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katrinawritesthings · 2 years

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Jonghyun/Kibum/Minho; get the treasure (part 1); PG-13

wrote this for the summer of shinee Valentine's fic exchange : ) it was a really fun prompt that I was comfortable writing but was also off of my usual brand and I think it came out really good uwu

[part 2]

Minho is a prince. Every year, the Royal Family invites a few artists to the palace and has them draw portraits of them during their birthday month. This year, Jonghyun and Kibum have been chosen. The catch is, Jonghyun and Kibum are thieves, and under the guise of artists, they enter the palace to steal the crown jewels — but get their hearts stolen by the prince instead.

"Ah," Minho says. Another pause, another frown, another moment of him searching for words, another deep breath in. "That's... a shame. But even with limited practice, your style is beautiful."

"Thank you." Kibum does have to say, he is quite enjoying watching Minho squirm with every lackluster reply. The veins on the backs of his hands stand out when he squeezes them, glimpses of strong forearms peeking out from his sleeves, and every time he licks his lips is a personal treat. It's a much better view than the garden all around them. Kibum looks around like he's interested in the plants anyway, putting the idea in Minho's head that maybe he's not being rude and maybe he just doesn't talk a lot and maybe he is actually interested in sitting in peace with a companion.

Also TWs for emotional abuse, gaslighting, insults, etc from Minho's family and also some blood near the end

Bling and Key.

Two artists that, until Minho announced his decision, were entirely unheard of in the royal court. Minho himself hadn't heard of them until he was sent to make an appearance at a local art festival in one of the smaller villages around the kingdom. His parents, the king and queen, or even his older brother, the heir apparent, were too important, they all said, to waste a day on the venture. Instead it was his job to show up so the people wouldn't forget that the royal family still cared.

It was quite a nice festival, honestly, for what little Minho was able to see of it before he was ushered into the event holder’s office and offered gifts and praise for existing. Full of splashes of color and artistic interpretations that were frankly shocking to him compared to the usual brand of proper, accurate realism in the portraits commissioned every year on his family's birthdays. The festival bustled with life, artists and visitors talking in loud, cheerful voices that made Minho eager to listen even though he didn't understand much of the lingo or their accents. Two pieces in particular stood out to him, and it's the artists behind those that he chose to invite to depict him this year. Bling and Key.

Much to the chagrin of his parents, who regret finally allowing him to choose for himself so much that he can tell it causes them physical pain, but he's trying very hard not to care. It's his 24th birthday and he deserves something fun.

Even still, that's not the argument that won against his parents. There wasn't really any argument at all. He was given the opportunity to choose one thing for his birthday celebrations this year instead of having it all planned to fit whatever would make the castle look the best. He's certain that his parents expected him to pick a theme, or where they’ll all go on vacation after the celebration weeks are over, but he chose the artists instead. And when they tried to back out of their agreement, he fought for it by giving up his favorite flavor of birthday cake, and who the guests would be, and what the hired entertainment would be. And he promised not to speak up during political meetings for the next month.

That last one, he's sure, is what really sealed the deal. He knows that he's been annoying his parents and his brother with all of his questions ever since he'd been given a seat at the table four years ago. Why won't we send money to the village that got flooded during the spring? What do you mean we don't have enough? Isn't that project to reguild the castle staircases in a month? Why can't we cancel that and put the money towards something that's needed instead? Why do we need to look rich when everyone already knows we’re rich? Wait, wasn't there supposed to be a dam built in that area a few years ago? What happened to that funding?

And that was all in one meeting.

But Minho got the artists that he wanted. He got something for himself on his birthday. He got something for himself, period. It shames him, but even as a prince, he finds himself often thinking that that's a luxury.

"Highness."

Minho starts at Taemin's quiet voice by his ear. He'd been zoning out. It's the same every year, every birthday, with the fanfare and the introductions and the speeches about the great honor of royal blood and loyalty to the country, stiff and hot in his formal robes and the crown that he hasn't worn in months and smells strongly of cleaning products, and he'd been zoning out. Smiling and sitting up straight, nodding attentively, but paying more attention to the heavy royal rings that decorate his right hand fingers than what was actually going on. It's a skill that he's acquired, just like Taemin has acquired the skill of being able to tell when he's not all there inside and warn him.

And just in time, because Bling and Key themselves have just been introduced and are walking in, standing before the family, bowing to them in order of importance. Minho couldn't ask for a better personal attendant. He nods his head just enough to let Taemin know that he understood and is grateful before focusing on the artists.

First is Bling. Dressed in a simple white shirt and brown breeches, he stands with the confidence of someone that knows he's attractive. He has a slim waist but broad shoulders, a sharp jawline and cheekbones but full lips, a round nose, and soft big brown eyes. His black hair is cut quite haphazardly, so it falls into his eyes and spikes out around his head. When he introduces himself, his voice has a musical quality to it, like each word is assigned a note in a song. When he smiles, the entire room gets a little bit brighter.

And then Key. Several inches taller, he stands with the confidence of someone that has fought for it and will fight to keep it. He wears the same outfit as Bling, but different; his trousers are tucked into calf-high black boots, his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his shoulders, and a thick sash is tied around his middle that's colored the same golden yellow as his hair. His face is thin, his mouth small and delicate, his eyes sharp and pointed, and one eyebrow is almost split in half by a severe scar. When he speaks it's deeper than Minho was expecting and when his mouth curves up at one corner it's less of a smile and more something that feels like a warning.

"We’re honored to have been chosen by your highness," he says, bowing once again to Minho. Bling bows as well, nodding his agreement. Minho puts his right hand over his heart and nods his head back in the appropriate response.

"I hope you honor me as well with your time and skill," he recites from memory, the same every year since he could speak, "and I hope that the weeks you spend here will be much to your liking." And then, with a quick glance at his parents, he adds before they can stop him, "I will be happy to offer you as much time as you need with me if you require it for your artwork." Technically that is part of the traditional speech, but they’ve taken to leaving it out in the last couple of years, and the artists have never had the courage to ask for it since. A waste of time, the rest of the family says, but it was always Minho's favorite part. He just likes getting to know people, learning about the way they live, how they think, how they’re similar and different from him.

Bling and Key thank him, bow to the family again, and leave to take their seats in the crowd at their assigned table.

The rest of the opening celebration goes as usual. More speeches, praise for how good Minho makes the royal family look with his accomplishments, the explanation of activities that will take place over the next four weeks before the finale on Minho's big day, the big dinner feast, the entertainment–a musical play this year about their country's recent victory in battle with one of their neighbors–and finally dessert, where something different happens that only Minho notices.

It's not his birthday yet, so there's no cake; just the usual beautifully decorated pastries and puddings. But when Jinki, the head dessert chef of the castle, comes out to present his gourmet artwork and serve the royal family personally, he winks at Minho so fast that Minho almost misses it. Confused, Minho looks down at his platter and has to fight to not let his face break into a huge smile.

Sitting there innocently next to his spiced pudding is a single red velvet cupcake. His favorite.

Biting his lip, Minho tucks in right away. If he ignores everything about his family, this birthday is already looking pretty great.

The castle garden sprawls out of the east wing, bright bursts of color between the dark browns of leafless trees and dazzling white of winter snow. There are no fruit trees, no vegetables, no rows of herbs and spices. Instead, there are flowers, bushes trimmed and shaped into animals, trees bent into archways, wide expanses of flat grass, and fountains that never get turned off. The only animals around are birds that nest too high up to be shooed away by underpaid staff. Snow covers the tops of trees and bushes, frost clinging to delicate winter flowers, but the paved stone walkways are clear. Underground, there's a series of tunnels and a roaring fire that keeps them heated all day long.

Walking through the entrance gate, Kibum does not see anyone else around to appreciate the beauty. It's just here. Huge, expensive, and empty until Kibum rounds a curve in the path and finds the prince.

Minho is already seated at one of the fancy glass tables dotted around the garden when Kibum arrives right on time. Dressed in his fancy little prince robes, perfect posture, waiting patiently with Taemin by his side. It surprises Kibum; he hadn't expected any noble, let alone one of the nobles, to care about respecting someone's time. For a moment he thinks that it must have been Taemin that got him here early, but he quickly shrugs that thought off. He knows that Taemin doesn't respect his time.

Schooling any hint of his surprise off of his face, Kibum puts on his best smile and bows to Minho when he reaches the table. And, though it pains him to do so, bows to Taemin standing behind and to the right of Minho as well. On his list of priorities, refusing to show Taemin any sign of civility is lower than making sure that Minho sees him treating the both of them the same way.

He knows that Minho sees it, but what he thinks of it is lost to Kibum. Lost in his smile, handsome and wide, carving lines around his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He stands up and does the royal bow back, putting his right ring decorated hand over his heart, his empty hand behind his back, and nodding his head. As he does so, his long straight black hair falls over his shoulders and his bangs hide his eyes. For just a second, as he straightens back up, he looks at Kibum through his eyelashes and his brown eyes are so big and round and gorgeous that Kibum almost loses his breath.

"Key, It's good to see you," he says, his voice just as deep and practiced as it was when he was reciting his lines last night. Kibum latches onto that, the training, the royal facade of compassion, and uses it to drag himself out of the beauty of Minho's face. It's all money, he reminds himself. It's all money and makeup and the power to decide what is and what isn't beautiful. Up close, he can see that Minho isn't as perfect as he's pretending to be. His skin has flaws, a scar underneath his right eye, and his complexion is marked by teenage acne and dotted with sunmarks that not even his makeup can completely hide.

"Thank you, your highness," Kibum replies politely. "And your acquaintance?" he asks, looking at Taemin expectantly.

"Oh," Minho says, glancing at him over his shoulder. He seems off-put, like he's not used to anyone pointing out that he needs someone to follow him around every moment and hold his soft royal hand. Kibum smiles. Good. Taemin stays passive, proper, but once Minho looks away, he arches an eyebrow over his shoulder. "This is my attendant, Taemin," Minho says, gesturing to him. "He stays with me and provides me with assistance."

"Ah, of course," Kibum says. "Forgive me. I'm not so accustomed to your peoples’... habits." He wrinkles his nose just enough to suggest distaste without doing so much as to be called out for it.

Then he takes a seat at the delicate glass table without being invited.

He's sure that Minho didn't mean for him to catch his small, quick frown, but Kibum certainly means for Minho to catch his small, quick smirk. "You'll have to forgive Bling as well," he says as Minho takes his seat across from him and Taemin pours them both tea. "He wanted to be here this morning, but he's not much of an early riser. I'm sure he'll catch you another time."

"Whenever he's available." Minho's smile is stiff, forced. He takes a breath and seems to relax, a little. "Do you two know each other?" he asks.

"Yes," Kibum says simply. "Quite well."

"Interesting," Minho says. He opens his mouth, hesitates like he's not sure, like he expected Kibum to say more. "Usually, the two artists that we commission each year aren't acquainted."

"Hmm," Kibum hums, interested not in what Minho said but the way he said it. Unconvincingly casual, his hands clasped a little too tight on top of the table, too eager, too needy for attention. Kibum thought it would be much harder to push the prince’s buttons. He's almost disappointed.

The awkward silence between them is enough to keep him entertained, though. There's an extravagant little brunch set up between them, tea and pastries and embroidered cloth napkins that likely cost more than Kibum's outfit. Kibum takes a bite out of a tender, frosted cookie and wipes his fingers on his pants. They're lemon flavored, at least. So nice of Jinki to make his favorite.

As the moments stretch on, he looks again at Taemin. Seeing him again for the first time in months, Kibum regrettably does have to admit that he cleans up very well. Gone is the greasy, grinning little gremlin that Kibum has known for the past nine years. Now he stands up straight, shoulders back, hands locked behind his waist, full of a seemingly endless patience that he never bothered to exhibit back home. Dressed up in fancy servant’s garb, washed and lotioned and perfumed, even with his shoulder length black hair tied back into a ponytail and delicately framing his face, he looks like he belongs here.

Taemin catches kibum looking, grins, and quickly puts bunny ears up behind Minho's head.

Kibum smiles into his teacup. Maybe he hasn't been entirely converted, then.

"So...." Minho says slowly. He twiddles his thumbs, then says, "how long have you been painting professionally?"

Since you announced that you wanted me as your artist , Kibum thinks. "Technically, never," he says out loud. "I only ever paint when I have free time, and that isn't often. Doing art professionally isn't something that we do where I'm from. It's not something that we can do, when we're always so busy trying to survive." He speaks pointedly, so close to accusatory but not quite. By now he knows that Minho is perceptive enough to pick up on an unsaid, not that you would know what that's like.

"Ah," Minho says. Another pause, another frown, another moment of him searching for words, another deep breath in. "That's... a shame. But even with limited practice, your style is beautiful."

He lets the silence drag on, doing nothing to break it. He puts that responsibility square on Minho's shoulders. They sip their tea, Minho eats a muffin, Kibum watches a bird flying in and out of their nest in a high tree, Taemin jerks harshly but silently away from a bug, Minho takes yet another deep, relaxing breath.

"Were you feeling okay last night?" he asks. "I noticed you leaving the party early."

"Did you?” Kibum asks, annoyed that not only did he get caught, but also that his voice comes out with his real surprise instead of disinterest. If Minho noticed him leaving, who else did? "Forgive me," he says, covering his slip. "I tend to get headaches around large crowds. I left early to get some quiet and rest." Mostly the truth; good lies usually are. He's only leaving out the part where he also left to see how populated the rest of the castle was during royal events.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Minho says. "I meant to send someone to check on you, but it slipped my mind.”

"I'm sure it did," Kibum says, smiling, tilting his head, narrowing his eyes. He's entirely certain that Minho wanted to nose into where he was going, and also that Minho forgot about him.

Minho's eyes also narrow, but it's coupled with a breath so deep that his nostrils flare. He speaks again without acknowledging Kibum's reply: "if you want pain relievers during your stay, you need only request them from one of the servants."

"I'm sure that I won't," Kibum replies pleasantly. "I wouldn't be so selfish as to trouble someone to do something for me when I could easily do it myself. I'm not used to living like that."

And there . As soon as the word "selfish" leaves Kibum's mouth, Minho stops pretending. His mouth pops often, his eyebrows furrow, his hands flatten out on top of the table. Not angry, but close. Annoyed. Kibum tears his eyes from his long fingers, from his strong jaw, from his perfectly manicured eyebrows, desperately searching for somewhere on his face that isn't the definition of handsome. He tries settling on Minho's eyes since he figures there's no way to cosmetically alter those, but that was a mistake–there's a fire in them that wasn't there before, and intensity in his emotion that catches Kibum's breath in his throat. Fuck. He focuses hard on the center of Minho's nose instead.

Thankfully, Minho is still reeling from the selfish thing. He tries to bring it back, to compose himself, but he doesn't take any calming breaths or force polite conversation. "I was under the impression," he starts in a hard, clipped voice, "that you requested this meeting to get a better understanding of me to help with your portrait."

"Well, I don't know what gave you that idea," Kibum says, placing an innocent hand on his chest and thinking that he definitely has gained a better understanding of the prince.

"Why did you want to meet with me, then?" Minho asks. Angry now, fed up. "If not to attempt to convince yourself that you're superior to me?”

"Not to be judged by you," Kibum snaps back instinctively. He's angry too, suddenly and icily, all of the fun that he'd been having replaced by raw indignation. How dare Minho say that to him. How dare he act like Kibum isn't an equal. How dare he imply that Kibum needs to convince himself that he has value. Kibum cannot fucking believe the sheer royal audacity. "You should know, I don't think much of those that judge other people," he says.

"Excuse me?" Minho shoots back, his bright eyes wide. "You say that, but all you've done since you arrived here is judge me."

Royalty aren't people , Kibum's brain says immediately, but he holds it off of his tongue. It's true, but even he won't let his anger get that far away from him. At the very least, he knows that if he goes that far the mission will fail right here right now. "You don't know me," he says, dangerously quiet. Minho knows nothing to judge him by except his appearance and the name of his village. "I know you. I know what you're like." He's just the same as every other noble, living lavishly up here in his castle, kept away from the rest of them, in his own little world–

"You know about me," Minho says. "You don't know me. "

Kibum stands up.

Minho does too.

Minho is barely an inch taller than him so Kibum doesn't have to look up at him, unlike last night when he was up in his throne and all of the little people were down below. Kibum can meet him square in the eye to say, "thank you for your time, highness ."

He turns and leaves the way he came out, stalking through the useless garden and back into the castle, fuming the entire time. He doesn't know Minho , his ass. Maybe that's true, maybe he only technically knows about Minho, but knowing about him is more than enough with people like him.

Jonghyun is just waking up when he gets back to their rooms, sitting up in bed and rubbing his palms into his eyes. He smiles at Kibum underneath his messy hair, sleepy and happy to see him.

"Morning," he croaks. "How was brunch? What's he like?”

"Pretty," Kibum snaps, marching to his own bedroom.

“Wha–“

"Petty! ” Kibum corrects quickly, stopping in his tracks and whirling around. "Petty, petty. I meant petty. He's a self-absorbed, attention-seeking–fuck you." He spins right back around and storms into his room, slamming the door and leaving Jonghyun laughing behind him.

Jonghyun is in such deep shit. He's no fucking artist. Neither is Kibum, but at least Kibum has experience drawing humans and sketching out costumes. What does Jonghyun have? An affinity for getting his hands dirty and picking what colors he thinks are pretty. And now he's supposed to draw a portrait of the literal prince? What the fuck. He knew he shouldn't have volunteered to work that art festival last year.

None of it was even his art, or Kibum’s. It was Krystal’s and they were just there presenting and selling it as their own because she’s wanted for treason and the two of them offered their extroverted asses up to go instead. We’re bored and we want something to do , they whined. Jonghyun in particular remembers hyping himself up so much about how hot and good with people he is and how much money he would make the Rebellion. Jackass. Now he's here in the Rebellion’s most ambitious and public execution worthy mission to date and it's all his fault.

He's lucky that he's so hot and charming and good with people because otherwise he definitely would have been found out by now with how anxious he is. He's spent most of the day since he woke up wandering around the castle with his sketch pad, doodling random fancy pieces of decoration to cover how he's matching the castle layout physically with the mental map he has in his head. And also to cover how he's already pocketed several little jewels and rings off of the ugly suits of armor in the hallways.

What does armor need jewelry for, anyway? To look pretty? Rich people are so ridiculous. Jonghyun wrapped them up in his doodles and handed them off to a Rebellion contact in the castle post office, signaling to her that it should definitely be her that delivers them back home and not someone else that isn't part of the Rebellion. He's been stopped by the castle guard a few times wanting to know what or how he's doing, and every time he's played the starstruck country bumpkin just taking in the sights.

Which, honestly, is true. Good Most lies usually are. Execution anxiety aside, he has always wanted to come see the castle. He knows now that all it represents is bloody greed, but that doesn't stop the eager little boy inside of him that wants to see where the fancy people live. It is nice to stand among luxury and pretend he's one of them but without being a goblin. Just pretty and adored by everyone. It's fun.

His self-guided tour has taken him to the main hall, through the library, around the royal portrait gallery, all through the bedroom hallways, and now to the kitchens, where he's sitting at a table in the corner, staring at his sketch pad, and thinking about how absolutely fucked he is.

At least Jinki is here. Gentle, kind Jinki, always full of sweet nothings and cheek pinches and little treats from extra pieces of the cooking. They've only met a handful of times when Jinki got time off from the castle, but something about him comforts Jonghyun. He's at his place in the kitchen, simmering bananas in butter and caramel on the stove in between calling out names of other chefs and signing orders to them one handed, never once falling behind or losing his place. His calm demeanor and efficiency in such a hectic environment is soothing. Plus he's nice to look at, all soft angles and round cheeks, his honey colored hair held back from his forehead by a black sweatband.

A little while ago he gave Jonghyun a half sized chocolate muffin made from leftover batter and Jonghyun has been picking at it while he tries to put something down on paper. He does have some stuff down; a scribbled out sketch of the kitchen, a little drawing of his puppy back home, a couple lines of a song that he's been working on, and a sketchy doodle of the prince himself making the funniest face Jonghyun has ever seen in his life.

He saw it last night during the play. From his angle, he could perfectly see Minho sitting at the end of the royal table. He could see Minho and how much he was not paying attention to his own birthday celebration. He seemed more interested in whispering and joking to Taemin next to him, though the both of them shut up and looked away from one another when another noble would come by. At one point, Minho made his eyes wide, smiled so fucking weird and tight, and wiggled his eyebrows up and down, and for the next five minutes both Jonghyun and Taemin had to stifle their laughter from opposite ends of the great hall. Kibum kept elbowing Jonghyun and hissing at him to shut up like he was actually interested in the play.

That face has stuck with him since, and it still makes him chuckle as he looks down at his little drawing of it. Maybe he isn't an artist but he definitely nailed the expression.

"Very flattering." A long, ring decorated finger taps the table next to the drawing and Jonghyun grins even wider to himself. He does love validation, even from strangers.

"Thanks, I know," he says. "It's one of my finer–”

He looks up to speak to his new pal and looks directly into the eyes of prince Minho.

"What the fuck –? Oh my fucking–” manners! Jonghyun's brain screams at him, and he promptly almost knocks over both the table and his chair by standing up too fast. He bows so low that his nose almost touches his sketchpad and fumbles out, "sorry, sorry, your majesty, I mean, your highness, I mean, I was just, I didn't mean to, fuck, I mean, sorry." He straightens up and clasps his hands behind his back, aggressively ignoring both Taemin badly hiding his laughter behind his hands and the way he can feel his own face burning with shame. He bravely meets Minho's eyes again. "Did your highness wish to speak with me?" he asks as evenly as possible.

Minho is chuckling. A handsome chuckle, deep and warm, that, if anything, makes Jonghyun blush even harder. "It's all right," he says, smoothing his smile with his hand. "Don't worry. I don't mind." He looks at the drawing again, turning the sketchpad with a careful hand to see it right side up, and laughs once more. "I hadn't thought anyone else saw that," he says.

"Ah," Jonghyun says, "well," he says, "I did," he says. And then scrunches his nose. Fuck. Shit. Of course he saw it. He wouldn't have drawn it if he hadn't seen it. "I wasn't," he says, trying to clarify, "I wasn't really paying attention to the," he's making it worse, "to the play."

"Yes, well," Minho says. He heaves a big sigh, shakes his head, and rolls his eyes. "Those do tend to drag on sometimes." He turns Jonghyun's sketchpad back to face him. Glancing around dramatically and leaning in, he smiles, "I won't tell if you don't." And he winks at Jonghyun. He actually winks, him, the prince, winks at Jonghyun, some guy from the middle of nowhere. Jonghyun keeps blushing but for an entirely different reason now. "Excuse me," Minho continues. With a royal bow, he walks away from Jonghyun and further into the kitchen.

Jonghyun slithers back down into his chair and puts his cheek on top of the table. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He is such a disaster.

Kibum was right. Minho is very pretty.

And for someone to be considered pretty when Taemin is standing right there next to them is no small accomplishment.

But there's just something about Minho. His big eyes, his soft smile, his warm voice, his easygoing attitude. Jonghyun knows that he's easy, but fuck. He almost feels bad about being here to steal the royal jewels right off of Minho's crown.

He picks his head up and looks for Minho. He's talking to Jinki about something; if Jonghyun leans right, he can see that he’s signing, "thanks for last night."

He puts his head back down on the table, feeling slightly less bad. Well. If Jinki is soft enough for Minho to be doing favors for him, then maybe it isn't just Jonghyun. Maybe everyone can't help but like the youngest prince. Even Kibum, he guesses, grinning to himself at the memory of his babe all pissy this morning. He still can't believe it only took one conversation for Minho to get past Kibum's smug mask. It takes a special kind of person to get Kibum that angry and horny at the same time, and an even specialer kind of person that makes him deny it.

"Bling?”

"Hmm?” For the second time, Jonghyun looks up into the eyes of his prince. "Yes, highness?" he asks, sitting up straight. Minho smiles gently at him.

"I hope that the final portrait won't look like this," he jokes, tapping the edge of the sketchpad. Jonghyun can't help the breath of laughter that comes out of him.

"Me too," he says. He also hopes that Minho never finds out how extremely literally he means that.

Minho looks heartened by Jonghyun's laugh, standing up straighter, shoulders sinking down a little. Jonghyun hadn't even noticed he'd been nervous. "Key told me that you wanted to be at brunch this morning but you slept in?" he asks then.

“Uh," Jonghyun says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Not quite. But close enough. "I don't wake up early,” he admits. He thought he would be able to this morning, but he woke up and Kibum was already gone so he went back to sleep. And the plan was to split up their initial meetings anyway. Better to let Kibum get first impressions of people on his own.

"All right, I'll remember that,” Minho says. "But would you like to get together and talk a little sometime tomorrow? I'm quite busy this week, but I do have evening tea free.”

“Oh,” Jonghyun says. He's blushing again. The prince himself? Is asking him for time together? The prince himself remembered that Kibum said that he wanted to speak with him and is making it a point to make that happen? Fuck. "Uh, yes I would like that, your highness," he says. He would like that very much. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers that it's literally his mission to get close to Minho, so he can gather information to be better prepared for the big day. In the front of his mind, he thinks that Minho is biting his lip and that is a whole lot to process so suddenly in the moment.

"Great," Minho beams. "It's a date." Another royal bow and he's gone, heading out of the kitchen with Taemin on his heels.

Jonghyun stays where he is and slowly turns into a tomato. By the time Jinki gets another break and comes to check on him, he's still in the same spot, face in his hands, feet tapping all over the floor.

It's a date.

Minho strides down the hallway to the family's private dining quarters, his heart thudding in his chest, his pulse pounding in his temples. His hands shake, but when he balls them into fists to stop it, his nails dig painfully into his palms.

An earthquake. A whole entire earthquake in the south, and nothing was said to him. For days . At this point, it's not that no one informed him, that it has to be that the information is being kept from him on purpose. He wants to know why and he's going to find out.

Just before he turns the corner, Taemin grabs his wrist. "Highness," he says quietly. "Wait."

"I'm not changing my mind about this, Taemin," he hisses, whipping around. He's done being treated like an annoyance, like he's not mature enough to understand why his family thinks some people don't matter. "I can't keep letting them do this to me."

"No, just, I meant," Taemin says. His usually smiling face is pinched with anxiety, his lower lip between his teeth. He's blinking a mile a minute and his hands won't stop twisting and knotting together. "Don't tell them that I told you," he says. "Please."

Minho calms down, a little bit. Watching Taemin, he sighs. Of course.

When Taemin first came to the castle, he wasn't in the best shape. Hollow, underfed, desperately pretending like it hadn't been at least a week since he'd had a wash. He'd clearly been trained as an attendant before, but he'd also clearly been recently fired and lost as to what to do next. He'd been given a job serving tables, but his clumsy hands and nerves had led to enough accidents in his first few days that he was close to being fired again before Minho offered to take him as his attendant. Another one of Minho's tenderhearted wastes of time, according to his family, but Minho has never regretted it. Taemin has been more than great with him in the months since. It was lucky, really, that his previous attendant had quit that very same day.

"I won't," he reassures Taemin. He knows how Taemin worries. Minho has never said it because he doesn't want to overwhelm Taemin, but he connects more with Taemin than he ever has with any of his peers, let alone his family. He kind of thinks of them as misfits together.

With Taemin's small, grateful nod, Minho continues to the family room. He bows to the guards at either side of the door and walks in. All three of them are sitting at the table, his father, his mother, and his brother, similar to him by their looks and their matching rings and what feels like nothing else.

"Why–"

"Minho, You're late for lunch again." His father's reprimand stops him in his tracks, sends a chill down his spine. An involuntary reaction, but effective nonetheless. Minho shakes his head and tries again, determined.

"Why wasn't I told about the earthquake?" He demands.

His parents exchange a quick look. "We didn't want to worry you during your birthday celebrations," his mother says gently.

"You didn't–what? Were you going to keep it from me the whole month?" Minho can't believe the words even as they come out of his mouth. Even for his family, that has to be absurd, but his brother rolls his eyes.

"You know you get emotional," he says. "You think I want to watch you being a whiny baby when we're trying to have fun?"

"I'm not–it's not just–it was an earthquake, " Minho insists. His pulse is pounding again, his hands shaking. He locks them behind his back. "It hit three villages . There was a fire started in one because of it. Who cares about my birthday?"

"Minho!" His mother exclaims, scandalized. "Do you know how much labor I went through for you?"

"Do you know how hard the staff is working for you?” His father adds. “The security? the kitchens? The laundry and the maids with all of the guests? Do you know how far people have traveled for you?”

"I–” Minho huffs. Yes, he knows how long he took to come out. Yes, he knows how hard people are working. Yes, he knows how far people have traveled. "I never asked for any of that," he says. Shame burns in his throat but he fights it off and continues, "you know every year I ask not to do all of this extravagance. There's no point to it."

"I don't remember you ever asking not to do birthday stuff," his brother drawls. "All I ever remember is you being ungrateful for it. Didn't you barely even participate in planning this year? When all of it is for you in the first place?"

"That's not," Minho starts, incredulous. That's not how it works and his brother knows it. He's never been able to participate in the planning in the first place. Neither of them have. It's always been their parents. He knows that his brother knows that.

Does he? Maybe his brother is right. Maybe his brother has been able to plan his birthdays this whole time and Minho has never known about it.

"The point is to celebrate you," his mother says icily. "The people love their prince, Minho. They look up to you as a beacon. They derive joy from your joy. They love you. "

The people. Minho’s nails dig into his palms. That's what he came here for. His people, the people he is sworn to protect and care for. He knows that his people don't love a prince that hasn't even acknowledged their tragedy. And he is absolutely certain that they don't love a person that they've never met. He takes a deep, slow breath, trying to calm himself.

"This isn't about me,” he says, hating the way his voice shakes. "What–"

"You sure are making it about you," his father snaps. "Bursting in here late for lunch, yelling at us. Throwing a tantrum because we tried to be nice to you. I'm tired of your selfish attitude."

And just like that, that one word hits Minho so hard he almost takes a step back. Selfish . Every time, it's like a knife in his gut. Selfish, how he’s disregarding his family's kindness. Selfish, how he doesn't care about the staff. Selfish, how he chose two artists with styles that don't match the rest of the portraits at all. How he chose to employ Taemin when he had already caused so many problems. How he doesn't have the country's best interests at heart. How he doesn't look at the bigger picture.

Minho closes his eyes and breathes hard through his nose. Lies, a small, broken voice whispers in the back of his mind. It's louder than it used to be, more confident, but he can barely hear it, barely bring himself to consider beginning to believe it.

But it's still there. He opens his eyes.

"What's being done to help the victims?" he asks. "Have we sent them money? Have we sent some of the army down there to help rebuild? Have we done anything for them?"

"They're fine," his brother shrugs dismissively. "They're all carpenters down there. They know how to build. And there was a Rebellion base there anyway."

"You know we can't spare any of the army when they're all up here to provide security for your celebrations," his father says shortly, like he's annoyed that he has to explain something so simple.

“You're ruining the festive mood," his mother chides. "Come eat. Let me tell you how the lord and lady of the western hills were complementing the hallway decorations earlier today."

Minho turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

"Hey."

"Hmm?"

"Will you suck my dick later?"

Kibum snorts, not surprised but amused nonetheless. He glances at Jonghyun next to him. They're in the art room of the castle, a place dedicated entirely dedicated to paint, clay, and crafting and yet entirely too clean to believably have been used for any of those since the last time the family had a birthday. Kibum is sitting in front of an easel, sketching in a basic body pose for another small sized practice portrait. He's already done four, but extra practice never hurt and it's not like the royal family can't afford more canvases.

Jonghyun is working standing up with his canvas on the table in front of him, dipping his fingers into paint and swirling them around. He meets Kibum's eye and wiggles his eyebrows up and down; Kibum chuckles. He does love his Jonghyun, blunt and straightforward and unashamed.

"For fun?" he asks. He'll suck a dick for fun.

"Yeah," Jonghyun says, a smile in his voice. "I've been spending all of these evenings with Minho this week and Taemin keeps doing the," he falls silent mid-sentence. Looking at him again, he's pointing his thumb towards his mouth and pushing his tongue into the opposite cheek at the same time. Kibum rolls his eyes. Of course. Jonghyun continues, "behind him and now I can't stop thinking about getting my dick sucked."

"Oh, I see," Kibum says, mock offended. "You want me to suck your dick so you can pretend it's Taemin the entire time."

"No," Jonghyun says defensively, "I just want to get my dick sucked. It doesn't have to be him."

"So it doesn't have to be me either? You'd be fine with anyone?"

"Noooooo, Kibummie," Jonghyun whines. "You know that's not–" again, Jonghyun stops mid-sentence. Kibum smirks to himself. He's caught on. Jonghyun shoves his shoulder so hard that he draws a jagged line right through his sketch, and then leans his cheek gently against the same shoulder when he straightens back up. "You’re so mean to me," he pouts.

Kibum pets his soft hair. He knows that Jonghyun means that with all of the love in his heart. "Yeah, well, if you think that's mean, get ready for this," he says, and leans in to kiss Jonghyun's cheek. Jonghyun makes one of his tiny cute happy noises, high-pitched and entirely pleased. Kibum blows a raspberry against his cheek next, just to make him laugh.

He does, straightening back up and returning to his painting. Kibum copies him, returning to his own. He could erase that big line and keep going, but he shrugs and grabs the canvas anyway. He tosses it into the pile of used ones and gets up to grab another. As he does, he thinks over their short conversation. Wrinkling his nose, he sits back down.

"Can't believe you can stand spending all that time with him," he mutters. Kibum gets annoyed just looking at Minho.

"He's nice ," Jonghyun sighs. "He's thoughtful and insightful and kind. He's not like his family. You just don't like him because he called you out on your hypocrisy within fifteen minutes of meeting him."

"I don't like him," Kibum starts in a hiss, and then takes a moment to calm himself. "Because he's royal." The word feels like curdled cheese in his mouth, as usual, as it should. "I know I don't need to tell you why I'm not wrong." He knows that Jonghyun knows as well as he does about the evils of the monarchy, blah blah blah, they're literally here to steal from them to fund the Rebellion against them.

"Yeah, whatever, eat the rich, destroy the monarchy, I know," Jonghyun says. Kibum doesn't need to look to know he’s rolling his eyes. "But the monarchy as an institution is not him as a person."

"Do not start not all royals ing me," Kibum grumbles. He doesn't need it. "It doesn't count with them, you know they're born–"

"Privilege, " Jonghyun starts loudly, stomping his foot on the ground, "is not an indictment of inherent ev–for the love of the fucking moon. I'm not having this argument with you again." He turns and glares at Kibum, pointing his hand towards him so sharply that a little glob of paint falls off of his finger and splats on the floor between them. "Are you going to suck my dick later or what?"

Kibum pouts. "Spoilsport," he grumbles. Jonghyun knows that arguing is one of his favorite pastimes. “Yeah," he adds. Sex is another one of his favorite pastimes.

Pleased, Jonghyun wiggles as he wipes up the paint on the floor. They fall silent, each of them working on their paintings. Kibum knows that Jonghyun isn't confident in his artistry skills, but he is doing a good job swirling in a background even if he's too afraid to start blocking in a person. For his part, Kibum just sketches in another pose. He's decided to just start a bunch of paintings and then pick the one that he likes most to actually finish. The hardest part is really going to be trying to copy Krystal’s art style, but he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

"Bling? Key?"

Of course. Kibum sighs long through his nose, not turning to the doorway. Of course Minho would show up when they were talking about him.

"Good afternoon, your highness," Jonghyun chirps. He waves and more paint drips to the floor. Cursing, he wipes it up. Out of the corner of his eye, Kibum can see him smiling, biting his lip, his ears flushed pink. Again, of course. "Did you want to speak with us?" Jonghyun asks.

"Just with Key right now, actually." His voice is closer, two pairs of footsteps drawing near, and Kibum didn't need his body to raise his hackles to know that Minho has come to a stop behind him. He didn't need the internal reminder of how annoyed he still is that Minho got under his skin last week. He hasn't had time to get over himself and stop being embarrassed yet.

"Oh," Jonghyun says.

"Great," Kibum mutters.

"Key?” Minho tries again. "Would you consent a conversation with me? Or to setting a time for us to have a conversation?"

Would he consent to it? What the absolute fuck kind of question is that. He shoots a glance at Minho, trying to read him, trying to figure out why he's being so overly careful. Minho stands with his hands clasped behind him, calm and collected, Taemin at his elbow. Kibum sighs. "I'm free now," he says, gesturing to the empty space in front of him. Better get it over with quickly. "What are we talking about?"

There's a short silence, like Minho didn't expect him to agree so easily, and then he walks around to face Kibum. His fancy little prince robes sweep over the floor and flow around his body when he turns. "I was thinking about our first conversation," he says, "and I wanted to apologize for losing my temper.”

“Oof.” Instantly, Jonghyun stands up. He gathers all of his paint and carries it to the sink where he washes his hands quickly. "Not that I wouldn't love to sit here and watch this," he says, walking back to them and drying his hands on his shirt, "but I would rather be stranded in the desert. I'm going to go hang out in the kitchens." He puts a bracing hand on Minho's shoulder. "Good luck, highness," he says. To Kibum, he waves with three fingers and says, "later." And then he's gone through the door.

Minho watches him go, eyebrows furrowed, confused. Kibum watches him go, shaking his head. Coward. He turns back to his canvas and tells Minho, "I don't care for apologies.”

"Oh?” Minho's eyebrows rise up behind his bangs. For a moment, he hesitates, thinking. Then he says, "may I ask why?"

"Sure can," Kibum says. He lets the silence after that stretch on, expectant and pointed, until Minho sighs and says, "okay, why?” Only then does he answer, "by the time you get to ‘sorry,’ it's already happened. Sorry isn't going to fix it, or make it not happen. It's empty words." He doesn't have the time or the patience for something that amounts to nothing. "The best apology is changed behavior."

Again, Minho stays silent, thinking over his words. Since he's being given time, Kibum works more on his sketch. He kind of likes the pose that he has now. He just has to figure out how the robes drape over the body. He also argues with himself a little, grumpy. He knows that he was only so distant and standoffish to Minho last week because he was trying to get on his nerves, but that doesn't mean he has to stop now. He shouldn't let his love of talking drag him so low that he would willingly have a conversation with the prince.

Still. Maybe he could use this opportunity to see what the fuck Jonghyun is talking about. He knows how their argument usually goes; Jonghyun admits that no, it's not wrong for Kibum to be wary and closed off to those with power, and Kibum concedes that yes, most of the issue on a person-to-person basis is learned behaviors and not necessarily any inherent negative traits. Kibum is too harsh and Jonghyun is too soft. It's the same as all of their other arguments. Maybe Kibum could, just this once, put their hypothetical conclusions to the test.

Plus, he just had such a good idea to help with his sketching.

"An apology–"

"Hold on." Kibum interrupts Minho, glancing between him and his canvas. He makes a rectangle with his fingers, frames up the canvas, and then holds them up to put Minho in the frame instead. "Step back?" he asks. Minho, after a moment’s frown, obeys. Kibum checks the position again and nods. Good. "Bend your right knee," he orders next. "Turn your left foot out. Left hand on your hip. Right arm 90 degrees at the elbow. Hand limp. Pinky up a little bit. Look to your left. Turn towards me. More. Good. Perfect." Kibum smiles between the real life Minho and the little sketch Minho. They're practically identical. "Continue," he says, starting to lightly pencil in the robes.

"An apology," Minho starts, and Kibum is almost impressed by how calm he sounds. There's just the tiniest hint of sharpness in his voice like he's suppressing it on purpose. Interesting. "Is the start of changed behavior, I think. It's an acknowledgement of something done wrong. I don't think you can start growing unless you admit that you need to grow in the first place."

Hmm. Very interesting. Definitely never something Kibum thought he would hear coming out of a noble’s mouth. Point for Jonghyun, he guesses.

"I suppose," he says. That wasn't really his issue, though. "But I don't see why you need to announce the start of your growth." He doesn't have a problem with the meaning behind the apology, more the reasons for doing it. "You don't need to tell me that you've done something wrong and you feel bad about it. I already know that." He glances quickly at Minho, trying to see if that got any reaction. It didn't; Minho is still standing perfectly posed, only looking at Kibum with his eyes. His jawline forms a sharp point, handsome and eye-catching. Distracted, disappointed, Kibum draws in the folds of his robes on the floor.

"That you would come all the way here to find me and tell me seems performative. Like you're not doing it for me, but for your own guilt." He pauses, smirks a little, and decides to tease Minho with his favorite word. "Seems almost sel–"

“Don't.” The word comes out of Minho loud, sudden, and almost harsh, so much that Kibum almost drops his pencil. But when he looks at Minho, already his eyes are closed and he's breathing in so deeply that Kibum can see his chest rising and falling. He watches Minho deflate, his hand unclench on his hip, his face settle back into neutrality. He opens his eyes again and, meeting Kibum's gaze, says, "don't. Say that to me. Please. I can't...," he looks down and exhales slowly through his mouth. "I can't deal with it today."

Kibum examines him quietly, entirely intrigued. One sentence, but so much information. He considers saying it anyway, just to see what would happen, just to see how the prince would react to him disobeying a direct order, but over Minho's shoulder, he catches Taemin's eye. His glare, more like. Taemin shakes his head a fraction of an inch from side to side.

Kibum huffs through his nose. "Fine," he says. If it's so important that even Taemin is serious about it, then fine. Besides. Minho did say please. Kibum wouldn't want to be rude. "But you understand what I mean." Apparently upsetting insults aside, Kibum did have a point.

"I do," Minho says after another breath of a pause. "I think. I can see where you're coming from. But." Again, he takes a moment to think. Kibum barely suppresses a roll of the eyes. Why did he want to come here and talk if he hadn't entirely thought out what to say? He erases a mark and leans around the easel to see Minho's robes better, taking his time to redraw it. "I still think...," Minho says slowly. "An apology can be important... for the wronged party... to receive that acknowledgement and validation... of their pain. Instead of ignoring it."

Kibum eyes him over the canvas, suspicious. He already told Minho that he doesn't need that. "Is this your way of trying to tell me you want me to apologize too?" he asks bluntly.

"No," Minho says, and he looks and sounds so surprised at the accusation that Kibum begrudgingly believes him. "I’m sharing my opinion. I don't expect an apology from you."

"But you would like one," Kibum says. He can tell, just from Minho's description of apologies, that he holds them in high regard. And, like he thought, a quick frown shadows the prince’s face before he schools it away.

"I would appreciate one, yes," he says, "but I've been thinking about it and understand why you dislike me. And I understand that I'm not entitled to anything from you."

"Hmm." Kibum very much doubts that Minho truly understands why he dislikes him, but he does like the admission that Kibum doesn't owe him anything. Especially considering how Kibum treated him last week. Another point for Jonghyun. He could make an exception to, as Minho puts it, acknowledge and validate his pain, but he could also just not do that. He doesn't make exceptions for anyone, and definitely not a prince. "That's another thing," he says instead, pointing at Minho with his pencil. "You say you've been thinking about it. Why? It was over a week ago."

"Well," Minho says, and he's surprised again. "It was only–"

He stops at a sudden quiet but still audible raspberry from behind him. Taemin is rolling his eyes hard, lips flapping through the noise. Abruptly, he turns and walks to the wall of the room. He rustles around in the pottery stuff, then walks to the table, sits down, throws a slab of clay onto it, and starts playing with it. Just pushing it around, squishing it, forming it into nothing. Kibum raises his eyebrows at him. Bold move.

Though, maybe not, because Minho doesn't seem to mind. He shakes his head, but he actually smiles, a fond little thing. And that, more than anything, makes Kibum stop and think. Any other noble, he is one hundred percent certain, would have at the very least reprimanded their attendant for that. For the interruption, for the clear display of boredom, for abandoning his post without permission, for getting his hands dirty.

But not Minho. Minho looks back to Kibum and continues as if he wasn't interrupted. Annoyed, Kibum gives yet another point to Jonghyun. At this rate, he might have to admit that Jonghyun was right about the prince. He shudders at the thought.

"I like to resolve things," Minho is saying. "If there is animosity between me and a person, I want to take the time to figure it out and then clear it up. Don't you?"

"If I wanted to clear up animosity between us, I would have done it that day," Kibum says. There's no point in waiting around. "If I thought there was still animosity between us, I would have cleared it up by now," he adds. It's honestly news to him that the prince is still bothered by their conversation. Has been bothered this entire time. He's almost flattered that Minho cares that much about him.

"I–do you not?" Minho frowns. He starts to move, to scratch the side of his head, before Kibum points sharply at him. He's still sketching. Minho freezes, then returns to the correct pose. He says, "you're not still mad about it?"

"I mean," Kibum shrugs. "Do I still dislike you? Yes. But do I still care about what you said a week ago? No. I'm over it. All you're doing is bringing up something that isn't important anymore."

"But that's–have you ever thought–"

Kibum is becoming very familiar with the habit of Minho's to stop himself and take a breath. To close his eyes, breathe in, breathe out. To calm himself, to revert back to prim and proper. He's becoming very familiar and very annoyed by it. What's the point of having an argument if Minho is going to hold back the whole time? If he's not going to treat Kibum like he's worth respecting with his real emotions? There's no flow, no cadence to the conversation. Kibum is finishing up the details of the robes around Minho's shoulders and he doesn't have anything new to think about while he does it except how there's nothing new to think about.

"Finish the sentence," he orders.

“Excuse me?" Minho, still in the process of calming himself down, blinks at him. Kibum waves his hand in circles towards him.

"Have I ever thought what?" he prompts. "You had a thought. Finish it. It's not like I can't handle it.”

Minho still takes a moment to bring his face back to neutral, but at least he says, "have you ever thought that other people see things differently than you?” His voice is still calm, but there's more of an edge to it, more life. Kibum can't help his triumphant smile. Here they go. "That even though something isn't important to you, it might be important to someone else? That you're not the center of the–" he stops himself again. Kibum snorts. Coward. Should have just said it.

"I have, actually," he says airily. He has thought about that a whole lot. "But just because other people think differently to me, that doesn't mean I have to change myself to fit their view." Their opinions do not have to change his opinions. "You can stop posing now," he adds. He's done with the robes. He just needs to draw the face on top of the guide circle, and it’s as he has that thought that he realizes that he's never actually drawn a face before. Fuck.

"No," Minho concedes, relaxing and turning to fully face Kibum. "But I do think it means that you should have the grace to consider other people's points of view before you project your own onto them like it's the final word."

And now Kibum is conflicted. Upset. Because what Minho just said... was right. He was right. It's been something that Kibum has been working on for years, and he cannot fucking believe that he just had to have a morality reminder from a fucking prince.

He stops keeping track of Jonghyun's points. He glares at his canvas, drawing a little frog where Minho's head should go. He’s embarrassed, too, because he guesses that he has to admit that Minho isn't as self-absorbed and cruel as he at first thought. That he can be thoughtful, and kind, and compassionate.

Annoying.

Also annoying is the realization that he's never drawn a crown before, either, and he doesn't even remember what Minho's crown is supposed to look like. He only wears it during formal events and Kibum hasn't been paying attention to him during all of the fancy formal bullshit he's been to this past week and a half. He knows that Jonghyun has, through his touristy wandering of the castle, figured out where the royal artifact room is and what the security around it is like, but maybe the two of them could convince Minho to let them inside of it for a little bit. To practice drawing the crown, and also to see what they'll be dealing with in there on the big night. But that'll be something for another time.

For now, he doodles a generic little crown on the frog and tosses his pencil onto the table. "I'm done," he announces. "What do you think?" He picks up the canvas and turns it around to show Minho.

Taemin bursts into laughter.

Loud and hiccuppy, just as obnoxious and just as warm as Kibum remembers. Kibum spares him a rare smile, then turns a raised eyebrow to the prince.

And is surprised to see him smiling as well, before he covers it with his hand, trying to smother it and failing.

"The resemblance is uncanny," he says, and his voice shakes with suppressed laughter. Kibum guesses, if he can't have the enjoyment of insulting Minho, at least he gets the flattery of making him laugh. Even if it does score Jonghyun yet another point.

"Well, good," Kibum says. "Because I'm done for the day." He's done enough sketches and he's had enough of this conversation. "I'm going to clean up and go find Bling," he says.

"Oh," Minho says. There’s something in his voice; not exactly surprise, but disappointment, maybe? Like he wanted to continue talking. Still, "very well," he says. He gives Kibum the royal bow. “Thank you for giving me your time. Taemin?"

"Yep," Taemin says, popping up from his seat. He grabs his mess of clay and tosses it back into the bag he got it from, washes his hands, and is dignified and elegant at Minho's elbow again within a minute. Together, they head for the door.

Kibum watches them go. Already, he's thinking of their conversation, repeating it to himself, picking it apart. It's a bad habit of his. But it does remind him of something, and he calls out, "your highness?"

In the doorway, Minho turns, humming in question. Kibum purses his lips. He's just realized. Minho didn't even come in to apologize for the right thing. "Last week," he says, tapping his finger on the edge of his canvas. "I wasn't angry because you lost your temper. That was the one part of the conversation I did like.”

"Really?" Minho asks, eyebrows hidden behind his bangs. "What were you angry about then?" he asks.

And Kibum sighs hard and sharp, wrinkles his nose, shoves himself into saying the words. "I was angry because you were right," he says. It hurts his pride to say it, but not as much as it would hurt his pride to not admit a fault. "I was projecting and I don't know you. I just know about you."

Jonghyun is never going to let him live this down.

He's never going to let himself live this down either, because when he says that, Minho fucking smirks. He actually smirks, the smug fucking asshole, for a fraction of a second before he smoothly fixes it into a perfectly average smile.

"Thank you for saying so," he says graciously, which pisses Kibum off even more. fs Minho is going to be cocky than he could at least have the confidence to revel in it instead of acting all humble. "If I may ask," he adds, "you liked when I lost my temper? Why? I thought you thought it was a royal temper tantrum."

Kibum snorts. "I would rather you had a temper tantrum," he admits. "Then at least I would know you were being honest. All of this shit you were doing today? Suppressing your emotions? I hate that. I don't want you to treat me like I'm a baby that you have to be careful around just because you're royal . I want you to treat me like you would your peers. Equally." He doesn't know why he's saying all of this to Minho. There's not really any point. It's not like Minho is going to do it. And it's not like they’re going to have a lot of opportunities to talk after this anyway. The birthday month is already almost halfway over.

But at least he's said it. At least Minho has heard it. Based off of their conversation today, he might even think about it.

He certainly thinking about it now, staring wordlessly at Kibum. No, not at Kibum. Passed him. Through him. For a long, silent moment until he suddenly blinks, shakes his head, and smiles. But it's a sad smile, small, distant.

"I do treat you like I do my peers," he says. Once again, he gives Kibum the royal bow. "It was nice speaking to you.”

He turns and walks out, leaving Kibum with a lot to think about.

Jonghyun has a problem.

Well, he has three problems.

Well, he has a lot of problems. Most of which have followed him around since he popped out of the womb, and a few others that he's picked up along the way. But more specifically, and more recently, he has three problems that need solutions very quickly.

First is that he thinks maybe he's a little bit in love with Minho.

Jonghyun is easy; he's a hopeless romantic. He crushes on people all the time. He flirts for fun. He craves that feeling of butterflies, the rush of enamoration, the fireworks and heartbursts that come with a new attraction. Two weeks ago, he was feeling all of that for Minho, and that was fine. That was fun.

But that was two weeks ago, and this is now, and all of those feelings are still here. They're still here and they're bigger . Usually they're gone within a few days, replaced by just fondness, friendship, memories of blushes and fun. The first time Jonghyun felt like this for longer than a week, it ended in a heartbreak so huge that it still hurts today. The second time, he wound up married to Kibum. Based on his odds, he doesn't have high hopes for how it'll turn out with Minho.

But no matter how often he tells himself that, his heart still flutters, his breath still catches, his mouth still automatically smiles whenever the prince comes near. He looks at Minho and he feels a song in his heart. He looks at Minho and hears a song in his head, a melody and a rhythm and a harmony, lyrics jumping uninvited to the front of his brain. Lyrics about a universe, about a satellite, about the desperate need to be found in a crowd of thousands.

And all of this is on top of the guilt, the ever growing sense that he's not just going to steal from Minho, but that he's going to betray him. Because they've been having evening tea with each other every day since they met, and Jonghyun considers himself an expert at telling when people are into him, and he knows that Minho is into him. He can see it in his smile, in his bitten lips, in the way he looks at Jonghyun's hands like all he wants to do is reach out and hold them. He never meant to find his way into the prince's heart, just into his treasure room.

And all of that is on top of the fact that he overheard the conversation that Minho had with his family a few days ago about the earthquake. He'd been scoping out more of the castle, exploring hallways, slipping in and out of the hidden passageways that have been forgotten about by the royals for generations but remembered by the Rebellion for just as long. He was in one when he heard the whole conversation and now he has that on his conscience as well.

Every day since then he’s been struggling to figure out what to say about it, or if he even should say something at all. How can he offer comfort and advice to someone that he's deceiving? To someone that he's never going to see again when the month is over? And is it even his place to give advice to a prince about his family anyway? He's gotten very comfortable with Minho, but he doesn't know if he's that comfortable.

That's his first problem.

His second is that he's still not a fucking artist. He can copy Krystal’s art style, easy, but that's it. He can't copy her natural talent for seeing an image in her mind and putting it down on paper. He can't copy the years of her practiced skill of lines, colors, techniques. He can't tap into her stunning ability to take a solitary emotion, expand it out into every single possible facet of its existence, and then condense all of that down into a single two by three foot canvas. He can't take the overwhelming feeling of longing, of yearning, of potential and possibility and infinite choice that he can feel fighting to burst out of Minho and just splat that out of a few bottles of paint. All he can do is get his hands dirty and feel bad.

He can paint a portrait of Minho, but not the one that Minho deserves, and his body seems to have decided that if it can't do that, then it won't start at all. Jonghyun has painted a different background every single day, but when it comes to actually putting the prince down on the canvas, he can't do it. And the portrait ceremony is next week. If he doesn't come up with something to present then he's going to get executed before they even have a chance to steal the crown jewels.

His third problem is that as he is sitting here in the garden under the stars agonizing over Minho, Minho is walking towards him. Closer and closer, Taemin at his elbow, a smile on his face, moonlight illuminating his cheeks before he walks into the warm lamplight. Jonghyun's heart soars and his stomach drops. It's a very weird feeling and he would like to never feel it again. He stands up from the low wall he was sitting on and bows, remembering his manners.

"Hello again, Bling," Minho says in his warm voice. "I almost didn't see you. It's getting dark earlier these days, isn't it?"

"Ah... yeah,” Jonghyun agrees. Winter, solstice, the eternal shifting and expanding of the universe. The usual. "I don't mind," he says. He points up at the sky. "Makes it easier to see the stars."

Minho looks up and just for a moment, the stars are reflected in his eyes. Vast, glittering, endless, an entire universe condensed. Jonghyun forgets how to breathe until Minho looks away and smiles at him again. "Pretty," he says.

What a fucking understatement.

Quickly, Jonghyun hoists himself back up on the wall. He picks up one of the cups of tea he had next to him and offers it to the prince. "Jinki had it ready for me today,” he says.

"Oh?" Minho takes the cup and hands it to Taemin; Taemin takes it and wanders into the rows of snapdragons to play with the flowers as usual. Jonghyun gives Minho a second cup and picks up the third for himself. "I suppose we have been doing this every day," Minho says. He turns to lean against the wall next to Jonghyun. Like this, their heights are equal. Like this, all Jonghyun has to do is turn to the side to meet Minho's eyes. He stares into his tea cup and takes a sip. "I do like Jinki," Minho hums. "I wish I knew more sign language. I try to learn what I can, but I don't have much time. But I enjoy talking to him anyway. He's very kind."

"He's sweet," Jonghyun agrees. Sweet and gentle, a perfectly acceptable person to fall in love with, and Jonghyun got over his butterflies for him in three days. Multiple times; it was only once or twice a year that Jinki could get time out of the castle to visit them at their branch’s headquarters, and every time, Jonghyun fell in love with him again. But every time, he got over it. They make a game of it, the two of them, dating for a few days out of the year, just for fun.

Jonghyun and Minho sit in a comfortable silence. They're long past the charade that they're spending time together for Jonghyun to get inspiration for the portrait. They haven't talked about it in at least a week. Instead they just make small talk, enjoy each other's company, and never address their attraction to each other. Jonghyun figures Minho isn't bringing it up because it wouldn't be proper, as a prince. He's thankful, he guesses, because Minho avoiding it makes it easier for him to continue cowering around the topic as well.

A cold winter breeze rushes past them and Minho shivers, drawing his robes tighter around himself. He glances at Jonghyun, then does a double-take, and exhales the softest laugh, tilting his head. "Don't you ever get cold?" he asks.

Jonghyun glances down at himself; he's in his usual shirt, trousers, and boots, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He chuckles, sheepish, and shrugs. "Not really," he admits. "I'm just naturally hot.”

He says it instinctively, with a grin, even as his brain instantly starts screaming at him. Stop fucking flirting, it yells, we're making it worse.

"It's one of the reasons I like winter more than summer," he tacks on quickly, trying to fix it. "I get sweaty easy. Summer is awful. Too hot." And now he's oversharing, which isn't fixing it at all. Panicking, his brain spins a wheel of things to say and lands on, "I heard you arguing with your family the other day."

Fuck.

"You what?" Minho frowns, turning completely to Jonghyun. "In–about the? The earthquake?"

"Yes," Jonghyun says, and then, finally, his brain does something right. He stands up and bows, horrified at himself. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't–I didn't mean to, um, I wasn't–eavesdropping, or–"

"Bling." Big hands, warm hands, gentle hands, on his shoulders, pulling him up. As he straightens, Minho's hands hover just around his cheeks, like he's going to cup them, before he folds them in front of himself. "It’s all right," he says softly. "I'm not angry.”

Oh. Jonghyun swallows. Anger wasn't really his worry, but that is a relief. Since he's apparently started this conversation, he's going to have to finish it. And finishing it will be much easier if Minho isn't angry. It's always easier to tell the truth when the one receiving the truth isn't angry.

"I'm confused," Minho says. "How could you have overheard?"

Well. Maybe not the whole truth. But that part is easy. Jonghyun is used to it.

"I was," he starts. "I was exploring around the castle. You know how beautiful I think it is in there." He's told Minho that enough times, and he really means it. "And I wasn't paying much attention to where I was going. And I found myself a little lost in all of the hallways? I saw some guards by a door at one point, but I got scared that. You know." He pauses sheepishly, looking down. "If I was in a place where they needed guards at the door, then I probably shouldn't be there. So I went around. And then I heard your voice. Through the wall. And I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was just curious, and then. I mean. It wasn't exactly quiet."

"Ah," Minho says. He scratches the side of his head with one finger. "You're right about that." He steps back, leaning against the wall once more. Quietly, hesitantly, Jonghyun hops back up next to him. Minho has a faraway look in his eyes, not quite like he's thinking. More like he's remembering. Jonghyun twiddles his fingers, searching for something to say. Something lighthearted. Something simple.

"Your family, um," he tries. "They don't keep their voices down, do they? Not like you. If that's okay to say." He adds on that last part quickly, not sure if he's overstepped or not.

"What? Oh. Yeah. Wait–really?" Minho comes back to himself all at once, his distant expression snapping into focus on Jonghyun's face.

"Um," Jonghyun says. He's not entirely sure which part Minho is questioning. "Yeah," he says. "I could barely hear you, but I heard every word from them." He almost wants to say it must be a royal thing, the confidence to always be heard, but he can't truthfully say that when Minho is right here in front of him.

Again, Minho goes distant for a moment. He frowns at the ground and mouths words to himself, frowns harder, and then seems to remember that he was in a conversation and looks up again. "I thought you meant–I thought I was the one that was." He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Never mind," he says.

Jonghyun does mind, though. "Because your father told you you were yelling?" he asks gently. Silence from Minho again, but then a nod. Up and down, just once.

And now here they are. The crux of the matter. The words that have been lurking inside of Jonghyun's throat since the day he first heard conversation. The words that, if he chose to say them to anyone else in the noble class, would get him severely reprimanded. At best.

But not to Minho, he doesn't think.

"Highness," he says, "if I may?" He waits for Minho to look up, to meet his eyes, and then decides that it's not enough. He stands up off of the wall again, facing Minho. Looking up at him, his deep eyes, his pretty, soft face, Jonghyun itches to hug him, to hold his hand at least, but even he thinks that would be too much. Instead, he just says what he needs to say: "you don't deserve to be spoken to like they did.”

"I... what? Like what?" Minho is confused, his brows furrowed, his head tilted. "I mean, my brother, maybe, can be rude, but that's just. That's just how brothers–"

" No , highness," Jonghyun says. He shouldn't have interrupted, he knows that, but he needs Minho to understand this. More than anything, his heart pounds in his chest with the all-consuming need to tell Minho that he deserves better. "It's not just that," he says. "It's–it was everything, the, the insults, and the dismissal of your feelings, the overexaggeration of your feelings? The way they would tell you how much they cared about you one moment and then demean you the next? The lying, the–they made it sound as though your only worth was that you were a prince, and anything human about you was wrong. They called you overemotional and selfish for caring about people, and they acted like you had no reason to be upset, I mean–I knew about the earthquake, I knew about it on the first day, and it's literally your duty to care for your citizens, of course you would be–it wasn't right , it wasn't fair , and they made it out like you were the one that was being absurd, and. You don't. I don't. I don't understand how. You're not like them, highness. You don't belong here."

That was a lot more than he meant to say. Jonghyun is a little breathless, panting, his mouth dry, his eyes wet. It's the tendency of his to, once he gets started on something that he's passionate about, to accidentally summon a waterfall of words that spill out of his lips with no filter. It embarrasses him, but it's already happened. He’s said everything and Minho has heard everything, and now they're in this moment together, underneath the moonlight, Jonghyun's heart beating so loudly that he can hear it in his ears.

And Minho is silent.

For a long time, he’s silent, staring at the cobbled stone path, his knuckles white on the wall. Jonghyun bites his lip. Now that the rush is leaving him, he's remembering everything he said, regretting it, feeling guilt for it. Maybe. Maybe it was too much.

Definitely, he thinks as the silence goes on. Definitely too much, especially at the end. "Highness?” he says hesitantly. "I'm... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…. It was only one conversation. I know... that I don't really know what your family is like. Forget I said anything, please."

And still, Minho sits in silence, until he shakes his head.

"No," he says. His voice sounds far away, and he rubs his hand over his face and through his hair. "No, it's... I'm not angry," he says. He looks at Jonghyun and seems to come back to himself, a little. "I just... have a lot on my mind. Suddenly. If you can believe it." His smile is weak, but not forced. Jonghyun nods his head, not sure what to say. "I don't... I’d like to stop talking about this, Bling. For now."

Jonghyun smiles now, chuckling softly. "Bling," He says. "Such a silly name, isn't it? For such a serious moment." It's his nickname, his artist name, his code name, his secret identity when he's doing Rebellion work. But it's never fooled anyone. "You can call me Jonghyun.”

"Jonghyun." In Minho's voice, his name is gorgeous. Minho stands up straight, then stumbles; automatically, Jonghyun reaches out to steady him, holding his arms. Minho's hands grip onto him as if in response. He pulls Jonghyun closer to get his footing, but then he doesn't let go. He just looks down at Jonghyun, and Jonghyun looks up at him, closer than they've ever been. When Minho flicks his eyes even lower down, Jonghyun swears he could count his eyelashes. "Very well then, Jonghyun," he says. "On one condition."

Jonghyun can't help it; he flicks his eyes down as well, watching Minho's lips form his words. He takes his time dragging them back up Minho's face. He draws them over his soft cheeks, covered with makeup that can't disguise acne scars and pockmarks. He pauses on the scar just underneath his right eye. A small, horizontal line right on his cheekbone, like a cut on purpose. Further up, his eyes, dark brown, warm, full of so much emotion that Jonghyun can't begin to comprehend the weight of it. Eventually he remembers that he's supposed to reply and asks, "what's that, highness?"

"Only if you call me Minho."

Jonghyun's heart skips a beat. "Minho," he says, and he hopes Minho thinks that his name sounds just as beautiful in Jonghyun's mouth as it feels. He hopes that he is as beautiful in Minho's eyes as Minho is in his. He leans forward, just an inch, and hopes that Minho leans forward too. And when Minho does, when they're so close that they're sharing each other's breaths, Jonghyun closes his eyes and hopes–

A crash, a shatter, the skitter of debris all over the ground. Jonghyun jumps a mile, his hands flying up and his eyes going wide, his heart hammering in his chest. Minho jumps so hard that he has to grab onto the wall to catch himself.

"Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck. My fault. Sorry. I'll fix it. Fuck." Taemin, cursing and mumbling, bobs up and down in apologetic bows on the other side of the wall. He crouches over a huge fallen pot of white flowers and lugs it back up, grimacing and cursing as he inspects the big chip in its side, the pebbles and dirt spread all over the walkway.

Minho turns away, closing his eyes and resting his hands around the back of his neck, breathing out slowly towards the sky. When he does, Taemin holds his hands out at Jonghyun and mouths, what the fuck?

Jonghyun gives him the middle finger. He's lucky that Jonghyun basically adopted him when he joined the Rebellion all of those years back.

"It's all right, Taemin," Minho says evenly. He's still speaking to the sky, but he tilts his head to watch Taemin, who has already gone back to worrying over the pot like nothing changed. "It can be fixed," Minho says. "Are you hurt?"

Taemin mumbles out a reply; Jonghyun sighs, ruffling his fingers through his hair. Well. He's grateful, he guesses. No need to dig himself so deep that he can't crawl back out.

He laughs, quietly, rubbing his palms into his eyes. He thinks he's already there.

He sits on the wall again, picking up his long-forgotten tea and taking a cold sip. Minho finishes checking on Taemin and returns to his original position as well, leaning next to Jonghyun. They exist in silence, the two of them, until Jonghyun glances at Minho and Minho glances at Jonghyun and then both of them glance away, and then both of them grin and meet each other's eyes again.

"So," Jonghyun says casually. "Where were we?"

"We were," Minho starts, and then, suddenly, beautifully, he flushes a bright red. Jonghyun can't help it. He bursts into laughter, stifling it into the back of his wrist. At least, if he survives this and gets to go home, he'll have something extra to brag about. He'll be the only one that can say he made the prince blush.

"I meant before that," he smirks, nudging Minho with his elbow. Minho hides his entire face behind his hands.

The showcase room has been cleaned from top to bottom. Dusted, scrubbed, and shined so it gleams with an almost artificial brilliance. It's decorated in rich blues and purples because those are the colors that the king thought would most match the robes that the family is wearing tonight. The queen picked out the robes, long and flowing and tied together with elegant sashes delicately embroidered with grapes and berries to subtly remind everyone what they gained by defeating their agricultural neighbors to the south in battle over the summer. Vases of flowers picked out by the crown prince are set in intervals between the closed windows.

On the walls, there are countless portraits of the royal family in neat rows. One wall is entirely dedicated to ancestors of the family, one portrait of each dating back hundreds of years. The rest of the walls are covered in the current family. Each member has 2 portraits for every year of their life, all proudly displayed in the center room of the castle.

Guests mill around the spotless tile floor, mingling and appreciating the art. Nobles from up and down the country, dignitaries, and lords lucky enough to buy entrance to the event alike praise the neat rows of portraits, praise the family, praise the country. Servants weave among them offering drinks, food, and assistance. The two artists of the year hover in the corner, allowed to be in the present company as long as they stay in their place next to their covered portraits.

None of the other artists that the family have commissioned in previous years were restricted in their movement.

Minho always has been. He is not to get up from his seat on the stage in the center of the room with the rest of his family. He is to stay here, letting everyone else come up to him if they wish to speak. He is to graciously accept praise and compliments from people that look at his royal rings before they look at his face.

He is to sit here in a too tight robe of a color that he dislikes, surrounded by flowers that make his throat itch, and watch other people treat his birthday like a stepping stone to curry favor with those of higher class than themselves.

In between listening to people fawn over his parents and thinly veiled attempts to gain his affection, Minho studies the wall of portraits in front of him. In one long line, he can see his entire life, doubled. Him as a tiny baby, smoothed out and given even skin tone by generous painters. Him as a toddler, big eyes and fat cheeks, already wearing his four rings on his pudgy little hand. 10 years old, his hair sleek and brushed as a 10 year old’s never is, wearing an expression of calm and serenity that a 10 year old never has. 15, the year he got his scar, though no one would ever know it to look at the portraits. 17, standing tall and proud, jaw stronger, nose straighter, cheekbones higher. 20, looking mature and wise beyond his years. 23, just one year ago, perfect in every way.

Every single one, composed in a way that makes him look larger than life. Every single one, posed so that his rings are prominently on display. Every single one, colored so that his crown is the brightest pop of color. He looks powerful, decisive, regal, stoic. He looks like he is a credit to his status, an accomplishment that the family can be proud of.

38 Minhos look down on Minho, and Minho looks back up at 38 strangers.

But he's sure he's being dramatic. He tends to get emotional this far into his birthday month, when the weeks of formal events and socializing without break start to really pack together. The portraits are meant to show him at his best. His most formal, his most regal, a depiction of the current prince to be passed down through history. In past years, he's wondered why his best self always appears to be so much better than he feels. So idealized, so glorified, so exaggerated. All of his best traits, none of his worst. But he would soothe himself, remind himself in his mother’s voice that he is a beacon, an example of what to strive for. If he were to show weakness, the crown would look weak. He needs to look strong so that the people can have confidence. He needs to look strong in public so he doesn't embarrass his family any further. His weakness can be on his own time, in private.

This year, a different voice lurks in the back of his mind. They treat you like your only worth is because you are a prince, and anything human about you is wrong.

Could that really be it? Minho doesn't know. He's been thinking about it for a week straight and he just doesn't know. He doesn't think his family would be that cruel. They care about him. They're kind to him. They sacrifice so much for him. He can just imagine their reactions if he were to voice his thoughts out loud; his brother’s scoff, his mother's shock, his father's disappointment.

And yet. He looks at all of these portraits of himself and all he sees is what he's never going to be good enough to be.

He's pulled from his thoughts by the gong of the castle bell. 8:00. Time for the portrait presentations. Time for Jonghyun and Key to show what they've done.

But first, another speech. The royal speaker, a proper a little woman that only ever says "yes your highness” to Minho, steps onto the stage in front of the family. She unfurls a scroll and reads from it about the ancestry, the generations of wealth and splendor, blah blah blah, and finishes it with a sentence about Minho's continued life extending the marvelous lineage of royalty. She rolls the scroll shut, announces Key, and steps off of the stage, not a hair out of place.

Key, head held high, hair coiffed up, eyebrow scar severely accentuated with makeup, strides through the crowd and up onto the stage without sparing a single glance for any of the nobles. Seeing not just his pride and his confidence, but the bravery he’s showing by not disguising those emotions, Minho can't help but feel fond. The two of them have exchanged polite small talk in the past week ever since their conversation in the art room and, Minho might dare say, Key has been warming up to him. At the very least, he likes Minho more than he likes everyone else in this room right now, save Jonghyun and the servants, and he's not afraid to show it. He sure does stick to his principles.

A servant carries his covered painting on a stand, but he also holds several smaller canvases under his arm. Minho sits up a little straighter, curious. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his father frown. Even though it's not directed at him, he feels that frown as a chill throughout his every nerve.

"Your majesties," Key says, bowing down to each one of them in order of importance. He straightens up the fourth time facing Minho, smirking. Just barely, so much that Minho almost doesn't see it, he twitches his scarred eyebrow up and down. An invitation to reply. A challenge. He knows that Minho is bound to the annual rehearsal of this event and he's daring him to go off-script.

Minho compromises by giving him his own small hooked smile in return. An emotion, at least, an honest display of his amusement at Key’s boldness. Key exhales softly, a snort to Minho but an innocent release of breath to everyone else.

"When I received the invitation to paint your royal highness this year, I was intrigued," Key says, projecting his voice so the entire showcase room can hear. "Me, an unknown artist from a poor village in the northern mountains? What could I offer that piqued a prince’s interest? So I decided to come offer my service, if only to see for myself why I was chosen. To understand what it was about your highness that would make you consider me.

“From our first meeting I was...," and Key pauses here as though searching for the right word. He makes direct eye contact with Minho, though, with just the barest hint of mirth in his eyes that Minho can't help but match. He knows they're both thinking the same thing. Hostile is the word that Minho would put to it. "Cautious," is what Key chooses to say, the word surrounded by a smile. "And I wasn't quite sure that I liked who I met. I'm still not sure.”

Someone in the audience actually gasps ; Minho fights the gargantuan urge to roll his eyes. And people say he's dramatic. Key looks all the more smug for it. Of course he does.

"But I am sure that your highness is much more than I thought you were. We've only spoken at length a few times, but the impression that you left on me after our last conversation was strong. So strong that I felt as if one single portrait would not be enough to completely capture your aura." On Minho's left, his mother sits up, leans forward, opens her mouth as if to protest, to declare that only one portrait was commissioned, only one is needed, and probably add on that Key won't be compensated for the extra. Key continues before she can speak, so smooth and seamless it's like he didn't even notice her, rendering any reprimand for interrupting or cutting her off unfounded.

"The official portrait is finished and can stand on its own," he says, "but my hope is that these smaller companion pieces will add context and depth to the whole." He swings the stack of small canvases out from under his arm to hold them in both hands, looking down at the one on top. "I fear," he says, and here he smiles, sheepish, round cheeked. He looks up and continues, "looking at all of the beautiful art in this room, I fear my skills cannot match," he says. "And I apologize for this."

Minho raises his eyebrows at him, just a little, confused. He apologizes? Key meets his eyes. He glances at the rest of Minho's family and back, and his perfectly humble smile quirks a little bit at one side, and Minho understands. He's not apologizing; he's covering himself, admitting a fault that he doesn't believe in or more likely doesn't care about to distract from how wildly off-kilter he has already thrown this entire ceremony. Minho has to say that he's impressed. Key could become a regular in the noble class with how well he can twist his words. Key finishes, "but I hope that my art pleases you, your highness, and serves as a suitable representation for this year of your life."

"Thank you for your time, skill, and labor," Minho recites. “Your art will reflect not only myself, but the honor of my title." It's the same reply that he has given every artist since he could speak. He hesitates, takes a deep breath of courage, and adds an extra, "I'm sure I'll like it no matter what, given as it's come from your heart." He doesn't know why he's so sure that Key has put in heartfelt effort; by all accounts, Minho wouldn't be surprised if he took off the cover and it was just a doodle of a frog on there. But somehow, he's sure that Key has put in more effort than the 38 artists before him. "Please show us your work," he says.

Key nods. He starts lining up each small canvas underneath the large one. They're all about a foot tall and eight inches wide, and there are five in all. The first thing that Minho notices is the art style–just like it was that day at the festival. Soft, fuzzy around the edges, and without outlines, just colors that contrast to each other even if they're similar hues. Seeing that style, friendly and colorful, is enough to make Minho fall in love with the pieces.

Then he registers what they're actually paintings of. They're him, of course, but they're all different expressions of his. The first one has him looking up, through his bangs, with a polite smile. In the second, he's angry, eyebrows furrowed, mouth open. His eyes are closed in the third, his lips pressed tight, his nostrils flared. The next has him laughing, a broad smile covered by his hand. And the fifth is faraway expression, his eyes unfocused, his mouth parted slightly.

Such a wide range of emotions, so vibrant and so expressive on his face. Key wasn't lying; his art style is nothing like the hyper realistic, detailed portraits of years past. But somehow, he's still managed to depict Minho's face with such charm and nuance that it feels more realistic than any Minho has ever seen. He hasn't tried to cover anything up or make Minho look pristine, either; he has the scar under his eye, acne marks on his skin, flyaways in his hair. Minho is almost starting to wonder how Key was able to create those emotions and details of his from his brain when he recognizes something else about the portraits: the backgrounds.

In the first two, he's framed by snow and hedges; the garden. The third is a full body pose–the one that Minho remembers standing for in the art room, with painting supplies hung up behind him. The fourth has the same background, and the fifth has him standing in a doorway, light from a hallway behind him spilling in.

These aren't just portraits; they're memories. Each one of them a moment in time from their two conversations where Minho's guard was down. Where, just for a moment, his trained beacon of royal nobility mask slipped. Where he showed Key that he was more than his first judgment.

As he pulls his eyes from the paintings to Key, he realizes that his mouth is hanging open. Quickly he closes it, but Key's triumphant smile is more than enough to let him know that the paintings have had their desired effect. Adjusting the last small canvas to be aligned with the others, Key then takes the sheet covering the large portrait in his hands and pulls it away.

At first, Minho is underwhelmed. The first paintings hit him so hard, but this official one seems just like the others hanging on the walls. It's Minho from the waist up in the royal bow position. One arm behind his back, ring hand resting over his heart. His face is stoic, the background is a blend of the same blues and purples that have decorated the castle all month. His jaw is strong, his skin perfect and smooth, his crown and rings shining brightly on the canvas. It's an average, expected portrait of the prince.

But, the more Minho looks at it, the more he realizes that maybe that's the point. Next to the other five paintings, he looks artificial, fake. And there are other details, small things that he thinks stand out only because he's looking for them. His posture is straight, square. Stiff. It's not that his jaw is strong, but that it's clenched. His knuckles are white. His face is completely flat, his mouth neutral, his eyes dull.

No, not dull. Empty.

Minho loses his breath.

He sits there in silence, heart pounding in his ears, and looks at that portrait of himself.

Of himself . Minho takes in the entire thing, every tiny detail, and feels for the first time in his life that that is him painted onto the canvas.

"Beautiful.” Distantly, he hears his father's voice. "Your unconventionality and lack of refinement is expected, but it is a fitting portrait nonetheless." Minho's vision is blurry; he realizes this when he’s suddenly surrounded by polite applause. That could only mean that Key has picked up the portrait and shown it to the crowd. Minho blinks, shaking his head and trying to discreetly rub his fingers into his eyes. Key gives his portrait a slow pan around so everyone can get a view, then sets it back down gently. He looks only at Minho, chin up, eyes just barely narrowed. The only opinion in this room that he cares about is Minho’s.

Minho remains silent, struggling to remember how to speak, struggling to put into words the intense feeling of both solitary loneliness and complete intimate personal understanding that this portrait has dropped on top of him.

"Thank you," he manages to get out. “It's very... impactful." And he fucking hopes that Key understands just how impactful he really means.

Key holds his gaze for a long moment, then bows deeply and takes his leave.

Minho has just a few short moments to try to compose himself and be prepared before the royal speaker steps up and announces Jonghyun. He doesn't succeed.

But watching Jonghyun weave through the crowd, helping carry his portrait with the servant, Minho feels a little calmer anyway. They haven't spoken about their almost kiss last week, but they haven't stopped meeting up for evening tea every night, either. And every night, Jonghyun has been asking him how he feels. Not prying, or pressuring him to speak. Just asking and letting him be as silent or open as he wants.

Mostly Minho has been silent, but just the simple fact that Jonghyun has been offering himself up in such a way that makes him feel cared for in a way that is so unfamiliar and yet so warm inside of his heart. It's an intense feeling, one that takes up his whole entire body, but a safe one, a gentle one. And when Jonghyun steps up onto the stage, bows to his family, and straightens up facing Minho, his soft smile evokes that same exact emotion.

"Your highness," he says. He takes in a big breath and lets it out in a whoosh. Eyeing the rest of the family, he grins, "if you thought that was unconventional, wait until you see mine." He points with his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Key, then sticks his hands into his pockets. Minho's brother snorts, but Jonghyun remains so relaxed, comfortable, and he speaks with an ease that makes Minho jealous.

Jonghyun turns his attention back to Minho. "The first thing you said to me one-on-one," he starts, "was a joke. And I knew from that moment that you were kind-hearted."

Automatically, Minho smiles. In all of his years, that's the first time that someone has complimented his soft heart instead of shaming him for it.

"And from our conversations these past weeks, I've come to learn that you are so much more. You are kind, compassionate, self less ," if Minho isn't mistaken, Jonghyun glances at his father when he puts emphasis on the word, just for a fraction of a second. Minho's heart stutters for just as long. "Thoughtful, and caring. All of the qualities that I always hoped my prince would have." He bows again. Minho has to fight to keep from biting his lip at all of the flattery. This is nothing like what he's been subjected to all day; he knows that Jonghyun means all of this. He knows that this is genuine.

"But if I may make a confession, your highness?" Jonghyun asks, straightening up. For just a moment Minho panics, thinking of the kind of confession Jonghyun could be wanting to make, until Jonghyun continues, "for the longest time, I couldn’t start on your portrait. It wasn't until our conversation last week that I was... struck," the word comes with another smirk, "with inspiration."

Minho sure hopes he's not blushing as hard as he thinks he is right now. Struck is definitely a word for it. "I completed your portrait with that inspiration, but more than that, I, um." Jonghyun hesitates. He looks down, rubs the back of his neck, and looks back up, whooshing another breath through his lips. "If I may make another confession? You invited me here for my artwork, but I've never considered myself much of an artist. At least, not in a visual way. I've always been much more invested in poetry and music."

Jonghyun pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. Minho sits up straighter, surprised, curious. Jonghyun has told him that he's interested in music, yes, but not to this extent. "And, I wrote a short... piece. To go with my artwork. Which, um, I can do. Like, as part of my presentation. Legally." He's speaking nervously to the rest of the family now, shaky and hesitant even as he unfolds the paper and holds it tightly in his hands. "Originally, actually, the chosen artist each year could choose whatever art form they wished. That's why I, um. I don't know when the tradition changed to just portraits but–"

"Just read it," the queen snaps. Minho physically recoils at her tone; when she starts getting annoyed, that's definitely not a good sign. Jonghyun snaps into perfect pin straight posture and then an exact 90 degree bow.

"Yes, yes, okay," he says quickly. "Um–well, first.” First, he takes the cover off of his portrait.

Minho can't help but gasp softly.

His face takes up the whole canvas, graceful arcs and lines without any shading just like the collection of art Minho saw at the festival. But back then, Jonghyun didn't have anything like this on display.

The entire thing is covered with stars. Tiny, minuscule little pinpricks dot his face like freckles, and the background is a swirling, blended galaxy of colors. Even his hair, solid, sharp, and black, glitters with dazzling white constellations. His mouth is soft, lips parted, and Jonghyun has individually drawn every single eyelash with such detail that Minho could count them.

But what really gets to Minho is his eyes. It's like Jonghyun has painted an entire galaxy alone inside of them. They look endless, unfathomable, like everything in existence lies inside of them. Each point is meticulously placed like Jonghyun had a star map in front of him, but Minho would bet the entire castle that he could recreate it from memory.

“Um." Minho is pulled from his daze when Jonghyun clears his throat. He has his paper in front of him and he's taking another steadying breath. Minho can hear his parents muttering to each other. For once in his life, he tunes them out and nods at Jonghyun, encouraging him to proceed. Jonghyun, with the smallest, most heartened smile, begins reading.

There are too many stars revolving around you

But they’re all fake, man-made artificial satellites

I swear by the moon, it’s only you for me

It’s only you

If you ask me not to follow you

I can’t help it, you’re like a magnet

My heart is already not listening to me,

It’s looking at you

There’s a universe

There’s a universe filled in your eyes

The moment our eyes electrically meet

The tip of my ears felt a zap, the stars have twinkled

Sometimes, my eyes rolled back

Please look back at me often

Check to see if I'm revolving around you

To see if this orbit is right

His voice shakes, but there is a cadence to it, a dip and flow, more so than his usual speaking voice. It's almost like he's singing the poem to them. He only looks at the paper for the first verse. The rest he spends with his eyes locked onto Minho’s.

When he finishes, Minho barely notices. He doesn't think Jonghyun really notices, either. Both of them are just looking at each other, quietly, breathing. Minho feels just like he did that cold night a week ago, when there was much less space in between them. All of the same hesitancy, nerves, guilt, doubt, and all of the same fluttering, heart pounding, warmth, affection.

One person starts clapping, distant and lonely. Minho knows without looking that it has to be Key. Quickly, the rest of the crowd follows suit and soon the room is filled with polite applause. It startles the both of them; snapped out of each other's eyes, Jonghyun hurries to pick up his portrait and show it to the audience so they know what they're clapping for and Minho hurries to recite his script.

"Thank you, for your time, and your skill, and, your labor," Minho says. His voice sounds far away in his own ears. "Your art will…. Your art is...." He can't remember it. He can't remember what fake bullshit he's supposed to say. "Your artwork is gorgeous," he says honestly. And then, because the question is burning in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes, he asks, "is this... truly how you see me?"

Jonghyun, gently setting the portrait back down onto its stand, looks up at him. His eyes, big, soft, and earnest in his handsome face, blink slowly. His chest inflates with a deep breath. He licks his lips, his tongue soft and pink, his lips thick and pretty.

"Yes, your highness," he says. He bows once more and leaves the stage.

Minho watches him walk all the way back to the corner to stand with Key, and then he watches the two of them for the rest of the event. Their two portraits watch him until he leaves the room at the end of the night.

Kibum leans against a wall in the outdoor practice courts, arms crossed, watching the prince stay long after all of the other knights and nobles have left. Minho sweeps the sandy ground, inspects all of the wooden practice swords for damage, and helps a servant load all of the padded armor into a cart for the laundry. Only then, sweaty and tired, does he stretch his arms over his head and find Taemin reading in a corner.

Only then, annoyed and resigned, does Kibum straighten up and walk over to him.

"Do you have time to talk, toy soldier?" he asks to announce his presence. Minho raises his eyebrows at him, blinking slowly. Kibum arches his own back. He has something real that he wants to talk about, but if Minho wants to take his bait and argue about either the military or the cowardly lack of physical involvement in the history of royal bloodshed or even how fucking ridiculous it is that he didn't take off his huge rings to practice sword fighting, Kibum will be fine doing that instead. It would be much easier on his part.

"I like the exercise," Minho says. "And maybe. What do you want to talk about? If it's about why they didn't hang your companion pieces next to the portrait, I already tried arguing with them. I'm sorry I couldn't convince them."

"No, that’s." Kibum wrinkles his nose at the apology. That annoyed him more than finding out that only the large portrait was put up in the showcase room. He truly does not care about the portraits. And honestly, their refusal to hang them only proves the point he was trying to make with them. But for Minho to look him in his eyeballs and apologize to him after their entire conversation makes him want to turn around and leave right now.

And Minho has to know that, because he's smirking again, lopsided and smug and way too–“I'm leaving in a few days," he says bluntly. If Minho is going to start smiling at him like that then he's not going to fuck around trying to play games. He's just going to get straight to the point. "And I wasn't going to ask about this because, who cares, we're never going to see each other again, but I know it'll be bugging me. So here I am.”

"Okay," Minho says. He says the word slow and pointed, a tone that instinctively makes Kibum narrow his eyes. "Still waiting to hear what we're talking about." He crosses his arms, frowning, and actually starts tapping his foot. Like he's impatient. Like Kibum is taking too long. And he's sneering, almost, but in a way that somehow still has that insufferable smugness to it? Kibum cannot fucking stand it. Again, he gets right to the point.

"I don't have a lot of empathy," he says. None, really. He's never had, needed, or wanted the ability to put himself in someone else's shoes. "But I do my best to be compassionate. You know, listen to people when they speak about themselves and believe them and try to interact with them on that knowledge." He taps his finger on his arm, pursing his lips, running through what he planned to say in his head. He's so fucking annoyed that he's about to do this. "But to do that,” he says, "I need to listen to you. I need you to explain something to me so I can accept it and. Try. To be. Compassionate. Towards you."

Just saying the words out loud hurts in his throat, makes him want to scream and stomp around and throw things. But he is being very calm and mature. He's being a big boy. And if compassion truly is as important to him as he likes to say it is, he needs to put his money where his mouth is and at least fucking try. He's not going to back down from his biggest challenge yet.

That, and this is one last chance before he has to suck it up and admit to Jonghyun that he was right and Minho isn't all bad just because he’s royal.

"Okay," Minho says, and this time it's not annoying. It's thoughtful. He puts his hands on his hips, thinking. He puffs out his lips, smirks a little, then scrunches his nose and shakes his head, and then finally raises his eyebrows and shrugs. Before Kibum can even begin to figure out what the fuck any of that meant, he says “still a maybe. What do you want me to explain to you?"

Kibum stares him down. Last chance. Last chance to back out of it and pretend he's right because he was never technically proven wrong. Last chance to save himself a headache. Last chance to– just fucking ask him, his brain snaps, and he huffs. "In the art room," he starts, "I told you to stop hiding your emotions and treat me like your peers. And you told me you did treat me like your peers. What did you mean by that?"

This time it's Minho's turn to stare at him, but in surprise. His eyes go a little wide and his mouth pops open. His lips aren't much to look at, but like this, softly parted, glistening when he licks them–Kibum stops looking at his mouth. But now, Minho is thinking, humming. Doing this thing with his eyebrows, a little scrunch in between them as they slant sharply downwards, making his eyes look–

A little desperate now, Kibum focuses directly on his nose.

"That’s... a tough question," Minho says. "So no, I don't have time to talk right now."

Oh, good. Great. Kibum suddenly doesn't want to talk anymore. Did Minho always look like this? Something's different about him.

"Would you have time to meet with me later today?" Minho asks. "Or would you like to have a meal with me in 20 minutes?"

Fuck no, Kibum thinks. "I'll talk with you after you eat," he says, and fuck. He didn't want to do that either. But at least it'll give him time to sort himself out and get his shit back together.

An hour later, he has his composure, he has his shit, he has his confidence, and he immediately loses all of that when Taemin lets him into the prince's private rooms and Minho smiles at him from a cushy little armchair set by the window.

His hair is wet. His face is bare. He's out of his sweaty training clothes, but he hasn't changed into his fancy robes, either. He's in a light, flowing shirt and trousers. And his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, lights up his face, glitters in the sun that shines through the glass.

Fuck.

It's just money and class, Kibum reminds himself as he walks to Minho and sits in the armchair opposite him. "Okay, I'm here," he says. He refuses to look around the rest of the room because he refuses to appreciate all of the soft pretty expensive things in here. He looks at the row of books on the windowsill instead, taking in their titles about history and politics with a bored eye. "Do you have an answer for me?" Best to get right into it before he gets distracted again.

"I do," Minho says, “and you're not going to like it because it's going to be a lot of me talking about how hard it is to be a prince." His tone carries a warning, but his mouth carries a smile. He rests his elbow on the windowsill and his chin in his hand and smiles at Kibum, appraising him like he's just waiting for him to make a snappy retort. Kibum holds it in just so he doesn't get the satisfaction. Fine. He's here to be compassionate. He'll listen to prince problems. Maybe he might even learn something.

Highly doubtful, but just maybe. "So?" he asks, expectant.

"Okay," Minho shrugs. He sits up straight, then sighs. "Okay," he says quieter, softer. "As a prince," he starts, and Kibum can't resist the urge to roll his eyes. Thankfully Minho ignores him. "I have to set an example. I have to put my best foot forward. I have to exemplify dignity and humility and etiquette. So the people can look at us and feel confidence and pride in their monarchy and their country. For me to lose my temper, or even show annoyance, would make the whole family look bad. It would make the country look bad to the rest of the world. Does that make sense?”

"On paper, maybe," Kibum says, frowning. In theory, that would be a good explanation. If the people had time to give a shit about their monarchy being dignified instead of actually taking care of them. If the people thought etiquette was more important than adequate funding and fair laws. If the people had pride and confidence in their country. If their neighbors didn't already think their country looked bad. And, most confusingly, “how come you're the only one that cares about whether or not your family looks good then?" he asks.

"Excuse me?" Minho frowns. "I'm not. My family are the ones that taught me how to be dignified. It's important to all of us."

"They're the ones that told you all of that?" Kibum can't help the incredulity in his voice and expression. What the absolute fuck. Minho has to be lying to him. "That's not what you’re taught at fancy little prince school or whatever the fuck it is that you go to? You learned that from your family?"

"Don't act so surprised," Minho says. He's more than frowning now. He's almost glaring, that fire that Kibum saw in his eyes the first day just beginning to spark to life. "My family are–"

"They're really not." Whatever Minho was going to say in defense of them, Kibum knows for a fact that it wasn't going to be true. "I don't want to get exiled so I'm not going to elaborate, but trust me. Even before I met you, I knew you were the least volatile one.”

That was the biggest argument everyone back at the Rebellion had to convince him to go through with this mission; that at least it was Minho. At least it was the quiet one. At least it's not the king who snaps and yells at anyone that comes within a mile radius. At least it's not the queen that's so infamous for her petty temper and impulsive decisions that no one will even speak in her presence unless absolutely required to. At least it's not the crown prince that cannot go 5 minutes without insulting someone or complaining about something that doesn't matter. Never in his entire life has Kibum gotten the impression that the three of them cared about acting dignified or with etiquette.

“And you know how much I don't like you,” Kibum says. "So imagine how much they piss me off. And now you’re telling me that you're censoring yourself all the time because your family tells you that you make them look bad when they do that enough on their own?”

"I censor myself because I'm worse,” Minho hisses. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and frowning out of the window. "They let more of their emotions show because they're not as bad as I am." Kibum glances out of the window as well. It's the garden out there. A couple of servants are a crack in a flower pot. He looks back to the prince. He can't be serious.

He is. "It's always gotten me in trouble,” he grumbles without looking at Kibum. Kibum isn't entirely sure he's looking outside, either. His eyes are unfocused and distant. "It was always, ‘stop crying, you're embarrassing us,’ and ‘don't yell at your brother, you know he didn't mean to hurt you,’ and ‘none of the other kids your age want to be friends because you're too eager and clingy, just leave them alone,’ and ‘I can't believe you offered them all of that money just because you felt bad that their town got raided,’ and ‘it was so selfish of you to–”

He stops talking all at once. He takes in a deep, long, breath, and then another, and then another. He brings his face back to neutral, then breathes some more, and then lets himself feel again, a little bit. He turns to Kibum with a small glare, a tense jaw. "I've always been too emotional," he says. "It's better for me to make myself calm so I don't cause any more problems."

Kibum thinks he's beginning to understand now. He looks at Minho with wide eyes, unable to find words for once in his life. He thinks he gets it. The suppression, the acting, the obedience. The ever-present, ever charged energy in Minho's body, like a spring wound so tight that it will break once it finally releases. Jonghyun's insistence that Minho is good.

His heart pounds in his chest, but not because of Minho's looks. Not because he's angry. His heartbeat pulses in his entire body and it feels just like it does when he's out doing Rebellion work, when he learns about a new injustice, when he's putting himself in between what is right and what is wrong.

"So," he says abruptly, startling himself as much as Minho. He leans forward on the table, resting his elbow on it and pointing at Minho with his whole hand. "Let me get this straight," he says. Let him make sure he's processed all of that correctly. "Your family has told you that having emotions is embarrassing, and you shouldn't fight back, and you're not capable of making friends, and it's bad for you to care about people less fortunate then you are, and that you're selfish. That's what they’ve told you. Your whole life."

"Well," Minho says. His face softens. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks down, and looks back up. "When you say it all like that, it sounds…. It's not like. It's not like I can't handle criticism. They told me that so I could learn what was right and wrong. And so I could be a good leader. They care about me."

“That's–" Not true. That is not fucking true. That's what Kibum wants to tell him. That Minho cannot say all of those things and then cap it off with they care about me . But in his experience, pointing that out so bluntly isn’t going to help. Instead, he takes it down a couple of levels. "You know that's fucked up, right?" he asks. "What they say to you? That's wrong. It has nothing to do with being a prince. That's not what you say to people that you care about. That's not how you treat anybody. No one deserves that. You understand that, right? You don't deserve that.”

It feels so fucking weird, to be giving this kind of speech to a noble, especially considering he's going to be robbing him in a few days, but Kibum isn't going to stop speaking the truth just because it's awkward. He's given this speech enough times before to know that it's always true no matter what.

Minho is staring down at the table. There's a scrunch between his eyebrows, but it doesn't look angry. It looks contemplative. He chews and nibbles on his bottom lip.

"You know,” he says. He looks outside again, watching the flower pot get repaired. "Jonghyun said something like that to me before," he says. "And now you’ve said the same thing. And I'm starting to wonder if maybe if it's not... if the way I was raised wasn't as normal as I've been thinking?"

"It definitely...." Kibum hesitates for the smallest second. Jonghyun. Minho said Jonghyun, not Bling. He's going to have to have a fucking talk with Jonghyun about getting too personal with their targets.

Then again, he's sitting here in Minho's private quarters consoling him about the history of his childhood abuse, so maybe he's not one to talk.

Whatever. Not important right now.

"If I were you, I would just leave," he says. He doesn't even need to think about it for a second. He would be out of here in a heartbeat.

"Just leave ?" Minho asks, squinting at him. "Like run away? I can't do that."

"Why not?" Kibum asks. He crosses his arms, tapping his finger on his bicep. It's not like it's hard. "Cut your hair, go get some real people clothes, smudge some dirt on you. Maybe get yourself a cool face scar. Find a nice little village and get a job as a farmer. Who's going to recognize you?" Most citizens don't have portraits of the royal family hanging up in their houses. It would be easy for Minho to blend in.

"I meant," Minho says sharply, "Even if I didn't get found out, I can't just leave all of my responsibilities. It's my duty to–"

"Tell me," Kibum says, “honestly, what it is that you do here that you couldn't do better and faster physically in person out there?" That's the fucking thing about Minho. About all nobles. They think they’re able to do everything themselves because they were born fancy. Maybe Minho’s heart is in the right place, maybe he wants to do good, but no good will ever get done when all of his time is only spent in offices writing laws about people he's never met going through problems he's never experienced. Never in Kibum’s life has any legislation or decree from the monarchy had any immediate, positive effect in a village. It's always been the Rebellion, or local unions, or public effort from an entire village that has produced results and saved lives. Besides, from what Kibum has heard, all Minho has been able to do is bring up good ideas and then get shamed into abandoning them.

“Compassion, assistance, support–those aren't individual responsibilities,” he adds, frowning. It's not up to Minho to single-handedly care for an entire country through a government that was designed to function by caring as little as possible. “Those are community-based principles built from the ground up. No amount of begging your family to care enough to write a nice law is going to change that. The only thing that's going to change that is getting out there and making change happen alongside everyone else.”

Minho doesn't reply. Instead, he's quiet. For a long time. Kibum wants to say more, wants to press the matter, but he can tell that Minho is lost in thought. Not receptive to further discussion. But he should at least say something.

"Anyway," he mumbles, "I'm sorry they treat you that way." There. They can leave it at that. Just a nice, calm moment between the two of them.

Minho still doesn't reply. He just stares out the window until the servants finish their work and leave the garden. Then he sighs. He rubs his hands over his face, through his damp hair. His bangs cling together, frizzy and messy over his forehead. He looks tired, so tired, but still, he leans over the table. He rests his elbow on the surface and puts his cheek in his hand. His cheek squishes up and pulls his mouth into a lopsided smile and he arches one eyebrow at Kibum.

"I thought you didn't do apologies," he says. He teases. His tone rises and falls, almost sing-songy, and his lips finish the sentence with the tiniest little puff.

Instantly, Kibum is ravenously furious.

"It's not a fucking apology," he snaps, slapping his hands on the table. "It's sympathy. Not every ‘I'm sorry’ is an admission of guilt. Sometimes it's an acknowledgement of–"

Minho is smiling wider. Smiling with teeth, with deep lines bracketing his mouth, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, with a twinkle in his irises. It's so much. It's so fucking much. It's blood rushing to Kibum's face, it's his breath stopping somewhere in his neck, it's his heart stuttering under his ribs. Minho has to be doing it on purpose.

"Fuck you." Let him get in trouble. Let him get kicked out of the castle. Let him tank the mission. He doesn't care. He's not going to let this smooth asshole play him like this.

Minho laughs, hard and loud, leaning back in his chair and not even bothering to cover his mouth. And it's not a handsome, deep, princely chuckle, either. It's high-pitched, wild, raw, and so fucking much. "For someone that gets on my case about hiding all of my emotions," Minho says between laughter, "you should really try it out sometime."

Kibum stands up. And now he's making fun of him? Now he's teasing him like they're friends?

No, now he's done laughing. Now he's looking up at Kibum with wide eyes, so big, so expressive, and his mouth is open, his lips wet, his tongue barely visible, his teeth sharp–

"Stop that," Kibum orders venomously. "What are you fucking doing? With your face? Are you flirting with me? Is that it? Is that all you've been doing today?" All day long, he's been doing this, giving Kibum these looks, making himself look so fucking–

He struggles to come up with an insult, any insult, but all he can get out of his brain is, “gross. Don't do that. Stop that. Fuck you." They have three conversations and Kibum paints him some pictures and Minho thinks he can flirt with him? Absolutely not.

"I'm–I'm not?" Minho sounds baffled, like he truly can't believe it, even as he looks at Kibum with those big brown eyes so full of emotion and fire. "I'm just–? You told me that you wanted me to stop hiding my emotions. In the art room. So I stopped. I've been trying really hard to not keep them bottled up. I thought this is what you wanted?”

"You–oh." Oh. Kibum deflates all at once. That makes. That makes sense. That Minho is just. Is just doing what he wanted. People pleasing. Obeying.

Trusting. He's trusting Kibum enough to let his guard down, take his mask off, be as expressive and emotional as he was always told not to be. Kibum's stomach does a flip.

"And you thought I was flirting?" Smiling again. Smirking again, standing up and leaning forward with his hands on the table to get a better look at Kibum's face. "You thought it was attractive when I did that?”

“Mind your own business,” Kibum snaps. Fuck. Fuck. He is in so much trouble. He can feel how hot his face is, he knows how red it must be, and he swears that his heartbeat is so loud that Minho has to hear it. Minho licks his lips, eyebrows raised.

"Is that why you made all of those extra portraits?" he asks. “You like when I–”

“Fuck you," Kibum hisses. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

"I mean, if you want to so bad, I wouldn't mind." Minho is too fucking casual, too fucking relaxed, for how he's lighting every single nerve on Kibum's body on fire right now. Kibum has to do something, has to get back his control somehow.

He clambers on top of the table on his knees, making himself taller, dragging himself closer. He fists his hands in Minho's shirt collar, yanking him so they're face-to-face. Up close, he can see every detail of Minho's dark brown eyes.

"Shut up before I shut your mouth for you," he threatens. He'll fuck a prince. He doesn't care. He's had hate sex before plenty of times. He'll teach Minho a lesson, put him in his place.

Minho grabs his wrists, but he doesn't push him away. He just holds him, close, tight, not letting go. "I'd love to see you try," he says.

And fine. Fucking fine. Kibum leans in, pulling him closer. Minho wants it so bad? Fine. He'll see what it gets him. Their mouths are centimeters apart and–

"Hey!"

The shout scares Kibum so bad that he almost falls off of the table. He looks around wildly; Taemin is sitting up on a couch in the corner of the room, open book in his hand, glaring at the both of them. "Come on,” he says, exasperated.

Fuck. Kibum forgot about that little fucking gremlin. Minho did, too, because he jerks himself away, hiding his pink face in his hands.

"Sorry, Taemin," he says into his fingers.

Kibum sighs, arms limp at his sides. Well. Probably for the best, honestly. No need to get himself in deeper than he needs to be.

He shakes his head as he slides off of the table and adjusts his clothes. He probably already is.

He needs to leave.

"Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, your highness," he says as evenly as possible. Minho looks at him from between his fingers; he clears his throat, then fixes his own shirt collar, smoothing the wrinkles Kibum left in it.

“The pleasure was all mine," he says elegantly. "I look forward to meeting... you again." He scrunches his face a little, like he realized the implications of what he was saying as he said it. Kibum snorts. He bets.

He walks himself to the door, aggressively ignoring the bug eyes Taemin gives him behind his book. Like he's never gotten in over his head and needed Kibum to save his ass before.

Hand on the doorknob, Kibum pauses. He looks back at Minho over his shoulder. The prince is fixing the tablecloth, smoothing out wrinkles. "Highness?" Kibum asks. Embarrassment and half chub aside, he wants to know something. Needs to know something. Minho's head snaps up, his eyes big and questioning even from the other side of the room. Kibum taps his foot for a moment, then asks, "you really trust me enough to let me see your emotions?" he asks. "Really really?" He really, from two less than pleasant conversations, felt safe enough around Kibum to have no hesitations about letting himself loose?

Minho exhales softly, rubbing his hand around the back of his neck. His hair falls in front of his shoulder, gleaming in the sunlight.

"I really really do," he says. "I think I trust you with my emotions more than anyone else I know.”

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

Kibum yanks open the door and leaves before Minho can see him blushing again.

It's the third straight hour of Jonghyun moping in the corner of the kitchen when Jinki comes to check on him again. He announces himself by sitting down next to Jonghyun, so close their sides touch, and petting his hair softly. Even though his head is in his arms, Jonghyun knows that it's Jinki. Jinki is the only one that's been making it a point to come visit him for a little bit every hour even with his busy chef schedule. Jonghyun knew there was a reason he falls in love with him all the time.

He picks his head up and puts it back down with his cheek resting on his bicep, blinking at Jinki in the light. Jinki is soft and cute as always, smiling at him, pushing a plate of cut up fruit in front of him. "They’re the weird looking ones, but they still taste good," he signs. Jonghyun nods, grateful. He always likes the funky reject fruits most anyway. He picks up a lumpy grape and puts it into his mouth, chewing slowly. He’s still been working his way through the slice of cinnamon bread Jinki gave him last hour. It's so hard to eat sometimes, especially when he's busy being consumed by guilt.

"I have some time to talk now," Jinki says gently, holding his hands close to the table so Jonghyun doesn't have to look up so much. "If you want to tell me what's bothering you.”

Jonghyun whines for himself, for the vocal release of tension in his throat, and he pouts for Jinki, puffing out his lower lip and scrunching his eyebrows. He doesn't want to talk about it. Talking about it means thinking about it.

But he's been thinking about it this whole time anyway, and at least talking about it will get him some sympathy and comfort.

"I still like him,” he signs, his hands small and barely raised an inch over the table.

"Still?" Jinki asks, surprise in his raised eyebrows. Jonghyun nods, miserable. Still. Over three weeks in and he's falling harder and harder every day.

"I hate lying to him," he says. He hates it so much. Every single time, it's a weight on his heart, a burn in the back of his eyes. It's getting to the point where he can barely talk to Minho without wanting to run away and hide before the conversation even starts. He put all of that work into his portrait, painting each individual little star, in the hopes that it would make his deception less severe, but it doesn't. He truly, truly does see Minho that way. Beautiful and dazzling and a universe condensed. But he knows that by next week Minho is just going to see it as another string in his sprawling web of betrayal.

If they even get found out. If everything goes according to plan, they won't be suspects. Minho won't even know that Jonghyun has betrayed him, and that might even be worse.

"Well," Jinki says. He hesitates, his hands floating motionless, and then he sighs. He pinches Jonghyun's cheek softly. "I know," he says. "I know it's hard." Again, Jonghyun nods. He knows that Jinki knows. Jinki has worked here in the castle longer than he’s been in the Rebellion. He's close with everyone here, spy or not, and Jonghyun knows that it pulls him apart at the seams sometimes to have to keep so much from people that he cares about. "Just...,” Jinki says. "Think of how much good we’ll be able to do with the money from the jewels."

The money from the jewels. Yes. They're selling them to one of their neighboring countries, and then there was going to be a mission to steal them back, and then they were going to be made into common jewelry and sold like any other at an art festival. And they're going to put the money towards education in every town and village that the Rebellion is a part of. History and language and writing and art. And towards the fight against royal propaganda. And towards the communal kitchen and shelter that's being built in their village.

All of that is worth more than a couple of broken hearts. Jonghyun knows that. But it doesn't make it hurt any less. He puts his face back into his arms. A moment later, he takes it back out just in case Jinki wants to say anything else.

He does; he tries a different tactic and says, "hey. It'll get easier once you leave, okay? Just make it to the day after tomorrow."

“ Fuck, ” Jonghyun groans, grinding his cheek into his sleeve. "That's another thing," he signs. "He's not even going to be able to say goodbye to us." Minho still thinks him and Kibum are going to be at the castle until the day after his birthday. But after tomorrow morning, they'll never see him again. They'll just be gone, and the next day the jewels will be too, and Minho will still be here, hurt and confused. "And what if we get caught and then he gets blamed?" he asks, suddenly aware and suddenly distressed even worse. Jonghyun wouldn't put it past his family to make this his fault somehow. What if he's hurt and confused and in trouble?

"I know, baby," Jinki says. He pets Jonghyun's hair softly. "I know." Gently, he offers Jonghyun an orange slice. Jonghyun lets him push it between his lips obediently. "We’ll look after him," Jinki says. "Me and Taemin and the others. He won't be alone."

Jonghyun hums. He knows that. It still doesn't make him feel better. He shakes his head when he sees Jinki starting to sign something else. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore. All it's doing is making him feel worse. All it's doing is making him want to cry. And he doesn't want to cry in the middle of the kitchen. He'll save it for when he gets to bed where Kibum will be waiting for him.

Jinki lets it go with another soft pinch of his cheek. He puts his hand on Jonghyun's bicep, comforting and warm, and gently coaxes him to eat more fruit with his other hand. Jonghyun lets him even though his appetite is non-existent and swallowing is a chore. He'll never pass up being babied and taken care of.

Jinki gets a substantial amount of food inside of him before he urgently taps his shoulder. He points across the kitchen; frowning, Jonghyun looks up.

Minho is walking in, Taemin at his elbow. He catches sight of Jonghyun and smiles, heading over.

"Fuck," Jonghyun says. He sits up straight, rubbing his cheeks, fixing his hair, and trying to suppress both the way his stomach just turned and filled with butterflies at the same time. What time is it? Fuck. He glances at the clock and curses again. He's late for tea time.

"Jinki, Jonghyun, hello," Minho smiles when he gets to them. He gives Jinki the royal bow, then tilts his head at Jonghyun. "You didn't show up and I got worried," he says.

Fuck, he's so fucking wonderful.

"Yeah, um," Jonghyun says. "I was talking with Jinki and I guess I lost track of time. You'll have to forgive me." He stands up straight and bows automatically.

"Of course," Minho says. His smile is so soft, his eyes so gentle. Jonghyun is so fucked.

"I'll go get your tea.” Jinki stands up. He smooths his hand over Jonghyun's back, bobs the quickest bow to the prince, and leaves them. Jonghyun smiles after him, appreciating his existence. He does like Jinki very much.

"I didn't know you knew sign language." Minho is still smiling at him, signing the words as he speaks them with his big hands. Jonghyun nods, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, just a little,” he says. He lies. "I learned when I was a kid." Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. The whole truth is that he learned when he joined the Rebellion at 14 years old so he could communicate without being overheard. He looks down at the table so he doesn't have to look at Minho's intrigued expression. His plate of fruit is still there, lonely grapes and end pieces of bananas waiting to be eaten. Jonghyun picks up a banana and turns it around in his fingers.

Thankfully, before the silence gets awkward, Jinki returns. He gives all three of them a cup of tea and just like that, they're out of the kitchen, walking towards the door to the gardens.

The walk is nice; it's silent. It's just the three of them with their mugs and their shoes tapping on the cold tile floors. Minho keeps glancing at Jonghyun, smiling at him, and Jonghyun can't help but smile back. Just don't think about it, he tells himself. Just think about this moment right now. Enjoy it now and deal with it later.

It helps, a little. Enough that when they pass the windows leading up to the great doors to the garden and find that they can barely see out of them for all of the snow rushing down from the sky, Jonghyun actually laughs a little bit.

"It wasn't like this a couple of minutes ago,” Minho says, chuckling himself. He holds his mug in both hands and leans forward to peer out of the window, squinting. "Hmm.”

"Well,” Jonghyun says. He hops up onto the fancy stone windowsill, big enough for him to sit comfortably and stretch his legs out so they reach the other side. "Guess we're having tea time right here.”

"I suppose we are,” Minho agrees. He leans against the wall next to the window. Taemin sits down in the next windowsill over.

Jonghyun looks out the window at the falling snow, then around the hallway. It's at the side of the castle, out of the way of most of the traffic but still regularly used by servants and the like. The chatter of quiet voices speaking during the nightly cleanings drifts from open doorways. On the side of the hallway, Jonghyun absorbs the warmth from the castle, and from where his shoulder is pressed against the window, the cold seeps into him from outside. It's cozy and uncomfortable at the same time. A little reminiscent of the way he feels about Minho, actually.

Don't think about it.

"Jonghyun?”

“Hmm? Yes, Minho?"

"I wanted to–well, does it even matter? No, yes, it does." Very quickly into speaking Minho stopped looking at him and started frowning at the floor, mumbling to himself. But just as quickly, he meets Jonghyun's eyes again. “Um," he says. The faintest pink dusts over his nose. "I think it's, um, important to tell you, that. Key and I, um. Yesterday, we. We–"

“Oh, how you two almost fucked?" Jonghyun grins, understanding suddenly what Minho is trying to get out. Minho gets even pinker. He glances around the hallway, towards the open doors. Jonghyun, amused from his very core, lowers his voice politely but doesn't bother suppressing his smirk. "I know," he says. "He told me." He told Jonghyun and he was sooooo grumpy about it, flushed bright red and stomping around the bedroom. It was very adorable. Minho must have really gotten under his skin.

"And you don't mind?” Minho asks. His eyebrows fly up behind his bangs. "I mean–I only ask because, um. I really, um. Like, there’s, us, um. I don't entirely know what, um, we. There's– we, um, and–I wasn't sure if–I don't know what... we–"

"I don't mind," Jonghyun reassures him quickly. A little desperately, maybe. Minho was getting very close to talking about it. Jonghyun grips his mug so hard that the tea inside of it trembles and veers hard in the opposite direction. "He fucks people all the time. It's kind of what he does."

Minho opens his mouth, then closes it, tilting his head; Jonghyun scrunches his face. That came out wrong. Not enough context.

"I mean," he says. "He's not–he doesn't really see. Hmm. You know people always assume that I'm the slut? Between the two of us? I'm not a slut. I'd like to be a slut. But I just act like a slut. Key is the one that's actually a slut.” This isn't coming out entirely right either, but it is coming out funny, and he has to take a moment to laugh into his mug. "He has a high sex drive, and he doesn't put any emotional or romantic connection to sex, is all I'm saying," he says. That's it. It's just sex for him. Nothing else. "So no, I don't mind."

He is a little worried that Minho was able to make Kibum so grumpy–not angry, grumpy– because that's usually the start of emotional attachment for him. To find someone that gets him all worked up but also someone that he cares too much about to be fully furious toward is rare for Kibum. Including himself, Jonghyun can count on one hand the number of people that Kibum is that invested in.

But he's not too worried. If Kibum felt like he was getting too deep, he would have said something. And it's not like Jonghyun is one to talk about getting emotionally attached to–

"It's the same reason why he doesn't mind when I get crushes on people." It's so hard not to think about it. Jonghyun presses his forehead against the cold window, willing it to calm him down, to numb his brain so he can't think about it anymore. "I fall in love with everyone." He's a hopeless romantic; Kibum fucks anything with a pulse. It's why they work so well together. They balance each other out.

"Do you?" It's a soft question, a quiet question. An almost, if Jonghyun wants to admit it to himself, trembling question. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Minho leaning closer to the window, closer to him. He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at his face.

"Yeah," he says. "I've fallen in love with twelve people since I got here. It's just that I fall out of love just as quick, usually. Key knows that if I felt seriously about someone I would tell him." And boy has Jonghyun told him.

"Usually." Minho repeats the word to himself, barely more than a whisper. Jonghyun hears it anyway. He taps his head against the window, a slow rhythm, cursing himself. He needs to get them off of this fucking topic before he says something he regrets.

He hears two pairs of footsteps, two voices saying "hello your highness" and "good evening your highness." Minho murmurs back a greeting. Jonghyun needs to get them out of this fucking hallway in case he does say something that he regrets anyway and it gets overheard.

"Can I show you something?" he asks. He pulls away from the window, turning to face Minho. "Somewhere?" he asks.

"Sure.” Minho agrees in a heartbeat. He straightens up, adjusting his robes. There's something to be said about his immediate trust and willingness to go along with Jonghyun. And that something is also among the list of things that Jonghyun doesn't want to think about, so he busies himself with standing up and downing the rest of his tea. He takes off down the hallway, Minho behind him, Taemin behind Minho.

Just somewhere private. Somewhere close by that's private, not likely to be walked in on. And not anywhere actually dangerous to know about. Jonghyun leads them down a few turns. Along the way, he catches a Rebellion spy pushing a cart full of dirty dishes from room to room; with an apologetic smile, he gives them their empty mugs. They owe him a favor anyway.

One more turn, and Jonghyun stops them outside a cleaning supply closet. "I found this when I was exploring the castle," he says. When he was exploring it to match it up to his memorized map.

Don't think about it.

"A closet?” Minho asks slowly.

"No," Jonghyun says, opening the door. "Well," he says when they’re met with dusty shelves of buckets and cleaning chemicals, "yes. But!” He holds up one finger and slips in behind one of the shelves. "Check this out." He fumbles around on the wall until he finds the latch and yanks. A door opens up in the wall, sliding out of sight and revealing a stone hallway not unlike the one they just left.

"A secret passageway?" Minho hisses, eyes suddenly wide and excited.

"You can call it that," Jonghyun shrugs. "I don't know about how secret it is, though. I've been in here a couple of times and I keep getting found by staff." They keep finding him because this is their meeting spot for discussing Rebellion stuff, but still. It is common knowledge among the staff. He stands aside, dramatically flourishing his hand to invite Minho and Taemin inside.

When Taemin passes, he gives Jonghyun a look, an are you sure about this? with his eyes. Silently, Jonghyun signs back, "just let me." It's his last day here and he's emotional and it's not like this passage goes anywhere important. Taemin rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest otherwise.

Jonghyun closes the door behind them and taps one of the lanterns on the wall, bringing it to a soft, glowing light. It throws shadows on their faces, giving them just enough light to see each other. Minho catches on and taps another lantern a little farther down the passageway. It illuminates him from behind, framing his hair with an ethereal golden glow, and Jonghyun has to repress a sigh. Of course.

"It just goes straight until it comes out in another supply closet," he says, gesturing. Even from here, in the dim light they can see the end of the tunnel and identical sliding door. "I'm pretty sure it's just a shortcut." This passageway goes in between the library and some paperwork offices. Nothing special. "But it's nice, right?" he asks, a little hesitant. "Cozy. Quiet. Away from everyone else. Somewhere to hide if you need a minute.” Minho strikes him as someone that needs several minutes very often.

"It's great," Minho says. His smile is as wide as his face and his voice is a little breathless. "When I was a little kid I always wondered if there were any secret tunnels here in the castle, but I could never find any." He's still looking around with wonder even though it's just a plain stone hallway. Jonghyun can't help but smile. If anyone's inner child deserves a gift like this, it's Minho. "I wonder if there's any more," Minho says.

And of course, suddenly Jonghyun doesn't feel like smiling anymore. "Well," he says. "I've been exploring all over for more secret tunnels, and…." He shrugs instead of finishing the sentence and saying that he's found a whole lot of them. Lies by omission aren't as bad, right? They can't be, otherwise he'll feel even worse.

Don't think about it.

He slides down the wall, lowering himself to the ground and then lying down on his back. "Join me," he says, patting the stone underneath him. It's nice and cool and refreshing.

"On the floor?" Minho asks. He walks to Jonghyun and stands at his head, looking down at him. It's a much steeper angle than usual, giving Jonghyun a direct view up his nose. He stifles a laugh into his hand.

"Yeah," he says. He pats the ground again. "Being on the floor is good for you. Come on."

Minho hums disapprovingly. Silently, Taemin sits down, slouching against the wall and staring at the ceiling. Jonghyun doesn't know where he's pulling all of this patience from. But he's grateful, because seeing him, Minho follows suit. He sits down carefully, mindful of his robes, and crosses his legs by Jonghyun's head.

"Here," he says, and gently guides Jonghyun's head into his lap.

"Oh," Jonghyun says. Minho's hands on his neck and chin are so soft, gentle, like Minho thinks he's so delicate and fragile that he’ll break if he holds on too strongly. “Ah." His head settles on top of Minho's thigh, his cheek nestled against his stomach. Hmm. This is. Hmm.

Heat creeps up the back of his neck and into the tips of his ears. He counts himself lucky that both of those are covered. Minho is so warm, and he smells so good, and even with the awkward angle, when he smiles down at Jonghyun, his face is so pretty. "It can't be good for your head to be on the floor," he chides.

Jonghyun can't find a witty remark anywhere in his brain. Instead, he scrunches his nose, bratty and defiant, and then turns his head to look at the wall. He wiggles around, getting comfortable and using it as an excuse not to have to look at the prince. He hopes Minho can't hear his heartbeat, or feel it thudding hard and fast underneath his ribs.

As he has that thought he realizes that it was too late. One of Minho's hands already has come to a rest on top of his chest. Comfortable, casual, like it belongs there. In a panic, Jonghyun picks it up and asks the first question that comes to mind: "do your rings mean anything or are they just to look rich and fancy?"

Minho's quiet chuckle does nothing to help his heart.

"Mostly, they’re to look fancy," he admits, "but they do have meaning." He points at the big one on his pointer finger, diamond set in a black metal. "For father," he says and points at the next, "gold for mother, silver for Minseok, and bronze for the second prince.”

"For you,” Jonghyun says automatically. The second prince. That's Minho. Minho's hand is limp in his, his fingers moving easily as Jonghyun inspects each ring.

"I... yes. You're right.” Minho lets out a breath, but it doesn't sound like a laugh. It sounds like a sigh. Jonghyun looks up at him. He has the fingers of his free hand threaded through his hair, his eyes closed, his jaw tight. "Bronze for me. For the second son of the royal family." A furrow between his brows as he says it.

Jonghyun quickly looks back at his hand before Minho opens his eyes. The second son in a family that does nothing but make him feel like he isn't one of them.

He looks back up, meeting Minho's eyes as they open. Minho seems surprised to find him looking. Even more when Jonghyun bites his lip and squeezes his hand.

"Minho," he says quietly. He thinks for a moment, then sits up straight, gets to his knees, turns around, faces Minho eye to eye. Still holding his hand, he says, "I know." He knows. He knows what it's like to not be wanted. He knows what it's like to not belong. He knows what it's like to know that he's one thing but feel that he's another without even knowing what other thing he could possibly be. "It's not just you. There are a lot of us.”

“I'm not... Sure that I under–"

"I know that too.” Jonghyun says it fast, heavy, squeezing his hand so hard that the rings dig into their skin. It's hard. It's confusing. It's complicated. "But one day I hope that you will."

A lump forms in Jonghyun's throat. He hopes. That's all that he can do for Minho. There's nothing more that he can do with his limited powers, his limited status, and definitely not with his limited time. All he can do is tell Minho that he's not alone and that he hopes that one day it gets better.

All he can do is look into his gorgeous eyes and hope that one day it makes sense.

All he can do is watch Minho lean forward, watch Minho’s eyes close, and mirror his movements.

All he can do is feel the press of Minho's lips against his, the warmth of his skin, the little puffs of air from his nose, the tiniest tickle of his eyelashes. Feel the soaring of his own heart, the racing of his own nerves, the fireworks in his own mind.

Feel the guilt rush through his entire body, bubbling his stomach, searing his throat, scorching behind his eyes, so fast that it makes him dizzy. He wrenches away so hard that he falls, catching himself badly on his wrist so it buckles and he winds up on his elbow. His heartbeat pounds behind his eyes, his eyes that are suddenly so blurry, fuzzy, bright.

"I'm sorry," he blurts. He stumbles to his feet, breathing hard. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–I'm sorry." He's so fucking sorry. He so fucking should not have. He shouldn't have kissed Minho, he shouldn't be here in this passageway with him, he shouldn't have let himself get his close, he shouldn't have agreed to go on this mission in the first place. He's breathing so hard, so fast, but it doesn't feel like he's getting any breath in his lungs.

"Jonghyun." Minho, just a tall, pretty blur in front of him, gets to his feet. A gentle hand on his shoulder, an even gentler one underneath his chin, tilting his face up. "Jonghyun, I know, it won't work out, between us," his voice is so lost, full of so much regret, trying so hard to mask both of those things, "but, we have four days left, don't we? Can't we... make those count?"

Four days left.

One day left.

Don't think about it.

The next thing Jonghyun knows, he's crying. Sobbing, painful and desperate. They wrack through his body, his throat, his chest, his heart. He can't see, he can't hear. The only thing he can do is stand hunched over and cry so loud the entire castle has to be able to hear him.

Until Minho pulls him into a hug.

It doesn't muffle him, but it does give him something to hold onto. Minho is so tall, and he's so solid underneath his robes, and even when Jonghyun squeezes him so tight it strains his muscles he doesn't complain. He just holds Jonghyun, one arm around his waist, the other around his shoulders, snug and warm. He pats Jonghyun's back, he rocks him back and forth slowly, he makes soothing little noises.

It's exactly what Jonghyun needs when he gets like this, and that's exactly what makes it so much fucking worse. Every breath in is a gasp, every breath out is a whimper. Every soft cluck of Minho's tongue is sharp pain, every gentle shhh carves a deeper hole into his heart. When he finally does start calming down, sniffling, breathing slowly, it's not because he feels better. It's because he's out of tears and his body is running on empty.

"Jonghyun," Minho murmurs gently next to his ear. Jonghyun's heart skips, stops, stutters back to life. He shakes his head hard, pulling away from Minho but not letting go, stopping whatever he was about to say. Whatever it is, he can't hear it. Minho looks just as gorgeous and perfect as always, his eyes huge with worry, his mouth parted softly with words unspoken. Jonghyun blinks, not wanting to take his hands back to himself to rub his eyes even though they hurt so much it's hard to keep them open.

"Minho, I really," he says. It comes out as barely more than a whisper. His voice is so hoarse and weak. "I really, really, really, really like you." He can't bring himself to say love. He never says love on a regular day, even when his entire heart is bursting with it, because he never wants to overstep, he never wants to go too fast and admit something that won't be true in a few days. Today, right here, right now, the truth of the word would explode him into a billion pieces.

"Believe me," he squeaks. "Please. Please believe me." He needs this. He grips Minho's arms hard, bruises of desperation forming beneath his fingertips even through the layers of his clothing. He needs Minho to believe him for his sake. For tomorrow's sake.

More than anything, for Minho's sake. So that when Minho wakes up on his birthday and finds out what Jonghyun has done to him, he'll know that it wasn't because of him. That it wasn't his fault. That at least, with all of the lies, all of the deception, all of the betrayal, at the very very least, Jonghyun wasn't lying about this. "Please," he begs.

"Of course I believe you, Jonghyun," Minho says. Just like that. No thought, no hesitation, just the softest smile. Like there's no other response Minho could conceive of there being. Like there's no reason to not trust Jonghyun. A stray dry sob bubbles out of Jonghyun's throat.

"Jonghyun," Minho says. Gently, so gently, he rubs his sleeve covered thumbs over Jonghyun's cheeks, drying them. “I'm not. I don't have... a lot of experience... at this. But. I think... me too. I think I lo–”

"I can't." Jonghyun shakes his head so fast that he gets dizzy. He pulls himself away completely, stumbling back until he hits the wall behind him hard. He can't, he can't, he fucking can't hear that, he can't let Minho say it, he can't be here. "I can't," he whispers. "I'm sorry.”

Minho steps forward, hand outstretched; Jonghyun takes off. He all but sprints to the door, slamming into it because he doesn't slow down in time. He needs to leave. He's going to leave.

And gentle on his shoulder as he’s fumbling with the latch–Taemin. Silent, comforting, understanding. He squeezes Jonghyun's shoulder and lets go. Jonghyun gets the door open.

Automatically, against his will, he looks back at Minho. The prince is still standing where Jonghyun left him, face full of longing and pain and regret and, worst of all, forgiveness.

Tears well up in Jonghyun's eyes once again and he runs out of the passageway.

He runs all the way back to his bedroom. He doesn't care who sees him sprinting through the hallways, doesn't even check to see if anyone is looking when he wrenches open another secret passageway and hurtles through the shortcut.

Kibum is sitting up in bed when Jonghyun bursts through the door. He looks up, concerned, glancing Jonghyun up and down. Jonghyun knows that he's a wreck. Face flushed, nose red, eyes bloodshot, chest heaving up and down with his breath. Kibum has maps and plans written out and arranged around him, plans for tomorrow, plans for the day after.

Jonghyun clumsily shoves off of the bed and climbs on top of Kibum. He clings around his neck, buries his face in his shoulder, and cries, his body pulling moisture from the bottom of his heart and releasing it as a new torrent of tears.

Kibum doesn't question it. He just wraps his arms around Jonghyun, shushing and soothing him, rearranging the both of them to lie down underneath the covers. He rubs his big hands all over Jonghyun's back and gently kisses his neck, his cheek, his ear.

"I know, babe, I know,” he murmurs in his deep, soothing voice. "I think I've started falling for him too."

It's far past two in the morning the night before Minho's birthday and he's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wide awake.

His mind is so full of what feels like every thought underneath the sun. His birthday, his family, his title, his self-esteem, his purpose, his country. Jonghyun. Key.

They're gone, the two of them. The snowstorm that blew in a few days ago threatened to close off the roads back to their mountain village. Rather than let them stay at the castle until the spring thaw, they were given a carriage back home early and that was that. Minho almost didn't know until they were gone. He barely made it outside to see them off in time, and the only thing he could do was give them the royal bow as they left. He can still see their faces in his mind: Key softer than Minho has ever seen him, surprised to see Minho and then a smile that bordered on touched as he waved, and Jonghyun well and truly miserable for the few seconds that Minho saw him before he sunk down low in his seat.

And of course his brother was there already to see them off, because of course everyone else knew except for him. And of course he got made fun of for being upset, and of course he was told to stop throwing a tantrum. And obviously he's selfish for expecting to be told something so unimportant, and obviously he’s selfish for wanting the castle staff to have to put up with them for such a long time. And why would anyone assume that Minho would care about the artists in the first place? It's not like he's spent a lot of time with them. Their art wasn't even that good. Why is he always making such a big deal out of everything? Lighten up, it's his birthday month. He needs to just go back inside and talk to all of the important nobles that care about him enough to come see him.

Minho sighs hard, rubbing his hands over his face. This isn't doing him any good. He rolls out of bed, searching for his slippers in the darkness. A walk. That's what he needs. A nighttime stroll to clear his mind. He picks up a handheld glow lamp and carries it with him to Taemin's room. He hates to wake Taemin up, but he also hates being alone in the castle at night. He knows that Taemin won't mind.

At the very least, Taemin won't call him selfish for it.

Taemin is curled up like a shrimp in bed, arms sprawled in front of him, drooling a puddle onto his pillow, out cold. But when Minho puts a hand on his shoulder and tries to gently shake him awake, he bolts upright in a heartbeat, tense, fists up, ready to fight. Minho doesn't startle; he's aware that Taemin wakes up like this.

He wasn't aware that Taemin was able to sneak in a knife from somewhere, but it's there in his hand, gripped tight and ready for stabbing anyway. Still not very surprising. Concerning, but not surprising, and not something that Minho is going to ask him about. With his history, whatever Taemin needs to feel safe is fine.

"Taemin," he says. "It's just me.”

“Wuh? Oh." And almost like a switch, Taemin loses all of his fight. He rubs his fingers into his eyes, flumping back down into his mattress. "Time is it?” he mumbles. “Fuckin’ ay, dude.”

Minho can't help but smile as he answers, "almost three in the morning. Forgive me." It's not often that Taemin slips back into his common accent after trying so hard to sound proper and noble ever since he got here, but Minho loves when he does. "Would you mind if we went on a walk?" he asks. "I can't sleep."

Taemin just lies there for a minute, rubbing his face. He slips the knife casually back underneath his pillow. Minho is about to say forget it, never mind, sorry to be so selfish, when Taemin sits up again. "Sure, your Minhoness," he yawns. "Whatever." And he stumbles out of bed, clumsily getting his footing. His long hair is a mess, his sleep clothes rumpled, his face puffy with sleep, and he slouches, shoulders slumped, into his slippers, but he gestures for Minho to lead the way anyway.

Alright, then.

They're just leaving his rooms, closing the door behind them, when Taemin pauses for just a moment. He blinks groggily at Minho in the warm glow of the lamp. "Three in the morning," he says. He points at Minho. "Birth. Day. Yours. Happy." And he smiles, sleepy and warm. Minho smiles back from his heart. That's one person that he will enjoy hearing a birthday wish from today.

He wishes there were more. He wishes that the two people that he was actually looking forward to seeing on his birthday weren’t unceremoniously shoved out of his life earlier than their already too early parting date.

Minho sighs and starts walking.

It's what always gets him to sleep. The mindlessness of it, of letting his feet carry him wherever they want while he zones out staring at each ring on his fingers. And it's the exercise of it. Getting his blood pumping, using up all of his energy. He just needs to walk his restlessness out, walk all of his thoughts out of his brain. Thoughts about how this whole month hasn't been about him at all, about how his whole life has never been about him. About how everything, all the time, always, is about his status. Is about the prince. Ever since he was born, he was never a person. He's always just been a prince.

And never a good one, never one that could make a positive change in the country, never one that could make his parents proud to have given him that title. Even when he tries his hardest, condenses himself, squashes himself, suppresses himself, to be exactly what he's supposed to be, it's never enough. Because it's always an act, and they know that.

It's a weird thing, to know that all you are is a powerful title with no real power. He can't even use his power to help his people like he's supposed to. Not without getting blocked and shut down and ridiculed. It would honestly probably be easier for him to walk into the nearest city and start handing out money than it would be for him to give them any help from here in the castle.

Minho doesn't know why he's suddenly thinking like this. Suddenly realizing all of these things.

No, he knows why. It wasn't his realization at all. It was Jonghyun and Key. The two of them and their stark contrast to the rest of his life opened his eyes. It was Jonghyun's kindness, his acceptance, the overpowering force of his gentleness. His instinct to speak up, speak loud with reassurance and comfort. The calm and quiet in his presence, the unspoken invitation to share, the unquestionable lack of judgment.

When he was with Jonghyun, Minho felt like he was everything. But not in the way that his family makes him feel like he is everything; not like everything is his responsibility, not like everything revolves around him, not like he needs to be everything or else. When he was with Jonghyun, he felt like an infinite amount of potential all wrapped up in his singular human body and waiting to be explored.

And it was Key. His straightforward stubbornness, but also his reflective flexibility. His steadfast conviction towards his opinions coupled with his willingness to listen and learn and change them. The unashamed way he bore all of his thoughts and emotions on his sleeves and expected Minho to do the same. When Minho was with Key, he felt like nothing. But again, not nothing like the way his family makes him feel like nothing. Not worthless, troublesome, in the way. Not a waste of time, money, effort. Not a voice preferred to be unheard, preferred to have never been born.

When he was with Key, he felt like a quiet laugh at gentle teasing. Like surprised anger at an uncalled for insult. Like an annoyed sigh, like a vacant thought, like genuine joy at meeting someone new. He felt like whatever emotions happened to rise up in him every exact moment, and like all of those emotions were the right thing to be feeling. He felt like an equal, a person, a nobody. Not a prince. Just a guy.

The two of them and all of their traits together, so different but so compatible, balanced, gave Minho everything he needed to see that the people controlling his life don't have any of it.

He had so much more that he wanted to say to them. Questions to ask, apologies to give, confessions to make. Two fragile, shaky relationships, not even a month old, that Minho was desperate to try his fucking hardest to solidify.

And now it's just him, on his own, with an ache in his heart big enough for two people.

He misses them. It hasn't even been a day.

Minho hasn't been paying attention to where his feet have been carrying him. He's just been walking, lost in his thoughts, and so when he shakes his head to focus and realizes that they're coming up on the doorway to the royal artifact room, he isn't entirely surprised. His crown is in there, freshly cleaned for the umpteenth time this month to be ready for the official birthday ceremony tomorrow.

Minho thinks for a moment, then shrugs. Sure. Why not. If he's out here having an emotional walk about his feelings in the middle of the night, he might as well do it looking at the symbol of all of his problems. He slows when they reach the door and grabs the handle. Why not look at the crown that says he should be the center of the universe while the two people that made him feel like the center of the universe are gone forever?

“Wuh–your highness, Minho, wait, don't–!" Taemin speaks suddenly, grabbing at Minho's sleeve, but Minho is already opening the door. He glances back at Taemin, confused, and then looks inside.

Where Jonghyun and Key are standing. Frozen. Looking directly back at him with wide eyes.

Minho knows that it's them even though they're wearing all black and their faces and hair are covered. There's Jonghyun, his eyes huge, soft, and brown, down on one knee, tying the hands of two unconscious guards together behind their backs. Minho glances behind himself at the door, his sleep deprived mind noticing the lack of guards several beats too late.

And there’s Key, his eyes sharp and piercing, the lower fork of his eyebrow scar just visible underneath his mask. He’s bent over something–over a crown. Over Minho's crown. The glass case covering it is on the floor, a box of tools on top of it, another box with a soft velvet interior next to it. As Minho watches, Key's gloved hands, almost as if acting on their own, pop one of the royal jewels right off of the crown with a quiet, metallic clunk .

A hundred, a thousand questions enter Minho's mind. The one he asks is, "why?”

"I'm sorry.” Jonghyun speaks first, and the words come out as a squeak.

"You fucking know why," Key snaps. He's already looking back to his work. Another gemstone lining the base of Minho's crown clunks off. He drops it into the velvet case and it fits perfectly into a premade divot next to all of the others. Jonghyun ties off the guards’ hands, wiggling his fingers between their wrists and the rope to check the tightness. The door slowly swings to a close behind Minho. His mind opens up with waves of tiny realizations.

“You're in the Rebellion." They're not just thieves. Key's hostile attitude towards the entire castle; Jonghyun wandering the halls and finding things he shouldn't; Key antagonizing him the first day for fun; Jonghyun's detailed knowledge of the laws. They're too organized, too informed, to be just thieves. Even.... Minho feels dizzy. "Was there even a storm? Up north? In the mountains?” Was that real, or was that just them using the weather down here to bolster their lie? The lie that they had to leave early? Did they even go farther than a few miles?

“I'm sorry ," Jonghyun breathes. He gets to his feet, hands balled tight in the hem of his sweater. His eyes are overbright, almost overfilling. Minho recognizes the look from just two nights ago. Key doesn't say anything. He pries another jewel off of the crown. Minho winces at the noise.

"Hey," he says. His mind is racing and so is his heart, and he latches onto a sharp flare of annoyance. The least Key could do is look at him as he steals from him. He takes a step forward. Before he can do anything else, Jonghyun steps between the two of them, his right arm held out to shield Key. There's the slick, metallic slide of steel on leather and then Jonghyun is holding a sword in his left hand. And it's nothing like the swords that Minho trains with, standard and legal; it's a cutlass, curved and vicious, scratched on the flat but deadly sharp where it matters. Automatically, Minho mirrors Jonghyun, throwing out a hand to cover Taemin without looking back at him.

"I'm sorry," Jonghyun whispers. His voice shakes, but his hands don't. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry." Another clunk.

"Stop fucking saying that," Key snaps without looking up.

"Why?" Minho snaps back at him. "Because he can't un assault my guards? Because he can't un sneak into my home? Because he can't un break my–” He stops before he says it, but the realization of it slams into him anyway. It's true. His mind is going a thousand miles an hour, his lungs are pumping oxygen through his body, every single one of his nerves is buzzing, but his heart?

Slow. Painful. Broken. Quiet, cold pieces inside of his chest as he fully processes and understands what's happening in front of him. They're not just stealing from him. They're destroying his crown on his birthday. They're humiliating him.

No. They're not doing this to him. They're doing this to the prince. They're humiliating the monarchy. After everything, he's still just a title to them, a stepladder to get to his family.

Clunk.

"Stop that," Minho hisses.

“Or what?” Key asks. Clunk .

Minho inflates with angry breath, a thousand words running through his brain and none of them coming out of his mouth. Or what? What is he going to do? What can he do? Fight them? Hurt them? No. Run away and find more guards? sign their execution warrant himself? No. Never. Not for anyone. Clunk.

“Or nothing," he says. "Just. Stop. Talk to me."

Key scoffs. Minho takes another step forward; Jonghyun does too, thrusting the sword right underneath his chin, the point barely a millimeter away from his neck. His “I'm sorry” comes out barely more than a breath. A tear falls out of his left eye and immediately soaks into the fabric of his mask. “ Please” comes out of his mouth too, the softest yet.

Please. Please believe him. Please believe that he cares.

Minho does. That's the thing. Despite everything tonight, he still does believes that Jonghyun wasn't lying to him two nights ago. Wasn't lying to him about the portrait. Wasn't lying to him about his family. Wasn't lying to him about his feelings. Lying to him about everything else, but not about his feelings. Minho turns to Key over Jonghyun's shoulder.

"What's your plan?” He demands. "What are you going to do now? With me? Kill me? That's way more than you came here for, I know that much.” Stealing from a prince is one thing; killing a prince is another thing entirely. He knows for a fact that they're not going to go that far. “Do you think I'm going to let you just leave? Do you think I'm going to lie for you? Do you think I can lie for you?” Key ignores him, methodically working his way around bottom of the crown, then getting started on the big, fat jewels in the center. "And what about him?" Minho asks, gesturing to Taemin. "What do you expect him to do? He's a shit liar. Are you going to take responsibility for him when he gets in trouble?”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Key uses his tools with expert precision, not damaging a single gem as he removes each one.

"What about everyone else in the castle that's going to get interrogated on suspicion of helping you? Have you thought about them?” Has Key thought about whether or not anyone else would be in danger because of this? "Is teaching the prince a lesson worth all of that?" Minho asks. He's furious now, almost shouting, because Key won't even fucking look at him. "Answer me!"

He tries to step around Jonghyun, faking to the left and then going for the right, but Jonghyun moves in a flash. A flash, and a sharp, sudden pain on Minho's jawline. Heat, wetness trickling down the right side of his neck, the iron scent of blood. Taemin rushing to his side, grabbing onto his shirt, whispering curses but not knowing what to do. Jonghyun breathing heavy and loud, both eyes spilling over, red dripping off of the curve of his sword. Minho stares at him, shocked into silence.

"Minho," he says, voice trembling. "Please." He sniffles, he swallows, he whimpers.

Key puts a hand on his arm. Steadying, comforting. He glares at Minho.

"This isn't about the prince," he says, dangerously quiet. "Hurting the royal family is just a bonus. But this isn't about them. This isn't about you. This isn't about us ." He gestures between himself and Minho. “Your lot is awful. You get far more abuse than you deserve. This is going to make it worse. I know that. I have sympathy for you. But this is not. About your heart. This isn't about my heart. There are more people with bigger problems." He bends back over the crown and continues his work.

The prince. The family. Them. You.

Different. Separate. Key speaks about the prince and Minho as if they're different, as if he understands the difference. And the thing is, Minho believes him too. He thinks, more than anyone, Key knows that the prince persona and Minho's real personality are two separate entities.

And something else. Minho gently pushes Taemin off of him, shushing his worrying. It hurts but it's not concerning right now. "Us?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. Since when is there an us ? Key hesitates for the smallest fraction of a second. "Your heart?” Minho adds. Since when was Key’s heart on the line?

"Mind your own business," Key snaps. The next jewel clunks off of the crown much louder than the others.

Minho chooses to mind his own business just like he did that day they had a conversation in his rooms and asks, "you do care about me?" He does? Genuinely? Minho thought that maybe Key was warming up to him that day. Not just because they almost had sex, but emotionally, when Key stopped to ask about trust. Minho thought that was something. He quickly wrote it off as nothing, too small of a thing to make a big deal about it. But he wasn't reading too much into things? "You were blushing,” he realizes out loud. When he left. There was pink over his nose. Minho thought so, but second-guessed himself. But he was . "You do care about me." He repeats it as a statement, not a question.

"So what." And Key does the same thing; he speaks a statement, not a question. He says it as yanks off a jewel from one of the points of the crown. Casual, almost flippant, dropping Minho's jaw.

"So ," he says, a heavy breath. His heart comes back to his life, pounding in his chest, pounding with a hundred new possibilities that have just opened up to him. "So–so if you care–” If they care, both of them, Jonghyun and Key, if they both care about him, if the only thing they were lying about was tonight, if they both meant what they said about everything else, if they both truly do understand–automatically, he takes a step forward, forgetting about the sword, forgetting about Jonghyun's conviction.

But it's not Jonghyun that cuts him again; faster than lightning, Key stands up, whirls around, and grabs the sword. Pain sears across Minho's left cheek just underneath his eye. Blood trickles down his face, hot and uncomfortable. Taemin curses louder, starting to surge forward before Minho throws his arm out to stop him. Jonghyun squeaks, grabbing Key’s wrist in a bruising grip. Key doesn't take his eyes off of Minho.

"Just because we care about you," he says, venom dripping from his voice like Minho's blood off of the sword, "that does not mean we don't care about other things more. You are not so special to us that we will stop."

"What–? No, that’s. Well, yes, but.” That's not what Minho was trying to get at. He can explain himself better, he can get them to understand the soaring that’s suddenly happening in his chest. " Listen –”

"One more word," Key hisses. "One more word and you'll find out if I care about you enough to not kill you." His voice is so hard, his eyes so sharp, and Minho doesn't doubt him for a second.

He speaks again anyway: "let me come with you."

“What?” Jonghyun and Key both speak at the same time, eyes wide, voices high pitched with confusion.

"You can't come with us,” Key says. He lowers the sword just enough in his distraction that Jonghyun can snatch it back. Jonghyun doesn't level it at Minho again. He lets it swing down by his side, dripping onto the carpet. Key barely glances at him. "You can't just decide that,” he says. “You have no idea what you'd be getting into, you can't just choose to–"

"Why not?” Minho demands, incensed. He cannot believe that Key of all people is saying this to him. " You’re the one that told me that if you were me you would just leave." Now he's trying to just leave and suddenly Key doesn't think that anymore? Bullshit. Key splutters, holding his hands out wildly.

"I said leave and get a job on a farm, not join the fucking Rebellion, that's not–ugh. I'm not arguing with you. Jonghyun.”

He turns away, back to the crown to finish his work, muttering under his breath. Minho looks at Jonghyun; his name was apparently an order, one that Jonghyun obeys with a heavy sigh. He wipes Minho's blood off of his sword, slides it back into the sheath, rubs his palms into his eyes, and looks up.

"Minho, you can't come with us," he says. Finally, Minho guesses, he's free from his four word limit, free from his tears. For now. He steps close to Minho, raising his hand up to his face. He hesitates, eyes darting to his cheek, to his jaw, and then he just puts his hand on Minho's shoulder.

"Look,” he says. “You've been here your whole life. And maybe you don't belong here, but you're not prepared to be out there, either." He gestures behind himself to mean outside of the castle, out in the world. “You don't know how bad it is for the rest of us. Especially us in the Rebellion. We're always on the move and in danger. You wouldn't last."

Minho opens his mouth, almost offended. He knows how to survive. He knows how to camp and fight and protect himself. But something tells him that that's not what Jonghyun means. He takes a moment, the first moment since he opened the door, to stop and really sort through his thoughts.

Does he even know how to camp? He's been camping with the royal procession, everything planned out and prepared beforehand. He's been trained to sword fight, but he's never gotten close to being in actual battle. He's been traveling, but every location he's been ushered away from the common people and into mayor's houses, nobles estates, general's tents. He's heard about fires, earthquakes, floods, raids, but he's never been allowed to go see the damage firsthand and try to help.

He doesn't know anything. He's never been connected to his people. And that only strengthens his resolve.

“I have a duty to my people. I want… I need to help my people," he says. "And you two are the the ones that made me realize that if I can't help them from here, then I need to leave." He puts his hands on Jonghyun's waist, gentle, pleading. Jonghyun doesn't move away from his touch. "You told me," he says. "You told me that I don't belong here. You were right." He was right. He was right. Minho has been thinking about it every single day since Jonghyun said it. Never once in his life has Minho felt like he belongs here. Never once in his life has anyone tried to make him feel like he belongs here. This is the first time that he's said it out loud, but it feels right in his mouth, in his chest, in his heart, because he knows that it's true.

"You only like us so much," Key says loudly, straightening up and turning around again. The crown is entirely bare now, each and every jewel pried off. Key speaks as he makes sure they're all secure in their right places in the cushioned box. "Because we are the first two people that have ever been fucking kind to you. The bar is so low. Trust me. It's not a good idea to run off with us just because we don't treat you like shit."

Minho can't help the scoff that rips through his throat. "You have not been kind to me,” he says flatly. “You–’

“I have not been nice to you," Key snaps. “I have been very kind to you."

"You're so fucking pretentious.” Minho is distracted suddenly, annoyed suddenly, amused suddenly at the way he can just tell, even under his mask, that Key’s mouth is opened in outrage. “ Kind but not nice ," he says mockingly, wiggling his fingers. " I don't do apologies . Don't you ever get tired of caring about things that don't matter? Don't you ever get tired of nitpicking every little thing?”

"Oh, you're right, I should just not think about anything and join an anarchist group like it's no big deal." Key spits the sarcasm at him. "Do you even know how many of your people fucking hate you?" he asks. "Do you think it was just me? Do you think you can change all of their minds as easy as you did mine? How long do you think you would even last? All you've ever done is gone on fancy little royal vacations with servants to do everything for you and guards to keep you safe from the rest of us."

"Well, I'm pretty sure they'll like me a lot more once I'm actually able to help them," Minho snaps back. "And you're the one that said I could help better in person than I could from here." At this point, after so long of not being able to do anything, it's his responsibility to do all that he can to help. He can do it. “I can learn."

"You can learn ?” Key laughs, actually throws his head back and cackles. It's the first time, Minho thinks, he's ever heard it, and he does his best to ignore the stuttering in his heart. He has other stuff to focus on right now. “Who's going to teach you?" Key demands. " Us? "

"Like you wouldn't love to teach me a lesson or two,” Minho snorts.

Key slams the box closed and starts towards him, fire in his eyes. "I'll teach you a lesson right n–”

"You said," Jonghyun interrupts them with a hiss, stopping Key with a hand hard on his chest. "You weren't going to argue with him. Keep it in your fucking pants.” Quickly he pushes Minho back a step as well, eyebrows furrowed. "You too," he says sternly.

Minho looks blankly down at Jonghyun. Him too? He realizes suddenly that he’s grinning, his heart pounding, his fingertips tingling. He was having fun arguing just then, with the back and forth, with the uncensored release of thoughts, with the way Key wasn't holding anything back. Just like he was the day they argued in his rooms, he's filled with a rush of freedom, elation, a complete release of his inhibitions.

"Fuck," Jonghyun says, rolling his eyes. "No wonder he likes you so much." He snaps his fingers in Minho's face, one hand on his hip, so little in his bossiness. "Focus,” he commands.

Minho is focusing, all right. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he feels more focused, more certain, than he ever has in his entire life. He knows what he wants and, for once, he knows how he's going to get it.

"Minho," Jonghyun is saying. All of his annoyance has left him and he's back to his big, round, pouty eyes, his tired voice, his small hands gripping in Minho's shirt. "Minho, I know it's hard, and I know it's lonely, but–"

Minho cups Jonghyun's face, tugs down his mask, leans in, and kisses his surprised gasp.

Hard, and long, indulging in him, feeling their mouths move together. Very quickly Jonghyun goes limp and wraps his arms around Minho's neck. He lifts up on his tiptoes so the angle isn't as steep, so he can press their bodies together, and Minho holds him close. The movement of his jaw agitates his cut, making it sting and burn. He remembers that he has blood running down his face, down his neck, and that Jonghyun is holding him anyway, not caring about getting dirty, and he holds Jonghyun even tighter.

It's the best kiss Minho has ever had in his life.

When they break it, he rests their foreheads together and whispers Jonghyun's name.

"I don't belong here," he says. "And maybe I don't belong with the Rebellion either. But, Jonghyun. I want to belong with you." He wants to belong with Jonghyun, with Key, with these two wonderful people that came into his life and burst his world wide open.

"Oh?” The word comes out of Jonghyun's mouth as a whine, little and high-pitched and long, a five note melody that ends with his eyes overflowing once more. He drops back down to his heels but just so he can push his face into Minho's chest. "Minho," he whispers.

There's another slam; Key closing his toolbox. "You are so fucking soft," he mutters. There's nothing in his tone but fondness. Minho smirks, watching him place the crown back on its pedestal and carefully lift the glass display box back into place.

"I'll kiss you next,” he says. "See how soft it makes you.” Maybe it's the sleep deprivation and the blood loss, but he feels on top of the world. Key scoffs, turning away, but not before Minho sees what little of his face is visible underneath his mask turn pink.

"Don't threaten me with a good time," he grumbles. He puts his face in his hands, stomps the floor hard, and grinds out the most vicious “fuck!” Minho has ever heard. Then, "fine. You can come."

Minho's heart skips over the moon.

He inflates with it, with joy, with relief, with gratitude, with love .

"Thank you," he sighs. "Both of you. For everything." For speaking to him, for accepting him, for making the effort to understand him. For opening his eyes and giving him a way out.

"Yeah, whatever," Key says. He yanks Jonghyun away and gives him the box of jewels, pushing the toolbox into Minho's arms next. "Don't say you weren't warned. Now come on. We have to go.”

"Wait." A lot has been happening in the last few minutes, but Minho hasn't forgotten. In the back of his mind the entire time has been, "Taemin.”

He turns and finds his attendant where he thought he would be: sitting down, his back against the door, nervously playing with his hands in his lap. Ever since Minho first asked the other two to let him join them, he knew that Taemin had backed away, made himself small. His eyes are down, his lips bitten. Lost, alone. Abandoned. Now Minho kneels down in front of him, tilting his face up.

"I won't go without you," he says. "You don't belong here as much as I do. We've... we've been surviving this place together, haven't we? I won't leave you here alone. Will you come with us?"

"Oh," Taemin says. His eyes are wide, his mouth open with surprise. "Oh, um." He glances behind Minho at the other two and back. "This is awkward, uh."

"He's already with us," Key says.

"He's a spy too," Jonghyun adds.

"Uh, what they said," Taemin says, nodding.

Minho blinks at him. "What?" he asks. "The–the whole time?" He's dizzy again. Jonghyun and Key are one thing, but Taemin?

"Well," Taemin says loudly. He holds his hands out, waving them around like Minho is supposed to gain meaning from it. "I didn't know you cared about me this much," he whines. "Fuck. Now I feel bad!" His hands fall into his lap and he pouts, his eyes big and round. He looks so genuinely upset that Minho has to believe him.

"Taemin–”

"You can talk about it later," Key hisses. He grabs Minho by the arm and hauls him to his feet. "We are on a schedule and we’re already late. Are you coming or not?”

"Go,” Taemin tells him. "I'll be fine." Even as he says it, Jonghyun gently tugs him over to the two unconscious guards and ties his hands up alongside theirs. "I'm proud of you, by the way." And he smiles so big and wide that Minho feels it in his heart. He still trusts Taemin. He trusts Jonghyun and Key.

"Okay," he says. He stands up, running his hand through his hair. One of his rings catches on a strand of hair and tugs it out. Wincing, he frowns at his hand. His rings glint back at him in the dim lamplight. Four markers of who he is. Four markers of who he never was. "One more thing," he says.

He walks to the glass proudly displaying his empty crown. Ignoring Key hissing “what now?" he takes off his rings. Diamond for the king, gold for the queen, and silver for the crown prince. He lines them up in front of his crown.

"What are you doing?" Key asks. "We can sell those– ow. ”

Minho ignores Jonghyun scolding Key in a stern whisper as well. For a long moment, he looks at his last ring, bronze around his pinky. His ring. The ring of the second son of the royal family.

He takes it off and puts it next to the others.

"He can't send them a message, we’re sending them a message, his message is going to overshadow our –”

"I'm ready.”

"Good. Let's go." Key stops complaining without a second thought; apparently leaving quickly is more important than leaving the right message.

Minho goes, following Key through a secret passageway right in the royal artifact room. Jonghyun trails after, closing the door behind them. Minho doesn't look back.

#jongho #jongtae #minho #jonghyun #kibum #key #fluff #fantasy #Get the treasure au #I have extra tags to go with this but my arms suck today lol and for once I posted it on ao3 first because of the event #so check there if you want them finger pistols and a wink wink

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