Yixing thinks he might soon befriend the pair of rats that occasionally pop in to peer suspiciously at him from the corner of the prison cell. 

He has been leaving out breadcrumbs for them the last couple of days because he’s bored and because the food they serve their prisoners here is terrible. The guards are equally dreadful; they are like human beings carved out of stone. His taunting and flirting bounce off their skin like they are an impenetrable force, and he cannot help but loathe the head of the guard a little bit for making this so dull for him.

The least they could do was offer him some form of entertainment before he seizes an opportunity to escape or Zitao, possibly Han, comes to break him out. 

The kingdom is either blessedly spared from criminals or he has been locked up somewhere secluded. He has been listening intently at regular intervals, but thus far there are no human sounds other than the occasional cough from the guards stationed a few cells down the hallway or the low murmur of chatter between them that he cannot hope to understand no matter how much he strains. 

Dreadful.

At least the rats are warming up to him. Perhaps they can recognise a kindred soul.

He is entertaining the idea of teaching rats to pick locks when noise from down the hallway catches his attention. The guards loitering out there arrived less than two hours ago, which means there are still another two left of their shift. 

They are talking amongst themselves, too quiet for him to catch any words or get a sense of the mood. He imagines he can count three voices, at least, which is… curious. He would have been told if they had moved his execution forwards, and Zitao is not usually one to dawdle. Han, on the other hand, would, and could, talk up anyone if he so wished, and he might just want to keep Yixing waiting to get back at him for their last trip to Kangan. 

It could also be a deliberate move if they both came: Distract the guards with Han while Zitao takes advantage of the scarcely-lit dungeon to make his way to Yixing. 

The murmurs have subsided, but there are measured footfalls approaching Yixing’s cell. One set, he determines, and sits up straight with his hands folded in his lap as he waits for whomever to make their presence known.

The person slows to a stop once he reaches Yixing’s cell, which is to be expected when Yixing is the only one occupying this part of the dungeon. 

“Oh?” Yixing drawls, drinking in the sight of his visitor. Interesting. “What, not even king for two days and you already came to see me? Alone, at that.”

The newly-crowned king stares at him with shuttered eyes. Pity. Yixing would have liked to see what kind of emotions hid behind them. 

He sighs heavily and drops his head back against the wall. “Well, go on, then. Who is it you want me to get rid of for you? Come now, don’t be shy: I don’t have all day, you know. I am rather busy.”

A slight sneer breaks through the king’s mask of indifference. He gives the cell a cursory glance before pinning it on Yixing once more, one eyebrow arching pointedly. “Busy, indeed. Perhaps I should come back another time.”

Yixing feels his mouth widen in a grin. “You could.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug and fiddles with the tear in his sleeve; it has only gotten bigger during his time here. “I might not be here the next time you deign to step by, however, so perhaps it would be in your best interest to just tell me the reason you sent the guards away.”

The king confirms Yixing’s suspicions when his gaze darts off to the side in the direction of the guards’ station and back again. His eyes narrow, but then he lifts his chin just slightly and looks straight at Yixing through the bars.

“Am I to understand that anyone can buy your loyalty?”

Yixing grins and scoots closer to the bars. To his credit, the king does not flinch as he does so. “That depends. Who is the target?”

The king inhales slowly. “I do not want you to kill anyone.”

“Oh? Then what might you be asking of me?”

“How much for your loyalty? Will you go through with my request regardless of anyone else or does your loyalty shift with a coin flip?”

Yixing wets his lips and observes the king for a moment. A mere prince just days ago, he has already donned the crown his father left him and wears it like an aged king. He is handsome and young, twenty-six if Yixing’s memory serves him right; an imposing presence who will reign this kingdom with a sharp mind and a just hand. 

“My loyalty,” Yixing says, “lies with the one whose request I accepted. Someone may try to tempt me with a price several times higher than the one I was initially offered, but rest assured I will reject it. It is why I am rather sought out amongst those who wish to see someone dead, you see. They can trust me to not be led astray by the promise of a better reward, unlike many of my peers.”

Yixing slowly gets to his feet to meet the king eye-to-eye. “So, Your Majesty. What do you want with my loyalty if not to have me kill someone?”

The king is quiet for a while as he watches Yixing. His eyes were shuttered before, but now Yixing sees a storm within, which is much better. 

Eventually, the king dips his head in acquiescence. “My brother,” he says. One of Yixing’s eyebrows arches in interest. “I want you to take my brother away from the castle and protect him until it’s safe for him to return.”

Yixing blinks, taken aback. He stares at the king in disbelief for a spell, and then dissolves into laughter. He grasps the bars with his hands and rests his head between them, and laughs. Between chortles, he eventually manages to ask, “What could possibly be more dangerous than sending him straight into the arms of the man who killed your father?”

The king stiffens minutely at that, as Yixing thought he would. He worries at his lower lip and the confidence he came full of seems to slip from his grasp. “Perhaps it was a mistake to come here,” he says, haltingly, and makes to leave.

“No, no, Your Majesty,” Yixing says. “Please, stay. Do tell me more. What am I to protect your dearest brother from? He is the reason I am chatting with you from behind bars, after all.”

“You taunt me,” the king says. “Will I be sending him to his death if I ask you to protect him?”

“I need to know from what I must protect him,” Yixing says. “I am not in the habit of making deals that are not in my favour.”

“You are at death’s door,” the king says, a chill sneaking into his voice. “Everything I could offer you that is not your death would be in your favour.”

“I beg to differ,” Yixing drawls. “I have no intention of laying down my life at your executioner’s hands.”

“What of my hands?” the king demands. There are emotions swirling within his eyes, now, but rather than the previous storm, these ones are pointed and determined. This is a man who sees no other way than to make a choice between two potentially disastrous outcomes. “I could draw my sword and hurl it straight through your chest if I so wished – and no one would question it. You are a king-slayer, you are dirt on the ground, and your life is in my hands. Whether or not you want it to be so.”

Yixing hums, looking down at the hole in his sleeve and two of his fingers poking through it. “Is it now.”

The king draws near, incensed, and seizes Yixing by the neck through the bars. He yanks Yixing closer, so close that he feels every breath that leaves the king fan across his lips. 

“You are infuriating,” the king growls. Yixing flutters his eyelashes and winks. Quieter, the king says, “You do not wish for death.”

“I do not.”

“Then, in return for me letting you go, you will take my brother with you and keep him safe?”

Yixing makes a face. “It is going to cost you a bit more than that, I am afraid. I still do not know what I need to protect him from, so you can see why I might be a bit hesitant.”

“You stand to die.”

Yixing shrugs. “And you stand to lose the last remaining family you have.”

The king sags against the bars. His grip on Yixing’s neck loosens, so Yixing steps out of it entirely and instead watches the king in faint amusement. 

“That dangerous, then.”

“There is a plot,” the king says, defeated, “against the crown. Against me. Your assassination on my father was the last remaining piece in their game of chess that stood in the way of checkmate. Or so they believe. They will rally their forces and come at me with everything they have got. I have yet to decide whom amongst Father’s court will remain in mine and whom will go. The corruption, I fear, goes further than just my father, and it is going to take everything I have to gain control and weed out the rats whilst dealing with some imprudent usurpers. I do not know whom I can trust and whom will sell me out, which is why I have come to you.”

“To think,” Yixing muses, “that the king has come to me for protection of the prince. If I may be so forward, Your Majesty, I will hazard a guess and say you do not expect to survive.”

The king merely looks at him in silence, which more than answers Yixing’s suspicions.

“If you die at the hands of these traitors,” Yixing continues, and ignores the pointed snort from the king, “then when am I to know it is safe to let the prince return? If you do not trust the people in your court and their dastardly plan is to put someone else on the throne – what then will you have me do? Send the prince back to fight what remains of the uprising?”

“That will be up to him as the rightful heir to the throne,” the king says. 

Yixing scoffs. “So you will go through all this trouble only to have him die in the end?”

The king shakes his head. “If he wishes to fight for his title, he may, so long as it is no longer mine to claim. The people will not be easily swayed by an impostor on the throne, so he may be able to find support amongst them. However, should he wish to live the rest of his life as a man no longer tied down by the duties of the crown, then it is my dying wish that he do so. If he fights, he does so for himself, and only himself.”

“I am moved to tears,” Yixing says, and laughs when the king narrows his eyes at him. “Your Majesty. Minseok, if I may – all things considered, I may end up a glorified nursemaid for your darling brother in the near future. What would you offer me in return for your brother’s safety?”

The king makes a face like he has bitten into a lemon, but then he nods. “Your freedom. I cannot promise that others will not seek to harm you for the murder on my father, so it would be in your best interest to leave and never come back once you have kept your side of the deal.”

“What I am hearing is that you are sending me out with a prince whose life is in danger, which means my life will be in danger by association, not to forget that you would have me promise to protect him with the very life you are offering to spare. And then you bargain for my freedom, except it is not actually freedom.” Yixing leans against the bars and pouts. “Does that sound like a bargain worth taking to you?”

The king grinds his teeth. “I will, of course, be sending you off with enough coins to make the time on the road more comfortable. If I am alive upon your return, and my brother is well, I will reward you handsomely. If I –”

“What if the reward I want is you?” Yixing purrs, and delights in the king choking on his own saliva before he gets a hold of himself. 

“Pardon me?”

Yixing hums and leans into the bars, beckoning at the king with a finger. “What,” he purrs, “if what I want – is you?”

“Your… wish is to become my consort?” the king asks, strained.

Yixing laughs and waves a hand. “No. By the gods, no. I have no interest in that. I have, however, found myself wondering if ing a royal would be any different from ing anyone else. There is something… tantalising about the idea of a king getting on his knees for me, you see? And you, darling Minseok,” he does so enjoy the look of disgust on the king’s face, “were blessed with a handsome face and royal blood.”

He tilts his head and gives the king a dimpled smile. “Would you, Your Majesty, be willing to offer me yourself for a night?”

The king looks like someone who has swallowed the entire lemon this time, but he reins himself in and nods stiffly. “If that is the only thing you should wish for upon the safe return of my brother, then yes, that is my offer.”

Yixing leaves the offer hanging for a while just to enjoy the fierce look on the king’s face. Eventually, he says, “There is no need to look so wretched, Your Majesty,” and chuckles. “After all, why should I take by force what others would give me freely? No, I believe a monetary reward would be preferable – and one of great value to make up for the trouble.”

“Consider it done,” the king says, and the relief on his face nearly sends Yixing into another fit of giggles, but he controls himself. “And if you return and I should no longer be around, you may take whatever you wish, within reason, from the castle vault. I will leave a letter for my brother to let him know where to find the key.”

“On the topic of your brother,” Yixing says. “What is your plan? I imagine they will be looking for him to make sure every last member of the monarchy is dead.”

“My plan is to stage his death,” the king says. “If they think he is dead, they won’t be looking for him. But it will not be easy. They will eventually realise I have been informed of their schemes, so they might also come to suspect that I had a hand in my brother’s alleged death.”

“Well,” Yixing drawls, “I already killed a king. What is a prince?”

The king narrows his eyes. “If we stage it like a murder, it must be done in a way that causes him no harm. If you cannot ensure this, I will think of another way.”

“Oh, I can make it look like a murder,” Yixing says, grinning. “Don’t you worry, Your Majesty. No harm will come to him, albeit he may feel the slightest after-effects of the poisons. Some dizziness, a headache, possibly slight nausea, however nothing that will last very long nor be more than a discomfort. You have my word.”

“The word of a killer,” the king mutters under his breath and sighs. “You have poisons, then, that will make it seem like he is truly dead?”

“For all intents and purposes, he will be dead,” Yixing says, “but it will last no longer than an hour, two at most. What will you do without a corpse?”

“I will think of something,” the king says. “Perhaps I can arrange for a witness or two…”

“This, of course, means any witnesses will also see me,” Yixing says. “My freedom hangs in a thin thread, you realise.”

“We already agreed that you would not be welcome here regardless,” the king says stiffly.

“One thing is murdering the corrupt king – another is seemingly also murdering the innocent young prince who just lost his father. Your people will hunt me like a beast.”

“As you deserve,” the king snaps. He purses his mouth and looks off to the side. “A kidnapping would be our best bet, then.”

“No,” Yixing says and rubs the bars distractedly. “If he is kidnapped, you will be expected to send out guards to comb the lands in search of him. You cannot afford to have them looking for him when they should be protecting you.”

The king grimaces and runs an agitated hand through his hair as he starts to pace the length of Yixing’s cell. “What then? If I –”

“I am already a villain,” Yixing cuts in. He waves a hand in the king’s general direction. “It would be of little difference if I also murder the prince. I have no intentions of staying as a guest in your lovely city afterwards, after all. The prison food is rather dreadful, you see.”

“So we will stage it like a murder,” the king says.

“Yes,” Yixing says. “And a fire, you realise, will make finding his remains amongst the ashes rather hopeless.”

The king’s eyes roam over Yixing for a spell. “The ease with which you discuss the details of a murder, even one that is staged, makes me ill.”

Yixing grins. “People pay me to kill, Your Majesty. Where would I be if it made me squeamish? You are thinking of your brother amongst the ashes. Rest assured he will be nowhere near the fire. Now, which room in the castle do you abhor the most?”

The king’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as he considers. Slowly, as though tasting the words as they leave him, he says, “My father’s study. My brother has been spending significant time there since his death, so it would not be unimaginable that it is where he dies.”

“The way you talk of killing your brother, even knowing it won’t be a true death, delights me,” Yixing trills. The king is decidedly not amused. “The late king’s study, you say. That would be the room adjoining his bedroom, correct?”

“Where you murdered him, yes,” the king grinds out.

“Indeed,” Yixing hums. “Lovely. I am familiar with the layouts of the late king’s quarters, so it would be no trouble getting to your precious brother. Imagine his surprise when he sees me. Will making him scream make it more believable, do you think?”

The king’s stare hardens. “You do not incur much faith.” 

Yixing waves a careless hand. “Whether you like it or not, my dear Minseok, Your Majesty, you are asking a notorious killer to stage the death of your brother. If you want this entire scheme to go over well, you will want your brother to be caught unawares. He already tore a hole in my sleeve – what’s another tear as he struggles to overcome the effects of the poison? How about this: If he wounds me, I will not charge you for it.”

The king’s eyes gleam; steel like the blade of the dagger Yixing stabbed through his father’s heart. “I hope he breaks several bones in your body.”

“I hope not – I am his saviour, after all. He will need me to ensure he gets away from here safely with no one the wiser. Say,” Yixing bats his eyelashes at the king, “am I allowed to kill anyone who tries to stop us? I would like to know if killing someone who tries to harm your brother would come around to bite me in the end.”

The king looks Yixing dead in the eyes. “You are free to do as you wish with anyone who tries to hurt him, so long as it teaches them never to try again.”

Yixing nods to himself, pleased. “Now, when am I to pay your brother a visit?”

The king purses his lips. “Tomorrow night. I will make sure no one knows you have escaped until it is too late.”

Yixing sticks his hand out between the bars. “We have a deal, then, Your Majesty.”

The king, to his credit, barely hesitates to clasp Yixing’s hand. “I would say I am pleased, but I am not in the habit of lying.”

Yixing laughs. “You are a delight, if a bit stiff. I might even look forward to meeting the dear Prince Junmyeon again under different circumstances. Our first meeting was rather disastrous, if you remember.”

“You will treat him with respect,” the king demands. 

“Oh, I will treat him with the utmost respect,” Yixing says. 

“I do no think that you will.”

“Well,” Yixing drawls, “you have entrusted his life to me. I do intend to keep my part of the deal, so while time will tell how easily flustered I can get him, I will also be looking out for his well-being.”

“If I find out that you have failed to protect him,” says the king lowly, “I will leave the kingdom to its own ruin and spend the rest of my days chasing you if I must. I will destroy you myself.”

“Your brother is in safe hands, Your Majesty,” Yixing says. He smiles. “I dare say you made the right call in the face of calamity.”

The king does not say so, but his eyes clearly do.

He hopes he has made the right choice.

~

The blood from the blade drips onto the bed sheets. The man whose hand is wrapped around the hilt of the dagger looks over his shoulder and smiles pleasantly at Junmyeon. “Ah. I did not expect you here, Your Highness.”

In the bed lies Junmyeon’s father, wide unseeing eyes looking straight at Junmyeon. The breath in Junmyeon’s throat gets caught on the way up and he stumbles backwards, appalled. “Father!”

“Pity,” the smiling murderer tuts and grabs a handful of sheets to wipe the dagger. “I suppose you will have to die, too.”

Junmyeon turns on his heels and fumbles with the door handle, but the door is locked and – why, he just came through, how can it be locked –

He is grabbed from behind and he screams, fights, but then there is pain, the dagger buried in his chest, and he – 

He wakes up. He blinks, disoriented, until he realises he must have fallen asleep. He is at his desk, in his study, and a book is open on the table in front of him. The pages, at least, appear mostly unscathed, so he cannot have slept for long. 

There is a knock at the door and a call of, “Junmyeon?” 

That must have been what woke him up. “Come in,” he calls back and buries his face in his hands. He is suddenly exhausted, which is to be expected. He hasn’t been able to sleep well since the death of his father.

Minseok enters quietly. He doesn’t move from the door for a spell, dithers, but then, eventually, he does make his way towards Junmyeon, and Junmyeon straightens his back and looks up to meet the worried face of his brother. 

“Are you unwell?” Minseok murmurs. 

Junmyeon sighs. “I am tired. Every time I close my eyes, the memories come back to haunt me. In my dreams, I never escape.”

Minseok’s throat bobs as he swallows, and he looks away. “I know,” he says. “Junmyeon… I am sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” Junmyeon says and musters a small smile. “He didn’t even really hurt me, but I… I miss Father, Minseok. You are the only one I have left.”

“I know,” Minseok whispers. “Everything will be all right. When Mother died, we mourned her together. I still miss her dearly and wish she were here with us, but we got through it. We will get through this, together, as well. We are strong. We must be.”

“Yes,” Junmyeon murmurs. “We must.”

“I…” Minseok falters, so Junmyeon looks up at him in enquiry. “I wanted to ask if you would join me for a late tea in Father’s study tonight. I have been busy trying to sort out Father’s unfinished business, and in doing so I have been neglecting you.”

“It is what it is,” Junmyeon says, and this time the smile he offers Minseok is genuine. “You are the king now. I understand what that means. I just hope you will let me help you in any way that I can. I am here for you.”

“I know,” Minseok says. He pats Junmyeon on the head. “You will join me, then?”

“Of course.”

Minseok nods to himself. “Meet me at the strike of the ninth bell. I will have servants prepare tea for us, and the cakes you favour.”

“Sounds good,” Junmyeon says. “There is nothing better than sugar before bed, after all.”

Minseok scoffs good-naturedly. “Like that has ever stopped you before.” He clasps Junmyeon’s shoulder. “I am late for another meeting. I will see you tonight.”

“Do not forget supper again,” Junmyeon says. Minseok smiles sheepishly and nods, and then he is gone.

Junmyeon frowns down at the pages of the book. He no longer feels like reading, so perhaps he will take a walk through the gardens.

Fresh air might invigorate him enough to not fall asleep on his desk again.

~

Darkness has settled fully over the kingdom by the time Junmyeon makes his way towards his father’s study. The corridors are quiet and mostly deserted as he walks along them, which makes the loss of the king almost palpable. Just a few days ago, these corridors were busy with his entourage and lifeguards. Junmyeon supposes it won’t be long before Minseok moves into their father’s quarters, but until then the corridors will remain quiet.

The study is empty when Junmyeon gets there, but servants have been by to prepare tea and cakes for them. Steam rises from the kettle and the cakes look fresh out of the oven – the delicious aroma of baked goods hangs in the room and reminds him that, despite telling Minseok to not forget supper, he did not eat all that much himself. 

He plops into one of the two chairs by the table and sighs. Minseok has not had much of a chance to just sit down with him these past days. He hopes Minseok takes care of his health and does not allow the sudden influx of responsibilities to weigh him down. Minseok will be an excellent king, Junmyeon has no doubt, but to so suddenly have to step into that role must be difficult.

Junmyeon cannot help but be relieved that this falls on Minseok and not him. He was never groomed to become king like Minseok has been all his life. 

But, he realises with a pang, he is now the crown prince. If something happens to Minseok, Junmyeon is the person everyone will look to for guidance. They will expect him to reign. 

He snatches one of the cakes off the plate to distract himself from those thoughts.

Minseok is in good health. He is not in danger.

Is he in danger?

Their father was assassinated, but no one could be bothered to tell him why. Why did his father deserve to die? Who would wish him death?

Everything is fine. The assassin was apprehended and now sits in a cell in the dungeon. He can only count the hours left until his execution. 

A knock on the door slings Junmyeon out of his spiralling thoughts. He looks up and meets Minseok’s eyes as he makes his way towards the table. 

“I came to let you know I will be slightly delayed,” Minseok says. “Will that be all right with you?”

“It’s fine,” Junmyeon says.

Minseok smiles softly. His gaze falls to the cake Junmyeon took but still has not eaten, and he nods towards it. “Please, don’t wait for me to have one. They are best when they are still warm, as is the tea.”

He reaches for the kettle and pours tea into one of the cups, which he then hands to Junmyeon. “Here.” Junmyeon accepts it and lifts it to his lips to take a sip. “I will finish up quickly and come join you.”

“All right,” he says. Minseok nods and makes to leave. “Minseok.”

Minseok halts and looks back at him. “Yes?”

“Are you in danger?” At Minseok’s alarmed expression, Junmyeon quickly explains, “You are the king now. Father was assassinated, but why? Are you their next target?”

Minseok looks pained. “Junmyeon,” he says. “No. Don’t worry. We caught Father’s murderer, remember? You caught him. Father was…” He hesitates. “They have no reason to want me dead. Don’t fret, Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon worries at his bottom lip. “Are you certain?”

“Father was… not always a kind man, Junmyeon,” Minseok says. He sighs and leans into the doorframe. “He perhaps did not deserve to die, but he has earned every bit of ire towards him.”

“He has always been kind to me,” Junmyeon stresses. “I know as the crown prince he expected more of you because he wanted you to succeed. He may have been tough on you at times, but to wish him death?”

The concern gnawing at him starts to bite as Minseok’s shoulders slump. There is something very much like defeat in his stance.

“I did not wish him death,” Minseok says quietly. “But I do not mourn him as you do.”

“Why not?” Junmyeon presses. “I want to understand, Minseok. Please, do not shelter me. I do not need it.”

Minseok is not looking at him, but at the table. He looks lost in thought, but when he speaks, he sounds determined, “We will talk, but later. I will answer every question you have, all right? Just wait for me.”

“You promise,” Junmyeon says.

“I promise.”

“All right. I will see you later, then.”

“Take care,” Minseok says, and smiles. It looks wobbly. Perhaps Junmyeon was too hard on him, but he needs Minseok to understand that he is tired of being treated like fragile porcelain. He may chip, but at least he will be wiser for it. 

And as the crown prince, he needs to be informed about the goings on in the kingdom. He would rather not have to.

He wishes their father was still alive. He wishes Minseok was still the crown prince. He wishes he could go back in time to the night of their father’s murder and stop the assassin before it was too late. 

Instead, he resigns himself to a long night and sips his tea between bites of cake. 

He has always known there were things Minseok didn’t tell him, things both him and their father decided he was better off not knowing, and that used to not bother him. He knew he could trust them to tell him the important stuff. 

Or, he thought he could. Perhaps he was wrong.

Minseok looked like someone with secrets that he thought too great of a burden for Junmyeon to bear.

It isn’t long before footfalls alert him to someone’s presence, which is odd because he has not heard the door – 

He looks up and feels the blood drain from his face.

His father's murderer lazily slips around the table and into the chair meant for Minseok. He throws Junmyeon a beatific smile. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“You,” Junmyeon chokes. “Why… How –”

“I rather like my head,” the man says. “It would be remiss of me to lose it, so here I am. Good to see you again, Prince Junmyeon.” His head tilts slightly in thought, though the smile remains. “Although I suppose it is Crown Prince Junmyeon now.”

Junmyeon feels short on breath and too horrified to stand up, to act, to do something, anything. Hatred wells up within him to create a flood with grief and dread, but he can only stare at his father’s murderer in stunned silence. 

The man is still smiling, the sight of his dimples making Junmyeon downright ill. “I know how I must look, Your Highness. The days I spent in prison, no thanks to you, might I add, have not been kind to me. I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the way here and I really am quite pale. Not unlike you, actually.”

He reaches across the table to tap the kettle. “Perhaps some tea would improve your complexion. Should I pour some for you?” He makes a hand gesture towards Junmyeon’s empty cup.

“No,” Junmyeon says, strangled.

“That’s fair,” he says and shrugs. “I suppose the poisons I infused the water with would not help much either.”

It takes Junmyeon a second too long to comprehend the words, but when he does, his heart skips a beat and he shoots to his feet. “Poisons?”

“Indeed,” the man says. He is eyeing the cakes like nothing of this faces him. “Are you feeling the effects yet? They are a bit slow to kick in, but once they do it will only be a matter of minutes. Ah, panicking will only shorten the time you have left, my dear prince.”

“Minseok.” Junmyeon chokes. “Minseok!”

“Your darling brother is busy at the moment,” the man hums. “He won’t come for you. You are entirely at my mercy.”

Junmyeon lunges for him. The force knocks the chair to the side as Junmyeon sends them both sprawling to the floor. The man struggles underneath him as Junmyeon wraps his hands around his throat and squeezes. If Junmyeon is going to die, he will do his damndest to ensure the assassin won’t be able to hurt Minseok once he is gone. 

The man clutches Junmyeon’s hands and tries to pry them off, but Junmyeon refuses to budge. His legs dig into the man’s torso, but he still struggles to stay atop, so he puts all his weight into his arms and hopes to hear the assassin’s neck snap, something.

Instead, the man overpowers him and flips them around. Junmyeon reaches blindly for something he can grasp onto, which happens to be the man’s right arm and a handful of his hair. The tussle this time is short-lived, however, for Junmyeon’s strength is waning and the man does not kill for a living for nothing. The sound of fabric tearing apart rings in his ears as the man gets back on his feet. He clears his throat and massages the tender skin around his throat, which is a small comfort for Junmyeon amidst the mounting panic when he realises his vision is going fuzzy at the edges.

“Feisty,” the man says as he watches Junmyeon struggling to get up from the floor. “I suppose it was good foresight from me to wait until you finished your tea.” He glances at the new tear in his shirt and frowns.

“Guards!” Junmyeon cries, putting his hands – they’re shaking – on the table to support his weight. He is getting rather dizzy. “Minseok! Guards!”

“Yes, scream,” the man says, and he sounds amused. “We want someone to hear you, don’t we? If dear King Minseok comes running, perhaps I will offer him some tea, as well.”

No. No. Junmyeon lunges at him again with a roar, but he miscalculates the distance and is instead caught on the assassin’s arm when the room spins. He might throw up. 

The assassin is tutting at him. Junmyeon weakly pushes at him to get away, but instead he feels his knees give out underneath him. The assassin catches him on the way down and lowers him onto the floor instead. When Junmyeon begins to struggle, the man settles himself astride Junmyeon and pins him to the floor with his weight.

“Ah,” he says. “Hush, now. Give in. Stop fighting.”

“No,” Junmyeon says wetly. He feels the tears on his cheeks before the man, looking fascinated, wipes them away with a hand. “Don’t hurt him, please. Don’t kill him, please, I beg of you – don’t kill him –”

“I won’t,” the assassin says quietly. He looks down at Junmyeon, and for the first time his face is devoid of amusement. “I won’t kill him. I promise.”

“You will,” Junmyeon cries. “You’ll kill me, and then you’ll – kill him –”

“Hush. I am only here for you. I swear I won’t touch your brother.”

Junmyeon whimpers and prays to the gods above that the assassin speaks the truth and Minseok will live.

Minseok needs to live. He has to live, must live, because Junmyeon doesn’t know what to do without him –

But Junmyeon is dying, isn’t he? 

“Stop fighting, Junmyeon.”

So Junmyeon stops.