"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...
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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.
