Chapter Text
He had it all.
Growing up as the youngest prince of a very powerful kingdom, Baekhyun thought he had a good idea of what being loved felt like. Being loved meant good food, nice clothes, songs of praises from everyone beneath him. His father, the leader of an untouchable nation, never let him out of sight without guards. His mother, albeit a busy queen, always made sure of his humbleness despite being born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His people admired him, nobles asked for his hand in marriage, his older siblings adored and cared for him.
And so when that charming, young man— the king of a neighboring country— entered the gates of his home and spent several months wooing him with flowers, sweet treats, garden walks and deep conversations, Baekhyun didn't hesitate to be a piece in their treaty.
A royal matrimony between him and the king to symbolize a longing peace and alliance between their nations was set to happen.
Baekhyun has so much love to give. He wanted to give Chanyeol all of it. All of him.
And oh, was he a fool.
“Jongdae, do you think he'll be back in time for supper?” He doesn't remember how many times he's asked his personal steward the same question, only to be given the same answer over and over.
“The king is a very busy man.”
Baekhyun knows that. Everybody in the kingdom does. He learned that the night of their wedding when he, draped in lavish clothing that barely covered his skin, slept alone in their chamber as the king had some work to finish in his study. He learned that the first week of being married when he sat by himself during every meal in the dining hall, with no one to accompany him but the pitiful stares of the servants assigned to him— the king had state visits to attend, or so he was told.
Chanyeol is a very busy king. He has accepted that by now, three months into... whatever this is that they have.
“I know, I was just... wondering,” maybe he wants to see me at all. He's his spouse after all, isn't he? If that title of his ever means anything to Chanyeol, that is.
He doesn't understand at all, however, why Chanyeol invested so much time courting him. Chanyeol didn't need to invite him on strolls to walk with their hands entwined. He didn't need to give him roses, nor sing him songs. He would’ve said yes with a polite bow and a soft smile on his lips, even if his heart wasn’t in it.
Even if Chanyeol had never given him promises of his supposed life if they were to be wed. Even if he hadn't fallen in love, Baekhyun would've agreed regardless, as that was his duty as the youngest prince: be pawned off for the sake of alliance, much like his other siblings who were not in line for the throne. It was unnecessary, wasteful, and cruel to make him hope that his fate would be any different. Baekhyun would've said yes, anyway.
Now, he sits by the balcony of their shared room, the stale cookies and now cold tea untouched on the glass table. The sun was starting to set, skies slowly turning dark and yet the seat next to him remained unclaimed.
He has grown used to the silence. To the way their chamber echoes with emptiness rather than the promised warmth. He's gotten used to the curt bows that offered sympathy instead of respect, and to the king's late arrivals and early departures from their bed. He has memorized the scent of roses Chanyeol once gifted him before the wedding, until they all wilted one by one without being replaced.
“Jongdae,” he says again, voice softer now, “I want to take a walk.”
Jongdae, ever composed, bows low. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The title feels heavy, hollow. It means nothing when spoken in this empty palace. It means even less when the one who made him the royal consort refuses to acknowledge him.
Baekhyun wanders outside. His shawl—a gift from Chanyeol when he was still courting him—has never felt thinner. Following him a few feet back were a couple of guards and Jongdae, watching his every move.
He remembers the first time he arrived at this place. He remembers the carriage ride on the way, where Chanyeol never let his hand go, where he once kissed his temple and said, “You'll be happy here, Baekhyun.”
The prince, who used to thrive in song, in warmth and laughter back home, likes his solitude now. It may be the biggest tragedy of all.
Baekhyun closes his eyes, feeling the breeze hit his cheeks. Maybe, maybe Jongdae was right. Maybe Chanyeol truly is just a busy man. Maybe he needed time to warm up. Maybe—
The sound of hooves.
Baekhyun's eyes snap open. The creaking noise of the main gates echoed through the palace. Leading the arriving platoon is a familiar face. His spouse.
The king.
He approaches his husband with carefulness, unsure if his greeting was welcomed at all. Baekhyun wraps the shawl around him tighter, a fond smile appearing on his face when Chanyeol catches his presence.
“Baekhyun.” His voice is deep, the exhaustion audible. “I didn't expect to see you here.”
“Well, I live here, don't I?”
“Of course. How could I forget?” The king leans down to leave a quick peck on the prince's cheek. Baekhyun's heart didn't leap, it ached, as he knew it was more for a show, merely a formality of the vows they shared. Yet he could not help but blush—it's the most intimate thing he would ever get probably in a long time. “How was your day?”
“Just fine,” Baekhyun pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat off his spouse's face. “I missed you, my love.”
He didn't miss the way Chanyeol's eyes wandered, probably hesitated, “I… missed you too.”
“Have you had dinner? You must be starving. Why don't we eat together in our room? I'll ask Jongdae to bring us food.”
“Actually…” Chanyeol says, running a hand through his damp hair, “Would you mind drawing me a bath? I would like to loosen up first before supper.”
It's not a kiss, not even a real apology. But it's something. Chanyeol is asking him for something.
He shouldn’t feel this much over something so small and so… domestic. But Chanyeol never asks him for anything. Not like this.
Not gently.
Not as a husband would.
Baekhyun stills, breath hitching for a moment. “Of course!” He answers, maybe too eagerly. “I'll have it ready right away, my king.”
He doesn't call for a servant, nor ask Jongdae for help.
Baekhyun prepares the bath himself.
He handpicks the oils he remembers Chanyeol smells like— pines and sandalwood. He tests the water to make sure it's just right, hangs a fresh robe and the softest towel he could find, and lays out the king's nighttime clothes by their bed. He lights a couple of candles by the sink, the gentle glow making the bathroom feel warmer than the rest of the palace.
When Chanyeol arrived, he shrugged his coat off with a sigh and gave Baekhyun the kind of look that almost feels like gratitude.
“You didn't have to do all this, Baekhyun,” He says as he sinks himself into the steaming water. “I just needed something quick.”
He shoots Baekhyun a glance. “But… Thank you. This is nice.”
Baekhyun sits nearby, on a stool by the basin, his head resting on his folded arms against the cold marble.
“It's no trouble,” he mumbles, eyes shifting away before Chanyeol even had the chance to meet them with his own. “It is in my vows to serve you after all, my love.”
The king closes his eyes, head tipping back against the rim while the tension on his shoulders drip away with the water.
Baekhyun watches him quietly. He doesn't speak, doesn't move. Just sits and looks. The prince memorizes the way the candlelight dances on the king's damp skin. He notes how the frown between Chanyeol's brows slowly disappears, how his lips part ever so slightly, and how his chest falls and rises in each breath.
He recalls seeing this same softness in the early days, when the king bent down to pick a bunch of wildflowers from the ground to offer to him.
Now, it feels like a scene borrowed from one of his many dreams.
And when Chanyeol finally rises, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, Baekhyun helps him dress without a word, just eyes full of want and longing.
They eat together on the balcony, side by side, silently. Later, Baekhyun slips to bed next to the king, their backs turned on each other.
Maybe this is the closest they'll ever be.
Maybe there is nothing to wait for.
Maybe, this was it.
Baekhyun wakes.
The pale moonlight slips through the curtains and shines on the empty spot next to him.
Cold.
Almost no trace of the king except for the unfluffed pillow and lifted blanket.
Baekhyun sits up carefully, eyes wandering around.
He waits for a while. Maybe Chanyeol had just gone to the lavatory, or had something to do in his study. Maybe there was an emergency that needed the king's presence urgently.
But the doors stayed closed. He could almost hear the silence stretch the hall outside their bedroom.
He rose from their bed, put on his robe and went out. No slippers, just his bare feet against the cold tiles. He didn't bother to light a lamp, he doesn't need to when he's already memorized the palace halls by heart.
He doesn't want to invite Chanyeol back to bed. He just… wants to know where he is.
He walks by a couple of guards who bowed low, and yet Baekhyun could feel their pity bore on the back of his head when he passed by. He always hated it. He hated their sympathy. He doesn't need it.
Baekhyun reaches the veranda, then he hears it.
Laughter. A woman's.
He follows the sound carefully, footsteps soft and silent to not announce his presence. The laughter becomes clearer, louder, until—
There.
By the fountain. Baekhyun sees them— not behind a tree, not in the tall hedges, not hiding. Just out in the open for anyone to see, like he didn't matter at all.
Chanyeol sat with a maid Baekhyun vaguely recognized. Their feet were dipped in the water, their bottoms hiked up slightly. She leaned close, head tilted, and her hand was on his knee.
And Chanyeol—his husband, the man who barely spoke to him at dinner, who hadn’t kissed him on the lips since their wedding day—was smiling.
Not the tired, polite curve of the lips he always gives Baekhyun. No, this one was real. Loose. Easy. Like the kind Chanyeol gave him when they first met. He was laughing at something she said, shoulders relaxed, like he didn't have to pretend, like he could breathe around her.
Like Baekhyun was the one suffocating him.
The prince grips on the balustrade to keep himself standing. He watches as the maid leaned her face close to Chanyeol's.
He watches as the king doesn't move away.
Baekhyun watches, silent and still, a ghost haunting the life he thought he'll have when he left the place he called home.
He doesn't remember how he got back to their chamber. He lays in bed, pulling the covers tightly around himself, and burying his face on Chanyeol's pillow just to feel something close. Just to feel the little warmth he left, maybe smell the faint scent of pine and sandalwood.
And when the tears finally come, they don't stop for a long time.
He cries, silently, like everything he does in this palace, as if afraid to make his presence known. He cries without sobs, just heavy breaths, the slight tremble of his shoulders, and the dampening of cotton beneath his cheek. He doesn't want anyone to hear him. Not the guards, not the maids, not Jongdae, and especially not him, wherever he is right now.
He still loves Chanyeol, and that's the problem.
Because this… this isn't love. It shouldn't rot him like this. Love shouldn't turn into envy. It shouldn't turn into cold stares at the ceiling of their empty room.
Love shouldn't hollow him from the inside out.