where there is hope, there is a trial.

His shivering hands buried in the folds of his royal robes, the king stands alone outside the doors to Hamhwadang Hall, slightly afraid to make his presence known to the woman inside.

Was he too hasty in running directly here after dismissing his last meeting? Are you even here? But he could not help himself—for the first time in so long, Yoongi has a moment of respite. An evening's worth of hours to breathe, to be not the king but himself, and there is nowhere else he could fathom going. No one in this universe he would rather see. Even if he hates what he has had to do to gain this time.

He has agreed to very preliminary negotiations for a trade treaty with the same foreigners who had brutally slaughtered his countrymen all those months ago.

No part of him wants to engage with those bastards, but he has little choice. They only continue to press for more, their greed unparalleled as they send message after message. Worse still, watchtowers established on Joseon shores think they have seen American warships drifting past close to land, after night has fallen. Yoongi understands the action as the silent threats they are. And he has no time to deal with such petty things, when neighbouring Japan continues to intimidate.

Thus, this new acquiescence is a gamble. Negotiations can take years. In that time, another world power, a bigger one, could take care of his problem for him. Or at least distract them from Joseon. And then his people, his beloved country, would be safe. For now, this first agreement removes any immediate danger. And lets him finally see you again.

Yoongi shakes his head free of politics' demands. No more of such things. He wants what has been denied him for too long. Softly, he calls your name.

A heartbeat. Two. Before the third, the door opens.

Backlit by a quiet orange glow, you are... impossibly beautiful. Your hair is half-undone, strands flying around to frame your face. There is a darkness beneath your eyes, and he knows you must have been working for far too long already. Still, Yoongi has never known desire like this. The want to take you into his arms, to feel your warm breath against his skin, to kiss you until the entire world falls away—

Instead, he exhales your name again, the sound brimming with affection. "You're here."

"Where else would I be?" You turn. Walk back in.

Though it stings, he knows he deserves that cold tone. He had wanted to come back immediately after that night in November, but he'd wanted to respect your wish that he leave. More than that, he'd been afraid. Terrified that you would turn him away for good if he had, so he drowned himself in work. But what would he have said? Calling Seong-min mama had been a slip of the tongue, but it is the truth. Even if he apologized now, it would change little of their circumstances. And he is too aware that words without action are meaningless. Familiar guilt pinches his chest as he steps forward.

At least you've let him come inside. Even if you've never once attempted to see him during the past weeks, though all his guards have long been ordered to allow you entry no matter the circumstances.

"Have you received the things I've sent for you with Eunuch Kim?" He asks, referencing the boxes full of treats and expensive medicinal ingredients and books. He sent them every time he thought of you—which is to say, you had been flooded with gifts. They are a poor substitute for his presence, but time could not be spared, lest he risk another attack. Or a revolt within the advisors, if he did not keep up appearances with the new queen.

"I have. Thank you, jeonha."

You are still not looking at him. Yoongi pushes down the ache in his heart as he moves further inside, avoiding the bench he sat at last time. Instead, he takes one of the wooden chairs beside the one you favor when you work.

How many hours have you both spent here at this table, him contemplating reports while you persistently experimented beside him? It was so easy to ask for your opinions then. You always offered a perspective that aided him in one way or another, even if it was just to calm him down with the sound of your voice. In turn, he was happy to do any menial tasks required of your special ingredients, and he was there to taste your every attempt at creating desserts (even the failed ones). But those days are long past. His damned responsibilities have made sure of that.

Now you sit next to him endlessly fiddling with your pressing stone, rearranging it on the table alongside freshly-washed brushes. It's one of your nervous habits, and he hates that he's the one making you so. "Hey," he murmurs, and reaches out what is meant to be a comforting hand towards you.

But the moment his fingers brush your shoulder, you flinch. You jerk your body from him, hands slamming on the wooden table as you have to re-balance yourself on your seat.

Yoongi drops his hand. His arm swings limply at his side. To his shock, there is an immediate stinging behind his eyes, a threat he tries to hurriedly blink away as looks away, wrestling with the realization that a few months have been enough time to make you so unrecognizable to him. A few months might have been able to undo all that has been carefully built between you for more than a decade.

How can he fix it?

What can he possibly afford to give up to keep you with him?

You exhale, the sound extended in this silence. When you finally turn to him, it's with an expression that is uncharacteristically blank, and firm.

"Do you really have time to waste with me right now, jeonha?"

Though his lips twitch, he forces a smile on his face. "Yes, for once. I have the rest of the night for myself. We can use it however you like. We could read. We could paint. You could teach me about flowers again, like you used to." He wants you to take a break as much as he needs one himself. As much as he admires your ability to put yourself aside, he knows firsthand how much of a toll that takes.

But your expression never changes, as if you hadn't heard him at all. You used to delight at the prospect of time together, since it has always been a precious commodity. He wants to see you smile. Instead, you say, "You should spend your time with jungjeon-mama."

His brow draws in, wrinkles. "Why the hell would I do that?" Confusion sharpens his tone. He doesn't want to hear about her again. Not when there is so much between you two that deserves the attention. Not when he has been dreaming of you for weeks upon weeks, to say nothing of how much you occupy his waking thoughts; something he has become so used to, it is like an inherent part of him.

"It has been hard for you to conceive an heir."

You are saying words, yes, but he can't comprehend them. As if you're speaking underwater, or with a mouth full of jeon. "What?"

"We need an heir for the country. For the kingdom."

He clamps his mouth shut. Not trusting what instinctively wants to come out in anger. Why has your mind gone to these strange places? Especially when he has been so careful to keep them away from you, for fear of hurting you.

"Conception can take a long time. And as jungjeon-mama gets older, it will be increasingly difficult."

"I—"

You cut him off. "So isn't it best to take every opportunity to lay with the queen?"

These words don't sound like yours. That lifeless tone you speak them with doesn't feel like yours either, but your expression reveals nothing. Only some weird calmness that disturbs him, makes frustration simmer hot under his skin.

"Why are you saying this?" He finally asks, enunciating each syllable in an effort to keep himself restrained. "Tell me the truth."

"I don't know what you mean, jeonha." You pick up the stone, set it down again. "I'm not lying to you."

"God. Fuck." Yoongi rakes a rough hand through his hair, the topknot coming half-undone with the shake. Anger bites at his thoughts, the fire stoked by how much of a stranger you look to him right now.

His fist lands on the table. "Why do you always do this?!" His voice finally comes out a shout.

Though it's not what he intended, it works. Your icy expression finally shatters at his explosion of sound. For a moment, your eyes are wide, mouth agape. Then, you deal your own dose of surprise when you retort, "B-Because it's what you should do! You are king!"

As if he doesn't know that. As if he hasn't known that this whole time. But he doesn't want to hear about duties. The only thing he cares about is: "Why are you the one to speak for the queen when you are the one in the worst position? Why don't you fight for yourself?"

He doesn't want to yell, direct this annoyance at you, but he can't stop it. How can you stand there and say those things to him, as if you don't know exactly how he has dedicated himself to you his whole life? Trampling all over his feelings like this. As if he doesn't know you're also devastating your own heart in the process.

"Fuck what I should do. What do you want?" Yoongi is starkly aware his control is slipping, but he's so tired of losing you. "Please. Whatever you want, I will try to give it to you. You know you have always been able to ask me for anything." And yet, you don't. You never do, always thinking about him before yourself. Putting the entire world before your happiness. As much as he respects, loves, that part of you, it cuts him the deepest.

"What do you want?" He repeats, desperate for the answer.

"I—I don't—"

You shake your head, tongue tripping over syllables.

"I don't know. I can't. I simply—I cannot think," you mumble in a rush as you turn away into yourself. Your arm wraps around your stomach, squeezing your sides as if you could huddle away altogether.

He forces his mouth to shut. Clamps his teeth down on his cheek to make himself obey his mind.

These things had to be said, though he knows he could have delivered them much better than he has. Your face is a mixture of emotions, shifting between hurt and confusion and stress. Fuck. Fuck. He clenches his muscles, counting long, deep breaths in his head until the worst of the heat cools. He doesn't want to leave, but he will if you ask it of him. He deserves it, even though he does not regret his words for a second.

It feels like a slow hour passes instead of a handful of minutes before you whisper, quietly, "you can stay."

"What?" Yoongi whips his head up, hope dousing him like torrential rain. "Truly?"

You nod, once. "Just... Just for tonight. Since you have come all this way. I have work to do still and... you can help cut these leaves into slivers." You slide a bowl full of plant cuttings towards him. "Thinly!" You instruct, seamlessly slipping into that strict, su-uinyeo tone he finds so endearingly charming.

"Understood."

Pulling back his sleeves, he picks up the small knife.

The room soon fills with the sound of scraping, of your murmurs beneath your breath as you recite your knowledge of medicinal properties. You cast glances at him every once in a while, surely to make sure he is properly carrying out your order. But occasionally, your eyes meet. And though you might look quickly away every time, he notices the soft, fond smile that falls into place when you lose yourself in your work.

It's enough for him.

More than enough.

Being near you, talking with you, spending his life with you... These are selfish wishes for one in his position, but ones that bloom in his heart anyway. Each one a beautiful flower more resistant to the change of seasons than anything in the entire world.

Later that night, alone in your bed, you find yourself sleepless. Blankly, you stare at the darkness above your head, thinking. You think of rocks skimming a secret pond's surface. You think of the hope you have held onto for most of your life, and the wishes you have made for things to work themselves out. These furtive wishes you've made to fate instead of taking actual action.

Why don't you fight for yourself?, he'd asked.

Yes—Why don't you?

When you finally drift into sleep asleep, you dream of a time long, long past. A pot of tea, an old pavilion, and another question asked in a kind voice that you'd all but forgotten until now.

Would you really have let him go?