Chan has had to be one of the neediest people Woojin has ever guarded.

 

Granted, he hasn’t guarded a lot of people, since he’s only the tender young age of 21 and Chan hasn’t died yet, so he’s still his right-hand man, but he’s had enough practice as a personal bodyguard in the years Chan was off in Australia learning about culture or something. All in all, he’s never had a monarch or some high-ranking lordship throw himself on his lap and start whining.

 

“Woojinnie,” Chan says, dragging out the last syllable and falling dramatically onto Woojin’s side, eliciting a barely suppressed snort from the other guards flanking them. Woojin glares at them, reminding them silently that this was the crown prince and they were onduty. They still look amused, but nod and look forward either way. He quickly snaps back to attention when Chan paws at his chest, mumbling a “Woojinnie, I’m tired.”

 

What.

 

“Damn ma, I’m tired too,” Woojin mutters under his breath. Chan hears him, unfortunately, and whines even louder. They’re starting to get looks from the servants at this point, and that’s exactly what Woojin does not want. “Alright, alright, I hear you,” Woojin sighs. “Just get through this one last meeting and you’ll be free for the rest of the day, princess. Doesn’t that sound nice.”

 

“ ’m not your princess,” Chan slurs, face pressed into Woojin’s shoulder and arms looped around his waist. “I’m your Crown Prince, idiot.”

 

Woojin still marches them onward to the boardroom where some musty ministers and generals are waiting, face stoic, but he can’t deny a miniscule tendril of warmth snakes through his chest.

 

His princess.

 

How utterly disgusting.

 

---

 

 

In all hindsight, Woojin probably should have seen this coming. Chan overworks himself far too much; he’s a for not letting him rest when he wants to.

 

He’s stood right beside Chan, tired and pissed, because of one singular ing minister that would not shut the up about abortion and how it’s an abomination to God and the pure hearts of the people of the Republic of South Korea. Woojin knows Chan is pushing for abortion to be made fully legal and safe throughout the country, but the way he only listens dully and nods in response probably gives room for suspicion.

 

“Seja jeoha,” he whispers, using the correct honorific in case some nosy noble listens into their conversation. “Are you okay? You seem...off.”

 

Chan bristles, waving him off. “I’m perfectly fine, Kim-ssi. Let’s just wrap this up now and go back to my chambers.” Woojin frowns, because Chan’s voice has never sounded like this, hoarse and strung out, unless he was sick or on the verge of collapsing. Nonetheless, he steps back and stalks across the room, giving the command to the overseeing counsel in clipped, hushed sentences, making sure to keep an eye on Chan all the while.

 

As they’re in the process of adjoining the whole meeting, Woojin catches sight of Chan’s already pale face blanching. He gags, and Woojin is immediately running back to his original spot back to his side. “Jeoha,” he whispers, grabbing Chan’s shoulders and snapping for the guards behind them to get a doctor. He’s desperately rubbing his back, telling him, “Jeoha, don’t throw up in the boardroom, please,” bidding for time as he tries to make up a plan.

 

Chan groans, falling forward into Woojin’s arms. His forehead is burning up, and he’s half-delirious as he gags again. Woojin debates as to whether he’s strong enough to single-handedly carry him back to his bed. Chan’s eyes roll back into his head, and Woojin barely has time to grab onto him before he projectiles vomit onto his tunic.

 

Well, .

 

---

 

 

Bang Reon and Seol accost him as soon as they spot him stalking into Chan’s bedroom from the other door. Both their arms are crossed and eyes are similarly furious. Woojin is almost unnerved.

 

“Kim-ssi,” Seon says from her perch on Chan’s bed, speaking up first. “Did you know he was—like this?”

 

She’s sitting next to a unconscious Chan, the bed barely creased from her apparent lack of weight. The covers are pulled up to Chan’s chin, and Woojin almost snorts at the sight because he looks more like a vampire now than ever. He’s going to snap a photo if he can later.

 

Woojin puts up an act of looking deeply apologetic, even though he is worried about Chan. “Daegam, agissi, I assure you, I had no idea about any of this,” he says, trying to sound assured and not about to snap at them to get the hell out of his way so he can properly make sure his best friend is okay. He needs this job, they outrank him, he needs to treat them with respect, he wants to see Chan and they’re blocking him—

 

Reon stands up from his own seat, and Woojin’s hands unconciously curl into loose fists. He will physically riot if they don’t let him pass right now, and Chan’s last memory of his childhood friend will be the image of him cursing the Bang royal family as he’s being dragged away for being so damn protective of their golden son.

 

The doctor steps out from behind the curtain of Chan’s poster bed nervously, a reedy looking thing with a medical bag that looks twice his weight clutched in his wrinkled hands. His eyes flicker from one of them to another, coughing a few times as he starts speaking in a high-pitched, squeaky tone. “T-the wangseja is fine,” he mumbles. “He’s just overworked and tired, with the addition of a stomach flu. Let him sleep for a day and he should be back to normal.”

 

Woojin smiles in relief, and the man blinks rapidly for a few times, stunned. “I—I will take my leave now, if possible,” he stutters, sketching a low bow and scurrying away. Seol and Reon give him the stink-eye before she says simply, “Just take care of him, guard.”

 

They storm out the doors, scarily in sync, before Chan opens one eye cheekily and whispers conspicuously. “Are they gone now?”

 

Woojin snorts, tugging the covers back to help a struggling Chan get out from under the tightly tucked in sheets. “You were always a bad actor, . I’m surprised your own sister didn’t notice you laughing under your breath.”

 

“I did not,” Chan gasps, scandalized. He finally breaks free, swatting Woojin’s chest as he tries to get his breath. “I got better at this.”

 

“Sure you did,” Woojin rolls his eyes. “Are you okay though?” He asks, teasing façade finally falling away as he Chan’s hair absentmindedly.

 

Chan leans into his touch, almost humming with contentment. “Oh, I feel like actual ,” he says cheerfully. “But I’ll live.” He curls into Woojin’s hand, almost rubbing his head against it, and the sight is so ing adorable it takes all of Woojin’s willpower not to grab his face and pull him in for a kiss.

 

Woojin jabs him in the ribs instead. “Don’t joke around with stuff like this, idiot. I was scared for a second there.”

 

“Ow! I’m sick here, you know?” Chan scowls, pinching Woojin’s forearm in retaliation. “I’m fine, though. Really,” he smiles, reaching up to pull Woojin down by his starched collar. He presses his lips to Woojin’s own, and even Woojin can’t find it in himself to nag at him for kissing him even though he’s sick.

 

He pulls Chan in close, and they don’t seperate.

 

Ever.