“You… what a lucky bastard you are!” Haneul burst out, half accusation, half awe, throwing his arms wide. “Being a king must be the BEST.”
Seungho’s answer scraped low, almost drowned by the hiss of water. “I’d give up the crown to be that lucky,” he said, too soft for anyone but Haneul to hear.
But Haneul was already gone, stepping into the water with reckless devotion. He sighed—an animal noise, guttural, involuntary—as the heat swallowed his battered body, the world’s arguments dissolving into steam.
??????
The bathhouse air rippled with the shouts of envoys in the vestibule—Frost elders cursing Fire etiquette, Fire guards sneering about “savages,” matriarchs warning that “Skyborn don’t drown, they only rise.” Someone muttered a blessing, another hissed for Haneul to freeze if he wished. Haneul ignored them all, thigh-deep in the smaller pool, already vanishing into its embrace.
Steam curled over his shoulders, veiling his body but not hiding it—lotus petals clung to his knees, floated between his legs, brushed the sharp bones of his hips. The water was hotter than any river he’d known, sweet with clean floral scent, soothing theraw ache of wounds he never named. His head tipped back, lips parted in a soft gasp, lashes trembling as his magic core pulsed faintly, uncertain whether to defend or to surrender.
Seungho stood across the room, half-shadowed, arms braced on the lip of the main spring. His chest gleamed under firelight, muscles taut with restrained energy, hair damp and loose around his shoulders. He let the envoys argue themselves hoarse. The ritual could burn. The world could burn. His gaze was fixed on the wild boy in the petals, the rival who now looked less like an enemy and more like something holy, untamed.
He stripped the rest of his crimson silk slowly, folding it with unnecessary precision. Every scar on his back caught the torchlight, proof of the battles he’d survived. His cock hung heavy, the heat flushing the crown. He crossed the obsidian tiles with the patient gait of a predator, each step deliberate, carrying the weight of ritual and an ache he did not dare to name.
The servants had fled—driven off by Haneul’s snarls, by the rumors already circling like vultures. Only Seungho remained. Only his breath, slow and rough, matched the pulse in his chest.
When he stepped into the water, heat climbed his thighs, his waist, his ribs.
Haneul’s head snapped toward him, wet hair plastered to the nape of his neck, blue eyes flashing with a hundred warnings and one bright shard of wonder. “Don’t come near,” he muttered, voice more plea than threat. “It’s my river now. Find your own.”
Seungho’s lips twitched—half a smile, half a challenge. He waded closer anyway, water licking up his torso, steam risinglike a crown. “Didn’t know foxes owned the flowers,” he said, voice slow as flame. “Or are you going to bite me if I steal one?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Haneul shot back, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the way the heat and petals had unraveled him.
They drifted closer, the glassy surface reflecting their shapes, petals bumping against shins, against thighs. Haneul cupped one in his palm, inspecting it as if it were a blade. Seungho’s gaze lingered on the map of bruises across his ribs, the raised scar down his hip, the delicate veins under pale skin.
“You bathe like you’re being hunted,” Seungho murmured, voice nearly drowned by steam.
Haneul didn’t look up. “Never had warm water. You keep it too hot. Makes my skin itch.” He dragged a petal against his arm, shivering despite himself. “Don’t see the point.”
“Comfort,” Seungho said, tasting the word. “Cleansing. Trust.”
“Trust is for the dead,” Haneul snapped, splashing water at him. “Or idiots. You just want to see me naked.”
Seungho’s smile smoldered—dangerous, slow, impossible to hide. “I could see you in battle if that’s all I wanted.”
“You could try,” Haneul smirked, and for a moment the world shrank to the point where their knees brushed under the water.
The silence thickened, charged, the air sharp with heat and heartbeat.
Then Haneul flicked water at his face, droplets sliding down Seungho’s jaw like sparks. “If you’re going to play at peace, at least act clean.”
Seungho blinked water away and reached for the linen cloth, a slow, deliberate movement. “Want me to show you how?”
Haneul’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t retreat. He pressed his arms to his sides, chest heaving with pride and something restless.
Seungho’s hands were rough from swords, but now they were gentle. He soaked the cloth, wrung it out, slid it down Haneul’s shoulder in a slow sweep. The heat made old wounds sting, and Haneul’s lips parted on a sound he swallowed too quickly. He didn’t pull away—Not even as Seungho traced a bruise with haunted care, not when the thumb brushed the edge of his throat.
“You don’t have to fight every touch,” Seungho said, voice roughened. “Not here.”
“I don’t know how not to,” Haneul muttered, but his eyes slipped shut for a breath.
Seungho’s thumb traced the line of his neck, reverent. “I can see that.”
The silence between them shifted—less brittle, more alive.
Haneul opened his eyes, feral brightness intact. “If you tell anyone I let you clean me—”
