PABO Ch 20

‘To hell with it, forget all of it. I’m the Emperor—why should I care what anyone else thinks?’

Late at night, seated in his bedchamber, Yirim Beom ground his teeth. Yicha Hyeok’s warning, memories of the past, and the afterimage of Haryeon Sol took turns filling his head, leaving him unable to sleep. Kicking off the covers, he sat up and pressed his forehead against his clenched fist.

When Haryeon Sol suddenly filled his mind, he exerted two distinct kinds of influence. When Yirim Beom thought of the faint scent of flesh that lingered on his delicate skin, of the thin arms and pale legs stretched out in utter defenselessness, his lower abdomen grew heavy and his fingers began to itch.

On the other hand, when he thought of the light jokes Haryeon Sol tossed out so casually, the smile that crinkled his nose like a child’s, and that peculiar quick-wittedness of his, his heart felt lighter and his mind cleared, bright and untroubled.

And then, just as suddenly, a bitter taste spread across his palate.

‘Why does he have to be suffering from Flowering sickness so badly…’

One out of forty-one Muhwa. Just one. The only Muhwa who had ever caught Emperor Yirim Beom’s eye—only Haryeon Sol. Put another way, if he could just endure himself and refrain from claiming him, he could prevent every accident and uproar that might arise in Munjeong Palace.

And yet Haryeon Sol was very ill. Haryeon Sol himself brushed off his condition as nothing serious, but to Yirim Beom, it looked severe. He was thin-skinned to begin with, utterly lacking in color. His build was fragile, his head small, so much so that to Yirim Beom—whose body was like a door panel by comparison—he seemed like an entirely different species. And his physique—had he ever even eaten properly? He was so gaunt it was hard to believe there was a single handful of flesh left for muscle to cling to.

Since coming to Munjeong Palace, he seemed to be living in his own way, eating well and luxuriously enough, stuffing his throat with food rich in flavor and nutrition, yet he stubbornly failed to gain any weight. It was strange. One reason Yirim Beom had kept returning to the loophole was the pitiful impression the wretched state left on him. He would go by now and then, warm Haryeon Sol’s hands and feet, press their bodies together for no reason at all, expecting that this alone would be enough to restore his health. That was how it worked for Yicha Hyeok and most of the other Muhwa. Among them, at least half showed marked improvement in their flowering sickness simply by living under the same roof as the Emperor.

But Haryeon Sol was different. That damned pair of eyes still refused to take in light, and despite seeing the Emperor more often than any other Muhwa, he remained frail. It was to the point that merely helping him sit up made his complexion drain blue and even brought on dry heaving. That feeble appearance kept resurfacing in Yirim Beom’s mind.

‘It must be because the disease manifested late.’

Tsk. Yirim Beom clicked his tongue aloud. At the sound, the attendant standing off to one side of the bedchamber flinched. To see the Emperor, who usually collapsed straight into bed, sitting there so late with a deep furrow between his brows—it made the attendant’s heart tremble with the fear that something seriously amiss had occurred.

Regardless of anyone else’s nerves, Yirim Beom agonized. If Haryeon Sol had developed flowering sickness at a younger age, like the other Muhwa, he wouldn’t be struggling so badly now. But he had entered the palace as the last Muhwa at twenty-nine. He was far too old for the body’s flow to be overturned and the inside turned upside down. There was no way he could remain unscathed.

‘If I just held him once, he’d probably get better all at once.’

The thought suddenly leapt there.

He recalled the loophole—the small room so quiet there wasn’t even the sound of a cat’s cry passing by—and the double-sized bed set inside it. Half of that spacious bed was effectively his. On a bed prepared so that whenever the Emperor came, he could roll around without restraint. Would spending a single night holding the man who had taken his place as the Emperor’s Muhwa not be both his duty and the natural course of things? If he loosened Haryeon Sol’s robe ties for just one night, Haryeon Sol’s body would grow healthy, and perhaps he might even regain his sight completely.

Probably. In truth, Yirim Beom didn’t know for sure. He had grown up hearing the theory of it, nothing more. He had never once shared a body with any Muhwa. In fact, he had never slept with anyone at all. Those who tried to seduce him—regardless of gender or age—were everywhere, at all times. Yet his heart never stirred for any of them. The thought of showing his naked body, especially his back, to anyone else filled him with revulsion and anger.

At least, that was how it had been until now.

“…”

Haryeon Sol’s white nape. For a moment, Yirim Beom thought of nothing else. He thought of the fine hair that caught the sunlight, half-visible and half-hidden. He thought of the beads of sweat that gathered in tiny droplets along the white, slender neck. He imagined heat rising to that pallid throat, the ashen skin becoming suffused with a flush.

And just like that, he wanted to see Haryeon Sol. There was no need to loudly proclaim imperial favor to find a way to meet him. After all, not once had Yirim Beom ever met Haryeon Sol as the Emperor.

When the thought reached that point, strength gathered in his chest. Lowering his voice, as if something had just occurred to him, he said, “Come to think of it, I’ve yet to see the face of the last Muhwa to enter the palace.”

At the deliberately stiff tone, the attendant bowed deeply as though he had been waiting for it. Yirim Beom felt a small swell of satisfaction. For a Muhwa to become one yet never present himself before the Emperor, who was to be his husband, was disloyalty; surely the attendant would say they should summon him at once to offer his respects.

But instead, the attendant delivered unexpected words.

“If I recall correctly, Your Majesty, that Muhwa was summoned to the bedchamber a week ago to present himself. This week, many Muhwa have requested an audience. If I may provide a list, perhaps you might reconsider and choose one among them—”

A deep crease formed between Yirim Beom’s brows. To be honest, he hadn’t properly heard anything after the first sentence.

“When did Haryeon Sol enter my bedchamber?”

The abrupt question was sharp. The attendant’s cheek twitched as he gauged the Emperor’s mood. Truly, His Majesty was frighteningly sharp—to remember even the name of a Muhwa he’d never met.

Bowing even deeper, the attendant explained.

“Well… that Muhwa was unable to enter the bedchamber. He was coughing badly and burning with fever, so he was turned away at the door.”

“What?”

Yirim Beom demanded loudly. Even as the attendant flinched and bowed still lower, he felt no pity at all. It was a miracle the man hadn’t collapsed on the spot with a yelp.

The story was so absurd that Yirim Beom doubted his own ears. According to the attendant, Haryeon Sol had dragged his sick body there late at night, only to be turned away without Yirim Beom even being informed or asked for instructions. In a way, it made sense. Yirim Beom himself had grown sick of being briefed on the names, ages, and personalities of the Muhwa who came night after night, and it was he who had ordered that such reports no longer be made.

‘Even so, if he came, you should’ve told me!’

When Haryeon Sol, idling away afternoons napping in that small room in the loophole, had come to the bedchamber of his own accord, he must have hoped to meet the Emperor and have his illness cured. Yet to turn away someone coughing, burning with fever, in that frail body—it was a horrifying thing to hear. It meant that the Muhwa, who had come asking to see the Emperor for the first time since entering the palace, had been mistreated, and Yirim Beom had no memory of ever giving such an order.

Surely, because he was a Muhwa with little recognition and no family backing, some faction must have oppressed him. Haryeon Sol was a male Muhwa with an exceptionally pretty face and a splendid smile, so it was possible that other Muhwa had schemed to keep him away from the Emperor. It was at that point that Yirim Beom found himself curious about the face of the staff member who, acting on orders, had snubbed Haryeon Sol.

“Who dared, on their own authority, to turn away the Emperor’s Muhwa? If he was suffering from Flowering sickness, shouldn’t he all the more have been brought into my bedchamber?”

At the low-spoken reprimand, the attendant answered hesitantly, “Th-that is….”

“‘That is’ what.”

“The he-head of security… was concerned that His Majesty might catch a cold. That is why the Muhwa was turned away. Afterward, we did inform you, but you said, ‘Good. I’ll sleep comfortably. Turn out the lights and leave.’”

“…”

Stunned and dumbfounded, Yirim Beom couldn’t continue. The quick-witted attendant did his utmost to avoid meeting the gaze of the suddenly fearsome Emperor, and, maintaining the utmost politeness, asked, “Shall I have him come to the bedchamber tonight?”

At the same time, reason returned to Yirim Beom. It felt as though light flooded his mind. He opened his eyes wide, frowned, and immediately realized his mistake.

He shouldn’t be questioning this so seriously, with such anger. If word spread among the attendants that the Emperor had flown into a rage over Haryeon Sol being turned away… rumors would circulate at once. And then, if he singled Haryeon Sol out and summoned him to his bedchamber, keeping him there all night, the rumors would only worsen. Up until now, the only Muhwa he had ever personally summoned was Yicha Hyeok—making this all the more unacceptable.

“No, forget it….”

Forcing his cracked voice into calm, Yirim Beom put on an act of composure.

“I’m tired tonight. I won’t have anyone come. I should sleep comfortably myself. Turn out the lights and leave.”

At the even-toned words, the attendant nodded at once, quickly extinguished the lights in the bedchamber, and fled as if escaping. Lying back with his hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed, Yirim Beom shed tears of blood inside his heart.