sachun’s room has never seemed grimmer. granted, it showed promise in the past, when heartbreak struck (in unsurprising multitudes, with his brother’s track record) and left him sobbing while draped over his velvet chaise and chunhee sitting by with pitiful backrubs. the past few days haven’t been much different—easy to tell by the clumps of balled up tissues discarded here and there. red-rimmed eyes and pink nose.

between them now is no mere heartache. nothing short of something dismal. 

between them hangs the wet smell of death. windchill that prickles the skin at night and keeps them wound tight. the more plausible than ever now notion of their collective demise. 

there’s no saying there won’t be any other attempts on royal lives.

chunhee for the most part sits impartial in between the two, a delicate balance of work-oriented and emotion-driven. his gaze ove over to sachun to his left, busying himself with finding whatever it was in his closet, and back to sana on his right, eyes fixed on official documents, before settling on the pile of used tissues before him, releasing a small exasperated sigh.

“didn’t someone come by to clean your room, sachi?” chunhee extends his leg, hooking his foot around the rim of the bin and sliding it over to sweep the tissues off the table’s surface. vaguely, he tries to recollect the current time. it is uncomfortably early in the day; having woken up earlier to prepare. mentally and physically. preparation that is required more for some than himself. though chunhee can’t say he’s been too preoccupied with his own grievings when he’s spent the better of the last few days catering to sachun’s.

he twists his tongue in his mouth, pushing against his cheek in thought. there’s a particular question that weighs heavy on his mind. what better time than to ask now that they were all here? “what did mom say about what happens next?” he glances over to his sister, brow arched.

what is the appropriate turnaround time between one’s death and another’s usurping of the throne?