I luv you Danyul, I luv you *puppet kisses*

He has agreed to this marriage because his family needed him to, but he's not going to give them an inch more than what's necessary. There's no rule saying he has to meet his future husband, other than his father's firm hand on the back of his neck, no rule saying he should change into nice clothes and bow, no rule saying he should make small talk and pass the bread at the dinner table.

Instead, he sits down in the hay with his favorite horse, and considers going for a run. He doesn't, because even this act of rebellion will have to be paid for later, and leaving the house completely would only make it worse, but he imagines it.

Thinks about grabbing Rocky's reins and gallop out, hooves sparking on the cobblestone, then sinking in the muddy road, and finally on the fresh grass. Going and going, until there's just the wind and the sky, sweat coating Rocky's smooth coat.

He imagines his father's face, rushing out in the garden to watch him go, food left to cool on the table. Imagines the indistinct face of his future husband morphing into surprise, then offense. They'd probably get in a screaming match, but Max would be too far away to hear.

And then he'd never ever come back.

The bell rings again, impatient and sharp in a way that tells him it's being rung by his father himself, and Max almost laughs, imagining him marching into the kitchen, tearing it out of someone's hand to call for Max himself. What a disappointment it will be when Max won't come, how embarrassing to have to explain it to their guests.

He sinks a little lower in the hay, shuffling around until he's properly tucked away in a corner, Rocky breathing steadily between him and the rest of the world, tails swishing from side to say in a rhythmic pattern, slightly hypnotic.

When he's sure nobody is coming for him, Max stands up again, moving to the shelves along the back wall to grab a brush and an apple, as thank you for Rocky to let him be miserable with him without protest.

"That's a nice horse."

Max almost drops the brush, startled, whipping around so fast Rocky almost startles, taking one irritated step to the side. He hadn't heard anyone come in, too lost in the methodical work, or maybe the stranger was just too quiet, soft boots silent on the smooth floor. His clothes aren't particularly rich, but he doesn't look like a stable hand either. He's big, a lot bigger than Max, muscled arms clear underneath his neat shirt, but his eyes are kind.

Max tries to recover, straightening his back and reaching for Rocky, calming him down with one single pat, ignoring the fact that he probably has hay hanging on his clothes, in his hair. It doesn't matter anyway.

"He is," he says, keeping his tone polite but icy. He doesn't offer anything more, wanting to go back to his peace but unwilling to turn his back to a stranger.

The man doesn't seem to take the hint though, walking one step closer and offering his hand for Rocky to sniff, which Rocky doesn't do (Max will have to find him another apple for that later).

"No dinner today?" the stranger asks, something complicated hidden under the forced levity of his tone.

Max makes a noncommittal hum, moving the brush from one hand to the other, wondering how much bigger his punishment would get if he asked this man, who's probably someone important in his future husband's entourage, to straight up leave. Probably a lot.

"Why aren't you at dinner?" he asks instead, still too rude, too direct. He's not going to see the light of days until his wedding day at this point.

"I didn't see the point," the man answers, offering him a half smile. "Not when the man I traveled to meet was hiding in the stables."

It takes a moment for Max to connect the dots, and then he feels his eyes widen, his fingers gripping the brush convulsively.

This isn't a random man in Lord Rico's entourage. This is Lord Rico, Max's future husband. And Max is in yesterday's clothes, with hay in his hair.