“So what?”
A dumpling soared towards the fire king’s face—a clumsy missile. Seungho caught it. Ate it. Chewed, eyes locked to Haneul’s, a dare in every slow bite.
Haneul gaped, breath coming short. “Did you just—! That was mine—”
“And you’re mine,” Seungho replied, calm as gods, voice a molten thread.
Silence. Haneul’s ears burned. His jaw worked, searching for a retort—settled for grabbing the medicine, chin tilted, eyes narrowed. “Drink,” Seungho ordered.
Haneul’s voice, muttered and vengeful: “…Yes, Daddy.”
That did it. The last thread of Seungho’s restraint snapped. His smile was slow, sharp, a knife’s promise.
“You’re not ready for what that word means, Snowdrop.”
Haneul looked up—something flaring in his gaze. Not innocence. Not even mischief. A challenge. Maybe a plea.
“…Then teach me.”
The world shifted around them. Something ancient and riotous and new flickered in the space between their bodies.
Haneul threw back the medicine, took a gulp, and immediately convulsed. “BLECHHH—what the fuck is—this is—like—tastes like rotten fruit—ACKHH—”
He wiped his mouth on Seungho’s sleeve, scowling, completely unaware of the chaos left in his wake. Honey still clung to his lower lip. The king, who had faced down armies, watched the scene unfold with wide, disbelieving eyes, palm pressed to his own mouth to stifle a laugh—or a growl.
Haneul blinked, mouth twisted in disgust, voice gruff: “What… so “daddy” is the new ‘cock’ now? It turns you on or what?” He tried to sound sarcastic, but even his tongue rebelled—he sputtered, hacked again, cheeks flushed from more than just shame.
Seungho leaned in, slow, every line of his body electric. “You’re going to keep saying that word, and one day it’s going to mean something, Sky.”
Haneul glared. “So what if it already does?”
Abeat.
Then he burped. Loud, shameless.
“…Gross,” he muttered, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.
Seungho’s eyes flashed, red and gold in the lamplight, jaw flexing around the words he wanted to say and the ones he’d never speak. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he growled.
Haneul grinned, triumphant and exhausted, mouth stained with honey, legs sprawled across the bed like he owned the kingdom and every secret the king had ever buried.
“I know.”
Haneul’s hands closed around the bottle like a wolf claiming the last kill of winter. “Gimme that,” he barked, voice rough, blurred at the edges by festival wine and sleeplessness, yanking the medicine from Seungho’s grip with the petulance of a half-starved prince.
Seungho just watched.
Watched as Haneul tipped it back once more, lips parted, eyes narrowed. The taste hit—hard. The boy’s whole face twisted, brow furrowed, nose wrinkling as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of nails. His shoulders bunched, spine arching, a violent shudder rippling down the slender length of him.
But then—a sound.
A giggle. Light, sharp, fractured, a child’s laugh run through with wildness and wine. It echoed in the chamber, bouncing off black stone and silk and something ancient. Seungho felt it cut straight through him—something holy and unhinged.
Haneul’s pupils were still blew wide. The blue of his eyes deepened, rimmed with white, hunger, glee, fever. Firewood dipped in oil, burning from the inside out.
He seized two dumplings, one in each hand, knuckles white. He stalked—no, wobbled—across the furs toward Seungho, towel slipping off completely, skin glowing in the lamplight. There was a shine of sweat on his collarbone, a flush at his throat. Every movement was cocky, stumbling, and regal as a fox after raiding the emperor’s banquet.
He grinned. The world tilted around that grin. It was wicked and bright and impossibly young—teeth flashing, eyes glassy, the mouth of a godling who knew no shame and never would.
