Haneul shrugged, tossing the bowl aside. “No. But you washed me before, remember? And I don’t like being indebted. And… you looked like you wanted to touch me.” He blinked, finally noticing the tension, the way Seungho’s breath quickened, the way his cock rose above the water, thick and flushed. “Are you hard?”
Seungho swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Why are you asking?”
Haneul frowned, brow furrowed in honest confusion. “Isn’t that what you do? You get hard, you fuck, or you fight. Sometimes both. I don’t care. I’m not shy.”
Seungho’s body tightened, hunger and confusion warring in every line of him. “Is that what you want? To fuck, or to fight?”
Haneul’s mouth twisted into a fox’s grin. “If I wanted to fuck you, I’d take you by the hair and see if you yelp or bite. If I wanted to fight… same thing,” he said, all bravado, unfiltered honesty and naiveté mixed up in catastrophic trouble.
He climbed out of the water, droplets shining on his skin, lotus petals clinging to his thigh and chest, not caring if he was watched. He wrapped a cloth around his hips, shook out his braid, glancing over his shoulder with that maddening, feral confidence.
“You coming, fire king? Or are you going to sit there until your cock falls off?”
Seungho, stunned and burning, stood. Seungho followed, burning. Pride forgotten. Water clinging like hunger. For the first time, he felt not like a king, not like a warrior, but like a man wholly at the mercy of a storm that refused to be named.
??????
The palace halls were quiet as they padded back, steam still rising from their bare skin, Haneul stalking ahead with towel slung low around his hips, braid swinging in a silver arc down his back. He walked like a young king exiled from his own body—head high, shoulders thrown back, feet silent on the polished floor. His ribs showed when he breathed too deep; his cheeks were flushed with heat and something wilder.
But he was flagging. Every dozen steps, his swagger softened into a stumble, and he snapped his spine straight again with a scowl meant for ghosts.
Seungho followed, silent but observant, trailing him like the world’s most dangerous shadow. When they reached the king’s private chamber, Haneul threw himself onto the warm stone, slapping at his arms and sides as if he could shake off weaknessby force. His braid clung to his damp back, skin prickled in gooseflesh, mouth set in a tight, feral line.
He glared at Seungho, chest heaving. “You trying to boil me alive?” His words were too loud, too quick, bravado barely papering over the wobble in his knees.
He blinked, just once, shoulders lifting—then, with zero warning or drama, his legs simply folded. He sat down hard, graceless as a dropped snow fox cub, eyes flicking wide with indignation.
Seungho’s response was immediate—one step, then two, crouching in front of Haneul as the wild man-boy pointed at him, eyes narrowed in betrayal, voice slurring with exhaustion and something deeper.
“Did you put… something weird in that oil from hell?” Haneul snapped, finger trembling, accusation clumsy but fierce. “I’m gonna… fucking end you— you backstabbing—bastard—”
He didn’t understand. He wasn’t scared or pleading. No, Haneul was angry, too proud to admit that collapse was even possible, that hunger was the secret poison undoing him. He’d grown up in a world where bodies were never allowed to break. His first thought was sabotage, not weakness. Hunger could make him human, and that was unacceptable.
Seungho didn’t answer the words—he reached out, hands large and steady, resting just above the trembling line of Haneul’s biceps. Haneul flinched, jaw clenched, but didn’t slap him away.
“Sit still,” Seungho said softly, voice gentled by something deeper than command. “You haven’t eaten in days, have you?”
No answer. Just a twitch in Haneul’s lips, eyes darting sideways. His fingers curled against the floor, knuckles white, stubbornness shaking in every tendon.
“Your body is crashing,” Seungho murmured, unmoved by the glare. “Your fever drained your core. And you burned everything climbing that mountain just to yell at me.”
Still nothing. Haneul’s chest rose and fell, breaths shallow and quick, a wild animal cornered by the truth.
Seungho straightened, voice turning from gentleness to kingly authority. “Stay there. Unless you want to end up on your ass again.”
He crossed the chamber, muscles flexing under the towel slung low over his hips, hair dripping along his spine, every inch a king who does not bow to another’s pain, only recognizes it as a worthy enemy. He called for food—not to the kitchens, but to his private stores, his voice low, imperious, meant to bring what he demanded in moments.
Haneul, meanwhile, seethed in a coil on the floor, glaring at the table, at Seungho, at his own traitorous body.
“Don’t touch me,” he muttered, but there was no venom left. Just weariness. Just the humiliation of knowing he needed—something.
??????
When the food arrived—a heavy lacquered tray, laden with steaming rice, grilled meat, bowls of soup fragrant with ginger and wild greens, soft eggs, and a dish of delicate, sweet buns—Seungho took it himself. He set the tray in front of Haneul, crouched low, so their faces were level.
“Eat,” he said, likea stone dropped in the silence.
Haneul stared. His hands hovered, reluctant, then dove in, snatching a bun, tearing it open with teeth as sharp as hisinsults. Steam wafted up, sugar and cream and something almost sacred in the first bite.
