving in the morning.”

Hongjoong grimaced. “The sea trials were delayed, which delayed the trip from Belfast to Southampton. All hands on deck, first thing tomorrow.” 

“But you just got here.” Wooyoung tilted his head, his eyes on San. “And it’s Easter. If you miss dinner, you’ll never hear the end of it from Seokjin.” 

“You’ll have to give him our apologies. We’ve been scrambling for coal because of the miners’ strike, so the ship still isn’t fully stocked.” San’s voice dropped to a whisper as he realized the baby had fallen asleep in his arms. “But it’s just a few more days, then we’ll have a week together on the ship and another in New York before you two set off for Boston.”  

Seonghwa exchanged a glance with Wooyoung, neither of them speaking, though he knew they both felt it. 

The tide, pulling away again.

San’s dimples flashed as he handed the baby to Jeongyeon, brushing a thumb over his tiny fist. “Don’t forget me, little man.”

“I’ll show him your picture every day,” Jeongyeon promised, her voice softer than usual—a gentle tone she reserved for San. 

The baby stirred, slowly opening his eyes, round and bright like his mother’s. He blinked up at San. 

Then he smiled. 

San’s jaw dropped. He looked around the room, eyes wide. “Did you—did you all see…?”

Everyone watched, waiting for the baby to smile again. But his gaze had already drifted upward, drawn to the patterns in the ceiling. 

Across the room, Hongjoong flicked his head toward the door. A signal meant for San. 

Jeongyeon gave them each a kiss on the cheek before disappearing to put the baby down for a nap. Seonghwa and Wooyoung walked them to the entrance, where Minho was already waiting with the car—or maybe he’d never left. The engine rumbled, smoke billowing up into the clear sky.

Hongjoong leaned in, his breath warm against Seonghwa’s ear. “Only three sleeps,” he murmured. “Then we’ll be together again.”

Seonghwa nodded, then pressed his lips to Hongjoong’s in a kiss he wished could consume the space between them. His heart ached as he watched Hongjoong step into the car, knowing it would always be like this. 

A beautiful life punctuated by goodbyes, immeasurable love forced to be measured. 

Seonghwa stood in the doorway with Wooyoung, watching as the Silver Ghost turned onto St. James and disappeared. Only when it was fully out of sight did they turn back inside. 

“Come help me pack,” Seonghwa said, already making his way to the staircase. 

“Not how I envisioned spending the afternoon,” Wooyoung grumbled, trudging behind him. 

Seonghwa glanced over his shoulder. “Do I want to know?”

Wooyoung sighed, adjusting his satin jacket. “Let’s just say I’m wearing my corset under this.”

Seonghwa snorted, shaking his head as they stepped into the lord’s chambers. Wooyoung sprawled onto the velvet sofa beneath the window, a Rococo monstrosity that was more sculpture than chair. 

Seonghwa flipped open his portmanteau, which he’d been methodically packing and repacking for days. Then he crossed the room to the wardrobe, crouching to open the false bottom. The sapphires in Sophie’s tiara shifted from cerulean to violet as they caught the light.

Wooyoung rolled onto his side, raising an eyebrow. “You haven’t put that back in the Palm Room yet?”

“It’s mine, isn’t it?” Seonghwa slid the crown into its velvet case before packing it in the trunk. 

“Why are you bringing it? Does Hongjoong like it when you dress up like a princess?”

Seonghwa flushed. Would he?

“No, I always bring it when we travel,” he muttered, popping the case back open to nestle his perfume inside the tiara. “Just in case we get stranded and need a small fortune.”

“That’s smart,” Wooyoung replied thoughtfully. “Should I bring my statue?”

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh. “Someone would probably pay you to keep it.”

Wooyoung frowned. “Albert likes it. He said it–”

“Well of course Albert likes it, he’s–”

“What’s wrong with Albert? He and John–”

“Apologies for the interruption.”

Seonghwa turned to see Junhui standing in the doorway, a silver tray balanced in one hand. 

“You have a letter, my lord.”

Wooyoung and Seonghwa exchanged a glance. 

“Give it to Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said. 

Junhui presented the letter to Wooyoung with a bow before retreating into the corridor.

“You didn’t even see who it’s from,” Wooyoung said, flopping onto his back and running a knobbly finger beneath the seal.

“I’d recognize that morose black wax anywhere,” Seonghwa replied grimly. “Maybe we should just stay in New York.”

He sank onto the sofa, lifting Wooyoung’s head onto his lap. His fingers drifted absently through Wooyoung’s hair as he watched him read, combing out the tangles.

Wooyoung stiffened. “Maybe you shouldn’t read this one.”

Seonghwa plucked the letter from Wooyoung’s hand. “What could she possibly have to say? I’ve done everything she wanted.”

He flicked the parchment to straighten it, his eyes darkening the further he read.

Wellington, New Zealand
February 29, 1912

Lord Seonghwa,

        I am pleased to welcome Lady Jeongyeon to our family. At long last, you have come to your senses.

        However, I am far less pleased with the company you insist on keeping. My sources have provided me with ample cause for concern, and I am left to conclude that your judgment remains as lacking as ever.

        You would do well to reconsider your associations, particularly with this Mr. Jung. Cut ties with him. I shall not extend this warning again.

Your mother,
The Right Honorable Dowager Countess Park

Seonghwa looked down to find Wooyoung watching him from his lap, as if stargazing. He reached down, brushing his thumb over the freckle on Wooyoung’s bottom lip.

Was there anything more precious to him than Wooyoung, his first friend?

“I’m not afraid of her,” Wooyoung said unconvincingly. “But if you want to, um, cut ties with me–”

“Don’t be stupid,” Seonghwa snapped.

Wooyoung grinned. “You’re cute when you’re mean.” He sat up, pecking Seonghwa on the cheek. “I need to peel off this corset. Coming?”

Seonghwa managed a faint smile. “Tempting, but I need a minute alone.”

Wooyoung stretched as he stood. “You have exactly one minute, then come bother Seokjin with me. We’ll get some pastries started for the trip.” He paused at the threshold, his voice softening. “Maybe you should go for a walk.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. 

The moment Wooyoung stepped out, as though he knew it would happen, the walls caved in. 

The domed ceiling sagged, the Pompeii frescoes pressing closer. Painted bodies writhed, their mouths gaping, flames licking at their feet. Seonghwa dug his hands into his thighs, knuckles white. 

Would he soon be buried under ash too? 

He rose from the sofa, grabbing his hat. Wooyoung was right. He needed air. 

Late afternoon sunlight stretched across the terrace as Seonghwa stepped outside. The hyacinths had long since faded, replaced by tulips the color of fire. Wisteria draped over wooden archways, framing the hedge labyrinth. 

Near the terrace, Jeongyeon sat beneath a flowering cherry tree, a pale pink petal caught in her short hair. She looked as she did in one of John’s many paintings of her, Simplon Pass: Reading, minus the hat.

Seonghwa approached, offering his hand. “Care for a walk?”

Jeongyeon took it, brushing off her dress. “Certainly.”

They moved down the winding path, laurel trees rising in glossy green walls around them. The maze always reminded Seonghwa of the manicured gardens of his youth, though these days, he was rarely alone.

“Write as soon as you reach New York,” she said. “Then I’ll have your letter before the baby’s hundredth day.”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“And we’re having it again.” 

Seonghwa shook his head. “You should be the one to name him.”

“No.” Jeongyeon’s voice was firm. “I want you to. You’re the only reason he even has the privilege of a name.”

Seonghwa halted. A hundred days he could understand, but this was too much. 

“Jeongyeon, I don’t–”

“I’m not giving in on this, Seonghwa.” She crossed her arms. 

He studied her face, searching for any sign of hesitation, but there was none, only stubbornness. 

Seonghwa sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. If this was what she truly wanted, maybe he should give it to her. It didn’t escape him that the best years of his life were only possible because of her.

Because she had let him go quietly, and because of the example she had set for him. 

He wrapped his arms around her. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll write you.”

She smiled triumphantly into his shoulder, then pulled back. “Nothing from antiquity though.” 

He frowned. “What?”

“The other children will make fun of him if you name him Zeus or what have you.”

“I would never,” Seonghwa replied, genuinely appalled. “Have you learned nothing from me in the past three years? Zeus was–” 

“I’ve made every effort to learn nothing,” she said airily. “But you make it difficult.” 

His mouth formed a straight line. “I’ll miss you so much,” he deadpanned, turning back toward the manor. 

She shot him a smug look. “You say that like it’s not true.”

At the entrance, a footman waited, a small stack of wooden boxes in his gloved hands.

“My lord, my lady,” he said. “Your photographs are ready.”

“Ah, thank you.” Seonghwa took the stack, then handed two to Jeongyeon. “Can you give one of these to Wooyoung in the kitchens? I’m sure Seokjin will want to see them too.”

She tucked them under her arm. “It will be as you say, my lord,” she replied in an uncanny impression of Junhui. 

Seonghwa huffed a laugh. “Tell them I’ll come by after I write a quick letter.”

Boxes in hand, he stepped inside and climbed the winding staircase to his private study, a circular room off the lord's chambers. Sage-green walls framed murals of Ionic columns and sphinxes, their stone paws cradling bouquets of flowers. A crystal chandelier hung over the worn wooden desk he had brought from the flat, bare except for a single candlestick and a copy of Hesiod’s Theogony. 

Hongjoong had laughed when Seonghwa first mentioned brushing up on Titan mythology, but he had also listened attentively every time Seonghwa recounted a new story. 

Prometheus had been his first surprise, punished by Zeus for giving humans fire. Seonghwa hadn’t known he was a Titan. 

He sank into his chair, striking a match and lighting the candle. He set aside two boxes to pack for Hongjoong and San, then lifted the lid of his own. 

He covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. He could almost feel Jeongyeon’s annoyance from beneath the drape. In her lap, the baby’s bright eyes gleamed, soft rolls of fat folding at his wrists and thighs. He looked like he was being held by an undertaker. 

Opening the desk drawer, Seonghwa pulled out a sheet of parchment. He folded it neatly into an envelope, though he wrote nothing. Instead, he slipped a copy of the baby’s portrait inside, leaving the page blank.

He held his sealing wax over the candle, but as the first drop began to form, he hesitated. 

Reaching for the box again, he pulled out another photograph.

The one of the five of them, visibility intertwined. 

He tucked it into the envelope alongside the baby’s. Then, holding the wax over the flame once more, he let it drip onto the seam. He pressed his seal into the molten pool, then blew a cool stream of air over it, watching as the constellation hardened. 

Seonghwa imagined his mother’s face as she opened it weeks from now, expecting a letter of false apologies and promises, only to find the truth, immortalized in silver. 

He had found a new family, a real one, and no manner of empty threats could tear it apart.  

𓊝

April 10, 1912

The seas were calm and blue on the last day of Seonghwa’s old life. 

He clutched the photograph of his son in one hand and held onto his hat with the other as he stared up at the R.M.S. Titanic. The ship was the twin to the Olympic, except for the partially enclosed promenade on A-deck, the uneven windows on B, and the nameplate. 

Two thousand years after Theogony, the Olympians were remembered as gods and the Titans as monsters, if they were remembered at all. But in the oldest stories, they were not so different. 

Beautiful and terrible at once, capable of both salvation and ruin. 

Electric cranes swung cargo high above the heads of bustling longshoremen—trunks, crates, and furniture, all swallowed whole by the ship. A massive, soot-streaked crane at No. 2 Hatch dwarfed the others, its steel arms groaning under the weight of a wooden crate the size of an elephant. Beneath it, a fussy-looking man paced in agitation, flapping his arms like a pigeon.

“Careful, mon dieu!”

The crane operator either couldn’t hear him or didn’t care, maneuvering the crate into one of three forward cargo holds without sparing him a glance.

Wooyoung slowed his steps. “What the hell do you think is in that thing?”

“An automobile,” Seonghwa said. He’d read about it in the paper—someone was bringing a Renault on board.

Wooyoung blinked. “Who brings a motorcar on a ship?”

The fussy man turned abruptly. His gaze landed on them, and he straightened, smoothing his lapels like a man about to deliver a speech.

“It’s not just a motorcar,” he declared. “It’s a Renault Type CB Coupe de Ville.”

Wooyoung stared at him. “It’s a box with wheels.”

The man’s expression soured. “This box with wheels is the height of modern luxury. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Yeah? Let’s see you drive it up the gangway, then.”

The man let out a scandalized noise, mumbling something sharp in French as the crate disappeared into the hold. He turned back around, wagging a finger at the workers. 

“If you scratch it, I will personally throw you into the harbor!” 

“Hope it floats,” Wooyoung muttered. “Because the crew’s definitely tossing it the first chance they get.”

Seonghwa bit back a laugh, following him through the throng of onlookers and horses. “You’re incorrigible.”

“He’s not even French,” Wooyoung said indignantly, dodging a porter carrying a trunk. “He had an American accent! He thinks he’s better than us just because he drives a French motorcar. You’re lucky I didn’t make him call you my lord. ” 

They headed toward a lower-level gangway where they could see San taking tickets. Far above them, Hongjoong stood on the bridge in his navy-and-gold uniform, the epaulets on his shoulders catching the late morning sun. Seonghwa’s gaze trailed up his jacket to his face, already turned toward him. 

His life of goodbyes had its mercies. It was also a life of hellos. 

“Welcome aboard,” Hongjoong called down, his booming voice barely audible over the crowd. 

“Are you greeting every passenger personally, or just us?” Wooyoung shot back, reaching up to protect his hat from a sudden gust of wind. 

“Only the late ones,” Hongjoong returned with a smirk. “I told your steward to come find me after we clear the harbor. I’ll give you two a tour myself.” 

Seonghwa turned to Wooyoung as they walked up the gangway, lowering his voice. “Isn’t it the same layout as the Olympic?”

“That’s what I thought,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “He must think we have short memory spans.”

Seonghwa snorted. “Or maybe you’ve claimed to be ‘lost’ at the estate one too many times while eavesdropping.”

Wooyoung brought his hand to his chest in mock outrage. “How dare you? I would never.”

At the top of the gangway, San waited with a manifest tucked under his arm. He barely glanced at their tickets before grinning. “Nearly thought we’d have to sail without you. Welcome aboard.”

Hongjoong and San had arranged for their luggage to be brought to their cabin, so they stepped through the E-deck door with nothing but the hats on their heads and the photographs in their pockets. A steward approached them immediately, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Good morning, Lord Park, Mr. Jung,” he greeted, his eyes lingering on Wooyoung. “My name is Kim Taehyung, and I’ll be assisting you. Would you like to watch the departure?”

Wooyoung shot Seonghwa a meaningful look out of the corner of his eye. The steward was strikingly handsome, with sultry eyes and a prominent, curved nose, not unlike Wooyoung’s.

Seonghwa cleared his throat. “That would be wonderful, Mr. Kim.”

“Taehyung,” he corrected smoothly. “Right this way.”

He led them up a flight of stairs and through a discreet passageway that seemed to be intended for the crew. Lively ragtime music grew louder as they made their way down the corridor, stepping into a room they had never seen on the Olympic. 

Sunlight streamed through a domed glass ceiling, glinting off oak-paneled walls. The source of the music was a sharply dressed quintet, four strings and a pianist sitting at a Steinway Model B grand piano. In the center of the room, a polished bronze cherub capped the balustrade of a sweeping double staircase. Even the air was opulent, fragrant with jasmine perfume.

Seonghwa and Wooyoung exchanged a confused look. 

“I think we followed the wrong steward,” Seonghwa whispered. 

“Or we’re being kidnapped,” Wooyoung replied, barely moving his lips.

They ascended the grand staircase behind Taehyung, climbing up three flights before emerging onto A-deck. The enclosed forward promenade gleamed with sliding glass windows, designed to shield first-class passengers from the wind and sea spray. But the steward led them further aft, toward an open section where the air smelled of salt and coal smoke.

“I’ll bring Officer Kim and Officer Choi to you here after departure,” Taehyung said with a bow.

Seonghwa waited until the steward was out of earshot before muttering, “Are we allowed to be here?”

“Nope,” Wooyoung said gleefully. He leaned over the railing, scanning the crowd below. “Were there this many people at Olympic’s launch?”

“The paper said ten times as many,” Seonghwa replied. “A hundred thousand spectators.”

The crowd swallowed the streets of Southampton, packed shoulder to shoulder. Women waved handkerchiefs from beneath wide-brimmed hats, while men in boaters smoked cigars. Vendors called out from their carts, “Tea, hot tea!” and “Postcards from the Titanic!”

Wooyoung’s look of awe melted into a frown. “What do you think that’s all about?” 

Seonghwa followed his gaze. Police constables were scattered along the docks, moving with purpose. Some stopped men to peer beneath their caps, while others raised sheets of paper like flags. 

The wind caught one, carrying it up and over the deck like a dove.

Seonghwa’s breath caught, his fingers curling around the railing. He turned to look at Wooyoung, whose face had gone ashen.

The drawing was unmistakable.

It was Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung ducked low behind the rail. “You were right.” He let out a shaky breath. “Let’s just stay in America.” 

“I think she can find us there too, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said, almost too quiet to hear above the commotion. His gaze stayed locked on the constables, but his head was in the clouds—on the goddess Hera, and her revenge on Io. When Hera couldn’t destroy her outright, she sent a gadfly instead. 

It followed Io to every corner of the earth as she slowly descended into madness. 

A whistle split the air. Noon.

Cheers erupted from the docks as Titanic began to move, her stern creeping forward into the harbor. Behind them, the crowd blurred into an indistinct sea of color. Waves spread outward from the ship, distorting the reflected sky. 

Then a second loud noise rang out—a sharp crack. 

Gunfire?

Gasps rippled across the deck. Wooyoung shot to his feet, leaning over the side again for the source of the sound. Seonghwa spun toward the bridge. 

Hongjoong stood at the railing, megaphone in hand. His face was pale, but his expression remained steady as the Titanic’s engines went eerily silent. 

“The S.S. City of New York’s mooring cables have snapped!” His voice rang clear over the deck, though his orders were aimed toward the water, not the officers around him. “Secure a line to her stern. Full power!”

The New York, a much smaller vessel, had broken free from her berth. Titanic’s immense suction must have yanked her loose, and now she swung dangerously close, her bow drifting toward Titanic’s hull. The gap between them narrowed with terrifying speed. 

Seonghwa’s grip tightened around the photograph in his pocket. He pulled it out, and his son’s face stared back at him. 

He slid the picture to the back of the stack. The one he was looking for was tucked behind it.

Golden Hongjoong, his hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder. 

Nearby, the moored Oceanic strained against her own ropes, teetering toward the New York. On the water, a single, tiny tugboat—a mortal among gods—charged forward, churning white waves in its wake. 

The New York swung closer. Too close, too fast. 

The tugboat cut across the water, the lines connecting it to the New York pulled taut. A second tugboat joined the battle as Titanic’s engines thundered into reverse, the deck vibrating beneath their feet. 

Another deep groan—an awful, shuddering sound as the New York rocked in the harbor, so close Seonghwa could see the wide-eyed faces of the New York’s crew staring back at him. 

Then, finally, the tugboats won.

The New York slowed, bumping harmlessly against Oceanic’s hull. Titanic, reversing just in time, pulled herself free from the vacuum she had created. 

A third loud sound followed. Not a whistle or a groan, but a roar, swelling as passengers on every deck burst into cheers and applause.

Seonghwa’s fist unclenched. Across the expanse of the ship, his eyes found Hongjoong’s. 

Hongjoong gave him a small nod and a tight-lipped smile, then turned back to his officers. 

Titanic pressed forward. Southampton slipped away, and with it, the constables. 

It had been a Titan who saved Io from madness. 

When she found him, Prometheus was already chained, sentenced by Zeus to suffer the same punishment day after day, his liver healing even as an eagle still feasted on it. Despite his own torment, he’d comforted her, prophesying she would live to bear sons. 

But who would save him? 

“Are you all right?”

Seonghwa turned to Wooyoung. “I’m fine.” 

Wooyoung stared at him like he could see right through him, a look Seonghwa was used to after their years of confinement. 

“Not even your mother can reach us at sea,” Wooyoung said. “Let’s just enjoy our trip. We’ll figure out a plan in New York or Boston.”

Seonghwa gave him a skeptical look as the ship rumbled beneath them. Nearly an hour behind schedule, the horizon finally swallowed the docks. Titanic sailed through the narrow Solent, heading toward the open waters of the Channel and their first destination: Cherbourg, France. 

“I’ll wear a fake mustache,” Wooyoung added brightly. “It’ll be fine.”

“I like you clean-shaven,” a smooth voice cut in. 

Seonghwa jumped, turning to find San and Hongjoong standing right behind them. Beside him, Wooyoung flushed a deep crimson. 

Hongjoong winked. “May we escort you to your cabin?” 

“Is it typical for the First and Third Officers to escort passengers?” Seonghwa asked, fixing his waistcoat.

“Our most important passengers? Of course.” Hongjoong’s tone was light, but his steps were brisk as he led them through the promenade. “We don’t have much time, though. Follow me.”

Seonghwa watched Hongjoong forge a path through the crowd, his eyes catching on his sleeve. Instead of three gold braids at his wrist, there were only two. 

“Why are you wearing a different uniform?”

Hongjoong flushed, leading them down the grand staircase. “It’s temporary.”

Seonghwa frowned. “What’s temporary?”

“White Star canceled voyages to redirect coal to Titanic. Wilde was supposed to captain another ship, but they reassigned him as Chief Officer.” A muscle twitched in Hongjoong’s jaw. “They bumped me down to First, Lightoller to Second, and Blair got kicked off entirely.”

“That’s bullshit,” Wooyoung muttered as they reached the end of the corridor. 

Hongjoong stopped in front of B51, pulling out a heavy ring of keys. 

Seonghwa glanced down at his ticket, then at Wooyoung. “This isn’t our cabin. We’re down on E.”

Hongjoong met his eyes, unlocking the door. “My condition for going quietly was a first-class suite.”

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. 

A sitting room grander than the Adelphi unfolded around them, the beamed ceilings and carved walls painted white. Vases of fresh flowers occupied every surface, including an Adam-style marble mantle radiating heat. The polished mahogany doors matched the furniture, upholstered in the same deep red and blue as the carpet.  

“Dropping your name didn’t hurt either,” Hongjoong said with a smirk, shutting the door behind them. “Ms. Cardeza wasn’t happy about relocating her fourteen steamer trunks, but what can you do?”

Seonghwa was still gaping when Wooyoung lunged at San, throwing his arms around his neck and covering his face in kisses.

“There’s a French-style bedroom and an Italian,” Hongjoong said with a smile. “The Italian one’s through there.” He gestured toward one of the mahogany doors. “It connects to a hallway with a private bathroom, then the other bedroom.” He pointed to another door. “Or you can access it from the private promenade.”

“The what?” Wooyoung shrieked, already rushing off to explore.

Seonghwa eyed Hongjoong, his cheeks warming as he wondered if the private bedrooms were on his mind too. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. 

San cleared his throat. “Um, I’m going to check on Wooyoung.”

He walked out to the promenade, leaving them alone. 

“Thank you for all this,” Seonghwa said softly, setting his hat on the round oak table before stepping closer. 

He held Hongjoong’s small face in his hands, then kissed him hard. His lips were rough, his scent tinged with salt. Seonghwa pressed his tongue into Hongjoong’s mouth, and he was suddenly young again, full of fear and want on the worn deck of the Runic.

Hongjoong’s hand slipped under his jacket, untucking his shirt. His fingers were calloused, but his touch was gentle as he trailed up Seonghwa’s back. 

“I forgot how soft you are,” he whispered. “Like a flower petal.” 

Since February, Hongjoong had barely been home, tied up in Belfast overseeing construction after an eighth worker had died on the ship. There had been no time for intimacy, and Seonghwa was desperate for it. 

A moan caught in his throat as Hongjoong pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Seonghwa slipped a hand between them, pressing against his trousers to feel if he was hard.

“Seonghwa, there’s a painting of a naked lady in here!” 

They broke apart, turning to see Wooyoung sticking his head in through the promenade door. 

San walked around him, eyeing Hongjoong’s disheveled state. “Back to work?”

“Back to work,” Hongjoong confirmed, his face tinged pink. He pressed a quick kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek, smoothing his jacket. “Enjoy, my prince. Today’s a wash, but have your steward bring you to the bridge tomorrow morning at 10:30.” 

Seonghwa nodded, wondering if he would get to see Hongjoong steer the ship or if that was solely the quartermaster’s job. There was an entire side of him Seonghwa had never known, a version of him that belonged to the crew.

But he would be the only man on the bridge who knew his heart. 

Wooyoung grabbed Seonghwa’s hand, dragging him onto the promenade. “Our own private terrace!” he squealed, gesturing to the lounge chairs and dining set. “We should take our coffee out here naked tomorrow.”

“It’ll be freezing,” Seonghwa laughed. “You can take your coffee naked while I enjoy the view from my coat.”

He followed Wooyoung into the French bedroom. It looked like an ornate storage room, bursting at the seams with two vanities, a sofa, an armchair, two beds, and multiple tables. The beamed ceilings were painted white to match the sitting room, but the walls were oak. A life-sized oil painting of a woman bathing hung in the center of the room, painted in a classical style.

Seonghwa stared at it. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

“Should we flip a coin to see who has to sleep with her watching them?” Wooyoung asked.

They both looked toward the corner, where Seonghwa’s unwieldy portmanteau had already been brought.

Seonghwa sighed in defeat. “No, I’ll take it.”

“Well, if you insist!” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “Shall we take tea?”

Seonghwa glanced at the clock. “Tea’s not until 4 p.m.”

“Let’s take a walk on the boat deck first, then,” Wooyoung replied. “San told me only first-class is allowed up there.”

Seonghwa popped open his trunk, then looked around in confusion. “How are there three tables in here but no armoire?” 

Wooyoung walked past him to one of the doors they hadn’t come through, revealing the hall between their rooms. He tried another, this one opening into the corridor. “Apparently this is B55. The suite must take up three cabins,” he said over his shoulder, trying the last door. “Here you go, there’s a whole wardrobe.”

“I can’t believe they got us this suite,” Seonghwa said, pulling out his clothes. He could never relax until he unpacked. 

“I can,” Wooyoung replied simply. He sank into the armchair, watching as Seonghwa hung his suits. “How long are you going to take?” 

“Be patient. I’m just going to wash my face.” 

He stepped through the hallway connecting their rooms and into the washroom, all white save for the green-and-white tiled floor and the silver polish on the clawfoot tub. The marble sink looked like a fireplace mantle, inlaid with an oval mirror. 

Seonghwa splashed water on his face, then returned to the French room. “Ready?”

Wooyoung stretched. “You say that like I’m the one who’s been redecorating.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, grabbing a fresh hat before stepping into the corridor. They walked straight through the hall to the grand reception room, where music drifted up from D-deck, then ascended two levels to the boat deck. 

Sunlight gleamed off every surface and warmed their faces, though the air was chill beneath the shadow of the massive lifeboats stacked along the rails. 

Wooyoung flashed Seonghwa a wicked grin. “I’ve got some gossip about these.”

“The lifeboats?”

“Yeah. The company that built the ship, Harland and Wolff, has some society men running it,” Wooyoung said, lifting his cap to ruffle his hair. “Lord Carlisle’s original design had sixty-four lifeboats, but Lord Pirrie’s the Chairman, and he said regulations only called for sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” 

Wooyoung nodded grimly. “Carlisle got them up to twenty, but only because four are collapsable. The vultures think that’s why he ‘retired.’ They say he was pushed out.”

“Wow.” Seonghwa checked his pocket watch. A waning crescent moon, and nearly 4 p.m. “Let’s head to tea. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Wooyoung said under his breath, following him back toward the grand staircase. “Anyway, guess who got Carlisle’s job?”

“Who?”

“Pirrie’s nephew, Thomas Andrews. Supposedly he’s on the ship. He’s not much older than you.”

Seonghwa frowned. “You mean not much older than us. I’m only a year older than–”

“–and guess what? Andrews told Pirrie the same thing about the lifeboats.”

A chill ran down Seonghwa’s spine as they descended to A-deck.

“But there’s still only twenty?”

Wooyoung shrugged. “I don’t get why they hire master shipbuilders if they’re not going to listen to them.”

They stepped into the first-class lounge. Intricate carvings on the white ceiling and oak-paneled walls were gilded in gold, reminiscent of Versailles. The baroque patterns on the chairs and rug made Seonghwa’s head spin as they wove through first-class passengers sipping tea or playing cards. They found an empty table by the window, overlooking the Channel.

“Okay, last thing,” Wooyoung said as the waiter set down a delicate blue teapot. 

Seonghwa sipped his tea, eyeing the tiered platter of sandwiches heading their way. “There’s more?” 

“Obviously. Did you think the vain vultures were just gossiping about lifeboats?” Wooyoung tucked his hair behind his ear, crossing his legs. “Guess who Pirrie’s married to?”

Seonghwa raised a brow. “Who?”

“Carlisle’s sister.” Wooyoung leaned back in his chair proudly, biting into a smoked fish sandwich. “Pirrie gave him the boot and he fucked his sister.”

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa hissed, giving him a shove and glancing around for eavesdroppers. He stiffened as his eyes caught on a flash of blonde hair. 

Across the room, a table of older women giggled behind their gloves, fawning over Jeonghan as he poured their tea. 

Seonghwa’s stomach flipped as though he’d missed a step. 

“Jeonghan’s on the ship.”

The color drained from Wooyoung’s face, his smile fading as he looked around the lounge, his eyebrows drawn. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“What?” 

“Over there.” Seonghwa flicked his eyes toward the table, but he was gone. 

Wooyoung followed his gaze, scanning the room. “What are the chances he got reassigned to the Titanic?” 

“I don’t know,” Seonghwa murmured. “The Olympic’s still not running, right?” But as he said it, he realized he was wrong, that the papers had said the Olympic was at sea too.

“Right,” Wooyoung replied, though he didn’t sound convinced. “It must be a coincidence.”

“Must be,” Seonghwa echoed, finishing his tea. His fingers trembled as he set down his cup. 

Unless it wasn’t. 

Unless Aphrodite was still waiting for Adonis, her legs marred by thorns as she stood among white roses painted red, waiting for someone who would never come. 

𓊝

April 11, 1912

As soon as the morning sun touched his face, Seonghwa sprang out of bed. 

He knew Hongjoong had a packed schedule, but he’d been disappointed all the same when his door remained closed through the night. He wouldn’t waste his chance for Hongjoong’s undivided attention.

He bathed thoroughly in the cast iron tub, then perfumed his wrists and neck. Back in the French room, he selected a blouse Hongjoong favored, white ruffles blooming from his waistcoat. Just as he finished slicking back his hair and dabbing his lips with rouge, a knock came at the door. 

It was Taehyung, his eyes rimmed red as though he’d been crying. His black necktie was slightly askew, and he was wringing his hands in front of him. 

“Are you ready, my lord?”

Seonghwa wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he thought it might make him feel worse. Then he had an idea. 

“Just one moment, Taehyung.” 

He slipped back into the room, rifling through his portmanteau until he found what he was looking for. He returned to the corridor, handing the steward a small parcel. 

“It’s a Chelsea bun. Wooyoung—I mean, Mr. Jung—and I make them at our bakery.”

Taehyung accepted the pastry with an astonished look on his face. “Thank you, Lord Park.”

Seonghwa smiled. “Call me Seonghwa.”

A flush crept up Taehyung’s neck. “As you wish, Seonghwa.”

They walked together through the corridor, up the grand staircase, and onto the boat deck. Taehyung stopped at the foot of the metal stairs leading up to the bridge, his grip tightening around the pastry.

“The bridge, my lord.” A pause. Then, softer, “Thank you again.”

Seonghwa met his eyes. “Thank you, Taehyung. I hope your day improves.”

The steward gave him a small smile before he turned around, disappearing into the ship. 

Seonghwa ascended the stairs to the bridge, where Hongjoong was talking with a crew member. 

“Sir, we still can’t find the binoculars.”

Hongjoong sighed. “Blair must’ve stashed them somewhere. Have a steward search Lightoller’s cabin, just in case, and check the crow’s nest again.” 

Then he turned, his expression softening as he took in Seonghwa. “My lord,” he murmured, tipping his cap. 

“Good morning, officer,” Seonghwa replied. 

Hongjoong’s eyes flicked to the lace at Seonghwa’s collar before landing on his mouth. “Come, you can keep me company at the helm.”

Seonghwa frowned as Hongjoong led him past the ship’s wheel and around a corner. 

“Isn’t that the helm?” 

Hongjoong opened a narrow door, gesturing for Seonghwa to enter first. “One of three,” he explained. “That one’s for navigating the shore. The main one’s in the wheelhouse.”

A tight corridor led into a room lined with windows on one side and golden telephones and navigational instruments on the other. At the center, a tall, handsome man stood at the helm, his eyes fixed on a large compass at the top. 

“Song Mingi, one of our quartermasters,” Hongjoong said. “Mingi, this is Seonghwa.”

Mingi straightened to full height, flashing Seonghwa a toothy grin. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Seonghwa flushed. Had Hongjoong told the quartermaster about him?

“Could we have,” Hongjoong paused, checking the clock, “Thirty minutes, please?”

“Of course, officer.” Mingi walked toward the corridor. “I’ll take an early lunch.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, Hongjoong gripped Seonghwa’s hips, pulling him closer. 

“Would you like to steer the ship, my lord?”

Seonghwa suppressed a smile. “Can you show me how?”

Without warning, Hongjoong spun him around, pushing him against the wheel. Seonghwa gasped as Hongjoong’s hand slid between his legs, his breath hot against his neck.

“Hold the knobs,” Hongjoong whispered. “You can be the quartermaster.”

Seonghwa tried to steady his shaking hands, but it was impossible with Hongjoong’s body pressed flush against him. 

“Is this what a First Officer does?” Seonghwa asked, his clammy palms slipping off the polished wood.  

“If you were my quartermaster?” Hongjoong hummed in his ear. “Yes.”

Seonghwa let out a soft moan as Hongjoong palmed him over his trousers, nipping his earlobe. Hongjoong flipped him again, pressing their lips together in a bruising kiss. 

But too soon, he pulled back. 

“All right, quartermaster,” he sighed, nudging Seonghwa aside as he took the wheel. “We’ve got about twenty minutes until Mingi returns. Why don’t you tell me about your day yesterday while I steer?”

Seonghwa wasn’t listening. His body was burning, his mind racing through a dozen ways they could spend the next twenty minutes.

He dropped to his knees and crawled under the helm, unbuttoning Hongjoong’s trousers. 

“Seonghwa, I’m trying to steer—what are you doing?” 

Seonghwa freed him, immediately taking him in his mouth. He looked up beneath his lashes, voice muffled. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Fuck,” Hongjoong whispered, one hand on a helm knob, the other threading through Seonghwa’s hair. His cock filled out quickly, heavy and salty on Seonghwa’s tongue. “You’re going to make me sink this ship.”

Seonghwa popped off with a wet sound. “I thought it was unsinkable.” 

“All ships are sinkable, the papers only say that because—fuck,” Hongjoong bit his lip as Seonghwa circled him with his tongue. “You look exquisite.” 

“With your cock in my mouth?” 

Hongjoong inhaled sharply through his teeth as Seonghwa wrapped a hand around the base. 

“I wish you could ruin me here,” Seonghwa murmured before taking him in again. 

“Who says I can’t?” Hongjoong growled, thrusting into his mouth. 

But Seonghwa was no longer the inexperienced boy he’d been at the Mist Hotel. He opened his throat, taking Hongjoong’s length easily and swallowing around him. 

“Shit,” Hongjoong hissed, his grip tightening in Seonghwa’s hair as he took him to the hilt. 

Seonghwa let his hands wander, his fingers digging into the backs of Hongjoong’s thick thighs, then higher, encouraging him to move. He bobbed his head, pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside of Hongjoong’s cock. 

Seonghwa’s mind flashed back to the spring of ‘09, when Hongjoong had defiled his face as he knelt on the floor of the Mist. He moaned around him, and Hongjoong’s hips stuttered at the vibration.

It was a terrible idea. Mingi could return at any moment. 

Blinking away tears, Seonghwa gazed up at Hongjoong’s face. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his brows arching in the center of his face as he watched. Seonghwa hollowed his cheeks, and the taste of precum hit his tongue. Hongjoong was close. 

He moved a hand back to the base, twisting as he tightened his mouth. He quickened his pace, trying to tip Hongjoong over the edge before they were interrupted. 

What if someone important came to check on things and found Seonghwa on his knees at the helm, covered in Hongjoong’s mess?

Intoxicated by the image and the taste of him, Seonghwa pulled off, stroking Hongjoong’s cock toward his face. 

“Seonghwa, I’m close,” Hongjoong rasped, eyes wide with alarm. “You’ve got to—to stop–”

Seonghwa only smiled, sticking out his tongue as Hongjoong’s body seized up.

He groaned, low and guttural, spilling across Seonghwa’s face in hot, pulsing streaks. Seonghwa sputtered as it hit his nose and open mouth, shifting on his knees as his own arousal became unbearable. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry–” 

But as Hongjoong said it, he was still painting Seonghwa’s cheeks, one white-knuckled hand gripping the helm. 

All propriety lost, Seonghwa slipped his other hand into his own trousers, squeezing himself for relief as he continued stroking Hongjoong’s cock toward his face. 

How debauched he must look. How depraved.

“Enough,” Hongjoong said, catching Seonghwa’s wrist. He pulled up his trousers, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. 

“Here,” he said, kneeling in front of Seonghwa to wipe his face. “Before Mingi comes back.”

He stuffed the soiled handkerchief back in his pocket, then gently pulled Seonghwa’s hand from his pants. 

“I’ve got a break at two,” he said, helping Seonghwa up. “If you can wait until then, I promise I’ll take care of you.”

Seonghwa gulped, his mind on the Olympic and Mount Vesuvius. 

“In my room?” 

Hongjoong nodded. “Are you in the French or the Italian?”

“The French,” Seonghwa managed. “B55.”

“Wait for me there.”

“I will.”

Seonghwa kept his head down as he retreated into the narrow hall and out onto the boat deck, hoping no one would stop him. He hastily stuffed a loose bit of his shirt back into his trousers, grimacing as he looked down. He stuck a hand in his pocket, trying to arrange himself in a less conspicuous way. 

Almost there. Only two flights of stairs and he would be safe, well on his way to a private bath. 

But just as he reached the staircase, a voice called out behind him. 

“Lord Park?”

Seonghwa looked up, trying to see the man’s face while shielding his own. A distinguished stranger in a maroon tie studied him curiously. 

His pulse quickened. What if Hongjoong had missed a spot with the handkerchief?

“Do I know you, sir?” 

“Thomas Andrews, my lord. I believe you serve with my uncle in the House of Lords?”

“No, sorry.” Seonghwa shook his head, his ears warming. “I’ve deferred.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Thomas said, looking embarrassed. “I saw the announcement about your son in the paper, congratulations. I have a baby girl myself.”

“Ah, thank you,” Seonghwa replied awkwardly. “Congratulations to you as well.”

“They grow so fast, don’t they?” Thomas mused. “One day, they’re blinking up at you, smiling for the first time. The next, they’re little lords and ladies making their own choices.”

Seonghwa swallowed, his eyes darting toward the stairs. “Right.”

“I keep thinking about the world she’ll grow into. What she’ll inherit,” Thomas said wistfully. He chuckled. “Well, I won’t keep you, my lord.”

“Seonghwa,” he corrected. “Nice to meet you, Thomas.”

It wasn’t a complete fabrication. He seemed like a good person.

Seonghwa turned and descended the stairs, his thoughts drifting to what Wooyoung had said about the lifeboats.

Was Lord Pirrie proud of his nephew? Or did he think their genes were wasted on a man more concerned with saving lives than saving money?

Generations after Io, her descendants would include many men remembered as heroes, like Perseus, who cut off Medusa's head.

And Heracles, who freed Prometheus. 

𓊝

Chapter Text

April 12, 1912

Seonghwa looked down squeamishly at the plate in front of him, where the petrified corpse of a small bird rested atop a bed of wilted greens. It looked as though it had died in the middle of a forest and then been scraped onto fine china, leaves and all. 

“You don’t eat birds now?” Wooyoung asked, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“Pigeons aren’t birds,” Seonghwa snapped, suppressing a gag. 

The first-class dining saloon spanned the full width of the ship, an opulent room lined with tables set with crystal and silver. Not the ideal place to be sick. 

Wooyoung cackled. “What if this is the pigeon that touched you in New York?”

Seonghwa shot him a look of disdain. “Is that supposed to make me want to eat it?”

“Lord Seonghwa!” 

He glanced up to find Thomas Andrews standing beside their table. Behind him, a man he didn’t recognize was twirling a voluminous mustache that could rival John’s. 

“Just Seonghwa,” he corrected, rising to greet them. He gestured to Wooyoung. “This is my friend and business partner, Mr. Jung Wooyoung. Wooyoung, this is Mr. Thomas Andrews.”

Removing his glove, Thomas extended a hand to him. Wooyoung stood abruptly, jostling the dishes on the table in his haste to shake it. Seonghwa bit back a grimace as his squab jiggled ominously on the plate. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Andrews,” Wooyoung said.

“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m familiar with Ambrosia.” He smiled kindly. “And just Thomas, please. May I introduce you to Mr. Bruce Ismay, Chairman and Managing Director of White Star Line?” 

“Gentlemen.” Bruce removed his own glove, offering them each a firm handshake before replacing it.

“Seonghwa and Mr. Jung make the finest Chelsea buns in London,” Thomas added. “Their bakery’s a staple with the Chelsea crowd.”

Bruce nodded politely. “Lord Seonghwa, you are the Earl of Park, I presume?” 

“One and the same,” Seonghwa replied, unsurprised. Businessmen like Bruce usually knew all the lords and politicians. They probably studied them at university—their names and faces, their willingness to accept bribes.

“You two simply must join my dinner party,” Bruce said, his mustache twitching as he smiled. “À la Carte Restaurant, night after next. What do you say, chaps?”

Seonghwa exchanged a glance with Wooyoung, who looked like he was already imagining their outfits. He sighed in defeat, turning back to Bruce.

“We would be delighted, Mr. Ismay. Thank you for the invitation.”

Bruce clapped his hands together, then flushed, smoothing his face back into a neutral expression. “You will be my star guests.”

“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen,” Thomas added with a wink, leading Bruce to the next table of prominent passengers. 

“I wonder if Thomas has really been to the bakery, or if he was just being polite,” Wooyoung mused, polishing off his last bite of squab. 

“Why would he lie?” Seonghwa asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Wooyoung shrugged. “So we’d say yes to his friend’s fussy dinner party.” He pulled Seonghwa’s plate toward himself, slicing a wing off with his knife. “Are you just going to starve?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “It’s the seventh course, I’m not going to starve. I must’ve eaten a dozen oysters.”

Wooyoung scanned the room for witnesses, then popped the whole wing into his mouth, pulling out a clean bone. “Suit yourself.”

Pâté de foie gras came next, followed by chocolate and vanilla éclairs with French ice cream. Seonghwa tucked in, patting his stomach after polishing off his third pastry. 

“I believe my tails no longer fit,” he said with a laugh.

Wooyoung smirked, tossing his napkin on the table. “Then let’s go get them off, my lord.”

They left the table, weaving between thin white columns and servers bearing trays with the final cheese course. In the reception room, first-class passengers streamed up the grand staircase to A-deck for nightcaps and gossip. Seonghwa didn’t need to be upstairs to know the women were heading to the lounge for coffee while their men filtered into the smoking room for brandy and cigars. 

Wooyoung elbowed him, tilting his head toward two women talking animatedly by the quintet. “That’s Dorothy Gibson,” he said quietly, barely audible over Death and the Maiden. “She starred in a moving picture that just came out, The Lucky Holdup.”

Wooyoung walked casually toward her, leaning against the wall and facing away. Seonghwa rolled his eyes as he followed, though he was unable to resist eavesdropping. 

“I know, I was so sad to miss the premiere,” Dorothy said in an airy voice. “Poor Jules just couldn’t go on without me. He made me cut my trip short. He’s producing something new and wants me to star in it.”

“Has he left his wife yet?” the second woman asked.

Wooyoung’s eyes lit up. He looked up at Seonghwa as if to say, See?

“Insufferable,” Seonghwa whispered.

“You’re no fun,” Wooyoung whispered back. “Fine, let’s go.” 

They stepped onto the grand staircase, both the women turning their heads to watch them pass. Seonghwa’s mind was a haze of wine and sweets as he followed Wooyoung up to B-deck. 

After a few turns, Wooyoung slowed, glancing around sheepishly. 

“...This doesn’t look right.” 

Heated voices echoed ahead. Seonghwa opened his mouth to announce their presence, but Wooyoung clapped a hand over it, dragging him backwards into an alcove. 

“Shh,” Wooyoung whispered, eyes bright with intrigue. “Sounds interesting. Let’s listen.” 

Seonghwa frowned, his breath warm against Wooyoung’s palm. “Again? How would you like it if I eavesdropped on you?” he asked in a muffled voice.

Wooyoung huffed, removing his hand and wiping it on his trousers. “You’ve seen me naked. A lot. What do I care what you hear?”

“You mean if you were with San, you wouldn’t care if–”

“There’s no shame between us,” Wooyoung cut in breezily. “Now shut it, I’m trying to listen.”

Seonghwa pressed into the shadows beside him, close enough to feel Wooyoung’s breath on his cheek. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, his smile mischievous. 

“Your breath smells like brandy,” Seonghwa whispered, wrinkling his nose. 

Wooyoung pursed his lips like he was holding back a smile. “Shh, before we get caught.”

The argument resumed, and Wooyoung’s smirk vanished, his body going still. Seonghwa met his gaze. 

He hadn’t heard that voice in nearly a year, but it was unmistakable.

“Why don’t you just say what you want to say?” Jeonghan demanded.

“You know what I want to say,” came the low reply. 

Seonghwa’s stomach dropped. By the look on Wooyoung’s face, he recognized the second voice too. 

The distinctive, deep rasp of their steward. 

“No, I don’t,” Jeonghan said, fainter now, as though they were walking away.

“You said you wanted to switch to Titanic so you could be with me, but I’ve barely seen you,” Taehyung shot back. “You changed your mind after you saw the manifest, didn’t you? Are you stalking that man?”

Seonghwa’s pulse thundered in his ears. 

“I—I’m not—that’s preposterous,” Jeonghan stammered. “It’s a coincidence.”

“Then why are you even up here? I thought you were helping the White Star staff again down on D…”

The conversation faded as the men rounded a corner, but neither Seonghwa nor Wooyoung moved. 

Then, in a whisper so quiet Seonghwa barely heard it, Wooyoung said, “Let’s go.” 

They made their way back to the stairs in silence, then down the correct corridor to their suite. 

Entering through the French bedroom, Seonghwa let out a slow breath and set his gloves on the vanity. He opened his mouth to try to bring up what they’d heard, but Wooyoung spoke first. 

“Is Hongjoong visiting you tonight?” 

“No, he doesn’t come at night,” Seonghwa replied. “He… visits in the afternoon. He spends ten to two on the bridge, both a.m. and p.m.”

“At least his schedule’s predictable. The junior officers rotate every day.” Wooyoung rolled his shoulders. “Let’s change into soft clothes and stargaze.”

Seonghwa quirked a brow. “Not naked?”

“You can come out naked if you want, and I’ll just enjoy the view.”

Seonghwa shook his head, stripping off his trousers as Wooyoung disappeared into the adjoining hallway. Reaching into his portmanteau, he pulled out a fluffy cream-colored sweater, frowning at how it draped loosely over his shoulders. He must’ve packed one of San’s by mistake.

They met out on the promenade in their long underwear, sweaters, and woolen socks, Wooyoung dragging a thick quilt behind him. Seonghwa pushed two of the lounge chairs together, then they settled beneath the blanket, lying on their stomachs facing the railing. 

The moon was a tiny sliver, the sky clear. A perfect night for stargazing.

After a long silence, Seonghwa asked, “Do you think Jeonghan would hurt you?”

Wooyoung exhaled, pressing his foot against Seonghwa’s under the blanket. “No. I think he just can’t let go of the boy I used to be.”

Seonghwa turned his head slightly, studying Wooyoung in the starlight. His convex nose, the freckle on his cheek. His brow bone was more prominent, his jaw sharper, but something in his face still echoed Taehyung’s.

He wondered if Jeonghan saw it too.

“Or maybe he didn’t realize what kind of man you’d grow into,” Seonghwa murmured. “And he’s afraid you’ll disappear again.”

Wooyoung sighed. “I’m sure he didn’t expect me to live long enough to become a man.” 

Seonghwa tried to imagine living the last fifteen years as Jeonghan had—clinging to the memory of a boy he’d never spoken to, wondering if things could’ve been different, if only he’d been brave. 

If he were Jeonghan, he wouldn’t let Wooyoung out of his sight either. 

“What do you think Taehyung meant about him helping the White Star staff?”

“He must work for the restaurant,” Wooyoung replied. “It’s a private concession. The owner has two Italian cafés in London.” 

“I wonder if he’ll be working Bruce’s party,” Seonghwa said. Would he ignore Wooyoung as he did on the Olympic?

“Maybe,” Wooyoung said vaguely, his eyes drifting back to the stars. “Is that one him?” 

Seonghwa followed his gaze to the constellation hovering above the horizon. This was the hardest season to spot it from the Northern hemisphere. Crius, the Titan god of constellations, had long since drawn the stars into spring. 

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Tell me the story again.”

Seonghwa smiled. “It begins with Typhon,” he said. “A monster with the head of a man and legs made of viper tails–”

“How many?”

“What?”

“How many snakes?”

“Hesiod’s version has two.” Seonghwa cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Typhon was born from the Earth to avenge the Titans. The gods transformed into–”

“Why would they need to transform if they were gods?” Wooyoung asked. 

Seonghwa frowned. “Are you going to let me tell it or not?”

“I’m listening actively,” Wooyoung said, pressing their shoulders together. 

“As I was saying, the gods transformed into animals so Typhon wouldn’t recognize them,” Seonghwa continued, pointing to the constellation already sinking into the ocean. “Aphrodite and Eros became fish. They tied their tails together with a ribbon so they wouldn’t get separated.”

Between them, Wooyoung’s hand found Seonghwa’s, their fingers intertwining like their legs already had.

“Would you become a fish with me?”

“I’m not as strong a swimmer as you,” Seonghwa replied, laughing softly. 

Wooyoung smiled, his eyes still on the stars. “I’ll tie you to me with a ribbon so we don’t get separated.”

Seonghwa rolled onto his side, pulling him close. “Then you’ll just sink with me.” 

“Better than going on without you.” Wooyoung hummed sleepily, tucking his face into the crook of Seonghwa’s neck. “San’s not coming back tonight either. He’s got the middle watch.”

“Their loss,” Seonghwa mumbled. He tugged the blanket over their heads, snuffing out the stars. 

Wooyoung’s breathing evened out first. Soon after, Seonghwa’s followed, their arms and legs interlaced like a boating knot. 

Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, greasers stoked the flames of a fire they could neither see nor feel. But on it burned, propelling the ship into the black night. 

𓊝

April 13, 1912

Seonghwa awoke beneath the morning sun to a terrible stomachache, probably due to his dinner of oysters and éclairs. He extricated himself from Wooyoung’s clutches, padding inside in his woolen socks. 

Coffee, pastries, and cheese had been set on the round table in the sitting room. Taehyung must’ve noticed their absence at breakfast. 

Seonghwa’s face warmed. Had the steward caught them asleep in each other’s arms on the terrace?

He picked up the silver tray, carrying it out to the promenade. The morning was crisp and clear, perfect weather for breakfast beneath a blanket. Stuffing a smoked salmon cornet in his mouth, Seonghwa poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe and headed back to the lounge chair. 

He tucked his feet beneath the quilt, settling beside Wooyoung with his eyes on the ocean. The water was so still it looked like glass, a seamless reflection of the puffy clouds drifting above them. 

“You look so pretty up there,” Wooyoung murmured sleepily.

“You liar.” Seonghwa slipped away to make him a cup of coffee. “I’m still puffy from the pâté.”

He drowned Wooyoung’s coffee in sugar and cream, arranging the mugs onto the tray before carrying it over.

“I don’t want to be responsible for a cup of coffee,” Wooyoung whined, pulling the blanket back over his head. “I want to cuddle more.”

“I need to eat first,” Seonghwa grumbled, pulling down the blanket and forcing the cup into his hands. “It feels like the oysters from last night are forming a new colony in my stomach.”

Wooyoung wrinkled his nose. “Ew.”

A sharp knock came from inside. Wooyoung hid behind his mug, his breath misting in the cold air. “You get it.”

“I got breakfast,” Seonghwa argued. “You get it.”

“I just woke up. My dick’s going to scare whoever’s at the door.”

He had a point. 

“Fine,” Seonghwa sighed, grabbing a piece of cheese and another cornet before stepping back inside. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down as he reached for the door.  

It was Hongjoong, handsome and authoritative in his crisp uniform. 

“You look… divine,” Hongjoong said, stepping back to take him in. He hummed in approval. “It’s nearly ten. Did you just wake up?” 

“Maybe.” Seonghwa bit his lip. “Are you here for a visit?”

“Unfortunately not, I’ve only got a few minutes. I wanted to let you know I can’t come this afternoon.”

Seonghwa’s face fell. He checked for witnesses, then stepped into the hallway, still in just his cotton pants and San’s massive sweater. “Then can I visit you in the helm room again?”

“The wheelhouse,” Hongjoong corrected, pink dusting his cheeks as his eyes flicked down to Seonghwa’s exposed collarbones. “Actually, I was thinking we could go for a swim this evening after the pool closes. I could come get you after I give Lightoller his dinner break.”

“Just the two of us?”

Hongjoong’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Just the two of us.” 

Seonghwa pictured them chasing each other in the pool in their bathing costumes, or without them—Hongjoong’s muscles flexing, his scars pale against his bronze skin.

He flushed. “I can’t wait.”

“Until tonight then, my lord.” 

Hongjoong turned to leave, but Seonghwa caught his sleeve and reeled him back in, pressing a kiss to his lips. His fingers slid through the short hair at the nape of Hongjoong’s neck, teasing the prickles before slipping lower, following the curve of his spine to squeeze the ample flesh beneath his trousers. Seonghwa bit down on his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth before pulling away.

“Something to think about while you’re working,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Hongjoong huffed, the color in his cheeks deepening. “You temptress.” He kissed Seonghwa’s cheek, then straightened his jacket with a shaky breath and strode down the hall.

Seonghwa smiled to himself, turning back toward the sitting room door–

“Lord Park?”

Seonghwa froze. 

“Mr. Ismay? What—what are you doing here?”

Not the person he would’ve picked to see him in his underclothes, or worse. How long had he been standing there?

Bruce gestured to the door across from Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s suite. “This is my room.”

Seonghwa blinked. “Oh.”

“Pierpoint Morgan—excuse me, you probably know of him as J. P. Morgan—couldn’t make it, something about offloading paintings before France changes their export laws. So I got his suite.”

Seonghwa forced a polite smile. “Mr. Jung and I are your neighbors, then.”

Bruce gave him a knowing look. “Are you very close with the First Officer?”

Oh no.

“You could say that,” he said slowly, backing toward B51.

“Then I’ve got a proposition for you, Lord Park.”

Seonghwa stiffened. Of all the people to catch him with his hand down Hongjoong’s trousers, it had to be a man with the power to ruin them both. 

“Perhaps you could convince him to attend my party tomorrow evening,” Bruce continued. 

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped. “You want me to bring him to your party?”

He nodded. “What do you say, old chap? Captain Smith is coming, but Officer Kim refused me, even though I know he’ll be off duty.”

Seonghwa suppressed a grin as he pictured Hongjoong’s refusal. Bruce didn’t seem like the type of man who was denied often. 

“If I could be so bold as to invite Third Officer Choi, I have a feeling Officer Kim will be begging to come,” Seonghwa replied. 

Bruce chuckled. “Ah yes, I’m well aware of Officer Kim’s threats to defect to Cunard Line with his crew if we couldn’t find a suitable position for Choi. He is welcome to join.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Ismay,” Seonghwa said with a smile. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day, my lord.”

Seonghwa slipped back into the suite, shutting the door behind him. Leaning against it, he let out a long breath and tried to stop the trembling of his hands.

He walked back out onto the promenade, flashing Wooyoung a wry look. “Well, Bruce Ismay almost caught me with my hand down Hongjoong’s pants.” 

“What!” Wooyoung squealed. “You were gone for ten minutes. How did you manage to get your hand down Hongjoong’s pants that fast?”

Seonghwa shrugged. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Wooyoung scoffed. “You get that tenacity from your mother.” 

Seonghwa sat down, draping the blanket over them both. “What are we going to do about her?”

Wooyoung set his empty cup down on the tray and curled into him. “No idea. She got her heir, why can’t she just let you live now?”

“Because the legacy was always an excuse,” Seonghwa said bitterly. “As long as she and I both live, she’ll keep trying to shape me into her perfect lord. She’s worse than Hera’s gadfly.” 

His words hung in the air as he closed his eyes, the sun warm on his face. 

He imagined things were different, as he often did. An ordinary life, where he was free to live and love as he pleased. Perhaps that was their problem. His mother had no love in her heart, and he was bursting with it—too much to fit within the confines of a lord’s life. 

“Is your stomach any better?” Wooyoung asked, deftly changing the subject. “Have the oysters met their maker?”

Seonghwa huffed a laugh. “It’s settled a bit.”

“Good. Let’s take a nap,” Wooyoung said with a yawn. 

“All right. Nap first, then a bath.”

“Then we can try on party outfits,” Wooyoung replied. He pressed himself into Seonghwa, their bodies instinctively fitting together like a key in a lock. 

Seonghwa smiled, pulling the blanket over their heads. Beneath the thick quilt, they could’ve been back at the flat, in Wooyoung’s sunlit bedroom that smelled like him. Or at the Adelphi, as England’s two most tormented lovers, or on the Runic, on Seonghwa’s first night sleeping beside someone. 

Seonghwa kissed Wooyoung’s forehead and let his warmth and the rhythm of his breathing lull him to sleep. 

He dreamed of stars mirrored on the sea, of two fish sinking into the black ocean.

𓊝

Seonghwa slipped into the French room after dinner, checking his pocket watch. Less than thirty minutes to get ready, and still a waning crescent moon. 

He didn’t envy the lookouts, nor the quartermaster. It would be another black night. 

Seonghwa draped his jacket and trousers over the chair, then tossed his underclothes in the laundry. From the wardrobe, he pulled out his new bathing costume, a gift from John for their visit. Apparently, Boston socialites liked to swim in Jamaica Pond, though he doubted American men wore anything like the costumes John had picked for him and Wooyoung. 

He stepped in front of the vanity. The top resembled a woman’s camisole, the straps only slightly thicker. It clung to his chest, flaring out at the hips and hitting him at mid-thigh, barely long enough to conceal his cock. He yanked on the fabric, pulling it up and down and sideways, but there was no denying it. 

It was a dress, and not a very proper one.

He had to tug on the waistband and hop to get the matching shorts on. Small and tight, they weren’t visible beneath the top and did nothing to make it look more masculine. He hadn’t thought to try it on before the trip, because he hadn’t realized Hongjoong would be seeing him in it. 

A sharp knock made him jump. 

“Just a minute,” he called, his voice cracking. He yanked his shirt from the armchair, buttoning it with clumsy fingers before stuffing the skirt into his trousers. 

Trying to smooth his suit, he opened the door to find Hongjoong waiting, sharp and intimidating in his woolen uniform. 

“Ready for your swimming lesson?” 

“Yes, officer.” Seonghwa kissed Hongjoong’s cheek. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m wearing my bathing costume under this.”

Hongjoong bit his lip, his gaze raking down Seonghwa’s body. “I can’t wait to see it, my lord.”

Seonghwa giggled nervously and followed him down the corridor. 

“Where’s Wooyoung?” Hongjoong asked. “I’m surprised he didn’t invite himself.”

Seonghwa shrugged. “He abandoned me after dinner.”

Hongjoong smirked. “If I had to guess, he’s making the most of San’s new private quarters.”

They reached a concealed staircase, the same one Seonghwa and Wooyoung had taken with Taehyung when they first boarded. Hongjoong paused as a faint voice echoed around the stairwell.

“...from the Caronia and the Baltic, large quantities of ice in longitudes 49° to 50°30'W.”

Mingi’s voice. Then came Captain Smith’s calm reply:

“Log it on the chart. Nothing to worry about.”

“But sir, we also received a warning from La Touraine yesterday evening, ice fields and...” 

The voices faded, and Seonghwa let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Hongjoong led him down the stairs to F-deck and through an empty crew corridor. Pulling his ring of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door to the first-class swimming bath.

It opened into a narrow vestibule, probably meant for the crew’s use. Blue-and-white ceramic tiles reflected the electric lights, the air thick with seawater and coal smoke—a reminder that even first class had its limits. Hongjoong took a step forward, but a sudden splash stopped him cold.

He frowned, lifting a hand to halt Seonghwa.

“The water’s so warm.”

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shot up. That was Wooyoung’s voice. He and San must’ve had the same idea. 

Hongjoong started forward again, but Seonghwa caught his wrist, holding him back with a barely contained grin. Now was his chance to test Wooyoung’s claim that he didn’t care about being overheard.

A second voice, low and smooth—San. 

“There’s been a coal fire in boiler room five for over a week. They finally put it out today, but it’s directly beneath the pool, so the water’s been heating up.”

“What the fuck, the ship’s been on fire?” Wooyoung squealed.

Seonghwa turned his head, whispering, “Is that true?”

Hongjoong nodded. “Nothing to worry about, though. The steel can handle it. If it was hot enough to be dangerous, they’d be boiling like lobsters right now.”

Beyond the vestibule, the long swimming pool stretched out beneath a vaulted ceiling lined with white beams and pipes. Ripples bloomed across the water as San swam into view.

Seonghwa flushed at the sight of his bare back. He was even broader than Wooyoung, with thick bands of muscle rippling across his tanned shoulders. 

Were they swimming nude?

Then San rose from the water, droplets streaming down his chiseled chest and stomach, and Seonghwa got his answer. 

His breath caught as he remembered what Wooyoung had said on the Runic.

A proper jollocks. Heaviest dick I’ve ever seen in my life.  

At the time, Seonghwa had assumed he was exaggerating.

He was not.

It looked heavy. The same length as Seonghwa’s, maybe, but thicker. 

Much thicker. Thicker than his wrist. 

A startled noise escaped Seonghwa before he clapped a hand over his mouth.

San glanced over, but Wooyoung suddenly sprang up with a splash, shrieking. San laughed, seizing him around the waist and hoisting him out of the water like he weighed nothing. Water sloshed over the pool’s tiled edge as he tossed Wooyoung onto a bench against the far wall, pinning his legs up by his ears. 

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. He hadn’t known Wooyoung was that flexible. 

Maybe eavesdropping was a bad idea. 

Panic washed over him. He backed away, reaching for the door.

It didn’t budge. 

Seonghwa’s head snapped toward Hongjoong. “Why is the door locked?” he hissed.

Hongjoong shifted behind him and tried the knob himself. “Shit.” He pointed across the pool. “The passenger door unlocks from the inside, but it’s over there.”

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted. There was no way to reach it without being seen. 

The wet sound of San dropping to his knees on the tiles drew Seonghwa’s attention back to the bench. He braced himself as he watched San trail kisses down Wooyoung’s belly. 

Surely, he was about to see San swallow his friend’s cock whole.

But then he moved lower.

Seonghwa stiffened. “Oh my god,” he whispered, shooting an alarmed glance over his shoulder. “Is he going to put his mouth there?”

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” 

Wooyoung let out a wanton moan as San did exactly that, pressing his tongue into him with his nose buried in his balls. The pool room filled with slurping sounds, though they were barely audible beneath the cacophony Wooyoung was making. His back arched off the bench, one hand tangling in San’s hair.

“More,” Wooyoung whined. “Give me—give me a finger–” 

“Should’ve known he’d be this loud,” Hongjoong mumbled. 

Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh, only to choke on it as Hongjoong pressed himself flush against his back. Warm air ghosted over his ear.

“Do you think San will fit?”

Hongjoong reached a hand between Seonghwa’s legs, palming him through his trousers. 

“Because I don’t think he will,” he purred, nipping Seonghwa’s earlobe. 

Still kneeling on the tiles, San obliged Wooyoung’s plea, adding a finger alongside his tongue. The muscles in his arm flexed as he drilled into him at a brutal pace, rougher than anything Hongjoong had ever done to Seonghwa. 

Wooyoung’s moans sharpened, echoing off the steel walls. 

“Please, San, please! I’m ready, give it to me–”

San pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He grabbed Wooyoung’s ankles, lifting them onto his shoulders before lining himself up. 

Hongjoong had a point. San’s cock looked like a python trying to squeeze into a rabbit hole.

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you in this room since the first time I saw it.” 

The gravel in San’s voice made Seonghwa shiver. Hongjoong seemed to notice, slipping his hand under his waistband to grip him bare. 

“I was hoping to fuck you on that bench,” Hongjoong muttered. 

Seonghwa bit down on his bottom lip, stifling a whimper. 

“Then stop talking about it and do it,” Wooyoung snapped. 

Seonghwa barely had time to inhale before San thrust forward, drawing a long, keening wail from Wooyoung. He buried himself to the hilt, turning his head to the side to kiss Wooyoung’s ankle. 

“I knew you’d sound beautiful in here, my love.”

As if to prove his point, San withdrew and pushed back in, dragging out a fresh string of high-pitched moans and curses. 

“Give it to me mean,” Wooyoung snarled, lifting his hips to meet San’s. 

San obliged him, pulling out sharply just to slam forward. Muscles Seonghwa didn’t even know existed flexed in his thighs and back as he pounded into him. 

Seonghwa was familiar with Wooyoung’s body, but he’d never seen San’s before. If Wooyoung was Michelangelo’s David, San was the giant Goliath ripping him in half. 

San bent forward, grinding his hips as he captured Wooyoung’s mouth in a kiss. 

“Perfect,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “In every way.”

Seonghwa buried his face in his hands. If his cheeks got any hotter, he’d burn for a week just like boiler room five. 

“I don’t think they’ll notice if we slip out right now,” Hongjoong whispered, pulling his hand from Seonghwa’s trousers. “Not if we’re quiet. Why don’t we go back to your suite? I believe we’ll find it empty.”

Seonghwa exhaled shakily and nodded. They tiptoed across the tiles, though Wooyoung was making enough noise to conceal the movement of an army. Seonghwa still held his breath, his body thrumming with tension, every tiny sound amplified in his ears.

Because while he couldn’t wait to talk to Wooyoung about this later, he did not want to get caught.

Relief washed over him as they stepped into the first-class corridor, the humidity and moans gone from the air. The hallway was deserted, the passengers safely segregated into the lounge and the smoking room. 

Hongjoong let out a quiet snort. 

Seonghwa glanced at him, brows raised, and that was all it took. Suddenly they were both giggling like schoolboys, shoulders shaking as they staggered forward. Seonghwa clutched Hongjoong to try to stay upright, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Then Hongjoong grabbed his hand, and they ran.

Seonghwa’s pulse raced as they sprinted toward the concealed staircase, shattering the hush with their laughter. It reminded him of the first time, sneaking out of the officer’s ball, barely able to keep their hands off each other as they tore through the corridors toward Hongjoong’s quarters. 

By the time they reached B-deck, Seonghwa was gasping for breath. They rounded a corner, and he stumbled to a halt.

In their path stood Mr. Astor, the richest man on the ship.

But he seemed to be sneaking around too, walking a large Airedale terrier that was supposed to be confined to the kennels. 

They locked eyes. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t, my lord,” Mr. Astor said, his gaze flicking to Hongjoong’s uniform.

Seonghwa mimed sewing his lips shut. Mr. Astor chuckled and continued on his way, murmuring to the dog. 

“Come, Kitty. Let’s go see the stars.”

She looked up at him with adoration, wagging her tail. 

Laughing again, Seonghwa tugged Hongjoong toward the French room. He fumbled with the knob, but for the second time that night, the door wouldn’t budge. 

Seonghwa groaned, his face heating. The idea of finding Taehyung and asking him to unlock the door was mortifying. 

“Please tell me you have a key.” 

Hongjoong smirked, winking as he produced his keyring from his pocket. “Of course.” He twisted the lock, then pushed the door open, stepping aside. 

“After you, my prince.” 

The second the door clicked shut behind them, Hongjoong’s smile faded. He tossed the keys onto the vanity, his eyes darkening.

“Undress. Then get on the bed.”

Seonghwa swallowed. 

“Yes, officer.”

Hongjoong sank into the armchair, legs spread, hands draped over the armrests as he watched. 

Seonghwa flushed, acutely aware of what he wore beneath his suit. Fingers trembling, he unbuttoned his blouse and hung it beside his jacket in the wardrobe. His trousers were next, neatly folded over a hanger. 

A sharp intake of breath made him glance up. Hongjoong’s eyes were fixed on the cling of his bathing costume, his thumb on his bottom lip. 

“John bought that for you?”

Seonghwa nodded.

“I need to have a word with him,” Hongjoong said, his eyes narrowing. 

“You and me both,” Seonghwa said under his breath, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and peeling them down. His fingers brushed the hem of the camisole, ready to lift it. 

“Wait.”

Seonghwa looked up.

“Spin for me first.”

Heat crawled up Seonghwa’s neck as he caught sight of himself spinning in the mirror. He looked so frail in comparison to San. 

Maybe he was. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Seonghwa flinched, meeting Hongjoong’s gaze. The hunger in his eyes had given way to concern.

“Nothing,” he lied. 

Hongjoong frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

A lifetime of learning how to hide, only to end up surrounded by people who could read his mind. 

“Fine. I was wondering if you’d prefer me if I were less delicate.”

Hongjoong only stared at him, as though he could tell it was a half-truth. 

Seonghwa sighed. “If… if I were shaped more like San, I mean.”

Hongjoong stood, closing the distance between them in two strides. His arms wrapped around Seonghwa, tucking his head into his shoulder. 

“No,” he murmured, his lips brushing Seonghwa’s neck. “I only want you, exactly as you are.”

Seonghwa’s eyes fluttered shut—then snapped open again as Hongjoong grabbed his hand, pressing it to the front of his trousers. 

“Can you feel what you do to me?”

Seonghwa moaned low in his throat. Hongjoong was hard beneath his palm, thick and hot through the stiff wool. He curled his fingers, feeling the shape of him.

“I feel it,” he whispered. 

“Let me show you,” Hongjoong said, dragging his teeth over his throat. “Bed. All fours.”

Seonghwa shivered. “Yes, officer.” 

He reached for the hem of the camisole again, but Hongjoong caught his wrist.

“Keep it on,” he growled. “You look good enough to eat.”

Seonghwa’s hand fell to his side. He climbed onto the bed on his hands and knees, the silky fabric grazing his cock where it hung free. Arousal and embarrassment flushed his cheeks as Hongjoong stood fully dressed at the foot of the bed, watching him in silence. 

How long was he going to just stand there?

“I could sleep a hundred years and only dream of you.”

Seonghwa glanced back in surprise, but Hongjoong’s earnest look disappeared, masked by a sly smile. “Close your eyes.”

He shut them, the world narrowing to the creak of the bed and Hongjoong’s salt and leather scent. Rough hands slipped beneath his camisole, tracing the curve of his chest to his waist. His heart raced like they were running through the corridors again, his pulse loud in his ears. 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong breathed. “The shape of you…”

“You don’t have to say that,” Seonghwa whispered.

“Why would I lie?” Hongjoong asked, a tinge of sorrow in his voice. “Truth is so rare, it’s delightful to tell it.”

Seonghwa squeezed his eyes tighter. “What?” 

“It’s Emily Dickinson.”

Hongjoong’s calloused fingers gripped his hips, spreading him apart. Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to his rim.

“If you won’t believe me, I’ll just have to prove it,” Hongjoong muttered, and then he spoke no more. 

He slowly filled Seonghwa with his tongue, a filthy second act to his reverent words. The sensation was like nothing Seonghwa had ever felt before—both wet and firm, smooth underneath but rough on top. Hongjoong pushed all the way inside, then sealed his lips around him and sucked. 

Seonghwa suddenly understood why Wooyoung had been so loud. 

A deep, unbidden moan rumbled from his chest. Hongjoong seemed determined to drag the sound out of him again and again, devouring him like he hadn’t eaten in days. He swirled his tongue, and Seonghwa’s knees buckled. 

Hongjoong’s fingers dug in harder. “Stay still.”

Seonghwa obeyed, his breathing shallow, skin on fire. His muscles burned from restraining himself as Hongjoong’s hand slid beneath him, tracing down his shaft, over his balls, and around his rim. He pressed a finger into him alongside his tongue, moaning softly like he’d never tasted anything so fine. 

Hongjoong reached around him with his free hand, his fingers curling around Seonghwa’s cock. Lightning shot up Seonghwa’s spine, threatening to crest the pleasure already building in his abdomen. 

Seonghwa shot him a panicked look over his shoulder. He’d forgotten that Hongjoong was fully dressed. He even still wore his White Star cap, the brim grazing Seonghwa’s skin. 

“Wait, I want to finish on your cock–”

But Hongjoong didn’t stop. He just held up two fingers, then reached back around him to stroke his cock again. 

Seonghwa groaned. “I don’t—I don’t think I can. We don’t have en–enough time—Hongjoong–”

Hongjoong looked up, his face a shining mess, his voice hoarse.

“Finish on my tongue.”

“Hongjoong–”

Then Hongjoong pressed back inside, and Seonghwa’s resistance crumbled. Pleasure surged up his spine, spreading through his core. 

Hongjoong could read Seonghwa’s body like he could read his mind. 

He listened attentively when Seonghwa spoke about stars and mythology, but he couldn’t retain it, always asking the same questions. He only had the memory for American poetry, ships, and Seonghwa, as though they were his gods.

Seonghwa spasmed around Hongjoong’s mouth, spilling into the bathing costume and onto the sheets. Hongjoong slowed his hand and pressed his tongue deeper, expertly drawing out his pleasure. 

Seonghwa’s shoulders gave out, and he fell to the bed, his moans unraveling into whimpers as the tremors faded from his body. Hongjoong pressed a kiss to his rim, then gently coaxed him onto his back. 

“Give me one more,” he said, lifting Seonghwa’s hips to slide a cushion beneath him. “Then I’ll bathe you before my watch.”

Seonghwa’s chest heaved. It felt like half the night had passed already, but Hongjoong had a way of warping time. He could turn any room into Mount Olympus, a world between worlds where pleasure stretched seconds into hours.

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Hongjoong unbuttoned his woolen trousers. Flushed and hard, he touched himself as his eyes raked over Seonghwa, wrecked and breathless beneath his bathing costume. 

His uniform made Seonghwa feel like he’d just stumbled upon him, pleasuring himself in a dark corner of the deck. Another aftershock coursed through him at the thought.

“All right,” Seonghwa panted, managing a weak smile. “Take one more.”

Hongjoong flashed him a sinister look before cracking open the jar beside the bed, dipping his fingers inside. Without hesitation, he pressed two to Seonghwa’s sore hole.

“I can take you,” Seonghwa said. “You don’t need to–”

“Relax,” Hongjoong replied, wrapping his other hand around himself again. “This is for me.” 

Seonghwa’s soft cock stirred, both from the feeling of Hongjoong’s fingers inside him and the image of him touching himself as he did it. Only a sliver of bronze skin was visible between his jacket and the waistband of his trousers, pulled down just below his balls. 

Hongjoong scissored his fingers slowly, opening him with the care of a hummingbird drinking from a flower. 

“I said one more,” Seonghwa groaned, clutching the sheets as his back arched off the bed. 

“Patience, my lord,” Hongjoong drawled. He came up on his knees, hovering over Seonghwa as he worked one hand inside him, fisting his own cock with the other. 

He finally pulled his fingers free, pressing himself to Seonghwa’s stretched hole. Inch by inch, he filled him, pushing forward until their hips met. 

Hongjoong’s hands roamed over Seonghwa’s torso, dragging the bathing costume through the mess on his stomach. He set a maddening pace, leisurely thrusts that filled Seonghwa with pleasure but not relief. 

“Officer,” Seonghwa gasped. “Please—faster–”

“You only wanted one more,” Hongjoong said, circling his hips. “So I’m going to take my time.”

Pressure mounted inside of him, but Hongjoong kept him on edge. He trailed his fingers over Seonghwa’s cock, biting his lip as it twitched beneath his hand.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa whimpered. 

“Patience.”

Seonghwa glared up at him, but then Hongjoong’s cock angled just right, brushing against his prostate in a way that lit him on fire. Hongjoong’s face changed, and he wrapped a hand around Seonghwa, stroking him fast. 

Seonghwa’s orgasm was always less predictable the second time, something Hongjoong had taught him about himself. He could feel it build, filling his body like water about to overflow a glass–

A sharp knock came at the door, but it was too late. Seonghwa tumbled over the edge like a motorcar crash—explosive, too loud. 

“I can’t stop,” he moaned, his body spasming around Hongjoong’s cock as he came for the second time that night, adding to the mess on his abdomen. “My god Hongjoong–”

The knock came again right as Hongjoong leaned forward, groaning into his neck. 

“Seonghwa,” he breathed, grinding his hips into him. He came in pulses: a deep moan, a flood of warmth, followed by another deep moan, repeat. 

Seonghwa whimpered at the overstimulation, the sensations in his body taking over his brain. He could feel his own release cooling on his stomach, while Hongjoong’s leaked out of him, adding to the mess on the bed. 

A third knock made him jump. Hongjoong rolled off of him, quickly pulling his trousers back up. He splashed water on his face at the sink, toweling off before cracking the door open. 

“Oh! I—I’m so sorry, Officer Kim. I wasn’t expecting—I mean–”

Seonghwa's heart thundered in his chest. He looked down at himself, covered in spit, cum, and a harlot’s dress. 

“Taehyung, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just wanted to speak with Seonghwa—I mean, Lord Park—but it’s, it’s late, so I’ll leave you to it.” 

Seonghwa’s eyes widened as Hongjoong closed the door, Taehyung’s hurried steps fading down the corridor. 

“What could your steward possibly need from you at this hour?” Hongjoong asked, scooping Seonghwa up like a child. 

More importantly, why would Taehyung come to Seonghwa and not Wooyoung?

Maybe he was afraid Jeonghan had bound himself to the wrong fish, doomed to drift further away from him until he sank beneath the sea. 

Or maybe he came to warn him. 

“Not my story to tell,” Seonghwa said simply. He let himself be treated like glass, resting his head on Hongjoong’s shoulder as he filled the bath. 

Hongjoong gently pulled the bathing costume over his head, then placed him in the water. 

“He knows someone from Wooyoung’s past,” Seonghwa added, closing his eyes as Hongjoong bathed him. 

“How far in the past?” Hongjoong replied carefully, running the washcloth down Seonghwa’s chest. 

“Don’t push,” Seonghwa said, cracking an eye open. 

Hongjoong’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Can you at least tell me what he wanted to talk to you about?”

“No.” Seonghwa moaned softly as Hongjoong rubbed the muscles in his arms. He huffed a laugh, a new possibility occurring to him. “Maybe he came to blackmail me about sleeping with Wooyoung.”

Hongjoong sighed heavily, wringing out the washcloth. “He caught you sleeping together?”

Seonghwa giggled. “At least we weren’t naked.”

Hongjoong didn’t laugh. “If he causes you two trouble, let me know.” 

“I will,” Seonghwa replied. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Easier said than done.” Hongjoong leaned down, twisting the hot water tap to rewarm the bath. “I’ve got to go relieve Lightoller. Can I meet you in your room at 2:30 tomorrow?”

Seonghwa reached a wet hand up to cup Hongjoong’s cheek. He’d felt so self-conscious after seeing San and Wooyoung, their sculpted bodies moving over each other like the gods and giants in The Fall of the Titans. But Hongjoong had made him feel like Antinous. 

Beautiful, treasured, deified. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Of course.”

Hongjoong kissed him on the forehead before turning to the mirror above the sink. He tucked his curls into his cap, then reached for one of Seonghwa’s perfume bottles. From this angle, Seonghwa could see both Hongjoong’s delicate profile in front of him and his face reflected in the mirror. 

In bed or on the deck he was all sharp edges, brow furrowed, veins straining on his neck and forehead. But here, he was soft, a hyacinth blooming on a battlefield. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Seonghwa whispered. 

Hongjoong breathed in the perfume, setting it down and grabbing another. “You’re the beautiful one. I’m just a man.”

Seonghwa propped his arm up on the enamel edge of the tub, his chin in his hand. 

“I could sleep a hundred nights and only dream of you, officer.” 

Hongjoong smiled to himself, working his way through Seonghwa’s scents.  

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Seonghwa said. “Bruce Ismay wants you to be my date at his dinner party tomorrow night. San’s invited too.” 

Hongjoong pulled the bottle from his nose. “Excuse me?”

“Thomas Andrews roped Wooyoung and me into going, and I guess Bruce is trying to collect all the officers he can.” He pushed his lips into a pout. “Please? I’ll let you pick my outfit.”

“What if I want you in the bathing costume?”

“Then you’ll have to wash it, because it’s covered in–”

“All right, all right,” Hongjoong cut in. “I’ll join you.” He shook his head, adding under his breath, “That bastard always gets what he wants.”

He stepped to the door of the washroom, then glanced over his shoulder.

“White tie, but with your blouse. You’ll look like an angel.”

Seonghwa flushed. He’d have to dust off his top hat. “As you wish.”

“Until tomorrow afternoon,” Hongjoong said, tipping his cap. “Sleep well, prince.”

Seonghwa sank into the freshly heated bath, thinking of the first time the four of them dressed up together, back when everything had been new between them. 

Since leaving his homeland, he’d come to know the thrill of many firsts. His first kiss, his first love, his first friend. 

But more thrilling still were the days of friendship in a cramped cabin that had somehow stretched into a life together. The familiarity of the second kiss, the third, the hundredth, the certainty that each one wouldn’t be their last. 

Seonghwa climbed out of the bath, glancing around in confusion. His towel was missing from the hook.

Then he spotted it. Hongjoong had draped it over the electric heater.

Wrapped in warmth, Seonghwa walked through his room and out onto the promenade. He settled on the makeshift bed, his eyes on the stars. 

He supposed every first must have a last. Even Crius had gazed upon the stars for a final time, though he hadn’t known his stars would outlive him, as they would outlive everyone.

Silent witnesses, unmoved by the countless firsts that would one day come to an end beneath them.

𓊝

Chapter Text

April 14, 1912

The day everything changed started like any other, with an empty bed and a steaming cup of coffee waiting on the nightstand. 

Seonghwa sat up and stretched. His gaze landed on the massive nude portrait above the headboard, La Circassienne au bain. Her painted eyes followed him as he rolled out of bed and moved to the basin, splashing cold water on his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, throwing on his overcoat. 

Wooyoung was already out on the promenade, only his head showing beneath a cocoon of quilts and throws. It was the coldest morning yet, though the wind and the sea were still unusually calm.

“Morning,” Seonghwa said, crawling beneath the blankets. He sipped his coffee, flushing as the events of the previous evening came back to him.

Wooyoung yawned, dropping his head onto Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Morning.” 

“How was your night?” Seonghwa asked, keeping his tone light. “Did you enjoy your swim?”

Wooyoung’s head snapped up. “What do you mean by that?”

Seonghwa took another sip, savoring the pause. 

“I mean Hongjoong and I tried to go for a swim last night, but the pool was occupied.”

The blood drained from Wooyoung’s face.

“You didn’t.”

Seonghwa pursed his lips to hold in his laugh. “I did.”

Without a word, Wooyoung calmly placed his coffee on the deck. He plucked Seonghwa’s cup from his hands, setting it neatly beside his.

Then he lunged, pinning Seonghwa flat against the lounge chair, his hands around his neck. 

“You sneaky little bastard–”

Seonghwa wheezed, scratching at his hands. “You said I could–”

“I didn’t mean you could watch!”

He pried Wooyoung’s fingers loose, only for him to switch tactics, tickling Seonghwa mercilessly until he was gasping for air, kicking feebly under the blanket.

“Maybe you shouldn’t fuck in the pool,” Seonghwa choked out, “If you don’t want an audience.”

Wooyoung collapsed on top of him, face flushed. He propped himself up on his hands, catching his breath before asking, “How did I look?”

Seonghwa tipped his head back with a loud laugh. “Incredible. I hated every second of it.”

Wooyoung smacked his arm, then froze. “Oh god, does that mean Hongjoong saw, too?”

Seonghwa grimaced as he remembered San forcing his way into him. “We were both surprised San could even fit.”

Wooyoung let out a horrified squeal and launched into tickling him all over again. “I told you he was big!”

Seonghwa batted his hands away and reached for their mugs. He handed Wooyoung’s back, then took a sip of his own. 

“Big is one word for it,” he said dryly.

Wooyoung smirked, then emerged from the quilt, perching on the edge of the chair. “It’s late already. Should we get dressed for lunch?” 

Seonghwa shook his head. “I’m just going to nibble on cheese and pastries. Hongjoong’s coming by in a couple hours, so I don’t want to be too full.”

Wooyoung’s smile thinned. “How long is he staying? We have that dinner party tonight.”

“So? Dinner’s not until seven. I’m sure we’ll be done by five–”

“That only gives us two hours!” Wooyoung cut in indignantly. “We need at least three.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “We don’t need three hours to get ready.”

“Either give me three, or I’m standing in the corner watching you both with my arms crossed.”

“Fine.” Seonghwa sighed heavily. “I’ll meet you in the bath at four.”

Satisfied, Wooyoung leaned in and kissed his cheek before standing. “Sure you don’t want lunch? I saw Thomas Andrews in the hall this morning, and he told me the buffet’s got potted shrimps today.”

Seonghwa fought back a laugh, picturing Thomas making small talk about shrimp. “Will you bring me some?”

“Potted shrimps? What, in my pocket?”

Seonghwa gave him a shove, pushing his lips into a pout. “You’re resourceful. You’ll think of something.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, stepping toward the door. “If you want shrimp, you’ll have to catch them yourself.” He blew Seonghwa a kiss and slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

Seonghwa sipped his coffee, his eyes on the faint line where the sky melted into the water. His breath rose in soft, white puffs, the only clouds in sight. He sank deeper into the cushions, the sun warm on his face.

The only thing that might’ve improved a morning like this was a book. He’d have to make time for the library tomorrow. Thomas had mentioned they kept a first edition of Francis Bacon’s Essays on the ship, a priceless copy from 1598. 

Seonghwa used to hate Bacon. His philosophy tutor had been obsessed with him, forcing Seonghwa to recite Essays and striking his fingers whenever he missed a word. He had preferred the classical philosophers, Socrates or Plato, but it was Bacon’s words that stuck, seared into his memory by the wooden rod.

Nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed.  

He reached into his coat, pulling out the white pocket square he’d almost finished embroidering for Wooyoung. Pushing the needle through the last silver star, he made sure each point was neat before he wove in the ends. 

Seonghwa’s fingers were beginning to catch a chill by the time he folded the silk and carried his cup inside. He scarfed down a few pieces of cheese and bread before heading to the washroom to begin the long process of preparing himself for Hongjoong. 

He ran the bath hot, the steam fogging the mirror above the marble sink. The water bit the cold from his skin, turning him soft and pink as he dragged the washcloth down his chest. Reaching between his legs, he circled his rim before pressing inside. He let his head tip back against the cool edge of the clawfoot tub, eyes drifting shut. During their years of solitude in the flat, he would sometimes spend all day in the bath, teasing himself until all he could feel was the ache in his body, strung between rapture and rejection. 

His cock swelled, bobbing above the water as he added a second, scissoring just enough to clean himself. Pulling his fingers out, he climbed out of the bath, now half-hard and scented with white flowers. He wrapped a stiff towel around his waist, cursing himself for forgetting to warm it on the radiator.

Back in the French room, he stood at the wardrobe with only a few minutes to spare. He ran a hand over silk and linen, considering his options before opting to leave himself bare. Hanging the towel on a hook, he laid on top of the covers, listening for Hongjoong’s knock. 

But it never came.

Instead, the soft scrape of a key turning in the lock stole Seonghwa’s breath. 

The door swung open. Hongjoong stepped inside, freezing in the doorway as his eyes landed on Seonghwa, sprawled across the bed like a first-class buffet. His lips parted.

“Good lord.”

Seonghwa propped himself up on an arm. “Are you going to close the door, officer?”

Hongjoong flushed, fumbling the door shut behind himself. He took off his cap, tossing it on the vanity. Then he sank to his knees at Seonghwa’s side, looking up at him as though in prayer. 

“The things I want to do to you,” he murmured. 

Seonghwa leaned in, licking the ridge of Hongjoong’s ear. “Will you do that thing with your tongue again?” 

“Yes,” Hongjoong said immediately. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

Seonghwa flushed at the thought of Hongjoong barking orders at the quartermaster, all the while imagining the taste of him. Did he press his tongue against his teeth, pretending he was pressing inside him instead? 

Hongjoong pushed to his feet, kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his coat. He glanced back as he unbuttoned his shirt. 

“But I have an idea.” 

Seonghwa sat up, leaning against the carved oak headboard with a smile. “What idea could that possibly have given you?”

Instead of answering, Hongjoong climbed onto the bed, stretching out on his back in just his stiff woolen trousers. His gaze trailed slowly up Seonghwa’s body, from his bare legs up to his chest, finally meeting his eyes. 

Then he patted the center of his own collarbone. 

Seonghwa tilted his head. “What are you doing?” 

“Inviting you to have a seat.” 

Seonghwa blinked, his throat tightening once the meaning caught up to him. “Oh.”

He came up on his knees and crept across the mattress. Bracing one hand against the headboard, he swung a leg over Hongjoong and straddled his face, La Circassienne au bain looming over him. This had to be his least flattering angle. 

“Like this?” he asked, his thighs quivering from the effort as he hovered.

“Yes.” Hongjoong’s hands skimmed the backs of Seonghwa’s legs. “Just like that.”

Seonghwa let out an embarrassed giggle, but the moment Hongjoong’s tongue dragged a slow line over his perineum, it broke off into a moan. His body sagged, easing down until Hongjoong’s nose met his rim. He tried to shift himself, but Hongjoong gripped him tighter, pressing the tip of his nose into him. 

“Oh,” Seonghwa breathed. “That’s different.” 

Hongjoong’s nose was a delicate slope, barely more than a pinprick. But something about the way he held Seonghwa tight, grinding him over his face, lit a fire inside of him.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong muttered, shifting Seonghwa onto his mouth. He dragged his tongue over him. “I want to fuck you with every part of me.”

Seonghwa whimpered as Hongjoong licked over his hole again and again without pressing inside. He could feel himself becoming a mess already, leaking above and slick with spit below. He was reaching his breaking point, opening his mouth to beg—but before he could speak, Hongjoong breached him.

“God, Hongjoong–” he choked out, rocking his hips to meet the slow thrusts of Hongjoong’s tongue. His fingers clawed at the headboard as Hongjoong tilted his face, pressing his nose into his balls. 

A moan ripped from Seonghwa’s throat, hips rolling as he rode Hongjoong’s mouth. He closed his eyes, his spine arching. Hongjoong’s tongue pushed deeper, twisting slowly like he was trying to memorize his insides. 

A slick rhythm cut through the haze. Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open. He twisted at the waist, glancing back.

Hongjoong’s hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in time with each slow roll of his tongue.

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped, his brows stitching together. The sight of Hongjoong touching himself, his waistband tucked beneath his balls, nearly sent him off the edge. Then his tongue twisted just right, sending a bolt of lightning through him.

“Oh,” Seonghwa gasped, “Hongjoong, I don’t want to make a mess on you.”

Hongjoong answered with his lips still touching him, voice muffled. “I want you to.”

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa whined, his voice pitching higher. “Please, I know you have to go back to work–”

Hongjoong’s slick hand moved back to Seonghwa’s hips, gripping tight as he lifted him, just enough to clear his mouth.

“Make a mess on me. I’ll wear it proudly.”

Seonghwa barely had time to process what he’d said—Wear it proudly? On the deck? In front of his crew?—before Hongjoong pulled him back down. His tongue pressed deep, lips sealing tight around him as his hand returned to his own cock.

The pleasure climbed fast. He felt like Icarus, flying to the sun on wings made of wax. Heat bloomed through Seonghwa’s groin, crawling up his spine until it licked at his ribs. He held onto it as long as he could, until his whole body burned with it. Then he grabbed his cock, pumping himself slowly. His head tipped back, eyes rolling up to the ceiling.

“Close, close–”

His hips jerked as the tension snapped, his wax wings melting away. He came in an arc across his own chest, then in drips down his shaft and onto Hongjoong’s forehead. 

The slick sound of Hongjoong stroking himself grew faster, his breathing ragged. Seonghwa turned himself around slowly, his legs shaking. He arranged himself on all fours, then crawled forward, eyes on Hongjoong’s leaking cock. 

Without a word, he leaned in, his own softening length spreading his mess across Hongjoong’s lips. 

“Oh fuck, Seonghwa–” Hongjoong rasped, voice breaking against his skin.

The vibration made Seonghwa twitch. His nerves were still raw, his mind a haze, but he didn’t stop. He sank down until Hongjoong’s musk filled his nose, wrapping his fingers around the base. Then he eased his mouth over the tip, moaning softly at the taste of him. He swirled his tongue, twisting his hand in a clumsy imitation of the rhythm he’d seen moments before.

Beneath him, Hongjoong’s hands caressed his thighs. A second later, Seonghwa gasped—Hongjoong had taken him into his mouth. 

His whole body jerked. Whimpering from the overstimulation, Seonghwa fought to keep his jaw open. He flattened his tongue along the underside, moving his hand to cup Hongjoong’s balls. 

Hongjoong hummed around him, rolling Seonghwa’s spent cock around on his tongue. Every time Seonghwa bobbed his head, Hongjoong’s mouth tightened in response. The pressure sent little shocks through his frayed nerves, making him whine helplessly around him.

Then Hongjoong’s hips twitched, and without warning, he came. 

It hit the back of Seonghwa’s throat, and he coughed. Hongjoong let out a hoarse, muffled moan as Seonghwa swallowed. Mild, with a subtle bitterness, like good whiskey. 

Almost immediately, the haze of lust faded, and soreness crept into Seonghwa’s limbs. He let out a soft breath and pulled himself free from Hongjoong’s clutches, collapsing onto the bed. 

“Do you have one more in you?” Hongjoong panted, licking the mess from his lips. “I want to feel you finish on my fingers.”

Seonghwa flushed, still catching his breath. “I probably don’t have time,” he said, reaching for his pocket watch on the vanity. “No, I definitely don’t. I’ve got to start getting ready with Wooyoung.”

“For what?” Hongjoong asked, sitting up on the edge of the bed. 

Seonghwa frowned at him. “For Bruce’s dinner party, remember?”

“For the dinner party?” Hongjoong stood, grabbing Seonghwa’s bath towel. “It’s going to take you three hours to get ready?” 

Seonghwa moved onto his back, stretching out as Hongjoong wiped him down. “Believe me, I want your fingers too. But there’s no time.”

Hongjoong kissed him on the belly, then laid flush on top of him, his woolen trousers scratching Seonghwa’s bare skin. “Can I come to you tonight?” he asked between kisses. “It would be late though—I don’t get off until two.”

Seonghwa bit his lip. “If it’s that late, it better be your cock.”

Hongjoong gave him one last kiss, then rose to his feet again. “Anything for you, my prince,” he said softly, buttoning his shirt. He vanished into the bathroom, reappearing a minute later tucking his curls into his cap. “San and I will meet you two at the grand staircase at 6:50.”

He slipped out, and no sooner had the door closed than another door swung open—the one connecting the French room with the Italian. 

“Caught you!” 

Wooyoung’s grin faded into a pout as he spotted the empty bed.

“I thought I heard Hongjoong in here still,” he muttered, clearly disappointed.

“Just missed him,” Seonghwa said smugly, brushing past him into the washroom. 

Wooyoung followed him, stripping down as Seonghwa ran the water. “Is this bath number two today?”

“Two of three if I’m lucky.”

“Will you rub my legs?” Wooyoung sank into the bath with a groan. “They’re sore for some reason.”

Seonghwa climbed in at the other end, pulling one of Wooyoung’s legs into his lap. “Wonder why that could be.” 

Wooyoung closed his eyes, moaning softly as Seonghwa kneaded his thigh. “Are you going white tie tonight?”

“Yes, with a blouse.” Seonghwa set one leg down, grabbing the other. “Do you have a white bowtie?”

“Of course, I'm not an animal,” Wooyoung shot back. He reached for a washcloth, scrubbing Seonghwa while he massaged him. “You’ll have to tie it though. Jeongyeon always did it for me back home.”

Seonghwa splashed water over his face before climbing out. He looked around for fresh towels, then his heart swelled. 

Two towels waited for them on the radiator, soft and warm.

He wrapped one around his waist, holding the other out for Wooyoung. Then he retreated to his room, pulling on a fresh set of underclothes. Wooyoung stepped in a moment later, his tails and high-waisted trousers slung over an arm. 

They buttoned up their blouses, soft silk ruffles draping over their piqué waistcoats. Wooyoung faced the mirror, his white bowtie hanging loose around his neck. Seonghwa stepped behind him, catching his gaze in the mirror as he tied it. 

He remembered all the other times they’d gotten ready together. Lacing up Wooyoung’s black corset at the Hotel Chelsea, his muscles bursting out the back. Putting on their day-old suits at the Adelphi, half-crazed with loneliness. Smudging red onto each other’s cheeks on the Runic, with a whispered promise to come back together if things went awry. 

“I’m glad I met you,” Wooyoung said quietly, as though he’d been reminiscing, too.

Seonghwa smiled. “Because I know how to tie a bowtie?”

“No. Because no one has ever had a friend like you.”

Seonghwa tightened the tie. “That reminds me, I made you something.” He turned to the nightstand for the small square of silk, pressing it into Wooyoung’s hand. “You won’t be in proper white tie without a pocket square.”

Wooyoung rubbed a thumb over the tiny silver stars. “It’s so pretty,” he murmured. “Is it a constellation?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, brushing Wooyoung’s damp hair from his forehead. “Asclepius. Because you raised me from the dead.”

They studied each other in silence, love ebbing and flowing between them like the tide. Constantly changing, but part of the same endless sea. 

They fell into an easy rhythm, getting ready in the way only two people who had built a life together could. Wooyoung shined both sets of shoes, since he was much better at it, while Seonghwa spot-cleaned their white gloves. At the mirror, they slicked back each other’s hair, then put on their top hats. 

“Told you so,” Wooyoung said, tucking his new pocket square into the breast pocket of his tailcoat. 

“What?” Seonghwa asked, fastening his watch chain. 

“It took us almost exactly three hours to get ready.” Wooyoung opened the door with a flourish. “After you, my lord.”

Seonghwa stepped through, returning the gesture with a mock bow and offering his arm. Wooyoung squealed, clutching it with both hands as Seonghwa led him toward the staircase. 

San and Hongjoong stood near the bronze cherub, dashing in their tailcoats and white bowties. Both turned a furious shade of red when they spotted Seonghwa and Wooyoung walking toward them. 

Wooyoung leaned closer. “Do you think they’ll still react like this in another ten years?”

Seonghwa smiled. “Yes. Probably in thirty, too.”

Hongjoong stepped up, glancing around before pressing a quick kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek. “I wish I had a gift for you, my prince.”

“I want for nothing,” Seonghwa said honestly. He turned to Wooyoung, who was flushing pink as San whispered into his ear. “Shall we?” 

Wooyoung cleared his throat. “Yes.” 

They crossed the reception room toward À La Carte. A pretty woman in a crisp black skirt stood at the entrance, bowing as she gestured them inside. Seonghwa smiled. Her diamond-shaped face reminded him of Jeongyeon.

The restaurant was even grander than the first-class saloon, decorated in Louis XVI style. The carved walnut paneling was framed with gold, as though the walls themselves were art. Round tables dotted the room, dressed in white linen and pink roses. In the corner, three of the ship’s musicians played the violin, cello, and piano, filling the restaurant with soft and sweet Puccini. 

“Gentlemen,” said a familiar voice. Seonghwa tore his eyes from the room’s splendor to see Jeonghan standing stiffly ahead of them. His eyes were tinged purple with exhaustion. “Mr. Ismay’s party is at the back. Right this way.”

Wooyoung and Seonghwa exchanged a glance, falling back to let San and Hongjoong take the lead. 

“He doesn’t look well,” Seonghwa whispered.

Wooyoung’s mouth formed a thin line. “Should I try to talk to him?”

Seonghwa shrugged. “I would.”

At the far end of the restaurant, a long table gleamed under silver, crystal, and heaping dishes of caviar and saumon fumé. Dorothy Gibson chatted animatedly with Molly Brown, a self-made American millionaire dressed in shimmering satin. Mr. Astor was seated with a woman much younger than him, his hand on her stomach as though she were pregnant. Bruce beamed as they approached, smoothing his mustache.

“Lord Park, Mr. Jung. Dashing as ever,” he greeted with a wink, shaking each of their hands in turn. “Officers, I’m so glad you could make it,” he added a bit sharply, eyeing Hongjoong like he knew he didn’t want to be there. “But if you’re here, who’s running the ship?”

Hongjoong’s face twisted into a pained grimace. He was saved from answering by Captain Smith, who ambled over with a genial smile. “Are you picking on my officers again, Mr. Ismay?”

Wooyoung shot Seonghwa a sidelong glance, using the distraction to inch away from Bruce. “Look who’s here,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. 

Seonghwa followed his gaze. “Is that the man with the Renault?” 

Wooyoung nodded. “William Carter,” he whispered. “I met his wife at lunch today. Bet he dumped her with the kids so he could come drink.”

Seonghwa snorted, looking around to see who else was in the restaurant. His attention caught on a couple snickering at one of the round tables near the party.

“Lucian, let me have a bite of your fish,” the woman said. “The baby’s hungry.”

The man let out a jolly laugh. “Oh, the baby’s the one who’s hungry?”

She patted her belly. “Yes, he’s famished.” She leaned in closer, talking quietly so that Seonghwa had to strain to hear her. “Can you believe Dorothy?”

“Eloise,” Lucian said in an admonishing voice, though he was looking at her quite fondly. “You’re terrible.”

She brought her fork to Lucian’s plate, stealing a large bite of his king fish grenobloise. “Oh stop, you know you love it,” she said. “I heard she’s still married–” 

Seonghwa elbowed Wooyoung, nodding toward them. “Look,” he whispered. “It’s us.”

“Well, let’s not throw stones at Dorothy without talking about Benjamin Guggenheim,” Lucian said jovially, piling fish onto Eloise’s plate. “He brought his mistress on the ship, the dirty dog.”

Wooyoung studied them, then nodded sagely. “You’re the wife.”

“Because Lucian’s got your nose?”

Wooyoung jabbed him in the side with his elbow. “No, because you’re the pretty one.”

Seonghwa flushed. “But she’s the one who started the gossip. You’re definitely the wife–”

He was cut off by Jeonghan pushing a silver cart between them, dishes rattling. “Crème d'asperges,” he said, setting each bowl on the table with gloved hands. 

Seonghwa frowned as Jeonghan pushed between them again, forcing him to take a step away from Wooyoung. They exchanged a wary glance. 

Removing their top hats, they settled between San and Hongjoong. The soup was thick and creamy, with tender bits of asparagus artfully arranged in the center. The china was different from the regular dining saloon, delicate Royal Crown Derby bowls and plates with ruffled edges that caught the light. They ate their way through course after course, each one more excessive than the last. 

Seonghwa was listening to Bruce tell a long-winded joke over petit fours, nodding politely, when he felt a small hand slide up his thigh. He glanced at Hongjoong in surprise. 

“It’s a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?” Hongjoong said under his breath, though his eyes remained forward.

“You could say that,” Seonghwa murmured. Across the table, William let out a rich-sounding chuckle. 

Hongjoong stood smoothly, offering Seonghwa a hand. “Gentlemen,” he said. “My apologies, I need to head to my watch. Thank you for having us.”

Before Bruce could protest, Hongjoong seized their hats, cutting across the crowded restaurant. Wooyoung rolled his eyes, sticking his tongue out at them from behind his napkin. Seonghwa stood and bowed, shaking Bruce’s hand before hurrying after Hongjoong. They stepped into the reception room, the hum of conversation fading behind them. 

Hongjoong led Seonghwa up two flights of stairs to the boat deck. A few first-class passengers were bundled against the cold, stargazing in lounge chairs. Hongjoong dragged him by the hand, as though whatever he had to show him was growing more urgent by the second. 

He led Seonghwa to a patch of shadow between a lifeboat and a funnel. Then, without a word, he pressed him to the warm metal funnel, kissing him hard. 

Seonghwa gripped Hongjoong’s shoulders, his heart pounding. His mouth was wild, like they hadn’t seen each other in days. 

“I love you like this,” Hongjoong panted against his lips. “You look so proper, like an angel.”

Seonghwa turned his head, kissing the hinge of his jaw. He slipped a hand under Hongjoong’s jacket, over the ridge of his spine, down lower, over the back of his stiff trousers. He nipped his earlobe, gripping him through the wool. 

Hongjoong hissed through his teeth. “Or a demon dressed as one,” he growled. 

He tugged Seonghwa’s blouse loose in the front, fingers fumbling in his haste. His hand found bare skin, and he groaned, almost in relief, like he’d been starving for it. 

Seonghwa let out a breathless laugh. “Are you trying to make a mess of me here?”

Hongjoong groaned low in his chest. “My watch starts soon,” he said, pained. “I’ll come wake you after. Maybe—maybe I can get Lightoller to relieve me early.”

“Tell him it’s an emergency,” Seonghwa murmured. Hongjoong’s soft flesh filled his hands beneath the scratchy wool, and he squeezed, pulling him closer. “I need you in my bed.”

Hongjoong bit down on his own lip. “I haven’t lived a righteous enough life to deserve you.” 

Seonghwa stilled, looking down at him. 

“I love you,” he breathed. 

Hongjoong’s eyes widened. It was something they usually said only with their bodies, and with their actions. 

“I love you too,” Hongjoong whispered, his tone like a question. 

Seonghwa answered him with a kiss. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

Hongjoong kissed two fingers and pressed them to Seonghwa’s cheek. Then he turned toward the bridge, swallowed by the shadows of the ship. 

Seonghwa sank to the deck, leaning against the funnel to catch his breath. He tucked his shirt back in, blinking away the image of Hongjoong bending him over the railing and taking him under the stars. He put a hand in his pocket, arranging himself.

Clearing his throat, he rose to his feet, walking back to the staircase. He descended to B-deck, heading down the corridor. He wondered if Wooyoung had filtered into the first-glass smoking room with the men, or if he’d snuck into the lounge with the women for coffee and gossip. Probably the latter. 

He opened the door to the French room, stepping out of his polished shoes and peeling off his tight trousers. He hung his tails in the wardrobe with care, his eyes catching on a sparkle in his portmanteau. Sophie’s tiara, the amethysts gleaming cerulean in the low light. 

Seonghwa reached for the slender crown, setting it on the bed. Maybe he’d surprise Hongjoong with a new outfit tonight. 

He tried on his bathing costume first, but the stains from the night before had set in. Wrinkling his nose, he peeled it off and reached for his corset. He laced it up, admiring how his bare hips flared out beneath the black leather. But it didn’t look right with the tiara. 

Finally, he settled on San’s oversized white sweater, just long enough for his cock to peek out of the bottom. He left the rest of himself bare, then dabbed perfume on his wrists, neck, and between his legs. 

He sat at the edge of the bed, then checked his watch. Only 11:40 p.m. 

Seonghwa sighed. Maybe he’d close his eyes for a while. Let Hongjoong wake him.

He crawled under the covers, then turned so that his head hung over the side. He imagined the look on Hongjoong’s face when he saw him in San’s jumper, mouth open, warm and waiting. 

Then–

BANG.

Seonghwa sat bolt upright. Beneath him, a low, metallic scrape echoed from the bowels of the ship.

Planting his feet on the floor, Seonghwa tugged his long underwear on. He pulled up a pair of woolen socks, then padded to Wooyoung’s room, but it was empty. While he stood in the doorway, the gentle humming beneath the deck stopped, almost more startling than the bang. 

For the first time since departure, the ship was silent.

Seonghwa hurried back to his room and put on a pair of trousers. He cracked open the door to the corridor. 

Bruce was sticking his head out of his room, too. He gave Seonghwa a strange look. 

“Good evening, Mr. Ismay,” Seonghwa said. “Did you hear that sound?”

“I certainly did, Lord Park. I was going to find the Captain. Shall I update you after?”

“Please,” Seonghwa replied. “Thank you, sir.” 

He closed the door and sank into the armchair. 

But now he was awake. 

He checked his watch again. Nearly a new moon—the darkest evening yet. He wondered how the quartermaster was faring in the black night. 

A shiver crept over him. The ship had gone silent, and suddenly he felt chained to it. 

Andromeda at the rock, waiting for the creature to rise from the deep. 

He threw on his greatcoat and rushed into the corridor. A steward passed him, doing a double take as though Seonghwa had grown a second head.

“What’s going on with the ship?” Seonghwa called to him.

The steward glanced over his shoulder, pausing just long enough to reply, “Don’t know, my lord.”

Seonghwa climbed the staircase. Two decks up, the air hit him like a slap. Just two hours since Hongjoong’s shift had started, but it felt ten degrees colder. He walked toward the funnels, thinking he might lean against one for warmth and stargaze while he waited for Hongjoong’s shift to end, but then his foot slipped. He caught himself on the railing, his heart skipping.

He looked down. The deck was a mirror of the night sky, glittering beneath him. 

Not with stars, but with ice. 

Chunks of it, jagged and scattered across the ship. He frowned, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The weather had been clear for days. Where would ice have come from?

Eyes on the deck, Seonghwa didn’t notice the large man standing right in front of him.

“My apologies,” Seonghwa said, stepping back. “Oh, it’s you, Mingi. Good evening.”

Mingi avoided his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Evening, Lord Park.”

“Just Seonghwa is fine. Do you know where all this ice came from?”

Mingi opened his mouth, hesitated, then said quietly, “Get your lifebelt from your room. Then come back up here and find me.”

“What does that–” 

But Mingi was already walking away, joining a group of quartermasters gathered at the lifeboat davits, speaking in hushed voices.

Seonghwa turned toward the bridge to find Hongjoong, when he heard screams. He followed the sound to the starboard side, then skidded to a halt. 

Grown men were pelting each other with fist-sized chunks of ice, shrieking with laughter. One had a glass of whiskey in his right hand, a shard of ice in the left. Another slid across the deck, arms flailing. He brought one of his friends down with him, their noses pink as their laughter floated up in puffy clouds, like they hadn’t a care in the world. 

But the engines were still silent, and the ice had to have come from somewhere. 

Seonghwa didn’t think. He just turned on his heel and ran. 

He took the stairs two at a time, then sprinted down the B-deck corridor. Back in his room, he tore open the wardrobe, grabbed his lifebelt, then ducked through the door to the Italian room. Still empty. He snatched Wooyoung’s lifebelt and hurried out. He must be in the lounge.

He hurried up to A-deck. A steward was knocking on doors now, voice urgent.

“Everybody on deck with lifebelts on—at once!”

The words cut through Seonghwa like a blade.

He had to find Wooyoung.

He ran to the lounge first, but it was empty. The stewards had left it a mess for once, half-eaten desserts and cups of coffee strewn about the mahogany tables. Cursing himself, Seonghwa hurried back toward the grand staircase and burst into the smoking room.

It was like walking into a gentlemen’s club on a different planet. 

In one corner, two men were curled up in armchairs, reading and smoking cigars. Another group played a quiet game of cards around a green table. And in the back corner, Wooyoung was locked in what looked like an arm-wrestling match with a man twice his size.

The man’s arm slammed down on the table.

Wooyoung shot up, raising his arms in triumph. “Take that, Major Butt!”

The man groaned, red-faced. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

“Isn’t that your name?” Wooyoung said innocently.

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa called. Around the room, heads turned toward him, then back to their cards or books with disinterest.

“Good evening to you, Major Butt,” Wooyoung said with an elaborate bow. He sauntered toward Seonghwa, giving him the same weird expression he’d been getting all night. 

“Hello, princess,” he said. “Thought you went to bed.”

Seonghwa frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“The tiara.”

Seonghwa’s hands flew to his head. He’d forgotten about Sophie’s tiara.

He yanked it off and stuffed it in his pocket. “We have to go. Something’s happening.”

Wooyoung’s smile faltered. “What?”

“I don’t know, no one will tell me anything. But the ship’s engines are out, and I saw ice on the deck.” He shoved the lifebelt into Wooyoung’s hands. “Put this on.”

They stepped into the corridor, where the stewards were still rousing first-class passengers from their beds.

“Wait,” Wooyoung said, fumbling with the straps. “I think I’m doing it backwards. Or inside out. Or both.”

Seonghwa stepped behind him, and with shaking hands, he laced up Wooyoung’s lifebelt the way he’d once laced his corset in New York City. A small voice in the back of his head, eerily like his mother’s, spoke over the madness.

This could be the last time. 

He pulled it tight, and they climbed up a level to the boat deck. Seonghwa checked his watch. 12:40am.

The deck was full of people now, half in lifebelts, half arguing with stewards. Everyone seemed to just be standing around. Overhead, a distress rocket exploded in the sky, a shower of sparks that might’ve been beautiful under different circumstances. Wooyoung and Seonghwa walked over to the port side, stopping short at the sight of the lifeboats. 

Two were hanging from the davits, a group of crewmen directing people onto them. A quartermaster cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Women and children! Women and children only!”

“Why would they put people on lifeboats?” Wooyoung whispered.

Near Lifeboat 8, an older woman stepped away from the queue, leaving a quartermaster throwing up his hands in frustration behind her. She joined her husband, taking his hand. “We have lived together for many years,” she said softly. “Where you go, I go.”

“There could be only one reason for it,” Seonghwa said quietly, watching as the older couple settled into a pair of deck chairs.

“You don’t mean—that’s crazy,” Wooyoung said, eyes wide, a hollow laugh caught in his throat. 

But Seonghwa wasn’t listening anymore, his focus shifting to a woman struggling near Lifeboat 6. “Is that Eloise from the restaurant?”

The woman was frantic, clawing at her husband’s lapels. “No, no please Lucian!” She smacked the quartermaster trying to help her into the lifeboat. “Unhand me! Lucian, I will not get in that boat without you–”

“I never expected to ask you to obey,” Lucian cut in, silencing her with a serious look. “But this is one time you must.” He picked her up beneath her arms and placed her into the ship. “It is only a matter of form to have women and children first.”

She stumbled, knocking over Molly Brown as she tried to shove her way back out. “I’d rather drown–”

“Sit, Eloise,” Lucian said. “Think of the baby.” 

He stepped away from the railing, his jaw tight. “I’ll get on the next one.” His voice cracked. “The ship is well-equipped. Everyone on her will be saved.”

“Lucian! Please!”

The boat began its slow descent with only twenty people on it, though it could’ve held more than sixty. Lifeboat 8 was no fuller, paddling away with fewer than thirty women. 

Lucian put his hands to his mouth, calling out to Eloise one last time. "Keep your hands in your pockets! It is very cold weather!"

He watched the boat enter the black sea, then turned away. His eyes met Seonghwa’s as tears streamed down his face. 

He was lying. The ship was not well-equipped, not for two thousand passengers. Only twenty lifeboats, and four were smaller, collapsible. 

Everyone on her would not be saved.

Seonghwa looked at Wooyoung.

“The lifeboats,” Wooyoung whispered.

“I know,” Seonghwa replied quietly. 

Wooyoung scanned the deck. “Why isn’t anyone panicking?”

He was right. Aside from Eloise, there was no screaming, no fighting. Just men in heavy coats smoking cigars like nothing was wrong, while stewards tried to convince women in elaborate hats to put on lifebelts. 

“They don’t know there aren’t enough boats,” Seonghwa said. “And they don’t think it’s going to sink.”

“Do you?”

Wooyoung turned to him. His lip was caught between his teeth, fear blooming across his face. Seonghwa thought of what he’d said back in Liverpool, the first time they’d been left waiting. 

Things change quickly everywhere. Especially by the sea.

Seonghwa reached up and tapped his lip to get him to stop chewing. “I don’t imagine they’d put Molly Brown on a lifeboat if it–”

He didn’t finish, his eyes drawn to their feet, where a chunk of ice was sliding slowly down the deck, heading toward the bow. 

Seonghwa’s gaze followed it, then lifted to meet Wooyoung’s.

They turned as one to look out over the black ocean, a perfect reflection of Orion, doomed to always have his bow strung, to never catch his prey. But something was wrong. The reflection was off. 

Tilted. 

Seonghwa’s stomach turned. 

“We need to find San and Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice shaky. Another piece of ice slid down the length of the ship, this one faster. “They’ll know what to do.” 

Seonghwa opened his mouth to agree, but someone knocked into him before he could.

A man and a woman were pushing past, both in steward’s uniforms. 

“–locked them in their quarters, the commoners,” the man said. 

The woman looked horrified. “Why would you do that? The restaurant workers–”

“They’d rush the boats. Have you seen them? Immigrants and…”

Their voices faded as they disappeared around a corner.

Seonghwa and Wooyoung stood frozen.

“Locked in their quarters?” Wooyoung whispered. “But aren’t they down on E-deck?”

Around them, the atmosphere was already beginning to change. There were no more snowball fights, and women no longer argued with the stewards. Only the men kept smoking, perhaps resigned to suffer their fates with dignity. 

“If the ship sinks and they’re still locked down there…” Seonghwa trailed off. 

“We’re no use up here,” Wooyoung said. He gave Seonghwa a meaningful look. “They’re not letting men on the boats anyway.”

They looked at each other and nodded. A silent decision made together. 

Wooyoung pushed into the crowd with Seonghwa close behind, weaving between elbows and padded lifebelts. On the grand staircase, they were the only ones descending in a sea of people trying to get up to the boat deck. They walked down to A-deck, then to B, where William Carter was yelling at his wife. 

“Get up and dress yourself and the children!” he barked, before storming past without them.

“He’s just leaving them?” Wooyoung said, shooting him a nasty look. “I don’t know what she sees in him.”

Disaster brought out the best in some men, and the worst in others.

They were about to continue down the stairs when another voice echoed through the corridor—Taehyung’s deep rasp. 

“Everybody on deck with lifebelts on. Mrs. Cardeza, please rouse your son and head up to the boat deck!”

Wooyoung grabbed Seonghwa’s hand, but he slipped out of his grasp, heading toward Taehyung as a horrific thought struck him. 

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung asked. 

“We don’t have a key,” Seonghwa hissed. He tapped on Taehyung’s shoulder, forcing his voice to sound composed. “Good evening, Taehyung. Do you have a master key to E-deck?” 

Taehyung spun around, his face paling as though he’d seen a ghost. “What?”

“E-deck,” Seonghwa repeated, more urgently this time. “The restaurant workers have been locked in their quarters.”

“They’ve been—they’ve been what?” Taehyung’s face twisted in horror. “I have to—my passengers, I have to wake them–”

“The key, Taehyung,” Seonghwa pleaded. “Wooyoung and I are going down there now, but we don’t have a key. Please.”

Taehyung stood in shock, then reached into his pocket. He twisted a brass key off the ring, then handed it to him. “You’re going down there?”

Seonghwa nodded. “Goodbye, Taehyung.”

Taehyung said nothing, just watched Wooyoung drag Seonghwa to the grand staircase.

“You’re a good man, Lord Park.” 

Seonghwa glanced over his shoulder to see Taehyung staring at him. 

“I told him you were,” Taehyung said. 

Seonghwa met his eyes and realized it might be the last time they saw each other. He memorized Taehyung’s face, his convex nose and asymmetrical eyes, so like Wooyoung’s. 

Then he turned away, following Wooyoung deeper into the ship. The further down they went, the worse the stairs looked. Down on C-deck, they were pockmarked, damp, and covered in abandoned articles—a top hat, a child’s doll. As they approached D, Seonghwa stopped in his tracks, throwing his arm across Wooyoung’s chest.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

They were silent for a moment, then their eyes went wide. 

Screaming.

Hand in hand, they ran. Not away from the sound, but toward it, through the empty reception room and into the first-class dining saloon. 

Seonghwa skidded to a stop. 

A silver dining cart was slowly rolling down the center of the room, its wheels squeaking softly. Plates wobbled with each bump, and a single teacup toppled, shattering on the linoleum tiles. 

He tightened his grip on Wooyoung’s hand as they dodged the cart, ignoring the sloped floor beneath them—the quiet betrayal of the ship as it listed. The screams were getting closer.

They sprinted into the corridor, then slowed as they reached the galley. A small storage room stood ahead, door rattling slightly in its frame. 

Seonghwa jiggled the knob. Jammed.

He looked at Wooyoung. “On three?”

Wooyoung nodded.

“One, two, three.”

They rammed their shoulders into the door, and it busted open. 

The room was pitch black. Seonghwa stepped inside, then froze. 

Pigeons. Hundreds of them, crammed into wire cages stacked to the ceiling. 

Seonghwa gagged, both from the smell and the sight of them, dirty and bloody, like they’d been pecking at each other to pass the time. His cheek burned where the pigeon had touched him in New York. He suppressed another gag as he realized this was the origin of the roast squab. 

The sound was deafening, but one bird was silent.  She watched him from the corner of her cage with quiet, wet eyes. Like she knew. 

He thought of Bukbuk, of his clean blue cere. He thought of mornings spent sketching him across from Wooyoung as he read the paper, of kneeling on the pavers, the giant oak above and Bukbuk below, pecking seeds from his palm. 

Seonghwa felt the sting of tears for the first time. He would probably never see Bukbuk again. 

Without thinking, he unlatched the cages. 

Wooyoung ducked behind him as hundreds of pigeons burst from the dark room, streaming overhead like a storm. They flew through the galley, down the corridor, and up the ruined staircase toward the endless sky, like snowflakes in reverse. 

How strange. For them, this was their day of absolution. 

Wooyoung grabbed Seonghwa’s hand again. “Come on.”

They followed the pigeons to the staircase, continuing down. Only one more flight. They passed a discarded lifebelt and a baby’s shoe—and then the stairs disappeared. 

E-deck was flooded.

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped as he looked down the corridor, where only a few feet of breathing room remained above the freezing water. Like Pompeii—full of life yesterday, buried under ash today. 

Wooyoung stripped off his lifebelt and jacket, leaving them on the stairs. Seonghwa followed suit, stepping out of his shoes and socks, then his trousers. He pulled off San’s cozy sweater last, his eyes on Wooyoung. Already, his lips were turning blue.

“R-ready?” Seonghwa stammered, crouching to retrieve Taehyung’s key from his coat pocket. 

Wooyoung nodded, goosebumps prickling his arms. 

Together, they dove into the water. It was so cold it felt like fire, like Mount Vesuvius turned inside out, or divine punishment. Gritting his teeth, Seonghwa fought through the burning chill, leading Wooyoung toward the concealed stairwell he’d used with Hongjoong, hoping the staff quarters were nearby. But the ship’s layout was confusing, and it looked completely different submerged. 

The freezing air scalded Seonghwa’s lungs with every breath. He could only see the ceiling, and every corridor looked the same, distorted by the flood. Wooyoung shouted from behind him.

“It’s another d-dead end!” 

Seonghwa kicked back around, his limbs growing heavier by the minute. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of brass.

À LA CARTE

“Here,” Seonghwa called out. He swam over to the door, his hands shaking. He tried to fit the key in the lock, but the water was too cold for him to feel anything. 

He took a deep breath, then plunged beneath the surface. The salt burned his eyes as he fumbled with the knob, finally turning the key. 

He shot back up, hair plastered to his face. He twisted the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s open—but it’s stuck!”

He yanked on the handle as Wooyoung swam over to help. Together, they pulled. The door groaned, then finally gave way with a violent surge. Water exploded outward, knocking them back.

Seonghwa sputtered, wiping the water from his eyes. Then he looked inside. 

“Oh my god,” he breathed.

They were too late. 

Over fifty bodies floated in the room like discarded puppets. Their skin was white, their mouths open but saying nothing. Some of them had bloody fingers, like they’d scratched at the door as the water rose. One of the restaurant workers drifted close, bumping into the doorframe. 

It was the diamond-faced woman who had greeted them at dinner. Seonghwa fought the urge to retch, swallowing it down. 

Then he saw him. 

Aphrodite, returned to the seafoam. 

Seonghwa swam inside. Behind him, Wooyoung treaded water in the corridor, his face blank, like he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. 

Seonghwa pushed chairs and bodies out of the way, kicking toward the center of the room. He grabbed the edge of a bunk bed for balance as he looked down in horror. 

Blonde hair bloomed around his angelic face like a white rose. Eyes closed, lips parted. He could’ve been sleeping. 

Seonghwa reached for Jeonghan’s hand. It was cold, as he knew it would be. A tear slid down his cheek. 

“He’s here,” he said, voice cracking. “Wooyoung… he’s here.”

Wooyoung paddled forward. The moment he saw Jeonghan, he started screaming.

“Help me. Come on, help me!” He grabbed Jeonghan under the arms, looking around with a crazed expression, as though the bodies could hear him. “HELP ME!”

Seonghwa scrambled beside him, and together, they pulled Jeonghan through the water. He didn’t have the heart to tell Wooyoung that he was dead, that they might die too if they tried to bring him with them. The water was rising rapidly. Only a foot of air between them and drowning, their dripping hair grazing the ceiling as they inched forward, burdened by Jeonghan’s body. 

But there weren’t enough boats, and they weren’t women or children. They were probably going to die anyway.

Might as well die for something.

Shivering, they wrestled him onto the once grand staircase. They grabbed their clothes, yanking them on with wet hands. Seonghwa forced his numb feet back into his shoes, then they heaved Jeonghan between them and started their ascent. Each step was harder than the last, but the exertion was warming Seonghwa’s chest, pushing blood back into his hands. They dragged him to D-deck, then up to C, where a woman’s shrill voice cut through the air. 

“Mrs. Allison, please, I am begging you to calm down and put on your lifebelt!” 

“My baby! I can’t find my baby—the nurse maid’s gone too, please–”

Neither of them stopped, not even to look. They continued up to B, then to A, leaving a wet trail of ocean water glistening like blood behind them. Seonghwa’s muscles were screaming, burning beneath the cold as he struggled beneath Jeonghan’s weight. Teeth chattering, they finally emerged onto the boat deck, where everything had changed. 

Somewhere across the ship, the band played Nearer, My God, to Thee, though the melody was drowned out by the screams. Thomas was handing out lifebelts, while on the starboard side, Bruce was helping the quartermasters organize women and children into boats, still in his carpet slippers. All around them, passengers wept or ran, trying desperately to find a lifeboat that would take them. 

Was this what Pompeii had sounded like? 

No, that couldn’t be right. Fire and ash were a quick death. To die on a sinking ship was to die of old age, a death that was gradual until it wasn’t.

“Thank god,” a familiar voice gasped. 

Seonghwa turned. San was sprinting toward them, eyes wide. “Where have you two been, you nearly—nearly gave me a–” His gaze dropped. “Is that Jeonghan?” 

Before Seonghwa could answer, San was on him. He shoved past, knocking Jeonghan from their hands.

“What are you doing!?” Seonghwa shouted, stumbling forward. 

San didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees, pushing Jeonghan flat. Then he climbed over his body, pumping both hands into his sternum, hard and fast.

“Come on,” San muttered. “Come on, come on–”

Seonghwa moved instinctively to stop him, then froze.

Foam was bubbling from Jeonghan’s nose.

San gave him one more hard pump, and Seonghwa thought he heard a crack beneath his hands. Then–

Jeonghan coughed. A violent, shuddering sound. Seawater gushed from his nose and mouth. His eyes snapped open, bloodshot and confused. They searched the deck in terror before locking onto Wooyoung.

His white lips parted. 

“Wooyoung?” 

“Shh,” Wooyoung breathed, crouching beside him, shivering beneath his damp clothes. “We’re g–gonna get you onto a boat. Don’t you worry, Hannie.”

Jeonghan began to shake. His skin was gray, mottled. His gaze drifted to Seonghwa. 

“You,” he rasped. His tone changed—menacing now, Cetus rising through the frost.

Seonghwa flinched. “What?”

Wooyoung blinked. “What do you mean, you?”

Jeonghan’s eyes flicked between them, frantic. “He—you’re his… his whore, aren’t you?” 

The accusation landed like a slap. Wooyoung flushed despite the cold. 

“Excuse me?”

Jeonghan kept staring, dazed. “Aren’t you? I thought—the bakery…”

“No, Jeonghan,” Wooyoung said gently. “That was years ago. Seonghwa’s my friend. My brother.” He glanced at San, his voice softening. “And this is my husband.”

Jeonghan stared at Seonghwa.

“Oh,” he said, small and cracked. “I—I’m sorry for what I thought of you.”

Then his eyes slid past Seonghwa to San, and his face collapsed into grief. 

“You should’ve j–just let me die.”

San reached out carefully, brushing the golden hair from Jeonghan’s forehead. He cupped his cheek. 

“We’re not going to let you die,” he said. Then he pulled off his officer's coat and draped it over Jeonghan like a shroud. 

Wooyoung looked at San like he’d never loved anyone more. 

Seonghwa’s insides went cold, colder than the droplets turning to ice in his hair. Blood rushed in his ears, the sound of the tempest inside him suddenly drowning out the screams around him. 

Where was Hongjoong?

It was too cold to think, too loud. Seonghwa stood stiffly and started walking. Behind him, someone called his name. He heard another voice, then realized it was his own, hoarse and wrecked, repeating Hongjoong’s name like a child lost in a crowd. 

He knew Hongjoong would go down with the ship. He just wanted to see him first, to hold his hand when it happened.

He pushed through the crowd. Past William, who was shouting at no one, “I need a steward! My Renault is in the hold, do you hear me? I need someone to–”

Seonghwa barely saw him. He was scanning passengers for dark curls, the gentle slope of a nose, a glint of brass on a cap. Anything.

He stumbled, catching himself on the railing. His hand shook as he reached into his pocket, remembering the photographs. He pulled them out, swallowing hard as he moved the picture of their son to the back, shuffling them until he found the one he was looking for. 

The two of them, Hongjoong’s hand on Seonghwa’s collar, his own hand covering it, like a vow. 

Pushing forward, he began shoving it in the faces of strangers. “Have you seen First Officer Kim? Please, have you seen this man?”

Some shook their heads, but most shrank away from him, ashamed or afraid. He drifted toward the wheelhouse, heart hammering like a war drum. Hongjoong would be gone by now, he knew it. No point in steering a ship into hell. 

At the bow, the sea had risen to meet the deck. It lapped gently over the rail, almost invitingly, like a siren’s song. He could have stepped forward and walked straight into it. 

He considered it. It would be easier. 

But a loud yelp behind him broke his trance.

He turned to see a dozen dogs locked in their kennels, the water rising fast. One barked again, and he realized it was Kitty Astor, her wide eyes staring at him through the bars, like she recognized him.

His shoes filled with icy water as he splashed over to the cages. Fingers trembling, he undid the latches, the metal doors bursting open one after another. The dogs surged out, yipping and scattering across the deck like sparks from a fire.

Kitty paused just long enough to lick his hand, her tail low. A farewell.

At least the dogs would die free. Someone should. 

The adrenaline from the dogs ebbed, leaving him empty. He stood frozen, stunned by the rising water, by how quickly the ship had come apart when it had seemed so solid.

A chuckle drew his attention. He turned to see two men standing calmly nearby, smoking cigars in their evening tails. Seonghwa splashed toward them, breath clouding in front of his face. 

“What are you doing?”

One of them looked up. “I’m sinking into the sea. What are you doing?”

Seonghwa laughed, surprising himself. “I mean, why are you dressed like that? Thomas Andrews has extra–”

“We’ve dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen,” the man said. He exchanged a look with his companion, then turned back. “Benjamin Guggenheim of New York City,” he said, extending his hand. “If you survive, will you tell my wife I’ve done my best in doing my duty?”

Seonghwa nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”

The bow dipped lower, dragging the deck toward the sea. The ice was long gone, but debris slid past Seonghwa’s wet shoes—gloves, hats, handbags. A child’s porcelain doll bumped against his shin before vanishing over the edge. 

Leaving the men behind, he staggered toward the stern. Gravity shifted beneath his feet. He gripped the railing, knuckles white, and looked down. 

The stern was steadily rising, the ocean falling away. Passengers hurled themselves from the ship, white shapes plummeting into darkness like Icarus falling from the sun. The screams were constant now, fracturing the night. 

Then—Wooyoung’s voice, from the day they met in 1909. Half-laughing, half-sad, back when he still wore his glasses and Seonghwa thought he’d never get closer to a man. 

Please don’t tell me you’re on this ship to drown yourself.

A weak laugh escaped him, and his fear began to fade. 

Three stolen years of Hongjoong’s mouth on his, of Wooyoung’s squealing laughter, of the baby’s fist wrapped around his finger. The life he was never meant to have, his fate cracked open by his first lover and his first friend. A family carved from nothing. 

His only regret was not seeing Hongjoong one last time.

He turned and noticed the older couple from Lifeboat 8 still seated in their deck chairs, hands clasped, as though they were simply out stargazing. 

Plato wrote that humans were once fearsome creatures, four-armed and two-faced. But Zeus, afraid of their power, split them in two, dooming them to wander the earth in search of their other halves. 

A cruel punishment that Seonghwa hadn’t fully understood until now. 

He looked skyward, searching the stars for Antinous. He wasn't visible this time of year, but he supposed it didn’t matter. The sea was full of lovers doomed to drown tonight, their bodies punctuating the black water like constellations.

CRACK.

Gunfire?

Seonghwa spun, slipping on the slick deck. No, not bullets. Worse.

The stays holding the forward funnel were snapping, each like a whip crack. The funnel lurched, then broke free with a terrible groan. Seonghwa reeled backward, grabbing the railing with both hands as the deck tilted higher beneath him.

Then he saw him.

Mr. Astor stood alone on the bridge, eyes blank, frozen in the funnel’s path. Seonghwa opened his mouth to warn him, to scream at him to run, but no sound came. 

The funnel slammed down like the fist of Zeus. A single, sickening crunch, and Mr. Astor vanished beneath it. 

Come, Kitty. Let’s go see the stars. 

Smoke and steam burst outward. When it cleared, there was a gaping hole where the funnel had once been—where just hours before, Hongjoong had pressed him against the metal, untucking his shirt. Through the gap, the officer’s quarters were exposed like the cross-section of a dollhouse. 

On the roof, someone was struggling to launch a collapsible. His cap was gone. Dark curls clung to his forehead, tendons straining in his neck. 

Hongjoong.

Across the chaos, across the tilt and smoke and rising sea, their eyes met. 

Seonghwa’s grip on the railing loosened. He couldn’t breathe. He just stood there, cold air cutting his cheeks. His mouth wouldn’t work, so he spoke with his eyes.

My life was nothing until I met you.

Hongjoong’s gaze burned black, his lips moving as if he were answering. The screams and groaning steel faded around them. 

No one has ever loved anyone the way I loved you. 

Then the deck fell out from under him. His knees buckled. 

Hongjoong’s eyes widened with panic, maybe grief. But Seonghwa was already slipping down the length of the slanted deck. His arms scrambled for something to hold, but it was too steep, too fast. The ocean that had been dropping farther and farther away now raced to meet him.

He wished he’d known their kiss against the doomed funnel would be their last. He never would’ve stopped kissing him. 

Seonghwa’s spine hit the rail, and he tumbled over. 

Maybe when the sea took them, they could stay in the reflected stars. Perseus and Andromeda, together every night.  

He plunged into blackness. 

The ocean punched the breath from his lungs, forced its way into his mouth, his nose. It didn’t even feel wet—it felt solid, like Cetus made of ice trying to pull him into darkness. Even with the lifebelt, he could barely float. His arms were lead, his legs barely moving. 

He surfaced, choking. Each gasp felt like a dagger cutting his throat open. 

Above him, the ship reared up like a wounded animal, glowing and broken, a dying Titan on the horizon. People dropped from its sides like shooting stars. 

And there, at the rail, stood Thomas. A dark silhouette, face hidden in shadow. But Seonghwa could see the sorrow in him even from across the sea. 

He remembered Thomas had a baby too. A daughter.

Thomas turned away, then returned dragging a wooden deck chair. He found Seonghwa, pointed at him, and flung it overboard. It hit the water with a splash, just within reach. 

Seonghwa swam for it, his arms and lungs protesting. He grabbed the deck chair, then looked back up.

Thomas brought his hand to his forehead in a solemn salute.

Then—a thunderous crack. 

The ship lights had blown out. They flickered once, then died for good. The night went black.

Seonghwa clung to the chair with everything he had. If Thomas hadn’t thrown it, he would’ve drowned already. 

BOOM.

Explosions rang through the night. Seonghwa squinted into the darkness, but there was no moon, only stars. Silent witnesses and echoes of dead gods, too faint to light the night. 

Then he saw it. 

The ship was breaking in two between the remaining funnels. Steel splintered like bone, and the bow plunged fast, disappearing into the sea. 

A slap rippled through the water as the stern crashed back onto the surface. The resulting wave nearly knocked Seonghwa off the chair, his eyes glued to what remained of the ship, floating grotesquely as though it hadn’t lost half its body. 

Slowly, it began to rise. 

For one terrible moment, it stood nearly vertical, pointing at the stars. Figures clung to the railings, impossible to see clearly, black against black. Their screams filled the air—from the ship, from the water, from inside him. His own mouth was open, but he didn’t recognize the voice coming out. 

The stern bobbed in the water, then sank with a roar. Swallowed in seconds, like the Titans dragged into hell. 

The Titanic was gone.

Seonghwa stared at the black abyss where the ship had once been. Another boom echoed from the deep, sending a shock through the water. Had it imploded? 

Would his body rupture the same way?

His heart began to pound, straining against the cold, but he shoved down the rising panic. If he stayed submerged, he was going to freeze to death. 

He tried to haul himself higher, but as he lunged upward, his watch chain snagged on the armrest. 

No, no, no–

Fear sliced through him. He fumbled blindly, nearly losing the chair again. The chain bit into his skin as he jerked it free, gasping. Collapsing over the wood, he raised the watch to his face. 

2:20 a.m. The second hand stuttered, then stopped. He tapped it sharply against the wood. Nothing. He dropped the broken watch into his pocket, then slumped forward, arms trembling violently over the chair. 

Engulfed in darkness, time folded in on itself. He tried to keep his eyes open as he waited—for what, he didn’t know. A lifeboat, maybe. He’d seen two launched half-empty. Surely they would come back. 

But the screams told a different story. 

While the lights of the ship had gone out all at once, the screams faded one by one. The voices of passengers, their children, and the stewards who had served them, blown out like candles in the dark, until only the sound of his own labored breathing remained. 

His body fused to the wood, his overcoat frozen stiff. He had no idea how long he’d been in the water, but he couldn’t feel his legs. Just like the ship, he was half gone. 

He looked up and found the Great Bear. She looked like she was swimming through a black sea, too. 

Then the stars vanished like the screams, one at a time. 

Falling through the sea was as easy as falling asleep. 

Seonghwa let everything go. The deck chair. His tired, broken body. The bitterness that had poisoned him, toward his mother and toward the legacy that had been written for him. He left it all on the surface.

He fell into the new world unburdened. 

Please don’t tell me you’re on this ship to drown yourself.

No. He couldn’t die, not yet. He hadn’t said goodbye to Wooyoung. 

Seonghwa kicked upward, or he thought he did. He couldn’t tell. Darkness surrounded him on all sides. He fought the water like it was made of ghosts, but the cold hollowed him out. He was running out of breath, his limbs too heavy. 

He was drowning, and then suddenly he wasn’t. He was on the S.S. Runic, the air growing hotter as he descended a narrow flight of stairs. 

The walls around him darkened and the air grew thick with smoke, so thick he couldn’t breathe. He coughed, but no relief came. 

He took another step, and there he was. Two inches shorter than him, with a sloped nose and a pointed chin. He was dressed in a greatcoat, two rows of brass buttons gleaming in the dim light. 

“What are you doing down here?”

“I didn’t mean to be down here,” Seonghwa said, his mouth and lungs filling with water. “I got lost—I was looking for tea.”

The officer smiled.

“Of course. You look like a tea drinker.”

Seonghwa followed him into the dark, where it was warm. He could feel the flush of youth on his face, and the promise of something more at the end of the hall. He took in the neatly shaved hair at the nape of the officer’s neck, the sharp cut of his uniform, and his shiny black shoes. 

What must it be like to be the woman who took care of such a man? To listen to his fears and dreams, to keep his secrets, to bear him sons? 

Just a few more steps, and he’d find out. 

Ahead, the hexagonal tiles of the Mist bathroom came into view. His own reflection stared back at him. He was moving a straight razor along Hongjoong’s neck, the blade singing over his skin. Tufts of black hair fell to the floor like feathers. He was almost there. 

A burst of air hit him, so cold it felt like daggers. 

“Seonghwa, breathe!”

Where had the warm corridor gone?

“BREATHE!”

Tears streamed down Hongjoong’s pale face. His teeth chattered as he yelled, clutching Seonghwa’s coat with both hands.

That’s right. He was Seonghwa. 

“God damnit, Seonghwa, breathe!”

He didn’t believe in God. But he believed in Hongjoong, and Hongjoong’s face was the only thing he could see. 

It wasn’t such a bad way to die. 

He opened his mouth to say so and air filled his lungs like fire. He sputtered, coughing up what seemed like half the ocean in great heaves. 

Then he felt wood beneath him. Was this real? He turned his head to find himself on an overturned lifeboat. The collapsible Hongjoong had been trying to launch, when Seonghwa had thought he was seeing him for the last time. 

“You came for me,” he rasped. “How?”

He couldn’t see, he could only feel the sudden press of Hongjoong’s cracked lips against his own. Hongjoong shook above him, his body wracked with sobs as he kissed him again and again. 

In the darkness, it was just the two of them, kissing with the sea around them, between them, and inside them. 

“I told you,” Hongjoong said through his tears. “Until the ocean pours me from the earth.”

Seonghwa let out a dry laugh. “It certainly tried.” 

“I can’t believe you’re alive,” Hongjoong said, his voice breaking. “I saw you fall. I thought—I thought–”

Seonghwa reached to comfort him, but he couldn’t see his own hand in the air. Disoriented, he blinked against the darkness. He hacked into his hand—seafoam or blood, it was too dark to tell. His teeth rattled in his skull, his brain still waterlogged. 

Then it struck him. How could he have forgotten–

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa gasped. “Where’s Wooyoung?”

“Last I saw, he was shouting he’d rather go down with the ship than leave without you,” Hongjoong said, voice raw. “San dragged him kicking and screaming onto a lifeboat. Wooyoung bit him on the hand.”

Seonghwa closed his eyes and thought of Aphrodite and Eros, of the ribbon that should’ve bound them. 

He tried to sit up, but his muscles protested. “What number?”

“What?” 

“What number boat, Hongjoong?”

“San put Wooyoung and Jeonghan on Lifeboat 2,” Hongjoong said, sitting up beside him. “Then he launched four more from the port side and got on the last one, right before she sank. Number 4.”

Seonghwa sighed with relief, and only then did he hear the voices around them. They weren’t alone, though he could see no one in the pitch black.

“How many others?” he asked hoarsely.

“We would’ve had twenty-seven, but four…” Hongjoong cleared his throat. “Twenty-three. Including us.”

Seonghwa said nothing. Twenty-three, when the collapsibles were meant to hold fifty. Another twenty-seven who could’ve been saved, dead in the water. 

A rustle of fabric, then he was wrapped in wool and Hongjoong’s salt and leather scent. He stared up at the stars, listening to the creak of wood and the splash of oars. 

A familiar voice cut through the dark. The quartermaster, Mingi. 

“Anyone alive out there? Shout if you can hear me!”

Nothing. Just Mingi’s voice and water lapping against debris. 

“Shout if you can hear me!” he called out again. “This is Collapsible B!”

They paddled on, but the sea gave no reply. Out of the nineteen other lifeboats, they saw none. Maybe the others searched for survivors in different waters. Seonghwa doubted it.

The sound of water breaking pierced the hush, followed by a heavy thud. Mingi’s voice again, urgent and low. The wet crunch of chest compressions. 

A cough, then a gasp.

“Twenty-four,” Hongjoong whispered.

Seonghwa wondered how long twenty-four men could survive balancing on an overturned boat. An hour, maybe two?

Then the horizon began to glow. 

Salvation.

Seonghwa pushed himself upright with strength he didn’t know he had. Beside him, a man thrust his oar into Hongjoong’s hands, balancing on his feet to try to see better. 

But it wasn’t a ship. It was the aurora borealis, opening up like a sunburst across the sky. Green and violet light shimmered over the Atlantic, catching on the flotsam in the water. 

Seonghwa gasped in horror as the debris came into focus. 

Bodies. 

Everywhere, as far as the eye could see. 

The boat fell silent. 

Seonghwa tore his eyes away from the dead to look at the others. He didn’t know most of the men, though he recognized a few from the first-class saloon. The rest were trimmers, their hands blackened with coal. One young man shivered beneath Mingi’s coat, the most recent rescue based on the water dripping from him. He slowly turned. 

Taehyung. 

Seonghwa had no tears to cry, or he would’ve. Not just at the sight of his steward alive, but at the echo of Wooyoung in his face, and the tragedies and separations they’d shared.

“Jeonghan lives,” Seonghwa said hoarsely. 

Taehyung’s mouth fell open. “How d-do you know?”

“Because I pulled him from the water myself.” 

Next to him, Hongjoong’s oar stilled. He glanced over his shoulder at Seonghwa, awe etched on his face.

“You… you saved him?” Taehyung asked, his voice small. 

Seonghwa shook his head. “No, San—Third Officer Choi—did. Wooyoung and I got him to the deck, but San’s the one who pushed the water from his lungs. He put him on a boat.”

Taehyung’s breath caught. “Then… he has as good a chance as us.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer, his eyes drifting back to the lights. So not a very good chance at all. 

They kept paddling, weaving through the wasted lifebelts like a field of white hyacinths, careful not to trample them. Mingi prodded each one with his oar, searching for anyone who still had the breath of life in them, but they found no one. 

And the bodies had changed.

Before, they had looked asleep, like Jeonghan. Now they were waxy and morbid, some with their tongues out or eyes open. Others floated face-down, bobbing like the refuse of the ship.

So they stopped rowing. No chatter pierced the air now, only silence. The Northern Lights burned across the sky like a sunrise welcoming them to the underworld, green and eerie. 

Drowning had been easy. Waiting was excruciating. 

Seonghwa scooted beside Taehyung, both still soaked beneath their borrowed greatcoats. They shivered together, not speaking, but wondering the same thing. 

Where was Lifeboat 2?

Hongjoong caught sight of them and handed off his oar. Crawling across the hull, he knelt in front of them. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around them, cradling them to his chest the way a father might. Seonghwa closed his eyes, but the image burned even brighter. 

The floating graveyard, coming for them too. 

Hongjoong kissed the tops of their heads, then went to the next group of men. Maybe to see if anyone was panicking. More likely, to check if anyone was dead. 

A splash. Back to twenty-three. 

Still, they waited. Men who had never been in the same room now huddled together for warmth. Uniformed quartermasters and first-class gentlemen sat beside trimmers whose wages had been no more than £6 a month, offering the tenderness men could only offer each other in times like these, when death loomed over the horizon and they could be sure no one would find out. 

Hongjoong and Mingi moved among them, whispering encouragement. Just keep breathing. Just stay awake.

Beside Seonghwa, Taehyung’s head lolled. 

He shook him. “You c-can’t fall asleep. If either of us does, we’ll drown again.”

Taehyung’s eyes went wide. “By falling in the water?” 

“No,” Seonghwa whispered. “Right here. In our bodies.”

Taehyung’s throat bobbed, his eyes watering. Then he straightened.

“A b-boat,” he whispered. Then, louder, “Quartermaster, a boat!” 

He raised his arm, pointing at the horizon.

Mingi turned, pulling a whistle from his coat. One sharp blow pierced the dead air like a blade.

Far ahead, a white blur shifted on the water.

“I don’t know how you even saw that,” Seonghwa breathed. But it was coming closer now, and he could make out the number on the side. 

His voice cracked. “San! Hongjoong and I are both here—Mingi too—there’s twenty-four—no, twenty-three—of us!”

Lifeboat 4 pulled alongside, bathed in unearthly green light, like a ferry come to take them across the River Styx. San rowed beside a quartermaster, looking up. His face softened when he saw Hongjoong. 

The boats bumped. The quartermaster stood to toss a line while San leaned forward, hand outstretched. There was an angry red mark on the back of it, suspiciously like a bite. 

Seonghwa rose to help Taehyung, but they were both unsteady. Hongjoong lunged across the overturned boat and caught Taehyung’s arm as he slipped. 

“Easy now,” he said, steadying Seonghwa with the other hand. He helped them into the boat, meeting San’s eyes. 

Sadness seemed to pass between them. Grief, maybe—that they were bound by duty to swallow their tears, that they could not hold each other here. 

Seonghwa settled beside a teenage girl and made room for Taehyung. A gas lantern flickered weakly at the bow, catching on the ice crystals in Taehyung’s hair. They must’ve been a sorry sight, because the girl handed Seonghwa the plaid fleece blanket from her lap, though she shivered without it. 

“Thank you,” he said in surprise. He draped it over Taehyung, tucking it around his soaked clothes. 

The girl smiled. She looked no older than nineteen.

Then he recognized her.

“Are you Mrs. Astor?” 

Her smile faltered. “I am.”

The words Seonghwa had planned to say stuck in his throat as he took in her face. She had a soft jawline, her curls tucked into a small black hat adorned with flowers. She looked like a girl dressing up as a woman. So young to be married to a man of almost fifty. 

So young to be widowed. 

Seonghwa took a shaky breath. “I… I saw him die.”

Her face became a mask. “How?”

“Crushed by the funnel,” he said quietly.

She nodded. That was all.

Hongjoong and Mingi were the last ones in. The light was beginning to change around them, the underworld glow of the Northern Lights fading back to black. Seonghwa tried to take in the faces of the passengers before the light vanished, but he only recognized three: William Carter’s wife and her two children, though William was nowhere to be found.

Seonghwa remembered the older couple, hand in hand on the deck as the ship sank. Where you go, I go. Maybe he’d drowned with his Renault. 

In the distance, a green light beamed to the sky. Not an aurora. A flare. 

Seonghwa gasped. “Is that–?” 

Hongjoong shook his head. “No. It’s one of ours.”

Seonghwa’s heart sank. But then a blue light pierced the sky, followed by two fireworks blooming like chrysanthemums.

“That one too?”

The gaslight flickered over San’s face. “No,” he breathed. “That’s Cunard’s signal.” 

Hongjoong reached for the oars. “Time to row.”

He and Mingi pulled toward the blue light, the lantern casting a feeble glow over the boat. The fireworks were farther than they looked. After a while, Mingi’s stroke faltered. He set the oars down, rolling his shoulders.

Mrs. Carter stood from the bench, walking over to him. “Let me, quartermaster.”

Mingi’s eyebrows shot up. “My lady?”

She bent down, snatching the oars. “Go have a seat with the others and rest your arms. You’re in the way of my rowing.”

Mingi removed his hat and bowed. “Thank you, my lady.”

He handed out dry biscuits from a tin while Mrs. Carter took his place at the oars. Seonghwa stared at his, pale and powdery in his palm. It looked like ash.

He handed it to Taehyung. “Eat,” he said quietly. “You need your strength.”

They rowed until sweat dripped from their brows and the sky lightened to indigo. 

It was Taehyung who saw them first. 

“There,” he rasped. “Further west!”

“Left side, Mrs. Carter!” Hongjoong shouted. “Pull steady!”

Boats appeared on the horizon. Some floated empty, others still full of passengers. Then, silhouetted against the lavender dawn: Carpathia, barely half the length of Titanic, with a single funnel rising from her center. 

Then she vanished, and all Seonghwa could see was Mr. Astor, his eyes blank. 

Seonghwa.

Screams ringing out, dogs racing up the deck. The groan of collapsing metal, the sickening crunch. 

Hongjoong, seen through a wound in the ship. No one has ever loved anyone the way I loved you. Then he was gone, and Seonghwa was falling again, Icarus plummeting into the sea. 

Seonghwa, please.

He was his pocket watch, frozen in the moment the Titanic disappeared. 

My love, please. 

Seonghwa blinked, and the Carpathia returned. He coughed, but no water came. 

Hongjoong knelt before him, his face pale and drawn. “Can you climb?” he asked. “There’s a ladder.”

Seonghwa looked up, dazed. A rope ladder swung from the side of the ship, clacking against the hull. The Carpathia suddenly seemed like Mt. Olympus, so high it disappeared into the clouds. 

“A ladder?” he whispered. “I—I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Taehyung said behind him, his voice steadier than it had been all night. “I’ll go first.”

Seonghwa glanced around. They were the last three in the boat. 

“And I’ll come after,” Hongjoong said. “If something happens, I’ll catch you.”

Seonghwa managed a weak smile, another ladder on his mind. “You mean you’ll cushion my fall with your body?”

Hongjoong’s eyes softened. “Exactly.”

Together, they climbed. The Carpathia may have been smaller than the Titanic, but her deck was just as far above the sea. Seonghwa’s arms shook with cold, exhaustion, and fear, but still he climbed, his eyes locked on the soles of Taehyung’s shoes, counting each rung.

At the top, a Carpathia officer stood with a ledger, asking names. Seonghwa barely glanced at him, his eyes already locked onto the man standing behind him.

“Yunho,” he said.

“Seonghwa,” came the anguished reply. Yunho pulled him into a hug, his long arms wrapping around Seonghwa’s trembling frame. He smelled like home, like Seokjin’s cooking and Minho’s terrible jokes. 

“Let me bring you to a doctor,” Yunho said gently. ‘We’ve converted the dining rooms into hospitals. I’ll get you some tea and–” 

“No.” Seonghwa’s voice cracked. “I need to find Wooyoung.”

He pulled away, staggering across the deck. Everywhere he looked, survivors stood wrapped in blankets or ill-fitting clothes donated by the Carpathia’s crew and passengers. He passed a woman vomiting over the side and a dozen officers shouting orders. But Wooyoung was nowhere to be seen.

Seonghwa leaned over the railing. Dorothy climbed out of Lifeboat 7, while a quartermaster lowered a burlap sack from a rope. Behind her, a woman kissed a shivering pomeranian on the nose before sending him up. 

He counted the lifeboats. Three missing: one wooden, two collapsibles—theirs, abandoned in the sea, and A, almost certainly lost as well. 

He squinted at the painted numbers. 

Lifeboat 2 was missing.

His chest hollowed. He looked at the horizon, and his fear hardened into resolve. 

If Wooyoung was dead, he wouldn’t put him in the stars like Artemis did Orion. He would go, too. Better to drown than to live in a world without him. 

Then—a voice from the east, ragged and defiant.

“Get off me—get off me, goddamn it!”

Seonghwa spun around.

There he was. Oar in one hand, shoving an officer with the other, just as fierce and beautiful as the day they met. The lifeboat held fewer than twenty people, including Jeonghan, wrapped in a plaid blanket, coughing into a stranger’s arms.

“That boat’s just here for bodies, not survivors,” the officer slurred. “Stop—hic—stop rowing, give that here–”

“Grab him!” Wooyoung shouted. 

Two women lunged and seized the officer, restraining him as Wooyoung and a burly woman rowed the last few strokes to the ladder. 

“We have an injured man!” Wooyoung called up to the deck. 

A Carpathia quartermaster tossed down a rope. Wooyoung tied it around Jeonghan’s waist. Two women helped steady him as he began the climb, the line hauling him skyward. 

Wooyoung glanced up.

Across the hull, across the floating graveyard and the reflection of the rising sun, their eyes met. 

Seonghwa’s grip slipped. His mouth wouldn’t work, so he spoke with his eyes, the sun warm on his cracked face.

If you had died, I would have jumped. 

Wooyoung’s tight-lipped smile twisted into a grimace, dimples flashing as he tried not to cry. He looked away, forging a path to the front of the lifeboat. No one fought him. If anything, they parted for him, hands brushing his back. 

Seonghwa leaned over the railing, his fear of heights forgotten as he watched him climb. 

Wooyoung’s feet hit the deck. 

“Seven hundred even,” called the man with the ledger. 

But Wooyoung pushed past him, eyes locked on Seonghwa. 

Their hours apart had aged him. His eyes had a haunted quality. Salt crusted his cheeks, settling into the lines on his face. He looked older, and he was. 

What a privilege to have a friend, to watch him grow, and change, and survive.  

Wooyoung broke into a run. He crashed into Seonghwa, burying his face in the crook of his neck. The women from his lifeboat cheered, but all Seonghwa could hear was Wooyoung’s breath. They fell apart in each other’s arms, the horrors of the night pouring from them like seawater.

“I didn’t want to get on the boat,” Wooyoung whispered. “We were supposed to be fish together.”

“I know,” Seonghwa said miserably. “I’m so sorry. I panicked.”

Wooyoung held him tighter. Seonghwa breathed him in until the scent of fear and salt gave way to something familiar, woody and warm, like wild cardamom crushed under pine needles.

“San’s going to need a doctor for his hand,” Seonghwa murmured.

Wooyoung huffed, a shadow of his usual squealing laugh. “I forgot about that. I panicked, too.”

They looked up to find San and Hongjoong waiting for them to finish, ruined caps in hand. Wooyoung stepped forward.

“I’m sorry about your hand.” 

San held it up. “You broke the skin, you know.”

Wooyoung flushed. “You were trying to kidnap me–”

“Save your life, you mean,” Hongjoong snapped. He coughed into his fist. “Come on, let’s get you two something hot to drink and check on Jeonghan and Taehyung.”

“Glad to see you alive, too,” Wooyoung grumbled. He interlaced his fingers with San’s, pressing his lips to the bite mark as they walked.  

The Carpathia’s corridors were simpler than the Titanic’s, closer in size and layout to the Runic, but divided across three classes. They entered a dining saloon decorated in cream and gold, the mahogany furniture pushed to one side to make room for bedrolls. Stewards served soup, coffee, and tea, while passengers handed out blankets and dry clothes.

They were easy to tell apart. The Carpathia’s passengers were dry, and their eyes weren’t hollow.

From across the room, Yunho approached. He embraced Hongjoong first, then San and Wooyoung. 

“How the hell did you get here so fast?” Hongjoong asked. “Her top speed’s fourteen knots, isn’t it? Even then you’d be pushing her, and through an ice field–”

“We came at seventeen,” Yunho said. His voice turned bitter. “We had to cut the steam to the rest of the ship and tie down the safety valves to do it. The thought of you four waiting in the water…” He trailed off. “I would’ve pushed her harder if I could. I kept thinking about dinner at the estate, wondering if it would be the last time—the last time I saw any of you.”

A steward appeared at his elbow. “First Officer,” he said gently. “We need you in the forward saloon. It’s filling fast.”

Yunho nodded, gripping Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Stay warm,” he said. “We’ll be in New York in three days.”

Seonghwa met Wooyoung’s eyes, his lip trembling. 

Three more days chained to the rock. 

“Come on,” Hongjoong murmured, gesturing with his head. 

Taehyung and Jeonghan were huddled in a corner beneath mismatched quilts. San muttered something to Hongjoong, and the two of them turned to leave. 

“We’re going to help the officers,” San said, kissing Wooyoung’s cheek. “Come find us if you need anything.” 

Hongjoong leaned in, pressing his forehead to Seonghwa’s. “I’ll come back to you in one hour,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, then nodded, settling next to Wooyoung on the floor. 

“I’m glad to see you alive, Mr. Jung,” Taehyung said, passing him a blanket.

“Same to you,” Wooyoung replied, clasping his hand. “Will you two keep working on ships after all this?” 

Jeonghan laughed, and it broke into a wracking, wet cough. He opened his hand to reveal a splatter of red in the center of his palm.

Taehyung’s eyes went wide. “I’ll get the doctor.”

“Yes, God willing.” Jeonghan cleared his throat, wincing. “The sea is where we’re free. And where we can be together.”

The words struck Seonghwa like a bell.

The sea is where we’re free.

“What about you?” Jeonghan asked, looking at Seonghwa. “Summer in New York, then back to your estate?”

Seonghwa thought of absolution, of pigeons streaming up stairs like rain returning to the clouds. 

“I don’t think I will,” he said quietly.

Wooyoung frowned. “What does that mean?”

Seonghwa gave him a meaningful look. “My mother,” he said.

“What about your mother?”

“As long as she and I both live, she’ll keep trying to shape me into her perfect lord.”

“Yeah, I know that–”

“But what if I didn’t live?” Seonghwa interrupted. He lowered his voice. “What if I drowned?”

Wooyoung stared at him.

“Name, sir?” 

Taehyung had returned with the doctor. The officer from the deck stood behind them, holding a leather-bound ledger.

“Yoon Jeonghan, sir,” he said hoarsely. “Employed with the restaurant.”

The officer nodded, checked the name, then turned to Wooyoung and Seonghwa. “You two were in a hurry earlier. I didn’t get your names.”

“Jung Wooyoung. First class,” Wooyoung said.

The man jotted it down. “And you?”

“It’s Park–”

His words broke off, heart pounding. 

Maybe if Hyacinthus had lived, he would have become king—or maybe, if he had the chance, he would’ve become nothing, just a boy blooming by the river, untouched by crowns or duty.

He glanced instinctively to Wooyoung for help, but it was Jeonghan who spoke.

“Park Seungjun,” he said calmly. “The baker at À la Carte.”

Wooyoung’s mouth fell open. The officer didn’t notice, just scribbled it down and moved on. 

“Thank you,” Seonghwa whispered.

The doctor lifted Jeonghan’s shirt, pressing a stethoscope to his chest. His ribs looked like the pale white beams of the lifeboat. 

“Anything for you,” Jeonghan replied, coughing again.

“He has that effect on people,” Wooyoung said faintly. “Seonghwa, do you want some tea?”

“Nothing has ever sounded better.” He turned to Taehyung. “Can we bring you something?”

“We’ll get some in a bit,” Taehyung said, tearing his gaze from Jeonghan. “Thank you. For everything.”

Seonghwa smiled. “No, thank you. I’d probably still be in that lifeboat if you hadn’t gone up the ladder first.”

He turned to follow Wooyoung through the crowded saloon. Some people were in groups, but almost everyone was alone, holding a steaming mug and staring blankly at the door, as if another lifeboat might show up. 

But Seonghwa had counted them. No more were coming.

A long table cloaked in white linen held carafes of soup, tea, and coffee. Wooyoung poured tea into two delicate Cunard Line teacups.

“I can’t be in here right now,” he muttered, handing a cup to Seonghwa. 

“Let’s go on the deck then,” Seonghwa replied. “It’s the best we’ve got.”

The mid-morning sun beamed down on the ship, warming the air. Seonghwa still shivered, haunted by the memory of Titanic’s frozen deck, dark and slick with ice. He followed Wooyoung past a pair of familiar voices.

“Frankly, I never thought you’d make it,” William drawled. He leaned against the rail with a cup of tea, the picture of undeserved leisure. 

Seonghwa frowned as Wooyoung handed him his cup to hold. Did he need both hands to eavesdrop?

“Did you see any good swimmers?” William continued. “I certainly didn’t. They might have fared better with some lessons, the key is in the knees–”

Before the word cleared his mouth, Wooyoung stepped forward and punched him square in the jaw. 

William’s tea went flying, the cup skittering across the deck. He staggered back, hand to his cheek, rapidly turning bright red in the shape of Wooyoung’s knobbly knuckles. 

“My word!” Mrs. Carter gasped, though she didn’t look upset. 

“God almighty,” William groaned, touching his face. “You’ve broken my nose.”

“I barely touched you,” Wooyoung said coolly, waving a hand dismissively. 

“You struck me!”

Heads turned from around the deck, but Wooyoung said nothing more. He lifted his chin, took his tea from Seonghwa, and kept walking.

Once they were out of earshot, Seonghwa hissed, “What the hell was that?”

“He deserved it,” Wooyoung said, dropping onto a bench near the bow. 

Seonghwa settled beside him, adjusting his coat. “I’m not saying he didn’t, but you can’t just go around punching people.” He cast him a sidelong glance, his voice softening. “Are you okay?”

Wooyoung faced him, eyes rimmed red. “What do you think?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. He reached out and took Wooyoung’s hand, and they drank their tea without speaking. 

Down the deck, Mrs. Astor and Eloise strolled slowly, hands resting on the curves of their bellies. Mrs. Astor spoke animatedly, inviting Eloise to stay with her at the Fifth Avenue mansion she was inheriting. 

But Eloise barely listened. Her eyes stayed on the sea. 

Wooyoung broke the silence, as he often did. “Do you think you’ll be able to get on a boat after this?” 

“What?” Seonghwa tugged at his coat again. Something sharp jabbed at his side. 

“I just had an idea.”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes. “You’ve always just had an idea.”

“But this one’s good.” 

“That’s what you said about the statue in the window, and we’re still getting complaints–”

“What if you really were a baker on a ship?” Wooyoung interrupted.

Seonghwa laughed. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, listen. What if our next bakery wasn’t a café? What if it was a concession for luxury liners? Like the Ti—the Olympic.” 

Seonghwa stared at him. On a ship, that could mean–

“No more goodbyes?” 

Wooyoung nodded. “No more goodbyes.”

Seonghwa reached beneath Hongjoong’s greatcoat, into his own, feeling for the thing that had been poking him. 

The tiara.

He pulled it free. Cerulean shifted to violet as the sapphires caught the sun. 

“This’ll more than cover a bakery.”

Wooyoung beamed. His face looked like it used to, bright and sharp. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s a maybe. I’m not ready to be on another ship yet,” Seonghwa said. “Maybe after a summer of sunbathing at the pond in Boston.”

“Fine, but we’re getting new bathing costumes first,” Wooyoung replied. “Have you seen the one John–”

“Boys.” 

They looked up. Hongjoong stood in front of them, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Mr. Jung, may I borrow Lord Park?”

“He’s not a lord anymore,” Wooyoung said with a smirk. “But sure.”

A vein twitched near Hongjoong’s temple. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain later,” Seonghwa said quickly, shooting Wooyoung a glare.

San appeared behind Hongjoong. “Wooyoung, can you help out in the kitchen?”

Wooyoung drained his tea. “Certainly,” he said, then winked at Seonghwa and stood, following San across the deck. 

Hongjoong’s voice dropped. “Can I talk you into a nap?” 

Seonghwa’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps.”

“Yunho’s lending us his room,” Hongjoong said, offering his hand.

Seonghwa took it, letting Hongjoong lead him beneath the bridge and into a narrow white corridor lined with cabins. They passed the officers’ smoking room, exactly where it had been on the Runic, and then came to an open door on the right. 

Inside, Bruce laid fully dressed atop the bed, his coat still buttoned, shoes still on. His hands were clasped on his stomach as though he were resting, but his eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling. 

“Mr. Ismay?” Seonghwa said, pausing in the doorway. 

No response. A single tear slid from the corner of his eye, tracing a clean line through the dried salt on his cheek before vanishing into his graying hair.

“Come on,” Hongjoong murmured, gently tugging his hand.

Seonghwa walked behind him to a room two doors down. Yunho’s cabin was paneled in warm elm, its grain curling like flowers and fruit. A modest bed stood against the wall, freshly made in white linen. Sunlight spilled through the porthole, casting a golden circle over the desk below. 

“Have you talked to Bruce?” Seonghwa asked, setting his empty teacup down beside a brass astrolabe.

Hongjoong’s mouth formed a thin line. “Carpathia’s Captain had to sedate him.”

Seonghwa swallowed. “Oh.”

Hongjoong’s voice softened. “You’re still wearing the clothes you drowned in.”

Seonghwa glanced down. His clothes were stiff with salt, the wool still damp where the ice had frozen. Pale rings marked the fabric like tide lines on a beach. 

Hongjoong’s calloused hands reached for him, slipping the officer’s coat from his shoulders, then the one beneath. He folded both and stacked them in a corner with his own. Then he sank to one knee, unfastening Seonghwa’s trousers. 

Seonghwa said nothing. He only watched, throat tight, as Hongjoong peeled away the sodden fabric. He felt like Callisto, punishment stripped away, remade into a nymph. 

Hongjoong undressed himself next. He folded everything neatly, not out of habit, but because Seonghwa would have, if he could. 

They stood bare by the basin, scanning the damage on each other’s bodies. Hongjoong’s hands were blistered from the oars, his arms streaked with bruises and scrapes.

“I know you don’t want to get in bed like this,” Hongjoong said. 

He wet a washcloth under the tap and began to bathe him. Slow passes down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. He rinsed the cloth, then moved lower, tracing his hips, his thighs. Salt, blood, and fear washed away, until the water in the basin turned gray and Seonghwa’s skin blushed pink. 

He’d taken hundreds of fine baths in his life, drawn by servants in enameled tubs with gleaming taps. But this one was by far the finest. 

Seonghwa hissed as the washcloth touched his spine where it had caught the rail. Hongjoong paused, looking up. 

“What did Wooyoung mean—about you not being a lord anymore?”

Seonghwa bit his lip. “I gave the officer a false name.”

Hongjoong’s brows shot up. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Seonghwa pictured his mother unfolding the newspaper, her face as she read the names of the dead. The envelope that would follow, weeks later. Photographs of her only son alive and smiling, kissing another man on the cheek. No note. 

A betrayal from beyond the grave. 

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure about anything.”

Hongjoong stood and tossed the cloth into the basin. Then he reached for Seonghwa, pulling him close, chest to chest, hip to hip.

“Forever is composed of nows.” His fingers combed gently through Seonghwa’s matted hair. “Will you go straight to Boston?” he murmured. “You’ll be noticed in New York.”

Seonghwa considered it. Then he remembered Benjamin Guggenheim, waiting to die in his tails.

Tell my wife I’ve done my best in doing my duty.

“No,” he said. “I have a message to deliver in New York. I’ll have to risk it.” He stepped away and drained the basin. “What about you?”

“They’ll want testimony. An inquiry in New York, maybe another in London,” Hongjoong said. “After that…” He paused. “I’ve been declining offers from Cunard for years. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start.”

A smile crept across Seonghwa’s face. “Wooyoung and I were thinking the same thing.”

“And after Boston?” Hongjoong moved closer again, caging him in against the vanity. “We could go anywhere.”

Anywhere.

Their own apartment, with no legacy hanging over them. His cooking Hongjoong enjoyed, not Seokjin’s. A bed that was only theirs, in a room with no name. 

“It doesn’t matter where,” Seonghwa said honestly. “I just want an ordinary life. With you.”

Hongjoong brought his hands to Seonghwa’s face and kissed him. Their skin was still raw from the cold, but Seonghwa deepened the kiss anyway, dragging his teeth over Hongjoong’s bottom lip. Even in their sore and broken bodies, heat rose between them, impossible to temper. 

Hongjoong smiled against his mouth, then abruptly scooped him up.

Seonghwa yelped, laughing as he threw his arms around his neck. “Hongjoong!”

Grinning, Hongjoong carried him to the bed and dropped him onto the mattress before crawling in beside him. Seonghwa curled against his chest and tugged the quilt over their heads, sealing them inside the quiet world Wooyoung had taught him to make.

But his body revolted in the dark. 

Was he in bed, or still falling through the sea? He began to shiver, then the shivers became shakes. 

The Titanic was gone, but his body would always remember. 

Hongjoong threw back the covers and wrapped himself around him. “Shh. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” 

Seonghwa buried his face in Hongjoong’s shoulder, breathing in his heady scent. Desire flickered in his body, but it wasn’t enough to quell the tremors.

“I can’t stop shaking,” he whispered. 

“You haven’t slept,” Hongjoong said. He brushed his thumb over Seonghwa’s cheek, kissing him once, twice. Then he spoke into his mouth. “Close your eyes, my prince.”

Seonghwa didn’t want to. He was afraid of the ghosts, of Mr. Astor and Mr. Guggenheim, of the restaurant workers and the woman with the diamond-shaped face. And he wasn’t ready to stop looking at Hongjoong. The porthole light had shifted, bathing him in gold. He was a god of truth and beauty, Apollo come to save him from the sea. 

Seonghwa’s thoughts softened into dreams. Against his will, he slept. 

He dreamed he was Hyacinthus on the Titanic. But there was no iceberg, no darkness. Only the sun, warm and golden as Hongjoong laughed beside him on the deck, whiskey in hand. No more goodbyes. 

He woke before Hongjoong. The bed creaked as he slipped away. 

At the desk, he found parchment and a fountain pen. The scratch of ink on paper filled the quiet room, mingling with Hongjoong’s steady breaths. 

The Depths of the Atlantic
April 15, 1912

My dearest Jeongyeon,

        The four of us are safe. I must ask that you inform Jongho, Seokjin, and the others in confidence, but let no word of my survival leave the estate. I will return one day, though that day is not today. 
        I deeply regret the fright I must have caused you. But this is my path to freedom, as I am certain you understand. 
        If you do not fear ships, bring the baby to John’s mansion in Boston. We will recount tales of bravery and cowardice in equal measure. 

Ever yours,
Park Seonghwa

P.S. Kindly submit the attached to The Times, The Daily Telegraph, and The Daily Mail.

        In the early hours of the 15th of April, in the year of our Lord 1912, the Right Honorable Earl of Park, Lord Park Seonghwa, is believed to have perished aboard the R.M.S. Titanic in the North Atlantic Ocean. 
        Born in 1880, Lord Seonghwa was the 19th bearer of the title, first conferred in the year of our Lord 1442. He was co-proprietor of Ambrosia, with establishments in London, New York City, and Sydney. He was a writer of love letters, an accomplished embroiderer, and a steadfast friend. He is believed to have met his end as he lived: beneath the stars, with his heart set on the horizon. 
        Upon his presumed passing, the earldom succeeds to his infant son, the Lord Park Wooyoung. Lord Seonghwa is mourned by those who loved him most, those who loved him least, and Bukbuk—may he forever fly free. 

The bed creaked again. 

Soft footsteps, then Hongjoong knelt beside him, bare as a statue, hair tousled. 

“What are you writing?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. 

Seonghwa looked down at the page, the pen poised like a dagger in his hand. 

It had taken drowning, but he’d slipped the noose. Lord Park would die so Seonghwa could live. No title, no myth to uphold—just a man, blooming at last on the banks of the Eurotas. 

He met Hongjoong’s eyes, reached out, and cupped his cheek. 

“My legacy.”

𓊝