Chapter Text
"I'm sorry, Beomgyu," his mother says when she tells him. He can tell she means it; he can't find any traces of the sweetness or joy he used to be able to find on her face, just concern and a kind of heavy weariness that drags down the corners of her mouth and deepens the wrinkles at her eyes and her forehead.
Beomgyu understands. He feels the same exhaustion in his own body, months of fear and sadness and useless, impotent rage having taken their toll on him, too. It's been a long war, and a hard one.
"It's alright," he says, and musters up a smile for her. "It will be alright, you'll see. I promise."
The terms of the peace treaty are complicated. The negotiators spend weeks drafting the agreement, all sides working for as much of an advantage as they can wring out of the deal. And then, when it's all done and the ink is drying on the parchment, it's carefully explained to Beomgyu that he’s being sold.
"You're not being sold," his late father's chief advisor says when Beomgyu protests. He sounds like he believes it, too, but the treaty promises huge sums of money from Macai's coffers in return for Beomgyu's hand in marriage.
(Or rather, the treaty specifies the hand of the heir to the throne of Oscana; the fact that it's Beomgyu is incidental at best.)
It's too much money for a marriage, but Beomgyu is his parents' only child, and as an omega he cannot inherit directly. When his mother dies, the throne will pass to his husband, and their two nations will be united forever under one royal household.
Part of what Soobin is buying is peace, of course. A lasting alliance between their nations, which should end up strong enough to protect both of them against threats from any outside aggressors for generations to come.
"If I'm not being sold, can I stay here?" Beomgyu asks.
The advisor shakes his head. "No, Beomgyu, you know you can't."
"And can I choose not to marry him?"
"No."
"So if I can't stay here, and I'm going to be married no matter what, and you're getting money for me, how am I not being sold?" Beomgyu asks.
"It is an honour and a privilege to be able to serve your country in this way," the man says stiffly. "I'm surprised at you, Beomgyu. Your father would be so disappointed by your selfishness."
He says it with a patronising sigh and a roll of his eyes, as if he can't believe he’s reduced to this. As if explaining to Beomgyu that he’s not only about to be married off, but married off to a man he’s never met, a man whose reputation as a warrior is eclipsed only by terrifying tales of his height and his physical strength — as if all of that is beneath his dignity.
"You're right," Beomgyu says sullenly. "If it were a real sale, you'd have to offer him a refund when he works out I'm defective."
"Beomgyu!" his mother scolds, and the advisor shakes his head and tuts and mutters something about how if it had been a sale, they'd have had to lower the price for an omega who talks back the way this one does.
So that's how Beomgyu gets used to the idea of his upcoming marriage — cross, and with a belly full of shame that he’s not a good enough omega for his family to demand a higher price for his hand.
Soobin is handsome. It's the first thing Beomgyu notices about him, then he feels annoyed at himself for the thought, as though he’s betrayed himself by being facile enough to be so easily entranced. But Soobin is handsome — Beomgyu is standing on the mezzanine overlooking the palace's entrance hall, and even from such a height, and such an unflattering angle, he can see the alpha's beauty, clear as daylight.
Beomgyu is glad of his spying. He's tucked in behind a pillar so that he can see the foreign king's arrival without being spotted himself. He'll have to go down in a while, of course, for formal introductions, but he wants this for himself, wants his first glimpse to be on his own terms.
It helps, he thinks, the sneaking and the sense of control over his own actions. And then he sees Soobin, impossibly tall and devastatingly handsome in his uniform, navy jacket adorned with silver braid and so many medals that Beomgyu loses track when he tries to count them, and he realises it doesn't help at all. He looks like he'll smell wonderful, too, Beomgyu thinks, and a little spike of something halfway between annoyance and jealousy pricks at his chest.
Beomgyu keeps a hand on the pillar at his side, the finely-carved stone cool to the touch, and lets it ground him while he tries to imagine marrying this man. It seems impossible, and yet it's only a few days away. The inevitability of it is claustrophobic, pressing down on Beomgyu's chest like a lead weight; he feels like he can't breathe, like no matter how hard he tries he can't suck in enough air to fill up his lungs.
It doesn't help that his future husband seems utterly unaffected. In the hall below, his betrothed is bowing politely to his mother, who's wearing a dress Beomgyu hasn't seen in years, not since before the war. Its reappearance makes everything seem more real, as if the last few years of war and famine were nothing but a bad dream, a nightmare dispelled by the handsome foreign king's arrival.
Soobin bends at the waist, deeper than mere civility demands. It's an elegant bow, the motion full of respect; he lowers his head and holds his subjugated position long enough to demonstrate how humble he can be. Whether it's true humility, or the ersatz kind some alphas like to play act when they're confident in their superiority, Beomgyu can't tell.
Either way, it makes Beomgyu's teeth itch.
He turns away, then, slips further behind his pillar and sinks to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He can still hear the conversation from the entrance hall, the echoes of their voices bouncing loudly off the stone walls and up to his ears; he doesn't need to see them, too. Beomgyu fusses with the hem of his shirt until he finds a loose thread to fidget with, twisting and untwisting it around his fingers so that he only has to listen with half of his brain.
"We're so honoured you agreed to let us host the wedding here," his mother says. Beomgyu twists his hand so that the thread pulls tight around his little finger, the skin bulging out on either side of it. Unsightly, grotesque.
"The honour is all mine," a new voice says, and Beomgyu's spine stiffens with the realisation that this must be Soobin's voice. "I didn't want to break with tradition. I think an alpha should always fetch their omega from their family pack."
Beomgyu tugs his hand, then, and the thread around his finger snaps.
Formal introductions happen over a banquet, at which Beomgyu can't bear to eat. He disguises his lack of appetite as best he can, moving food around his plate while talking to the guests on either side of him. Neither of them are his intended; instead, Beomgyu is sat next to a official from the Macai court on one side, and a breathtakingly beautiful man called Yeonjun on the other, who introduces himself as a friend of Soobin's.
There's something guarded about the way he refuses to elaborate on his role in the foreign court, something that Beomgyu wants to pick at to see what's hiding underneath. But Yeonjun eyes him up, and seems to find him wanting, turning away to talk to Beomgyu's mother instead.
The official meeting doesn't happen until the end of the meal, when all the plates and dishes have been cleared away, and both their respective courts are left sitting with full bellies and only their wine glasses left. Beomgyu is walked up to one end of the banqueting hall, arm tucked neatly around his mother's, and then he’s left to sit in a chair that's been placed on the dais. It's not a throne — as an omega son, it wouldn't be appropriate for him to sit in his late father's throne — but the chair that's been picked out is suspiciously high-backed and elegantly carved. A fine display case for such expensive goods.
Beomgyu sits in the chair that's definitely not a throne, and casts his gaze downwards, in his best attempt at being demure. A moment later, the back of someone's neck appears in his eyeline as Soobin kneels at his feet. The gesture is a courtly one, meant to show the high esteem in which the alpha holds his betrothed, but it feels hollow to Beomgyu. They don’t know each other, so any regard Soobin might have for him is based on hearsay and assumptions, and Beomgyu knows it will dissolve like sugar in hot tea as soon as Soobin grows to know who he really is.
"Choi Beomgyu, prince of Oscana. It's an honour to meet you," Soobin says, and looks up to meet Beomgyu's gaze for the first time. He’s still handsome, unfairly so, with deep brown eyes and a soft mouth that parts to reveal beautifully even, white teeth.
"Choi Soobin, king of Macai. We are honoured by your presence in our court," Beomgyu says. The formality of the traditional address helps; he concentrates on the words and forms, and ignores the wriggling feeling in his stomach that threatens to make itself know as some errant behaviour or other.
His hands are folded in his lap, and he’s trying so hard to sit up straight and be good. He wonders if Soobin will notice that his usual scent of bluebell and honeysuckle is layered with notes of desperation, as he silently begs please, please, don’t reject me here, in front of everyone. Marry me first, so our countries' futures are secured; if you don’t want me after that, I'll go wherever you send me without any arguments, I promise.
Something close to a smile graces Soobin's face, then, the edges of his pretty Cupid's bow mouth curving up slightly, and he rises to his feet. Standing up, he’s unbelievably tall; the full reach of his height, and the understated threat of violence in his military uniform are at odds with the gentleness in his eyes and the hesitation with which he holds out a hand.
The juxtaposition confuses Beomgyu, and it takes him a second to remember the next part of tonight's ceremony; panic must shine clear on his face, for Soobin quickly takes pity on him and prompts him quietly.
"Would you grant me the honour of a dance, your grace?" Soobin asks. His tone is so formal, his posture impeccable. He is in every aspect the model of the perfect alpha, chivalrous and honourable.
Beomgyu stands up and puts his hand in Soobin's, stepping down delicately from the dais. His hand feels so small in Soobin's, so fragile and useless, that it's hard not to pull away and make his own way to the floor, but he’s good. He’s trying so hard to be good that when Soobin squeezes his hand it feels like a reward.
The dance isn't as horrible as Beomgyu had feared it would be. It's awkward, for a moment, and then his feet remember that he likes dancing. Soobin is a good dancer, too, leading him confidently around the floor with a gentle but confident hand. They don’t talk, and Beomgyu has to constantly tamp down the urge to fill up the space between them with chatter or nonsense — he wants to make silly jokes and tease Soobin, or break out of the prescribed steps to make him laugh — but he manages to behave himself, and it's fine. It's not fun, doesn't fill him with joy or light up his soul, but it's not awful.
It's not awful, he tells himself over and over again, as Soobin twirls him around the floor. It's not awful. It could be worse. You'll survive this.
It will be alright.
As the music sweeps to its final crescendo, Soobin draws him close, the hand resting at the small of Beomgyu's back pressing slightly to guide him in.
His other hand, wrapped around Beomgyu's and nearly enveloping it completely, is warm even through his cotton gloves. Stepping into the final turn, Soobin squeezes lightly; though his gesture is gentle, Beomgyu can't help yelping as if he'd crushed his hand terribly in his vice-like grip, the impulse to tease finally winning out over the desire to be well-behaved.
Soobin's head snaps up immediately, concern on his face. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, worry furrowing his brow and dragging down the sides of his mouth. He looks so distressed that Beomgyu instantly feels bad for teasing him.
"I don’t think it will be fatal," Beomgyu says. "But you need to be careful, your grace, you don’t know your own strength."
Soobin apologises so gallantly, then, and the musicians start up a new song, so Beomgyu tilts his head and asks to be led into another dance.
As they whirl past the banqueting tables, where half the evening's guests are still sitting and watching, Beomgyu catches a glimpse of Soobin's friend Yeonjun watching them, a glare as sharp as needles on his pretty face. The unexpected frown is enough to cause Beomgyu to stumble, his feet catching on nothing. His clumsiness sends him tumbling into Soobin's arms; the alpha catches him quickly and sets him upright again without missing a beat.
The ease with which Soobin picks him up, catching him in strong arms and spinning him through the air a second later, as if he weighed nothing at all, leaves a fluttering feeling in Beomgyu's chest. He can feel his cheeks flushing; he scurries to get his feet underneath himself and slot neatly back into the dance's quick steps before he gets even more flustered.
In the confusion, he almost forgets the look on Yeonjun's face.
Almost.