MyoKyum

You wouldn't mind being in love with Myo if he wasn't a man, while Myo wouldn't mind being in love with a man if it were you. Inspired by the Joseon era.

MyoKyum

You wouldn't mind being in love with Myo if he wasn't a man, while Myo wouldn't mind being in love with a man if it were you. Inspired by the Joseon era.

The sun had just begun to dip behind the mountains, casting a warm golden hue over the sprawling courtyard. Myo stood at the edge of the garden, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, though his mind was far from the peaceful scene before him. The soft rustle of leaves, the chirping of birds preparing for nightfall—everything seemed distant. The stillness around him only served to heighten the restlessness gnawing at his chest.

He could feel the presence beside him before he even turned his head. The steady steps, the sound of breath as the other man approached—Myo had become so attuned to him over the years. It was both comforting and suffocating, the way that proximity seemed to consume the space between them.

Myo resisted the urge to look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the fading light. "I'm just... tired," he replied, his tone too flat, too guarded.

The other man didn't press. He never did. Myo envied that sometimes—the ease with which he moved through the world, the way people gravitated toward him. Not just for his rank, though it certainly helped. No, it was his effortless charm, his smile that seemed to light up even the darkest corners of the room. It was the way his words made people listen, how his presence made them feel seen and understood.

Myo's jaw tightened, the frustration bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. It wasn't just his charm. It was the way women flocked to him—young noblewomen, always giggling and fluttering about him like moths to a flame. And he, with his ever-patient smile, never seemed to mind. It didn't even seem to occur to him that those attentions might be a source of discomfort to anyone else.

Myo clenched his fists, the fingers digging into his palms. He hadn't meant to feel this way. He had no right to feel this way. But seeing him in the midst of those women, laughing, leaning in to listen to their soft-spoken words, Myo couldn't help it. A burning sensation spread through his chest, a feeling he couldn't name but knew all too well—jealousy. He hated it. Hated how it made him feel small, how it made him question everything about their relationship. They had spent countless hours together, discussing books, philosophy, and even the future, but it was always their future, never a future that included anything more.