CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR – The Gift Forgotten
Time passed, but tension deepened its roots. There were days of laughter, nights of storms, weeks where Haneul prowled the palace like a caged comet—never quite belonging, never quite leaving. The palace learned to live with the frost; Seungho learned to wait for the thaw.
But the war outside became a war inside.
It happened on a day of endless errands, rain hissing against the eaves, the scent of ash and plum blossom drifting through half-open doors.
Haneul wandered into Seungho’s private chamber—looking for nothing, looking for something to break. The air was heavy with the king’s presence, a fire gone banked but never cold. On a shelf, nearly hidden behind old scrolls and sword oil, he found it.
A lacquer box. Familiar. Northern.
Inside: the lotus tea.
Unopened.
A year and a half old, the parchment wrappings still bearing his childish, angry scrawl. I hope you choke on it. You are welcome.
The box was a trigger. The old lotus tea—unopened, gathering dust behind scrolls—ignited something raw and wild behind Haneul’s ribs. Not ache. Not sorrow. Something sharp. Something hungry for violence. All those months learning to trust, to hope, to want—all of it pulled taut, now snapped.
He didn’t just turn. He whipped around, the box in one fist, the other curled, ready to fight the king of hell himself. His eyes weren’t glassy, they were luminous with betrayal, alive with the kind of pain that’s indistinguishable from wrath.
“So that’s it,” he spat, voice low, lethal, each word a thrown dagger.
“You told me you liked it. You said you drank it, you said—” He threw the box with vicious precision, shattering it across the silks, dried lotus scattering like old bones.
“You fucking lied to my face, Seungho. Was I supposed to just bow and scrape and say thank you for keeping my ghost on your shelf?”
Seungho’s mouth twitched, jaw clenched, but Haneul was already advancing, every line of his body vibrating with the threat of magic and muscle.
“What was it? A trophy? You keeping score of all the pretty little gifts your conquests bring you? Or were you just holding onto it for the day I finally broke and crawled back north? Was it going to be my severance pay—here, take your fucking tea, now get out?”
The lamps guttered. Frost bloomed across the lacquer, the scent of old lotus twisted by wild core-light, every word a risk.
“You think I didn’t see how you hid it? You think I’m blind?
Or just so starved I’d never notice you never even opened the one thing I ever—” His voice cracked, but it was the crack of thunder, not a sob.
Seungho’s eyes flashed—anger, yes, but also something older, something that held even his own fire in check. He crossed the room, not a plea, not slow, but a hunt. “Enough.”
But Haneul didn’t back down. He squared his shoulders, stood his ground, trembling with the full, terrifying width of his feeling.
“No. I’m not some fever-sick pet you can talk down when I get too loud.
You want me to be a man? Face me like one.
Why the fuck did you lie to me? Say you like it, say you want it, then put it away and forget it?
Am I just—am I just a story you tell yourself about what you could have had? ”
His fists were up, but it wasn’t a challenge—it was a shield. The wild, lethal posture of a man who’d been shaped for war and was only now, now, learning what it meant to lose.
Seungho stopped, close enough to feel the chill of Haneul’s magic, close enough that the next word could start a war.
“You think I didn’t drink it because I didn’t want it?
” His voice was a growl, thick with rage and sorrow and everything in between.
“I kept it because every time I looked at that box, I saw a boy who spat blood in the snow for a man who didn’t deserve him.
I saw what you survived to bring it to me.
You think I could drink that and just let you go? ”
Haneul snorted, chin high, eyes fierce, the light under his skin flickering hotter, sharper, more alive than any plea for pity.
“That’s rich. So you hoard it instead? Like a miser with his last coin.
Like you’re waiting for the day it’s worth something—if I die, if I run, if I break.
” His lips curled. “Fuck your excuses. I’d rather you burned it. ”
A standoff. Breath for breath. Fire against frost.
Seungho’s hand shot out—not gentle, not cruel, but claiming—catching Haneul’s jaw, pulling his face close until their breath collided.
“I have wanted you for so long I don’t remember who I was before.
I kept it because I was afraid if I let go of the only piece of you that didn’t fight me, I’d have nothing left when you left.
You think that’s cowardice, call it that.
But don’t you ever say I lied to you. I’ve bled for you.
I’ve burned for you. I’ve waited for you—when any sane man would have let you go. ”
Haneul shook in his grip, not from fear, not from surrender, but from the war in his own soul—pride against longing, rage against the desperate, all-consuming hunger to be chosen.
His teeth flashed. “You don’t get to keep me and keep your distance.
You want me—take me. You don’t—you let me burn out and be done with it. ”
Seungho’s thumb traced Haneul’s pulse, feeling it thunder, not as a promise, but as a threat.
“I never wanted distance. I wanted you. All of you. Even this.”
He let go. A beat.
“If you’re going to run, do it now. But don’t stand in my bed and tell me I ever treated you like less than everything.”
For a split second, all the pain, all the rage, all the old loneliness crashed inside Haneul, found nothing left to fight but the arms that could hold him. Then he snapped—
The box hit the silk, the air cracked with magic and accusation—and Seungho barely heard the last words before Haneul was on him.
There was no build, no slow slide into hunger, just the explosion—Haneul flinging himself at Seungho’s mouth, teeth first, snarl first, every part of his body bristling with pride and terror and desperate want.
Their lips crashed, split, bled. Haneul clawed at Seungho’s jaw, digging his nails in so hard the skin broke, and Seungho bit him for it—bit his lip, drank the yelp, tasted the blood, growled in a voice that was older than lust, older than language.
It was a fight, a fucking brawl with their mouths.
Haneul twisted, tried to get purchase, to bite his way free—Seungho caught him by the waist, yanked him hard, lifted him up and threw him to the bed, the frame groaning beneath the impact.
Haneul scrambled up, half-bare, eyes wild, but Seungho was already on him—pressing him down, grinding hips to hips, pinning his wrists above his head with one iron fist, using his thigh to force Haneul’s legs open.
“Is this what you want?” Seungho’s voice was savage, hoarse, the threat of a king unbound. “You want me to take you? Ruin you? Break every wall you ever built?”
Haneul spat, breathless, “I want you to fucking try—”
Teeth met throat. Seungho bit down, left marks that would outlast the bruises.
Haneul gasped, arched, his core flaring golden-blue, throwing sparks across the bedding, across Seungho’s back.
The magic stung, bit, made Seungho hiss—and he loved it.
He wanted every wound, every shock, every evidence that this was real.
Clothes were shredded. Silk torn from skin.
Seungho wrenched Haneul’s baji down, baring those lean, shaking thighs, the cock flushed deep rose and already weeping, twitching at every new touch, every new humiliation of being seen, wanted, held down.
Haneul bucked, tried to twist away, but Seungho just pinned him harder, pressing a palm to the center of his chest—right over that shuddering core.
“Don’t you dare look away,” he ordered, voice molten. “You’re going to watch me. Watch what you do to me.”
Haneul tried to spit something cruel, something defiant, but all that came out was a broken gasp.
His hips moved on their own, grinding up, cock smearing precum across Seungho’s abs, his own hands finally—finally—letting go of the fight and tangling in Seungho’s hair, his hair knot, anything to anchor him to now, to this, to his own storm.
Seungho kissed him again, rough and hungry, and Haneul kissed back with teeth, with fire, with little yelps and curses in between. “You fucking bastard,” Haneul gasped. “You’ve waited too long—fuck, I hate you—”
Seungho’s hand wrapped around both their cocks, squeezed them together, slow, deliberate. “You don’t hate me,” he growled. “You’re mine. You’re mine now, and you’re going to take all of it.”
The next sound out of Haneul’s mouth was not a curse.
It was a keening—high, shocked, half-sob, half-moan, ripped from somewhere deep.
Seungho’s thumb smeared the precome, worked it down, twisting, stroking, his other hand reaching under the pillow for the little jar of oil he’d stashed a lifetime ago for this moment.
He opened it one-handed, slicked his fingers, and shoved Haneul’s thighs open wider with his knee.
Haneul bucked, tried to twist, but Seungho just kissed him again—hard, possessive, biting. “You want it rough, you want it now, you fucking take it, frostbite. But you tell me to stop and I stop. Say it, Haneul.”
“Don’t—don’t stop—fuck, don’t you fucking stop—” The words barely made sense.
Haneul’s voice was raw, shaking, eyes burning gold and blue, tears pricking at the edges but never falling—never falling, not for this, not for him.
Not until Seungho’s fingers slid between his cheeks, finding his hole, slick and trembling and burning hot, and pressed inside.