Minho's mother. She married the man she hated the most. Minho's father.

Of course hate wasn't, hadn't, always been part of the equation. Like all fairytales, it all began with a wish. Minho's parents had first met in their junior year of college. His father was studying business and his mother...well, Minho had never been exactly too sure what she pursued...

But ever since he could remember, there had been countless stories of a prince and a princess that had met a long long time ago. A story that his father had told him before he finally left...

Today, or rather eight days ago, Minho had freshly turned three years old. That was when his father came into his room after coming home from work. A soft smile set into his features. Dark brown stared into those of deep hazel. Straightened locks curling at the edges, out of their gelled confinement. "Min, can I talk to you?"

"Of course!" The small boy quickly nods raising his palms. "Pa."

"Come here." He picks up the small boy into his arms and sits down on the bed. Back pressed against the head board, the small boy cuddling in his arms. "I need to talk to you about something very important." Minho's father watches as the boys hand curls into his shirt. "About your mom and me."

"Pa, can you tell me a story?" A sigh leaves the man's lips as he places his cheeks against the soft locks of his sons.

"Sure." closing his eyes he lets the stress leave his body. "In a land far away that no child would be able to ever understand but could only dream of seeing, lived a fate. A fate, like destiny, that intertwined so deeply-"

"Pa, what's entwertwane?"

"Min, it's intertwine. But what I mean is that they were meant to be, this pair. No matter what way they choose to follow, they would end up meeting. You get it?"

Round orbs narrow before closing and humming in agreement. As if he'd known all along that that's exactly what his father had meant.

"There was a girl that lived in this incredible land. A girl with beautiful cascading hair and bright eyes. But anyway, this girl is the poorer in our story. So, I guess you could call her a peasant, of sorts."

He stops for a moment to see if Minho's fallen asleep. Only to be hit on the shoulder, "Why you stop, Pa?"

A chuckle slips past his lips as he continues the tale. "The peasant had fallen in love with the prince of the land. Having seen him first from afar. Slowly she began to approach him, and with every step her heart would stop. Not literally of course because then she would be dead. And you wouldn't be here right now. " He pokes Minho's scrunched up nose.

At least, not for us. Are the words left unsaid. Unconsciously his arms wrapped themselves tighter around his son.

"The peasant yearned for the prince's gaze on solely her and no one else. So she came up with a plan to capture his heart and keep it forever. In the beginning, her plan seems to work. They go on outings together, become known to each other, and soon they became one."

"One?"

"Yeah, they just each other’s faces all day long." Minho eyes widen as his father lets out a laugh. "Don't worry. They were just...kissing."

"Oh, okay. Keep going please."

Lips caressing lips

Palms bruised skin

Fingers wiping away fears

Tongue collecting salt kisses

"Sooner rather than later though, things began to fall. She was now the princess she had always dreamed of becoming. But in her obsession to follow what she thought she wanted. She hurt all the people around her."

“The people around her?” he watches as Minho buries his head further into his chest.

The small boys ear against his rapidly beating heart. When had he even gotten so nervous?

“Yeah, the prince started to get sick. He fell deeply ill a few months after she became princess. Six months to be exact. Slowly she started changing. Taking advantage of the sickly prince instead of watching over him.”

“Pa, why is the princess so mean? The prince helped her to become a princess didn’t he?”

“Yeah buddy, but you know, sometimes things don’t work out like how you planned them.”

The boy crosses his arms “Well, I don’t like her.”

Minho's father lets a smile grace his worn features, "Don't say that, Min." He places a kiss on the boys head "We're both too much alike."

Standing up he maneuvers the boy unto his bed "Your leaving already Pa? The story's not even finished."

"Exactly." He brings the blanket to cover his sons small form "Come on its time for you to go to your own dream land."

"Well, ok. Goodnight Pa."

He watches for a moment at the doorway, the slow rhythmic rising of Minho's chest. Warmth envelopes his whole being.

When he goes to turn away though the voice calls to him "Pa, do you hate her?"

He doesn't need to ask his three year old to repeat himself. He knows exactly who he's talking about. Even if his son himself may not know.

"No, Min. As much as I feel pained to say it." He the boys hair "No matter how hard we try, we could never hate your mother."

By the time Minho had turned five his father had stopped coming to sing him to sleep. He stopped coming around to pick up after school. Everything just started to stop. Even the stories, tales, stopped. No more princes and princess's. About their fate and destiny.

Minho's father still lived with them at the time. For the most part anyways. His mother was changing and his father was leaving. Yet no one was explaining to the youngest what was going on. The day before Minho's father finally left, he came to see him. By himself.

"Hey, Min."

"Why are you leaving?"

"You never were one to beat around the bush were you Min?" Minho doesn't answer his father, partly because he doesn't understand and partly because he doesn't want their meeting to be over so soon.

"Well, I just wanted to say...goodbye?"

There must have been tears rolling down his cheeks because his father has him enveloped in his arms now. Lips pressed against dark curls as he lifts his son up.

"Ssh. Don't cry, Min. It's not goodbye. Just...till later, okay?" His father places a kiss on his temple and places him back down on his feet. "Until later." A smooth palm caresses his cheek "I'll be back, okay?" He wraps his arms around the fragile child before pressing a paper in his palm.

That day, Minho could only watch his fathers retreating back as he left. As he left them. Left her. Left him. Trembling hands unfold crinkled lined paper. Paper that Minho had once, on his last birthday, given to his father to make a wish. In his fathers writing two simple words were scrawled across in black ink.

I Promise.