"do you... trust me?" it's a low whisper, the king's soft lips pressed against the stuttering pulse in your throat. but you think, or maybe you hope, the implications are trying to delve much deeper into your heart. regardless, your answer has never...
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It's a beautiful day for a wedding.
The sun is high and bright, a rare sight for autumn. The day's breeze is pleasantly cool as it blows across the palace grounds. It drifts past the skirt of your brightly-colored hanbok as you stand in front of one of the halls, barely paying attention to the clamorous chatter of the people crowded around you. (Especially since their excited conversations have turned to the scandalous topic of you more than once already, as if they thought you did not possess ears of your own.)
Save for those few who are busy in the kitchens preparing the ritual meal, every other palace occupant has stopped their work on this auspicious day. At least where you stand, you are afforded some more room than the other spectators, for a painter has been busily constructing his workspace beside you and his materials demand space. As far as you can see down either side, people line the path that the royal palanquin had taken some time ago on its way towards the town for the ceremonial tour of the nearby grounds, to allow the regular citizens a glimpse of their esteemed ruler and his imminent wife.
Despite yourself, you'd come.
You'd looked for him as the procession passed you by, though you only managed to see a brief flash of his silk robes. Nothing of his expression. He would be smiling, you think. Not the lazy, gentle curve of his lips in the hazy light of morning, or that oft-teasing smirk you've come to expect before soft kisses. No, it would be that frozen grin meant to fool those who did not know him as you did. As you do, you correct in your mind to no one at all, since the distinction feels more important than you're willing to admit.
Southward, the sound of clapping and cheers suddenly soars towards the sky. Voices near you echo in kind, exploding with exclamations. "They must be returning!"
"I hope they are slow coming back. I didn't get to see jungjeon-mama's hairpin last time!"
Your fingers feel empty and useless, so you clench the fabric of your skirt to stop their trembling. Yes—if you squint your eyes, you can see it now. First, the men on horseback, guiding the entire procession. Then, the guards marching in uniformity, their spears pointed towards the sky by their sides. All this ceremony. All this celebration. The first palanquin will be your king. You can see the red roof of it already, coming closer and closer at a measured pace.
"Jeonha!"
"Congratulations, jeonha!"
"May your marriage be long and prosperous!"
You close your fist tighter, knuckles turning white. Yoongi is so close, but his head is turned to the other side. You want him to look at you every bit as much as you want to avoid his eyes. It would be so satisfying to prove his feelings towards you in front of everyone if he held your gaze, but—you know only intense scrutiny from the others will linger when the moment has passed.
