1. How it begins

Jo is just a junior steward, tasked with airing out old halls, polishing forgotten tapestries, keeping dust from settling on a throne that hasn't been properly used since the coronation.

One afternoon, he leans too heavily against the dais. Hears a click.

He pushes. A tiny wooden panel swings inward — revealing a hollow space beneath the throne.

Inside: a scrap of parchment, yellowed with age.
A note that simply says:

"Do you ever feel like you're wearing someone else's life?"

Jo's breath hitches.
On impulse, he pulls out a fresh slip of paper, and writes:

"Every day."

He tucks it back into the hollow.

He doesn't expect an answer.

2. Anonymous confessions

But the next day, there is one.

"Tell me something you've never admitted out loud."

Jo laughs — startled, delighted, terrified.
Then writes back:

"Sometimes I pretend I belong here, that I'm important. It's easier than remembering I'm no one."

The day after, another note waits.

"I pretend too. But my crown is real, and it's heavier than I imagined."

Jo freezes.
Who in this castle would say my crown?

But he keeps writing. Because whoever this is — they're more honest with him than anyone's ever been.

3. A growing closeness

Their letters spiral into vulnerability.

Harua (though Jo doesn't yet know it's him) confesses small fears:

"What if I am only ever someone else's choice? What if power is the only reason they look at me?"

And Jo sends quiet truths:

"I would look at you without any crown. I think I already do."

Sometimes he tucks a pressed flower into the hidden space.
Sometimes he finds one waiting there in return.

4. The slow realization

Jo starts noticing things.

The King's tired eyes at court. The way Harua's fingers drum anxiously on the throne's arm — right above where their letters pass.

How sometimes Harua wears a tiny flower pinned to his sleeve. A flower Jo left in the compartment only the night before.

And it crashes into him all at once:
He's been writing to the King.
His King.

He nearly stops. Terrified of overstepping, of breaking some sacred rule.

But the next letter waiting simply says:

"Please don't stop. It's the only part of my day that feels real."

5. The confession

Jo writes by candlelight, ink smudged by trembling hands.

"I think I'm falling in love with you. Not the idea of you. You.
Even if your letters were all I ever had, it would be enough.
I hope that's not treason."

The next morning, there's no reply.

He feels sick all day. Avoids the throne room. Can't bear the thought of seeing Harua on that gilded seat, reading Jo's heart spilled out so recklessly.

6. The reveal

That night, he's summoned to the private hall.

Heart in his throat, Jo kneels, afraid to look up.

Harua stands from the throne, something fragile and bright in his eyes.

"Your handwriting is worse than I imagined," he says, voice cracking on a laugh.

Jo's head snaps up.
He opens his mouth, but no sound comes.

Harua steps closer. Holds out a stack of worn, unfolded letters — Jo's letters.

"I kept every single one."

Jo's breath stutters. Harua cups his cheek, thumb brushing away tears neither of them realized had fallen.

"Come stand beside me," Harua whispers. "Not because you're important. Not because of my crown. Just because it's you. And because it's always been you."

A letter from Harua, even after

Jo finds it tucked under his breakfast plate one quiet morning, long after there's any need for secrets.
The paper is soft with familiar creases, the ink smudged where Harua must have paused, thinking.

My Jo,

I thought I would stop writing once you were here beside me — when I could reach for your hand instead of a quill.
But I find I still have things I want to say that come out best in ink.

Thank you for answering a letter meant for no one.
Thank you for making this throne feel less like a cage.

Thank you for loving me before you knew it was dangerous — and after, when you knew exactly how dangerous it was.

Come meet me in the throne room when you've finished reading this.
I want to watch you try to sit on my chair again and pretend it doesn't suit you.

(It does. It always has.)

Yours,
Harua

A tiny throne scene

Jo fidgets on the throne cushion, feet tapping nervously.

"This still feels wrong."

Harua stands by the dais, arms folded, grinning like he's been handed every treasure in the kingdom.

"That's because it is wrong. It's a throne. It's meant for spoiled men with crowns who forget how to smile."

Jo rolls his eyes.

"So me, in about five years?"

Harua laughs, strides forward, and slips right into Jo's lap — curling there like it's the most natural seat in the palace.

"Not a chance. I'll remind you how to smile every day."

Jo wraps his arms around Harua's waist, presses a kiss to his shoulder.

"And if the court walks in right now?"

Harua only grins wider.

"Then let them see exactly who keeps their king happy."

And the throne, once so cold and lonely, feels more like home than either of them ever dreamed — because it's finally theirs together.