Sehun knelt beside your hunched form, patting your shoulder in tandem with its wracking sobs. Soft hums and coos to soothe you, warmth you needed. Your head remained decidedly crushed against your knees, arms hugged around yourself.
“Please don’t cry,” Sehun murmured to you and only you, on that sweet tone he used for you and only you, “Y/N, it’s not that bad…”
Gulping in sandpaper air, you side-eyed him with what you intended to be anger, although your tired gaze merely pastiched emotion. “Can you let me,” you cried out in crackly words, “enjoy my denial in peace, please?”
Incredible that even in your misery, you maintained the politeness proper to your rank — servant to Sehun, of prince fame. He was sixth in line for the throne, and you obeyed his every order. Should, but now you were pouring your heart out on the palace floor.
“Y/N,” he started again, firmer this time, “you have to calm down.” He braced himself to deliver the feared truth. “You can’t keep crying over the death of a damned squirrel.”
“Minmin was my friend!” You whipped your head to glare at him. No matter how benevolent he believed his intent to be, the final result was an awful mess. Your hands clasped over your mouth. “Oh no… Your Highness, I’m so sorry about this, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
Sehun stared — kept staring, until you had to palp your neck to verify your head was still attached to it. Praying it’d stay that way. God only knew how that petulant child would punish such slight.
“Let’s cheer you up,” he announced with a perturbingly straight face.
Sehun grabbed a handful of your hempen hanbok and stood abruptly, hauling you up along with him. Startled, held by the collar like a kit, you fought back with haphazard waggles and shrill cries. He struggled to immobilise you without causing further hurt, arms wrapping over your body.
Alerted by screams and behaving as an exemplary brother, Junmyeon barged through the gaping doors, wide-eyed and panting. “What – the hell – is going on – here?”
“Nothing!” Hissed Sehun, one hand gripping your wrist so tight it blanched and the other snaking around your waist to hoist you up. You, puffy-faced and tearful to a fault, sobbing uncontrollably.
“That’s…” Junmyeon reviewed the scene again, breathing calmed, “definitely not what this looks like.”
Sehun glowered at the Crown Prince, pulling you towards him closer as if on instinct, almost protective, territorial. “What do you care? It’s none of your business,” he snarled, “go back to your little warmonger.”
“Sixth Prince Sehun,” Junmyeon warned in an even tone, “don’t force your luck. I may let it pass once, but never again.” His wonted joy returned, and he left, saying, “Take care of yourselves!”
When even the shuffle of his robes faded from earshot, Sehun strung out curses. “Stupid Crown Prince, dumbass brother, thinks he can boss me around like some peasant —“ he interrupted himself with a huff, irritation alleviated. A smile hinted at his lips as he softened his looks towards you. “Don’t mind him. Are you all right?”
“I guess not.” He combed soothing fingers through your straggly hair, easing you into his lap as he sat down. “First things first, food. Kim Minseok!” He called to the eunuch who’d waited zealously outside for instructions. “Fetch me my dinner. Enough for two.”
The servant scuttled away in a rhythm of wooden clacks. Sehun hugged you tight against him, smiling into the crook of your neck. Hands massaging your sides, strands tickling your skin, soft nothings assuaging your misery. Past the first crawling minutes, you straightened in a dignified — or as dignified as can be when seated in Sehun’s lap — position, unwilling to display further weakness that begged for his care.
Minseok knocked and entered with a wide array of dishes balanced on a platter, enticing colours and mouth-watering odours originating there. With barely a glance for you, he rested the food before the prince, ceremoniously testing it for poison. When it was confirmed he stayed healthy and the silver utensils hadn’t tarnished from arsenic exposition, Minseok left.
Sehun grabbed the chopsticks and pecked at the numerous bowls, tasting each delicacy with an approving nod. You gazed, biting the inside of your cheeks, stifling the desire to eat. Still, your left hand crept towards the eel tail absentmindedly, guts gnawing in hunger. Fingers clasping on thin air. If you did steal the food — what was the chance of being caught? Absolute. Sehun would notice the second it touched your lips. What was the chance of getting punished? Null. You took your chance, regretting the affront within instants. As expected, Sehun snickered and nudged your culpable arm. Then he surprised you for the second time today.
“Try to eat from my plate again.” He inched the various dishes towards you. The eel you’d sampled, rice, vegetables, chicken, beef. As you recoiled from his offer, he nuzzled into your neck. “I dare you,” he singsonged, nibbling your earlobe.
You shook your head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” melancholy tinted your tone blue, “but I shouldn’t have eaten from your plate to begin with. It’s improper to my rank.”
“I allow you to. In fact, I want you to.” He proffered the beef-laden chopsticks towards your lips, aroma wafting throughout tentatively. Your stomach grumbled — of course it did, it just had to. Chastising it, you focused on Sehun.
“Come on, take it,” he mused in your ear, “it’ll help.”
You wanted the food — wanted everything Sehun would offer, although you perhaps were getting ahead of yourself. And obscenely far beyond what the palace would accept to give you. You couldn’t really let him treat you so gently — could you?
Sehun’s head slumped on your shoulder. “Y/N, eat the beef,” he whined, “you need to be fed. I just want to help you. Come on.” The chopsticks prodded at your mouth, spreading sauce over your skin. You leant away into his chest. “Let me be nice, damn it. I like you.”
And suddenly, his hand and silence fell, dampened the turmoil previously clouding thought. His breaths, shallow and bated, ghosted as if waiting for a cue to exist again.
“The psychic foretold all of this,” you breathed out in awe, more so to yourself than anyone else. Then your eyes snapped wide. “Oh my God. She was right.”
“Who was what now?” Sehun exclaimed rather than asked, perplexity lacing his voice. Blinking twice.
“Hwasa,” you explained, “took me to that famous psychic beside the pottery stalls.” You paused, somewhat ashamed to divulge that secret. You weren’t too supersticious, but when it proved true, who were you to refute it? “She predicted I’d lose something dear and gain something dearer. Minmin died and you — er, you know what you are.”
He seized the opportunity to tease you with a sly grin. “So I’m dearer to you than Minmin? Is that what you’re saying? Am I inferring correctly?”
“Ah, I, uh,” you blubbered non sequiturs, a blush flaming up your cheeks, “not exactly — well, yes, but… It’s, uh, more complicated than that, and, I, well, can’t — can’t really tell the prince I hold him dear…”
“I knew it.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, abating all worries and drying all tears. “I always knew you liked me back.”
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