The situation with Minhyun was simple. They were stalling.

Jeonghan had long reverted to his almost vegetated state. Everybody had hoped that after his feisty declaration of resignation he would be able to live normally, but it was a premature hope. He was back on an IV, not moving, not speaking. Sometimes he’d scream in his sleep. Everybody was getting used to it.

Minhyun could not take the throne. It was simply not possible. He was not able, mentally or physically. The defects in his chromosomes made it so that he would never be able to be King, and secretly, Jihoon was very glad about it. Minhyun was a beautiful young man with a happy demeanor, whose favorite past time was hugging his family and playing games.

Somebody so pure should never have to be king.

But Jeonghan’s lovely PR diarrhoea, as it was now fondly called, would just be the first. Because the next PR dilemma was saying that Minhyun couldn’t be King. And the dilemma after that would be explaining why he couldn’t be King.

It was no secret to anybody that something was wrong with Minhyun. It was clear and visible. But so far, it had been kept under wraps. When the public found out about the poor Prince’s Angelman syndrome, it could be disastrous. The press would have a field day.

And then as an extra dollop of cream on the sundae, Jun would become King.

It was the secret nightmare of the family. Nobody would ever say it out loud, but it had been Joshua’s greatest fear when he rose to the throne that someday it would fall into Jun’s hands.

There wasn’t anything technically wrong with him: not that any medical professionals could prove, in any case. But the boy had the name bloodthirsty for a reason.

As a child, he did his best to destroy soft toys or dolls – sending his older brother Minhyun into a terrible state each time. When he grew a little older, living animals became his next target. When he popped a squirrel’s head off its body at a birthday event – Joshua and Jeonghan’s, if memory served – and stood on a table to display his victory with blood running down his face and hands, it was the last straw.

Jun enjoyed blood. He enjoyed death. He enjoyed brutal pain and torture, whichever way he could administer it. He’d been taught to reign it in while he was young, but when he became King, nobody would be safe. It was like the blond nightmare from Game of Thrones in real life.

So, for as long as they could, they were stalling. The hot summer months passed.

Every now and then, Jihoon would be allowed to work a day at Triple C. It wasn’t very often he was allowed to go finish his contract, but sometimes he managed to get a day alone. After all the recent deaths, everybody was coming to terms with the fact that no amount of security was going to save the royals from their deaths.

So Wonwoo didn’t have to see Soonyoung, and Jihoon had hours of escape from the hellish cage he now called home. It didn’t help. Nothing did. He was walking, and talking, for Dino’s sake if nobody else’s, but he was empty. He was just functioning on the surface, a hollow carcass on the inside.

At least Hayi had a spring in her step.

Jihoon was multi-tasking: he was teaching Seungkwan how to roast the Blue Mountain properly, creating latte foam art and mixing a number of drinks for later when he heard it.

The shouting started off as an incomprehensible mumble down the street: it became louder with heavy, quick footsteps that made the pavement shake. His words were clear before he even showed up.

“Soonyoung! Soonyoung!” He crashed in through the door, almost taking it off its hinges in his hurry. “Soonyoung! Get me Wonwoo’s number I have to-”

It felt stupid, but Jihoon’s heart made a little sound. A little thump. His jaw dropped.

Seungcheol was, impossibly, more beautiful than ever before.

First off, he was huge. Thick. His shoulders were impossibly wide, now; his hair was getting long enough for his fringe to dip into his eyes; his muscles were bulging out from his clothing and somehow his facial features were even sharper. He was dripping with sweat, standing there, staring at him.

At him. The liar. The betrayer. Seungcheol was staring at him.

And then suddenly the florist was behind the counter, gripping Jihoon to his chest. “You’re alive,” he croaked out, wrapping one arm around the barista’s waist, the other his hair. “You’re alive! You’re alive! God, you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive!”

To be fair, Jihoon should have yelled at him. Things like what the hell are you doing or what is happening right now or even a simple what the ? would suffice.

But Seungcheol still smelled of lilies and hyacinths, and his arms were still heaven around his waist, and his heartbeat still drummed the same, and he was still home.

So Jihoon stood there with a bottle of cream liqueur in one hand and a spoon in the other, letting himself be cradled by the man who had dumped his .

“Jihoon, Jihoon, you’re alive, you’re alive!”

“Yes,” the Prince whispered. “Of course I’m alive. W-what’s…?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened and he let go, suddenly taking a step away in sheer embarrassment. “There was a huge bomb in the palace. It was just on the news. I just… I just… I- I have to get back to the shop!” He tried to dash away, ce to bow, and then got out of the café as soon as possible.