"do you... trust me?" it's a low whisper, the king's soft lips pressed against the stuttering pulse in your throat. but you think, or maybe you hope, the implications are trying to delve much deeper into your heart. regardless, your answer has never...
historical note: "mama" is the korean equivalent of "your highness" & the proper address for a queen. her family can simply call her that, but others must add her official title as well.
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Your head slightly upturned towards the grey sky, you hope to outrun the threat of rain as you hurry towards your apothecary with new supplies in hand. The first drops dampen your white sleeves moments before you slip through the open door and exhale in relief. There is much to do today; you cannot afford to waste time drying your clothes. Still, you leave the door open behind you as you walk in, wanting to see the earth nourish itself, the quiet falling one of your favorite sounds.
Recently, there's been a disease spreading through the soldiers. It's some sort of itchiness that is as persistent as it is pervasive. None of the doctors have been able to find a solution, but they are still reluctant to work with you since you are an inferior woman. You scatter new herbs across the sturdy wooden table, preparing for another long session of experiments. You'll prove them wrong, even if you have to sacrifice sleep to do it.
All this to distract from the truth that you haven't seen the man you love in nearly three weeks.
Just like you expected, despite his promises, despite your hopes, things changed. Something shifted, that day of the wedding ceremony. Or was it more like something locked into place? Yoongi became a married man even while the ghost of you lingers around him. And he hasn't summoned you in so long, nor have you dared to even attempt to seek him out.
These days, no matter if you are within palace grounds or out in town, you can hardly go a few hours in the presence of others without hearing about the new jungjeon-mama. She has visited her people twice already, surveying her citizens with a retinue of guards. Her popularity continues to soar on powerful wings, judging from the awestruck whispers that travel far across the land. She has accomplished exactly what the advisors intended. The townspeople are distracted even as the king must deal with yet another treaty from America.
You wonder how long it will take for there to be an heir.
Shut up, you tell your mind as you force your fingers to begin working. At least medicine is something you have control over.
You end up so absorbed in calculations and properties, you don't even notice someone has entered the room until a deep voice calls your name. You look up into dark eyes and long hair that seems to glow despite the lack of a moon tonight.
"J-Jeonha!" You sink into a deep bow without thinking, even though he insisted you dispense of this particular formality some months ago. Your heart aches with happiness, with want.
The king, achingly beautiful as always, stands on the opposite end of the table. "Are you busy?"
"No, no." You give the mixture you're heating a last stir, knowing it must cook for some more time. "Not as you are, I am sure."
He inhales deep at that, shaking his head. "Like you would not believe. There is new pressure coming from Japan, and the Americans have still refused to relent. I don't know if they will retaliate like they did at Ganghwa. I refuse to let that happen again." He lets you lead him to a nearby bench, sitting down as his eyes continue to cloud with heat and irritation. "At least some of the advisors are now more reasonable."
"...Because of the wedding."
His hands press into the seat. "Yes."
Part of you immediately wants to change the topic that you brought up yourself, but the other part knows it must be had. That you have to be able to discuss these things, even if it makes your limbs seize up. "The advisors must be afraid to be too rude when she is present."
He pauses, as if considering his words before he says, "they are used to my mother shutting them up, I suppose." Then silence comes in once more to fill, to suffocate the space between you as you process what he has just confirmed—she, as queen, is allowed to participate in the daily meetings. And she is aiding him in a way you cannot.
God. It's almost comical how stilted your voices are, your words so formal it's as if you've gone back years. Like neither of you want to acknowledge how odd it is to be this close to him and not have him touch you. He is usually, at the very least, brushing your hand with his fingers. Or pulling you into him to mingle your warmths together. But now, nothing. Promises shattered before your very eyes.
You bite your lip. "I'm glad she has been helpful then."
"Yes, well." He deliberately cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Damn it. I am not here to talk about her."
But your control is slipping. You know you're ruining this precious time you have together but you have been so damn upset, so pitifully lonely that the startling jealousy writhing through you becomes too hard to resist. "No? She is your wife after all."
You get what you wanted. Yoongi's anger riles quick, flashing hot through his hardened eyes, but it doesn't satisfy you like you thought it would. It only cuts you more, a fresh, scalding burn on your heart when he scowls, grits his teeth and says, "No, mama is—"
Mama.
Whatever he says next, you don't register. The inhale you instinctively take is so sharp it steals every other breath from your lungs. These few weeks have been enough for him to pick up the habit of calling her as such, even in your presence. The word detached from the full title implies with no uncertainty that she is his family. She is his.
You pitch forward, elbows pressed to your knees, burying your face into chilly palms. The first sob betrays you, rattling violently through your body even as you try to choke the rest of the onslaught back. This is the first time you've cried since learning of the official engagement. Everything that's built upon you since then, every bit of pain you've swallowed and shoved down and tried to forget slams into your body like a closed-fist blow. It's all you can do to breathe through the wet hurt.
There's a clattering, a shift in weight as he must leap to his feet. "Shit. Shit, I... Fuck. I did not mean..." His panic is palpable but you can't handle it, can't handle anything that might leave you hoping and wanting and pathetic.
"Please... Please l-leave," you gasp, knowing how long you have waited for this, waited for him but like a small animal, you are all wild fear, needing to lick your wounds in solitude. You are so terrified of what more he might say, or what he might do. He already holds all the power over you. You want a pittance of it back. "Leave."
"I didn't want to hurt you like this," he mumbles. You hear the wood creak as he steps away. "I never wanted this."
But I've always wanted you is the only thing that lingers through your tears before the door thuds shut.
