Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Changbin’s Oma lived in a modest but well-furnished home about halfway down the mountain. The kitchen and combination dining room and parlour had windows, with the rest of the dwelling receding back into the rock. It was an— elegant situation, for his single, aging Oma. Much nicer than any of the places they’d lived while Changbin had been growing up. He’d purchased this accommodation for her after he’d been made Minho’s cavalier, and as such had never actually lived here, so it didn’t really feel like home in spite of its comforts. When he came to visit, as he’d done last night, he stayed in the guest room.

“Here, sweetstar,” Oma said, placing a steaming pot of seaweed soup at the centre of the dining table where Changbin was currently sitting.

“It smells wonderful,” Changbin said, not even to flatter. His Oma’s cooking felt more like home than this place did. He began to ladle the soup into two bowls. “But you know you didn’t have to make anything.”

“If you didn’t want me to cook for you,” his Oma said as she sat, groaning a little, “why did you bring me ingredients.”

After leaving the palace he had stopped by the nearest indoor marketplace, showing up at his Oma’s door with an abyssal salmon as long as his thigh, and a couple choice cuts of nerf shank. She’d used the nerf in the soup, adding a hardiness to it. Changbin quirked a smile, a little sardonic. “For you to eat.”

She took the soup bowl he offered her carefully. Already two bowls of purple rice had been portioned out, steaming cups of the light citrus and honey tea his Oma preferred sitting beside their cutlery. “You are very silly,” she admonished, in that prim way she had. “You should think about keeping your credits to yourself.”

Changbin grunted, shovelling rice into his mouth. It was a pointless back and forth to have. He had a suspicion that his Oma lived in a deliberately frugal manner, and was putting away at least a portion of the credits he sent her every month, to try and force them back upon him at some point.

He would never accept it. Being a cavalier to the Diodos provided him with room and board, he had no need for the credits given as salary on top of it. Thankfully, she did not push the subject.

They ate in companionable silence. Steadily daylight filtered in, though it was watery and weak. Rain pattered lightly against the window panes. When he left later, he might go out the back way, into the mountain, rather than trying to brave the weather.

He wondered what Minho was doing. There was always an antsy anxiety that grew and grew whenever Changbin was away from him. Rationally he knew that Minho at this time would be in his study. Safe, theoretically. But the worry lingered anyway.

As his Oma finished and Changbin reached for his third portion of soup, he noticed her fiddling with the small skay’shar at her neck, fashioned into a pendant. It had a larger counterpart sitting on a tiny corner table in the parlour. A palm sized glass globe, filled with ocean water, placed atop a carved coral holder. Beside it was a small framed photo of Changbin’s Ada, and a little lock of his hair, tied with a thin ribbon. A white lace doily completed his Oma’s kraslok — her beautiful corner. She’d always upkept one, even when they’d lived on Fedalle. Her skay’shar had been smaller then, sitting on a plain holder. A few spoonfuls of salt water, taken from a sea lightyears away.

He thought about prompting her, and then decided to just wait. She clearly had something she wanted to say. He kept his attention on the food, giving her the space to form her thoughts.

Finally, her fingers twirled through the gold chain at her neck, she said, “I had lunch with your aunt the other day.”

Ah, Changbin thought. In lieu of responding, he gave another grunt.

“She asked about you, she always does,” Oma continued, a little cajoling note to her voice. “It’d be so nice if we could all get together sometime.”

Changbin did not look up yet, scooping out another clump of seaweed and meat. It was getting harder to tactfully dodge these— attempts.

When Changbin had showed up at her door last night, she hadn’t been surprised to see him so suddenly. Aside from a bit of admonishment, done entirely for the show of it, she’d given him no grief about not calling ahead. And that was because Changbin never did. He made it a point to never do so. Sometimes so she wouldn’t ask questions about why he was visiting so suddenly. Like last night, he hadn’t had to explain that he and Minho had fought. He’d just said he’d been given a day off, the same thing he always said, and she accepted it.

But mostly it was because he did not want to be ambushed by unwelcome company. Keeping his visitation sporadic and sudden was his best defense.

Changbin wanted his Oma to be happy. It was one of the things he wanted most. He wouldn’t consider himself an angry or spiteful person. But in this, he was both.

His Ada had been a trader, coming to Selene I on behalf of his shipping company. It was not a large conglomerate, but he’d enjoyed a level of security. Oma at the time had worked as a legal assistant, and by every metric, they’d been a suitable match.

But his Ada was an offworlder. An offworld alpha. The politics and customs of Selene I were rooted deeply, exceedingly pervasive. Alphas here already had to, as they might say, settle for female-presenting betas, what with the fact that eligible omegas could be harder to come by. An omega being brought in from offworld was relatively accepted, because it was addressing their deficit. But an offworld alpha, coming in and swooping up someone from what was considered a limited resource meant for their alphas— it was contentious at best. People with more extreme views might even call omegas and betas that married offworld alphas traitors to the blood.

They’d planned to settle here. The business prospects were good, and Oma had a large family and an extensive network of friends. Had, being the key word. Her family cut her out completely when she told them she was planning to marry, full disownment. All but a couple of her friends stopped speaking to her. The community as a whole shunned her.

When Changbin thought about it, a rage unlike any other overcame him. She’d been so young. It must have been so painfully confusing, to have so many people who’d professed to love and care for her simply cast her aside.

Devastated, and lacking social resources, his parents had decided to relocate to Fedalle. His mother had never let Selene I go. She adjusted as well as she could to Fedalle, but it was not home. Far from her god, a dry, warmer place, alien in every way. She’d been the foreigner there, but treated kindly, at least.

And then Ada had died. With the credits given to her from the company payout, she’d moved them back here. Changbin had never been totally sure why. He was afraid to ask. She’d still been pretty young, then. A hurt person running back to the place that felt the most familiar.

Her family had not welcomed her back, but an old friend had taken them in. Despite all its faults, Selene I had an extensive system in place to help the vulnerable and destitute. His Oma was a widow with two small children. They’d been given a stipend, and a place to live, and his mother had worked herself nearly to the bone to give them the best life she could. And through it, she had been alone, and— not whole. A husk of a human. Terribly lonely, missing her loved ones who refused to so much as speak to her.

It wasn’t until Changbin had been appointed cavalier to the Diodos that any of them began to come around. She was no longer the child who disappointed them, but the parent of the future Dityodos’ right hand.

To say Changbin disdained them was an understatement. His Oma had been so desperate for connection that she seemed to have simply— walled off those years they turned their backs. But Changbin remembered the late nights, the cold. If she wanted to pretend none of it had happened so she could have her family back, then that was her prerogative. Changbin wanted her to be happy, he wasn’t going to demand she stop seeing them. But he would not.

When he felt capable of it, he looked over at her. She had a round face, not unlike his own, and unruly curly hair that fell down to her collarbones. A pretty woman, his Oma. There was a dignity to her that made her stand out in a crowd. Sometimes he wondered why she’d never tried to date again, but that too, he was afraid to ask about.

“Oma, I don’t get much time off,” he said, pouting his bottom lip out. He pitched his voice into something cutesy, shimmying his shoulders as he said, “And you’re the only one I want to spend it with.”

That made her smile, though she tried not to, lips pressing together. “My darling boy,” she said, and Changbin gave an extra shimmy. “There should be something else in your life besides work, and me.”

“Well I would like to see Changmi more but ever since she got married she’s decided she doesn’t love me anymore,” he said, artfully forlorn.

“Your sister is only slightly less busy than you,” Oma laughed, playfully scolding. Then she sighed, mouth still twisted with amusement, but softer. “Changbin. The Diodos is getting married soon. You should consider maybe starting to look for someone—”

“I’m a cavalier,” Changbin cut her off, putting his spoon down with a rattle on the ceramic. “I can’t have a significant other—”

“Nonsense, cavaliers often get married,” she insisted. Her tone was still light, and Changbin worked to keep his the same.

“I am with the Diodos from the moment he wakes until the moment he sleeps,” Changbin explained, measured and clear. “If I did have a spouse I would see them for, perhaps, an hour every night, before we slept. That is not the mark of a good husband, Oma.”

It was true, all of it. No one in Changbin’s life would ever be able to be placed above Minho. The to-be-Dityodos held complete sway over Changbin’s time. Even his life. It would be a difficult pill for any potential spouses to swallow.

But the bigger reason, and the one he might never be able to reveal, was that Changbin held no interest in omegas, nor female-presenting betas. His preference was for, specifically, male-presenting betas. Though he’d tumbled with a few alphas in the past. Very, very discreetly. Members of the palace guard were his favourite, there was a level of— mutually assured destruction there that kept them quiet. And they understood, would never question, Changbin’s loyalty to Minho coming above all else.

His most recent— partner, if he could be called that, had recently allowed his family to match him up with a female-presenting beta. It had saddened Changbin. Not because they were in love, nor because he’d thought their relationship was going anywhere — all his relationships were doomed to end, regardless. There was just something sad about the trap closing in on a person’s leg.

Changbin would never marry. Of that he was certain. He was doomed to love in secret. The fall would be far and brutal, if his relationships were ever revealed.

Oma looked away, smiling more to herself now. “Different people want different things from their relationships,” she said, almost wistful. Changbin wondered what she was thinking, if she was remembering Ada. He knew she would take even five minutes a day with him, if he could simply be brought back. When her eyes raised, they were a little shinier than before. “You are kind and stable,” she said, voice a little husky. “I am sure there is someone that could suit you. My friend, I’m going out for caf later with her, she has a daughter. A beta, but—”

“Oma,” Changbin said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m going to report you to the Diodos for trying to arrange child marriages.”

Her brows lowered over her eyes in a scowl, and she smacked him on the bicep, the slap ringing out through the thin shirt he’d worn to sleep. Then she seemed so satisfied with the sound that she smacked him twice more.

“You may be my child but you are not a child,” she said, louder now, while Changbin theatrically rubbed at his arm. “Far from it. And you’re not getting any younger. I had already met your Ada when I was your age.”

Changbin hummed, nodding, hoping that would be the end of it. He picked his spoon up to fish some more nerf meat out of the pot, tinier pieces that had escaped him before. It was a mistake. She started to think in the silence.

“That— doesn’t have anything to do with this, does it?” she asked suddenly. “Your Ada, and me, I mean. I know losing him was hard, and I struggled more visibly than I should have—”

Changbin shoved half-masticated nerf into his cheek. “Oma—”

“But I would do it again, Changbin,” she said, voice trembling while her expression showed every bit of that grit and fire he’d grown up alongside. “I’d marry him again, even knowing everything that would come after. I don’t want you to shirk from finding a match, because of—”

Changbin swallowed. “That’s not it,” he said. Her hand was sitting on the table, and he reached out, taking it with his own and squeezing gently. “I promise.” He didn’t want her to think it was her fault.

She smiled at him thinly. “I just don’t understand why you’re so disinterested.”

“I really am busy, Oma,” Changbin said, because it was true. He was glad he didn’t have to outright lie. It would have felt ugly. “And I’m happy. I— feel fulfilled with my job. My life doesn’t feel like it’s lacking anything. I think marriage just— isn’t for me.” He, somewhat forcefully, had to shove away the realisation that he sounded kind of like Minho had the previous night. Oma still looked a little tremulous, so Changbin leaned over, wrapping her up into a hug. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, her hand coming up to play with the tuft of his curly ponytail. “My sweetstar. You had to grow up too fast.” Regret weighed as heavy in her voice as an anchor.

Changbin rested his chin on her shoulder, her hair brushing against his cheek. He stared across the room, at his Ada’s monochrome portrait. It stared back at him, frozen and unseeing.

——

Prayer was meditative for Felix, and he often left the Salt Pools feeling calm and refreshed. A useful skill, being able to empty one’s mind. It had done wonders for him through the years. Living just at the surface of his consciousness, letting everything else sink so it was no longer in easy sight or reach. He was quite certain it was the only reason he’d stayed sane.

So it had transpired this morning, after he had attended a prayer session that Hyunjin had held. Felix had kneeled in the shallow water with several other noble omegas, head bowed, facing the statue of the Maker there, and listened to Hyunjin’s voice softly reciting their prayers. There hadn’t been a chance to actually talk to Hyunjin, too much of a crowd around. Felix was— maybe glad of it; Hyunjin was likely to want to talk about the exact things that Felix had cleared his mind of during his prayer.

The storm had moved on but the rain remained. An avyska held his umbrella for him as he walked to his speeder, and Felix thanked him sincerely for it, causing the other boy to blush and practically run away. The avyskas in the sept often seemed intimidated by him, for reasons he hadn’t fully come to understand yet. It was not because of his looks; even with the tattoos, there were plenty of pretty calyskas around.

The rain pattered against the windscreen of his speeder as it left the grounds of the sept and began the relatively short distance to the palace. He could have gone home, to be pulled into whatever Olivia’s latest drama was, but home often felt— stifling. There was a lack of privacy there that he could, ironically, only find at the palace, despite the number of servants and visitors there.

The palace held a number of parlours that were open for his use, or the Indoor Gardens where he could almost guarantee being alone. There were a handful of music rooms, too, with instruments that he could practise on. There was always something to do at the palace and he could read or study in peace, without a parent wanting to talk to him, a sister wanting to needle him.

In the end, he took the speeder under the mountain and around to the back entrance, to avoid having to step out into the rain again, or to have to deal with the press speculating on the nature of his visit. When he did come through the back entrance, stepping into the entryway there, a servant was waiting, and didn’t even seem surprised to see him.

“Hello,” said Felix, smiling at him. “Is the green music room free?”

“Yes, Aeriis Felix,” said the servant, whose name Felix did not know. “I will take you there.”

The palace seemed emptier than usual, probably because people didn’t want to brave the rain just to be photographed coming into the palace. It wasn’t quite the same to come in the back way for most of the nobility. Most of them were not like Felix, who just wanted— anonymity for a moment or two.

His favourite parlor was a small room just near the library. It was not, at first glance, any different from the rest of the rooms, except maybe a bit smaller, and Felix could not really explain why it was his favourite, it just was. There was a sofa in here that was built for comfort and not, as so often in this place, the look of it. With the glowbulbs turned down and the holofire flickering in the hearth, the room felt intimate and cozy.

The servant bowed to him and said, “Is there anything else you would like, Aeriis Felix?”

“Would you be able to bring a light luncheon?” Felix asked hopefully. “Nothing too much, just whatever the kitchens might have laying around?”

“Of course, Aeriis Felix,” said the servant, and then stepped back so the door could slide shut after him.

There was an Alluta in the corner of the room, a little cushioned stool beside it. Felix took a seat on it, arranging his skirts so they fell more comfortably. He settled his foot on the pedal, and plucked a few strings, checking the tuning of the instrument. Finding the notes satisfactory, he began to play a slower, easier song to warm up. It had been a while since he’d played last, and by now the callouses on his fingertips had mostly faded, so the strings felt a little sharp. He sang very softly as he played, enjoying the flow of the music, the way it sounded with the quiet rush of the rain falling outside.

It didn’t take long for the door to slide open again, and the same servant as before came in, pushing a wheeled cart that held a covered tray. Surprisingly, behind him came Minho, striding into the room like he had been invited ahead of time by Felix, who had not been expecting to see him at all. He was dressed down for him, jacket left behind somewhere and replaced with a draping item that wasn’t unlike a shawl, over a simple shirt that buttoned high on his throat.

“Hello!” said Felix, brightening at the sight of him, standing up from the stool. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone sent word that you were here,” Minho said. “I thought you might like some company.”

He was smiling, a little crooked on his mouth, but there was something— wrong about it, something Felix couldn’t quite place. It was not until the servant had left and the doors had closed behind them that it hit him why everything felt a little bit off. “Where’s Changbin?” he asked, moving to sit on the couch. He patted the space next to himself, an obvious invitation.

Minho took the offered seat, sitting down in a billowing mass of black fabric, letting out a light ooof as he did so. “He’s visiting his Oma,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t know he had the day off,” said Felix.

“He didn’t,” said Minho, a touch dry. “I sent him home last night. We had an argument.”

“Oh,” said Felix again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Minho didn’t answer right away. Felix turned into him on the couch, leaning his shoulder into Minho’s body, angled so that he could look Minho in the face. Minho wasn’t looking at him, though, he was staring off into the distance, his eyes a little unfocused. His jaw was tense. Him and Changbin rarely fought, but when they did, it tended to affect Minho more than expected. As much as he enjoyed teasing and bickering with his loved ones, he did not like actual conflict with them.

In the end, Minho didn’t answer the question Felix had asked. Instead, he turned to look at Felix, expression— closed off. “Are you happy?” he asked, very seriously. Nothing of the silly Minho was in the room with them right now; Felix hated to see him like this.

He fought not to still. “Happy?” he echoed, tilting his head to the side. It was an act — he could not answer the question, it would do no good to speak that particular truth.

“Yes, no, I mean—” Minho stuttered, endearingly awkward. “Are you content, at least? With marrying— me.”

For a moment, Felix did not know what to say. Once, a couple of years back, Minho had said to Felix, I know this isn’t what you would choose, if given your own choice, and it had pained Felix so much to hear those words back then, even as he had needed to acknowledge the truth of them. He had never wanted Minho to think that he could— resent him for how their lives were proceeding.

“I love you,” Felix said, softly, sincerely. He did, even if it was not— what it should be. “Spending my life at your side isn’t a hardship at all, Minho.”

Their eyes met, and whatever Minho saw on Felix’s face, whatever he heard in his words, seemed to reassure him enough that some tension bled out of him, the pinched look around his eyes fading. He took Felix’s hand in his own, bare, warm fingers against Felix’s. “I love you too,” Minho said softly, “And I’m sorry.”

Another head tilt. “It’s the Maker’s will,” Felix said, as if to brush away any of Minho’s guilt.

“But I’m still sorry,” Minho said, with a wry little smile. “Because I want you to be happy, not just content.”

His eyes were too knowing. Again, Felix could not actually respond to the words said. “Why are you suddenly thinking these things?” he asked instead, diverting the direction.

Minho fell into silence for a long moment. “It just all feels like it’s closing in, now,” he finally said, not quite looking at Felix’s face. Felix wondered if that was the whole of it, or if something had happened that Minho was choosing to not tell him about.

“Are you happy?” Felix said, the words out before he could think them through. He immediately snapped his mouth shut afterward, internally scolding himself.

For his part Minho seemed surprised by the question, doing that quick blinking thing he did so cutely. “I’m— content,” he said slowly after a considerable pause. Felix smirked, both fond and exasperated. Minho saw the expression and huffed out a little laugh, shaking his head. “I feel like when I say it I mean it more than you do, though.”

“Is that so,” Felix said, very indulgently, because he suspected Minho was merely trying to cover up his own insincerity in the declaration.

But Minho did not stammer any more, nor did he rush to defend himself. His smile went sad, turning almost into a wince. He whispered, barely audible, “My heart does not lay elsewhere.” It was like he thought if he said it quietly enough, it would lessen the blow.

Felix, as he so often did when— confronted, went utterly numb. Minho was watching him closely, smile steadily fading as he searched over what was, no doubt, Felix’s very frozen, blank face.

His heart. Was it really so terrible. Felix’s life had been charmed since birth. He’d never wanted for anything. His Ada was the Chestvo of the First Great House, and Felix himself would one day help to rule Selene I. He would equal, if not surpass, Hyunjin in rank. The most powerful omega on the planet. No one ever said a foul word against him, universally praised and beloved. He’d always been, and would always be, surrounded by opulence. Silks and baubles, food and warmth.

What right did he have for complaints. A life at the side of an alpha who was kind, and cared for him. A life where he would always have whatever material comfort he could ask for. A life where he knew his children would be well looked after, and cherished. There were people all over the galaxy who would never go a single day of their lives without knowing the bite of hunger. Who froze, who died of sickness. A particularly potent and nauseating kind of guilt always reared up in him whenever, in anger, he had the thought I’d give it all up to just be with Chan. How ungrateful, to spit in the face of his privilege.

Felix could live without his heart. He blinked, taking a deep breath, and smiled at Minho. “I’m content,” he said, squeezing Minho’s hand.

Minho did not look convinced, but that was fine, because he also clearly was not going to push the subject any further. There was little point in rehashing it all again. They could do nothing. And Felix was content. As content as he could be.

“I swear to the Maker,” Minho said in lieu of any useless platitudes, squeezing Felix’s hand back, “that I will always take care of you.”

Felix had never doubted that. There was no way to ever doubt the truth of that, not when Minho proved it every single day. As much as he hid it sometimes, Minho cared deeply for the people closest to him. No, a life with Minho was not a hardship at all.

He reached out and first petted Minho’s hair, stroking back his bangs, and then let his hand go to Minho’s jaw, rubbing his thumb carefully against where Minho was clenching so hard. “Are you terribly busy today?” he murmured, as Minho’s lashes fluttered at the gentle touch. “We have the family dinner later, and Jeongin mentioned yesterday that they have dance lessons this afternoon. We could go and fetch Chan and Jeongin and bring them here ourselves. Surprise them.”

That brought the smile back to Minho’s face, which was what Felix had been wanting. What was even better was the edge of mischief there. “We will have to wait until Changbin is back, he’ll throttle me himself if I leave the palace without him,” he said. “But I think that’s a wonderful idea. Let’s go gatecrash.”

——

Jisung sat, alone, at a table near the corner of the eatery. Lunch was winding down, but the room was still fairly full, chatter echoing off the high stone walls. Jisung, as was his usual habit, kept his head down and quietly but intently ate his food. Sometimes this was just for the sake of efficiency. Today, he didn’t want to be here long. His head felt— buzzy, in a bad way. Too many thoughts, too much stimuli.

No one came over to say hello, or tried to sit with him, but then, no one ever did.

It wasn’t always like this. He’d never been a particularly popular person, but at the Erudite House, he’d had a couple of close friends, people he’d shared many late night study sessions with. More than that, he’d had a wide circle of friendly acquaintances, all of whom he’d felt a strong sense of kinship with, even if they were not close personally. They’d been harmonious in their dedication to the Maker. It had always felt— very present, very unifying. A place he’d belonged.

There’d been trepidation, when he’d been told he was being sent, alone, to the Regnant House. But he’d been excited too, and sure, so very sure, that he’d settle in fine, in the end.

And then— well.

He’d come in too hot, was the problem. Korovea was not Klevea and the Regnant House was not the Erudite House. Jisung had expected the avyskas here to share his academic enthusiasm for the Maker and their scripture, but things worked differently on Korovea. The Erudite House was a place of learning, the people there more scholarly, while the Regnant House’s primary focus was looking after and leading Selene I’s noble class and guiding the royal family, both in faith and sometimes in political matters. He’d found himself amidst a whole bunch of avyskas much more keen on making sure the sept kept up with appearances than on discussing a thesis written by the Inyska Superior two hundred years ago, more’s the pity. Everyone’s priorities here seemed so backwards.

When he’d first arrived on Korovea he’d felt, very much, his outsider status, both to this island and this sept structure. He had begun a quest to appear as knowledgeable and devoted as possible, trying to make up for any perceived defects, and in that process only succeeded in drawing attention to himself in a negative manner. He’d meant to seem engaged and had come off as preachy and superior, and his brash manners had immediately given him away as being lower born. His awkwardness with people had only made it all worse.

The avyskas here, predisposed to be at least polite, had quickly begun to steer clear. Many — most, even — of them now maintained a cool but cordial enough relationship with him. Perhaps he’d have been able to repair his early blunders if he’d not put a target on his back. Though he didn't think that was fair, because he hadn’t been the one to start it.

Right after Jisung had arrived, he’d been assigned to work in the laundry room. Another avyska, Taegoo, had wondered to the room at large how long it would take before Jisung stopped smelling like a fish farm, as he had already been at the Regnant House three days and it showed no sign of fading. The laundry room had fallen eerily silent, people pausing and glancing nervously around. Jisung had smiled, and then expressed his shock that Taegoo could count, since judging by his appearance, he must share significant DNA with a bantha.

It was not a smart choice. Jisung, soaking wet, likely weighed half of what Taegoo did. The bantha remark wasn’t just a jab, but had a ring of truth — the other man was tall, and quite wide, thick boned. He would have been able to snap Jisung as easily as a toothpick, but Jisung had not always done the smart thing. And that fish farm comment had rankled — not because Jisung found such occupation shameful, but rather because he didn’t. His older brother worked on the sisofish farm back on Klevea.

But all Taegoo had done was narrow his eyes hatefully, and since then he had mostly just stared beadily at Jisung whenever they were in the same room. One of his friends, Juhyeok, had almost tripped Jisung once when Jisung was hurrying by, but that had gotten chalked up to an accident. There’d also been the incident with the glue on Jisung’s bedroom doorknob. He had, as they might say, poked the d’oemir bear, but the bear had poked him first. Regardless of who started it, no one wanted to ally with Jisung, when it might put them in the crossfire. Taegoo had a capacity for nastiness. Jisung now simply tried to give him, and his friends, a wide berth, but ever since his promotion a few days ago, he had noticed an increase in the intensity of their ire upon him. Even now, Taegoo was sitting with his friends, Juhyeok and two others, Hyewon and Donghyuk. They were huddled close, and kept darting glances in Jisung’s direction.

Jisung did his best to ignore them, shoving the last of his bread into his mouth. He stood, bringing his tray to the back of the eatery, where an older, greying avyska took it from him with a thin smile. After murmuring his thanks he made his way out of the eatery, a few people, both calyska and avyska, eyeing him as he went. Calyska Sunyoung gave him a disdainful once over as he passed her table, peering down her nose at him. She was from some noble house, and though becoming a calyska gave up her blue blooded lineage in theory, the reality was their class structure did still persist even within the sept walls.

He’d made an enemy of her one evening at zaktva, correcting her recitation of the eleventh psalm, which she’d gotten wrong. There was a decided element of tit for tat: he’d disliked how uppity she was and wanted to annoy her, though he’d covered it up by saying he thought she’d have preferred to know her mistake. They were, after all, supposed to always be seeking to improve their service to the Maker.

Already predisposed to disliking Jisung, and feeling an innate sense of superiority based on their heritage, his obnoxious and very public remark had put him permanently on her shit list. Thankfully, her relative incompetence had not gone unnoticed by the Inyskas here, so she’d not been promoted nor put into a position of any power over him, in spite of her oh-so-important lineage.

Jisung met her eyes and smiled, more a baring of teeth. Her friend glared at him, and immediately leaned in to whisper something into Sunyoung’s ear.

He looked away. His social anxiety meant he was often worried that when people were talking, or laughing, they were making fun of him, specifically. Rationally knowing this was unlikely only did so much. In cases like this, where he knew they almost certainly were talking about him, made him feel that sick-cold sensation in his gut. He didn’t care about what Sunyoung or anyone else thought of him, but the reaction was instinctive. He wished he could turn it off, like a switch.

He wished, sometimes, he could start it all over. And be less— himself. Maybe then he wouldn’t spend all his meals alone.

The peace of one of the smaller chapels would be a relief. He always went to one, after lunch, to attend to seretva. The quietest of the daily prayers.

As the noise of the eatery faded, Jisung felt like a great hand that had been squeezing his lungs was easing. He didn’t know what was wrong with him today. Sometimes it was just— like this. There’d been a feeling of expectation looming over him, causing his anxiety to trigger. Partially from the promotion, partly from what had followed it.

He was now trying to put it to rest. It lingered, latent, even though he was coming to the conclusion there was nothing to— expect.

The morning had passed uneventfully. Inyska Hyunjin hadn’t questioned him again, had merely sipped blearily at his caf, squinting mutinously around. Jisung had watched him furtively, his fear fading and being replaced with a sort of curiosity. Because he could not make sense of him at all.

Hyunjin, for all his great power, both spiritually and politically, really did seem like he was more bark than bite. It wasn’t that Jisung had expected him to be cruel, but he’d thought Hyunjin would be rigid, strict. Very much so. He’d anticipated the Royal Inyska would be like every Inyska that Jisung had dealt with, in his time training and working for the sept, and even worse, amplified to the highest degree.

But Hyunjin wasn’t. He wasn’t even like Inyska Lee. There was an ambivalence in him, surrounding his position, and the reverence he was owed. Beyond that Jisung continued to clean his rooms and not be too lippy about it, he got the impression Hyunjin would not care about Jisung adhering to sept conventions, or his oaths, at all. Was that what had so emboldened Chaeyoung? Jisung had been wondering how she’d managed to sneak around with a lover without anyone noticing. Maybe Hyunjin had noticed, and had simply not— cared.

The thought was shocking. Jisung had anticipated that his promotion would come with a short leash, the shortest he’d experienced so far. Alarming to think the opposite might be true, that Hyunjin would not blink if Jisung simply— flouted their doctrines.

He wasn’t going to. Jisung still cared. He cared about what was proper and expected of him, even if Hyunjin did not seem to. He cared about what he owed to the Maker— to Hyunjin. Because he did owe Hyunjin respect, and devotion, surely. The Voice of the Maker, drinker of The Waters. It was an honour. It was the heaviest burden.

The Hall of Supplications was empty when Jisung turned the corner. He, as usual, had his pick of the minor chapels. They were all the same in layout, it was the decor that varied. Different designs in the stained glass windows, various iterations of the Maker for the small fountains. Jisung picked a room where the stained glass was almost entirely blue, and the statue of the Maker was cloaked, only a hand outstretched, water flowing down from the palm. These rooms had always appealed to Jisung, reminded him of little shrines. They smelled like the sea, were the closest he’d ever get to experiencing the Salt Pools.

Jisung put his hands under the thin flow of water, finding it almost painful, it was so icy. He dampened his face, the water salty on his lips.

There was a low hassock in front of the fountain, upholstered in a vibrant blue velvet. Jisung knelt on it, performing the descent of the droplet, tapping first his forehead, then his bottom lip, and lastly between his collarbones.

“Blessed be the Maker and His waters,” Jisung whispered, voice lost amidst the sound of falling water. “Blessed be His wrath and His mercy. I come now at the high point of the day to— to—”

Jisung trailed off. He could recite these prayers in his sleep, but apparently couldn’t do it while thinking.

What other reason could there be.

Those words had been chafing at Jisung, steadily rubbing him raw. In conjunction with the way they’d been spoken, the look on Hyunjin’s face— there was something there. Something concealed.

If faith hadn’t driven Hyunjin to the sept, then what had. Perhaps— his family. He wouldn’t be the first omega pressured into joining. But that didn’t really make sense. Hyunjin had been noble, to Jisung’s understanding. His family would not have anything to gain from him taking the veil. In fact, most of the nobility seemed to mourn when one of their own was lost to the sept. And Hyunjin was beautiful, he’d have made an excellent match.

So then why. Why.

His expression, as he’d looked over his shoulder when Jisung had impertinently asked, Isn’t that why you joined, was not unlike an expression Jisung had seen on his face during their very first proper encounter.

I’m never wrong, that’s why I’m the Royal Inska.

Hyunjin never got angry, when he should. He just got— got—

Sad.

Was that it, Jisung wondered, trying to remember exactly what Hyunjin had looked like in those moments. There was something— aching about it. Something mocking, but like Hyunjin was the one, worthy of the mockery.

Even Jisung could see Hyunjin was unhappy. Spoiled, yes, pampered, that too. But also despondent. Of all things, Jisung had never put any thought to how very alone the Royal Inyska was. He’d read, extensively, about the previous Royal Inyskas. Their piousness, their devotion to the faith, was described almost as a cloak they shrouded themselves in. They’d had their Maker, and needed nothing else. Jisung in many ways had understood it. He got lonely, of course he did, but he was never really alone. And he felt that keenly, every moment, let be a balm on his heart, let it carry him through the day.

It was very clear Hyunjin had been touched, marked, by the divine. He carried the Maker heavily, more so than anyone Jisung had ever encountered. Jisung hadn’t been lying, when he’d said he could see the Maker in Hyunjin’s face.

But it felt like— Hyunjin held the Maker in his physical body, but not in his heart, not in his soul.

You won’t find your Maker in this room.

Jisung’s poor head was starting to hurt from all his thinking. He might have this totally wrong. And no matter that Hyunjin was just a man, and no matter that he may or may not be discontent, the fact remained that he, with little more than a word, could have the flesh flogged from Jisung’s back. It would be foolish to get complacent, or too comfortable. There was a line to walk, Jisung knew. Hyunjin didn’t like simpering worship, but neither did he seem to want rebellion. Small shows of personality would not go amiss. Jisung would be— respectful, polite, and attend to his duties, without cowering or— treating Hyunjin as something more than his boss. That seemed the best way, to behave in a manner that kept his own vows and morals intact, while also maybe endearing himself into Hyunjin’s good graces.

Not to say that he wouldn’t still kiss Hyunjin’s hems if bid to do so and it wouldn’t be transcendent. It would. But he would keep that part of him boxed down, concealed. He would act— like he was not a total freak, as his brother might say.

He could do this. He would do this.

Having followed his thoughts to their conclusion, he felt more capable of meditation. Taking a deep breath, he rewound his brain to the beginning, intent on starting his prayers afresh.

The door of the cathedral slammed shut.

Jisung startled, turning around and standing in one smooth motion. He rushed over to the closed door, hearing a kind of grating, grinding noise as he did, amid muffled laughter. When he tried to push the door open, it did not budge.

“Hey!” he called, smacking his hand on the wooden door. “Let me out!”

More laughter, less muffled, like whoever was on the other side was struggling to hold it in. Several people, and Jisung recognised the voices.

“Taegoo, this isn’t funny, I have work to do!” Jisung yelled, banging on the door some more. The laughter was growing quieter, as the people on the other side scuttled off. Jisung shifted from hitting the door to trying to wrench it open again, succeedingly only in slightly rattling it in its frame. They’d barred it. He screamed, “Taegoo!”

There was nothing from the other side. Jisung gave a cry of inarticulate frustration, hitting the door one last time for good measure. Then he stumbled back, breathing a little heavier.

His palm smarted. The fountain burbled on, and the hallway outside remained quiet. Jisung contemplated his predicament, and its likely motive. This was not just a means of annoying him, but also an attempt to sabotage him. If Jisung was in here, he would not be able to do his evening tasks. It would reflect poorly on him. He would have no means of proving it had been Taegoo who’d left him in here, and no doubt Taegoo’s friends and likely co-conspirators would lie if questioned. It would be his word against theirs. The only fact of the matter would be Jisung had been derelict in his duties. Someone like Inyska Lee would mete out punishment for that, and would not care in the least about Jisung’s excuses.

Taegoo, like Jisung had done before, obviously expected that the Royal Inyska would be the same. Worse, even. They had, no doubt gleefully, imagined Jisung would be reprimanded, perhaps publicly chastised, or even caned.

Anger sat, hot and choking, in Jisung’s chest, and he made an effort to remember his training, to calm his riotous thoughts. They were merely jealous, he reminded himself. Their minds rivalled that of an anchovy’s in terms of complexity and small size, and they likely knew it.

He had been made Avyska of the Inner Chambers. He was no longer scrubbing floors, while they were still in the laundry room washing pit stains out of tunics. He had already won, and they could do nothing about it.

The thoughts went a long way to soothe him. Avyska of the Inner Chambers, Avyska of the Inner Chambers, he chanted like his own little personal mantra. The holy wall of doctrines floated into his mind’s eye, dozens of vows he had taken. One shall not fall prey to vanity.

Jisung stalked over to the fountain, staring at the cloaked face of the Maker. This statue was not one of the best in the sept. A little globby, in parts, not as finely rendered. He huffed out a sharp breath through his nose, and then looked back over his shoulder at the closed door, the wood dark in comparison to the bright stone around it. “Avyska of the Inner Chambers,” he hissed, jabbing a finger at it, like he could bore the thought into Taegoo’s skull through sheer intent. “And you will not ruin it for me.”

He cupped some more water in his hands, splashing his face once again. It helped cool his overheated cheeks, and the bite of iciness immediately threw him back into a calmer state. His body was trained for this. He went to his knees on the hassock, maybe a little less gracefully than last time. His descent of the droplet was certainly more jerky, less tapping himself and more poking.

Avyska of the Inner Chambers, he reminded himself, hands fisting atop his thighs. Avyska of the Inner Chambers.

Hyunjin would not punish him. It was— odd, to have that thought, and to feel such a level of conviction for it, when even just yesterday he’d still been waiting for that particular hammer to fall. But now he just— knew. Hyunjin was not mean, and more than that, he had that sort of pervasive, lazy ambivalence. Jeonghan would likely bitch about Jisung’s delay, but Hyunjin just— would not care, Jisung rather thought. He smiled a little to himself, imagining trying to explain where he’d been, and could hear the way Hyunjin would cut him off with, Actually, nevermind, I don’t care, just clean up the plates and get out. And that would be the end of it.

He wondered if Taegoo was hoping for Jisung to try and tattle, was looking forward to feigning ignorance and watching Jisung be called a liar. How smug he would be. No, there was little point in that. Jisung had no need to snitch, when he knew he was not going to get in trouble.

What better revenge than for Jisung to act like this had never happened. To pretend as if it hadn’t had any effect. Wouldn’t they be shocked tomorrow, to see him working as usual, utterly unphased. And unpunished.

Let them be faced with their own petty insignificance.

His heart rate was slowing, his breathing deepening. It would all be well. Eventually, someone would notice the closed and barred door. Worse come to worst, Jisung would be stuck here until dinner, after which everyone would be heading to zaktva. Many people would be using the hall outside to go to the main chancel. Jisung would get someone’s attention and be let out. He was not worried about being trapped in here until he starved. This was just a waste of his time.

Jisung closed his eyes and decided to pray for patience.

——

Every time Minho came to the Bang manor, he felt a stabbing sense of guilt that he didn’t come here all that often. There was, of course, a lot to do at the palace, so he didn’t have a lot of time to visit, but he always had the vague sense that he should be making more of an effort regardless. They were his only family, after all.

“After we finish here, I should greet my aunts,” he said, as the speeder pulled into the drive. The press outside the gates had gone nuts when they realised one of the royal speeders had arrived, the droid cameras lifting into the air in order to get a better look at whoever stepped outside. His and Felix’s visit was going to be all over the holonet and newscripts within ten minutes.

“Oh, yes,” said Felix. “We really should, shouldn’t we?”

He sounded like he probably meant it, so Minho opted to not say anything in reply. It was not that Felix did not get along with Chan’s parents — it was the opposite, in that much like everyone he met, Chan’s parents absolutely adored Felix and welcomed him with open arms whenever he visited, greeted him with enthusiasm every time they met.

It caused a strain that Felix managed relatively well to hide, but it was there all the same. Minho would have been perfectly happy to make up an excuse for him if Felix didn’t want to go through with it, in the end. But Felix could be stubborn in his way.

They got out of the speeder, Changbin first, putting up an umbrella for Minho to step out under. As he did so, Minho heard a muffled cry of Diodos! go up from the crowd of reporters at the gate, and he wasn’t overly surprised that when he came out of the vehicle, the camera clicks were going off in such numbers that they were just audible over the wind.

Minho turned to hold out a hand for Felix, who climbed out to stand under the umbrella also. All three of them simply ignored all the reporters, turning instead to the front of the manor. Felix tucked his hand into Minho’s elbow, the other trying to hold the fluffy layers of his skirts in place, as he peered under the lip of the umbrella at the sky. “It looks like it might stop by the time we leave,” he said, with more optimism than Minho felt was deserved.

“May your optimism sway the Maker himself,” said Minho. Felix smacked him lightly on the arm for that, which Minho accepted without complaint.

As they neared the house, the front doors opened, although nobody visibly stood on the other side to greet them. Minho was used to this by now. It was considered the height of rudeness to make people actually knock.

When they actually stepped into the house, out of the rain, there were two servants waiting for them, just hidden from the open doorway. A female-presenting and a male-presenting beta, standing next to each other, both bowing respectfully. “Diodos,” they murmured, the woman a beat ahead of the man. “Aeriis Felix.”

“Hello!” said Felix brightly, as the door swung shut automatically behind them. “Isn’t the weather awful today!”

The man didn’t react or straighten up. The woman did, coming out of her bow and smiling at Felix. Minho recognised her vaguely, like perhaps he had seen her around the manor once or twice. “Indeed, Aeriis Felix,” she said, and then added to Changbin, “May I take the umbrella to be dried off?”

“Please,” said Changbin, stepping forward to hand it to her.

The problem with the Bang Manor was that there was always something going on in there. The palace was a busy, bustling place, but mostly only in the areas open to the public; once Minho retreated to the private areas, it was much quieter, with only him and his Ada skulking about there. Here, it sometimes felt like there was always a crisis, or simply just noise. In fact, as the female servant bustled off with the umbrella to the kitchens, where it could drip onto the tile and not the wood, there was the sound of running footsteps, and then Lucas came skidding into the entry hallway from a side door, almost losing his balance on the tiled flooring in his socks as he came to a stop.

“Oh,” he said, when he saw who was standing there. “It’s just you.”

“Hello, Lucas,” said Minho. There were not many people who would think to refer to the Diodos as just you, but Lucas had only been four when Minho had formally taken the title, and he was as unimpressed with Minho as he was with most people. Minho kind of found him a hoot, honestly. “Why are you just in your socks?”

Lucas gave him a beady little look, like he thought Minho was unintelligent in some way, and then didn’t answer the question. Instead, he gave Felix a passable bow and said, a little more politely than he usually managed, “Hello, Aeriis Felix.”

“Hello,” said Felix, smiling at Lucas. “Where’s your brother, we’re here to see him.”

Lucas shrugged. Then he simply turned and scampered back out of the hallway and back to whatever he had been doing in his socks.

“What a weird kid,” Changbin said in an undertone behind Minho.

The male servant cleared his throat. When Minho glanced at him, he was still standing with his head lowered to the ground. Minho did not recognise him at all, which meant he might be new. That might explain the somewhat over the top show of deference. The servants in the Bang Manor who had known Minho when he was around Lucas’s age didn’t tend to do this.

“Kiirodos Chan and his betrothed are in the ballroom,” said the servant. “I will take you there now.”

He turned, head still lowered slightly to the floor, as if afraid even when he was not looking in Minho’s direction to lift it for fear he might accidentally meet Minho’s eyes, and began walking to the hallway that branched off from the entryway. Minho and Felix followed after him, their eyes catching briefly as they glanced at one another. Felix had to press his mouth together after that, clearly on the verge of laughing, which meant that he, too, had noticed how Minho was being treated.

It was not as though Minho did not know the way to the ballroom. He knew his way around this house as well as he knew his own home, if not better, since it was considerably smaller. He waited until they were walking down a long, wide hallway before he looked over his shoulder at Changbin and then, with of his head, motioned to Felix. Changbin frowned at him, confused, clearly not understanding what Minho was asking.

Never mind, he’ll understand, Minho thought, right before he gently untucked Felix’s hand from his elbow and then, with a steady lengthening of his stride and increase in his speed, he smoothly overtook the servant on the straight of the hallway. The servant, head still facing the floor, did not seem to actually notice.

Felix started to laugh, a half-muffled giggling sound. Minho looked back over his shoulder to see him holding a hand over his mouth now, but clearly losing the battle against his own amusement. Minho flashed him a winning smile, the most obnoxiously charming he could manage, and heard Felix actually squeak with his laughter.

Behind him, Changbin looked far less amused. He kind of looked a little bit like he wanted to throttle Minho, especially when Minho turned that winning smile on him instead. Changbin hated to leave Minho alone, but neither would his own alpha sensibility allow him to simply leave Felix unaccompanied, even in a house that Felix was familiar with. An omega was more vulnerable than Minho ever would be.

There a short gap in the rugs, and in the interim Minho’s boots clicked on the wooden flooring, and the servant finally looked up, possibly expecting someone to actually be coming in the opposite direction. He looked very confused to see Minho ahead of him, and Minho saw his eyes widen in realisation, before he turned back to the front and lengthened his stride so that he left the rest of the party fully behind. It was not long before he could not even hear Felix’s laughter anymore.

The ballroom was near the back of the manor, a long, high-ceilinged room with one entire side outward facing, so that it could be lined with windows. It sat beyond a handsome pair of closed double doors, another servant standing beside them, whose eyes widened as Minho rapidly approached. “Diodos--” the servant began, and Minho ignored him, flinging open those grand doors himself. It was only thanks to the design of the doors that they didn’t bang against the walls with the enthusiasm with which Minho pushed them. Thanks to the weather, all the glowbulbs were on despite the windows, the rain pattering against all the transparisteel. Chan and Jeongin were in the middle of the room, standing opposite each other, and they both startled at the sudden interruption. Jeongin jumped not unlike a frightened cat. His cavalier at the side of the room jerked forward in sudden movement before he stopped, realising who it was. Sana didn’t react in any way.

“Cousin!” Minho announced grandly, striding right into the room. The doors swung shut again behind him with a bang. Music had been playing from a droid stationed at the keybed in the corner but it had stopped now. “I have arrived!”

Chan, very dryly, said, “Yes, I see that.”

Jeongin stood with a hand pressed over his heart, eyes very wide. He seemed so shocked at the interruption that he had almost lost some of that shyness he’d been showing around Minho, not immediately lowering his eyes or shrinking a little into himself. He was also, for the first time that Minho had seen, dressed in something other than black. His outfit was a very nice shade of dusky blue, buttoned high on the throat with very small gold buttons and simple on the skirts. The kind of outfit Minho would have expected an omega to wear at home, but on Jeongin, the cut and the colour seemed to suit him very much.

He looks very pretty, he thought, right before the doors opened again, and the servant who’d been standing outside hurried in.

“The Diodos is here, Kiirodos,” he said in a breathless voice.

“Thank you, Seungwoo,” said Chan, very kindly. He had always been like that, ever since they were children. Smoothing over Minho’s silliness, calming any feathers that Minho had accidentally ruffled. Making Minho look especially antisocial in comparison to Chan’s lovely manners. “You can leave now.”

Seungwoo bowed to Chan, colour a bit high from the way he’d been flustered. When he straightened, he actually looked at Minho, and gave him a beady little look. Not quite a glare, nothing so disrespectful as that, but certainly enough to impart that he wasn’t especially impressed with Minho. Minho, for his part, was always quite pleased to have disillusioned someone as to the supposed greatness of the Diodos. He did not like it when people, but especially servants, fawned over him. He was just a man, and a heavily flawed one at that.

To that end, once Seungwoo had disappeared back out of the room, Chan said to Minho, “Please don’t antagonise the servants.”

“They’re so tedious,” Minho said breezily, and then turned to Jeongin before Chan could try to scold him more. He bowed to Jeongin, who scrambled to curtsey back, still looking flustered. “Greetings to Prince Jeongin,” Minho said, trying to mimic the intonation Jeongin had used yesterday.

“Hello,” said Jeongin, which was a shame; Minho would have liked to have been complimented again. But Jeongin looked like some of the shyness was creeping back in, or maybe he was just feeling self-conscious at being caught unawares. “Um. Chan didn’t say you were coming.”

“I didn’t know he was coming,” Chan said. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see my favourite cousin,” Minho said grandiosely.

“You came here just to see me?” Chan asked, very sceptically, arms folding across his chest as he quirked an eyebrow at Minho.

“No, but I already saw Lucas,” Minho said, “so I figured I would pop in and show my face.”

Chan sighed. Jeongin giggled, which made Minho smile at him, pleased to have amused him, especially at Chan’s expense. He did not want the nervous Jeongin who had shown up at the banquet. He wanted the Jeongin who had greeted him yesterday, that spark of playfulness.

The doors to the ballroom opened again, much calmer than before — both Seungwoo and the other, newer servant stepping in to hold them as Felix breezed in, Changbin a couple of paces behind him. “Aeriis Felix, of the House Balinaella,” Seungwoo announced, and once again squinted in Minho’s direction. Felix nodded graciously to both of the servants, and then turned to face the group as the door was shut again. He looked perfectly unhurried, not a single strand of hair out of place, but he scowled as he swept towards them, his ire fixed on Minho.

“You left me!” he said. “I could have gotten lost!”

“You know the way,” Minho said. He gave Felix a slow, cat-like blink, trying to hold his smile at bay. He saw Felix’s mouth twitch in turn, too, his amusement threatening to break out.

Felix made to switch to Chan, but as he swept his gaze across, they passed over Jeongin, so instead, for a moment, he positively beamed in Jeongin’s direction and said, “Hello, Jeongin!” Then, before Jeongin could greet him back, he continued onto Chan, who was given a pout, devastating even though everyone in the room knew it was perfectly put on. “He left me!” he said, his eyes big and tragic. “I could have gotten lost.”

Jeongin was looking between them all with his own wide eyes, looking a little bit like he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. But Chan was smiling, that soft smile he reserved for Minho’s cat, Felix, and, Minho had noticed, Jeongin. “Minho is right,” he said gently. “You do know the way, after all.”

“Abandoned!” Felix insisted. “Lost in all the hallways!”

“This house isn’t even that big,” Minho said lazily. “And you had the servant and Changbin with you.”

Changbin stepped forward and put a hand on Minho’s shoulder, heavy and squeezing a little bit. “You are the bane of my existence,” he said, very seriously.

Minho let out a bark of laughter, the words slightly taking him by surprise. Sana, over against the wall still, snorted. Changbin was smiling, though, when he turned to take up position next to the other cavaliers, and either missed or ignored the little glare that Seungmin gave him as he neared. He looked somewhat outraged, like he could not believe that a cavalier would disrespect their charge in that way. He seemed very rigid.

Chan said, mostly to Felix, “Why are you two here, really?”

“Oh!” said Felix. “We’re here to help the two of you with your dance lessons. Then we thought we could all travel over to the palace together for the family dinner.”

Chan smiled, soft and warm. Nothing of note to anyone who did not know him as well as Minho did, but— well. Minho did know him that well, and he watched as Felix and Chan’s eyes met for a moment, Felix matching the expression before Jeongin said, “That’s very kind of you,” and Chan broke the eye contact. There was not even any awkwardness to him, or to Felix; just a fleeting glance and then— normality.

It pained Minho to see it happen. It pained him how naturally it came to them both.

“It’s no problem,” Felix said reassuringly to Jeongin. “Which dance are you practising, that was another thing Chan wouldn’t tell me anything about.”

“We’ve been practising the Kiirotya's Lament,” Chan said. “That’s the one that’s been picked for the wedding.”

Minho made a considering noise in his throat. It was not the easiest of their traditional dances, the kind of things that were first taught to them as school children, but it was not the hardest or more complicated either. A dance that would look good without too much strain on the part of the dancers; if Chan had picked it, he had probably done so with Jeongin in mind, since there was a limited time until the wedding.

He motioned with one hand toward the open ballroom floor, smirking a little bit at Chan. “Well then,” he said, “you should show Felix and I how you’re getting on with it.”

Jeongin looked to Chan, unsure, but Chan just smiled at him and held out a hand, which Jeongin took, a little pink again. He avoided looking at Minho or Felix as Chan led him to the centre of the room, and the two of them fell into the required starting positions opposite one another, Chan with his left foot in front of the other, Jeongin with his right foot behind. The droid in the corner started to play the song that went with the dance, although Minho usually heard the full band version and not just the basic keybed style.

It seemed that Chan had been mostly teaching Jeongin the broad strokes of the dance, because everything felt very— blocked out, nothing detailed whatsoever. Even Chan, who could probably do this dance in his sleep, was not putting in any of the usual flourishes. This made sense to Minho, to ensure that Jeongin had the basic steps down before adding any kind of embellishment. No point in remembering to hold your fingers a certain way if you did not know the entire next step.

Even so, it became clear that Jeongin was not especially coordinated. Most people were taught these dances from a young age, particularly if they were noble born, and with the clothing that omegas wore, they often looked highly elegant when dancing, any mistakes in footwork usually covered up by their skirts. Jeongin didn’t look very elegant at all. At one point he tripped a little over his hem. It was— charming, to Minho’s eyes. He was trying hard despite it all.

They were not that far through when they both came to a stop, Chan smoothly, Jeongin stuttering over the last step for a beat like he’d semi-forgotten it. He was blushing hard, not pink so much as bright red, his hands twisting together in front of his stomach as he stood there. His hair, without a moon hood on today, was a little mussed up from the movement. It was really remarkably short.

Felix clapped his hands, a rapid burst of sound. “Good job!” he said.

Jeongin twisted his mouth to match his twisting hands. “I’m not very good at this stuff, I’m afraid,” he said, very softly.

“No, you’re doing perfectly fine so far,” Chan said, reassuringly. He was wearing his mesh gloves, Minho noted, and he took one of Jeongin’s hands in his own. “This is our first day, after all.”

Minho— had embarrassed Jeongin, he thought, asking him to dance like that in front of everyone. He had not meant to, had genuinely wanted to see their progress, but he had done it all the same. This often happened with him, his intention good but his execution going awry. He did not want Jeongin to think he had been trying to shame him, or make fun of him, so he said, a little loudly, “We shall help you. It is hard to learn when the only person who can teach you is your partner. Felix and I will demonstrate for you two, and then you can follow along with us.”

Chan gave him a smile, like he was pleased by Minho’s words. Minho gallantly fought the urge to stick his tongue out at him. Jeongin looked at Minho shyly — he somehow managed to look up at him, despite Minho suspecting that Jeongin was a touch taller than him — and said, “Are you sure?”

“It’s no problem,” Felix said, jumping in. “I very much love to dance. Minho likes it too, even if he pretends not to.”

Minho let the words pass over him, although it was not really that he pretended to not like dancing. It was more so that there was an image of the Diodos to uphold, or at least the image of the Diodos that he had created, cultivated through the years. The charming prince, who danced well but selectively, who could be charming with his words sometimes and biting at others. All of it geared towards hiding his— weirdness, how off he had seemed to others growing up.

Instead of saying anything about that, he said, “Ah, but in that case, we should have more people for Jeongin to learn from.”

“But there is only us?” Felix said, confused.

“Changbin,” said Minho, waving carelessly with one hand in Changbin’s direction, commanding him to come closer. “Come and show us how you dance.”

This was partly an exercise in embarrassing Changbin, but only in putting him on the spot — Changbin was, surprisingly, a very good dancer, although Minho rarely got a chance to see him dance. Cavaliers were not really expected to do such things. It was more that his rigid adherence to professionalism in front of Jeongin and his own cavalier was making Minho feel a little bit twitchy. It kept reminding him of how the two offworlders were, in almost every sense of the word, complete strangers.

Changbin stepped forward, looking like he was gripping onto said professionalism with an iron fist. “Diodos,” he said. “I have no one that I could dance with.”

A very handy excuse, but not one that Minho was willing to tolerate. He pointed at Seungmin, standing rigid near the wall, and said, “There’s him, you can dance with him.”

A look of outrage spread across Seungmin’s face before he very quickly squashed it down in favour of strained blankness. His hand, constantly gripping his sword, went white around the knuckles. Miss Dog, standing by his side, was looking at Minho with an expression not unlike a friendly smile, her tail wagging back and forth gently. Seungmin looked like he might simply ignore Minho, until Jeongin said, laughing a little, “Oh, yes, Seungmin, you should come and dance too!”

Changbin turned to look at Seungmin, a small smile playing around his mouth. “I think we are being bullied into dancing together,” he said. A joke, but Seungmin didn’t laugh. He just gave Changbin a look that was as cool as it was aloof. Minho was not sure he had ever seen a beta carry himself with such self-importance — not like Seungmin was arrogant, but more like he didn’t think he had anything to prove to the world. Potentially a good trait to have in a cavalier, but the fact that he was a beta continued to baffle Minho.

When Seungmin spoke, his voice was very polite, the same way Changbin had been earlier. He did not match any of Changbin’s playfulness. “I have been learning the alpha moves,” he said, looking first at Changbin, then to Minho, and then back again. “So that I may assist Jeongin with his training while Kiirodos Chan is away. I would not be able to— act as the omega in this.”

Minho looked at Changbin, one eyebrow raised. Changbin gave a shrug, hands turned up to the vaulted ceiling. “I don’t know the omega steps,” he said.

“But that’s why we are here,” Minho pointed out. “So that Jeongin can learn the steps. You can simply learn with him.”

Seungmin looked between the two of them as they spoke, a little bit like he was watching a phrenbi match. There was the faintest hint of a line between his eyes, eyebrows creasing in what looked like mild confusion. Miss Dog had sat down now, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. If Seungmin turned out to be bad at dancing, Minho would consider the embarrassment justice for the naming of that poor animal.

Changbin shrugged. “I will give it my best try, I suppose,” he said.

Seungmin blinked. When he stepped forward, he did so slowly, his eyes on Changbin like he thought maybe this was a joke and he was about to be made the unwilling victim of it. But instead Changbin just fell back into the omega position of the dance. It was particularly hilarious to see on him, in his dark, close-cut clothing, all of those muscles that an omega would never have.

Seungmin came forward into the alpha position, his hand coming off his sword to mimic the way Chan was holding his hands, a perfect copy of it. He looked, disappointingly, a lot less awkward than Jeongin did, like he might actually end up being competent at it. Perhaps that was no real surprise, since his sword was a rapier. Minho was led to understand that cavaliers who fought with those tended to be light and quick on their feet.

He looked around at the group, all of them arranged how he wanted them, Felix standing opposite him ready to dance. He grinned, feeling something bubble up inside of himself, the slightly manic feeling that came upon him sometimes. Just as well they would be dancing, so that he could work some of the energy off. “Right then,” he said. “Shall we begin?”

——

The dancing had taken up the better part of two hours before Chan had called the lesson to a halt, and arranged for refreshments to be brought to the ballroom. They had been set up on a small table to the side of the room, drinks and some plates of light snacks, perfect for mid-afternoon. Despite the surprise of Minho and Felix arriving unexpectedly, there was more than enough food for everyone.

Jeongin and Felix had each taken a seat at the table, Felix pulling his chair closer to Jeongin so that they could sit together. He had proven himself to be both a very elegant dancer, but also one who was very happy to teach, guiding Jeongin through some of the more difficult moves that Chan, being an alpha, hadn’t fully understood. He had done a lot to help Jeongin feel more comfortable this afternoon.

Seungmin had sat down with them too, joining them at the table. He was not tired, the dancing had not been that strenuous, but he had wanted to sit with Jeongin all the same. As much as the others had tried to make Jeongin feel at ease, it had been obvious to Seungmin, at least, that he had not been so. It had taken him a while to learn to dance on Lapsa, too, clumsy with his body and forgetful of the steps. Here, starting completely afresh, it was no wonder that he had been struggling.

He was close enough for Jeongin to speak to, without overly intruding in the conversation he and Felix were having. Oddly, Changbin had also come to sit with them, on an unoccupied side of the table. This had quickly been revealed to be because of the food; he had sat down and immediately started snacking, and had been doing so consistently since. Seungmin had been watching him, out of the corner of his eye, without obviously looking. Changbin did not look like the type of person who missed a meal. He probably couldn’t afford to, if he wanted to keep muscles such as those.

These thoughts came to Seungmin utterly without judgement one way or another — he himself could probably do with taking a leaf out of Changbin’s datatape and eating more than he did, and more often, but he had always had a poor appetite, ever since he was a child. It was probably part of why he didn’t have muscles like Changbin.

Neither Felix nor Jeongin were eating anything. When the drinks had been brought in, there had been a steaming pot of tea, and then a glass of iced caf for Jeongin, and a cold fruit juice for Felix, complete with an orange slice pressed into the side of the glass. Seungmin had not been specific when he had called through on his commlink, and yet the servants had brought drinks very specific to the people who would actually need them. Even just in the few days they had been here, Seungmin had started to get the sense that this house, for all it didn’t seem it, actually ran very efficiently.

Minho and Chan were standing a short distance away, not quite with their backs turned to the table but enough that the sound wasn’t quite travelling in the right direction. Sana hovered near them, not joining in the conversation verbally, but clearly involved nonetheless, listening carefully to what was being said. They were not talking quietly, but their voices were lowered enough that, coupled with how they were standing, Seungmin had to focus hard to pick up on what they were saying.

This probably wouldn’t have been an actual problem except that, as Seungmin was finding out, Felix certainly liked to talk.

“You really don’t have to worry about tonight,” he was saying, as he tried to scoop up a chunk of strawberry from his drink with his metal straw. “I know the palace seems very intimidating but, well, you grew up in a palace too!”

Jeongin smiled, using his own straw to stir the ice in his caf. The smile was mostly genuine but there was an undertone of a grimace to it — a sentiment that Seungmin fully understood, when comparing the palace back on Lapsa with the hulking behemoth that the palace here on Selene I was. “I suppose,” said Jeongin, “but the palace here is— bigger.” He laughed, a little forced.

“Oh, is it?” Felix asked, sounding genuinely curious. “I’ve never seen another palace, except for in photos, but that doesn’t give any sense of size. Our palace really is very big, isn’t it?”

In the background, Seungmin heard, faintly, from Chan: “The Khaan has promised us safe passage. They understand the threat the Imperium poses. It’s in their best interests to look after us.”

“I understand that,” said Minho, much quieter, Seungmin straining to hear, “but are you sure you don’t want to take more security?”

“Anyway, you really shouldn’t be nervous,” said Felix cheerfully, overlapping the start of Chan saying, We don’t want to antagonise them. “The Dityodos is really nice. I was so frightened of him when I was a child, but he’s not scary at all!”

Easy to not be intimidated by a king if he was going to be your father-in-law, Seungmin thought. Harder for Jeongin, much harder, to be an offworlder, an outsider, at risk every moment of tripping over some cultural taboo or making a mistake that could annoy the most powerful man on the planet. He had been lucky with his mistake at the banquet, calling Minho by the wrong title, in that Minho hadn’t cared. But Seungmin hadn’t been able to get any sense of the Dityodos during their brief interaction at the banquet, so he felt a bit wary of tonight himself.

A small plate was set down just in his line of sight, from his left side — Changbin, who had apparently prepared a little collection of food for him to eat. There was a pastry of oddly green tinge, a small savoury tart filled with cheese, a few small sweet biscuits, and a handful of gleaming green grapes, selected from the snacks on the table. Seungmin looked up to find Changbin looking back, smiling. He looked a lot— softer when he smiled.

Seungmin just watched him, silent, waiting for an explanation. “You should eat,” Changbin said after a few moments.

“I am not hungry,” Seungmin said flatly.

“Tonight's dinner isn’t officially formal, but it’s formal enough that we won’t be eating at the table,” Changbin said, tone reasonable. “We’ll be expected to stand and guard. You should eat now, enough to carry yourself until late.”

Seungmin narrowed his eyes at him. He was not sure of what to make of this — the logic was sound, but Seungmin did not like being told what to do, not like this. Changbin only technically outranked him by being the cavalier of the Diodos, but Seungmin didn’t care about that; Changbin was not the actual Diodos, so Seungmin didn’t count that technicality. He’d listen to Sana before he listened to this alpha.

Part of him wanted to simply reject the food just on the principle of it. It was a nasty, spiteful instinct, an urge to be contrary, that he tried to not indulge too much outside of his internal thoughts. His continual refusal to warm to Chan felt a bit like that.

There was another part of his brain, much larger and harder to ignore, that was spending a lot of energy trying to not think about the last hour or so that he had just spent dancing with this man. Trying to not think about how Changbin had been so serious about learning the omega steps, trying with actual care so that he could help Jeongin with them. Changbin had not once complained about it, or even implied that it was shameful in any way to be given the omega role compared to Seungmin taking the alpha role.

A very strange alpha, in Seungmin’s opinion.

Before he could refuse the food again, Jeongin turned to them, his eyes big as he looked at Seungmin. “Oh, yes, Seungmin, you should eat,” he said, very earnestly. “It’ll be late before you have any food otherwise.”

Seungmin stifled a sigh. If Jeongin wanted him to eat, then he would eat. He pulled the plate a little closer to himself and then picked up the tart. It was so small that it would barely be a couple of mouthfuls, if that. Changbin smiled at him again, looking pleased — not pleased with himself, but more like he was just pleased to see that Seungmin would eat.

It had been nice dancing with him. He had not made fun of Seungmin when he had, inevitably, made a mistake, but then when he, too, had tripped over his own feet, he had not hesitated to laugh at himself. Despite his small missteps, though, he had been a smooth dancer, solid without being too heavy on his feet. It had surprised Seungmin, considering Changbin’s build; he made Chan look kind of weedy next to him, an impressive thing to achieve indeed.

Seungmin was very much trying to avoid looking at Changbin’s arms. There was no way his clothes weren’t custom made for him, likely by Seonghwa, because getting those things into standard clothing of any size would be impossible. He’d flex and the seams would burst. Seungmin found his face growing a little warm at the thought, and he bit into the tart viciously.

It was a despairing thing to realise that there was an alpha on this planet, close to see regularly, who was even more Seungmin’s type than Chan was. Perhaps Seungmin should suggest that Changbin wear the omega clothing, to go with the dancing.

He was eating the pastry, filled with some kind of almond and honey paste, when Chan appeared behind Jeongin, a hand landing on Jeongin’s shoulder lightly. Seungmin had been distracted and missed the entire conversation he was having with Minho. He cursed himself internally for it. He didn’t usually get side tracked like that. Large biceps and a show of kindness shouldn’t be enough. He didn’t like that Chan was vanishing offplanet like this; he needed to know what was going on.

“It’s getting late,” Chan said softly to Jeongin. “We should go and dress for dinner.”

Felix looked up at Chan, his slice of orange now consumed and its rind sitting on a nearby plate. “Minho and I were going to go greet your parents,” he said, smiling. “Your Yma will keep us there a while, I’m sure, so you two can take your time.”

Jeongin got to his feet, Seungmin following suit. Dog clambered upright from where she had been laying halfway under the table, yawning as she did so. Chan held out an arm and let Jeongin tuck a hand into his elbow — ever the courteous alpha with his omega. It did make Seungmin feel better to see Jeongin being treated like this, a kind of respect he’d never really been given in his life. It made some of the rest of it all feel— less grating.

He wondered what nonsense outfit they’d put Jeongin in tonight.

——

Hyunjin had spent enough time in the Salt Pools of Benedictions today that he was sure his feet would be pruney all the way through to tomorrow morning. His damp hems had gone unpleasantly cold, and they caught around his ankles as he entered his rooms, his calyskas pulling the doors open for him.

It was quiet, the windows letting in the golden light of early sunset. The room was empty, not entirely surprising, considering how close to dinner time it was getting. Jisung would not have taken very long to tidy up after Hyunjin had eaten his lunch here.

Or so Hyunjin thought, but then he came into the bedroom proper, and saw the remnants of said lunch still sitting on his little personal table.

Two of his calyskas had followed him in, and were now fetching fresh, dry clothes for him. Hyunjin pointed at the plate and said, “Why is that still here? Where is my avyska?”

Yeri turned to look from where she’d been rummaging in the armoire, her brow wrinkling into a frown as she saw the plate. “I— don’t know, Blessed One,” she said, tentatively. “The avyska did not have today off, I saw him this morning—”

“Yes, we all saw him this morning,” Hyunjin cut in, impatient. Jisung had been in here soon after Hyunjin had awoken, puttering around and making up the bed like Hyunjin wasn’t simply going to muss it up again tonight. A particularly pointless exercise. “But he has clearly not been in here since then. Why?”

“I— believe I saw him heading down to the eatery for lunch,” Sicheng offered, a new skirt in his hands. “But I haven’t seen him since.”

Yeri gestured carefully. “I can take the plate away if it is upsetting you—”

“That is not the point of the issue,” Hyunjin said, knowing his eyes were bright. What did it say about him, that such a small hiccup in his routine could make him feel so zesty. It was also fun, the way the calyskas so clearly began to panic when anything went even slightly amiss. This place was full of ridiculous people. “The plate is merely a symptom. Where is my avyska.” His voice rose as he spoke, and when Jeonghan came into the bedroom, Hyunjin whirled to face him, hair swaying with the motion. He pointed at Jeonghan, saying, “Hmm? Have you seen him?”

Jeonghan, with the patience borne from years of dealing with Hyunjin, did not miss a beat as he placidly said, “I have not.”

“He is not in one of your rooms?” Hyunjin prompted. “Cleaning, perhaps?”

“Not that I noticed, Blessed One,” Jeonghan said, still flat.

“A mystery,” Hyunjin mused, going to the table. He ran a finger around the cool porcelain edge of the plate, tapping it lightly with his nail in thought. Not only had the plate not been cleared, but none of his room seemed to have been touched at all since earlier. “Perhaps he has fallen down one of the back staircases. Or fled.” It would be surprising if Jisung had cracked so very soon. More likely he was rolling around in one of the gardens, having sprained his ankle falling off a ladder trying to collect a peach. It seemed like something he would do.

“Blessed One, it is more likely he fell asleep waiting for the laundry, or some other such case,” Jeonghan said, a little bracingly as he kept minutely twitching with each tap of Hyunjin’s nail. “I can send someone to look, and have him scolded appropriately.”

Hyunjin ceased his tapping. “No,” he said, darting through the room with a sudden burst of energy. “I shall look myself.”

“Blessed One—” Jeonghan began, while Yeri said something about changing into dry clothing, but Hyunjin was already in the hallway. He had no intention of being deterred. This was almost— exciting.

He made his way to the stairs, deftly dashing down them, the marble cold on his soles. There was something pleasantly heathen about running around barefoot. He could, faintly, hear someone following him, and Hyunjin worked to pick up his speed. He wasn’t going to run, but he could make good use of his long legs.

The first place he started with was the eatery. A large and relatively plain room, with many wooden tables and benches. There had been some chatter, when Hyunjin entered, but it all fell into silence, when the few people eating turned to gawp at him. Too early for the rush to be in yet, and Hyunjin was grateful for it. He did not have much by way of self consciousness in him these days, but that did not mean he enjoyed being a spectacle either.

And a spectacle he would inevitably be, in these parts. The Royal Inyska did not dine with the common acolyte.

He looked around, pausing just long enough to check every face. Jisung was not here. But then, Hyunjin hadn’t really expected he would be. Head held high, he strode through the length of the room, exiting through one of the smaller back doors that put him into a narrow hallway which gave access to the kitchens.

There were quite a few avyskas in the kitchen, at various work stations, and the scent of some kind of hardy stew hung heavily in the air. An inyska stood in the center of the room, monitoring, her clothing a heavier white cotton, less layers. They all looked to the doorway when he appeared in it. Amidst all the gray, Hyunjin searched, but there was no Jisung, not as far as Hyunjin could see.

“Blessed One,” a nearby avyska murmured, bowing a little, hair in a low bun. She’d been chopping scallions. Around the room the others quietly chorused his title, wide-eyed confusion apparent in their faces.

The inyska looked like she might make her way over. Hyunjin let out a short, sharp exhale through his nose, and then left the kitchens before she could ask him anything. He headed deeper into the sept, through the narrow service halls, their limestone tiles grittier under his feet than the polished marble. The laundry room could be smelled, heard, and felt, before he reached it. A sharp rise in warm humidity, lively chatter, and the somewhat overpowering scent of lavender.

The laundry room was garishly bright. Machines running, a constant thump and hum, and the sound of water splashing, as more delicate pieces were washed by hand. Steam hung thickly in the air. Hyunjin’s hair, already frizzy from the Salt Pools, was going to look like some kind of spiky urchin when he left.

“Blessed One!” an avyska carrying a pile of folded linens cried, bowing hurriedly. The exclamation made everyone else turn, and they too dipped into greetings.

Still no Jisung. Hyunjin found himself frowning. “Have any of you seen my avyska?” he asked the room at large. “Han Jisung?”

The avyskas looked around, and then at one another, shaking their heads and murmuring no. Hyunjin’s mouth tightened in displeasure. He did not think Jisung would have left. Perhaps he really was rolling around outside somewhere.

“I saw him at lunch, in the eatery,” a young man with untidy brown hair said, eyes respectfully averted. “He left after, to perform seretva.”

If Jisung was napping in the pews, Hyunjin was fairly sure someone would have noticed by now. But he inclined his head in thanks, and left them to their duties. Somewhere along the way, he seemed to have lost his tail, though Hyunjin had no doubt whoever it was would catch up at some point.

As unlikely as it was Jisung was still there, Hyunjin made his way toward the chancel. May as well cover every other possibility, before he began cavorting around the grounds in search. He pushed through a door at the end of a hall, and found himself back in a wider hallway, the floor once again marble, the lights a little less sharp. As he made his way toward the nave, he found himself in one of the branching hallways, open doors all along one side, small chapels within each room. Meant for quiet prayer and reflection, for people who did not wish to do their worship in the main chancel, for whatever reason. Softly pattering fountains rang from each, as he passed the doors, the sound faded in and out.

Until he passed a closed door. A closed, barred door. Hyunjin stopped in his tracks, and then, slowly, stepped back, until he was in front of that door. It was possible some repair work was being done inside, or maybe someone had projectile vomited, and the room had not yet been cleaned. There was no noise coming from beyond, other than the faint sound of falling water.

“Blessed One!” Jeonghan cried, panting as he came jogging down the hallway. They were really all so out of shape. Maker forbid they ever had to flee from some sort of calamity or invasion.

Hyunjin did not feel the need to explain. He grasped the wooden plank barring the door, wiggling it free from its metal prongs.

“Blessed—” Jeonghan made to prompt and Hyunjin shoved the board into his arms carelessly, causing Jeonghan to break off with an oof.

With a relished kind of dramatic gusto, Hyunjin threw the door open. The cathedral within was small, cool in temperature but warm in light, its small stained glass windows leaving colourful patterns on the floor. There was a fountain, with a simple white statue of the Maker, identical to all the other lesser cathedral rooms. A small, low hassock was placed in front of the fountain.

But unlike the other rooms, there was an avyska in this one. Jisung was kneeling on the hassock, head bowed, but when he heard the door open, he turned, looking back, eyes widening a little.

Hyunjin came sauntering in, his wet hems dragging. They were likely looking very dingy by now, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He crossed his arms, eyebrow cocking. “Why are you sitting and praying in a locked cathedral when my room needs tidying,” he asked.

Jisung stared at him for a long moment, and then he pushed himself up onto his feet, biting off a groan. He gave a little bow to Hyunjin, murmuring, “Blessed One.” When he straightened, he surprised Hyunjin by meeting his eyes. “I can assure you, this room was not locked when I entered it.”

The tone was earnest, but the words themselves felt— a little dry. Perhaps even sarcastic. A ridiculous, obvious reply, to a ridiculous, obvious query.

He didn’t think Jisung had meant it that way. Jisung, in fact, seemed very thrown to see him. His eyes were very big in his face, staring at Hyunjin openly, like he had forgotten himself.

Hyunjin sauntered forward, slow. I didn’t give you permission to look at me, he thought about saying, before discarding it. He enjoyed that Jisung was already lapsing in this way. “Very inconsiderate, getting yourself locked in a room, forcing me to come look for you,” he said instead. He held Jisung’s gaze the entire time, Jisung’s head tipping back to track him as he approached.

An utterly absurd reprimand. Akin to saying, Next time think twice before breaking your ankle, if Jisung really had been in some ditch on the grounds.

He’d hoped Jisung might bite back. A fun little snap, like yesterday.

But all Jisung said was, “I’m sorry.” His hands were folded tidily in front of his stomach, clutching one another a little. He seemed diminished, from yesterday. Hyunjin felt his own excitement, his playful energy, slowly receding, as he took in how tired Jisung looked. How pale. “I did not expect you would be the one to come searching for me, Blessed One.”

It was not what Hyunjin had been expecting, nor what he’d wanted. There was a vivacious person, beneath Jisung’s dim grey avyksa uniform and his affected manners. And today’s— whatever, whoever— had doused him.

Hyunjin found himself scowling. He was allowed to be rough with his toys, but they were, unequivocally, his. No one else was supposed to be touching them.

Before Hyunjin could speak, Jisung was bowing again. Hyunjin watched him, a little dumbfounded. Murmuring, Jisung said, “I’ll attend to your rooms now—”

“You will not,” Hyunjin choked out, stopping Jisung as he’d moved to brush past him. Jisung’s eyes really were so big. “Not before you tell me who locked you in here.”

“No one did— I mean— I don’t know,” Jisung stammered. His cheeks coloured, the lie not coming easy. But it still came. Hyunjin found himself almost gawping in shock, the dishonesty far more surprising than any backtalk could have been. “I’m sure it was an accident.”

Hyunjin stared down at him, taken aback. People lied to Hyunjin, of course they did. Hiding embarrassing secrets, or attempting to appear— better, whatever they thought that meant in Hyunjin’s estimation. But it was not usual for anyone inducted in the sept to do so, and certainly not so baldly to Hyunjin’s face.

“Are you that stupid,” he managed to ask, “or do you think I’m that stupid.”

Jisung froze, staring back at Hyunjin, eyes large and dark. The silence strung out, and the longer their gazes held, the more Jisung’s expression shifted in tiny, indeterminable ways, until it had been utterly transformed. There was something there Hyunjin couldn’t quite— place. It was not unlike their very first encounter. I can see Him in your face. A tender worshipfulness, but now with an edge Hyunjin could not discern.

Then Jisung blinked, several times in rapid succession, like he’d woken from a spell. He hurriedly looked away, down, as was proper. “I would never, Blessed One,” Jisung mumbled, just as it clicked for Hyunjin. Jisung had been looking at him like he’d come to some kind of realisation. And like said realisation had hurt him, in some way.

Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed to slits, though Jisung’s face was now averted, and would not notice. “Then tell me who locked you in here. I command it.”

For a moment, he thought Jisung would obey. He watched Jisung swallow, watched him bite his bottom lip. “I really don’t know, Blessed One,” Jisung said in a near whisper, like speaking the lie softly would absolve him. “I was praying when the door closed suddenly. I saw nothing.”

It really was not one of his strong suits, the lying. Brave or foolish, Hyunjin couldn’t say. He found himself wanting to laugh in disbelief, amazed at Jisung’s brazenness. A most impious trait, deception. Of all things, Hyunjin had not expected it.

His avyska was being bullied, and they both knew it. Just as they both knew Jisung was lying. Protecting his tormenters. Perhaps it had been— a prank, of some kind. Not maliciously meant. Or perhaps Jisung simply did not want Hyunjin to fight his battles for him. Hyunjin understood that, but what he could not understand was— the lie, the disobedience. Meeting Hyunjin’s eyes for it and everything. It was incongruous, to what Jisung should be, considering who he was, what he was.

“I did not expect my new avyska to be a liar,” Hyunjin said softly.

Jisung’s blush deepened appealingly, tinging his ears and neck red. “Blessed One, I have been in here since lunch,” he murmured, a pathetic attempt to dodge Hyunjin’s accusations. “Please, I really need to pee.”

I want to make him cry, Hyunjin thought, unbidden. It caused a frisson of shock to run through him. The urge wasn’t driven by cruelty, nor malice. He didn’t want to make Jisung sad. He just— wanted him crying.

He looked beyond Jisung, at the statue of the Maker, water trickling down from the statue’s upturned palm, an endless well. “Go, then,” Hyunjin said coolly, and Jisung bowed again before scampering out.

Silence, for a long moment, nothing more than the white noise of the falling water. “Blessed One?” Jeonghan called softly, his voice ringing a little in the stone space.

Hyunjin turned. Jeonghan was closer than he’d anticipated, the sounds of his skirts lost amidst the trickle from the fountain. Was that how Jisung had been snuck up on, he wondered.

“The Inner Chambers functions apart from the rest of the sept, and you’re not often anywhere near the rooms for the avyskas or common calyskas,” Hyunjin said, inflectionless, as if he too were a statue. “But if you hear anything about this, you will report it to me.”

Jeonghan blinked, but quickly regrouped. “Yes, Blessed One.”

Hyunjin looked once more at the marble carved into the likeness of their Maker, and then down, at the hassock, its cushion with twin indents from Jisung’s knees. And then he swept out of the room.

——

Despite the spaciousness of the palace’s turbolifts, the size of their party tonight was a bit of a strain. Ten people was perhaps not what these lifts were built for. Jeongin’s skirts were getting a bit squashed, though they’d gotten creased in the speeder ride over. Poor Dog was wedged somewhere off to the side, her tail thumping futilely against the metal wall as they swooped upwards.

When the lift dinged and they all heaved out, Jeongin had to work not to sigh in relief. His clothing wasn’t too cumbersome tonight, in honour of the fact this dinner was, supposedly, informal. Chan had said they’d be eating in one of the smaller dining rooms, to which Jeongin had wanted to ask if it was a small dining room the way their engagement banquet had been held in a small ballroom. But he had held his tongue.

Minho and Felix led the way through the halls, Felix’s wispy veil trailing in his wake, Minho’s long ponytail swaying. Then came Chan’s parents, Yma giggly and light on her feet. Chan and Jeongin followed, and bringing up the rear were the four cavaliers. Dog was bounding ahead a bit, ears up, tail wagging in a slow sweep as she sniffed the air. Jeongin wondered if she was smelling for danger, or just smelling the food.

He knew he’d reached their destination when a group of servants came into view — two standing on opposite sides of a tall door, and the third directly in front of it. They all bowed at their approach, and then the servant in front of the door turned to open it and announce them.

“You alright?” Chan whispered, because Jeongin had begun to clutch onto his sleeve with a firmer grip.

“Yes,” Jeongin murmured, loosening his hold in favour of looking around as they passed through the doorway.

It was not so grand as Jeongin had feared. The room was by no means drab, but it was small — what small might pass for in this palace. There was a cozy sort of feeling, though the furnishings were just as rich as elsewhere. Every corner of this building had a sort of— established elegance to it. Obviously old but well kept, updated where necessary. Jeongin had the realisation once again, looking at the room, in the context of the palace at large, that there was a history here that put everything on his home planet slightly to shame. His family dining room, with the full glass walls overlooking the lake behind the capital city, had only been built by his grandfather.

This dining room had windows, too, although they were set close to the ceiling, and Jeongin thought that in the daytime they would probably let in streams of that dim, grey light and it would certainly be atmospheric, if not particularly cheery in here. At this time of night, there was a blue-purple kind of haze coming in through the transparisteel, and a handful of those floating glowing orbs were clustered up against the beams of the ceiling. A round table not unlike the one Jeongin’s family ate at sometimes on Lapsa sat in the middle of the room, made of a heavy and dark wood. It made another trill of nerves shake down Jeongin’s spine.

The Dityodos was standing beside the chair with the tallest back, and he smiled when he saw them come in. “Sister,” he said, holding out a hand, and Ada went up to him, letting him kiss her on the cheek. “It is good to see you in a— quieter context.”

“Indeed, it has been a while,” Ada said, the corner of her mouth quirking up. Jeongin wondered if she was thinking of the same thing he was — Lucas’ whining about being left behind.

You always complain about having to go whenever we do drag you, Chan had pointed out, and Lucas had scowled fiercely at him and then stuck his tongue out. It would be a much less quiet affair, if he’d come along after all.

The Dityodos reached out, and Chan stepped up, letting himself be clapped on the shoulder. Much less formal, than at the banquet. “Nephew,” the Dityodos said with a fond twinkle in his eyes.

“Uncle,” Chan returned, smiling as well.

“Son,” Minho piped up, and then gestured at both Jeongin and Felix. “Fiances.”

The cheer on the Dityodos’ face was quickly wiped away by unimpressed exasperation. “Child,” he said, flatly. Minho stared back, the very picture of innocence. The Dityodos sighed, shaking his head. “Come, come, all of you sit. Sister, take the seat to my left, Chan, please, over to the right—”

They all allowed themselves to be arranged. Minho, with a faux kind of indignation, said, “Why does Chan get my seat—”

“Because I see and sit next to you every day,” the Dityodos cut him off, and Minho puffed out his cheeks in outrage.

As they approached, Jeongin noticed there was— something already laid out upon the table. It lay on a giant wooden slab, taking up all the space on the table except where their placemats sat. A huge half of a ribcage, raw by the looks of it, curling like a flower petal atop still water. Slightly transparent meat, a deep sort of red, clung to the dips between the bones. Some more of those gloworbs had been placed beneath it, so their light shone through the thinner sections, making the flesh look like gemstones, garnets and rubies. Jeongin had no idea what kind of creature it had come from. It did not have the metallic tang of blood to it that Jeongin would have expected from a land animal, but neither did it smell fishy.

Jeongin took his assigned seat next to Chan, so distracted by the chunk of animal corpse that he only realised belatedly it was Minho who would be sitting on his other side. To Minho’s right was Felix, then Yma, Ada, and the Dityodos himself. The cavaliers unobtrusively lined up along the wall with the main door; a very impressive, if eclectic, guard.

“Have the food brought in,” the Dityodos murmured to a servant, who strode off. Jeongin wondered if the ribcage wasn’t meant for eating and was just some kind of macabre decoration. The cutlery tonight was plated gold, set upon a woven placemat. Everyone had two drinks, a crystal glass full of what looked like yellow-tinged water, and then a smaller, black lacquer ceramic cup with golden designs painted on. Impossible to discern what exactly was in that, due to the colour of the earthenware, but whatever it was, there were faint wisps of steam curling from them.

Ada immediately reached out and picked up her crystal glass, taking a sip. Jeongin picked his up too, surreptitiously sniffing it. Nothing. He gave it a taste, finding it did seem to be water, with a slight sort of— yeasty, toasted edge to it. Which was very odd. It seemed like the sort of thing they’d give pregnant omegas and say, If you drink this you’ll be sure to have an alpha.

“Prince Jeongin,” the Dityodos said, and Jeongin rushed to swallow, putting the glass down again, “now that you’ve been here a few days, how have you found Selene I?”

Jeongin, on reflex, smiled his pleasant political smile. “It’s very—” he broke off, his training fleeing him as he tried to think of something to say that would balance flattery with truth, “— cold.” The word was blurted out, grasped for desperately as his pause went on too long.

The Dityodos laughed, and so did everyone else around the table, little titters while Jeongin’s face grew hot. “So it is,” the Dityodos said, looking at Jeongin in a paternally indulgent way. “Very different, I imagine.”

“Yes, Dityodos,” Jeongin said carefully, his stomach feeling like a tangled ball of eels.

“But not unpleasant, I hope.”

“No, Dityodos.”

“Of course it’s unpleasant,” Minho piped up, glancing sideways at Jeongin and smirking a little. “All it’s done is rain since he’s gotten here.” He looked to Chan, jerking his chin in his direction. “Giving us a very poor image, you should have taken care of that.”

“I cannot control the weather, Minho,” Chan said with obvious outrage, while Jeongin pressed his lips together.

Minho sniffed. “A personal flaw, I’m sure.”

“I suppose we must forgive Kiirodos Chan his heavy faults,” Jeongin said, a little quietly, but his voice carried surprisingly well. Chan looked at him in surprise and a faux kind of betrayal.

“And why is that?” Minho asked, immediately playing along. His eyes twinkled in the warm light.

“Because,” Jeongin said placidly, barely containing his smile now, “it is the magnanimous thing to do.”

Minho drew himself up, nose in the air. “And I am most magnanimous, yes.”

Jeongin rolled his lips together, giving an aborted, cut off laugh, but he lost control of it when he looked at Chan, who was slouching nearer to him and scowling fiercely. It made Jeongin lean away, giggling as he did so.

“I see you have already adjusted to the way my son and nephew cannot behave at all when put in the same room,” the Dityodos said, a bit wry.

Honestly, Jeongin said, “I think it’s charming.” He was still smiling.

“Yes, well, we’ll see if you still think so a year from now,” the Dityodos said, and now his voice was definitely sardonic, an eyebrow cocked.

The door to the room opened once more, and a parade of servants came in, single file, each carrying a metal tray, filigreed gold. Jeongin watched them with curiosity; Dog had made to step forward, her nose in the air, but a mental nudge from Seungmin caused her to heel.

As the servants came to the table and began to maneuver around them all, putting the trays down, the Dityodos looked at Chan and said with a kind of pointed lightness, “Nephew, it is to my understanding you are going to Carlac tomorrow.”

Chan, having sat back so his food could be placed in front of him, leaned forward again as the servant retracted. “Yes,” he said, just as pointed. Battening down the hatches, Jeongin rather thought. “As scheduled.”

“It is a bit— inconvenient, is it not?” Jeongin heard the Dityodos say as his own meal was placed in front of him.

“We’ll manage.”

Jeongin, as he looked down and took in the meal, was a little surprised. The food both looked and smelled delicious, but was a much more modest meal than he had been anticipating. Well, he reflected, modest if one ignored the giant fish ribcage at the center of the table. He supposed it made sense the rest of the meal might be toned down a bit to accommodate just how flashy that was.

There was soup, with a milky pale broth and seaweed floating in it. A salad of dark green leaves with tiny tan seeds sprinkled on top. A large bowl of stir fried rice and vegetables, with some kind of light brown sauce and visible chili flakes. A little segmented dish held a few sides, flakes of dried seaweed, some kind of small green beans, and then a pile of shredded— something. It was pinkish in colour. And then there was an egg, still in its brown speckled shell, rounder that Jeongin was used to. It sat in a multilevel bowl, ceramic on the bottom, metal on top. Jeongin wasn’t sure, exactly, what that was about.

The Dityodos picked up his small bowl of soup, surprising Jeongin as he took a sip straight from the dishware. These soup bowls were smaller, but the sides were steep. “I thought perhaps,” the Dityodos said after he had swallowed, lowering the bowl back down to the table, “now that you’re getting married, you might choose to retire from your role as Emissary for the Grandemperor and instead take a position here.”

Jeongin was trying to pay attention to the conversation while also watching what everyone else was doing with their food. Aeriis Felix had picked up the segmented container of sides and, as daintily as possible, was dumping it all into the rice. So Jeongin too picked his up, mind whirling as he did. The Dityodos wanted Chan to quit his job as Emissary, what did that mean for them—

“Before you do that,” Minho whispered, far closer than Jeongin expected, making him startle to a pause, “you might want to taste that.”

He pointed to the pile of shredded pink stuff. Jeongin, obediently, put the dish down, picking up his fork instead.

Chan was not eating. He had made no move to do so. “Uncle—” he began, a little terse, but the Dityodos held up his hand to silence him.

“I know,” he said, not unkindly, “I know you like the job. But things are changing now. You cannot be constantly— cavorting around the galaxy. And leaving your poor spouse at home, that isn’t the way of things.”

Jeongin did not like the sensation of being in the middle of a family spat. He kept his face averted, focusing on the food. It reminded him, terribly, of that last breakfast back on Lapsa. His father, apropos of nothing, saying, The food is delicious today. Jeongin now understood it, but it still felt ridiculous. Everyone else was doing the same though. Yma had picked up her round spoon and, surprisingly, lightly scraped some of that red, tender meat straight off of the ribcage. She then scooped up some rice, and ate it together.

So far everything Jeongin had eaten on this planet was delicious, and he had no doubt this would be too. But it did discomfit him, some. He had never liked being served whole fish. Meat was better when it was no longer in the shape of the thing it had once been. He busied himself taking a nibble of the mystery pink food, and it took every ounce of training he had not to say blegh. His face contorted without his permission. It was sour, and also— spicy but not spicy. He felt it in his nose, more than his mouth. Next to him, Minho coughed a little, and when Jeongin glanced at him, he could see Minho was smiling behind his hand.

Jeongin felt the very keen urge to bump Minho, or stick his tongue out at him. If it had been Seungmin, or even Chan, he would have. In the background, he heard Chan saying primly, “Jeongin will be coming with me on my trips in the future.” He hardly took it in.

Minho looked at him, still smirking. In a hissing undertone, with as much dignity as he could muster, Jeongin said, “It is very rude to laugh at company.”

The Dityodos, tsk-ing quietly. “That is not sustainable long term,” he said to Chan, sounding not unlike— well. A disappointed parent. “An omega needs stability, it is not good for their health, all that hyperspace travel.”

“I saved you from dumping it in your meal proper,” Minho said, just as quiet as Jeongin had been. His tone was sickly innocent. “Magnanimous, remember?”

Jeongin huffed quietly, sitting back again. But he could feel the way he was smiling a little, in spite of everything.

Chan had picked up his fork, but he wasn’t doing anything with it. He was just holding it, like it might be of use in his defense. “Ara,” he said, more of a demand than a plea as he looked at his alpha mother.

Ara looked across the table at Chan for a long moment, her face softening. “I agree with my brother,” she said gently. Jeongin heard the way Chan blew out a sharp exhale. He couldn’t read anything, from Chan’s face in profile. His mouth was set, gaze flat. “I support you, I want you to feel fulfilled in your position, but I also believe it is time to stop jetting off all the time. I won’t pressure you, but I will urge you to at least consider it.”

Minho gave a nearly imperceptible sigh. Jeongin wouldn’t have heard it if they weren’t sitting side by side. The atmosphere felt— not bad, he wouldn’t go that far. Just a bit tense.

He watched as Minho at last reached for his own food, picking up the egg and, with a graceful deftness, he cracked it open one-handed, dropping the contents into that double bowl. The runny white of the egg slid through the holes in the metal bowl, dropping into the ceramic beneath, leaving a very orange yolk sitting by itself. Minho picked up the metal bowl on its own and dropped the yolk into his rice bowl.

“Oh,” Jeongin breathed, looking at his own egg. He would not be able to do that. Back home, peeling shrimp had always been a nightmare. It was a miracle he hadn’t had a major food incident yet on this planet, truthfully. This would be it, if he tried. Egg and shell everywhere.

“I don’t want to be a royal that just sits around,” Chan said, something in his voice strained. Tightly leashed. On his other side, Minho turned away from Jeongin, cracking and sieving Felix’s egg for him. “I want a career, I want to be useful.” Something about those words made Jeongin’s heart feel like it was being squeezed. A wash of affection for Chan overcame him, and he wished— he could say something, though he didn’t know what.

“The Acinonyx seat is empty,” the Dityodos said, placid as ever. Jeongin, vaguely, remembered something about that, from the banquet. The previous Chestvo Acinonyx had passed away recently. “I’d like you to take it. We can recommend someone else, for the role of Emissary—”

“No,” Chan broke in, voice hard. Jeongin swallowed, nervous. He would never have interrupted his mother like that. “I’m not taking a seat on the Malkomyt. I do not want it.”

“Here,” Minho whispered, close to Jeongin’s ear, making every hair on Jeongin’s body stand on end. He hadn’t expected that. The— nearness, the brush of air. Minho was already reaching for his egg, the sieve set. “I’ll do it for you.”

“Thank you,” Jeongin gasped out. Chan should be doing it for him. But Chan was occupied. He hadn’t looked back at Jeongin once, since the Dityodos had begun speaking to him. The tension was beginning to really make Jeongin feel skittish. He didn’t like— his alpha being agitated.

“Even if you don’t take it, you’ll have to retire from being Emissary sooner rather than later,” the Dityodos was saying.

A tap, a crack. Minho broke the egg as smoothly as the other two, seeming utterly unbothered.

“Once you’re expecting a child, space travel will be out of the question. For Prince Jeongin at least, and will you really leave your pregnant spouse behind for weeks at a time?”

Minho held out the sieve set with a soft, gentle murmur.

“I am sure Prince Jeongin would not like that at all—”

Jeongin was distracted. Listening to the conversation, the jolt of hearing his name in the same sentence as pregnant spouse. His nerves made him careless.

As he took the set from Minho, their bare fingers brushed.

In some ways, Jeongin could only liken it to a power outage at night. The way one would be sitting, or standing, or walking, and suddenly everything would go dark, open eyes seeing something totally different from one second to the next.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t do— anything. He was looking at his own hands, reaching, the vibrant colour of the yolk, the gilded gold paint on the ceramics, the inked lines on Minho’s palms, all illuminated under the bright light of the glowbulbs. And then it was gone, totally changed.

Dark. Much darker. A smaller room, crystalline chandelier anchored to a high, arching ceiling, glowbulbs set so low the chandelier looked like it was lit with dying embers. Jeongin was standing beside a pair of closed doors. Another set stood opposite him. There was a large desk in dark, carved wood under a wide window, tall curtains drawn. A holofire burned falsely beneath a grand mantle. Above it, a portrait taller than Jeongin was hung, of a young woman and man, decked in black and gold finery. On the woman’s lap sat a fluffy, fat cat.

Movement. There was a man sitting on the low sofa in front of the flickering holo flames, his back to Jeongin. Chan, Jeongin thought, seeing the low, long braid, but then the man turned around, rising from his seated position.

Minho, coming toward him calmly. Barefoot, he moved silently around the sofa, slim muscular calves peeking out from the bottom of a knee-length dressing gown. It was made of black silk, faintly patterned and flowing over his form like water, accented prettily in the warm light. His collarbones were bared in a large vee, skin pale and smooth against the darkness of the fabric.

Jeongin’s heart stuttered, a beat so hard it felt like it had slammed against his sternum. He sucked in a breath, jerking, and then the darkness flipped, brightness washing in.

He was sitting again. The sieve rattled as he almost fumbled it. He, faintly, heard the Dityodos speaking.

Minho snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned. Jeongin was blinking rapidly, confused and out of breath. By the stars, what had that been. Carefully, he put the sieve down, and only noticed as he did so the Dityodos, and Chan’s Ara, were looking at him.

He swallowed, tucking his hands down into his lap, clenching them into the fabric of his skirts, creasing them terribly. But they were shaking and he wanted them to stop. “I’m sorry?” he said, a little breathless. His face felt very warm. Chan turned to look at him, a bit quizzical, a bit worried.

“I was saying that you would surely not wish to be left here alone, while pregnant,” the Dityodos said, perfectly polite in what was no doubt his repetition.

No one else had seen that. Or noticed anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Minho very roughly wiping his hands off with a cloth napkin. “Oh,” Jeongin said, brain a screech of white noise. “I— I—”

“Jeongin is very young,” Chan smoothly cut in. “Children for us will be a long time off.”

All Jeongin could do was nod, wordless. His heartbeat was steadily slowing.

“You’ve flustered the poor boy!” Ara cried, poking at her brother’s arm accusingly. Now, Jeongin’s face was truly red. He couldn’t even defend himself. “Cornering them right at the start of the dinner, shame on you.”

The Dityodos drew himself up with great dignity. “I have been anxious to discuss this,” he said, very mildly. “But very well. As our law states, a seat on the Malkomyt may remain empty for up to two years. So you have a good deal of time to— reconsider.”

Reconsider. For Jeongin to get pregnant, he meant. Chan’s jaw was tight.

“Two years is a good amount of time, I think,” Yma said, very sweetly, very— fond, as she looked out over the table, first at Chan and Jeongin, and then at Minho and Felix. Her face broke out into a smile as she said, “It will be a different case, for these two, I imagine. I’m sure you will be blessed with a pregnancy before the year is out.”

Jeongin could not see Minho’s face to check his reaction, he was turned away now. He seemed to have scooted his chair over too, closer to Felix’s. Further from Jeongin. He hoped that accidental hand touch wouldn’t become a point of terrible awkwardness between them. This planet could be so strange in its propriety.

Felix smiled softly, eyelids lowering, lashes pretty against his freckled cheeks. “That will be a blessing indeed, Kiirotya Bang,” he demurred. It was the first time he had spoken since they’d sat down. As a consequence, he had made a pretty decent dent in his food.

“And I am sure Minho, at least, will remain onplanet for the duration of that,” the Dityodos said, still needling.

Minho looked at him. “Ada,” he said softly, and the request of it was obvious.

“Alright, alright,” the Dityodos said, finally capitulating with a light laugh. “It’s just that trying to manage you all is like herding dartfish.” He slid a glance at Chan. “Especially you. Sometimes I feel like you’re being contrary for the sake of it.”

Chan smiled, the expression pulled on, not reaching his eyes. Bland and sharp. “And what if I am,” he asked with a prickly kind of sweetness that was nothing but a challenge.

Jeongin finally felt brave enough to touch him. He put his hand on Chan’s wrist, over his sleeve, in what he hoped was gentle, comforting pressure. I’m here, he wanted to say. If you don’t want to quit, I won’t ask you to.

The Dityodos sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head, but he did not seem upset at all by Chan’s disrespect, or his fervent refusal of the offered seat. A faint smile still curved his lips when his eyes reopened and he looked at Jeongin. “I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you, with him.”

“It’s not work,” Jeongin found himself saying. He met Chan’s eyes, blushing furiously as he said, “I like Kiirodos Chan.”

For a moment, surprise and something— else, flickered in Chan’s gaze. Then he smiled, a real, soft smile. He put his hand on top of Jeongin’s, a warm weight. But it didn’t feel quite right.

“I am glad to hear it,” the Dityodos said, and Jeongin could hear the affection for his nephew in the words.

That seemed to mark the end of the conversation, thankfully. Jeongin’s soup was no longer steaming, everything having cooled. Chan kept his hand on Jeongin’s for a moment longer, squeezing lightly, before letting go, turning to his food. Jeongin, feeling— a little pleased with himself, also set to eating, finally picking up his spoon.

It was only as he was mixing the egg yolk into his rice, that he realised Chan’s hand had felt odd because he was wearing his mesh gloves. Jeongin had, instinctively, been expecting the sensation of skin. Especially after— after—

Jeongin could still feel the ghost of Minho’s skin under his fingertips. The Dityodos had removed his gloves at the start of the meal. So had Ara. So had Minho. Jeongin glanced over, to see the pale skin of Minho’s hand, left bare of any fabric.

Chan was the only alpha at the table still wearing gloves.