Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Preparations continue as scheduled, and the letters keep coming. Angwi rushes to his side to look over his shoulder each time he’s handed a new piece of paper. They giggle, Seungmin allowing his excitement to creep out only when Angwi is near enough to validate it, holding his soft heart with tender hands.

Meanwhile, the town is buzzing with assumptions and hopes of who will be at the Kim-Suu Family’s ball. Seungmin chooses decorations and picks out the competent from incompetent. The subject of music and dancing comes up. And there seems to be a lot to unpack within the particular subject.

“So, brother, who exactly is it you want playing at your ball? And what dances do you want to do? Mother Tilly says you have been putting it off.” She teases as they are going through drape colors for the ballroom. Seungmin looks up from where he stares at a cream white piece of paper, glaring at his sister before Tilly can manage to stammer in and correct Minju.

“I said no such thing, I said you simply had been neglectful of giving me a final decision.”
Seungmin only glances at her before collecting a stack of colored papers, sighing as he puts the cream slip in the center. 

“I simply have not–” Seungmin says, tone clipped, “---made up my mind.”
“That is a poor excuse.” Tilly crosses her arms, feathers of her shawl brushing the drapes piled for inspection. “Musicians must be booked, rehearsals must be scheduled, and I—”

“—want to avoid another disaster like Cousin Yura’s ball, I know,” Seungmin interrupts, smoothing the cream paper flat with an unbothered air. Minju snorts, delighted at the memory. “The fiddler who fainted. The waltz that turned into a brawl. Honestly, brother, if you do not choose soon, Mother will assume you want the military band.”

Seungmin glares at her, though his heart jumps at the thought. Not the band, not some stranger plucking at strings. No — he wanted someone whose music meant something. Someone he would rather ask with his own lips than have penciled into a ledger by a steward.

He shuffles the papers to buy time. “I will give you my answer when I have one. Until then, concern yourself with drapes and allow me to concern myself with music.”
Minju leans in slyly, a grin tugging. “So you do have someone in mind.”

Seungmin resists the twitch at his mouth. He knows better than to give his sister the satisfaction. Instead, he places the cream slip atop the pile with finality, as though that settles all matters.

Tilly exhales, long-suffering. “Darling, the musicians will not appear out of air because you frown prettily. Tell us whom you wish, and I shall see it done.”
“No, mother.” Seungmin lifts his chin, a rare defiance. “This one task is mine. I will see to it myself.”

In truth, his mind had long since settled. It was not indecision that held his tongue but the impossible task of shaping a request into something that did not sound like yearning. For only one name sat in his heart—Han Jisung, the state’s unrivaled virtuoso, composer of brilliance and performer of fire. Not a choice, but the only choice.

Seungmin had always taken what he wanted. Whether offered freely or pried loose with charm and will. Spoiled, perhaps, but never passive. He had clawed his way up from an orphanage; he would not stumble now over something as simple as naming a musician.

For example, 3 weeks before his ball, when he has neglected to expose his decision for music and dance for the event. Letters and letters come from what has to be more than 200 musicians, offering their service for the Kim-Suu family’s ball due to their lack of announcement on who was to be their choice.

Everyone is buzzing with gossip, about how the ball is likely to be canceled or the events announcement was only to attract attention. As well as countless other reasons which the people of the ton throw out aimlessly to make their lives more interesting. Even so, as the days tick by and the hours pass, Seungmin does not give in.

But finally, one day, while Seungmin is checking mail, strolling through his grand home on the way to his room, a specific name on one of the letters from that day catches his eye.

“To His Highness Prince Seungmin of Kim-Suu, regarding the music of his forthcoming ball”

He tore the wax open before it cooled, heart thundering. Cinnamon sharpened in the air as he devoured the lines, glancing once over his shoulder like a thief caught in delight.

Your Highness,

Word has reached me that the matter of music for your forthcoming ball remains unsettled. Forgive the boldness of my pen, but it is my belief that music must be shaped not only by occasion but by the very hand and heart of its host. To that end, I would be honored if Your Highness might permit me the opportunity to wait upon you, that I may hear from your own lips the vision you hold for the evening.

If it should please you, I will bring my violin, that you may judge not only my words but the sound itself. It is my humble hope that such a meeting might prove of service in easing your decision.

I remain, Your Highness,
  Your most obedient and devoted servant,

Han Jisung

Seungmin swallows, eyes wide as he rereads the letters, the wording is particular, suggestive. Not formally professional, but for someone like Seungmin, nowhere near inappropriate. His heart stutters in his chest.

Unable to contain his enthusiasm, he walks speedily through the mansion, his heel boots beneath his boots clicking through the hall as he makes his way downstairs to the servants quarters. As he passes staff members and help, per usual, they whisper amongst themselves, but bow and curtsy even at awkward angles out of respect.

It is considered inappropriate for someone of Seungmin’s status to be below ground with the help. In the eyes of others, he is lowering himself from his elevated pedestal to grovel with the lower class, but Seungmin has never seen things that way, so he cares not for what is and is not technically appropriate. 

For a prince, even setting foot below ground was a trespass of propriety — a descent from pedestal to pit. But Seungmin had never feared scandal. Long before Angwi, he wandered down to chatter, to fetch what he could have rung for, to relish the click of his heels echoing on stone. He liked walking, liked conversation, liked drama, liked the reminder that beneath silks and titles they were the same.

Still, he knew precisely how it looked — a royal barging unannounced into the cramped quarters of a maid. Propriety would have him knock, request, wait. Instead, he threw the door wide and launched himself headlong. By the time Angwi turned, skirts were flying and laughter was spilling, and the two of them collapsed in a heap of linen and shrieks on her narrow bed.

They end up tangled, side by side facing one another on the bed, neither of them able to shut up until Angwi is finally able to catch her breath and speak. “What’s got you so giddy, ma prince? Lawd, you look downright exuberant this mornin’.”
Seungmin’s smile only grows as he sighs dreamily, slipping the letter from the top of his corset and handing it to the woman.

Angwi takes the letter, examining the words on the back and the symbol on the wax stamp. Her eyes nearly triple in size, mouth falling open in stunned silence.
“Is this–”
Seungmin nods vigorously, Angwi unfolding the paper, eyes darting across the ink as the omega tries his hardest to contain his joy.

“He writes like a suitor, sugar,” Angwi breathed, her eyes sparklin’ as she traced the ink like it might vanish any second. “Not some hired man—a proper suitor. Ma prince, you done gone and snared him!” Angwi and Seungmin tangle in each other's arms again, dresses a mess of fabric where they lay enveloped in one another, laughter and solicitous emanating in the room. 

Staff drifted past the door, giggling, whispering — a prince tangled on a maid’s bed was scandal enough to feed tongues for weeks. But Seungmin and Angwi gave it no heed, drunk on laughter, wrapped in a world of their own.

“Should I write back to him for ya, sugar? Or have him come ‘round this evenin’?”
“Of course! We have to be calm about our efforts though, lest I look like I was begging for him to come.” Seungmin says as he refolds the paper, pushing it back into his corset.

“He’ll think he’s mighty proper, comin’ with that violin and all his polite manners,” Angwi teased. Seungmin tipped his head back in sinister laughter, eyes glinting. “Let him. Let him believe it is innocence. What shall we do? Dinner? A rehearsal? I could have him ushered in under my name, doors locked.” Angwi’s grin was wicked.

“Or tea,” Seungmin mused, head tilted, savoring the sound of it. “Let him think himself proper—until he is not.”
“Whatever you say, sugar, it’s all up to you. I reckon you’ll have him charmed no matter how it comes about.”

At some point, Seungmin returns upstairs with Angwi in tow, sorting through the rest of his mail that he’d neglected in order to bask in Jisung’s generosity. A familiar script font is on one of the letters he has, and with all the positive news he is receiving, Seungmin wishes he had not put off the receiving of his letters to extend vocal practices with his sisters.

 In his defense, Minju and Nari were more than competent when it came to keeping up with his runs, and singing with them became less than a chore many years ago. 

The letter again read, once more,

“ℒ𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻 ℋ𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 ℋ𝓌𝒶𝓃𝑔.”

Seungmin’s heart stutters, something the has been happening so often he thinks he might have to call on a witch doctor to check on him. He breathes, slow and deliberate to try and steady his trembling hands as he opens the mail, fighting the urge to beam at yet another letter finding him safely. Hyunjin of house Hwang was quite the romantic, and Seungmin was more than ecstatic to be on the receiving end of such advances. 

Where Jisung wrote like a craftsman, Hyunjin wrote like a confessor. One promised fire in public halls, the other whispered secrets in dark corners. Both left Seungmin reeling, his pulse caught between chandelier and candlelight. Seungmin broke the seal with far less grace than he liked to show in front of Angwi, but Hyunjin’s letters had that effect—shaking the polish right off him. Inside, the hand was the same sweeping elegance, but the words were bolder this time, edged with yearning.

“Last night, I dreamt again of your voice. It came to me as if through marble halls, echoing soft and endless, until I could not tell if it was song or prayer. When I woke, the silence was unbearable. If you will allow me, I would chase that silence to the ends of the earth, if only to hear you once more.”

Seungmin read it twice, maybe three times, cheeks warming. He folded the parchment quickly, far too aware of Angwi’s sharp eyes at his side, though his fingers lingered on the edges as if reluctant to let go. Hyunjin’s words tangled him up in a way Jisung’s music hadn’t—quieter, secretive, yet somehow more dangerous. One promised brilliance before the world; the other whispered intimacy in the dark.

The complication is that Seungmin has to choose in the end, love in the dark or in the light? Because his two unofficial, rivaling suitors, are much less than alike. 

Angwi takes the letter from Seungmin, raising a suggestive brow at him, but saying nothing as she heads upstairs to add it to the growing collection of notes in the omega’s desk drawer. Seungmin takes a moment, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth until he is so serene he is bordering on lightheaded, before turning to make his way up to his bedroom.

There, Seungmin allows Angwi to change his clothing, something simple and pretty, that flows and moves like water or willow tree leaves in the wind. It is a good day, his mood bubbly with the combination of Maestro Han’s visit looming and Lord Hyunjin’s letter burning a hole in his drawer. 

Today, Angwi chooses a dress. By the color and the decor on it, Seungmin can tell the woman has adjusted to his preference extremely quickly. In their society, there's a sea of expectations and a hierarchy of subgender. 

One of the spoken ones everyone is expected to know is how the three distinct roles are supposed to dress. Alpha are seen as weak or submissive, less than competent if they were to bask in bright lively colors. They are to wear darker colors, female or male, with tinted shades that are not too bright or alive. 

Omegas are to be dressed with the most feminine, soft colors there are. But pink, cream and baby blue are colors that are exclusive to female omegas. A male omega wearing pink or cream, but especially pink, is considered wrong and whoreish, as if it means their presenting to the nearest alpha near them, so desperate for alpha attention they lower themselves to the level of an omegan woman.  

Seungmin wears white and cream on a regular basis, as well as his favorite color, lavender purple. His fondness of the colors is considered unfit and highly graceless, people never hesitate to think him sick in the head because of his fashion towards, but they say nothing to his face. After all, his dresses are made in the castle and approved by the queen and royal seamstress themselves, no one dare question the official, head royal's approval outwardly. 

Certain materials and attributes were odd off as well, on men, silk, satin, ribbons, long trains and large dresses were all uncommon when it came to men, even male omegas. The idea was that you could go up above your station in the pyramid as much as you wanted, which is why regular dresses and suits were never an issue, but going down was considered lowly, making you undesirable. Unless it was up to women, especially omegan woman. Cause god knows if a woman was seen walking the streets in a suit they would be chased from the kingdom with torches lit on fire.

Seungmin never cared, his mothers advised their tailors and dress makers on occasion, but he more or less was able to wear what he wanted. 

But this was definitely going to be pushing it.
The gown Angwi fastened at his back stole his breath. Pink—scandalous, damning pink—its low back glittering with silver flowers, its train sweeping like a coronation robe. A bit too large, too feminine, too women, when Seungmin was a man.
Too pretty, too perfect. 

“Is it too much, ma prince?” Angwi peeks from behind Seungmin, where she is fluffing out and unfolding material from beneath his tail. Seungmin blinks, breathless. He knows not what to say or where to start, so he simply gapes at his reflection for a few long seconds, until he finds the words.

“How did you get something so scandalous by my mothers?” is what he says first, still half in shock. Angwi shrugs shyly, she looks towards the door behind them to make sure nobody’s listening in. “It ain’t  from your wardrobe, or the castle.” She whispers, a smile pulling at her lips though she clearly tries to hold it back. 

“I made it,” she whispered, as if afraid the mirror might tell on her.

For a moment Seungmin simply stared. Surely she was jesting. A servant’s hand could not produce this—the embroidery alone rivaled the finest court seamstress. Yet the longer he looked, the more he saw her fingerprints in every choice of thread, every daring line of cut. His breath caught, and he turned slowly toward her, disbelief warring with awe.

“You?” he whispered. His tone carried more shock than question, and Angwi flushed, twisting her fingers together. She laughed too quickly, but her eyes betrayed her—the hungry gleam of someone who knew she had created something greater than she dared admit.

“Where did you get the materials for something like this?” 

Angwi smiles, playing with her fingers still as she watches Seungmin’s reflection alongside him.
“Folk with all their privilege sure do throw away a heap o’ beauty. The castle bins more silk than I’ll ever lay eyes on in my life.”

Seungmin gaped, spinning on her with disbelief. “The trash? Angwi,” Seungmin turns back to the mirror, turning to look at the material hand sewn into the tail of the dress. Seungmin’s hands closed over hers, fierce, reverent. 

“This is no scrapwork. This is a crown, Angwi. And if I wear it, I wear your genius upon my back. It may have started off discarded, but it is so much more than that now thanks to your talent. You have a breathtaking assortment of it.” 

 He caught the hem in his hands, eyes blazing. “You are no seamstress—you are a magician for crying out loud.”
“Oh stop it, Seungmin. I ain’t. It only took a few hours, ‘sides, one omegas trash—”
“—Is clearly another omega’s masterpiece, because wow. How do I not know about this witchcraft you are doing?”

Angwi giggles, her peach cobbler all pleasant wifts of sweetness now that she knows Seungmin is a fan of her work. “Well if the other staff knew I was dressmakin’ they would talk, and I would have to sock someone, so mostly durin’ late nights when everyone is asleep.”

“You creaton! That is why you have looked so tired the past couple of days, yawning and things of that sort while you are working.”
Angwi only laughs, as guilty as sin. “What can I say? I love making. But I also love you, and I have a job to do. I don’t have no time to worry about such indulgin’ thangs. I am happy to make the sacrifice if I can have my cake and eat it too.” 

Seungmin hums, still turning before the mirror, catching flashes of pink and silver that make him look less like a prince and more like a dream made flesh. The thought thrills him, and terrifies him in equal measure. “If the ton could see me now…” he murmurs, half to himself. Angwi tilts her head, eyes sparking with mischief. “Then perhaps they should,” she says. The words hang daringly in the air, and Seungmin feels his lips curve into the slow smile of a man already halfway convinced.

Now, with the height of both of their bravery combined, Seungmin walks through the streets, head high even as people stare him down, Angwi a couple feet behind, heart beating fast and scent matching Seungmin’s with how full of defying attitude it holds. They walk for a while, the shop Seungmin is hoping to visit closer than the bakery or the castle, a stroll worthy distance. 

When he enters, Seungmin walks in, smile unshaken and posture conceited. No matter how many eyes look him up and down, whispering to one another, and wether it be about the color or the size of the dress, Seungmin can only think one thing: Let them talk. 

Most people prefer to avoid confrontation, to live in peace even if it means their words are not to ever be heard or considered, but some are similar to Seungmin in a way, and scream their opinions from the rooftops because they refuse to be kept quiet. Others bid resemblance, in a much more persistent, ill manner. 

“Lord Seungmin.” comes a voice from behind him, as he and Angwi are looking at feathered hand fans, a pretty prestige that is also usually something for only omegan women. Seungmin turns towards the person, recognizing her right away. With the planning of his ball he has not attended any events, so it had been a while since their last talk, never long enough to satisfy Seungmin's wish to escape such a woman, though. 

“Lady Kendra.” Suengmin greets, “What a delight, seeing you here. I thought you would be busy with the building of your next home.”  The omegas smile is tight lipped, forced onto his face. A result of the advice his mother gave to him when he was younger, something he only follows on occasion. ‘Fake it till you make it.’

“Oh no my lord, my husband decided he would rather die than have a home that is not in the capital city or near the beach, so he is picking up his blueprints and moving them elsewhere. How about your search for a husband, how is that going?” Lady Kendra’s words reek of judgement, her eyes sweeping up and down Seungmin’s gown, face twitching for a moment into something less welcoming. 

Seungmin sighed, the weight of her presence falling over him before she even spoke. Not even a full minute in Lady Kendra’s company, and already he felt drained.

“I am not out yet, Lady Kendra,” he said flatly, adjusting the fall of lace at his sleeve. “You would do best to remember that.”

Her gaze swept over him, lingering too long on the fitted bodice and daring sweep of skirts. “And yet you let yourself be trussed up as though you were. Who stitched it for you? Certainly not a respectable tailor. It does not follow tradition..”

Seungmin’s mouth curved, sharp and deliberate. “On the contrary. It was made for me—every seam, every stitch, every pearl. Custom work.”

That drew the smallest blink from her, though she recovered quickly, lips curling into their familiar brittle smile. “Custom, was it? From whom? It almost looks—well, better than it should.” She tipped her head as if dismissing the gown, but her eyes betrayed her: they skimmed over the material, the precise cut, the sheen of pearl detailing with a hunger she could not disguise.

“You want to know,” Seungmin said, catching the slip in her composure. “You want the name.”

Kendra’s voice carried, sharp as glass. “It is beautiful,” she spat, though her lips curled like the word burned. Her gaze darted across every bead, every fold of lace, as though refusing to blink lest she miss a detail. For a heartbeat, Seungmin saw not disdain but hunger, a tremor of awe that she could not swallow down.

When Seungmin smiled — soft, wicked, perfectly unbothered — she realized the answer before he gave it.

“Bluu made it for me.” His words dropped like stones into a pond, sending ripples through every earshot. When the women shows lack of understanding, Seungmin takes mercy on her — despite her ignorance — and nudges his head towards the woman behind him.

Kendra’s laugh faltered, brittle, uncertain. “Your maid?” The word snapped like a whip, lady Kendra’s eye drags over to a smirking Angwi, who does not lower her chin or tame her smile in submission, much to Lady Kendra’s dismay, when she looks back to Seungmin, swallowing thickly. 

“You would stand here—wearing a servant’s handwork—as though it were Parisian silk?” Her voice pitched higher with disbelief, cutting through the crowd like a violin string stretched to breaking. “Do you love her so dearly that you would disgrace us all to prove it?”

Seungmin’s chin rose, unbothered by the scandal she laid bare. He let her venom hang in the air, unanswered, as though her outrage proved his point better than words could. The name landed between them like a thrown blade. Kendra’s smile faltered, and her eyes flickered—not with disdain, but something hotter, nearer envy. “How appallingly quaint,” she managed, voice brittle.

“Quaint enough to outshine you, better than yours, whether shoddy or indecent” Seungmin replied, tilting his head, letting his eyes sweep her bodice with deliberate pause at its uneven seams. “Angwi is cleverer with a needle than the woman who cobbled yours together. Cleverer still in knowing what I like. What I love.”

Her jaw locked. He had not only named his seamstress but declared his devotion, however slyly. To Lady Kendra, it was insult twice over: not just the triumph of another woman’s skill, but the proof that Angwi commanded Seungmin’s loyalty and affection in ways she never could.

Kendra’s only answer was a brittle laugh. “How unruly, indeed. I do not think I am so without morals that I wear the work of a lesser servant, no matter how… unlikely appealing.”

He let her outrage hang in the air, savoring the way her gaze lingered on the gown. It was curious—he suspected she wasn’t merely disturbed that a servant had crafted it. No, it was the color of her hands, her very place in the household, that made the brilliance sting. A Black maid making a gown finer than Lady Kendra’s own—that was the thorn beneath her polished disdain.

The thought settled, sharp and satisfying. The idea of her passing judgment not only because Angwi was a servant, but a Black servant who had made something beautiful for someone not meant to wear it, made his satisfaction bloom—unfurling through him like something alive.

Seungmin smiled wider. “Lovely of you to attempt to inform me of your advice, but I do not believe I should take your word for it. I mean, you are wearing clothing not suitable for a male omega.”

The woman cracked her fan open, waving it as she spoke too loudly for such a crowded space. “You are going to scare away the few suitors who might have dared to even get close to you, instead of reeling them in like you ought to be.”

 Seungmin’s response comes quickly, sharp in a way that fails to disturb the omega’s collected expression. “I am sure you know all about reeling them in Lady Kendra, your husband is an expert at it, clearly. Even 10 years into your marriage. Could there be a possibility that he does love you and that he is simply teaching you his craft?”

Lady Kendra froze for a heartbeat, her fan trembling slightly in her hand. Then, with a tight, controlled smile, she hissed, “You always were clever with your words, Seungmin. But cleverness without decorum is still… unbecoming.”

Seungmin tilted his head, letting the light catch the pink shimmer of his gown. “Unbecoming? Perhaps. But then again, my dear Lady Kendra, I wear this for me. And for those brave enough to see beyond what society deems proper. I will not be kept in a box by your cowardly ways of constriction. Anyone who is simply has little relevancy in my book, though I know such a person would be the perfect plaything for eavesdropping little cunts like you, as well as the ones listening in on us at the moment.”

A few people around the three scramble or clear their voices, proceeding to pretend as if they are not listening in. But Seungmin knows better. “Let us not forget about those of the ton who believe they are better than me because they follow a few dreary ordinances.” Seungmin breaks his poker face to give a sweet smile, like he has not insulted every lady in a hundred mile radius. 

Angwi stepped closer, her presence like a silent shield. Her eyes, bright and unwavering, met Kendra’s with quiet defiance, as if to say: Not today. Seungmin felt a thrill surge through him—not just from the gown, the shimmer, the audacity—but from the fact that he was not alone in this.

“Ahem, I see,” Kendra said slowly, her voice sweet but cutting. “You are daring to defy them all, are you? A spectacle, nothing more. And yet…” Her eyes narrowed, voice dropping slightly, “…even a spectacle can have consequences. Tell me, boy. Why are you so against just being a good omega? Hm?”

The woman turns her head like it is a personal offense, because of this, Seungmin lets his smile linger on his lips.

“Well, Lady Kendra. Firstly, you playing that role got you what? A cheating husband, and children who never visit?” Seungmin’s slow and deliberate smile curves up into a sinister laugh that never fails to strike either amusement or irritation as he throws his head back gracefully. He barely contains himself before speaking again.

“Good omegas do not make history, they make the books. And consequences are merely the applause of those afraid to speak their minds. I do not fear them.” He let the words linger like a challenge, watching her flinch at their weight.

The shopkeeper, uneasy under the tension, cleared his throat across the room. Seungmin ignored him, knowing full well that all eyes were on this duel of words and wills. The whispers and glances of other shoppers became background music, a low hum that only fueled his sense of power.

Lady Kendra straightened, her composure returning, though the edge in her eyes remained. “Well, I will leave you to your… pursuits, Lord Seungmin. I am sure your admirers are waiting for you to stumble, and I would hate to disappoint them.”

Seungmin tilted his chin slightly, the movement almost regal, defiant. “They may wait, but I rarely disappoint. Perhaps you should take note, Lady Kendra.”

As she swept out of the shop, fan in hand, Angwi let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You do enjoy this far too much.”

Seungmin chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “Only when it is worth it. And some days, chaos is delightful company.”

They turned back to the feathered fans, Seungmin’s eyes scanning the delicate designs with a newfound precision. But his mind remained elsewhere, buzzing with the thrill of having held his own against some of the ton’s sharpest judgments, once again. And perhaps, just perhaps, enjoying it more than he appropriate.

The chatter of the shop picks up again, everyone going back to half finishing their shopping, the other half staring at Seungmin’s bold choice of dress. The women around them come and go, but Seungmin and Angwi stay put, taking into account the beauty in every hand fan or shaw or heel as they browse together.

“Want to know a secret?” Seungmin turns to Angwi as they are trying on bows and barrettes in the mirror. “Always, sugar.” the woman answers without missing a beat. “Your designs are better than the paintings on these fans, I think. They could not even begin to compare.”

Angwi laughs off the compliment, shoving at Seungmin and crossing her arms.
“I am serious! You are now my very best friend, so I must be honest with you.”
“Oh, stop it, Seungmin! You are playin’ up my talents. I ain’t all that, not as you make me out to be.”

Seungmin only grins at her, refusing to withdraw the praise, the sparkle of their shared teasing still hanging between them—until Angwi suddenly stills. Her nose twitches, the laughter slipping from her face as she glances toward the hallway.

“Do you smell that?” she murmurs, distracted now, head turning from doorway to doorway like she’s hunting something invisible.

Seungmin’s amusement falters, the warmth in his chest souring as his own senses catch up to hers. It hits hard—thick and acrid—the heavy smoke of desire burning his lungs. He coughs, startled by the strength of it, realization sinking like ice into his bones. An alpha. Close.

Angwi is no longer the lovely, caramel skinned sweetheart Seungmin’s so used to bantering with, she is in protection mode, the other omega can see the manner at which her gaze calculates their surroundings. 

Neither of the two are smiling anymore, not with the way Seungmin’s eyes water at the predatory aroma surrounding him, or the manner at which Angwi’s laugh has vanished, replaced with intense, guarded posture that is less than comforting. 

Angwi casually hooks an arm around Seungmin’s, bringing him to the counter to purchase the few things he’s taken interest in. As she speaks, she keeps her voice low, and body language casual. Seungmin tries his best to do the same, though he knows not how successful he is with the feeling of being watched heavier than his dress. 

“I do hope whoever it is coming from is simply a bystander. But I have a feelin, ma prince. So I do suggest we hurry on home.”
Seungmin nods exhaling shakily as the woman checks their total and Seungmin pulls a bill from his pouch, handing it to the woman without waiting for a change. She says thank you and goodbye a bit too loudly for their situation, but still, Seungmin turns back and waves, giving her a tight smile as they book it towards the door. 

When they make it out onto the busy streets of the city, dodging parasols and bowing to those with more courage than the ones who stare, it only takes a moment for the scent to hit his nose again, amidst the hundreds of people, going about their business and content on their strolling and chatting. ‘Tis peculiar, it smells — like smoke, as well as — rotting roses.

Seungmin hesitates in his next step, his legs trembling momentarily where they hold his weight beneath him when the hair on the back of his neck stands, straight as sharpened arrows. He turns, eyes immediately finding Angwi’s where she grips the box of his that she is carrying, and he knows she feels it too.

“Keep walking, sugar.” She says, low and steady. Seungmin swallows hard, turning forward, forcing his legs to carry him on. His heels strike the pavement faster, sharper, though his skin crawls as if eyes are still boring into the back of his neck. When he dares one last glance, the man is gone—swallowed by the crowd. His choking scent fading into nothing but an unsettling memory. 

Only when he is gone, and the two of them are down the street from the estate does either of them speak. “Who the fuck was that?” he breathes, finally. Angwi does so with him, heart slowing as they approach the door. “I ain’t sure, I don’t reckon I know that scent.  I would like to blame the unsettling undertone of them on the nature of their scent, but I know even peculiar scents be pleasant in varyin’ situations.” and it is true. Seungmin had met people with putrid and ghastly scents that are made charming with the help of the person's strong positive emotions, 

Seungmin says nothing in reply as Angwi opens the door to the grand home, flashy and royal, a love letter from Queen Raveena to the Kim-Suu family. Seungmin has always loved his home — what it meant and where it came from — but now, he wishes for the first time it was less eyecatching.. Less known. 

“Come, sugar. All will be alright, you protected here. Let us get you washed up and changed, before Maestro Jisung shows up.”
Seungmin looks to the woman, nodding. He allows her to lead him to his room by hand, attempting to leave his discomfort at the large double doors of his home. 

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⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣
✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦
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✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶⊹︶︶