Taemin had barely slept, knowing he would end up breaking Minho’s slumber if he fell asleep or even shifted the slight. Taemin knew well from Minho’s obstinacy that if woken, he would refuse to rest more when resting was what he needed the most. Moreover, he made a sight that Taemin had no heart to perturb even the slightest. He was sleeping so soundly, his usual breathy snoring was louder, heavier. His entire body was leaning against him, uncontrolled. Taemin knew it was because he was exhausted, his body burdened with the wound, recovering. The herbs must have been working as Minho no longer seemed pale or feverish.

Dawn had broken and Taemin watched the sky grow lighter slowly, fighting the numbness in his own body. It had been long since he had watched such a peaceful sight, the only sounds infiltrating the air being the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. He sighed deeply, liking how the soft breeze hit his face despite it being chilly.

He was growing accustomed to the cold, finding beauty and comfort in it. He sighed again, wondering if it would ever get cold enough to snow. He had read that a few parts of Aeyan went through white winters, but he was yet to ascertain if the Capital did so too. But it did seem so. Winter had only begun yet it was so cold.

He closed his eyes, imagining the castle shrouded in white, his imagination becoming akin to a dream behind his closed eyelids due to the yearning of slumber. He was standing in the balcony, sighting the central grounds, the patterned brick floor entirely covered in snow. It was cold, quiet, a sharpness in the air, yet a warmth emanating from the chamber behind him. A warmth he could return to when his heart was content with relishing the frigidness. And when he turned to do so, his eyes met grey ones. It was Minho, leaning against the door frame, wearing a mellow smile.

“It is cold, is it not?”

Taemin’s eyes fluttered open and he felt the loss of weight on his side. He turned, finding Minho awake, now leaning entirely against the tree, sleep still dousing his features.

“Why did you not use the quilt?” Minho continued in a soft voice, “You might fall sick again.”

Taemin averted his gaze, his eyes settling on their horse’s saddle and the quilt rolled and tied on it. “It slipped my mind.” He answered softly, “But… I am fine.”

Minho began to get up and Taemin caught his sleeve between his thumb and index finger, that little tug halting Minho’s effort to rise. He looked at Taemin, puzzled.

“Let me,” Taemin said, saying nothing after that and Minho settled back, watching Taemin shift to sit in front of him, undoing his layers to reveal the bandages. He saved the dying embers, warmed some water, cleaned his wound and changed his bandages before helping him into a fresh shirt, carefully doing his buttons.

“There is nothing wrong with my hands.” Minho softly commented and Taemin’s fingers halted for a moment before continuing.

“Yet,” Taemin answered, “You did nothing to stop me from doing it for you.”

When he was done, he raised his gaze, noticing that Minho had quickly averted his eyes. Taemin wanted to linger on what he had caught– a hint that fueled his assumptions. The coyness that had resulted in Minho on being caught off-guard by Taemin’s blunt words. But instead he suppressed it, let it be washed over by what he was supposed to linger on.

“I will make you some breakfast.”

Minho looked at him then, blinking, “We only have grains left, do you perhaps know how to cook?”

Taemin got up and hung the pot over the fire, “Let’s find out.”

“It tastes decent,” Minho commented after swallowing his second bite, “If you ignore the smell.”

“You do not have to eat it.” Taemin whispered, flustered at how terribly he had failed at the simple task of boiling oats with sugar. What he had plated was the top of it, whatever he could have salvaged, but the smell of what had caught the bottom of the pot had infused into the entire of food profusely, making it all he could taste. He had only eaten what his hunger could withstand– four hurried spoonfuls– after which just having the bowl in front of him was making him nauseous. Taemin had decided then, to never cook in his life again.

After watching Minho eat a couple of bites more, Taemin reached for his bowl, “I will look for some fruit–”

Minho moved it away from his grasp, “That will not be necessary.” And he continued to finish his share.

Taemin just sighed and decided to take a walk in hope of finding some fruit. He really needed something actually decent to wash out the taste lingering in his mouth. When he had returned after a few minutes, his cloak full of wild plums, Minho was on his feet, tying the satchel of utensils and their canteens to the saddle, the fire extinguished.

Taemin walked to his side and took the canteens looped onto his arm, helping him finish tying their things onto the saddle. Minho’s canteen was considerably depleted and he felt flustered again, “You really did not have to eat that muck.” He handed him a couple of plums before he left for the river, to fill their canteens again. When he was done and was turning to return, he found that Minho had led the horse to the river.

The stallion drank up and Minho sat down at the bank, washing the plums before biting into one. Taemin sat down as well, washing and biting one of his own, relieved that it was fairly sweet.

“Thank you,” Minho began softly, “For taking care of me.”

“I was only returning the favor.”

They were silent after that and when Minho noticed Taemin was done finishing his fruit he got up, and caught the reins of the horse, “Let’s resume the journey then.”

“To where?” Taemin asked, not getting up.

“Yangon.”

“We are heading back to the Capital.” Taemin finally got up.

“It would be a waste to turn back after coming so far.”

“It is a waste to look for him, in the first place.”

“Why?”

Taemin headed for the horse, drawing out a long silence before answering, “You won’t be able to find him.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

Taemin bit back his argument, feeling rage crawl under his skin yet again. Minho stepped ahead and got on the horse carefully as Taemin held it steady despite still being irate. Once mounted, Minho looked at Taemin, at how he was indignantly avoiding his gaze, his demeanor speaking his refusal to climb on after him.

“If not for any other reason,” Minho spoke, “But for the fact that his blatant, unconcealed steps into Yangon could incite a war for our kingdoms… I wish to secure him.”

Taemin began to simmer down at his calm words and a few moments later he got on in the space Minho had left for him in the front carefully . “He would have discarded Seyan’s symbols before entering hostile territory. He is certainly not a fool.”

“He could very well be,” Minho took the reins, “The sentiments he bears can make him such… and he is not to blame for it.” He paused, “Nor are you.”

Taemin was silent, his grip on the pommel tightening at Minho’s words.

“I pray you not be so inconsiderate of yourself.” Minho continued, “And return to where your heart is.”

Taemin was riled once again at Minho’s obstinacy, at how he was insistent, at how easily he could speak such words, “Then I shall.” Taemin felt those burning words leave him, uncontrolled in the mercurial mess of sentiments b within him, “If that is what the King wishes. Does he not?”

It was only silence that answered Taemin’s question, silence and the slapping of reins that set them again on the path to Yangon.

It is you who is being inconsiderate to yourself, Taemin thought to himself heatedly as the view blurred around him in the speed, And it must stop.

They rode all day and stopped for the night, resting after having some fruit. They sat in a clear area, under the shade of tall trees, a fire burning bright. Both of them were resting against a cluster of rocks that they had cushioned using the quilt. Minho was staring at the clear sky, almost drifting into slumber. But Taemin was wide awake because he had slept through the entire ride, yielding to his exhaustion eventually. When he woke, he realized he had let himself rest back against Minho and their pace had reduced. Taemin knew Minho had purposely slowed down from the way he held the reins– keeping the speed and direction steady– his movements only slight. Taemin had not sat up despite having woken up, disconcerted by how he had so easily yielded into slumber and comforted himself against Minho. In those few moments, he was devoid of any anger, of any distress. But all of it had returned soon.

Because Minho’s thoughtful gestures were a contradiction to the painstaking silence he was refusing to break with his usual casual talk… and Taemin was irked further at the silence between them. Irked because Minho would not meet his eye. Irked because the slight emotions he had been able to read on Minho’s face, he now again could no longer, as they were now concealed again under his impassive expression.

It was angering Taemin to the brink of bursting, yet he held it in, only to let his mercurial mind drive his actions, wanting to rile Minho as much as he himself was. He had pulled out an empty parchment and a piece of charcoal and had begun to sketch an image… his movements gaudy, noisy and Minho ended up glancing at him briefly before averting his gaze back to the night sky.

“You need not stay awake,” He softly spoke, closing his eyes, “Bandits do not lurk this close to Yangon.”

Taemin only stopped drawing when he heard Minho softly snore and turned to look at him, losing the wrinkle between his brows on finally seeing the strained impassivity no longer painting Minho’s countenance. He returned to his parchment and stared at it and then at his stained hands, sighing before he crumpled the sheet.

“What am I doing…” He whispered to himself, trying to gather his thoughts that had been everywhere and everything but settled. He straightened the sheet, his eyes finding every unsettled , the features on that face that did not belong to Jongin. He crumpled it again, pocketing it, his mind was ablaze at how his own semblance was in rebellion to his resolve, how none of his thoughts refused to settle, remained whirling around those few words they had exchanged earlier that day… because they had been whirling because of them.

“It is a waste to search for him, in the first place.”

“Why?”

Why, Minho had asked. A simple word that had let loose a storm within him yet again.

Because I do not wish to search for him. Taemin had intended to say but had not because he knew what Minho would ask again.

Why?

Because– Taemin halted himself– halted those whirling answers to take coherent form. But they could only halt a moment.

He decided to distract himself and pulled out the rings he had safely pocketed, the rings Minho had yielded to the bandits. He sighed as he grazed his fingers over the markings before he let them slide onto his fingers. He had wanted to return them but kept missing opportunities to do so. He slid the sapphire ring next to  his gold ring and fisted his hand so the loose ring wouldn’t slide off.

I will not give up on that one. Taemin reminisced those words Minho had spoken and felt his thoughts settle. And the answer to Minho’s unasked questions that had stirred a storm within him settled in his entire semblance… yet he did not let himself admit it. He turned to look at Minho, at his peaceful demeanor and the answer collided with every defense Taemin had put up. Defenses that were on the brink of a fall.

And he whispered it into the wind, hoping he would have the courage to say them to him one day.

“Because,” He turned his gaze to the starry sky, “He is not worth it, giving you up.”

Despite Minho’s words, Taemin had kept himself up all night and despite his many efforts of fighting sleep, he was lulled by the soft breeze when they were riding, waking up yet again when it was close to dusk, the warmth from having leaned into Minho rife on his skin. The view of a town distracted him and Minho had followed the shift in his posture, his implied gaze.

“Hanyan,” Taemin heard Minho’s voice for the first time that day, “Port town of Yangon. Just like Aeyan, Yangon does not allow free entry into their wards. An identification issued from the sovereign is required… but Hanyan, being a hub for sea merchants that come from the waters beyond, does not impose such laws to allow free trade. Going beyond Hanyan would be difficult for anyone not registered with the regime. The only way anyone could remain in Yangon is to either settle in Hanyan or forge an identity to get beyond. Hanyan is a dangerous town to live in, also, quite small… and if your knight has chosen to forge an identity, the only place he can get it done is the shadow market. If that is so, it will not be hard to trace him because in Hanyan’s shadow market, loyalties lie with wealth.”

“I do not recall you carrying any bags of silver.”

“I am wearing all the wealth we need.” Minho turned his wrists, revealing opulent gold cufflinks on his coat sleeves that had been buttoned inside, away from sight, “In places bandits do not care to look at.” He turned his wrists back into ease, “I do have some silver on me for immediate use, as for the rest, I will exchange the gold for Yangon currency when the market opens tomorrow.”

Taemin was silent, slightly annoyed at how prepared Minho was. If everything worked in the King’s favor, Jongin would indeed be found, and perhaps, Minho would not even need to enter Hanyan’s shadow market and trace Jongin beyond. Because Jongin had mentioned a location in Hanyan in his letter, implying that he would remain in the port town, in wait for Taemin.

They managed to ride through the gates of Hanyan that had begun to slowly close at last light and Minho halted at the closest inn, handing over the horse to the stable boy before stepping in, waiting for Taemin to join his stride. He was walking close, their arms frequently colliding, breaking Taemin from the inquisitive way he was glancing around, having never been in establishments such as these.

When taking a seat at the counter, Taemin noticed Minho drag his stool closer to his own.

“What can I get you lads?”

Minho hummed glancing around the other tables. Taemin glanced at the barkeeper, finding him to be an elderly yet strong man, who smiled when their eyes met, his smile lazy and good natured, “Drinks or dinner?”

Taemin averted his gaze nonchalantly, his eyes lingering on Minho as he began fidgeting in the pocket of his coat for the sheet he had crumpled and stuffed last night. He straightened it out and slammed it on the counter, diverting the barkeeper’s attention to it– as well as Minho’s.

“Do you recognize him?”

The barkeeper squinted, peering over the sheet before shaking his head, “Sorry lad. His face rings no bell.” He straightened up, asking again, “Drinks or dinner?” His eyes roaming between the similar rings on both their hands, “A room? Or maybe, all of them, M’lord?”

“A room and dinner,” Minho answered, “The porridge for both of us, please.”

Taemin discreetly glanced to his side, the end of the sheet at Minho’s composure, at how he had not lingered nor reacted to what he had done. He got up from his seat, grabbing the sheet and wading through the tables, glancing here and there, showing the sheet to random guests and asking them the same question he had asked the barkeeper. He heard the sound of a stool being dragged behind and soon found Minho at his side, “First, let’s eat.”

“There is still time for the food to be served.” Taemin answered casually, heading towards the next table and then the next, not letting Minho match his steps. But Minho had caught his wrist, “Do not be so inconsiderate of yourself–”

The words angered Taemin and he yanked Minho’s hand