Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Act One

There’s something very peculiar about staring yourself in the eyes. Not through a mirror or some other reflection, but rather looking at your eyes in a particular moment. There I am, freshly eighteen, my perpetual slouch painted away as I stand beside a quite frankly frightening depiction of who was at the time a boy not quite old enough to completely despise me. There’s no life to the portrait. Every evening I stare at it, trying to find some semblance of reality, but whoever we hired for the piece outta be put in some dark, moist dungeon. They simply erased all my charm. They corrected my crooked grin, neatened my messy hair, and made a mockery of my well-designed chaos. I hardly recognize the bloke who stares back at me and watches as I eat or get scolded, frequently at the same time.

“Edward! Are you even listening to me?!” my mother shouts, her voice shrill and exasperated. She slams her hands down on the table, which finally shocks me back into reality. The “royal dining room” is supposed to be intimate and cozy, but it completely misses the mark. There is no conceivable way to make a table with eighteen chairs quaint. It’s especially difficult to feel any warmth when no one will dare to sit within a meter of me. I’ve been purposely placed at the opposite end of the table, directly facing my father seated at the proper head. He’s staring at me with tired, complacent eyes, ones not much more alive than the ones that stare at me in our family portrait. His gray hair is thinning out, matching the greyish-green hue that his skin has taken on in recent years. It’s hard to tell if that glassy look in his eyes is from boredom or whatever bout of sickness he’s allegedly suffering with this week. Hell’s been chasing that man for decades and very well will continue chasing him for several more.

“You aren’t. You haven’t heard a word,” my mother grumbles, sighing. I finally give her the grace of my attention, turning to acknowledge her. At least she’s still got youth left in her. Her hair is still a deep brown, dark and elegant, always in an intricate updo, as though gracing her neck with some natural warmth would be far too sinful. Her face is young still as well, only aged not by years but perhaps by rage, or stress, or exhaustion. There’s a deepness to her gaze that isn’t present in my father‘s, a longing for something I cannot give her. I suppose she thinks that if she stares long enough, I may transform into a far more handsome, far more composed specimen of man.

“I’m listening. I’ve been a very bad boy again and will go without supper for a fortnight,” I summarize what I assume has been the summation of tonight’s scolding. My mother groans and covers her face with her hands.

“You are twenty-four and still have yet to grow up. It’s inexcusable,” she mutters into her palms.

“Perhaps if I were allowed a modicum of free will, such as being allowed to leave my home when I please, my frontal lobe would have more space to develop,” I suggest. Every year I think that maybe this time I will be given my actual adult rights, and every year I am sorely mistaken. In my mother and father’s eyes, I am the exact same person I was at fourteen. Just slightly taller now.

My mother rapidly looks up and scowls at me, her eyebrows furrowing, and shouts, “Free will? Free will?! When have you ever not exercised extreme, unfathomable ‘free will?!’ Five times this month you were caught so drunk and disorderly that you’d be in prison for a year if you weren’t my son! But last night? That was the most absent-minded, ridiculous, idiotic, borderline unforgivable stunt you have ever pulled!” It really isn’t true. What I did was no different from what I normally do. Trouble is, this time I got caught.

“I apologize and it will not happen –”

“Ten million people in the past twenty-four hours have watched you, Prince of England, future King, puke in the middle of the street after punching a civilian. The amount of damage control we have had to do in these past hours has aged me a decade,” she interrupts, running out of steam quickly. For a moment, the exasperated expression on her face makes my stomach sink. I really was out of line. I’m usually more careful. But there are phones everywhere, innumerable ways to get caught, and as a result, my escapades are forever engraved on the walls of the internet.

“...I will admit I may have gone too far,” I mumble, staring down at the red tablecloth below my fingers. The knuckles on my right hand are still stained red from the incident. I flex my fingers, a movement our lovely doctor told me to frequent to make sure I haven’t sprained or fractured any bones, as I conveniently avoid my mother’s gaze.

“Too far? Is that all you have to say? It was –”

“Could we quicken this, Eleanor? He will not listen, he will not learn. Just give him his punishment and get on with it. We are wasting John’s time,” my father interrupts. I turn to Johnny as he sits up a little straighter in his seat and swallows hard. He’s only a year younger than I was in that portrait, but a hell of a lot more mature than I am now. He’s polite, traditional, well-mannered, and well-kept. He does well with the press, even better with our parents, and is in all ways more suited to our bloodline than I will ever be. It would take me several lifetimes to reach his level of expertise. He is also the biggest wanker I have ever met and continues to make the world a more miserable place. I am almost certain that some mix-up happened in the hospital when he was born. They took my real brother and stuck us with some old-world snob they received from some time-machine-related accident.

“Oh, poor Johnny has to sit quietly and strengthen his superiority complex while I get reamed. How dare we waste his precious night?” I can’t help but snap.

“I will not dignify that with a response,” Johnny says perfectly cordially, not even bothering to look at me.

“You just did,” I point out. He bites his lip hard. Ha-ha. Still got it.

“That’s enough! Your father is right. I’ll make this brief. Edward, we’ve fired your previous royal guardsmen –”

“You mean babysitter?” I interrupt. My mother grimaces and exhales loudly through her nose, closing her eyes briefly.

“You leave us no choice. For your entire life, we have been very lenient on your royal guardsmen. They have always been minimally invasive, and you have always driven them off in a matter of months. That will not occur again. We’re breaking tradition due to your inability to follow orders. We’ve hired an American,” she continues. I tilt my head.

“Is he CIA? FBI? A mobster? Will he poison me in my sleep?” I rattle off.

“He has been heavily trained in combat, protection, and restraint his entire life,” she continues, ignoring me as she probably should, “and he will not go easy on you. This is no longer a laissez-faire relationship. He will tell you what to do, when to do it, and never leave your side. Sun up to sundown, you will be watched by the American.”

“Will he help me wipe my arse, too? Must I prepare a cot in my room, or will the floor suit him just fine? How long is my leash? Am I allowed an hour of free outdoor time?”

“This is not a joking matter! He will be here tomorrow morning, bright and early. Be ready, because he certainly will be,” my mother perseveres through my rambling.

“Does he have a name? Or will you rename him yourselves? Can I name him? Does he have treats I can feed him? Does he know any tricks?”

“His name –”

“This matter is finished. John, Edward, you’re excused,” my father rasps out, putting an end to my misery and my mother’s explanation. I immediately stand up, not even bothering to push in my chair, and stomp out of the room. That’s all? I expected worse. Some elderly American is gonna follow me around all day and try to stop me from participating in vice. He won’t be difficult to out-maneuver. They never are. Over and over again, my beloved mother and father have searched for ways to discipline me. The last guy, an old bloke named Timothy, was admittedly a bit of a challenge. He even checked my room several times a night to make sure I was still there. He, however, never grasped the concept of my ability to unlock a window, and so he ultimately didn’t prove very effective at his job. I was hoping he’d stick around a little longer. I’ve developed the perfect methods of getting around him. Unfortunately, after last night’s escapade, I suppose no sane person could let that man keep his job. He makes a last-minute appearance in the little video when he finally finds me just as my vomit finds his shoes.

My petulant stomping back to my bedroom is interrupted by an elbow to my side. I wince and glare at Johnny, who glares right back with daggers in his eyes. His hair is lighter than mine, taking on the color my father’s must have been before he lost most of his hair and his empathy in the process. He’s also got our mother’s bright eyes. His are blue and pristine, though they sometimes shine a little green in the sunlight. He has always been the “handsome prince,” the “smart prince,” the “one who really should be the older one and might as well murder his brother for the throne prince.” My bluish-gray eyes and dusty brown hair cannot compare to his devilishly good looks, though I really only see the devil part. The news cycles about us tend to be the same: “Edward commits heinous offenses while John sits still and looks pretty.”

“You embarrassed me and the entire family,” Johnny hisses, leaning down slightly to reach my ear. He’s, of course, taller than me as well. Just in case I needed another physical reminder of my shortcomings.

“Some kids at school were mean to you, huh? Want me to beat them up for you?” I tease.

“It’s not funny! Do you enjoy being a fuck-up?” he says, raising his voice.

“I adore being the disappointment of a nation. Would you kindly piss off?” I mumble.

“You could’ve gone to university. You could’ve moved out. You could’ve run away. But no, you stick around here and continuously ruin things for the rest of us.”

“Yes, Johnny, your life of pampering and adoration seems very difficult. God save you. Bugger off,” I grumble. He groans, says something complaint about his unwanted nickname, and finally follows my order. At least someone around here listens.

I can finally take a real breath once I reach my room. Room actually isn’t the right word for it. It’s more like a flat. It’s three rooms with a combined kitchen and living area, bathroom, bedroom, and even my own little dining table. There are thousands upon thousands of poor souls on the streets, but I somehow deserve my own house in a palace. You’d think I’d be more grateful, but this room-not-room has become more akin to a jail cell than a home. My decor options are limited to what a true dignified “royal” would respect. Translated, my walls are all off-white and graced only with watercolor wildlife paintings. The floors are some old expensive wood that gets polished once a week, the curtains are heavy and floral, and the bookshelf is full of etiquette books that have been collecting dust for nearly two and a half decades. But despite all my immature complaining, this place is my one safety away from the madness of my bloodline.

I walk through the kitchen, then the living room, and finally enter my bedroom, practically ripping off my white collared shirt as I do. I throw it in the general direction of the hamper and replace it with a loose-fitting t-shirt that my mother would absolutely detest. Next, I kick off my respectable black slacks and replace them with ill-fitting jeans. To top off my perfect disguise, I throw on a black jumper and put the hood up. On the one hand, this is a terrible idea. After last night, I really outta lie low. One more incident, and I think my mother may actually let me go to prison. On the other hand, this is a treasured opportunity. Not only do I not have a babysitter, but it is also my last night before I receive who is allegedly going to be my most difficult challenge yet. I may never get this chance again.

Many mistakes were made when designing my quarters, and that’s not counting the mistake of the decor. Firstly, my flat is on the ground floor. It’s meant as a safety measure: keep the princes on the bottom so that if they get ganked, the killers will have to climb a few staircases to reach the mister and missus. Or, the reason is somewhere close to that. Secondly, my bedroom window directly leads into the royal garden. It’s a beautiful place, really. Dozens, maybe hundreds of different breeds of flora line intricate stone paths. The view is wasted on a degenerate such as myself. Thirdly, and most importantly, the window locks from the inside.

The cool wind of early June glides through my fingers as I creep through the garden. It’s really a sight during the day, and it’s a damn shame it’s not accessible to the general public who may potentially care about it. But I much prefer it during the night. The large trellises and endless flowers create the perfect camouflage, not that anyone is ever looking for me in here. There was a time when my mother had guards posted in the garden twenty-four seven, but she found it was a waste of time and manpower. They rarely could catch me, and even if they did, most guards are keenly aware that no matter how much of an arsehole I am, my word still surpasses theirs.

“Going somewhere?” A voice freezes me in my tracks. I whip my head to the right and sigh at the sight. Out of all the people to catch me, he’s the best option.

“Enjoying the quiet, Mr. Saito?” I say very pleasantly. He’s sitting on one of the observation benches, looking at home surrounded by multi-colored roses. I’m only a few meters away from the exit gate. I’ll be damned if I lose this late in the game.

“I had a feeling you’d be coming through here. Does this feel like a good idea, Your Highness?” Saito says, staring expectantly as I walk closer to him. He has a small lantern sitting next to him on the bench, illuminating the space in front of and around him. His black hair has been invaded with grays, a betrayal of his still somewhat youthful face. He’s about as old as my mother and probably twice as wise. He’s worked for the family as long as I’ve been alive and probably for a decade before that. His actual position is…loose. As the world slowly modernizes, the need for a formal, actual collective royal guard diminishes. Saito is an information man, a record keeper, a driver, but to me, he’s a confidant and an actual decent bloke in a world in desperate need of the type.

“You know I hate that formality,” I stall.

“My apologies. I’ll correct myself. Are you stupid, Eames?” he says, getting a light laugh out of me.

“It’s my last night of freedom! Can’t you give me some leeway?” I bargain.

“That video was shameful. You have to admit that,” he continues. I gulp. It means more coming from him.

“It was a fumble. A mess-up. I won’t do it again,” I assure him with a falsity.

“You won’t be able to do it again. The American is no joke.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I’ve met his father. He was in the Secret Service for three decades. If his son is anything like him, you’ll never see the sun — or the moon, rather, again.”

“All the more reason to let me run free one last time,” I say with a crooked grin. He sighs and closes his eyes.

“One of these days I’m afraid you’ll never come back,” he mumbles.

“I could never leave you behind, darling,” I say with a wink.

“Get out of here before I change my mind,” he threatens, but he never has changed his mind, and he never will.

Lucky for Saito and the rest of the royal bunch, my destination tonight has very little chance of getting me into much trouble. It’s a quick journey, one I make even faster by speed-walking with my head down. It’s a pleasant night in Westminster, a night that would normally lead me into a taxi to a far less formal area of cheery London. Instead, I walk to the Nova Building, a terribly overpriced flat building close to my own humble abode. The key to getting around without being noticed is twofold: brevity and confidence. As soon as I step inside the building, the now very familiar doorman nods his head to me as I swiftly walk past him and to the lift. The woman next to me in said lift doesn’t even bat an eye at my lowered head as I press the button to the fifth floor. Pretend you’re no one and you’ll never receive so much as a glance. Unless, of course, you’re utterly pissed, screaming about being a prince, and punching fellow pissed patrons outside an East End pub. That may catch a few eyes.

I knock on door 502 mostly as a formality right as I grab the door handle and invite myself in. “Ari, I’m coming in,” I shout as I enter her living room. Her flat is another jealousy, one more thing for me to wish I had despite having everything. Her decoration is neat and bright, full of the warmth my own home sorely lacks. The walls are landlord white, but they’re decorated with eclectic artwork and family photos to make up for that. The designer herself is sitting on her dark green couch, curled up on its cushions with her back against the right armrest. Her laptop is seated beside her as always, covered in various stickers of animals and music references. The TV is on but muted playing some baking channel. My presence isn’t exactly welcome when she’s studying like this, but she never rejects me either.

“I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to actually sneak out, Mr. YouTube Sensation,” she teases, not looking up from her laptop. I groan and plop down next to her, reaching for the remote. She swats my hand away and puts said remote even further out of my reach. “I have an exam tomorrow. Go away,” she grumbles uselessly.

“You better take a good look at me. You’ll never see me again after tonight,” I bait her. She finally looks up. Her dark brown eyes stare at me inquisitively, her equally dark hair tied into a messy ponytail.

“They finally executing you? Can I come?” she asks.

”I wish that were the case. They’re sending me an American. Maybe you know him,” I say, kicking off my shoes. I pull my legs onto the couch and stretch out, lying down with my feet obnoxiously close to her precious laptop. She sighs, picks up the laptop and puts it on her coffee table, and settles back down.

“Unless he’s from bumfuck, Michigan, I think you’re out of luck,” she says.

“I suppose he’ll remain a mystery until tomorrow,” I mumble.

“Why are you so deflated? It’s just another babysitter. You’ve had plenty of practice,” she says, leaning in a little closer to me.

“He’s the love child of Hitler and Stalin, allegedly. Probably just an old bloke with too much free time.”

“You know, if you weren’t so much of an asshole, you wouldn’t have to be followed around all day,” she reminds me.

“But being a menace is my defining trait,” I lament. She groans, grabs the remote, and unmutes the TV. For a few peaceful minutes, we watch the channel in silence. Ariadne has made my existence far less insanity-inducing for the past two years. I was skulking around some random church, drunk out of my mind, when I saw a peculiar girl staring up at the building with a notepad in hand. I hobbled over to her, saw that she was drawing the church, and laughed so hard I fell on my arse and refused to stand up. Somehow, the poor girl didn’t run for her life. In fact, she actually spoke to me. Life’s full of odd miracles.

“Can I say something rude?” Ari breaks the silence.

“Is that a real question?” I ask.

“When are you gonna get your shit together?” Clearly not a real question. I sit up and straighten my back, planting my feet on the ground. Ari stays comfortable, resting her head on her fist whilst still staring at me with those knowing dark eyes.

“Do I not have my shite together?” It’s not one of my brightest comebacks. She sighs and raises her free hand, counting off on her fingers,

“Well, let’s see. You’re twenty-four, your only friends are an architecture student and one of your employees’ sons, you’ve never had a job, and you spend your nights getting wasted and put on national TV for it. What part of that is desirable?”

“You are all I need, my darling,” I attempt to distract her.

“Oh, that reminds me! You’re supposed to get married and continue the royal bloodline all while being a raging homosexual,” she kindly reminds me. I cover my face and groan.

“Why don’t you just take me back to Michigan with you?” I mumble through my fingers.

“I think someone might notice me smuggling an English prince,” she responds, reaching out and patting my head. She must take some pity on me. “At least you’re rich,” she “reassures” me.

”I’d rather be skint. At least I could go crawl in a gutter and never be seen again,” I grumble.

“Cheer up. Maybe by the time that big suitor ball comes up, you’ll be so undesirable that no woman will want you,” she continues to dazzle me with her kind words. I finally uncover my face and glare at her. She puckers her lips and blows a kiss at me.

“How about I marry you? Fancy being a princess?” I suggest.

“Yeah, because you make being royalty seem so wonderful,” she says with a scoff.

“We won’t even have to share a bed. God knows my parents don’t.”

“I don’t have time for weddings. The exam, remember?”

“More’s the pity.”

“Speaking of, you can stay, but be quiet. I really do need to study.”

“Your wish is my command. And, Ari?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

I once again lie back on the couch, getting properly comfortable. Ari mutes the TV again but turns on the subtitles, allowing me to mostly watch the pointless program. As the night goes on, my mind races as my body tires. I wonder if this American is as bad as the family has painted him. Maybe I wouldn’t believe my mother or father, but Saito tells things as they are. Typically, men with arsehole parents are arseholes themselves. I know from experience. It’s not like it matters. He’ll quit within the month, probably. He’s just another middle-aged man to wear out. So why does it feel different this time?

Eventually, despite my varied thoughts, my awareness of the world slowly drifts away. My eyelids close effortlessly, finally bringing peace to my mind.

~~~

The rocking of the ship makes it difficult to stand up straight, but I manage to by holding on to the metal railing adorning the side of this beast. The sky has been painted with gorgeous pinks, purples, and oranges, all surrounding the setting sun. There’s something almost ethereal in morning air, in space unoccupied by human energy. The world before it bustles, before it faces its daily pollution of voices and footsteps. The air feels better out here. The ocean has its classic faint salty scent, a pleasant aroma that dances in my nostrils as I stare out at the magnificent scene before me. I could live in this forever. My boat and I versus the world. Except… I’m not alone, am I?

”Not a bad view,” a voice comments. I jump and turn toward the sound. A blurry man with dark hair and dark eyes is suddenly beside me. There’s something about him that feels safe, yet foreboding. It’s like I’ve known —

I shoot up and blink hard, rubbing my eyes quickly. Another bloody mental dream. Always these pristine moments, these beautiful epics of nature, interrupted by some bloke blabbing in my ear. I look around the room, dazed, until I realize that I am in fact not in my bedroom. Instead, I’m still on Ariadne’s couch. She’s turned off the TV, covered me with a blanket, and left the room. She even closed the blinds, the saint. I fish my phone out of my pocket and check the time: nearly six in the morning. I mournfully stand up and stretch. If I’m not back by seven, they’ll start getting suspicious. I wonder if my new terror is there already. Perhaps he’s in my bedroom going through my drawers and pouring my gin out in the sink.

As I’m about to take my leave, I notice a note sitting on the coffee table. I pick it up and squint at it in the dark: “Good luck, prisoner. Tell me about the American soon. Xoxo - Ari.” I smile, pocket the note, and nod to myself. I suppose with friends like her, I may survive yet.

Chapter Text

Sneaking back into the palace is almost more difficult than sneaking out. At night, I can hide in the quiet darkness. But during the morning, even early as it is now, people are out and about. Luckily, I am an expert. I manage to avoid any and all curious eyes as I hurry back through the garden and enter my bedroom window. After switching out my jeans for pajamas, I crawl into my bed and briefly consider going back to sleep. Those dreams, however, are quickly dashed. Almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, there’s a knock on the door. I groan and turn over in bed. He’ll open it if he’s so inclined. The polite knocking continues for another thirty seconds before it’s replaced by much more aggressive banging. Bloody hell, fine. I suppose I can’t avoid this forever. I drag myself out of bed, amble towards the door, and prepare to accept my fate. He’s just another babysitter. Nothing to fear.

I open the door and nearly gasp at the man staring back at me. He is not old. Not in the slightest. In fact, he very well might be my age. This cannot possibly be my jailer. This man has neat, slicked-back hair so dark it's nearly black, dark eyes decorated with decent-sized eye bags, and a visible handgun strapped in its holster on his hip. He’s around my height, though I may be a little taller if I’d actually stand up straight. There are a lot of things he is not. He is not ugly, he is not middle-aged, he is certainly not in the right place, but he is one thing: familiar. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but it feels as though I’ve met this man before. He’s staring at me like he’s thinking the exact same thing, blinking hard as I look him up and down. He carries himself well, not that it’s likely hard for him to do with that body. Would it be rude if I asked him to spin around?

“Arthur Galvit, your Highness,” he says, offering his hand. I stare at him blankly. His voice is quiet, even a little hard to hear, but distinctly American.

“You cannot possibly be who you’re supposed to be,” I blurt out. He tilts his head.

“...I’m your new royal guard, your Highness,” he says. He almost sounds more confused than I am.

“No, you aren’t. You’re young. You’re not an ogre."

“I don’t know what to say to that, your Highness.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Excuse me?”

I sigh and step back, waving my hand to invite him inside. He finally puts his extended arm down, giving up on one formality, and steps inside cautiously. He looks around the room like he’s never been inside a building before. For a moment, it seems like he’s judging my decor, but the focus in his eyes says otherwise. It’s almost as though he’s scanning for something, or maybe trying to recall something in his memory. He turns and faces away from me to get a look at the living room, fulfilling my mental request. Christ. Maybe my mother and father thought there would be a greater chance of me listening to a handsome bloke. They’re not entirely off base.

“Don’t call me ‘your Highness,’” I say as he continues to wander the room with his gaze.

“It’s what I’ve been told to call you, and you aren’t my boss,” he says curtly, turning on his heels to face me once again. I raise my eyebrows.

“You work for me,” I remind him.

“I work for your parents,” he corrects me. What a twat. Good hair. But still a twat.

“It’s not like I’m asking you to shoot someone. You can’t give me the dignity of a preferred name?” I argue.

“If every conversation we have is like this, we’re going to have an unpleasant time together,” he warns.

“Call me Eames. I’ll ask for nothing else,” I say, hoping he won’t rightfully call me on the lie. There’s a list of demands forming in my head already. He tilts his head and squints at me.

“Why one of your middle names?”

“I like it best.”

“...Fine, Mr. Eames.”

“Just Eames.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Jesus Christ, how far is that stick shoved up your arse?” I complain. He scoffs and rolls his eyes. I almost laugh. He’s been here for less than five minutes and is already rolling his eyes at the Prince of England? Just how much ego does this man possess? Does he think he doesn’t have to follow the same hierarchical rules as everyone else? He’s not afraid of me. He should be. Every other babysitter would start off perfectly timid and polite. Leave it to an American to absolutely destroy any semblance of regularity. Then again, this could be a good thing. Irregularity provides opportunity. Perhaps getting around him won’t be too difficult after all.

“Be as rude as you want, it doesn’t matter. You can’t get rid of me,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Go on, then. Give me the spiel. I know you’ve got one prepared,” I reply, mirroring his body language. He sighs.

“Like I said, my name is Arthur Galvit. I’m your royal guard. I’ll protect you, but mostly I’ll keep an eye on you. I tell you what to do, where to go, and control your entire schedule. I get told what to do with you, and I do it. I say ‘jump,’ you say’ how high’ type of relationship. Is that understood?”

“Should I call you Mr. Galvit? Or perhaps master?” I tease.

“Arthur’s fine.” He’s not much of a joker, I assume.

“Is it really? That’s a very royal name, by the way. Sir Arthur. I like that,” I decide. He stares at me like I’ve got two heads, like he’s unknowingly walked into a lion enclosure. I suppose in a way, he has. But they had to have warned him. “Make us some tea, would you?” I try.

“You don’t tell me what to do. It’s the other way around,” he says quickly, barely even reacting.

“You’re not afraid to upset royalty?”

“I’m afraid to upset royalty, yes. I’m not afraid to upset you,” he clarifies. I raise my eyebrows and actually laugh this time.

“Did you just insult me?”

“Take it how you want.”

I have absolutely no words. I have never been treated so rudely in my entire life, and by a stranger, no less. If anyone talked this way to Johnny, they would never see sunlight again. And yet here Sir Arthur is, standing in my living room in a suit, a very well-tailored suit, telling me what to do and glaring at me. My stomach flips. I have been incredibly disrespected. I have also never felt so human in my life. Even Ariadne sometimes holds her tongue in fear of a royal arse-whooping. But Sir Arthur has nothing to fear. For the first time, I don’t have the power, I don’t have the upper hand. He has made that evidently clear.

“...You like tea?” I ask.

“Not particularly,” he answers. Of course.

“You’ll like this tea,” I say as I walk over to the cabinets. We’re already standing in the kitchen, so I only have to take a few steps before I can get what I need. Johnny’s flat is both bigger and better designed. It’s like they shoved me in the first draft of the palace quarters. Arthur watches as I rifle through my cabinets, pushing past fine china to grab two hidden mugs. One of them reads “number one grandpa,” and the other has the logo of the Detroit Tigers. I put the kettle on and prepare the mugs with their fancy tea bags before turning back around. Sir Arthur stares at me once again like I’m about to eat him whole.

“You don’t have a servant do that?” he asks. I snicker.

“I am capable of boiling water. And I lost servant privileges when I was fifteen,” I say. He raises his eyebrows.

“Do I want to know why?”

“Probably not,” I say with a shrug. I pull out one of the kitchen chairs and sit down, motioning for him to do the same. Hesitantly, he obeys. I look down at my Oasis t-shirt and frown, suddenly feeling very underdressed. His suit really is nice. Unnecessary, but nice. It looks good on him. I wonder if anything doesn’t.

“You must feel a little dazed, getting called in for this job so suddenly,” I say.

“Suddenly? I’ve been training for months. This was – did they not tell you this was always going to happen?” he figures out the situation before he’s even through the sentence. I scoff. It would make sense, wouldn’t it?

“They don’t tell me much of anything. You’ve been painted as a last resort punishment, mate.”

“That’s…” he pauses.

“Rude? Deceitful? Get used to it,” I mumble, shrugging. He taps his fingers on the table and looks down. He’s really in for it now, isn’t he? “What did they tell you about me?” I ask.

“Your full name is –”

“Not all of that shite. What did they warn you about?” I interrupt. He clears his throat.

“I don’t know if I should –”

“Spit it out. I’ve heard it all. Give it to me straight, Sir Arthur,” I insist, interrupting again.

“...Your mother said you are selfish, inconsiderate, immature, careless, and borderline uncontrollable,” he mumbles. I whistle. Christ. That’s harsh, even for her.

“And my father?”

“I believe the word was ‘difficult.’”

“Figures.”

The kettle whistles, freeing Arthur from the uncomfortable conversation I’ve trapped him in. I stand up, pour the boiling water into the mugs, and open the fridge. “How much milk do you take?” I ask.

“None,” he answers. Freak. I nonetheless put a respectable amount of milk in my drink and bring both mugs to the table. I slide the Detroit Tigers mug over to him as I sit down again.

“Figured it would remind you of home,” I say. He, for the first time, smiles a little.

“What’s an English prince doing with a baseball mug?” he asks.

“I have friends in high places,” I say with a cheeky grin.

“Not a bad team,” he muses as he picks up the mug and takes a sip. He hums after doing so, commenting, “It’s actually decent.”

“So, what’s on my agenda for today?” I ask. He perks up like he’s just remembered that he actually works for me. Sorry, not for me. Against me. Beside me. Something like that. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small notebook, flipping it open.

“You’ve got an interview with Majesty Magazine to explain your most recent stunt. Your publicist will have a script for you,” he starts. I groan.

“Christ, can’t someone just read off the bullet points in my stead? ‘I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, I’m a wanker, god save me,’” I grumble, taking a sip of my tea.

“Do you always whine this much?” he deadpans. I nearly spit out my drink in his face.

“You are a twat.”

“That’s kind. After the interview, you have a dance lesson. You and John will both be attending,” he continues, not even batting an eye at my insult.

“Have you had the pleasure of meeting Johnny yet?” I ask. He nods.

“He was at the meeting this morning. You were supposed to be at that meeting, by the way,” he adds on.

“Nobody told me.”

“Sounds about right,” he mumbles. Whether he believes me or just expects me to lie, I’m not sure, but either way he seems okay with dropping the subject. Sure, maybe someone related to me might’ve texted me several times last night to show up to the meeting, and maybe I did not answer. Who’s to say? Besides, who can expect me to go to a meeting at six in the morning? That is preposterous.

“Then you know how much of a numpty my dear brother is,” I say. He stifles a chuckle and manages a poker face.

“He was very polite.”

“Such a charmer, isn’t he? The second he turns eighteen, my parents will sic the suitors on him. I’m sure he’ll adore the attention,” I grumble.

“And do you? Adore the attention?” he asks.

“Maybe I would if I got any. No one looks at little old me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why? Because I’m devastatingly handsome?” I tease. Instead of letting the sentence roll off his back like most of my quips, he actually reacts. His face flushes a little as he swallows hard.

“No, because you’re a prince, for god’s sake,” he says quickly.

“So I’m not devastatingly handsome, then?” I continue, pushing him. His face heats up a little more.

“I’m not here to raise your ego any higher than it already is,” he finally finds the words to insult me once again.

“Anything after the dance lesson?” I give in. That’s perhaps enough embarrassment for the day. It’s fun to mess with him, but it won’t get me anywhere. As much as I revel in seeing his cheeks all nice and red, the more I piss him off, the less leeway he’ll give me.

“No. You’ll be free after that.”

“Free from you?”

“No. Free from obligation.”

“So are you and I just gonna hang out?”

He pauses and takes a long sip of his tea. Stalling. “...I’ve been instructed to stay by your side without question for the first two weeks. If you behave, I’ll be able to lighten up a little,” he finally answers.

“What if I want you by my side endlessly? Will you watch me sleep?” I ask, smiling at him again.

“You are ridiculous,” he grumbles.

“Don’t forget selfish. And immature. And uncontrollable. What else was there?”

“Inconsiderate, I believe.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

He checks his watch and sighs. “You have to be in wardrobe in thirty minutes. You should shower,” he says, looking me up and down with mild concern. I can’t believe this. My bloody bathing is being regulated. I stand up and sigh, dumping my leftover tea into the sink. I roll my shoulders as I turn back to him.

“Want to come with me?” I can’t help but tease.

“Excuse me?” he blurts out, his voice an octave higher than normal.

“Come on. You’re pretty and I’m devastatingly handsome. We’re a match,” I continue to tease. Against I’m sure all of his efforts, his face heats up again.

“What do you think you’re achieving right now?” he asks through his shame.

“I’m making you uncomfortable. Or maybe just hot. I can’t really tell,” I don’t relent.

“You are the most – you know what? Whatever. I’m here to watch you, not teach you manners,” he says, standing up abruptly. His foot is tapping rapidly, and his face has twisted into a wonderful scowl. Satisfied with my work, I shoot him a wink, turn, and walk dramatically towards my bedroom. It doesn’t really matter if he sees my flirting as merely a way to annoy him or definitive proof of the nasty little rumors floating around about my sexuality. Either way, it pisses him off, and that is delightful.

After taking my sweet time in the shower, I step out of the bathroom in just my towel and re-enter my bedroom. Sir Arthur is, appallingly, sitting on the edge of my unmade bed. Isn’t he supposed to be a professional? He should be standing in the corner staring at the wall waiting for me like a puppy. Instead, he’s got a small piece of paper in his hand and is reading it intently. “‘Good luck, prisoner. Tell me about the American soon. Hugs and kisses, Ari.’ A friend from a high place?” he reads out the note without even bothering to look up.

“Are you going through my things? You’re a prat,” I grumble, walking up to him. I snatch the note out of his hand as he looks up. When his eyes find mine, they widen and don’t stay stationary for long. He looks me up and down very quickly, his face flushing ever so slightly. He’s almost definitely just embarrassed. He thought this would be a serious job, and now he’s staring at a half-naked prince who doesn’t give a damn about his presence. But there’s almost…something else in his glance. It’s not even the same kind of stare that onlookers give me at formal events or when I’ve been spotted in more casual settings. There’s something more intimate in his eyes. I’m imagining it, I know that. His deep brown eyes find mine again as fast as they strayed away, and the moment’s gone. I’ve never liked light eyes. They’re almost too revealing, too out in the open. Dark eyes add some mystery, especially for someone like Sir Arthur. He’s so put together, so clean-shaven, so intentionally designed, that his eyes are the only sign he may not be the perfect soldier he’s pretending to be.

“It was on the floor. Who is she?” he persists.

“None of your business. Let’s go,” I say, nodding towards the door. He tilts his head.

“You aren’t dressed,” he says.

“Excellent observation. I’m getting dressed up there, so why change now?”

“The dressing room is on the second floor.”

“And?”

“...You’re going to walk around the palace in a towel?”

“Would you rather me naked?”

He stands up with a huff, crossing his arms. His buttons are very easy to push. “Don’t you at least have a robe?” he persists. I groan dramatically.

“Fine. Take a good look at me now, then,” I tease. He shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath.

Once we enter the dressing room, one of the several attendants sits me down immediately. The wide, open room is a bustling mess just for me. There are rows of racks of potential outfits on the far side of the room, all terribly formal and nauseatingly plain. Three poor saps are going through the options while a fourth sap reads off the requested requirements set by my mother. I’m sitting directly in the middle of the room in front of a large vanity mirror, where I will imminently be joined by another one of this palace’s saving graces. Arthur looks around and attempts to get his bearings. He stares up at the high ceiling like the answer for what he’s supposed to do with himself will be written up there. I watch through the mirror as he awkwardly ambles to the left side of the room and sits in one of the chairs lined up against the wall. I can breathe a little easier with him out of earshot.

“Feeling okay, Eames? You eat anything yet?” a familiar, comforting voice greets me. I turn and look at Mal, smiling as I do. She smiles back, her blue eyes shining at me. She always looks stunning. Her dark hair has been perfectly curled, her white sweater has not one stitch out of place, and her make-up is smart casual as always. No one should ever look so beautiful at seven in the morning, but she somehow always surprises me. Like Saito, her job has expanded over the years. The list of folks willing to work with me and vice versa is rather small. Mal started as my outfit coordinator, then expanded to other roles as well. She is now my stylist, attempts to media train me, and overall makes me less of an unkempt disaster in public. Mostly, though, she is forgiving and remembers that I am in fact a human being underneath all of the fancy clothing and sarcasm. Hence, the food question.

I shake my head and say, “I was too busy being introduced to that bloke.” I motion toward the man himself. He’s sitting quietly and twiddling his thumbs. Someone outta give him a book or something.

“Mhm. Handsome, right?” she comments.

“He’s alright,” I lie. He’s a little more than “alright.” Just a little.

“Abigail! Get his royal highness breakfast!” Mal shouts at one of the women rushing around the room. Miss Abigail perks up and changes direction, hurrying out of the room.

“Something for the fool in the corner, too,” I call out to her. She turns back and nods. Arthur looks up briefly towards Abigail in an attempt to figure out what’s happening, but quickly gives up.

“Elizabeth! Trousers, now!” Mal turns and shouts behind us. Poor Elizabeth rushes over and hands Mal a pair of beige slacks. I stick my tongue out.

“Seriously?” I complain.

“You’re speaking with one of the most famous reporters in London. No complaining,” Mal orders me. I scrunch up my nose at her but otherwise accept my fate. I take the trousers and briefly exit, putting on pants and said trousers before walking back in shirtless. Sir Arthur is still looking down, so I whistle at him. He perks up and stares at me.

“Miss this?” I shout from across the room, motioning to my bare chest while doing jazz hands. He scoffs, shakes his head, and looks down again. Boo-hoo. No fun.

“Leave him alone, chiant,” Mal scolds, thrusting a dark blue collared shirt at me. I put it on quickly and return to my original seat. For a few minutes, I force myself to keep my mouth shut as Mal attempts to fix the mess that is my hair. She then shakes a bottle of shaving cream, which wakes me up.

“I can shave myself,” I say, as I always do. It’s routine at this point.

“Not today you can’t,” she argues back. We’ve got this memorized. I groan as she lathers up my face and dunks the razor in a metal bowl of water sitting in front of us.

“He’s young,” I comment.

“Who? Your new guard?”

“Mh-hm.”

“He is,” she says, her inflection rising just a little.

“Know anything about him that I don’t?” I ask. She clicks her tongue.

“Not really. He’s from Minnesota. Twenty-six. Always looks a little uncomfortable,” she answers. I attempt to turn my head, but Mal holds me in place.

“Stop moving,” she scolds. I frown and quiet down again. As soon as Mal finishes shaving, Abigail returns with two bowls in her hand. She first rushes over to me, awkwardly curtsying as she lowers her head.

“For you, your highness,” she offers the bowl. Plain oatmeal.

“Do you hate me?” I blurt out. Her eyes widen and her hands start to shake.

“I-I –”

“Relax, I’m only kidding, darling,” I say quickly, taking the bowl from her. She shakily nods and looks around frantically. “Sir Arthur! Come over here!” I yell across the room. Arthur looks up, notices the poor leaf of a girl next to me, and hurries over. He takes the bowl from her and mumbles a polite “thank you.”

“A-anything else?” Abigail stutters out.

“Yes. Take a breath,” I say. She blinks hard, but eventually obeys. “It’s okay. You’re new, right? I don’t recognize you. I’m the unruly prince, but the nicer one, I promise.”

“Uhm…” she doesn’t know what to say.

“Scram, Abigail. Go make yourself useful,” Mal orders. The young girl perks up and quickly rushes away. She can’t be older than twenty-two. Who knows what strings her parents pulled to get her in here? Poor thing. “She’s not cut out for this,” Mal complains.

“Neither am I. Leave her alone,” I say.

“You wouldn’t be so nice if you had to work with these people. Don’t get oatmeal on your clothes. You’re on in twenty,” she grumbles. With that, she rubs my shoulder knowingly and walks away, probably to order some more people around. She remembers that I’m human. Her underlings, though? Perhaps not so much. I walk over to another one of the vanities in the room and pull over one of their chairs until it’s next to mine. I sit down in it and motion towards what was once my chair. Arthur slowly sits down as if there’s a landmine on the seat. He really does always seem a little uncomfortable. I wonder if he’s jetlagged. How long has he been here, lurking around London without my knowledge? It figures that he’s been preparing for this. Why did I think things wouldn’t always go this way?

“You look better,” Arthur comments, nodding at me.

“Your condescension is appreciated,” I say. He shrugs and dips his spoon into his oatmeal, taking a small bite. “So. I assume you’ve seen the video?” I finally address the elephant in the room.

“Several times,” he confirms.

“Not my best first impression,” I admit.

“No. Definitely not.”

“Did I make a better second one?”

He looks up from his bowl and right at me before saying, “No.” I burst out laughing, smiling so hard it hurts a little. Right as I’m half sure a tiny smile is creeping up on his face, a crash brings our attention to the right side of the room.

“Are you completely brain dead or just careless?!” Mal shouts at Abigail, who is standing shaking like a branch in a rainstorm. There’s broken glass by her feet. “You’ll clean this right now and make it snappy, or –”

“Mal! Take it easy!” I shout, interrupting her. My voice booms across the room, taking the attention away from the victim. Mal sighs and gives in, stepping closer to Abigail and patting her on the arm. Hopefully she’s mumbling an apology. The girl looks over at me briefly, her gratitude shining in her moist eyes. I look back at Arthur only to see that he’s already staring at me. He’s again looking at me with contemplation.

“Something in my teeth?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“She’s hard on them,” he mumbles.

“You’re lucky I’m your boss instead of her,” I tease.

“You’re not my boss,” he quickly reminds me, glaring. That contemplative look is long gone.

“Not yet, I’m not,” I say and wink. He rolls his eyes and looks back down at his food.

~~~

The interview goes just about exactly how I thought it would. I followed my points, tried to appear charming, and made it out alive. They’ve already started running it across the country, clearing my rotten name. The public is used to this, though a video like that has never surfaced before. Still, it’s all the same. I imagine this is what the average UK citizen says when I’m in the news: “Oh, Prince Edward fucked up again. What’s for breakfast?” It’s nothing new, it’s nothing exciting anymore. Even that video will disappear from the minds of most of the public in a few days. Half of them don’t give a damn about whatever is going on with the royal family, and an additional quarter hates us so much that they’d despise me even if I joined the military or became a pastor. That remaining quarter, that quarter that may actually have some emotional investment in us, will write concerned articles about my uncertain future as King. Most expect me to step down and let Johnny take my place, but a few have an unwavering faith that perhaps Prince Edward will get his life together if he finds the right woman.

I spent the morning and early afternoon faffing about with Sir Arthur in tow, forcing him to follow me around as I entertained myself. Now the two of us are standing in the palace ballroom. When this room is full of high-class gentlemen and ladies, it's actually not so bad. The liveliness makes up for the lack of emotion in the architecture. That’s not to say it isn’t beautiful. The pale yellow walls are covered in fancy, ornate golden flourishes and decorations, complemented by the regal red carpeting. The large, teardrop-shaped lights make the space feel warm, and the area is well-used when there are tables out on the floor. But right now, the ballroom feels closer to a church hall than a place for celebration. The room is devoid of any furniture besides the grand piano, behind which sits Anthony, an older gentleman who has spoken all of three words to me in his decades of sitting on that bench.

Just as he has in every room before, Sir Arthur looks around in awe and admiration. It’s gone from amusing to a recurring annoyance. This palace isn’t so special. Every room is the same facade, and yet he falls for it every time. The high ceilings, the pretty paintings, the shiny wooden floors, it's all sucking him right in. Convincing him that this place’s beauty is a worthy trade-off for a total loss of humanity. I would pick Ariadne’s cramped student flat a thousand times over. At least there’s soul there. Unable to stand watching Arthur’s nods of approval and impressed hums, I turn towards an arguably worse sight. In the middle of the room stands Johnny, early for our lesson, of course, speaking pleasantly with our instructor. Mr. Dominic Cobb is listening politely, nodding along to whatever nonsense my brother is spouting. Mr. Cobb is a decent man. He’s been married to Mal for as long as I can remember and has always been kind to me. He is, however, quite frankly sick and tired of this job. I can’t blame him. He’s had to teach his life’s work to two spoiled brats for the past twenty-something years.

“I’m not late, am I?” I yell across the room. My voice echoes through the empty hall.

“Not today,” Cobb answers, turning his attention away from my darling brother. I approach the two of them while Arthur, awkward as ever, stays behind to stand against the wall.

“Let’s get this done,” Johnny says resolutely. I flash him a toothy grin.

“Mr. Eames, let’s go first. Viennese waltz will be most frequent at the Dahlia Ball, so we’ll work on that,” Cobb says. I nod, and we get into position. I am not terribly skilled at most aspects of my life. I was rotten at every school subject except history, which I was only marginally okay at, and I’ve already displayed my lack of ability to perform my princely duties. But dancing? This is something I can do. That’s in part due to repetition, but I also have some sense of coordination and balance.

“Something from Shostakovich, Anthony,” Cobb directs. Right away, the pianist starts playing a mild-mannered, pretty piece. The two of us move pleasantly around the room, both of us easily moving through the waltz as if it were second nature. As we turn, I find Arthur still standing awkwardly, but he’s moved a little closer to the middle of the room. His eyes are trained on me, though not with their usual disdain that I’ve been seeing for the past several hours.

“Impressed, Sir Arthur?” I call out to him. He startles.

“It’s a good song,” he says.

“Not what I asked!” I complain, but we’ve already started turning away as I shout it.

“How long will he be around?” Cobb asks matter-of-factly.

“Don’t know. He’s a tough one,” I admit.

“Not tough enough for you, I imagine,” he says with a sigh. He is quite literally just going through the motions. I grin.

“You’ve stuck it out,” I point out.

“Mal has a soft spot for you.”

“Oh, you love me, darling.”

He doesn’t say anything, but finally does smile and nod a little. All but three people in this entire palace detest me, but the three are worth a thousand of the other wankers. Gradually, the song fades away, allowing me and Cobb to part.

“I’ll tell her Majesty again that you don’t need to come to any further lessons,” Cobb decides.

“Trying to get rid of me?” I tease with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t like wasting your or my time,” he answers, turning to Johnny. The kid is already glaring at me. I haven’t even said anything yet! He expects me to be an arsehole. I will be, but he should possess more faith in his older brother. Cobb calls out another order to Anthony and moves on to the far more difficult task of practicing with Johnny. I take a few steps back and stifle a snicker as the kid immediately steps on Cobb’s foot. For all of his grace, all of his pretend politeness, he is bloody terrible at this. I hold my laughter back for a respectable thirty seconds until Johnny completely trips over Cobb. That breaks my poker face and releases a loud cackle.

“Shut up! You’re distracting me!” Johnny complains.

“Saying you have two left feet would be far too generous. And offensive to left feet,” I quip. He glares at me. I take a few more steps back and turn away from the ridiculous sight, looking back at Arthur. He’s covering his mouth with his hand and staring down at the ground. Is he…fighting laughter?

“He’s excellent, isn’t he?” I say. Arthur takes a deep breath and removes his hand from his face.

“He’s…learning,” he mumbles, clearly still stifling snickers.

“Right. Learning. I bet you could learn faster,” I say, offering him my hands. He tilts his head.

“What?”

“Come on, then. You don’t want to dance with a prince?” I say with a toothy grin. His face heats up. He really is easy to agitate. I hope he’ll stick around longer than the others. He’s terribly fun to tease.

“I don’t dance, and you don’t tell me what to do,” he reminds me for the seven thousandth time today.

“I’m not telling you, I’m asking you. I’ve been doomed to your guard for the rest of my days. You may as well give me this one thing,” I plead.

“Absolutely not,” Arthur stands his ground, putting his hands on his hips.

“Cobb! Make him dance with me!” I call out petulantly.

“It’ll shut him up faster if you just do it,” Cobb calls out to Sir Arthur. The dark-eyed fool looks at me, then at Cobb, then back at me. There’s no way Cobb’s word is worth more than mine to him, is it? He has unfathomable respect for every single person in this palace except for me. That thought is almost enough for me to drop the whole dancing idea altogether, but when Arthur begrudgingly takes a step closer to me, I rethink my rethinking.

“I’ll lead,” I decide quickly, putting my right hand on his left shoulder blade. He tenses up against the touch, and this time, it’s my face that’s heating up. Something about feeling him, even through his suit jacket, is almost overwhelming. It’s like he’s a decoration I’m not supposed to touch, like my grimy hands will indubitably taint him in some way. But instead of running away, he lets me take his right hand with my left. His hand is warm. Soft. And I thought his jacket was overwhelming. I instinctively run my thumb across his index finger, which makes him startle and almost let go of me. He stares at me with wide, confused eyes. I wink at him, make him think it’s all a part of my annoyance plan, and he rolls his eyes, huffing. It’s all a game, Sir Arthur. He doesn’t think I’m getting anything else out of this, does he?

“Put your left arm around my shoulder,” I direct him, and he slowly does as he’s told. “Now, follow the best you can. I’m not a good teacher,” I say.

“How am I supposed –” I interrupt him by forcing us further into the middle of the room, practically dragging him through the dance. He follows unsteadily, not picking up well whatsoever. He nearly crashes into me several times, but by the time Anthony moves on to his second song, Sir Arthur has found his footing somewhat. He is by no means good. But it’s almost endearing to watch the look of concentration on his face, to feel his grip tighten on my shirt as we turn. He is frequently biting his lip and blatantly refusing direct eye contact as we move across the floor. He’s so close. He smells nice, probably better than I do. Where did he come from? Why is he here, really? What is my family doing hiring this man? He is so far beyond anyone who has ever had the misfortune of my constant presence. I can’t even get him to look at me.

“You know, you’re not completely awful at this. You’re better than Johnny already,” I say, looking at my struggling brother. He is genuinely worse at this than Arthur. It’s depressing. Seventeen years of weekly practice and he still can’t figure out how to waltz.

“Stop calling me that! I’ve told you a thousand times,” Johnny complains.

“Not until you start calling me Eames,” I fire back.

“That is ridiculous! No respectable prince goes by a middle name!” he argues.

“Who said I was respectable?” I argue back. Arthur lets out a quick snicker. I turn back to him and nearly gasp. He is fully smiling. Not the odd, small, half-smile he’s been doing all day while greeting palace workers. This one is genuine. It brightens up his already handsome face and makes him almost difficult to look at. He’s even got dimples, Jesus Christ. Was he made in a lab specifically to torment me? The universe could’ve dropped this man anywhere. They could’ve kept him in the United States, left him out of my sight, or I could’ve crashed into him in a dark pub one fateful night. But no, he has to be Sir Arthur, my royal guard who is slightly amused by me but otherwise entirely ambivalent towards, if not annoyed by, my presence. My dear mother and father have punished me with a gorgeous man who will eventually hate me enough to drop everything and run. No amount of money has ever made a difference. I will always find a way to drive them away. It’s my special talent, it’s what I work towards, but right now it’s putting the sour taste of karma directly on my tongue.

“At least you’re self-aware,” Sir Arthur comments, his smile fading and in turn releasing its grasp on my lungs.

“That makes him worse,” Johnny grumbles.

“Why don’t you sour him on me even more? Tell him all of my heinous crimes,” I challenge Johnny, turning to glare at him. He glares right back.

“Your reputation speaks for itself,” he fires.

“At least I have a reputation. You’re too dull for one.”

Johnny grimaces, perhaps trying to think of a direct attack, but instead turns his attention back to Arthur. “He’s going to waste your time, Mr. Galvit. I apologize.” He’s pointedly still staring at me as he addresses my dance partner.

“...Arthur’s fine,” Arthur mumbles.

“Seriously. You might as well quit now so he doesn’t ruin your life, too,” Johnny says.

“You’re a sodding twat, you know that, Johnny?” I snap at him.

“That’s mature. Real mature. You’re seven years older than me and half as grown,” he snaps back. Arthur and I have come to a complete standstill.

“Wow! He does know how to count! It’s a miracle!” I exclaim.

“Eames,” Cobb warns uselessly.

“Why are you even still here? Your lesson is done. You just want to parade around your new toy, don’t you?” Johnny continues, breaking formation with Cobb. He disconnects himself completely and turns to face us. I take my hand off of Arthur’s collarbone, and he removes his from my shoulder, but our hands stay connected.

“You’re –”

“In fact, Mr. Galvit, you shouldn’t be dancing with him. It’s dangerous,” Johnny interrupts, a small smile creeping up on his face. What a smile does to Arthur does the opposite to Johnny. For my brother, a smile brings darkness, brings a glint to his eye that most rabbits must recognize in the eyes of wolves.

“And why’s that?” I dare, letting go of Arthur’s hand.

“John, stop!” Cobb warns again, but he might as well be invisible.

“He’s a fucking faggot,” Johnny practically spits the sentence at me. I rush at him and grab him by the collar, pulling him closer to me.

“Say it again, you little punk,” I growl at him. He hides his fear well, but I know that he knows how much stronger I am compared to him. He’s still not quite grown, and though he’s taller, he has none of the muscle I possess.

“We all know it. It’s not like he hides it, Mr. Galvit! You’d better be careful!” Johnny shouts over my shoulder.

“I’m gonna bloody –” Someone grabs my waist and forcefully pulls me off of my brother, causing me to stumble back and bite my tongue.

“It’s not fucking worth it,” Arthur hisses in my ear, his grasp on me tightening as he does. I break free of him quickly and turn to look him in the eye. I expect disgust, disdain, or one of the other unpleasant things he sees in me, but none of that is there. Instead, there’s anger, but it’s not at me. Arthur’s glaring at Johnny with daggers in his eyes, so much so that Johnny has even stiffened up a little.

“Eames, you’re dismissed,” Cobb says with the exasperation of a man who has witnessed this brawl a thousand times before.

“Fine by me,” I grumble.

Once we’re out the door, I continue stomping forward as Arthur pauses. I let myself get a little further ahead before turning back to him.

“What? Something on your mind?” I snap. He startles. It’s already a familiar movement.

“I might get fired for saying this, but he’s a dick,” he mumbles. I blink at him as a smile creeps across my face.

“That he is,” I agree, nodding.

~~~

The great outdoors has never had much value to me. The UK is a dark, gray place most of the year. But here, things are different. The sun is shining over a field of endless summer flowers, creating a painting that would give Monet a run for his money. I’m sitting in the grass with my fingers intertwined between the blades, staring up at the clouds floating across a remarkable blue sky. In the distance, I can see a family of rabbits chasing each other through the flowers. The smallest one, a brown little thing, gets tackled by his larger brother. They tussle until their mother sticks her head between them, breaking up the wrestling match. The little creatures continue jumping around, no bad blood between them. The scene brings an ache to my chest, filling a cavity normally devoid of some emotion I cannot place. Then, it happens: my solitude is broken. Alone one second and not the next. The presence next to me brings a sense of peace. It even dispels the hazy gray sitting in my stomach. I turn to it and gasp. Distinct dark hair, deep brown eyes, a familiar figure. It can’t be. But –

I wake up suddenly, shooting up in bed as I always do. That was…there’s no way. Has the mysterious figure in my dreams already become him? I’ve known the sod for a day and he’s already infiltrated my subconscious. But…that didn’t feel new. It felt familiar. Like I’ve been in that field with him before, or somewhere similar. Six months of these dreams and I’ve never been able to get a good look at the mystery figure who always ends up joining me. I shake my head and get out of bed. It wasn’t Arthur. Not tonight, not ever. I don’t believe in those sorts of things. But now I’ve got the urge to check. I might as well make sure. After the dance incident, Arthur softened up to me a little, but he also quieted down, which made him even harder to read. That attitude persisted until I went off to bed and he left for his own quarters. I made no attempt to escape, not after the day I’ve had. Besides, it would be rude to get Arthur in trouble on his first day.

I pad through the hallway barefoot in a gray sleep-shirt and pajamas, moving quietly until I reach what must be his room. They always put my royal guard on the East side of the ground floor, far enough from me to prevent my attempts at persistent torment but close enough to catch me in any nefarious act. I didn’t bother to check the time before I walked out. If he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t answer. I just need a good look at him, need to quiet my curiosities. I slowly bring my closed fist to the door and knock softly. I hear muffled footsteps approach moments before the door opens. I blink hard at the man standing in front of me. He’s, uh. Wow. Different. Different without the suit. He’s for one wearing glasses, something that should snap me out of whatever daze he puts me into but rather does the opposite. He’s wearing a pale blue t-shirt, gray joggers, and is definitely the man I just dreamt of. Surely not the man I’ve been dreaming of, but at least the replacement for whoever was there before.

“Need something?” he croaks out. The lamp is still on in his small room. You’d think they’d give a royal guardsman better quarters.

I pause. There is no good way to say “I just dreamt of you and had to make sure it was in fact you,” so instead I say, “Just wanted to see if you were settled.”

He tilts his head. “...Really?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“You’re not exactly my biggest fan.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” I break out of our initial conversation and avoid the accusation. He traces a circle over his head a few times as he answers,

“Still jet lagged, I guess.” I attempt to fight a smile, but it’s pointless. Here’s my menacing royal guard, my protector and keeper, standing in his nightwear sleepily waving his hand around with half-open eyes. My chest tightens.

“Need a lullaby?” I ask, pushing past him and into his room. He watches dumbfounded as I sit in the chair next to the left side of his bed. The room really is small. His bed is against the left wall, which is adorned with a bedside table on each side. He has a wardrobe in the right corner and a door to his bathroom on the other side of the same wall. There’s also a desk the chair I’m in is meant to be attached to, a desk whose surface has already been populated with Arthur’s work. Apart from those things, the room is barren. He miraculously does not shoo me out of the room, instead sitting on the side of his bed. After taking a book he must’ve been reading off his comforter and placing it on the right nightstand, he turns back to me and squints.

“...You wear contacts?” I say, suddenly feeling out of place. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak entirely. I wasn’t expecting him to welcome my presence.

“Mh-hm. I hate the glasses,” he mumbles. The frames are thick and black.

“They look nice on you,” I blurt out. He flushes ever so slightly and looks down. “Do I make you uncomfortable now? Should I not say things like that?” I say matter-of-factly. He looks back up.

“What, because of what John said?”

“Yes, because of what Johnny said.”

He shakes his head. “Whether it’s true or not is none of my business. Say what you want,” he answers. Wow. Progressive American. I suppose it is 2011. The world has changed outside of these walls.

“Do you think it’s true?” I dare to ask. He swallows hard.

“Like I said, it’s none of my business,” he dodges the question.

“Not what I asked, Sir Arthur.”

“...If it is true, it would…confuse me,” he admits. I tilt my head.

“And why’s that?”

“Well…if it’s this unspoken knowledge between you all, it feels unfair. I understand you have obligations. Get married, continue the bloodline. But it’s…if it were true, that future wouldn’t make you happy, would it?” he manages to stumble through the sentiment. I didn’t know he had it in him. Maybe I’m human to him yet.

“My happiness is below my duty in my family’s eyes. You are right when you say it’s none of your business. Everyone makes it none of their business. What I am doesn’t matter. It never has.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, maybe it’s all rumors. I could be the straightest bloke you’ve ever met,” I tease in an attempt to lighten the mood. He smiles weakly. The prospect of my future has unexpectedly affected him. He’s depressed greatly, his shoulders slouching to match his lowered head. My fate hasn’t bothered me in years, but his reaction to it brings the injustice of it all crashing back. He’s right. It’s bloody unfair. It’s downright deplorable. I either fulfill my duty and forgo a joyful future, or I lose everything and disappoint a family I have already needlessly tortured for the mere chance of a life I may enjoy. It should depress any sane person, but it hasn’t. It doesn’t depress anyone. No one except Sir Arthur.

“I did say I’d tell you a bedtime story,” I offer.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks. I grin. He’s catching on already.

“Not really. I’ve got to take the chance while you’re feeling sorry for me,” I tease. That makes him smile for real this time.

“Make it quick. I’m exhausted,” he says in an attempt to keep up his “tough guy” act, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen right through it.

“When I was fifteen, I had one of my servants buy me pot,” I start. He gasps, his eyes widening. I do enjoy watching his face contort with every word.

“Excuse me?” is all he can think to say.

“She was a poor little old lady, too. That’s why I picked her. She’d do anything for me. To make a long story short, she got arrested, I never got my weed, and –”

“No more servants,” he finishes.

“Precisely.”

“Serves you right,” he decides, huffing through his nose. As he grapples with the job he’s been forced into, I look at his left beside table and spot two framed photos perched atop it facing towards the bed. I pick up the one closest to me and turn it over. Arthur’s in some park, standing and smiling beside a young girl with an equally radiant grin. She’s got long, wavy hair the same color as Arthur’s and equally mysterious dark eyes. There’s a shine to Arthur in the photo that he doesn’t currently possess.

“Sister?” I ask, looking up. He looks up from the floor and finds my eyes. He nods.

“...Yes. Annie,” he mumbles.

“She’s beautiful,” I comment. She looks just like him.

“She is. Just finished ninth grade.” He’s gotten short with me, but not the angry sort of short that I’ve been getting used to all day. Now he sounds exhausted, deflated, still even a little somber.

“It must be hard on her to be away from you,” I say quietly, taking the risk of overstepping.

“...It’s worse on me. She’s angry, but she understands why I’m here,” he says.

“And you? Do you understand why you’re here?” I ask. He stares at me for a beat, then eyes the photograph still in my hands.

“Yes,” he decides. I put the photo down and pick up the second one. It’s another one of Annie. She’s much younger in this one, maybe nine or ten. Her hair is a lot shorter as well, piled up in a curly pixie cut atop her head. Her smile isn’t quite as wide in this one, but it’s still radiant.

“She should come visit sometime if my parents allow it. I could show her all of the secret rooms,” I offer.

“Mh-mh,” he barely makes an effort to make the sound.

“You know, you don’t have to be polite. You haven’t been all day. Tell me to go and I’ll go,” I say.

“Because you’ve proven to excel at listening thus far,” he deadpans.

‘“Excel?’ ‘Thus?’ Such fancy words. You’re a better prince than I am. Want to trade places?”

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

I take the obvious hint and stand up, nodding to him as I do. “Goodnight, Sir Arthur,” I say with a dramatic bow. He rolls his eyes.

“Just Arthur,” he reiterates.

“Just Eames,” I counter.

“Fine. Go to bed, Eames.”

“Dream of me, Arthur,” I say with a wink.

Chapter Text

The backseat of the Rolls-Royce is quiet despite my frequent failed conversation starters. My target is to my right with his nose in a book, as it has been for most of the morning. Even when he came to retrieve me earlier, he had the thing under his arm and read while I forced more tea down his throat. He’s at least less formal today. He’s still wearing a white collared shirt and black slacks, but he’s ditched the tie and suit jacket. That’s in part due to our task today. I, on the other hand, am all suited up in my ridiculous uniform: a black polo, white riding pants, a dark belt, and tall black boots. Despite looking and feeling ridiculous, I don’t mind today’s plans. I don’t particularly like horses, and they do not seem to agree with me, either. It’s all for another formality: I am supposed to ride into the venue on a grand white horse as my entrance to the Dahlia Ball, and therefore I must meet the poor creature who will be turned into a symbol of my great virtue, or something like that. But going here means I get to see another one of the few souls in my life whom I can tolerate.

“Ever ridden a horse?” I ask Arthur in another attempt to get his attention.

“I’m from Minnesota,” he answers with his nose still in the novel.

“...So that’s a no, then,” I assume.

“It’s a no.”

“Is that book more entertaining than I am?” I ask. He finally looks up at me.

“It’s certainly quieter,” he deadpans.

“What’s Minnesota like? I’ve never been,” I try to keep his attention. He gives in and closes his book.

“It’s cold. But pretty. A lot of lakes,” he answers.

“If you could live anywhere, where would you pick?” I ask.

“Are you bored?”

“What gave me away?”

The car comes to a sudden stop, followed by Saito announcing, “We’re here.” Arthur and I get out of the car almost in tandem and are immediately greeted by the darling smell of manure. The horse ranch is almost overwhelmingly large. It’s where the royal family gets all of its horses and is also a vendor for the other despicably wealthy folks in this country. There’s a large, rustic building where men can go argue with the receptionist or sip whisky while pretending to give a rat’s arse about riding. That building has never been my destination. Instead, the three of us walk through the fence leading into the main pasture. It’s acres and acres of open space populated with dozens of horses grazing the land. It’s a rare sunny day in London, meaning plenty of the creatures are out and about. Arthur eyes the landscape as we walk towards the “royal” stable, one of the many stables on the property. This one houses only the most expensive, impressive animals who regardless shit and eat the same as the rest of them.

Once we step inside, I’m greeted by the first truly welcome sight of the day, besides maybe when Arthur burned his tongue on his tea. Yusuf Rallus turns away from the horse he’s tending to and shoots me a huge grin. I speed walk over to him and pull him into a tight hug, laughing as I do.

“Christ, it’s been too long, mate,” I say as he returns the hug.

“You’re telling me! Dude, I can’t believe that video. That was awesome,” he marvels. I back out of his arms and punch him in the shoulder.

“I nearly got my head lobbed off for that!” I complain, crossing my arms.

“What’d they pick instead of the guillotine?” he asks. I point behind me with my thumb.

“That wanker,” I say. Yusuf looks over my shoulder, his dark eyes shining as he does. I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. His father used to be my parents’ “royal horsekeeper,” meaning that Mr. Rallus was at the palace often. He would bring along his young son, who was coincidentally my age, and let us run wild together. Many of my firsts in life were with Yusuf: first drink, first bar crawl, first bender…perhaps it's only my alcoholic firsts. He has nonetheless grown up into a far better man than I have. He’s taken over his father’s job and does so happily. There’s a passionate streak about him that I have never possessed.

“He’s your type,” he says plainly, but quietly.

“Don’t I know it,” I commiserate.

“He a prick?”

“Most of the time. But he’s got a sense of humor,” I admit.

“Where’s the horse?” Saito calls out to us. We both turn around reluctantly. Saito’s standing with his arms crossed and his foot tapping. Arthur is right beside him, flipping through his little notebook which contains my life plans for the next eternity.

“Nice to see you too, Mr. Saito,” Yusuf says and takes a breath. “Right this way.” He turns back around and leads the three of us to the very back of the stable. He motions towards the last horse on the left: a large, white fellow who looks entirely displeased with our presence. It whinnies as we all stare at it quietly.

“He’s an Arabian beauty, only ten years old. A little unruly, but he fits her majesty’s request perfectly. You want to give him a test run?” Yusuf offers.

“Not particularly,” I answer.

“I was asking to be polite. You have to,” Yusuf says, and he almost sounds actually sorry. I nod, accepting my fate, as he opens the stall door and leads the horse to the front of the stable where he’ll get my new best friend all suited up. As he does, I look at Arthur, who is staring at the horse with mild trepidation. He’s got his notebook held close against his chest and his eyes trained on the horse as if it’ll turn around and bite him if he looks away. I stifle a chuckle, walking closer to him and elbowing him in the ribs.

“Not a fan of animals?” I assume.

“...I haven’t been around them very much,” he admits, pocketing his notebook.

“Say, how much of my life is already planned out in that little book?” I can’t help but ask.

“Everything up until John’s birthday,” he confirms. I groan.

“Which I’m sure will be a grand affair. After that, they’ll finally have a way to get rid of me,” I grumble.

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, tilting his head.

“Eames! We’re ready for you!” Yusuf interrupts. I ignore Arthur’s question and walk over to the now saddled horse. He looks even more unhappy now that he’s been all dressed up in human modifications. I nonetheless approach him from the front slowly with my left hand raised. He exhales through his nose loudly and shakes his head a little, but still lets me pet his muzzle.

“What’s his name?” I ask as I dare to pet his neck. He luckily accepts the gesture.

“I’ve been calling him Neptune, but he’s technically yours if you want to change it,” Yusuf answers.

“That’s fine. Don’t want to confuse the bloke,” I decide. After taking another minute to ensure he won’t immediately throw me, I lead Neptune out of the stable and mount him once we reenter the pasture. Horse riding is another one of the several tasks that I’ve gotten decent at simply through repetition. It would be rather embarrassing if I still couldn’t ride a horse after two decades of practice. As Neptune and I trot around the pasture, I look back out to the men I’ve left behind. Saito is on his phone tapping away, probably pretending to do something important while actually playing a mobile game. More interestingly, Yusuf and Arthur have started up some sort of conversation. I’m already a few meters away from them, but I can see Arthur smiling a little as Yusuf animatedly tells some story. What a knob. I spent all morning trying to get him to talk and no dice, but the second Yusuf says a word he’s all ears?

I ride back closer to the two of them for no particular reason. As I approach, the traitors quiet down and look up at me. “He’s a good horse, right?” Yusuf says.

“Sure, he’s ace. What are you two gabbing about?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur says dismissively. I raise an eyebrow.

“Hiding things from me already, darling?” I say. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. Ha ha. Paying attention to me now, huh?

“I’ll hand you a helmet, and then you can run him around. Get him used to you giving him commands,” Yusuf suggests.

“All we’ll be doing together is walking down the road in front of some arseholes, but sure,” I give in. There’s no point in arguing. As soon as Yusuf walks away, Arthur goes right back into his pocket and whips out his little notebook.

“Hey, prat. There can’t be anything new in there,” I goad him. He looks up.

“I’m not your circus monkey. Amuse yourself,” he complains.

“Is Yusuf better company than I am?” I ask.

“Are you jealous?” he suggests. I raise my eyebrows. Got some fight in you after all, Sir Arthur?

“Only a little, love. You are mine, after all,” I tease. The redness rushes to his cheeks even faster than normal.

“This is why I ignore you,” he grumbles. Before I can think of a quip, Yusuf returns with the helmet I really should’ve been wearing this whole time and hands it up to me. I put it on, salute the boys, and ride off. I slowly move Neptune and I from a trot to a canter, riding closer to the cluster of horses a few meters away. Maybe he’ll want to see his pals. Speaking of, I suppose I should stop trying to be chummy with Arthur. We surely aren’t friends. He’s an employee just like everyone else around me. Sure, Mal, Cobb, and Saito are all kind to me, but in the end, they’re being paid exorbitant amounts to do so. They may actually all have some care for me deep down, but would they if they had to be around me for free? At least Arthur’s not lying. He’s here to do a job.

As I approach a few free-roaming horses, two of them start an argument. I slow down as a large black horse loudly whinnies at his opponent. The other, a smaller palomino, whinnies back. They snort at each other, now fully neighing. Neptune huffs and takes a step back, then forward again.

“Hey, take it easy,” I warn him, but he only gets more riled up. The black horse rears up, loudly neighing, as the palomino turns around and kicks its back feet. Neptune himself rears suddenly, snapping down on the bit so hard that he audibly cracks the metal.

“Ey! Easy, easy!” I order, petting his neck. The two brawling arseholes repeatedly kick and bite at each other. With their every movement, Neptune gets more unruly. I pull hard on the reins in an attempt to turn him around, but he neighs loudly and refuses. Before I can even think to say some words of encouragement, the palomino turns right towards us in an attempt to flee his attacker.

“Oh, Christ –” Neptune turns hard to the right and bolts, neighing and kicking up his back feet. He’s gotten us out of the line of fire, but I am far from his number one concern. He whips around wildly, leaving me at his mercy as I hold on to the reins for dear life. He runs us in circles, throwing me around, until he spots the black horse running right towards us. Neptune rears up hard, so hard my arse leaves the saddle, and gallops forward, promptly throwing me from his back. I hit the ground hard with a loud thud, pain radiating through my entire body. I groan and roll onto my side in an attempt to get some air back into my lungs, closing my eyes as I do.

I don’t even have time to open my eyes and see the owner of the footsteps rapidly coming towards me before a hand touches my back. “Jesus Christ, you all right?!” Arthur shouts just as my eyes finally flutter open. He’s breathing hard, likely from the run over here, and shaking just a little. His eyes are wide and his pupils are dilated, matching his parted lips and furrowed eyebrows. I force myself to sit up and take a deep breath.

“...Buggar got cross at me,” I mumble. Arthur sighs heavily as if he was half-expecting me to have bitten my tongue off. He’d probably prefer me mute.

“I saw. I hate horses. You hurt?” he asks.

“Just my pride.”

“C’mon,” he says, offering me his hands. I take the help and let him pull me to my feet. Perhaps unconsciously, he dusts off my shirt, swiping his hands first on my chest and then my sleeves. I let him put his hand on my right shoulder with his left hand and lean over to look at my back. He continues his ritual, using his free hand to dust off my back while keeping his other hand on my shoulder.

“Whatcha doing?” I can’t help but ask. He freezes for a split second, then practically leaps back and takes his hands off of me entirely. He stares at me with still wide eyes like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“I –”

“Appreciate it, mate,” I stop his excuse, briefly patting him on the cheek. I could tease him. In fact, I have a dozen ideas coming to mind. I could do a bit about him feeling me up, clearly trying to get into my pants, or even quip about how fast he got over here to help me. But…he’s still gasping for air and looking at me like I’ve just survived a bombing. Perhaps I oughta leave him alone and let him catch his breath. Maybe I’ve really got a protector now. Here I was thinking that part of the job description was a joke.

“Fuck, Eames! I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“S’okay, I’m still alive. You didn’t kill a prince today,” I interrupt Yusuf as he finally reaches us.

“I’ll go get him and give him a piece of my mind. Go to the rider’s club and ask Jackie for something to wear, she’ll help you out,” Yusuf says. I nod to him and then look at Arthur.

“Come on, then,” I say to him.

“Right behind you.”

~~~

Arthur’s still waiting right outside the bathroom door, twiddling his thumbs as I walk out. I’m now in a brown collared shirt and dark trousers, which is not much of an upgrade from my previous outfit. I’ve at least scrubbed most of the dirt off my face, finishing Arthur’s earlier work. I nod to the bloke, who nods back and follows me into the lounge. This lounge is accessible only to the wealthiest, premium members of the ranch, a bill I luckily fit. We sit down at one of the tables across from each other on leather armchairs, settling into the empty room quickly. I doubt this room gets more than a couple of occupants a month. It just sits here and collects dust, being somehow far too grand for the slightly less rich blokes to access. There are so many bloody boring places made exciting through a lack of accessibility. If the general public were actually allowed into some “royal” locations, they’d quickly realize how much of a sham it all is. I suppose that’s why it’s off-limits.

Almost as soon as we sit down, a fancily-dressed waiter approaches the table. Where did he come from? “Anything to drink, your Highness?” the old bloke asks.

“Gin and tonic. Cheers, darling,” I say. Arthur squints at me as he mumbles his request for a water.

“Something the matter?” I ask as the waiter quickly walks away.

“It’s not even noon,” he says, checking his watch.

“I just fell off a horse,” I counter. He sighs. We’re quiet for a beat before he clears his throat.

“Earlier, you said that your family will be able to get rid of you after John turns eighteen. What did you mean?” he asks. Still thinking about that, is he?

“Everyone and their mother expects me to abdicate the throne the second he’s of age. While he’s still a minor, it would be unfathomable for me to do so. If my father were to croak and I were gone, they’d have to put a Regent in place. A royal family so dysfunctional that they can’t rule even while having two sons doesn’t look the best,” I explain.

“So, will you? Abdicate?” he asks. I shrug.

“They desperately hope I will. That makes me not want to,” I say with a snicker.

“But, I mean…shouldn’t you?” he says slowly.

“You think I’m unfit to be King?” I challenge, raising my eyebrows.

“Not necessarily. But you’ve clearly shown how much you hate all of this,” he says. I table that first remark, promising myself to go back to it, before replying,

“If I abdicate, they win. It would be like me saying, ‘fine, you were all right, I’m a foolish, petulant child who does not deserve my birthright.’”

“It’s not about winning. You’d get to leave, live your life how you want to,” he argues.

“It’s always about winning. Besides, I’m living how I want to now,” I argue back.

“Are you really?”

Before I can answer, the waiter comes back over with our drinks. I take a long sip of my gin as Arthur politely sips his water.

“I’ve got everything I could ever want at my fingertips,” I say, raising my glass.

“Everything but freedom.”

“With drinks like these, who needs freedom?” I say, downing my glass in one gulp. He sighs and takes another small sip of his water. So proper, Sir Arthur. He’s definitely calmed down since the falling incident. He’s reverted to his regular self, all buttoned up and neat. It makes me almost miss the sweaty man towering over me, watching helplessly as I roll in the dirt. At least that Arthur had life in him.

“You don’t think I’d be a terrible King?” I fulfill my promise, changing the conversation. He shakes his head.

“You’re…very odd, rowdy, and definitely have problems with authority. But you care about people. That’s a good start,” he says. I tilt my head.

“Who says I care about people?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“What else are you learning about me?” I ask, leaning forward in my chair to get closer to him. I lock my fingers together and rest my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my hands. He bites his lip and sits back a little further in his seat.

“I’ve learned that you revel in getting on people’s nerves,” he grumbles.

“Only yours, pretty boy,” I tease.

“What are you going to do when I stop reacting to your mocking?” he asks, his face heating up in a betrayal of the anger in his tone.

“I’ll get worse,” I assure him.

“You can’t get rid of me, you know,” he reminds me.

“Not trying to. I’ve actually become fond of you already. Never leave me, my savior,” I croon, attempting to grab his hand. He pulls his arms back and puts himself even further out of my reach, going so far as to put his hands behind his back.

“You are ‘fond’ of no one but yourself,” he grumbles.

“What happened to me caring about people?”

“Hunch was wrong.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that.”

Arthur stands up with a huff right as the door to the lounge opens. Yusuf enters with a grin right as Arthur walks towards the exit. “I’ll meet you in the car,” he says curtly. I scoff as he leaves the room. Yusuf watches him with a quirked head before taking his seat.

“Neptune’s settled. I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t realize he was that skittish. You want a different one?” he asks. I shake my head.

“It wasn’t his fault. He’ll do,” I say, still staring at the door.

“Did you upset him?” he asks, no longer talking about the horse.

“Something like that,” I answer.

“You know, he was asking about you. About how you and I met, what you were like as a kid, stuff like that.”

That gets my attention. I turn back to Yusuf, who gives me a closed-mouth grin. “Yeah? Naughty boy,” I mumble.

“He was checking you out on the horse,” he says.

“Buggar off,” I say with a scoff, rolling my eyes.

“I’m not kidding! He kept looking you up and down while we were talking,” he insists.

“Probably debating the best place to stab me.”

“No, man, he was undressing you with his eyes.”

“You think everyone is flirting with everyone else. You’re rotten, you know that?” I say, laughing as I lightly punch his shoulder. He laughs too, finally giving up the joke.

“You should come by more often. You know how many rich jerks I have to talk to all day? I’m tired of it. I should move to the countryside and leave all this royal shite behind,” Yusuf complains.

“Why don’t you?”

“Same reason you’re still here,” he says with a sigh.

“So, what’d you tell Arthur?” I pivot.

“Do not do this to yourself, man. You cannot sleep with an American employed by your parents. You’d actually get your head chopped off,” he says. My eyes widen with disbelief. Where’d he get that from?

“How dare you! I’m just curious! I wouldn’t shag Arthur if he were the last man on Earth. He is arrogant, egotistical, and, most importantly, pretty much hates my guts,” I say through a laugh.

“Really? Not even if he was the last man on Earth?”

“Definitely not.”

“You’re telling me that if he came on to you, you’d do nothing?”

“Oh, well, in that case I’d shag him,” I tease. He laughs hard, shakes his head, and kicks my leg under the table.

~~~

I stab at the unappetizing chunk of lobster floating around in my bowl, pushing it around and crashing it into the several other equally unappealing pieces. I got through about two bites of the salad and didn’t even bother with the rice. The first family dinner with a new royal guard is always formative. Arthur and I managed to get out of it last night, as my father was apparently too “unwell” to eat, though half of the time that means he just couldn’t be bothered to attend. We’re all clearly nothing without the dear King, so we’re left to our own devices when he refuses our meal. For me, that means avoiding whatever the servants make Johnny and cooking for myself instead. If only that were the case tonight. Instead, we’re all seated around the large table being watched by my likeness, sitting closer together than we ever normally would. My father is, of course, at the head, but I am right to his left instead of across the table. Arthur is next to me, politely eating his slop, Johnny is across from him doing the same, and my mother is staring me down directly across from me. We’ve always got a few minutes of grace before the onslaught begins. And by grace, I sometimes mean that literally. Johnny and my mother will often say a prayer, one that my father and I do not participate in. At least he and I have one thing in common besides our disdain for this event.

“John, how was the meeting with Cynthia?” my mother begins. Johnny fully chews and swallows his food before answering,

“It went well. She will secure the venue.” Cynthia is a glorified party planner who will surely make Johnny’s big bash the perfect event. She is not on the short list of employees who are fond of me.

“Excellent. Mr. Galvit, how did everything go at the ranch today?” my mother turns her attention. Arthur looks up from his plate quickly and nearly drops his fork. I assume he was expecting to spend this meal in polite silence. If only he were so lucky.

“Uh, fine. No problems,” he answers. My mother shifts in her chair.

“Really?” she challenges. Arthur briefly glances at me, his brows furrowed. Oh, poor boy. I did not properly warn him about this.

“...Yes, everything went okay. The horse is sufficient,” Arthur says slowly.

“Mr. Saito informed me that Edward fell off his horse,” my mother says almost exactly as Arthur ends his sentence. Arthur perks up.

“Oh, yes, but he’s –”

“It will not do you any good to hide things from us, Mr. Galvit. Your allegiance is to us, not him,” my mother interrupts.

“I wasn’t –”

“Mr. Saito told us you ran out towards some other horses, got your horse too excited, and got thrown,” my mother interrupts poor Arthur again, turning to me. I highly doubt that’s how Saito phrased it. My mother is excellent at “extrapolating.”

“And that’s supposed to be my fault?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. This would be a new low. I never thought I’d get punished for getting injured.

“Why would you run towards the other horses? You should’ve known better! If you make a mistake like that at the Dahlia Ball, you will ruin the event!” she scolds.

“If I may, he didn’t –”

“Mr. Galvit, you will speak when you are spoken to,” my father interrupts. His voice booms across the room like a crack of thunder. Arthur bites his lip and looks down at the table.

“If a horse threw Johnny, you’d have the animal shot,” I grumble.

“Because John would not be thrown through his own error!” my mother snaps. I briefly glance at Johnny. He’s doing well at hiding it, but he’s smiling a little. Bloody bastard.

“Let’s move on. Edward will not repeat the mistake,” my father mercifully puts an end to that line of scolding. My mother inhales and exhales deeply, takes a dainty bite of her salad, and sips her water. I briefly toy with throwing a piece of lobster across the table at Johnny, but I figure I’m in too much hot water already.

“Mr. Cobb says your lessons do not have to be continued,” my mother starts again, still looking at me.

“Aren’t you proud?” I dare. She looks away from me and to Johnny.

“He will continue private lessons with you,” she says. Johnny swallows hard.

“I apologize for my slow learning,” he says, bowing his head with polite shame. What a suck up.

“I expect you to progress faster in the coming lessons now that you are on your own. Mr. Cobb told me what happened in your last lesson,” my mother says, quickly darting her eyes back to me. Here we go again. “Edward, must you always sabotage your brother?”

“Are you kidding me? Did Cobb tell you what he called me?” I ask incredulously, dropping my utensils.

“It does not matter what John said to you. You should never resort to violence. Your royal guard had to pull you off of him! He is still a boy!” my mother shouts.

“Oh, come off it. I didn’t do anything,” I say with an eye roll.

“Because you were stopped!” she shouts again.

“I, for one, apologize for my actions. I’m sorry, Edward. I should have known better than to rise to your attempts at riling me up,” Johnny says, once again bowing his head as if it’s an actual apology.

“He called me a faggot, by the way,” I blurt out. My mother gasps.

“We do not speak like that at this table!” she shouts.

“Oh, so he can call me a slur, but if I, the actual faggot, say it, I’m punished?” I argue.

“Mr. Cobb did not mention that in his report. It’s your word versus John’s,” my father interrupts.

“Right. Because that always ends in my favor,” I grumble.

“I would not say such a thing,” Johnny lies.

“I heard it,” Arthur pipes up. Everyone turns to him. He’s managing a poker face, but he’s gripping his silverware so hard I fear he may actually break it the same way Neptune broke his bit earlier today. His foot’s tapping rapidly right next to mine, his knee bouncing against the bottom of the table.

“No one asked –”

“Did you really?” my father overpowers my mother.

“Yes,” Arthur says with a nod. Johnny’s face has gone bright red. It takes all of my willpower to not giggle with glee. It’s not very often that he’s told off.

“John, control yourself and your language. Edward, stop picking fights. If Edward ever needs further lessons, they will be solo. The matter is finished,” my father concludes. Once again, he is my savior not out of love but brevity. The sooner we finish this, the sooner he can go drink himself to sleep. Still, I can appreciate him continuously swooping in. I think my mother would rip into me all night if she could. The woman herself sighs and turns her attention back to her food. For a few minutes, everyone except for me quietly eats. There is no pleasant small talk at the dinner table. No one asks how Johnny’s day at school was, or how I slept last night. It’s all business, all the time. I turn and watch Arthur as he moves his salad around on the plate. His foot is still going so fast I’m afraid it may actually take off and fly away. He’s at least having a human reaction. Normally, my royal guard will take the punches they’re thrown and watch apathetically as I take my own.

“Edward, why aren’t you eating?” my mother asks.

“You know very well I don’t like seafood,” I grumble.

“This is what will be served at the Dahlia Ball. It would do you well to get used to it,” she says, not even looking up from her bowl.

“Do tell me, why is food I don’t like being served at my ball?” I ask. She looks up.

“It is not ‘your ball.’ It is the suitor’s ball. The goal is to find you a suitable wife, not satisfy your palate,” she says curtly.

“Forgive me. I thought maybe I’d get to enjoy my last meal before you force some poor woman into my bed. I assume Johnny’s birthday will have all his least favorite foods, too?” I challenge.

“That is a very important family occasion! Your party was just as extravagant. You would’ve known if you had gone to it instead of stealing a private jet and flying to Dubai for two weeks,” my mother complains. Johnny stifles a laugh.

“You wouldn’t let me invite Yusuf! My only friend wasn’t allowed at my bloody party, so why the hell would I go?”

“Yusuf is a good man, but he was not fit for an event like that! I was already giving him too much leeway by letting him run around with you throughout your childhood. I’m still sorely paying for that,” my mother mumbles through the end of her last sentence, scowling.

“Right. Shame on you for letting me have a little bit of fun as a teenager,” I grumble. She slams her silverware on the table and glares at me, shouting,

“You act like you were kept prisoner! You think you can convince Mr. Galvit you’re just a lowly victim, that we treat you with ‘cruelty’ for no reason? You make poor choices and you are punished for them!”

“God forbid I enjoy my life!”

“You have obligations! You are a prince! How do you still not understand that?! You make the same mistakes over and over again! The drinking, the partying, the sneaking around. If you could just be a little more like John, then –”

“Oh, be a little more like Johnny! There’s an idea! Why have I never thought of that? Christ, I better dye my hair!” I interrupt.

“That is enough! We will not rehash this argument again! I am sick and tired of it! Eleanor, you refuse to accept that Edward will not change, and it is exhausting. Let him do as he pleases. Once John is of age, Edward will abdicate the throne, and we will no longer have to police his life,” my father shouts. Everyone freezes. My mother hangs her head and shivers hard, though not from any sudden cold. No one dares to say a word. “We have one more matter to attend to. Mr. Galvit, you have been with Edward for two days now. How has he been treating you?” my father asks. Here’s Arthur’s chance. He could really ream me now. It’s not like I can’t handle it. He really does deserve to get back at me. I’ve been particularly awful to him. He, unlike everyone else at this table, actually does have a right to be cross at me.

“...Fine. No complaints,” Arthur answers. I have to mentally warn my jaw not to drop. Is he…protecting me?

“Really?” my mother once again challenges him. Arthur nods.

“He’s been polite, courteous. No problems,” he stands his ground.

“Let me remind you. You are not on his side, you are not here to protect him. You work for the King and Queen of England. You are contractually obligated to tell us the truth. You have absolutely no allegiance to him,” my mother warns. It’s actually more than a warning. It’s a threat. She wants him to turn against me, to crack under pressure and chew me out.

“You asked me how Eames has been treating me, and I am telling you he is treating me well,” Arthur asserts, staring her dead in the eyes. Wow. He’s a tough bastard. My parents don’t scare him, not in the slightest.

“I do not care what he told you to call him. You will, at the very least, call him Edward, if not your Highness,” my father interrupts.

“Of course. My apologies,” Arthur says through gritted teeth.

“Fine. If that’s the truth, so be it. Edward, Mr. Galvit, you’re excused. We have things to discuss with John in private,” my mother says. I glance at Arthur’s still half-full plate.

“Arthur’s not done ea–”

“You are both excused,” my mother doubles down.

Arthur and I stand up in tandem, quickly turning towards the door. All in all, that could’ve gone worse. It really wasn’t any worse than it is normally. Actually, it was a little better. Against all odds and despite me giving him no motivation to do so, Arthur stood up for me. He looked my mother in the eyes and lied. He called me by my middle name to her face. No one has ever done that for me. Even Mal, Saito, and Cobb, all who follow my chosen name request, switch back when my parents are present. Perhaps Arthur did it by accident. A reflex. He’ll learn to do otherwise. But, still. It felt…odd. It’s not normal for me to have someone on my side at that table. Arthur’s made himself clear. He’s known me for forty-eight hours, I have been at best obnoxious and at worst plain rude to him through all of those hours, and yet he has taken to defending me.

As soon as we leave the room, Arthur exclaims, “Holy shit!” I raise my eyebrows and turn to him, but he’s already walking fast ahead of me in the direction of the stairs.

“You –”

“I can’t believe that! How can they talk to you like that?!” he shouts through the hallway. I speed up until I’m by his side, struggling to keep up with his furious pace.

“It’s really not –”

“You fell off a goddamn horse! Their first question should’ve been, ‘Are you okay?’ You could’ve been seriously hurt! Don’t they know that? Don’t they give a damn?” he continues shouting over me.

“Darling, it’s –”

“And don’t get me started with that shit with John! He pretends like he’s all high and mighty and then lies right to everyone’s faces! And they just believe him!”

“They –”

“It’s like they’ve got no empathy! They weren’t concerned when you ditched your own birthday party? They don’t wonder why you run away? It’s plain as fucking day that you’re scared, that you’re overwhelmed, that you’ve got no one on your side here. Who wouldn’t run? Jesus Christ, how are you still here? I could never –”

“Arthur!” I finally manage to get through. He stops walking and turns to me, breathing hard. His eyes are wide and animated, matching his heaving shoulders. “Relax. I’m used to it. It would do you better to side with them,” I say. He rapidly shakes his head.

“No, fuck that. You can’t ask me to sit and let you get berated every night. Is it like that every night?”

“Sometimes it’s quicker.”

“They won’t even make food you like!”

“Arthur, please, let it go. You’ll have hypertension by the end of the week if you always react this strongly,” I say, unconsciously putting my hand on his shoulder.

“How do you stand it?” he asks. I shrug.

“It gets old fast.”

“It’s not fair!”

“Maybe not,” I mumble. It hasn’t really occurred to me in several years. I do deserve a lot of the scolding. But perhaps not all of it. It’s easier to believe I’ve earned the cruelty.

“I should’ve said more, I should’ve –”

“No, no, don’t do that. They’ll fire you in a second. You’re of no use to me in the States,” I interrupt. My stomach drops at the thought of him being whisked away. I hardly know him, but he’s the closest thing I’ve had to an ally in this place in a long time. He sighs and nods. “Come on, I’ll make us a real dinner in my flat.”

~~~

Arthur calms down on my couch as I take up residency in the kitchen. We haven’t said much since entering. He briefly went back to his room and retrieved his book, which he’s been buried in again as I cook. He looks almost too in place in my abode. He’s dressed down, now in jeans and a t-shirt similar to my own outfit. I briefly look at my simmering pot to make sure it hasn’t set on fire, and then bring my gaze back to Arthur. By some grace of god, he’s got his glasses on again. The way he’s leaning over the book makes his hair droop down onto his forehead. My hand itches with the urge to push it up out of his face, maybe run my thumb down his cheek as well. I shiver at the thought. I really like those bloody glasses. Sometimes when he turns a page, he’ll unconsciously bite his lip with concentration to make sure he’s only got one page under his fingertip. Does he have a little stubble growing in? I shake my head as I shiver again. Remember, Eames. Egotistical. Arrogant. American. The last man on Earth. How does one start an apocalypse?

Despite my distraction, I manage to finish the meal without any issues. I scoop a serving into each bowl from the large pot, grab two forks, and walk over to the couch. Arthur perks up and closes his book, straightening up a little.

“Smells good. You didn’t have to do this. I could’ve eaten with the other employees,” he says.

“You’re supposed to be glued to me, remember? You cannot leave your post,” I remind him. He nods, happy for the excuse.

“What is it?” he asks as he takes his bowl and fork from my hand.

“Chicken Salona. Learned it in Dubai,” I say. He nods, takes a bite, and hums.

“Damn good,” he mutters with his mouth still full.

“You flatter me, love,” I say. His face heats a little, this time without me even trying to get it to. What did I say?

“What was Dubai like?” he asks once he’s actually swallowed. I shrug.

“Nice, I suppose. When I wasn’t eating, I was pissed out of my mind, so I don’t remember much of it,” I admit.

“Jesus. A seventeen-year-old running around blackout drunk in Dubai. No one came looking for you?” he asks.

“Not until two weeks had gone by. I’m still not sure why. Maybe Saito convinced them I needed a vacation, or maybe they were just too busy with Johnny,” I answer. He scoffs, but says nothing. We eat the meal in comfortable silence. If nothing else, I at least know how to take care of myself. If Johnny were thrown out and put in a beautiful home by his lonesome, he’d still starve to death. He doesn’t even clean his flat on his own. There’s not a thing he can’t get someone else to do for him. Once we’ve both finished eating, I take our bowls to the sink and deposit them there, padding back over to the couch.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that,” he restates.

“I enjoy cooking,” I say, waving my hand at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why Eames? Do you just not like Edward?” he finally asks what I’ve been waiting for.

“My full name is Edward James Eames Stuart. Edward is my father’s middle name, James is his first name, and Stuart is the family name. But Eames? No one really knows where they got it from. Maybe it was from my mother’s labor-induced lunacy, or maybe it’s an old family name, or maybe it’s a spelling mistake,” I explain.

“So it’s the only part of your name that’s yours.”

“You’re pretty smart for an American,” I tease. He rolls his eyes, but smiles.

“And you’re pretty blunt for a Brit. Aren’t you guys supposed to be proper?” he says. Is he…teasing me? The Arthur sitting with me on this couch might as well be a different person from the man sitting in the car with me this morning. It’s like night and day. I lightly elbow him and snicker.

“Most of us are, but it missed me. At least I’ve still got the sexy accent.”

He exhales and says, “Sure.”

“Aw, come on! You don’t think it’s an attractive accent?”

“...I guess, but don’t all Americans think that?” he admits. I dramatically “A-ha!” and poke him on the shoulder.

“You think my accent is hot! I knew it!” I tease. He groans and glares at me.

“Not yours specifically, ass,” he grumbles.

“Don’t get shy on me now, darling.”

“If you keep this up, I’m going,” he says, attempting to stand up. I put my hand on his shoulder and force him back down.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Let’s watch a movie,” I suggest. He tilts his head.

“...Together?” he says like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard. I cough and swallow hard.

“Well, no one’s forcing you. But I can put on something American. It’ll help the homesickness,” I offer. He stares at me like he can no longer understand English. But then, there’s that thoughtful look in his eyes again, the same look he gave me when I scolded Mal for her aggression. It’s almost like he’s trying to see right through me, trying to solve all of my sentences like some sort of convoluted puzzle. He unconsciously pushes his glasses up as he stares, and my stomach flips. Christ, his lips look so soft, especially when he’s looking at me like this. I want to put my thumb on that lower lip, feel it under my finger tip, and suck it into my mouth. I have to force myself to turn away and stand up so I don’t do something I’ll regret, shivering hard as I do. This movie is a bad idea. He’s just starting to warm up to the idea of not hating me, but that will change quickly if I pounce on him. I can’t. He’s our employee, he’s definitely straight, and he barely tolerates me. Last man on Earth. Last bloody man.

“I’ll find something,” I manage, walking over to the console under the mounted TV. I open a cabinet full of DVDs, moving my fingers across the titles until I find the US section. “You like rom-coms?” I ask.

“Absolutely not,” he answers quickly. Good. More answers like that, and maybe he’ll eventually stop being so goddamn attractive.

“Tough,” I decide, taking out 13 Going On 30 from the shelf. I turn on the TV, pop in the disc, and settle back down on the couch. Arthur sits a respectable amount away from me. Good. He really should stay there. This is pathetic. It was easier when I thought he was still a prick. He just had to go and defend me, didn’t he?

“What’s this about?” he asks, motioning towards the TV.

“Just watch,” I say, dismissively waving my hand.

“You’re childish,” he complains.

“And you’re impatient. Now shut up and pay attention,” I fire back. He huffs, but doesn’t say anything more.

As the movie goes by, I start to get more comfortable in his presence. We started off with some lively commentary, but as time passed, we got quieter and quieter. Now we’re sitting politely paying attention. Right as Jennifer Garner realizes the crimes of her adult self, something touches my shoulder. I nearly jump up and look to my left. Oh, lord save me. Arthur has unconsciously rested his head on my shoulder. He’s breathing heavily with eyes closed, perfectly content in my warmth. Okay, no big deal. My royal guard is asleep on my shoulder, no problem. I nudge him a little in an attempt to get him to move, but that only makes him nuzzle closer to me, rubbing his cheek against my shoulder. Fucking hell. Last man on Earth? Really? He’s at least a couple ahead of the last man. More than a couple. No way he’s at the front. I can’t put him at the front. He is here to imprison me, to ruin my days, to destroy what semblance of freedom I have left. He’s also twitching in his sleep. My heart skips a beat.

I stay perfectly still through the final act of the movie, not daring to move a single muscle. When the credits finally roll, I dramatically raise my arms and stand up, forcing Arthur’s head off of me as he comes to. With luck, he won’t know what he was just doing. He opens his eyes slowly and attempts to rub them, instead smacking his glasses with his hands. He shakes at the motion and blinks hard, yawning. He raises his arms and, as a consequence, his shirt lifts up just a little. Fuck, he’s not just at the front of the line, he’s on a different line entirely. There’s all the men I wouldn’t mind shagging on one, and Arthur standing on his own “I’m going to bloody die from how attracted I am to you” line. He’s going to kill me. I haven’t found someone this good-looking in years. And it has to be him? Really? My parents truly have found the perfect way to punish me.

He stares for a second too long, squinting at me like he’s trying to remember my name. “Something the matter?” I can’t help but ask. He startles.

“No, no. Just…a dream,” he mutters.

“Film’s done.”

“I’m sorry. How much did I miss?” he asks, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s put me through over the past hour.

“Your homework is to rewatch it. Go on, go to bed. I’m sure I have a busy day tomorrow,” I say quickly, my hands on my hips. He nods and stands up.

“Thank you again for dinner. Good night,” he says, walking toward the door. Right as he grabs the handle, I call out to him,

“Why did you defend me?” He turns around and takes a deep breath.

“Maybe if they started with asking about how you've been treating me, I would’ve been honest. But…you deserved a break after all of that,” he says.

“Did I really? Deserve a break?” I ask.

“It’s sad that you have to ask that,” he says, then turns and walks out the door.

Chapter Text

I throw my dart haphazardly at the board looming ahead of me, just barely managing to not put a hole in the wall. Ari lets out a howl of a laugh as I grumble under my breath and collect my borderline weapons from their impossible-to-hit target.

“You were not this terrible last time,” she teases. I stick out my tongue.

“Both of you have been cheating,” I accuse, turning to Yusuf as he scribbles my new score down on a piece of paper. He’s sitting at the bar on a red stool, his beer delicately placed on a coaster to his right. We’re in his father’s basement, which has been converted into what an American would call a speakeasy. After retiring from the royal horse industry, if that’s even a real career path, Mr. Rallus spent all of his free time creating this space. It’s a picturesque 1920s pub, complete with a fully stocked bar, a pool table, and of course, the dart board. Walking in here always feels like going through a time portal, and that’s not just because of the retro dark oak and red color scheme. Down here, the three of us are alone. Safe. I can’t get caught on camera or mobbed by a dozen nosy citizens. It’s one of the only places in this country that I can breathe in.

“We’re only better than you cause you haven’t been here in two weeks,” Yusuf argues, looking away from the paper.

“I can’t believe you guys hang out without me. I introduced you, you know,” I remind him.

“Tough luck. How’d you get out again?” Ari asks, waving her hand so I’ll move out of the way of the board. I obey and let her set up her shot.

“Third-floor bathroom window. It was not easy,” I grumble. Ari laughs a little and throws her first dart, managing to hit a twenty.

I really thought I was doomed after the end of Arthur’s second night, and not for reasons I could’ve previously guessed. I was mentally preparing myself for him to become the apple to my Eve, a constant temptation waved in my face. Lucky for me, he’s managed to piss me off enough to create a film of anger in front of my eyes when I look at him. After his uncharacteristic kindness at family dinner, I thought he’d continue going easy on me. So, on night three, I attempted to escape, only to find that the bastard had my windows bolted from the outside. He reinstated my mother’s past garden guard regime, though to a lesser extent, as well as increased overall security around the entire palace. It’s not just my windows that are bolted – I’ve tested dozens of them all around, and the only one he forgot about was that pesky bathroom window. Worse yet, he took Saito off the night shift after discovering his leniency towards me. He’s also put motion sensors around my door and every exit. All of this has been adored by my darling parents, which makes family dinner a better experience for everyone. I can’t get scolded when I can’t bloody do anything. He’s been here for two weeks now, and tonight was the first night I could actually escape.

“What about the motion sensors? How’d you get past those?” Ari asks as she throws her second dart, a double eleven. I outta throw my darts at her head.

“They have some blind spots. It’s been trial and error. I’ve drawn out a bloody map, for Christ’s sake,” I complain. Yusuf laughs.

“Arthur’s got some talent,” he says before taking a swig of his beer.

“He’s a prat, and he’s going to kill me if he finds out I’m out tonight,” I grumble. Ari throws her last dart, making the score now one hundred and twelve to two hundred and twenty-four. Guess who’s winning?

“I bet he knows already. He’s probably sitting in the dark on your couch waiting for you,” Yusuf teases as Ari collects her darts.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t think he has any hobbies besides his bloody books. Ruining my life is his sole purpose,” I say, rolling my first dart between my fingers as if I can somehow magically make it fly to the bullseye. After a minute of stalling, I throw the dart and hit the two – and not two points score-wise. I’ve stabbed the literal two marker on the board. Brilliant. Yusuf and Ari both howl with laughter, reveling in my error.

“He doesn’t even listen to music with words. It’s all classical shite,” I complain. The two arseholes look at each other and laugh harder. “What’s so funny? I’m not that terrible at this,” I grumble, lazily throwing my second dart. That’s the one that somehow hits a double sixteen. Ari sticks her tongue out at me, then clasps her hands together and brings them to the side of her head, popping up her left foot behind her.

“‘Oh, Arthur, you’re so smart and sexy! Please get drunk with me and whisk me off to America!’” she imitates me, doing a truly awful English accent.

“I do not sound like that!” I shout, throwing my third dart right into the wall.

“Hey, my dad is gonna kill me if he has to caulk any more holes! And you do sound like that,” Yusuf scolds.

“‘Arthur wears such nice suits! If only he’d let me take them off for him!’” Ari continues her imitation. Her accent’s getting worse, somehow.

“All you’ve been talking about all night is that jerk,” Yusuf adds on.

“You’re both insulting a very powerful member of the royal family. You should remember that,” I mock-threaten.

“You haven’t met him, right, Ari?” Yusuf asks, completely ignoring me.

“Haven’t yet had the pleasure,” she answers.

“He’s completely his type. Dark hair, dark eyes, looks mean, mumbles half of his sentences,” Yusuf continues, laughing.

“That is not my type,” I lie.

“Really? Because every man I’ve ever seen you pick up has looked exactly like that,” Yusuf counters.

“That’s a coincidence.”

“Why don’t you just get it over with and sleep with him?” Ari asks. Yusuf and I both turn to her rapidly. Yusuf at least knows the magnitude of what it’s like living in the royal hemisphere. He knows the risks.

“Do you really have to ask that?” I say incredulously.

“What’s stopping you?” she asks.

“Okay, let’s start with the fact that he hates me, and I’m not very fond of him, either. Yes, fine, he’s bloody handsome. But he’s a prick. He’s been hired to ruin my life and is mostly succeeding. Also, there is zero indication he’s even a little queer. He’s so professional that he’s probably celibate. But even if none of that was true, what makes you think I could get away with sleeping with my royal guard? I’d get exiled in a second, and he’d get fired. I’m not looking to ruin my life nor his. Anymore than they’re already ruined, anyway,” I explain. Ari smiles.

“You think he’s handsome,” she teases.

“That’s what you got out of that?!” I exclaim.

“Eames has a crush,” Yusuf joins in, elongating the word “crush.”

“I do not. Are we suddenly back in secondary school?” I grumble.

“‘Oh, Arthur, I fancy you! I need you right now!’” Ari resumes her imitation.

“I loathe the both of you.”

“We love you, too,” Yusuf says with a wink.

Once I’ve finished losing the game of darts, all of us crowd onto the red leather couch against the far wall. I’m on my third or fourth beer, mostly just listening to Ari tell stories about her final weeks of university. Luckily, she’ll be sticking around over the summer and then some to wait out her lease and apply for some masters program in the States. I hope the process takes an eternity. I can’t imagine this place without her anymore. I really may have to convince her to marry me.

“I’m telling you, this guy got up during the exam and fucking puked. I gagged at the sight of it,” Ari continues, grinning through the story. Yusuf’s been sitting and laughing like a hyena.

“That’d be me if I were a student,” I commiserate.

“What would you study?” Ari asks. I shrug.

“No clue. I don’t have many academic interests,” I admit.

“In other words, you’d be screwed if you were a real person like the rest of us,” Yusuf teases. I scoff.

“I’d find my way. I have many skills,” I say.

“Like?” Yusuf challenges.

“Lying,” I tease. He laughs again, clanking his fourth bottle down onto the floor next to his third one.

“I think you could do psychology. You’re good with people,” Ari says.

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” I ask.

“Who? Arthur?” she dares. I don’t answer, which is enough of a response. Yusuf’s previous laugh carries over into his new one. It’s a wonder he can still breathe.

“Oh my god, man. He’s become your life. You’re probably dreaming of him,” he teases. I don’t answer that, either. His eyes widen, and he stops laughing quickly. “No way. You’re dreaming of him?”

“...It’s not like I’m trying to,” I mutter.

“What kinds of dreams? Like, sex dreams?” he asks.

“No! Well, once, kind of. But mostly just…odd. Beautiful, serene places interrupted by him,” I mumble. I can’t believe I’m admitting this. It has been bothering me a little. I thought it was a fluke after the first time, but now it’s become a recurring issue. I almost wish they were wet dreams. At least those make sense. It feels far stranger to see him by my side at the seven wonders of the world.

“You know, they say you dream of your soulmate,” Ari teases.

“Oh, bugger off,” I say with a groan.

“I’m serious! It’s an actual theory, I swear! Ask him if he’s dreaming about you,” she insists.

“You are inconceivably ridiculous,” I mutter.

“That reminds me! You won’t believe how ridiculous my soft architecture professor is,” she says, perking up.

“What the hell is soft architecture?” Yusuf asks.

“Don’t get her started,” I warn him.

“I’m glad you asked!” she says dramatically. We all laugh, and for a moment, the smallness of my world doesn’t feel so suffocating.

~~~

I have to climb up a trellis and then a rooftop to get back to the third-floor bathroom, whose window is luckily still open. I sneak around all of the hidden sensors, hitting each specific spot to ensure none of them will go off. It’s not easy while a little buzzed, but I can manage it. Once again, I’m actually a little grateful for this setback. If it weren’t for me having to become a secret agent to leave my bedroom, Arthur would probably be insurmountable. That’s mostly because when he’s not scolding me, or ignoring me, or catching me in a lie, he’s pleasant company. He’s quiet a lot of the time, but if I can get him talking, he won’t stop. He’ll tell me about the books he’s reading, or about some composer he likes, or a restaurant from home he wishes he could go to. My favorite is listening to him talk about Annie. The way his eyes light up talking about going to her softball games, like the world is hers and he’s just glad to be a small aspect of it, makes him almost impossible to even look at. Thank bloody god for his annoyances. I don’t know how I’d stand him without them.

After what feels like an eternity of tiptoeing, I make it back to my flat door. I carefully crack it open, step inside, and immediately gasp. I fully jump backward into the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the maniac staring back at me. Arthur is standing with his arms crossed, fuming, his foot tapping furiously. His face is contorted with rage, his eyes bright with the desire to rip me to pieces and his eyebrows furrowed with enough malice to kill a country. Oh lord. He’s going to clobber me. A shiver runs down my spine. The way the kitchen light illuminates him makes him look almost godlike, the brightness reflecting off his back. He’s in his sleepwear, glasses on, which I would revel in if I weren’t afraid for my life.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” he says. His voice is eerily calm.

“...Good evening,” I manage. What else am I supposed to say? How do I get out of this?

“Are you crazy?! Do you know how worried I was?!” he shouts, that calmness quickly breaking. I tilt my head and scrunch up my face reflexively.

“Worried? About what?” I ask. He groans loudly and pulls at his hair in frustration.

“You fucking disappeared! No one even saw you leave! How can you go skulking out on the streets without any protection?! You could get assassinated! Don’t you know how many people want you dead?” he scolds. This is…new.

“That’s a comforting thought,” I say sarcastically.

“You think this is a joke? You think this is funny?” he says.

“What are you bloody talking about? Where are your priorities? I escaped your daft traps, your overpaid guards and your expensive little toys, and you’re groaning about my safety as if you actually give a damn about it?” I snap. He huffs, his face relaxing just a tad.

“My job is to protect you!” he shouts. I roll my eyes.

“Cut the shite. You know damn well that’s not what you’re here for. You’ve got motion sensors all over the palace to keep me safe? You’re not serious, are you?”

“I’m doing what I’m told! Did you think I’d just let you get away with everything and abandon my job because we have some decent conversations?” he says with an alarming amount of snark. I swallow hard. The statement hits deeper than it should. It’s not supposed to be personal, but I can feel the intention of it in my bones.

“No, I thought you’d at least own up to your motivations instead of pretending you care if I’m being a safe degenerate,” I grumble.

“You think your family wants you to get hurt?”

“I think they don’t give a damn as long as it’s not on the news.” He pauses at that, so I take the opportunity to continue. “You know what I was doing? I was playing darts with Ariadne and Yusuf in a basement. I was perfectly safe. You should be right chuffed now!”

“It’s not about that!”

“Oh, so it’s not about my safety, then? You admit it?” I catch him. He stomps his foot.

“I’ve been up all night trying to find you!”

“Boo-hoo. Poor Sir Arthur’s so scared to lose his job that he stayed up pacing. Give me a break.”

“It’s not my fault you hate yourself so much you can’t fathom me actually giving a damn about your safety, job or otherwise,” he says, finally uncrossing his arms. The rage has left him. Worse, it’s been replaced by what almost sounds like pity. His last sentence had no life to it, like he had to force it out through a wall of shame.

“Don’t act like you know me, you egotistical arsehole,” I snap.

“I know you enough to know you can’t believe a single person in this whole damn place sees you outside of your obligation.”

“Give it a rest! You think you’re a good guy because you’re keeping me locked in here to protect me? You think that gives you the right to police my life?”

“Your family gives me the right to police your life, and you’ve clearly earned it,” he snaps.

“There you go! Finally, some honesty!”

“Two things can be true at the same time! I can do my job and simultaneously not want you to get shot!”

“Why don’t you buzz off? You did it, you got me, I’m sure you’ll find a way to stop me next time. Go to bed, Sir Arthur,” I grumble.

“I have to turn in your two-week report tomorrow. If you think you’re getting cleared for a more lenient guard, you’re dreaming,” he says. I scoff.

“You’re a bellend. Fine, stay attached to me, keep me as your prisoner. You’re only making your life more miserable.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames,” he says curtly, pushing past me and out the door.

As soon as my head hits the pillow, my brain vibrates with a combination of booze and rage. He thinks he’s all high and mighty, pretending like he’s trapping me to keep me from getting a papercut. Is he really going to keep playing the protector card? Even a child could tell you that he’s here to keep me from being a liability. That’s always my royal guard’s job. He’s a protector, sure, but not of me. Of the family, of our reputation, of what little grace I have left with this country and with this bloodline. I can’t believe he lied to my face. Does he think I can’t see right through him, that I don’t know what he’s really here for? He needs the paycheck. He’s not here for me. He’d guard a serial killer if he were being paid whatever he’s getting now. Once he’s done with me, he’ll take that little pile of cash and fuck off back to Minnesota, where he can forget all about me with a concession stand hotdog in his hand. Maybe even defending me at dinner was a ploy, a way to get on my good side and keep his job a little longer.

After a fitful night of dreamless sleep, I sit hunched over at my kitchen table with a cup of tea. I’m hardly hungover, but last night’s argument is hovering over my head like a dark cloud. Right on cue, the bastard himself enters my flat without even bothering to knock. He’s got his own cup of coffee in his hand, rightfully assuming I won’t offer him anything. He’s particularly dressed up today. He’s in one of his black suits with a red tie and his earpiece already in place. Today’s an event day, so he’s all suited up and ready to face the public. It’s his first time doing this. I suppose…perhaps sneaking out the night before his biggest assignment yet was a little much, even for me. I look him up and down, briefly forgetting the rage that really should be sitting in my chest. He’s like a bloody painting. He fits in so well in this world, in this atmosphere. How does everyone find a way to belong?

“You have twenty minutes until wardrobe,” he says curtly, barely looking me in the eye.

“Cheers,” I mumble.

“I know you’re pissed at me, but let’s just get through the day, okay?” he says. It’s almost a plea. I shrug.

“Whatever. I can be cordial.” He clearly doesn’t care for our discussions the way I thought he did. Without our usual banter, which tends to make time fly, the twenty minutes drag on for what feels like an hour. When it’s finally time to go, we continue our vow of silence on the walk to wardrobe. Normally, this is when Mal would join in on whatever conversation we’re having, but today, she reads our silence and accepts it quickly. At least this is a solo event. “I’ve” donated a new wing to a public library to show my care for the education of the London population. All I’ve got to do is take a few pictures with the lead librarian, hold up a fancy check, and it’s a wrap. This is one of the worst aspects of my job. Maybe if I could donate to things I actually give a shite about, this wouldn’t be as bad. I suppose the library isn’t the worst place I could be. At least it’s not another vineyard. They don’t let me do alcohol-related donations after I “borrowed” three hundred quid worth of wine from the last place.

Wardrobe dragged on, mostly because Mal forced me to try on three different outfits until she found the one she liked. That led to us rushing to the car, which Saito is currently driving slightly above the speed limit. We’re the second car in a group of three: one for additional protection and another for our press. Mal gets to come to events like these so she can make sure they get my good side and prevent me from saying anything completely ridiculous. Arthur is sitting to my right, tapping his foot and pointedly looking away from me. I, however, can see his reflection in the window. He’s biting his lip nervously, looking at the steadily growing crowd as we move closer and closer to the library. What’s he making himself sick over? Is he really that worried? My stomach twists and sinks all at once. He’s just worried about doing his job. That’s all. Because if he’s worried about me, genuinely actually nervous about my safety, then I may be the biggest numpty on the planet.

“Paparazzi’s on the fritz today, so move fast,” Saito orders.

“Do you think this is really going to save my reputation?” I ask.

“Probably not. Anyone with a brain can see through this stunt,” Arthur answers despite the question not being for him. I turn to him and scowl.

“You don’t think I care for public libraries?” I say. He finally looks at me. His expression is…unimpressed, to say the least.

“I don’t know what you care about,” he mutters.

“I happen to be a big supporter of education,” I lie.

“Right. Your lack of degree shows that,” he snaps. Christ. He’s not normally so blunt. He’s bordering on cruel.

“And what’s your degree in?” I ask. He pauses and looks down.

“...English,” he mumbles.

“Right. That’s really helping you here, huh?”

“Drop it.”

“You started it.”

“Boys! Enough. Eames, don’t you have enough enemies? Stop making a new one,” Saito scolds.

“But he –”

“Shush! He’s doing well with you. You haven’t escaped yet,” he interrupts. I raise my eyebrows, still staring at Arthur. He refuses to look up at me, but his face is definitely heating as always. He didn’t rat me out? Why the hell not?

“...Let’s get this over with,” I mutter. The car comes to a stop with the door to my left perfectly lined up with my path into the library. The additional security guards have already gotten into positions, posted outside the guard ropes on each side of the path. They’re keeping back a frankly overwhelming crowd of people, half of them certainly hired by my family for this stunt. They’ve already started shouting and snapping pictures before I’ve even stepped out of the car. I hate this part. The part where I’m turned into a spectacle, where I lose my free will entirely and become something larger than myself. I’d rather be caught drunk in the street. At least that suits me better. To walk out here all fancy pretending like I’m deserving of the title I was born into feels wrong. It’s like putting lipstick on a bog monster. Everyone knows who I really am. Arthur’s right: anyone with a brain knows this is nothing more than a last-ditch effort to pretend I’m not the fraud I know myself to be.

I open the car door slowly and step out, immediately closing my eyes at the flashing lights. I block my face with my arm until someone’s hands force me to break my guard. I turn and look at Mal, who has suddenly arrived at my side. She takes her hands off my arms and nods. The lineup is always as follows: two guards in front, Mal to my left, my current royal guard to my right, and Saito pulling up the rear. He’s followed by two more guards who keep slightly more distance so as to not photobomb. Once again, the priorities clearly put my safety second and the press first. I don’t move right away, instead scanning the rows and rows of people screaming indiscriminately at me. Christ. I didn’t think this many people still gave a damn about my existence. There are hundreds of them all around, though to their credit, half of them probably hate my guts. I can hear plenty of profanity amongst the shouting, so much so that it’s almost comforting.

“Let’s go, Eames,” Mal says quietly.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper. Arthur stays still for a moment, perhaps listening to something in his earpiece, then nods. Mal nudges me, forcing me to finally step forward. As soon as I do, what was once a frightening art piece comes to life, forming into a startling reality. The shouting gets louder somehow, and the camera flashes become more frequent. I quicken my pace as my chest tightens. I’m not meant for this. Why couldn’t they just send Johnny?

“Stop clenching your teeth,” Mal whispers.

“I bloody hate this,” I grumble.

“I know. I know, kid,” she says, sounding convincingly apologetic. Without warning, Arthur puts a protective hand on my shoulder. I whip my head around to look at him, but he’s not looking in my direction. He keeps his hand on my shoulder and looks out into the crowd. Searching for something. Though that probably means trouble, the presence of his hand makes my stomach feel a little less woozy. I slow my pace and even manage a smile at a particularly eager group of photographers. I turn back to my left and –

“Fuck you! Fuck you!” someone in all black at the very front of the line shouts. He’s trying to push past the guard, who is keeping him back forcefully. I freeze and stare at the man. No, he’s not a man. He’s basically a kid. He doesn’t look much older than Johnny. What are you doing? What are you trying to prove?

“Eames, move,” Arthur orders. I don’t listen. Instead, I stare into the child’s eyes, piercing and somehow knowing. Can you see right through me, you little bastard?

“You’re a fascist! Death to the Queen!” he shouts. The guard perks up at that, grabbing the kid forcefully and turning him around.

“Take it easy!” I shout.

“Are you crazy?! Walk, Eames!” Arthur shouts. I can’t take my eyes off the scene. The guard starts to handcuff the kid, some idiot university student with nothing better to do.

“Fascist prick!” a second voice shouts from the right. I look towards it, but I don’t find the person. Instead, I spot a bottle flying in the air right towards me. Oh, Christ, that’s –

“Eames, move!” Arthur screams, shoving me forwards. I stumble as glass shatters, though somehow not on me. I turn back and gasp. Arthur’s wobbly on his feet, clearly dazed with blood dripping down the right side of his face.

“Arthur, Jesus –”

“Let’s go!” Saito shouts, forcing me to turn around and move forward. I fight against his hands, attempting to look back at the man who’s just taken a bottle to the head for me, but Saito keeps me moving ahead.

“Let go of me!” I cry out.

“He’s fine! You need to get inside!” Saito shouts over me. I groan and finally obey, speeding up to break free of his grasp. The two of us hurry through the front doors, the first two people inside the building. Mal and a couple of guards follow, and by the grace of some god I don’t have the courage to believe in, Arthur comes in next. He’s being supported by one of the guards and walking slowly, holding his hand to the right side of his face. I hurry over to him as he’s led wherever-the-fuck in this library.

“Why in the bloody hell did you do that?!” I shout at him.

“Shut up,” Arthur grumbles, grimacing.

“Are you daft? You could’ve been –”

“It’s my job, Eames!”

“No, it isn’t! Not that!”

“Fuck, how has everyone been so shit to you before this?!” he questions. My only answer is a blank stare.

“Your Highness, we’re going to bring him somewhere secluded and call in medical. You should –”

“No, no, you’re not sending me off. I’m staying with him,” I insist.

“You really should –”

“He’s my royal guard and I’m staying with him!” I interrupt.

“But you –”

“My say bloody goes around here, and I say I’m staying by his side. That’s final,” I growl. The guard finally nods, giving in. The three of us walk through the library until we reach a set of stairs. Dumbfoundingly, we walk all the way up them and then to the right. We continue down a hallway surrounded by bookcases until we enter a small room at the very end of the hall. The walls are pale blue and covered in cloud decals, along with some smaller decals of planes and birds. There are waist-high shelves full of colorful books all over the left side of the room. On the right, the side we walk towards, there’s a large green armchair that Arthur is practically pushed into. He’s facing a round rug designed to look like a train station. There’s a green grand piano near the far wall in the right corner, completing what I can only assume to be a fancy room for parents to drop off their rotten children for an hour.

“I’ll go get medical,” the guard says, quickly rushing out through the door. I look around the room until I find a small wooden stool certainly built for a child. I pick it up and place it in front of the armchair so I can sit and look at Arthur head-on.

“Move your hand,” I order him.

“You’re my doctor?” he says incredulously.

“Just do it, prat,” I grumble. He, for some reason, obeys. I resist the urge to gasp again as he removes his hand. His right cheek has turned bright red and will certainly bruise something awful in the next twenty-four hours. Almost worse to look at is the large cut on the right side of his forehead. There’s a shard of glass lodged in it and blood dripping down from the wound. He’s got several other smaller lacerations all over his face along with what I’m sure is more glass. His skin is wet and smelling strongly of some liquor not even I would touch. What kind of insane person chucks a bottle of alcohol at someone? Not someone. Me. They were aiming for me, and they very well should’ve hit their target.

“I’m sorry, mate. You shouldn’t have had to take that,” I say quietly.

“It’s okay. I should’ve moved faster,” he mumbles.

“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t stood there staring at that kid, we would’ve already been inside. I –”

“Don’t say that. It’s okay. I’m fine,” he says. I, against all rational thought, bring my hand to his left cheek and stroke it with my thumb. He’s warm. Flushed. It’s probably adrenaline. Still, what soft skin. He really is a painting. “…What are you doing?” he asks. I quickly snap back into reality and whip my hand away.

“Just making sure the other side is okay,” I attempt a save. He exhales heavily. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Pretty bad,” he admits.

“Christ, I’m –”

“Don’t apologize again,” he says, shaking his head.

“No, not for the bottle. For last night. I’m a knob,” I mutter. He doesn’t say anything, forcing me to continue whatever shameful apology I’m attempting. “You’ve somehow actually got my best interests in mind. I shouldn’t have accused you of otherwise.”

“I don’t blame you. But you shouldn’t assume the worst in people,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask. He pauses.

“...I don’t know.”

The door opens again, bringing our attention to the woman joining our soiree. I vaguely recognize her. She’s been around the palace before. With a large medkit in hand, she hustles over to Arthur. I stand up and step out of the way, moving to Arthur’s left.

“We’ll get you fixed up, all right, Mr. Galvit?” she says.

“Mh-hm,” he grunts.

“I know you. How long have you worked for us?” I ask.

“I used to stitch you up when you were a kid. Then I had a kiddo of my own and took a sabbatical,” she says. I hum loudly in realization. Now I recognize her. She’d always give me a taffy after getting scraped up.

“Jenny! I do remember you,” I exclaim.

“I’m surprised,” she says, her skin flushing a little. Arthur looks a little surprised, too. I take another half-step back as Jenny opens up the medkit and starts rifling through it. I stand with my hands tightly clasped behind my back as she slowly treats the injury. She starts by pulling out each piece of glass, which makes Arthur wince awfully every time. I practically wince along with him. Once she’s done with that, the worst is over. She stops the bleeding on his head, disinfects the wound, and puts some of those criss-cross tapes over it. Then, she goes into the kit and takes out a flashlight, shining it into his eyes and muttering some instructions that Arthur assumedly follows. After a few minutes of that, she packs up her materials and stands.

“You don’t seem to have a concussion. You’re lucky. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, either, but get that checked later in the day. I’d try to do something cognitively challenging just in case. If you have any difficulty or feel foggy, let someone know,” she instructs. Arthur nods diligently.

“Cheers, darling,” I say as she walks away.

“I hope I won’t see you soon, your Highness,” she says.

“I’ll second that,” I say, saluting her as she walks out. I reclaim my seat in front of Arthur as he runs his thumb across the patched wound on his head. His eye bags are heavier than normal, his eyes clouded with sleep deprivation and confusion. There’s no reason he should be killing himself over this job. Over me. How am I supposed to talk to him now? I can’t contort him into some big, bad villain.

“...I shouldn’t have brought up education. It was low,” Arthur mumbles. I shrug.

“Let’s consider anything we’ve said in the past twelve hours null and void,” I decide. He nods slowly. “...Why an English degree, though?” I can’t help but ask. He smiles ruefully, shaking his head as he does.

“I was always destined for this,” he waves his arms around as if to encompass the room, “but I wanted something else for a time. I made a deal with my dad: he’d let me go to college on his dime, and if I got some amazing job offer within six months of graduating, I’d be free to do that. If not, it was the family business.”

“That offer didn’t come, I reckon,” I say softly. He laughs wryly.

“Not many jobs for people who spent their college years dissecting books from centuries ago. I tried to convince my dad to let me go for my master’s, but I ran out of luck.”

“And you just gave up? You didn’t fight him on it?” I ask. He scowls.

“You can’t say anything about accepting unwanted fates,” he snaps. I raise my hands and whistle.

“Take it easy. I get it. But what did you want to be? A writer?” I ask, putting my hands down as I do.

“...No. As stupid as it is, I wanted to be an editor when I was a kid. I liked fixing things,” he mumbles, staring down at his feet.

“That’s not stupid.”

He looks up, his eyes almost glistening. Christ, those eyes. I could live in them. “Well, either way, here I am,” he says resolutely.

“Taking a bottle to the skull for the Prince of England,” I say, chuckling. He laughs along lightly, then clears his throat. He takes a deep breath, forcing me to sit in an odd silence, before he speaks again,

“You know, it’s not supposed to be me here.”

I tilt my head and squint. Every time I think I’m starting to understand this bloke, he confuses me again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“My father started training for this job a year ago. But four months before he was supposed to come here, he decided he wanted to retire instead. Didn’t want to spend his older years chasing you around, I guess. So I’m the next best thing. Sort of,” he says, once again looking down at his feet. Suddenly, he makes even more sense. The overcompensation, the fancy suits, the sleepless nights, and the immense stress he’s uselessly given himself. He’s a man standing in shoes far too big for him, an imposter. We’re more alike than I thought.

“I’m glad it’s you,” I say, leaning in to pat him on the shoulder. He looks up again.

“Probably because you’d be fucked if it were my dad instead,” he mutters. There’s a sour petulance to his tone that I haven’t heard in him before. I suppose no one’s immune to daddy issues.

“You’re doing damn well. I’m not easy.” He nods politely at that, but his mind is already elsewhere.

“How’d you get out? What’d I miss?” he asks.

“Third-floor bathroom, the one by the supply closet. Found my way around the sensors, too,” I admit before I’ve even processed the words. Why am I telling him? If I do, he’ll find more ways to trap me. I shouldn’t give a damn about his job performance. He leans down and sighs, clasping his hands together as he lowers his head.

“Damn. My dad wouldn’t have fucked that up,” he mutters.

“It took me two weeks to escape. That’s the longest it’s taken in years,” I reassure him. What in the bloody hell am I saying? Am I actually comforting him?

“Why are you being so nice? I know how you feel about being locked inside.”

“You just got hit in the head by some arsehole. I pity you,” I tease. He snickers, shakes his head, and stands up. I have to shift my chair a little to let him walk away from me. He pads over to the piano, sitting down on its bench slowly like he’s afraid to break it. I haven’t got a clue what to do about him now. He’s trapped in that palace just as much as I am. How did I not realize how afraid he is? Afraid to disappoint his dad, afraid to see me get hurt, afraid to fail. I keep trying to turn him into a robot, into some faceless thing keeping me behind prison walls. What a shame that he’s the most human person I’ve met in years.

He settles into the seat and tests a few of the keys. That prompts me to stand up and walk over to the piano so I can see him a little better. I stand in front of the instrument, staring at Arthur as he looks down at the keys and places his fingers down delicately. Slowly, gently, he starts playing something. The song is fast-paced yet somber, full of some dynamic sadness I can’t quite place. His fingers move effortlessly, even somehow gently, as he continues through the song. All I can do is stare at him as my stomach twists. Of course. No, this really does make sense. He can’t just be painfully handsome, intelligent, and well-spoken. He has to be talented as well. He has to spend his days reading books and playing piano like some over-educated 17th-century upper-class arsehole. While the rest of us fight over bread and cold soup, he towers above in his mansion as an untouchable royal. He may not fill his father’s shoes, but mine fit him just right.

The song fades out gently, coming to a natural conclusion. Arthur shakes his hands out and sighs. “What was that?” I ask, blankly staring at him.

“Something cognitive,” he answers. Ah. The potential concussion.

“It was beautiful,” I blurt out. He flushes and looks away from me, training his eyes on the keys.

“It was Albumblatt in E minor,” he mutters as if I know what the hell he’s talking about.

“Whatever that means. How long have you been playing?” I ask.

“As long as I can remember. My mom is the most musically gifted person I know. She taught me,” he says. It seems like a good memory, but the way he says it makes it sound almost melancholy. Like it’s something so far off and distant he can hardly recall it anymore.

“Do you know anything from this century?”

“I can learn. What do you want me to play?” he asks.

“...I can say anything?”

“Within reason.”

Without letting myself think about it, I walk around the piano and wave my hand at him, signaling him to move over. He awkwardly slides over a little on the bench, allowing me to sit to his right. I’m so close to him that I can smell the alcohol still reeking through his pores. Definitely tequila, and a cheap one, too. Still, what a waste. Why throw away perfectly good liquor to make some pointless statement? If you’re going to hate my family and what we stand for, I’m not the one to hate. I’m just as against them as the opposition is. Perhaps they were protesting my behavior specifically. Maybe I’m not princely enough for their tastes. Regardless, despite the smell, sitting so close to Arthur feels almost painful. There’s an energy around him, or maybe just an energy I’m imagining, a buzzing that’s begging me to move even closer. I don’t think I could get much closer to him without doing something extremely inappropriate in a room designed for children.

“How about an English classic? Do you know Eleanor Rigby?” I suggest. He closes his eyes and taps his foot for a second, silently counting with parted lips.

“My mom loves the Beatles. I’ve heard every song a thousand times. Still, could you hum a few seconds of it?” he asks. I clear my throat dramatically and sing the entire first verse, flubbing the lyrics and ad-libbing along the way. I really should feel shameful considering I know how rubbish I sound, but the embarrassment never comes. Arthur fights down a smile, opens his eyes, and says,

“Do you know what humming is?” His voice is laced with sarcasm, but it doesn’t feel threatening.

“What, you don’t like my singing voice?”

“You’re off-key,” he complains, but the bastard is still smiling at me like he can’t help himself. Chills run up my arms as I quickly look away from him and take out my phone.

“Rude. Fine, I’ll get it from the experts,” I mutter, pull up the song, and press play. The first twenty seconds of the song amble by, his smile fading as they do, and then he nods like something’s clicked.

“I have it.” Immediately, he starts the song as if he’s been playing it all his life. I stare at him in awe as he plays through the entire thing, not hitting a single wrong note to my knowledge. His fingers move elegantly, almost mesmerizingly, his face contorted with delicate concentration. He’s biting his lip a little. I put my hand to my chest to confirm the speed of my heart. If he’s so cognizant of my health and safety, how can he not realize that he is currently killing me? Once he finishes the song and frees my heart, he looks at me and shrugs. Show off.

“Your mom taught you Beatles songs?” is all I can think to say. He shakes his head.

“No, but I’ve heard them enough,” he answers. My eyes widen.

“You’re telling me you’ve never played that before?”

“I don’t think so, no. But I can pick up the notes,” he says.

“You are incredible. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on a stage somewhere?” I marvel. His face heats even more than it already has.

“It’s really not special. Just a hobby,” he mumbles.

“Shut up! You’re insane, you know that? You’ve got an actual brain, magic talents, and somehow you’re stuck with me? Christ, I’m worse than I thought,” I exclaim.

“It’s just piano.”

“You’re so arrogant you’ve gone full circle back to self-loathing,” I grumble. He scoffs, but smiles.

“Like you’re not full of odd skills, Mr. Professional Dancer and Master Chef,” he fires back.

“I had to learn those,” I remind him.

“Not necessarily. John hasn’t,” he says. I smile widely and lightly punch him in the shoulder, laughing as I do. He smiles harder, too, so hard his eyes crease.

“Christ, maybe you’re proof my luck hasn’t yet run out,” I blurt out. He stops smiling and pauses. Suddenly, nothing’s funny. He stares at me almost painfully, his eyes piercing right through. To dull the ache, I look at his mouth instead. Bad idea. His lips look so inviting, so full, so eager to feel mine. It would be so easy. That’s the worst part. I could ruin it all in an instant. Give myself the brief satisfaction, a few seconds of bliss, and throw him away within the minute. Jesus, his remaining presence is worth the suffering, but it’s nearly impossible to stand.

The door opens fast, drawing our attention and breaking whatever spell was mid–cast a moment ago. Mal walks in quickly, but pauses once she sees how we’re sitting. She stands still for a second, processing, then presumably decides it’s not worth her time. She crosses the room and stands in front of the piano.

“The two dumbasses have been arrested. Just some university kids with nothing better to do than play revolution,” she says.

“Any chance they’ll go easy on them?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“You know the answer to that. How are you, Arthur? That was a hard hit,” she asks.

“I’m okay. Is the event cancelled?” he asks.

“Beyond cancelled. I had to stop Luther from having a total lockdown in here. We’re okay to leave now,” she answers. Luther is the head of my security details in name, though to me, Saito really has the role. Luther is tall, muscular, and has not even an ounce of goodwill for me.

“Arthur can play the piano. Really bloody well,” I announce.

“...Good for him. Let’s go, boys,” Mal says, squinting at me. She, like Arthur, gives me a familiar knowing look, but one I nonetheless cannot understand.

~~~

The car ride starts quietly, but it’s much less uncomfortable than it was on the way here. Arthur is scribbling something down in his notebook, hopefully not scolding himself too bad for how things went today. I can’t stop watching him. It’s almost like I can’t believe he’s actually sitting there. The more I learn about him, the less I can confirm that he’s not some specter I’ve invented to keep myself from completely losing my mind. I mean, who can play any song just by listening to it? That shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t be possible. He’s my bloody royal guard, he’s not even supposed to be here, and I should hate his guts. He is ruining my life. I keep telling myself that over and over again. Maybe if I repeat it enough, I’ll eventually believe it. Sure, he’s ruining my life. Yes. He’s my jailer, he’s stripped my freedoms. I despise him, I despise his pretty face and magic hands. I despise that tie around his neck, I despise how much I’d love to take it off of him, I truly, painfully despise how much I’d like to unravel whoever hides under all of that ego, talent, and tailoring.

“...I’ll pass you,” he says out of nowhere.

“Huh? Pass me on what?” I ask.

“The two-week evaluation. It’ll give you more space,” he clarifies. I raise my eyebrows.

“I absolutely do not deserve that. It’s been proven,” I say, not even bothering to pick my jaw up off the ground.

“...You should be allowed to eat breakfast by yourself,” he mutters.

“And what will you do with your free time?” I ask.

“I’ll still be with you during all of your obligations, especially in public. But during the day, if you’ve got nothing to do, I’ll be…somewhere else. The gym. My room. A meeting. Wherever,” he answers.

“You think this is the right choice?”

“I do,” he says with a nod.

“Well, I don’t. I think you’re going easy on me. You shouldn’t. You’ll regret it,” I blurt out. What am I saying? This is a slam dunk. Getting him off my arse will make it much easier to get out. He won’t be around me constantly buzzing. No more meals together, no more wandering around the palace listening to him talk about the chapter he’s up to in his book, no more trying to aggravate him with crude flirting and awful jokes. What a dream come true.

“Are you asking me to fail your evaluation?”

“No. No, that would be ridiculous.”

“...But?”

“But if you must, I’ll forgive you. I’ll make you listen to more Oasis, though.”

“No way. If that’s the case, you’re passing with flying colors,” he says, finally looking up from his notebook.

“It’s better than your shite! Bloody A-bum-batt,” I exclaim.

“Albumblatt,” he corrects.

“Whatever. Point is…do what you want,” I mumble.

“But what do you want me to do?”

“It shouldn’t be up to me! You assess the situation and determine if I need your constant presence,” I insist. He sighs and looks back down at his notebook, not saying another word.

Later, once the sun has long gone down and I’ve run out of channels to flip through on my television, there’s a knock at my door. To my surprise, Saito is the one standing on the other side. I stare at him as he holds out a piece of paper to me.

“I just thought I’d let you know that you failed your evaluation. Congratulations,” he says, pushing the paper into my hand.

“More’s the pity,” I say, fighting down a smile. I’m not happy about this. Why would I be? I’m trapped with Arthur for two more weeks. What a shame.

“Yes, you seem mighty torn up about it,” Saito says sarcastically.

“What are you implying?” I ask.

“Be careful, Eames. Please,” he says. His eyes are stone cold.

“With what?” I play dumb. He sighs.

“You both have obligations.”

“Yes. Large shoes to fill. Goodnight, mate,” I say, putting my hand on the doorknob. He sighs again, heavier this time, and turns to walk away as I close the door. With the paper in hand, I walk back to the couch and sit down, bringing said paper to my face. Most of it is boring information, data about Arthur’s methods of keeping me put and minor notes about my infractions. My eyes go to the bottom of the paper to the section labeled “Reason for failure, if applicable.” Written below in perfect cursive, Arthur stated, “Edward was attacked at his most recent press event. It is my belief that he should have continuous around-the-clock protection in case further threats present themselves. I also recommend that he be taught self-defensive measures in the rare case that I am incapacitated. If this request is accepted, I will take on the responsibility of teaching him.”

I, for no particular reason, grin widely and read the sentences over a hundred times.

Chapter Text

“Okay, okay, how about The Smiths?” I ask. Arthur shakes his head.

“Too depressing,” he answers. I groan.

“Radiohead?”

“They’re all weirdos.”

“Fleetwood Mac?”

“Too much drama.”

I groan again, louder this time, as Arthur digs through his large black duffel bag. We’re standing in the boxing area of the palace gym, though we’re unfortunately not hitting each other with cartoonishly large gloves. Arthur’s request to give me some self-defense training has been approved, meaning he’s been wasting my time from noon to two every afternoon for the past week or so. I’ve already got a sense of how to fight due to my weekend activities, but Arthur says I “attack like a caged animal.” I don’t see how that’s a bad thing, but he’s been trying to breed some civility in my fighting nonetheless. It’s sort of working. Unfortunately, it’s also driving me up the wall. Hand-to-hand combat is, well, hand-to-hand, meaning we’re constantly in each other’s personal space. I should be able to focus, should be able to understand that there’s nothing attractive about a man teaching you how to dodge a punch, but bloody everything is attractive about a man teaching you how to dodge a punch when that man is Arthur.

The man himself finally finds what he’s looking for, turning around with a fake gun in his hand. The right side of his face has mostly healed, but there are still a few spots of yellow to remind both of us about last week. The cut on his head has faded as well, but a small red mark still remains as yet another marker of the incident. Those bumps and bruises really should be another deterrent for my hormones, but instead, they remind me how those injuries are my fault, that he took that pain away from me, and my chest tightens.

“I’m going to show you how to disarm someone with a gun,” he decides.

“If someone ever comes at me with a gun, they’ll be dead before they can even blink. You’ll probably be the killer, too,” I say.

“This is training for if you’re alone, remember?” he reminds me.

“Right. For your peace of mind.”

“For your safety,” he corrects. Sure. Whatever you say, mate.

“Pink Floyd?”

He sticks his tongue out. “I had a friend in high school who was obsessed with them. He was a dick.”

“I can’t believe we can’t agree on a single British band besides the bloody Beatles,” I grumble.

“I told you I like The Cure,” he says. I roll my eyes.

“They’re boring,” I grumble, dismissively waving my hand.

“Can we focus?” he asks.

“Black Sabbath?”

“Ugh.”

“You’re impossible!”

“Pay attention,” he orders. I sigh and nod, relenting. He hands the fake gun over to me, which I take hesitantly. It’s bright yellow. “Pretend I’m you and you’re an attacker,” he says.

“Are you gonna fake an accent?”

“Eames.”

“Right. Pretending,” I say, holding up the gun and aiming it at his head. He puts his hands up and nods.

“First, you’ve got to make sure the attacker thinks you’re not going to make any moves. Act scared,” he directs.

“Go on, then. Play the part! Cry for your mummy!” I insist. He rolls his eyes. Without saying a word, he grabs the barrel of the gun with his left hand, gets his head out of the line of fire, karate chops my arm with his right hand, and whips the gun out of my grasp. He does this all in an instant, so fast I can just barely make out each movement. He holds the gun at me and shrugs. My stomach flips. No. Definitely not attractive. He ripped a gun out of my hands. What’s hot about that? How do I convince my body of what my brain knows? “You’re a show-off,” I complain, looking down.

“You were pissing me off,” he complains right back.

“Are you gonna show me how to do that?”

“If you behave.”

“And what are you gonna do to me if I don’t?” I flirt, winking.

“Shoot you, probably,” he answers. My flirting and teasing don’t work nearly as well anymore. He’s already gone numb to it. It’s a damn shame. My only defense mechanism is essentially useless. I no longer have any power over him. If he feels even a tiny molecule of attraction to me, he’s certainly excellent at hiding it. He doesn’t even blink at anything I do or say anymore. In the end, it is easier with this being unrequited. After all, I’ll have to get over how I feel eventually. It’s not like he’ll be here indefinitely. I can survive his stay in my life. The fact that I’m going to have to survive it without ever putting my tongue down his throat is more upsetting than I’ll let myself feel, but that’s how things go sometimes. I’m used to not getting what I want.

“All right, all right. Let’s do this,” I give in. For the next twenty minutes or so, Arthur teaches me the steps of what he just performed, touching me plenty along the way. I eventually get the hang of it, so much so that Arthur even gives me a satisfied “hm” of a noise on my last attempt. That earns me a break, which I gratefully take by sitting on the floor and greedily chugging half of my water bottle. Arthur sits across from me, surprisingly on his phone rather than flipping through his notebook. He’s frowning at the screen and typing quickly, biting his lip. One of his frequent nervous habits. When it's paired with his tapping foot and darting eyes, he looks like a first-time buyer waiting for his drug dealer. He looks up at me and swallows hard, looks back down, then up again.

“Spit it out, mate,” I goad him.

“...Your parents have denied your request to leave tonight,” he mumbles. I sigh.

“What a surprise,” I say sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. I almost believe him.

“It makes no difference. I’ll just have to go regardless,” I say, smiling smugly.

“And what makes you think I’ll let that happen?” he asks, tilting his head with furrowed eyebrows.

“Easy. You’ll come with me,” I decide. His eyes widen.

“Excuse me?” he blurts out.

“You’ll come to Ari’s after-party with me,” I insist. He shakes his head.

“Absolutely not. Do you want me to get fired?”

“Don’t be dramatic. It’s barely a party. I can’t go to the real one, so it’s just me, Yusuf, and Ari. Well, and you,” I attempt to convince him.

“If we get caught –”

“We won’t! You’re the boss, remember? None of the guards will question us if you’re with me. You’ll make sure I don’t get into any trouble or get shot, we’ll have a fun night, and be home before anyone’s the wiser,” I interrupt.

“You’re insane,” he says. He doesn’t have any better defense. The plan is foolproof.

“People only graduate once. Besides, you have to meet her. She’s an American like you. Really sweet girl. And potentially my future wife,” I tease. He scrunches up his face and grimaces hard.

“...Seriously?” he mumbles quietly. I raise my eyebrows. Is that disquiet in his tone?

“You hate the thought of me getting married that much? Relax, you can be my concubine,” I tease. He rolls his eyes, his cheeks finally heating up.

“Your family wouldn’t let you marry an American,” he says.

“Who are we talking about? You or her?”

“Would you stop it?”

“Fine, fine. I’m not marrying her, you prat. Please. Don’t be responsible for me missing this moment. That girl will only be in this country for a few more months. Then I’m down to one friend,” I relent. I’d tease him more, but I am currently attempting to convince him to completely abandon his job so I can drink with my mates.

“Is it really that important to you?” he asks.

“I made an actual request to leave. That’s how important,” I confirm. He sighs heavily.

“...Fine. But you can’t get plastered, you can’t do anything stupid, and you can’t run around in the streets. I’ll be on your ass the whole time,” he gives in. I grin widely and blow a kiss at him. He blinks hard like he can’t believe what he just saw.

“Maybe I’ve got three friends instead of two,” I ponder, dramatically stroking my chin.

“What?”

“Are you my friend, Sir Arthur?” I ask, scooting closer to him.

“If I say yes, will you stop talking?” he asks.

“No promises. But maybe,” I say.

“Fine. Sure, I’m your friend,” he mumbles, looking at the floor. I chuckle and put my hand on his shoulder, nudging him.

“You’re adorable,” I croon.

“I hate you,” he declares.

“And I hate you, too, darling. Duran Duran?”

“God help me. They’re corny.”

I groan loudly and lie down on the floor, kicking my feet as I do. He laughs and, if I’m not mistaken, even fully smiles.

~~~

I idle in front of Arthur’s door for no particular reason, shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot. It’s stupid. It’s beyond stupid. And yet, anxiety still churns its way through my stomach like an unwelcome meal. I don’t typically dress myself. Well, I do when I’ve got nothing on my plate, but that hardly counts. All I do is throw on a t-shirt and move on with my life. Mal’s had control over my actual outfits for as long as I can remember. But for going out, I’ve got free rein. That should excite me. It normally does, which cannot explain why it took me twenty minutes to pick one of my many horrendous shirts. I don’t want to let Ari down. That has to be it. It’s her graduation party, her last party as a student, and I can’t even go to her actual graduation. This is the last time I’ll get to see her before she starts counting down her final months here. I’m going to happily pretend all of that weight is keeping my hands by my sides instead of raised to the door.

I look down at my blue Hawaiian shirt and black slacks, shaking out my left foot as I do. Bloody hell, I look ridiculous. Ah, well. I’ve had many chances to impress folks, and I’ve dropped the ball every time. Why start being different now? With that thought in mind, I finally raise my hand and knock on the door. As always, it opens almost instantaneously. Arthur’s face immediately lights up with a grin as he looks me up and down, a motion overwhelming enough to take away from how underwhelming his outfit is.

“If you laugh, I’ll hit you just how you taught me,” I warn him. He takes a deep breath and fights down his smile.

“You’ve never looked more yourself,” he says, his smile peeking out again.

“And you cannot wear that,” I say, taking my turn to check him out. He looks good, but no better than normal. He’s in his usual clothes: a white collared polo, dark trousers, and dress shoes. This won’t do.

He tilts his head and crosses his arms, saying with an almost offended tone, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“You look like a security guard,” I inform him.

“I am a security guard.”

“Not tonight, you're not. You have to have something else,” I insist. He shakes his head, drawing a groan out of me. Without stopping to think, I grab his wrist and drag him in the direction of my flat. He makes some pleas of resistance, but quickly gives in and lets me take him all the way to my door. He breaks free of my grip as I open the door and motion towards the couch.

“Wait here,” I say before turning on my heels to enter my bedroom. I dig through my closet and pull out a few shirts that I think he may not immediately reject, as well as a couple I know he will absolutely detest. I reenter the living space, where Arthur is still sitting impatiently tapping his foot. I hold up the first shirt: pink, collared, flowers. In other words, no shot.

“That’s not even funny,” he says. I sigh and drop it to the floor haphazardly. Next: long sleeve, bright orange, weird logo on the front. Another low-stakes option.

“How long are you going to make me entertain this?” he asks, shaking his head rapidly. I sigh and drop all but one shirt to the ground. Option three: dark gray checkered button-up. Not too loud, not too bright, yet somewhat elegant. The most boring option and the one he’ll pick.

“...I guess that’s not terrible,” he admits. I grin and pump my fist.

“Put it on! Let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” I say, throwing the shirt at him. He stands up and stares at me blankly. “Would you like me to turn around?” I tease. He rolls his eyes.

“Whatever,” he mutters, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. He pulls the dull polo over his head quickly and folds it in front of his body, placing it delicately down on the couch. I suck in a fast, hard breath to stop myself from making an audible reaction. He only gives me a few seconds to look at his remarkably toned arms before he pulls the button-up on and begins closing it. Still, it’s plenty of time. His clothes do him a bloody disservice. They make him look plain, normal. They blend him into the background. Without the inhibiting fabric, the muscles of his body stand out like a dozen sore thumbs. His visible abs, his surprisingly wide chest, even the divots and light scars gracing that presumably soft skin, my eyes attempt to memorize it all. What a feat of the human body. How can someone be lean and yet so muscular? How long has he spent molding himself into this form? How much discipline, how many years, how much lost time, all to be a marvel of nature? Is all of the US insane? How has not one person scooped him up? Maybe someone has. Maybe he’s kept it private all this time.

My stomach drops as he finishes buttoning the oversized shirt. The pain that follows is so strong that I practically vomit out the question: “Do you have a girlfriend?” He perks up and smiles a little, chuckling to himself like there’s some joke I haven’t understood.

“No. No girlfriend,” he answers.

“Boyfriend? Friends with benefits? Anyone?” I press.

“...No. Why?” he asks.

“No reason. It’s a shame, though,” I blurt out and immediately wish I hadn’t. He furrows his brows. “Maybe if you were getting laid, you’d be less annoying,” I quickly cover. He sighs.

“Weren’t you the one worried about being late? Let’s go before I change my mind about this whole thing,” he says. I nod and mentally smack myself in the face.

It is remarkably easy to leave the palace with Arthur by my side. None of the guards question his judgement. He’s only been here for three weeks, but he’s risen to a higher authority than any of the folks who have been watching me for years. All he needs to do is nod his head, and they immediately accept his lead. If I were them, I’d be cross. Some handsome twenty-something coming in and telling me how to do my job? Oh, I’d be complaining until the end of time. But, lucky for me, the handsome twenty-something is on my side. I can tell he’s nervous by the way he’s tapping his fingers against his hip as we walk, tracing where his handgun normally would be holstered. I can also tell that he’s got a gun concealed on his left ankle. He’s hidden it well, but I’ve spent enough time analyzing him, how he curves and moves, to know when something’s different.

Arthur, surprisingly, is okay with me leading us to our first location. The majority of tonight’s festivities will take place in Mr. Rallus’ basement, but first, we’ve got to pick up the guests. Ari is terrible with time management on a sober day, and she is certainly not sober. If it were up to her, I think she’d completely forget about the after-party and pass out in some ditch. The actual party started at seven in the evening, and now it’s nearly ten. I would be shocked if she could still speak coherent sentences at this point. Yusuf is no better. I don’t think he can tell his right foot from his left while he’s drinking. I’m okay with having to take it easy tonight. It’s not about me, after all. As long as Ari has fun, it’ll be a success. She doesn’t know I’m bringing a guest, but I think she’ll take it as a pleasant surprise.

After a quick and quiet taxi ride from a bloke I’ve paid off enough times to finance a bank, we step out in front of a typical Soho club. These are the ones we typically frequent on nights out, mainly due to their discretion and acceptance of “my kind.” I walk towards the pub, but Arthur grabs my sleeve and tugs on it, pulling me back.

“What are you doing?” he whispers tightly through his teeth.

“Going to retrieve my dear friends,” I say.

“No. You can’t go in there. You’ll get recognized,” he whispers, biting his lip. I snicker.

“Relax, I’m not going in. Would you trust me?”

“Would you give me a reason to?”

“Touche,” I finish, pulling my arm away from him. He, despite his visible trepidation, lets me walk up to the bouncer. Paul is an older bald man who is all bark and no bite. I met him several years ago, gave him an autograph for his daughter, and it was over from there. In fact, I’ve found my way into the pockets of most of the bouncers and bartenders in London. They give me some security and ambiguity in exchange for my expensive taste in drinks and generous tips. Paul nods to me as I approach him, and I reply with a cheeky waggle of my fingers. I lean in close to him, ignoring the line of people waiting outside the club, and whisper as I hand him a tenner,

“Send out Ariadne and Yusuf for me, will you?” He nods again and wordlessly walks into the building. I turn back to Arthur and shoot him a wink. He shakes his head with his arms crossed over his body. Just the small change in attire has almost transformed him in a similar manner to how his glasses make him a different man. My shirt doesn’t fit him right, but that doesn’t do too much damage. He looks casual, alive, a regular bloke instead of a super soldier. And yet there’s a discomfort to him now, like he can’t remember how to stand. He keeps looking down at himself as though he’s been stripped naked. Years. He must’ve spent years turning into that man cloaked in obstinance, into someone who must hide everything to protect anyone. I almost frown at the thought. I wonder what he’d be like if he had been allowed to be that editor, or that English professor, or some hermit who hides away with stacks of books and acquires suspicious amounts of money. How different would he be if his body were allowed to rest, if he were allowed to soften? How do I find that man? Does he exist within him anymore?

“Eames! Holy shit! You’re here!” a very loud, familiar voice shouts into my ear. I swivel around and turn to Ari. She grins lazily and waves aggressively. Her long, dark hair is in a delicate braided bun that one of her school friends must’ve done. Her makeup is heavy but tasteful, and her dark blue sparkly dress suits her well. She’s wearing flats, proving that she hasn’t been taken over by a body double, and has a few silver bracelets dangling from her wrists. She looks beautiful. If she weren’t pissed out of her mind, she’d be ready to present to my parents.

“You look stunning, doll,” I compliment. She smiles harder and pulls me into a hug.

“I’m so happy you came! I didn’t think y-you’d make it!” she slurs, pushing herself out of my arms and stumbling as she does.

“How much have you had?” I ask, grinning as I put my hands on my hips.

“I don’t know. One. Two. Maybe five. Who cares? You look hot!” she exclaims, punching my shoulder. I snicker and pat her head.

“Where’s Yusuf?” I ask.

“B-bathroom, I think. He’ll be out soon,” she says, nodding to herself. I take her hand and easily lead her over to Arthur, who’s still standing like a baby deer learning how to walk. Ari’s eyes widen.

“This is Arthur, my bodyguard. Sorry, I couldn’t leave without him,” I apologize. She pokes his shoulder.

“He is your type,” she deadpans.

“Ari, please,” I mutter. Arthur’s face heats up. He fakes a cough and extends his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he says politely. Ari breaks out into a huge fit of laughter, nearly keeling over as she does. Arthur and I exchange a familiar look, a look that says Wow, she’s trashed, as she composes herself.

“Your boyfriend wants to shake my hand,” she marvels.

“Give it a rest, will you?” I beg. She dramatically groans.

“Fine, fine! Nice to meet you, Mr. Royal Guard,” she says, grabbing his hand. Instead of shaking it, she brings it to her lips and kisses his knuckles. He gasps and quickly rips his hands away as Ari laughs again. “He is cute,” she mutters. Christ, I was not ready for this behavior. Perhaps bringing Arthur along was a bad idea. Ari knows me too well. It doesn’t help that I’ve admitted too much about my attraction to this bloke to her. Hopefully, Yusuf will be slightly more sober and save me a little. As if taking the embarrassment she’s already caused as a challenge, Ari wiggles her finger in some sort of circle in front of Arthur’s face and sticks out her tongue.

“You get beat up?” she asks.

“Bottle to the face,” he answers. She gasps and covers her mouth with her hands.

“Right! Eames told me! I remember he said –”

“Hey, it’s Yusuf!” I loudly interrupt, turning toward the pub. Luckily, he doesn’t make a liar out of me. Yusuf exits the pub looking slightly more composed than Ari and just as made-up. He’s contained his curls more than normal and ditched his country attire, opting for a tasteful dark green patterned dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and off-white trousers. The image he’s created, however, is somewhat shattered as he loudly stumbles over to the three of us. He smiles widely, his cheeks red, and punches my shoulder.

“Eames! I’m gonna kick your arse in darts!” he declares.

“I don’t think you should be given any sharp objects, mate,” I say with a chuckle, ruffling his hair. He turns and gasps at Arthur.

“I didn’t know you were bringing a date!” he exclaims. Between Ari and Yusuf, I’m not sure who to clobber first. And here I was thinking Arthur would be the problem.

“I couldn’t shake him,” I mutter. Yusuf squints at me, looking me up and down as if he can solve something in his drunken state.

“The more the merrier!” he decides, lightly punching Arthur’s shoulder as he did mine.

“...Nice to see you again,” Arthur says, his politeness program somehow still running.

“You got anyone you want to say goodbye to before we go?” I ask. Ari rapidly shakes her head.

“Fuck all those people! They suck!” she shouts. Without warning, she pulls me into a tight hug and sighs. “I hate British people,” she mumbles into my chest.

“So do I, pet,” I say, gently running my fingers down her back.

“I can’t marry you. I can’t be trapped in this country,” she laments.

“I don’t blame you,” I say softly. Drunk Ariadne is quite a task. She’s too honest, too loud, too dramatic. Basically, she’s everything I am when I’m sober.

“I’ll flag down a cab,” Arthur decides.

“No, no! My pop’s house isn’t far. We’ll walk it,” Yusuf announces.

“...We’re going to your dad’s house?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“My flat is a shoebox,” Yusuf says.

“Mine, too!” Ari says, wiggling out of my arms again.

“We could always crash the palace,” I tease. Yusuf and Ari laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard in their lives.

“I’m definitely getting fired,” Arthur says with dutiful resignation.

Despite my royal guard’s trepidation, the walk to Mr. Rallus’s house is completed without incident. I’ve walked much further while blackout drunk, so doing the ten-minute trek sober is no problem. Yusuf and Ari were admittedly difficult to keep track of, but with Arthur’s help, it went smoothly. Yusuf only almost tripped and fell on his face, and Ari shouted at just a few fellow degenerates. We manage to get inside Mr. Rallus’s home without waking the poor sod up, stumbling down into the basement as quietly as possible. As I flick on the lights, Yusuf and Ari immediately run off. Ari goes toward the bar, hustling behind it, while Yusuf fixates on the pool table. He rolls the cue ball under his hand on the table as Arthur hesitantly scans the room. Always looking for some threat, aren’t you, doll?

“Not bad, right?” I brag. He makes a noise of approval.

“Eames! Arthur! Drink time!” Ari shouts, waving around a large bottle of vodka in the air. Arthur shakes his head rapidly.

“Absolutely not,” he asserts.

“Oh, come on. One shot. It won’t kill you,” I blatantly peer pressure.

“I’m on the clock,” he argues, still staring at Ari. She’s now doing some sort of interpretive dance with the vodka bottle. We oughta hurry over there before she drops it.

“No, you aren’t. I’ve brought you as a friend,” I argue back.

“Right,” he says dismissively. I don’t think he’s even listening.

“Ari, pour out four,” I insist, walking over to her. She grins as she rhythmically smacks four shot glasses down on the bar. She attempts to open the bottle, but she can’t quite remember the motor skills required. I gingerly take the bottle out of her hand, receive an impatient huff but no further protest, and open it myself. I pour each of us a generous shot and turn to Arthur, waving him over. He sighs and drags his feet over to the bar, taking his place by my side. Yusuf follows, scurrying over to us with a pool cue now in his hand. I really don’t think he should have access to any objects, let alone weapon-sized ones. Arthur may end up having to tackle the bloke. I snicker at the thought as Ari clears her throat.

“Here’s to n-no more stupid fucking British professors!” she cheers, raising her glass. Yusuf and I do the same, but Arthur stays stationary.

“You’re a chicken,” I goad.

“You are irresponsible and immature,” he fires back. Ari snickers at that and playfully pushes Arthur’s shoulder, leaning over the bar to do so. He takes a decisive step back.

“Bwak bwak,” I tease, raising and lowering my eyebrows at him repeatedly.

“I hate you,” he mutters.

“So does everyone. You’re not special,” I say. He, miraculously, picks up his shot glass and sighs. My eyes widen. “No way. I was kidding,” I say quickly.

“To my last night employed by you,” he says, raises his glass, and somehow takes the shot. I watch it happen. I watch the alcohol slide down his throat, I watch him shiver, I watch him cough as he puts the glass down. But I don’t see it. I can’t possibly have. Did Arthur, stick-up-his-arse Arthur, won’t-stay-up-past-ten Arthur, doesn’t-own-a-shirt-that-isn’t-neutral-toned Arthur, just take a shot in front of my eyes? I laugh, which makes Ari and Yusuf laugh, which makes me laugh harder. Against rational judgement, I put my arm around Arthur and pat his shoulder.

“You’re bloody daft,” I say, clinking my glass with Yusuf and Ari’s still raised glasses. I take the shot easily, making extra effort to not react. Arthur shrugs my arm off of him, but smiles ever so slightly. “I thought you weren’t employed by me?” I tease. He rolls his eyes.

“Must you call me on everything?” he asks.

“It’s my job, pet,” I say, winking at him. He sighs.

“Hey, we’re still here,” Yusuf mutters. I turn to him, only to see that he and Ari are already staring at me.

~~~

After Ari crafted all of us, save Arthur, a strong mixed drink, Yusuf managed to convince us to play a round of pool. Arthur and I each took one of the drunk fools, with Ari joining his team rather quickly and Yusuf ending up stuck with me. Arthur’s not half bad at the game, of course, but Ari completely destroyed his chance of winning. At least Yusuf could still hit the balls. Ari scratched every other turn. Once Yusuf and I won the first game overwhelmingly, we decided to play another and make it a sort of drinking game: every time Ari scratched, we drank. Arthur abstained from that, too, and I slowed myself down as well. I’ve got to follow his rules, after all. It takes a lot for me to actually get drunk, and I think he’d have a heart attack if he saw that process. After three games of pool, the standings are as follows: Yusuf’s pissed, Ari’s three levels beyond pissed, I’m tipsy, and my royal guard might as well have not taken that one shot in the first place.

Arthur and I have found ourselves on the red leather couch watching Ari and Yusuf fuck with the stereo. Yusuf is attempting to hook up his iPod with very little success, mostly because Ari keeps swatting his hands and telling him that he’s going to “break the damn thing.” I’d go help them, but…I’m comfortable. And it’s far more entertaining to watch them struggle and drunkenly bicker.

“Rolling Stones?” I ask. This is probably the millionth band I’ve named.

“I hate this game,” Arthur grumbles. I take a sip of my drink.

“The Zombies?” I push.

“They’re whatever,” he says with a shrug. Suddenly, the stereo roars to life, and Town Called Malice blasts through the room. Yusuf and Ari high-five and howl with laughter.

“W-we bloody got it!” Yusuf shouts.

“God, this song sucks,” Arthur complains. I reflexively nudge his shoulder.

“You’re a stick in the mud, you know that?” I remind him.

“Only when the music’s shit,” he fires back.

“The Clash?”

He pauses. “...You know what? I actually like them,” he submits. I leap off the couch and cheer, nearly dropping my drink as I attempt to clap with it still in my hand. I put the glass down on the ground and wobble back upright. Arthur stares with wide eyes as I offer him my hand.

“We found one! Fucking Christ, finally! Yusuf, play The Clash!” I shout over my shoulder.

“Yes, your Highness!” he shouts back sarcastically, but still obeys. He takes his iPod and quickly switches the song to London Calling. I shake my left hand palm up at Arthur rapidly, waving at him with my right hand.

“What do you want from me?” he asks.

“London’s calling! Get up!” I shout as Yusuf turns the volume up. Somehow not needing any further convincing, Arthur takes my hand and rises to his feet. I take advantage of his readiness and dance around stupidly, wildly, waving his arm around.

“Eames, Jesus!” he shouts as I drag him towards the middle of the room. He’s letting me flail him around but won’t make the effort to move himself.

“London’s drowning, mate! Don’t you know how to dance?” I ask.

“You know I don’t!”

“Must I teach you everything?” I say, grabbing his other hand and forcing us into a waltz position. “Just like we did in class, only much faster,” I warn him before immediately dancing us around the room. He, like last time, struggles immensely to keep up, but by the time the song changes to Rock the Casbah, he’s somewhat found his way. He’s got his familiar glow of focus, those knit eyebrows and pursed lips. What am I doing? Why am I torturing myself like this? What good does it do me to prance around the room with him like I’ve got some sort of chance?

“This is fucking tiring. Who waltzes to The Clash?” Arthur complains. I sigh and slow us down gradually until we’ve stopped moving.

“You’re a super soldier. I don’t think anything could tire you out,” I blurt out. Of course, I’d love to test my theory.

“I’m no soldier,” he says. I lightly kick his right ankle, hitting metal as I knew I would.

“Yes, because all regular men carry a firearm on their ankle,” I whisper. He wobbles a little and removes his hands from my body entirely.

“I’m your guard above all else,” he reminds me. Some emotion buries itself in my stomach and sits in it like a rock. I can’t define it, but it can sense its parts. It’s heavy, jealous, even mournful, a black mass in my intestines. I shouldn’t be angry. There’s nothing upsetting about what he’s just said, but it makes it hard to even look at him without that dark emotion rising up into my throat like acidic reflux. It brings snark to my tongue, malice to my lips, but I keep my mouth pressed shut and turn away from him. I stomp away to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools. Ari walks away from the stereo and sits down to my left, putting her hand on my back.

“You p-poor thing,” she whispers. Yusuf turns down the music and walks behind the bar, leaning forward against it to listen to our conversation.

“What? I’m fine,” I spit out. Defensive much, Eames? Christ, I haven’t even had much to drink. I should be able to keep myself in check.

“You like him,” she says plainly.

“No. I like his face. I don’t like him,” I correct. She sighs.

“Y-you’re a fucking British liar! All of you are liars, you know!” she shouts and exhales loudly.

“Who’s lying? I wouldn’t lie to the guest of honor,” Arthur says lightly, sitting down to my right. He’s left a seat between us. God forbid he sit close enough to perhaps be able to smell me.

“‘Cause you’re a good old-fashioned ‘merican. We got baseball and s-shit,” Ari says, giggling to herself.

“We do. You’re the Tigers fan, huh?” Arthur says. Ari’s eyes light up.

“How’d you k-k-know?!” she shouts, leaning over me to get closer to him. She’s practically on top of me.

“Eames has your mug. They’re not bad,” Arthur comments.

“You like b-baseball?! Why wouldn’t you tell me that?!” Ari shouts again, this time at me, punching my shoulder. “All you talk about is his face and how much he annoys you! You know I like baseball! You’re a terrible friend,” she laments. I can feel my cheeks heating up. I groan and hang my head, not willing to see Arthur’s reaction. Whatever. If he hasn’t figured out I’m attracted to him by now, he’ll never bloody realize it.

“My first girlfriend l-loved baseball. I wonder how she is…” Yusuf mumbles, bringing all of our attention to him. I even look up in time to catch his mournful thousand-yard stare.

“No! I don’t w-want your first love story again! Someone else’s gotta have one,” Ari shouts, then turns to Arthur, “You! Distract him! Who was your first love?”

Arthur clears his throat and briefly glances at me. I don’t directly look at him, but I can feel his eyes. His visual appraisal almost hurts.

“Some guy from high school. Didn’t last long,” he says. I immediately turn to him. Did I hear that right? He said “some guy.” He said guy, right? All at once, a million things click into place. His laughter at the girlfriend question, his need to defend me, his sudden disdain for Johnny ever since the dance lesson. Christ. This is terrible. What an awful thing to learn. You’re telling me that biology can’t stop me? What am I supposed to rely on now? My willpower? Fat chance I’ve got any of that in the first place. My stomach churns with the pain of that black mass as it infects further into my digestive system, perhaps even diffusing into my bloodstream as well. He could like me. But he doesn’t. Even if he did, he wouldn’t. He’s my protector, he’s here for the job, he’s my “guard above all else.”

As Ari and Yusuf explode into some loud series of questioning I know Arthur will do no good answering, I stand up and excuse myself. I walk up the stairs, out of the basement, and further out of the house. I stumble down the path to the road and sit down on the curb with a loud sigh. I don’t know why Yusuf’s father didn’t move out to the countryside. Maybe he spent so long with horses that he got sick of the outskirts lifestyle. I wish he had left London. Then I could be sitting in silence right now. Instead, I have to listen to cars whizz by and hope they won’t go slow enough to recognize me. Still, it’s better than having to hear Arthur talk about some person he loved. Some man. What a fool I’ve been. Did I really think that him being straight could save me? Would that solve anything? I don’t know, but it would’ve certainly made things easier. It’s one thing for something to be impossibly out of reach. That’s a kind of tragedy I can handle. But this? This is something else. My stomach churns with my newly collected sickness as I rest my elbows on my knees.

“You okay?” I jump at the voice and turn to my left. Somehow, Arthur’s snuck up on me. There’s that training. Before I answer, he sits down beside me and watches expectantly. I shrug. “Did I say something wrong?” he presses. I sigh.

“No. Just realizing how much of an idiot I am,” I mutter. If only I could tell him. But I’ve no need to make things worse. He must already think I’m insane. He doesn’t need to think I’m brain-dead and pathetic, too.

“...Not a fan of the first love conversation, huh? Bad experience?” he assumes.

“No experience,” I correct, finally looking him in the eyes. He raises his eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Go on, rub it in. Prince Edward has never been in love,” I grumble. Arthur’s the cherry on top of this reality. He raises his hands defensively, saying quickly,

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I just…well, you’re…”

“Spit it out, mate,” I interrupt his babbling.

“Well, it’s hard to comprehend. You’re a prince. You’re good company and you’re…you’ve got nice features. I get your circumstances, but…” his voice fades away. There’s a lot there I could attack, particularly this assumption that being royalty somehow gives me more freedom to love than less. But instead, I ask,

“‘Nice features,’ huh? What’s that mean?”

“...You know. You have nice eyes. Good facial structure. Whatever,” he mumbles, for once not dodging my gaze. The words come out of his mouth like they’re covered in glue, like they’ve been sticking to the roof of his mouth for days. “Love will find you, if you want it to,” he continues. I’m not at all sure what that means, or why he thinks love is some destiny I’ve forsaken, but I let it go.

“You’ve got nice eyes, too,” I say. We stare at each other for a beat, a familiar spell coming over my body. There’s a serenity in his eyes. Something that feels…comforting. He’s just trying to make me feel better. That’s why he said those things. But staring at him now, I swear he’s glancing at my lips. Is he wondering about how they taste? Has the thought of it ever crossed his mind? Knowing me that way? God knows it’s in my head every time I look at him. What was your first love like, Arthur? What color was his hair? Did he dress like I do? Did you break his heart, or did he break yours? Does his name still come into your mind at night? Does he haunt you the same way you haunt me? I’ve no reason to be jealous of some numpty he loved years ago. Some man who got to know those eyes, those lips, that body currently hiding under my shirt. That mind. That incomprehensible, inconsolable mind. How ironic. He can protect me from everything except what’s actually hurting me.

Luckily, he finally looks down, and the spell is broken. “Still waiting for love to find you?” I manage to ask.

“...I guess it already has, in a way. I’m doing this all for Annie,” he answers, talking to the pavement. I scoot a little closer to him.

“That kid means a lot to you, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s tough. Tougher than any kid should have to be,” he mumbles.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” The sentence comes out stilted and awkward, like my mouth can’t quite form the words. The language of sincerity doesn’t sit well on my tongue.

“Nothing to really talk about,” he looks up and takes a breath, “...she had acute lymphocytic leukemia when she was younger. After that, she got diagnosed with Lupus.”

“Jesus. Is she…” I don’t know how to ask the question. A photo pops into my mind: that little girl standing on her own with a weak smile and short curls. My chest pangs.

“It’s not fatal, if that’s what you’re asking. She just has flare-ups sometimes. And she gets sick a lot.”

“It must be hard on her. And a lot for you and your family to take.”

“She’s worth it.”

Again, my vision seemingly clears. As if I needed another eye-opener. His devotion is mind-boggling. She’s the one thing he loves most in this world, and he’s moved an ocean away to support her. My chest tightens.

“If she’s anything like you, I bet she is,” I say. He smiles at me, really smiles, and pats me on the shoulder.

“We should go back in there. They’ll get some funny ideas if we don’t,” he teases.

“They’ve already got funny ideas,” I mutter.

“Ideas you’ve created,” he reminds me. I don’t know how to take that. Does he think it’s all jokes? Is he ignoring any truth in it? Why?

“‘Must you call me on everything?’” I mimic him in a shoddy American accent, reverting to my first language. Duplicity is far easier to speak.

“Ha-ha. Come on, let’s go,” he deadpans, standing up.

The party after Arthur and I’s talk goes smoother than before. Ignoring my desire to feel him up is easier when I’m thinking more about his past than his present being. It couldn’t have been easy to see his sister sick like that. He probably feels more like a father than a brother to her sometimes. That kind of sibling bond is something I can’t understand. Johnny wouldn’t give me a glass of water for a million pounds. Sure, maybe if he got sick, I’d give a damn. But I don’t know. What I do know is that Arthur does give a damn. About his sister and about me. It comes naturally to him, being a protector. It’s all he knows. What must it have been like to grow up with that pressure? To watch his sister struggle, to watch her suffer, not being able to do a thing but hold her hand and weather the storm? He’s braver than I’ll ever be. I don’t think I’d have his conviction nor his courage.

“Come on! S-s-stay longer…” Yusuf mumbles, but it’s not even a real request. He’s already half asleep on the basement couch, his eyes closed lightly.

“That’s all right. I’ve got a curfew. You’ll get Ari to her flat tomorrow morning, yes?” I confirm, glancing at the poor girl asleep sitting up in an armchair in the corner. I’m sure it’s the chair Mr. Rallus sits in to read and drink fine whisky. Hopefully, he won’t mind it smelling like vodka and college girl sweat.

“Mh-hm. Hey, I love you, man…” he mumbles.

“I love you most ardently, darling,” I return, patting his head. He snickers and turns away from me. I tiptoe over to Ari and gently pet her hair. She hums at the touch, but doesn’t fully awaken. “Drink lots of water when you’re up,” I advise her. She makes some sort of grunting sound that is probably more likely a response to a dream than me. Still, I pat her head one final time and run my fingers through her hair. She at some point managed to undo her entire hairdo. Christ. I don’t know what I’ll do in this country without her. Maybe I should convince her to get another degree. How can I get a palace architect appointed? If only it were ethical to trap her in this dungeon of a country. I turn back to Arthur and nod. He’s kept his distance, still standing near Yusuf. I rejoin him, take one last look at the room, and guide us to the stairs. We turn the lights out in the basement and bring the night to a quiet end.

~~~

Entering the palace is just as easy as leaving it was thanks to my darling guard. I’ve mostly sobered up and already been left with a small headache. We spent most of the walk in silence, but once we’re only a few meters away from my flat, Arthur lets out a long sigh of relief.

“I can’t believe we got away with that,” he says, breathing in deeply.

“I told you. Went off without a hitch,” I brag.

“Don’t think this will become a regular thing,” he warns.

“I would never take advantage of you. Unless you ask nicely,” I flirt. He rolls his eyes. “How did your last boyfriend woo you? Clearly, I’m doing it all wrong,” I tease.

“There’s a reason I didn’t give up that information,” he grumbles.

“What, the fact that you’re gay?” I ask. He nods.

“You find a way to use everything against me,” he complains.

“Aw, don’t lie. You just didn’t want me to think I had a chance,” I continue to tease. He scoffs.

“Like you could court me,” he teases back. I snicker and stop walking, forcing him to pause and face me. I push his shoulder playfully and grin.

“Shut up! I could definitely get you if I wanted to,” I say. Each word out of my mouth feels like it’s scraping my stomach lining on the way out.

“Oh, you could not.”

“Really, now? What about my nice features, hm?” I press.

“I’m out of your league,” he continues to tease. I scoff.

“Am not! I’m a bloody prince!”

“Hardly.”

“Excuse me? You wanna bet?”

“On what?”

“I bet you’re already in love with me,” I tease. He groans.

“You’re insufferable,” he complains, but it doesn’t have his usual vitriol.

“You started this!”

“No, no, you start everything, Mr. Eames,” he pesters, poking my shoulder. I swat his hand away, but he pokes me with his other hand as I do. I shove him back a little, and he returns the favor, laughing hard. My stomach flips.

“You’re assaulting a prince! I’m getting you fired!”

“You’d be helpless without me.”

“Would I now? I think –”

“You boys having fun?” A voice freezes us both in place. It takes all of what little bravery I have in me to turn and look at Saito. He approaches us slowly, looking…unimpressed. He’s in his sleepwear and his hair is a mess, but he’s certainly not unprepared. His arms are already crossed and his foot is quickly tapping. It’s the Arthur special in someone else’s skin.

“We haven’t broken any rules,” Arthur says quickly after swallowing hard.

“Sure,” Saito says dismissively.

“We haven’t,” Arthur insists, harsher this time.

“I know. And you know I’m the one who lets Eames off easy. There’s a reason you took me off the night shift,” Saito says.

“So…” I start, but don’t have the sense to finish.

“Arthur, you’re excused. I need to talk to Eames,” Saito says. Arthur sighs, nods to me, and walks away, knowing better than to say anything else.

Saito gives me the grace of sitting down in my living room with me instead of scolding me in the hallway. It takes him a moment to compose himself. He seems tired. Maybe the switch in shifts doesn't agree with his sleep schedule. I hoped it would do him good to get him on regular shifts instead of having to stay up all night searching for me, but maybe he’s been doing those night runs for so long his body can’t adjust. Either way, sitting next to him feels more parental than any dinner with my mother and father. I can sense a good speech coming from him.

“You were gone a long time,” he says slowly.

“And why do you know that?” I ask.

“...Couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d…check in,” he mumbles. Right. He can’t hide his suspicion well.

“Really? Just ‘checking in?’”

“Are you sleeping with him?” he asks out of the blue, avoiding my questioning. I can practically feel the color drain from my face. What I want to say is “I wish.” What I say instead is,

“Christ. No, Saito, I’m not shagging Arthur.”

“Do you want to?” he presses. I swallow hard and look away from him.

“...Whether I want to or not is irrelevant.”

“Why?”

“He’d never go for it.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” he warns. I pause for a moment. It never occurred to me that Arthur could like me back. I haven’t let the thought in. I’m running out of strong excuses, though. He’s not straight. He’s not taken. He likes my features. And that…exchange we just had didn’t exactly feel fully friendly. We may have a much bigger problem on our hands here. I blink hard and dispel the idea. There’s a reason I’ve locked that train of thought out.

“I have to,” is all I can think to say.

“You know the rules. You know how things work here,” he says, his voice rising suddenly. It adds an air of desperation to who is otherwise a calm man.

“You’re right. I do. We have obligations. To our families, to our countries.” What a thing to stop us. What a bloody shame. It’s easier to believe he doesn’t like me. That he doesn’t think I’m “good company” and have “nice eyes.” Perhaps I should try to make him hate me, because I certainly can’t get myself to make the reverse happen.

“So you understand, then,” Saito says, his voice returning to normal.

“Clear as day,” I confirm.

“...I’m sorry. If it’s easier, I can have him sent off. We can get someone else to –”

“What? No! Please, I won’t do anything. I swear it. He needs this job. His family needs it,” I beg. That little girl standing beside her brother, beside her hero, sticks heavily in my mind.

“Okay, okay! Take it easy. He stays. Just don’t have sex with him, all right?” he says quickly, standing up as he does.

“Yes, sir,” I agree. Sex is the least of my worries. If I’m not careful, I’ll do far worse.

Chapter Text

The palace ballroom has come to life with a joy it very hardly receives. Most of the time, it’s me and my bastard brother occupying the space and bringing our terribleness with us. Sure, there are events held here, but the dozens of rich lads and ladies hardly create a welcoming atmosphere. But today, just like at the end of every month, there is hope here. Cobb is standing in the middle of the room surrounded by thirty-something eight to ten-year-old kids who have gotten lucky through a program my mother started a year ago. Her intentions were perhaps not the kindest. Her proposal essentially stated, “Poor kids are dirty, have no manners, and disappoint me. Maybe teaching them how to dance will save them from class disparity.” So, with that, a monthly batch of kids without enough money to buy new trainers for school get bused to the palace for a couple of hours of dance lessons and a free meal.

I don’t normally attend these lessons, but I happened to get lucky, too. Poor Anthony conveniently “got sick” on the day he was required to play for a gaggle of screaming, hyper children, meaning the palace was out a pianist. With less than twenty-four hours’ notice, Cobb panicked, knowing he would get no help from my wonderful mother who forgets about this event every single month until five minutes before it. Seeing Cobb’s distress made my delicate heart ache so painfully that I just had to volunteer Arthur for the job. I am doing this for the children. It is not because I can sit by his side and watch him play, it is not because getting him to agree to this was delightfully difficult work, and it is not because I can get out of family dinner and eat with the children instead. I care for the underprivileged and their life-saving dance lesson. Clearly.

The tikes are still gabbing with one another as Cobb attempts to find a way to calm them down. Arthur is rifling through sheet music and looking it over, biting his lip with familiar concentration and completely ignoring me sitting right beside him. Most of the kids have not the faintest clue who I am. Sure, maybe their mothers and fathers told them to look out for a prince, but I am not the picture that would appear in their young minds. That means I can get away with being “some guy.” I rather like being some guy. Some guy doesn’t have to take pictures or write autographs. Some guy can walk into a room and not be afraid of the looks he’ll get when he steps through the doorway. If I had been born as some guy, I would’ve been much better off. I wonder if it’s too late to somehow discover I’m an illegitimate child belonging to some florist or bookkeeper with no royalty in her veins. It would explain a lot.

“You nervous?” I ask Arthur, daring to break his concentration.

“I don’t think kids will know if I’m playing wrong,” he says, but his voice cracks as he says it.

“You are nervous!” I say, punching his shoulder. He looks up and sighs, putting the pile of music down on the piano’s music stand.

“I haven’t played for an audience in years. I’m really not prepared,” he says, harkening back to one of the arguments he made when I was convincing him to do this.

“You played for me,” I remind him.

“You’re not an audience,” he says. I fake a dramatic gasp. He rolls his eyes. “I mean, you’re not a frightening audience,” he corrects.

“Good save,” I say, lightly shoving his shoulder. He fights down a smile and looks back at the papers of funny-looking notes and shapes.

“I’m not great at reading music,” he mutters.

“Shush. You’re talented, mate. If you fuck up, blame me. I’ll say I touched the keys to screw you over,” I say, this time fully patting him on the shoulder I just shoved. He sighs and stretches out his fingers.

“...You don’t have to stay for this. You could have some free time,” he reminds me.

“Shut up,” I say dismissively.

“Okay, everyone! Line up! Let’s get started! Arthur, the first piece,” Cobb instructs, loudly yelling over all of the kids. It takes them a minute to get settled, but once they do, Cobb gives out some more instructions and prepares the bunch. He first demonstrates the steps he’s going to teach, then nods towards us. Arthur takes a deep breath, puts his fingers on the keys, and begins the song. I have no clue why he’s nervous. He has absolutely no reason to be. He plays beautifully, effortlessly, moving through the music like he owns it. Thankfully, he seems to partly realize that as he’s playing. He relaxes, gets more confident, and stops clenching his teeth. The only thing that throws him off is having to turn the pages, but I take that job over quickly and remove the stressor. Having to participate forces me to focus a little more, but I don’t mind it. It gives me another excuse to watch him.

The kids are not talented. Not in the slightest. They trip over their own feet and each other constantly, forget what they’re doing entirely, and sometimes even fully start doing their own made-up steps instead. It’s the most fun I’ve ever seen Cobb have. He doesn’t need perfection, doesn’t need to prepare the little brats for a ball or a prince’s birthday. He can just teach like he’s meant to. That puts more pep in his step and a smile on his face. With that joy and Arthur’s tranquil playing warming my chest, the moment feels almost picturesque. Dreamlike. It’s not quite as serene as my dream locations, but the feeling is the same. I’ve seen so much of the world with Arthur in my sleep, so much that it’s starting to get concerning. If I weren’t so embarrassed, I’d probably ask some palace shrink about it. It’s not like it’s a problem. But I see Arthur enough during the day. I don’t know why I’ve got to dream about him constantly as well. When will my brain get enough of him?

“Okay! Great work, everyone. You can all take ten and then we’ll do the final performance,” Cobb announces. He almost sounds somber about it. For once, he’s not looking to get off his shift. Arthur sighs and shakes out his hands aggressively, wiping his forehead once he’s done. He’s a little sweaty, moisture tickling the sides of his face delicately.

“Excellent, darling. Maybe you’ll take Anthony’s job,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow.

“I don’t need more work. And I screwed up the second Chopin piece,” he mumbles.

“You’ll receive your allotted lashings,” I say, patting him on the back. He scoffs, but smiles. He’s been doing that more often lately. Smiling. You’d think that would help me get used to it.

“This will not become a regular thing,” he asserts, motioning to the piano. I put on an extreme pout face, getting an eye roll out of him as a reward.

“You should play at the Dahlia Ball. Stupid bloody event. What’s that even mean? Aren’t dahlias flowers?” I ask.

“They represent eternal love. That’s why it's called that,” he answers. I tilt my head.

“And why do you know that?”

“I looked it up.”

I huff and ruffle his hair on instinct. He flushes and turns away from me as I pull my hand back. “You’re touchy,” he complains.

“You’re easy to bother. So, you think I’ll find eternal love at a bloody dance?” I ask, scooting a little further away from him. He’s clearly not comfortable with my closeness. He shouldn’t be. It’s easier that way.

“Somehow, I don’t think so,” he says. I snicker.

“Ye of little faith. It’s all daft, anyway. I know who they’ll want to pair me with. This one girl’s been after me for years,” I say. He perks up and, surprisingly, scoots closer to me to fill the gap I’ve created.

“Really? There’s already someone for you?” he asks. I nod.

“Her name is –”

“Play us a song, piano man!” a high-pitched, shrill voice shouts in our direction. Arthur and I turn away from each other and look over the piano. Standing in front of it are three of the small children, each holding a water bottle and staring at us expectantly.

“...What?” Arthur blurts out. The child in the front, a tiny girl with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes, takes another step forward. She points at Arthur like she’s about to accuse him of something.

“You’re American!” she shouts.

“...Yes,” Arthur answers. For a guy with a sister he adores, he is rather terrible with kids. It’s almost endearing.

“Why?” she asks.

“We’ve snatched him up from that scary place,” I answer, making my accent a little more dramatic than normal. All three kids laugh. “He can play anything. What’s your favorite song?” I ask. Arthur elbows me and grumbles something I can’t hear, but I ignore him.

“Katy Perry! Play Katy Perry!” the leader shouts.

“Ew, no way! That’s girly stuff!” the boy to the leader’s right protests.

“My mom loves David Bowie! Play him!” the last child, a tall girl with dark hair, joins the fray.

“...I know Starman. My mom likes Bowie, too,” Arthur says.

“No, no! Don’t! You have –”

“Play –”

Arthur silences the two protesting children as soon as he presses down on the first key. They become as mesmerized by him as I always am. He seemed miffed that I’ve got a woman after my heart. Saito’s voice echoes in my head as the tall child sings out of key, mostly missing the lyrics. “I wouldn’t bet on that.” Why would he say that? Why would he put the thought in my head? He should know better. Maybe I can hold myself back, especially if Arthur’s not at all interested. But if he made a move on me? If he got close, if he whispered something in my ear, if he threw away all of that stoicism and professionalism, I don’t know if I’d be able to resist. I take a heavy breath as he nears the end of the song. His fingers move so quickly, so eloquently, matching the serenity of his closed eyes. Without having to read the music, he can feel it somewhere in his bones. Christ. I do know. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

Once the song finishes, the kids loudly cheer. “Play something else! Play something else!” they all chant. Arthur sighs.

“Okay, one more. I have one you might like, Eames,” he gives in. I tilt my head. He smiles and cracks his knuckles quickly before putting his fingers back down on the keys. As soon as the song starts, I perk up. It doesn’t sound the same on the piano, but I can recognize it immediately. The kids have no idea, but he’s playing Oasis. A band I know he hates, a band he complains about whenever I put them on. But not only is he playing Oasis, he’s playing I Hope, I Think, I Know. My stomach drops as my heart skips a beat. Arthur’s eyes are closed again, but I can’t stop staring at him regardless. Why is he doing this? Why is he putting me through this torture? He learned my bloody favorite song?

The kids politely clap once he’s finished, but they’ve already lost interest. They run off to their little friends while I gawk at the man sitting beside me.

“...When did you learn that?” I ask. When did he even have the time?

He shrugs. “I don’t know. A bit ago.”

“You hate Oasis,” I remind him, still staring. He’s opened his eyes, but he hasn’t looked up at me yet.

“Not that song. It reminds me of you,” he mumbles. A wave of nausea hits.

“How so?”

“You know. The lyrics. All of it,” he continues to mumble, now deliberately looking even further away from me. I stand up fast and breathe in hard.

“I, uh. Thank you,” I practically whisper. He finally dares to look up. I wish he hadn’t. I bloody wish he’d never look at me again. Those eyes stare deep into mine, those knowing dark eyes full of the universes we’ve only been to together in dreams. The shape of his nose, the lines of his lips, the cut of his jaw, they all individually stab me in the stomach. But that song? That knife hit far closer to my heart.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters.

“I, uh. The loo,” I manage to stutter out.

“Right,” he says, biting his lip.

“It’s not nothing,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I say, quickly turning away from him and practically running out of the room. If I stay by his side another second, I don’t know if I’ll ever leave it.

Once I stumble into the nearest bathroom, I can finally breathe. I stare at myself in the mirror and splash my face with water, hoping that’ll somehow bring me back to a reality I left long ago. I could kill him. I really could. He could’ve made this easy for me, could’ve been a forgettable arsehole just like the rest. Instead, he plays the piano when I ask. He learns my favorite song. Does it not pain him? If not, then why does it hurt me this badly? Is being known supposed to sting? I’ve been so talented at hiding. The world thinks I’m a fuck-up, my family thinks I’m a disappointment, and my few allies here find me amusing at best and pitiful at worst. But Arthur? He refuses to make me a caricature. The man actually wants to know who I am. What a bastard.

As soon as I step out of the bathroom, I’m greeted by an unwelcome sight. Johnny is standing seemingly waiting for me with a slight satisfied grin on his face, like a fox licking his lips after a meal. The boy has never dressed casually in his life, but he’s particularly made-up today. He must have some press event or something. “You don’t look so good,” he comments.

“Piss off,” I grumble.

“What are you doing? I figured you’d be bothering your little pet,” he says, raising his eyebrows as he leans against the wall. He even stands like a numpty.

“Do you need something from me, or are you just bored?” I ask, taking a careful step closer to him.

“We need to talk with Father about the Dahlia Ball,” he says.

“And you were sent to bring that message? Isn’t that Arthur’s job?”

“Not when he’s wasting his time playing piano instead of working,” he says. He might as well spit on the ground.

“Watch it. He’s doing a good thing for those kids,” I grumble.

“Do you really have to defend him so vehemently? You might as well get down on your knees and bow to him. Or, have you done that already?”

“You wanna start something you can’t finish?” I threaten, taking another step towards him. He steps back and reflexively tightens his tie.

“...We shouldn’t keep Father waiting,” he says quietly. He’s not hard to spook.

“What’s that bloody ball have to do with you?” I ask.

“How should I know? Let’s just go,” he grumbles impatiently. He’ll make anyone but our parents wait. God forbid our father have to sit and twiddle his thumbs for a minute or two. Johnny turns on his heels and walks away, expecting me to follow like a dog. I hate to give him the satisfaction of my obedience, but some things I can’t avoid. Still…I could go skulk about in the ballroom for a little longer. I turn and look in the direction of my potential hideout. Images of Arthur pop into my head like shards of light through broken blinds, burning my eyes with an almost physical pain. His slender fingers on the keys, his sweat dripping down his forehead, his rising and falling shoulders. “It reminds me of you.” It is impossible to believe that I’d prefer to get screamed at by my father than sit in Arthur’s grace, and yet my feet force me to follow my darling brother all the same.

The study is a frightening room. It should be neutral. No, it should, in fact, be pleasant. Unlike the gaudy golden mediocrity of most of the palace, this room has taste. The walls are a deep, dark green, the floors are a dark oak wood covered by a large black rug, and the lighting is low and warm. Those dark walls are covered on three sides with bookshelves filled to the brim with novels I’ve barely noticed, much less touched. There’s a dark leather armchair in the corner, a leather couch, and a desk outfitted with a hand-carved wooden chair. Arthur would love a room like this. Anyone with an intelligent brain would. On paper, it’s one of the palace’s many studies and is open to everyone. But everyone who lives and works here knows that this room is reserved for my father. He is the only one who enters it without an invitation. To do otherwise would be some sort of sacrilege. Interrupting my father as he smokes his cigars and reads the history of battles his ancestors fought would be like taking food from a lion. I do not, contrary to popular belief, have the desire to be eaten alive.

Sitting in the leather armchair that is, for all intents and purposes, his, my father stares almost past me, maybe through me. He never seems to look right at me. Somehow, I don’t get the same feelings from him that my mother exudes. She is perpetually peeved at me, always waiting for something to go wrong. But my father? What I do and who I am seem to be entirely beyond him, a story he left behind long ago. It makes things easier. He, unlike Arthur, gets how I’d like to live. Beneath a bottle and behind a wall. I don’t think Johnny’s life interests him much more than mine does, though he definitely respects the bloke at a level I cannot and will never reach. But bloody hell, does he freeze a room. My heart rate spikes at the sight of these walls, my chest tightens at the smoke rising from the cigar always perched in my father’s hand, and my head spins at the memories that these images bring back. Back when my father was younger and far more invested in my mortality and morality, he’d scold me in this very room.

“Edward. John,” my father greets us.

“How are you, Father?” Johnny asks perfectly politely. I resist the urge to kick his leg.

My father first responds with a cough. That one cough turns into several and further evolves into a full-on fit. He hacks and hacks, which springs Johnny into action. The kid rushes to our father’s side and takes the cigar out of his hand, putting it out on the ashtray quickly. He then goes into his jacket pocket, takes out a handkerchief, and hands it to the old arsehole. My father takes the offer, but says nothing. He just wipes his mouth and sighs. His eyes are distant, even a little lost, like he’s halfway in a dream. I wonder if he’s getting another chest infection. The old man can’t seem to keep himself in good health. It’s almost a disturbing image of my future. For reasons far nobler than mine, reasons like PTSD and inconsolable loss, he’s spent the past three decades drinking and smoking himself into a stupor, but none of it will ever kill him. He’s too mean to kill.

“Ever thought about quitting?” I quip as he pointedly takes another cigar out of the case on his lap.

“If your mother were not busy, we would not be having this conversation. Don’t get fresh with me,” he says, clearing his throat after he says it.

“What can we do for you?” Johnny asks, stepping back to his original position before he came to our darling father’s aid. Great lot of thanks he received for that.

“We’ve moved up the date of the Dahlia Ball. It’s no longer August thirty-first. It’s the first,” he announces.

“What? Why? Trying to sell me off quicker?” I ask. Not that it bloody matters, but I thought I’d have more time.

“The ball was too close to John’s birthday,” my father answers plainly. I groan.

“Of course it was. We can’t possibly let the determination of my future interrupt Johnny’s birthday festivities!” I say sarcastically. Johnny scoffs.

“Do you think I asked for this? Not everything is my fault,” he snaps.

“I’m sure you had a hand in it,” I grumble.

“I would not –”

“Edward, your future has been determined long ago. You know this. I’m not done with my message. Faith Darcie will be at the ball. She has sought you out for years and you will give her what she wants. She is a philanthropist and will clean up your act,” he announces. I gasp.

“Oh, yeah? Or else?” I dare. I don’t know where to start. He wants to doom that poor girl, who is perfectly lovely and perfectly plain, to the eternal job of fixing my reputation? He and my mother are perfectly okay with me being intensely unhappy for their sake, and they aren’t afraid to ruin that girl’s life as well. It’s bloody unfathomable.

“You know your options. You’ve known them,” my father insists. His inflection never changes. It’s like he’s presenting the weather.

“Right, of course. I either marry a woman I do not love or I’m banished,” I snap.

“Abdication is not banishment,” my father argues.

“It isn’t? Really? Because it sure sounds like it! If I don’t do your bidding, I get sent away. In what way isn’t that an exiling?” I argue back.

“You will keep your money. What else do you want?” my father asks like he’s asking if I’d like steak or chicken. I can’t listen to this. I can’t bloody stand it. I can’t stand him treating my life like it’s a battle plan, like he’s playing with pieces on a map. I am not a son, I’m just another soldier in a war he stopped fighting long ago, even if he hasn’t realized it.

“How about being in a bloody family?! Do I not get that?” I shout.

“When have you ever wanted that?!” Johnny blurts out. I turn to him and practically snarl. He grimaces right back.

“You aren’t a part of this!”

“Yes, I am! You have done nothing but reject all of us! You have sacrificed nothing for anyone! The only person you give a damn about is yourself and maybe that pet you’ve acquired,” he growls, stepping closer to me.

“Don’t bring Arthur into this,” I warn.

“Why don’t you run away with him? It’s clearly what you want. You don’t care about this family. You never have! How dare you act like you want to be a part of us!”

“Am I not a part of ‘us’ already?!”

“No! You’re fucking not! You’ve never been a brother to me!”

The accusation stings more than it should. I shouldn’t let him get under my skin, shouldn’t let his words hold any weight. But how fucking dare he? How dare he say I’m no brother to him when he’s never let me assume the role?

“I tried! I bloody tried, you arsehole! You never wanted me!” I shout, my voice cracking in a betrayal of my anger.

“Tried? When did you try? When have you ever tried at anything?! You think you’re above the rules, you think you’re above marriage, you think you’re above the goddamn law! Can’t you just suck it up for once?” he shouts right back.

“Right. Suck it up. Marry someone I’m incapable of loving, have children I don’t want, and live a life I despise. Seems fair!”

“Then fucking abdicate!” he screams, shoving me backwards. He’s breathing heavily, fuming so hard there’s probably smoke coming out of his ears.

“And throw away my family?”

“What fucking family?!”

“That’s enough!” my father’s voice booms over ours, finally calling our attention away from each other. He stands up and drops his cigar on the ashtray. “I have had enough of your endless warpath, Edward! John is right. You’re fighting for a family you’ve refused to be a part of. Either marry the girl within the next twelve months and assume your role or leave. You’ve known your choice. Make it,” he continues.

“Is there no third option? Will you never take me as I am?” I ask, practically begging.

“And what are you?” my father asks.

“...Your son. A brother. A bloody person,” I say, but it’s practically a whimper.

“No. You’re a prince. And when I die, you’ll be King. Accept that or we will not accept you,” he finishes, immediately falling into another coughing fit.

“Fuck this. I’m done,” I mutter, turning and stomping out of the room. No one tries to stop me as I rush down the hallway and to the stairs. I know what would make me feel better. I know what would make me feel blindingly good, what would quiet the rage in my heart, what would give me some chance of turning today around. But I can’t. I can’t face him. He’ll ask what happened, he’ll want to know, he’ll bloody give a damn, and I can’t handle that. I don’t know how to stomach it. He’ll get angry, maybe even infuriated, he’ll want to go out swinging. He’ll protest my fate, he’ll encourage me to run, to say “fuck it” to the whole world and find some life I could love. I can’t handle his blind faith, his unwavering belief that I’ve got a future if only I’d grab it. I can’t handle the way his eyes would shake, the way he’d grab my shoulders, the way his voice would flare up as his muscles tense. It’s too much to fathom.

As soon as I reach my flat, I throw on a jumper and pull up the hood. As I fish my phone out of my pocket, I dig through my pants drawer until I find the bottle of gin hidden amongst them. I speed-dial a familiar number as I force the cap off the bottle.

“Eames? You okay?” Ari asks, a pain in my chest spiking as she does. I can barely take her concern. I could never stand his.

“I’m coming over. We’re going out,” I decide.

“It’s not even five yet! What are you talking about? Are you okay?” she asks, repeating her query.

“Shut up! I’m fine! Are you in or out?” I ask.

“Jesus, man. Yes, come over. I’m not doing anything. Just be careful on the way,” she says, and her voice is gentle, so stupidly gentle. I hang up the phone and take a long swig of gin. It burns down my throat and makes my eyes water, but I take another swig just the same. My whole family wants to reject me? Fine. Let them. Maybe I am fighting for nothing. Maybe I should just leave. Maybe I should give up the future I’ve always known, maybe I should give up my home, maybe I should give up whatever hope I have left of patching up relationships that probably never even existed. Out of everyone, Johnny should understand. He should get it. He grew up with the same parents, these same walls, this madness he somehow mistakes for love. But he doesn’t get it. Or, if he does, he grins and bears it all the same. Why? Why does he accept his fate? Why can’t I accept mine? Why can’t I at least choose? What am I holding on to?

It’s easy to leave the palace while there’s still daylight. Arthur’s intense security systems don’t “power up” until the sun sets, meaning I can just stroll out the front doors. Sure, when I don’t come back in an hour, everything will fall apart. Or maybe they won’t notice. Maybe he won’t notice. He has a busy day today. He’s assisting security for my mother at some dinner party she’s been forced to attend. An event I was uninvited from after the stunt that brought Arthur to me. I clench my fists as I stomp down the street in search of a taxi. He works for them. He belongs to them. If I abdicate, I won’t have a royal guard anymore. I won’t require his protection. My stomach drops. I don’t just lose my family, my way of life, and my home if I leave. I lose him, too. I have to stop walking to let the world spin out around me. I take the pause to dig through my jacket and find the flask I’ve filled with more gin. I take a heavy gulp from the canister, grimacing as it burns down my throat. I was never going to win.

By the time I barrel through Ari’s front door, I’m already starting to feel it. It’s not enough, it never really is, but my head has gone slightly fuzzy. “I’m ahead of you already, Ari!” I shout through the flat. Her bedroom door opens, and she steps out quickly. She’s not even dressed to party! Then again, neither am I. Oh well.

“Jesus Christ. What happened?” she asks, walking over to me with furrowed brows. I can’t stand that look. That expression, like I’m a wounded animal she’s squished with her car.

“Shut up! I’m fine. Everything’s peachy! Let’s drink!” I announce, taking out my flask and finishing up whatever gin is left in the thing. Not enough. It’s not killing that black mass in my stomach. Maybe it’s only making it stronger.

“You’re making me nervous,” she mumbles. I click my tongue and put my hands on her shoulders.

“Love, I promise I’m all right. I just need to get out of that stupid building. Away from those daft people,” I attempt to convince her.

“Did something happen with Arthur?” she asks. I groan and rip my hands back, digging them through my hair.

“We’re not talking about him! His name is banned,” I declare.

“That bad?” she assumes.

“He played piano for me.”

“...Right. And that’s bad because?”

“Because I can’t bloody have him!” I groan, finally taking my hands off my head.

“I’ll get some wine,” she decides.

“No! Just get dressed! We’ll go out now!” I shout.

“It’s not even dark out! No one will be out! Let’s eat first, at least,” she pleads.

“Fine. Just for you,” I give in.

That’s just what we do. We have a long dinner over the promised wine, during which I let her talk while I drink. She avoids he who shall not be named like the plague, opting for topics that are comforting and completely unrelatable. Things about school, about the States, about baseball. I attempt to live her life through her memories, soak up her stories of growing up regular, growing up without a thousand eyes on you and yet never the ones you wish would watch. The white wine spins around in my head, going to war with the gin already in my bloodstream, and all ultimately mixes into a perfectly wonderful distraction from all of the noise in my thick skull. This is the state in which I thrive. In which I have nothing to think and nothing to say, only a desire for more liquor and to scream-sing to shite music.

When the sun finally sets, Ari takes her sweet time getting ready. She’s checked several times to see if I’m okay, and I’ve assured her with falsities every time. I’m a trickster. More like she knows that if she doesn’t go out with me, I’ll go by myself and end up dead. Or worse, on the news.

“You take too long!” I shout at her bedroom door whilst sitting on the couch. I hear a satisfying groan of annoyance, and then she steps out. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a black shiny halter top. She may be the most beautiful girl on the whole planet. She’s going to ruin some man’s life someday.

“You’re too coherent for how much you’ve drank,” she complains.

“Get on my level,” I insist. She shakes her head.

“I’m taking it easy, mister. I’m only doing this for you,” she says. I giggle and point at her.

“You love me,” I tease, winking at her.

“Unfortunately,” she replies, rolling her eyes. I stand up and grab her hands, pulling her towards the door.

~~~

I adore Soho. I adore this disgusting club we’ve found ourselves in, I adore how the music is so loud my ears hurt, I even adore how hard it is to see. Life’s better in these pieces. These pieces of reality I can’t quite place. It happens in snapshots. First, we’re in a taxi, then we’re in some pub, then we’re running to another one. Dancing, singing, someone shouting in our faces. I don’t perceive any of it. Where are we now? I’ve not a clue, and it’s far too hot, but it’s the best place I’ve ever been. Ari’s hand has been clasped in mine for as long as I can remember, maybe forever. She may be the only thing tethering me to this universe. I wonder what Arthur’s doing now. Is he ripping out his hair? Pacing the floors? Or has he forgotten all about me? Maybe he’s daydreaming about some other man, some man who is definitively not me, some bastard with features he’d prefer.

“Eames! Let’s go outside!” Ari shouts in my ear. I say some response that I can’t hear nor remember, but it must work, because she starts guiding me towards our escape. Again, it comes in fragments: one second, we’re packed inside with a million sweaty bastards, the next, we’ve rejoined clean, crisp air. The night sky brings me some clarity, some remembrance. I’m out. I’m out with Ariadne, my darling friend, running around the streets like I own them. Because I do own them. I’m a prince. I own the world. Or maybe just this country. I look up at the stars as they mesh and mold into one another. The light is almost blinding, yet beautiful. There’s so much in this world I’ve never seen through sober eyes.

“I think you need to go home,” Ari says, but she sounds far away. I put my hands on her shoulders and grin lazily.

“I’m wonderful. I’m doing a-a-ace,” I attempt to convince her.

“Yeah, you sound it. Come on, pal,” she says, attempting to take my hands off of her. I instead take advantage of her kindness and pull her into my arms. I hug her tightly, desperately, though I’m not even sure why.

“You’re good,” I mumble. She pats my back.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened? Ever?” she asks.

“W-where would I start? It’s over. It’s done. It’s been done,” I slur. What am I saying? It’s not over yet. I’ve still got time, don’t I? A sentence passes through my head like a strike of lightning: “Edward, your future has been determined long ago.” Suddenly, I feel so sick I could puke. I grab onto the back of her shirt tightly.

“It’s not over. It isn’t,” she whispers. She’s lying.

“Why won’t they call me my bloody name?” I whisper.

“What?” she blurts out.

“I hate ‘Edward!’ I hate whoever that is!”

“I don’t know why they treat you that way. I wish I did. But, hey,” she manages to push herself out of my arms and puts her hands on my cheeks, pressing her forehead against mine. I can hardly fathom the touch, but I accept it nonetheless. “You’re Eames to me. I swear it.”

“Am I?”

“Always.”

“Over here! We found him!” some voice shouts from somewhere around us. Suddenly, there’s a cacophony of screaming and flashing that I cannot even begin to discern. There are bright lights everywhere, so bright that I have to close my eyes. Everyone is screaming over each other, but I have no clue who this “everyone” is. What’s going on? What’s happening? Ari takes a heavy step away from me, whipping her head around. Or maybe something else is moving. I can’t quite see straight. But I can still feel. I can feel her hand grab mine, I can feel her trying to drag me somewhere, I can definitely feel her pushing me into a car. I close my eyes as we start moving somewhere, sleep biting at my heels. Something’s happened, something probably bad, but I don’t care. I can’t care. Everything is one bad thing after another, one catastrophe I’ve caused, some monster I created. I ruin things. It’s what I do. Moment to moment, I take life by the throat and choke it.

The next time I open my eyes, I’m on a couch. Oh, Christ. The bloody world is spinning. Some reality has come back, but it’s still distant.

“...Where am I?” I ask, sitting up. I don’t know if I was entirely aware that I was lying down, but I’m up now. A hand lands on my back.

“My apartment. It’s okay. You’re having a rough night,” Ari comforts me. I bury my face in my hands.

“It’s all pointless. It’s bloody pointless. They don’t want me,” I mutter into my palms.

“Who? Who doesn’t want you?” she asks.

“Anyone. I’m unfixable,” I continue to mutter. She shushes me.

“That’s not true. You’re a good man, Eames,” she whispers. If only I could believe her. If only.

“There’s no good. Only alcohol,” I grumble.

“Maybe tonight. But normally, you’re all right,” she says, moving her hand off my back. I lie down again, this time with my head in her lap. She strokes my hair gently, kindly. It’s too much. I don’t know how to take it.

“Why won’t he leave me be?” I ask.

“Who? Arthur?” she confirms what she already knows. I grunt some sort of agreement. “He’s giving you the kindness you deserve.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re killing me. You really are,” she mumbles.

“They hate me. They fucking hate me. They hate everything about me.”

“They’re assholes! Fuck your family,” she insists.

“No. They’re all I have!” I lament. Are they? Are they really? Do I even have them in the first place? “What fucking family?!” I don’t know, Johnny. I don’t.

“You have me,” she tries.

“Not forever. You’ll outgrow me.”

“No. I –”

“Stop it!” I shout, lifting my head rapidly. “You will! Don’t lie! You’ll leave!”

“Eames, please. Please try to sleep,” she begs, bringing her thumb to my cheek. She wipes off what feels like moisture. Am I crying? No. No, I would know. I have to know something. There has to be something on this goddamn planet that I know, that I have. But nothing belongs to me. Not even this body. It’ll belong to some woman I can’t love and a country I can’t lead. Or I can just leave. I can fucking leave and lose everything, start over. But I’m a coward without a single skill in these bones. Arthur can play piano, Arthur can fight, Arthur can discuss literature, Arthur has a fucking family he can go back to. What do I have? It’s all fake. A facade. I’ve been denied being a brother, I’ve been denied being a son, I’ve been denied being a lover, bloody hell, I’ve been denied being a man. How can I be anyone if I’ve been stripped of my humanity?

With newfound desperate exhaustion, I lie down again on Ari’s lap. She shushes me quietly, pets my head, and somehow, my eyes miraculously close.

~~~

My eyes shoot awake as I jolt from the sudden motion of my body. I sit up immediately and shrug off whoever’s hands have landed somewhere on me.

“Oh, good lord,” I groan as my head pounds with a pain I know is certainly my fault. I close my eyes and cover my face with my hands, hunching over in an attempt to hide from whatever hell I’ve caused over the past twenty-four hours. What’s the last thing I remember? Christ, I hate this game. I went to Ari’s, and she somehow listened to my request to go out. What happened after that?

“Eames, you’re –”

“Are you fucking insane?!”

A loud shout interrupts a much politer voice. Two certainly angry hands land on my shoulders and shake me. I reluctantly uncover my face, open my eyes, and look up. It takes everything in me not to gasp. Have I started having hallucinations, or is Arthur standing in front of me in Ariadne’s living room?

“Hey, take it easy. He had –”

“You are the most frustrating, careless person I have ever met!” Arthur shouts, interrupting my kinder friend. I wince and close my eyes again.

“You’re loud,” I grumble.

“You don’t care. You don’t fucking care,” he marvels, letting go of me. I feel like my stomach is trying to eat itself alive. Despite that growing discomfort, I force my eyes open again. My eyes first go to the bucket sitting by my feet. It’s half full with shite that has presumably left my body in the past few hours. I do not remember…expelling any of that, but looking at it makes my stomach want to relive the experience, so I quickly avert my eyes. Arthur is my next sight. He’s fully dressed, all suited up, but that formality can’t erase what’s happened to him overnight. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are clouded with exhaustion, and his body is so tense I can see it in how he’s standing. But perhaps worst of all, he’s fuming. His fists are closed tightly and shaking a little, he’s breathing heavily through his mouth, and he may even be twitching. And I thought I had a bad night.

“Do you even remember? Do you know what you’ve done?” Arthur asks, but it’s not a real question. His voice has the tone of a partner who’s caught their lover cheating. Oh, darling, I would never.

“...Can I have some water?” I ask.

“Unmute the TV. Do it, Ariadne,” Arthur orders, ignoring me.

“But –”

“Do it,” he repeats, interrupting her. She sighs and obeys as Arthur steps out of the way of the screen. I prop my elbows up on my knees and rest my head in my hands as I focus on the screen. My eyes widen. Oh, Christ. There’s a picture of me and Ari, foreheads pressed against one another, standing outside some horrible Soho pub I do not remember gracing with my presence. The caption below the photo reads, “Prince Edward’s new babe?” Before I can process that reality, the photo changes and switches to one of Ari at university.

“Ariadne Paget is a twenty-two-year-old university student who has just finished her…” the woman’s voice fades out of earshot as I hang my head and groan. I’ve done it again. I’m the talk of the country, I’ve added to the endless rumor mill, and worse yet, I’ve brought Ari into it. At least they didn’t catch me with a guy. It could always be worse, right? I think that, but the churning in my stomach says otherwise. I wonder if I’ll recover from this one.

“Where do I even start with you?! You snuck out because you knew I wouldn’t be there. You took advantage of my absence, of me! Not only that, but you’ve dragged this poor girl into it! The media will never leave her alone! You of all people should understand how awful it is to be chased by these people constantly. They’re tearing apart her entire life on national television! You’ve turned her into your fucking sordid lover!” Arthur shouts.

“It’s really not that bad,” Ari mumbles, sitting down beside me. She puts her hand on my back and rubs it. She should be insanely cross, she should be screaming, she should be stomping her feet. Ari doesn’t let people walk all over her or do her wrong without giving them a piece of her mind. That means whatever I did or said to her last night has given her so much pity for me that this whole mess doesn’t matter.

“Don’t defend him! Do you even have anything to say for yourself? I’m probably going to get fired!” Arthur continues his rampage. I finally look up again as my stomach drops. Now I’m really going to be sick.

“...I’m sorry,” is all I can get out.

“Oh, you’re sorry? That’s fucking rich,” he snaps.

“I am. I didn’t mean for this. For any of this,” I mumble.

“Sure. You just snuck out on accident, got wasted on accident, stormed around London on fucking accident!”

Ari jumps to her feet and quickly shouts, “Give it a rest! He had a bad night!”

“He had a bad night? No way. He got to get drunk and forget about his fucking life while I drove myself crazy looking for him! Do you know how long it took to trace your guys’ steps, to find this apartment? Do you know how long his fucking parents screamed at me, calling me incompetent, calling me a fool, calling me useless? A bad night. Fuck your bad night,” he growls.

“It’s not his fault! They’re horrible to him!” Ari, for some reason, defends my honor. I have never deserved this girl.

“You think I don’t know that? It doesn’t give him an excuse to do this!”

“Can’t you cut him a goddamn break?!”

“Alcoholism and partying can’t solve any of his problems!”

Their continued shouting fades into the background as my throat begins to burn. My stomach churns, saliva fills my mouth, and the pain in my head moves away from my temples and towards the front of my skull. I gag a few times, grab the already gross bucket, and immediately spill what’s left of my guts into it. That shuts up the two shouters rather quickly. Ari rushes to my side once again, her hand landing on my back as she sits down next to me. She rubs my back soothingly as I lose the rest of a combination of booze and stomach acid. When I’m sure there’s nothing left in my system to puke out, I force my head up. Arthur begrudgingly holds out a napkin in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. I take both, quickly wiping my face as tears of exertion drip down my cheeks. If he ever found me attractive in the slightest, he’s now lost the feeling.

“Jesus. How much did you drink?” Arthur marvels, finally too shocked to be angry.

“...A lot, I presume,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should’ve sent you home, I should’ve –”

“No, it’s not. He should have some self-control. You were just trying to be a good friend,” Arthur interrupts.

“What he said,” I concur. I open the water bottle I’ve been bestowed and take a greedy gulp. I feel the cold liquid travel through my esophagus and hit my stomach. Let’s hope I can keep it down.

“We have to go. Now. We’re both in for it,” Arthur grumbles.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. It makes no difference,” he snaps. It doesn’t? I suppose that makes sense. I still made the mistake. Again. It’s really no wonder things are the way they are. It’s an endless cycle. Somewhere in the past, fifteen or so years ago, I committed my first offense and started something unfixable. Ever since then, it’s been me acting out, me getting scolded, and me acting out because of said scolding. I can’t break out of it, can’t ever seem to make the right choice. Ariadne will be followed by this. It’s only the beginning now. They’ll hound her in public constantly, try to get some information out of her, or find some way to connect her to me further. She’s one of the only people in the world who believes I may be human underneath all of my falsities, and I’ve returned the favor by ruining her life.

“You want some Advil?” Ari asks softly.

“I’ve put you out enough. I’m – I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know how to make it up to you,” I say. She sighs.

“It’s okay. I’ll manage. Would you at least tell me what caused that whole…spiral?” she asks.

“This oughta be good,” Arthur mutters. It stings coming from him.

“Same shite, different day. I overreacted," I mumble.

“Can’t you be honest?” Ari pleads.

“It’s nothing. Arthur’s right, we should go,” I say, standing up abruptly. My stomach and head both immediately protest, but I ignore them and manage to remain upright.

“Call me later. Please,” she requests. I nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I will,” I say, but I don’t know if it’s true. Based on the way she’s looking at me, she isn’t sure either.

The drive back to the palace is painfully quiet, but the walk up to the front doors is worse. Sure, this is one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had, but it pails in comparison to the guilt sitting in my throat. I’ve somehow managed to leak my problems onto anyone and everyone who gives a damn about me. Arthur probably hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He certainly doesn’t seem like he has. Every time I think he’s finally starting to have some faith in me, I go right ahead and screw it up again. What if he really gets fired? I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Maybe it’s what I deserve. To lose the one friend I’ve got here? It would serve me right. But he doesn’t deserve that blow. This is his livelihood, this is how he supports Annie, this is his bloody future. Have I really ruined it because I can’t handle my own future, a future I’ve always known? Am I really so pathetic?

As soon as we step inside the large, open foyer, we’re greeted by a crew of angry faces. My mother and father are the expected ones. My mother looks particularly worn down. She’s dressed in her Sunday best, wearing a mournful black dress as though she’s planning to stab me and attend my funeral directly after. My father looks like himself: stolid and sickly. No changes there. Saito’s standing beside Luther, both of them equally as worn out as Arthur. Saito’s got a sadness to his expression that Luther does not share. Luther himself looks about ready to clobber me. The final face is the most surprising and the most upsetting: my kid brother is standing in front of the whole group with his arms crossed. There isn’t even amusement on his face. He looks just as cross as the rest of them as if he somehow has the right to be. What are you doing, Johnny? Do you really think you have a say in this?

I stand in front of what might as well be a tribunal and sniffle, wiping my nose as I do. If I don’t hurl during this, it’ll be a small miracle. As if I’m owed any more of those.

“I see you’ve finally done your job, Mr. Galvit,” Johnny snaps.

“John,” my father warns, efficiently shutting the bugger up with only his name.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself? Anything at all?” my mother asks. I shrug. “Okay, fine. How about something to say to all of these people you’ve kept up all night?” she continues. She sounds oddly…calm. I shiver.

“I didn’t mean to cause this. I’m sorry,” I mumble Arthur’s favorite phrase.

“Oh, you didn’t? Because I think that’s exactly what you wanted to do. That’s the only explanation! You enjoy wasting everyone’s time. Not only that, you enjoy dragging your family through the mud! You’ve thrown us into some new controversy with that girl! I hope you don’t expect to ever be able to see her again,” my mother scolds. Ah. There she is. It’s a different kind of anger. The exasperated kind.

“Do you know all of the work we’ll have to do to fix this?! It is unfathomable that…” her voice fades away as I stare at my father. He stares right back unwaveringly. I can’t find any life in him. Is he even still in there?

“He’s not listening,” he says after a few minutes. I blink hard. I don’t know where I just went, but it certainly wasn’t here.

“I know. God, I can’t do this anymore,” my mother exclaims, finally exasperated. She wipes her eyes, turns to the left, and stomps out of the room. Had she started crying?

“You disappoint me, Edward,” my father says. The words echo through the room like bombshells in a warzone. Everyone holds their breath and waits for the explosion. They expect it from me. Normally, I would. I’d shout, I’d fight back, I’d throw a fit. But I don’t have the energy. What good is it? It doesn’t matter. They won’t listen, I won’t make any difference. I might as well take my punishment and go with it. They can’t give me any worse punishment than how I’m already living. In a few short months, I’m expected to court a woman I do not love. I’ll marry her, I’ll assume my role, I’ll be who they want. Will that fix it? Will they want me then? Is my suffering worth this family? Do I even want them back? Did I ever have them? I don’t know. I don’t know anything except for my pounding head.

“I know I do,” is all I mutter.

“Mr. Galvit, consider yourself on probation. One more incident and you will be sent back to the United States,” my father warns, barely even acknowledging my statement. Arthur swallows hard.

“I apologize for my failure,” he says, bowing his head.

“It’s not his fault. Please, don’t punish him. I’m the one who did wrong. He was busy helping Mum, and I took advantage of that. He couldn’t have known what I was doing. If it was any other night, he would’ve caught me. I swear it,” I say, raising my voice just a little. Arthur turns to me and raises his eyebrows.

“...He has a point, your majesty,” Luther points out. His voice is low and gravely as always. As a kid, I theorized he lived on a diet of sand and soot. My father nods.

“Yes. Your mother’s event did leave him distracted. Still, the probation stands,” he decides. Arthur nods slowly.

“What’s my punishment?” I ask.

“You’ve punished yourself enough. I shouldn’t have to do that for you anymore. You threw a fit yesterday during a normal conversation, ruined your friend’s life, hurt Mr. Galvit’s career, and drowned your petulant sorrows in alcohol. What can I do to you that you have not already done to yourself, Edward?” my father questions, but like usual, he’s not really asking. I don’t have a word to say to any of that.

“Please. Please call me Eames,” I blurt out. My father crosses his arms.

“Your name is Edward. You disrespect the family by not going by it,” he argues.

“Do I have anything?” I ask.

“Pardon me? Is that a real question? You have endless money, a roof over your head, and hundreds of people who wait on your every request. Are you genuinely attempting to make me believe you’ve been stripped of something?” my father replies. I wish his voice would waver even a little. It never changes.

“Can I please go lie down?” I request.

“I can’t believe this nonsense. Are you really going to play the victim right now? You say you want this family, and yet this is how you treat us! You’re a sorry excuse for a brother and you’re not fit to be king. You don’t want to conform? Fine. Leave. Just leave!” Johnny snaps, turning in the same direction our mother ran off in and following suit.

“If you do not clean up your act, I am truly afraid of what this country will face under your rule. Let me remind you: you will marry Miss Darcie or you will abdicate. No matter how much you drink, you cannot outrun that reality. Think about that while Mr. Galvit keeps you on house arrest. I do not want to see your face again until tomorrow. Mrs. Cobb will attempt to fix your mess and inform Miss Paget. Do not contact her again, or you will lose your phone privileges. Furthermore, it is finally time to get you sober. You will be assigned a nurse who will make sure you do so,” my father decides. With that, Luther and Saito exit the foyer. I expect my father to do the same, but he instead walks directly up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Everything you have has been handed to you out of a kindness you have not earned. Do not presume that I will not take it all away just because you are my blood. This country is my true firstborn and I will protect it,” he says. My entire body shakes.

“I’m sorry, dad. I’m fucking sorry,” I mutter.

“Watch your mouth,” he scolds, removes his hand from my shoulder, and walks away.

I stand in the now almost vacant room and stare at the wall. My head is spinning, my stomach is churning, and my knees are threatening to buckle beneath me. So, that’s that. Nothing’s changed. My fate is sealed. At least Arthur keeps his job. Yes, he’s stuck with me in my room like a glorified babysitter, but he’s handled it before. I won’t be any trouble. Not this time. I don’t have it in me. I need to sleep for an eternity and attempt to process the mess I’ve made. Is this the incident that finally changes me? I’m not thinking straight. I know that. My spark will come back once I’ve slept, once I’ve eaten, once I’ve showered off all this sweat and liquor. But I can’t shake this sinking feeling, like it’s all falling out underneath me. My family’s always been an illusion. Why am I only now seeing through it?

“Could’ve been worse,” I mumble mostly to myself, turning to Arthur. I gasp. His eyes are watering. Any anger that was in him before that scolding is completely gone. He looks so heartbroken and so helpless that I could cry, I could hit him, I could fall to my knees and train my forehead to the ground in reverence. Without a word, he grabs me and pulls me into a tight hug. I grunt at the motion, but quickly return the embrace. He takes a deep, hard breath and rubs my back. What…what is he doing? Why is he doing this? He smells good. He shouldn’t. He probably hasn’t slept or showered, either. But he smells safe. And he’s warm.

“...What is this?” I ask quietly.

“Shut up. Just shut up,” he mumbles.

“I’m –”

“Eames. Enough,” he interrupts, hugging me even tighter. I nuzzle against his shoulder and let out a shaky sigh. It hits me all at once, the insanity of it. I’ve been ruthlessly scolded after a night of intense drinking, I’ve started a rumor that I have a lover, and I’ve been doomed to sobriety as well as house arrest for god knows how long. And yet, Arthur’s bloody holding me. He’s holding me in his arms like I’m a lost child, and Christ, maybe I am.

End of Act One

Chapter Text

Act Two

Arthur keeps me in his embrace for several minutes, neither of us saying a word. I’m barely even supporting myself. He’s holding me up, not just physically but probably mentally as well. It makes no sense. It makes less than no sense. He had not one drop of sympathy for me less than an hour ago, and now he’s keeping me in his grasp like he’s scared I’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. There’s a heart in his chest that no one in my family possesses. Whether it’s empathy or pity he’s feeling, I’ll accept either. I have to take what I can get. This is not how I’ve been imagining our first hug. I had hoped for something a little less pathetic and a lot more romantic. But, like I said, I’ll take what I can get. I’m still in his arms. My life may be falling apart in my hands, my body may be begging for the sweet release of death, and one of my dear friendships may be now null and void, but I haven’t lost him yet. That’s something.

“I’m still mad at you,” he finally breaks the silence. His hand has moved from my back to my hair. He’s combing his fingers through it gently. It feels too good to fathom. Christ, I’d kiss him if I weren’t so scared and sickly.

“That’s warranted,” I mumble.

“But I’m not whatever they are,” he says. That’s for sure. My family’s three steps beyond “mad.”

“Appreciate it,” I manage.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he warns.

“Trust me, I’ll never lay a hand on another bottle for as long as I live,” I swear, even though it’s certainly untrue.

“No, not that. I meant what you just did,” he clarifies.

“What?” I ask. He finally loosens his grasp, letting me free. I shiver and reflexively wipe my face. I wish he’d pull me back in, keep me in his warmth a little longer, but that’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to ask of him.

“You let them walk all over you. You stood down,” he says.

“...What else was I supposed to do? I fucked up,” I mumble. Is he actually angry that I took my punishment without protest?

“I don’t care. You can’t let them scream at you like that. It’s not fair. You have to fight back,” he insists.

“It’s pointless.”

“Still. You can’t let them win.”

“They always win.”

“I fucking hate seeing you like this,” he complains, rubbing his eyes hard. I tilt my head at him and bite my lip. I wish he wouldn’t say things like that. Things that give me some stupid form of hope.

“You’d prefer me loud and obnoxious?” I ask.

“I’d prefer anything over this dejected mess,” he says, motioning to me with waving hands.

“That’s nice,” I deadpan.

“Come on. You need to take something and lie down,” he says, turning in the direction of my flat. I follow him without saying another word, letting him have the control he’s surely been itching for all night and morning. Once we reach my flat, he ushers me into my bedroom and sits me down on the side of my bed. As he disappears into my bathroom, I take off my shoes, jumper, and shirt, freeing myself of some of the disgusting alcohol-infused garments I’ve been trapped in. I’m surprised nothing got stuck to my body. As I wait for my savior to come back with some magic hangover cure, I hunch over and bury my face in my hands. Fuck, my head is still pounding. Here I was thinking I was immune to hangovers at this point. I suppose anything is possible. The events of last night are still completely blacked out. The one person who could tell me what happened, besides maybe some paparazzi creeps, is the one person I can’t talk to. They really can’t keep Ari from me forever, can they? I’m not a total prisoner. I have rights. They can’t hold “safety” and duty over my head for the rest of my life. Something’s got to give one of these days. Or, that’s at least what I’ve always been hoping for. Some secret third way out.

Arthur returns as I pick my head up. He forcefully places two pills in my palm, tells me to “wait,” and leaves the room again. He comes back from the kitchen with a tall glass of water. I take it from his hand and obediently take the pills, swallowing hard as I shiver.

“Drink all of it,” he orders.

“You’re bossy. And annoying,” I complain.

“Do it,” he persists. I groan, but obey. I slowly gulp down the rest of the water until there’s not a drop left. He takes the empty glass and puts it on my nightstand. “Now, sleep,” he directs.

“You gonna punish me if I don’t? Maybe lock me in a bear hug again?” I tease. He, somehow, smiles. What’s worse, he brings his hand to my hair and gently brushes it out of my eyes.

“There you go,” he says to himself. Whether he’s talking about my hair or my teasing, I’m not sure, but either way, it’s given him some solace. Eager to keep that grin on his face, I lie down on my unmade bed and sigh heavily as I do. Christ, I really am tired. My eyes close almost automatically as he pulls the covers up over me.

“Why do you still have a suitor ball if they’ve picked your wife already?” Arthur asks.

“Who knows? It’s tradition. Maybe they want it to seem like I have options. It’ll make her feel special. Or they just want a night to ensure my misery,” I mutter, keeping my eyes closed. Miss Faith “Faye” Darcie always enjoys a celebration, especially if she can hover around me throughout it.

“...Do you really have to marry her?” he asks, his voice lower than before.

“Mhm. In the next twelve months, or I’ll be stoned in the town square. Or something.”

“Or you could abdicate,” he reminds me.

“You say that like it’s easy,” I snap.

“Sorry. We’ll talk about it later,” he decides. I want to get cross, to ask him why he thinks he has a say, why he thinks this is a “we” discussion, but the anger never comes. I’ve got a very short list of people looking out for me. I should not shove away one of the only names on that list.

“What will you do while I sleep?” I ask as I turn onto my side.

“Sit on your couch and watch the news,” he answers.

“You should sleep, too,” I say.

“No time. Some of us have jobs, you know,” he says, but it’s lighthearted.

“I’m a full-time arsehole, remember?”

“You’ll never let me forget.”

“Goodnight, Sir Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

~~~

There is one positive aspect of consistently dreaming the same thing: you become aware of it. Here I am sitting by an entirely unreal lake, watching ripples of water dance across it without a worry in the world. There’s a family of ducks swimming through the pond. Most of the ducklings are keeping up well with their mother, but one of them keeps falling behind. None of his dastardly siblings wait for him, but he manages to catch up regardless. They all keep going in circles, content with their little piece of heaven in this world. I never lucid-dreamt before I started dreaming of Arthur, but it’s now a regular occurrence. Speaking of, he never really says much. He used to at the beginning, but I think my brain has run out of things to come up with. I’m okay with the silence. In fact, maybe I’ve willed it in him. Maybe in realizing I’m asleep, I know better than to torture myself with his voice. It is my skull, after all.

I turn away from the circling family to look at the man himself. My breath catches in my throat so strongly it makes me a little nauseous. If only my brain could turn him into an ogre or a troll. Alas, he is still beautiful in my head. He thankfully doesn’t turn away from the water, but his profile is enough. He has such soft skin. I can bloody see it. Before I even know I’m doing it, I reach out and stroke his cheek with my thumb. He finally turns, revealing those dark eyes. I force myself to keep eye contact as I inch closer to him. This is always when I fail, when my brain gets confused and shuts it all down. I move my hand to his hair, but the thing masquerading as Arthur, the hollow version of his body in front of me, has already started to fade. I can feel his form dissipating at my touch like dandelion fluff blowing through the wind. Reality kisses my ears, brings some sound into my dreamland oasis, and forces Arthur to completely disappear.

My eyes open slowly as a groan involuntarily escapes my lips. Some advertisement playing on the television in the living room reveals itself as the sounds that had begun to invade my dreams. I wonder if they’ll convince Arthur to buy Jaffa Cakes. Whatever he’s actually watching better be worth it since he deemed it important enough to leave my door open for. I sit up and smack my dry lips together, instinctively looking at my nightstand. Sure enough, Arthur’s refilled my glass for me and left it waiting. Maybe I’ll forgive the open door, then. I grab the glass and greedily drink most of its contents, ignoring the droplets cascading down my face. While I do, I look at the clock and mentally smack myself in the face. It’s nearly five already. There goes any semblance of a sleep schedule. I can’t believe I’ve been asleep for so long. At least my headache and nausea have both thankfully vanished. In their absence, they’ve left me with a disconcerting taste in my saliva and a growling gut.

After taking a minute to let the water settle in my stomach, I throw on a t-shirt, brush my teeth, and drag myself into the living room. As promised, Arthur is still sitting on my couch “watching” the television. Only, he’s got his nose in a book instead. He’s curled up on the couch with his back against the right armrest, his feet pulled up onto the cushions. It’s as though he’s a child trying to get warm after a rainstorm. He’s also got his glasses on, probably to ease the strain on his eyes after so long with the contacts in. My heart swells with some awful feeling I haven’t learned how to ignore. He turns at the sound of my footsteps and furthers the swell, causing it to infect my stomach as well. His eyes are clouded with exhaustion still, even more so now. His hair’s a mess, and he’s ditched his suit jacket as well as his tie, both of which are sitting on the opposite side of the couch from him. He’s even got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his toned arms. I would pay an extraordinary amount of money to be allowed to remove that shirt myself and touch everything underneath it. The thought very nearly brings my nausea back.

“Good afternoon,” he says politely despite my rude staring.

“You should’ve woken me,” I say instead of saying “Could you please let me feel you up?” like I’d really prefer to.

He shakes his head and says, “You needed the rest.” After he says it, he looks me up and down, clicking his tongue.

“Like what you see?” I tease. He rolls his eyes.

“You look better,” he answers.

“You could say ‘you look good’ for once, you know. ‘Better’ implies I looked bad before,” I say, walking over to the couch and plopping down beside him with a sigh. He finally closes his book and looks up. He’s already facing me, making it easy for those pretty eyes to meet mine. What an unfair bloody hand of cards I’ve been dealt. I can stare at him plenty no matter what reality I’m in, but I can’t touch him in either.

“You did look bad before,” he deadpans. I scoff and shove his shoulder.

“Thanks, mate. Real charmer, you are. What are you reading?” I ask as I pluck the book out of his hands. Before he can answer, I read the title. “The Call of the Wild. What’s it about?”

He snatches the book back and sighs. “A dog.”

“A dog? Must be bloody boring,” I comment. He shakes his head.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he grumbles.

“Well, you’re bloody boring,” I tease. He opens the book and flips through quickly, moving his finger down the page until he reaches a desired line, and reads,

“‘There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive.’”

“Boring,” I say immediately, dragging out the vowel. He groans dramatically and slams the book shut.

“You’re impossible. That’s one of the best lines in literature,” he complains.

“You’re boring and you’re pretentious,” I correct myself.

“I’m back to hating you,” he decides, turning away and back toward the television. He turns up the volume as the advertisements finally come to an end.

“There was a time you didn’t hate me?” I ask.

“Yeah. While you were asleep,” he teases, barely fighting down his smile.

“Arsehole,” I mutter, shoving his shoulder with mine.

True to his word, he’s still got the news on. A new program has started up, one that immediately opens with the dreaded picture of me and poor Ari. The newscaster, a plucky young lady with neat dark hair and light eyes, is excitedly reporting on my escapades. She goes on and on about me “gallivanting” around Soho with a mistress. Evidently, she doesn’t know much more about the night than I do. After she goes through the story, showing plenty of pictures of the same moment, she sits down with some old blokes who all proceed to discuss my validity as a member of my own family. They debate it all: my ability, or lack thereof, to lead, my immaturity, my sexuality, even my outfit. Ultimately, they condemn my parents for my behavior, which makes my heart sink into my stomach. As cruel as they are, moments like these make me understand it. I put them through the wringer like this at least twice a month. The story ends with a demand from the newscaster for me to “repent” for my actions and prove to the country that I “have what it takes to lead.” Don’t they know by now that I really don’t have an ounce of what it takes? Also, who am I bloody leading? The royal family is a figurehead. We represent the country but have no real say in governing it. Not that I can perform the role of a symbol, either, but still. Is all this pressure warranted?

“...Has it been like this all day?” I dare to ask. Arthur nods. “Christ. What are the chances I’ll get to talk to Ariadne any time soon?”

“Slim to none. I’ve been in the loop all day. Mal and Saito have already been to her apartment and debriefed her. Her number’s been changed and she’s got a security detail for a couple of weeks until things calm down,” he answers. I groan and bury my face in my hands.

“I can’t believe I’ve done this to her,” I mumble through my fingers.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been caught with her before, honestly,” he replies.

“Me, too. It was bound to happen. She shouldn’t have let me go out. I was just…losing it again,” I continue to mutter.

“...I get it. You handled it awfully, but I guess you don’t know any other way. I was too hard on you. I’m just…glad you’re okay,” he says. I uncover my face but stay hunched over, then nearly jump out of my seat as his hand lands on my back. He caresses me gently, so lightly I can hardly feel it. Chills spread across my body as I resist the urge to lean in towards him, to get closer and dare him to touch me more. I do not need to get him into any additional trouble. He’s already on probation. One more mistake and his life will be screwed up forever.

“Quit worrying about me. I almost lost you your job,” I grumble.

“You’ll make up for that,” he asserts. I sit up, forcing his hand off my back. He moves it to my shoulder as if he’s got to have some part of himself touching me at all times. Oh, darling, please don’t make this harder for me.

“And how can I do that? I’m willing to do all sorts of favors,” I tease, winking at him. His face flushes considerably. I’ve missed that color.

“Do you flirt incessantly with every man around your age?” he asks. I fake a dramatic gasp.

“How dare you! I don’t get around that much. My heart is only yours, darling,” I continue. He groans, takes his hand off of me, and turns away.

“Never mind. Go back to being depressed,” he decides.

I scoff and say, “You’re just cross because you like it and you wish you didn’t.” There’s a little more truth in this gibe than normal. Or, at least I hope there’s truth in it. Puzzingly, he stares without a word. His eyes move ever so slightly downward. Did he just glance at my lips? I put my hand on his knee, but right as I do, he blinks hard and stands up.

“I, uh, I’m gonna go get us some food,” he stutters out. He’s beet red. He might as well be a traffic light.

“Right,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t run away in the five minutes I’m gone,” he says, quickly turning away and rushing out of the flat. Was he…I think he was pondering kissing me. That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t. He’s smarter than that. He knows he’d lose his job in a second. That’s what brought him to his feet. But, still…was there a brief second? A millisecond where he thought about it? I shake my head and close my eyes. Absolutely not. No chance. He’s not daft, not really. He wouldn’t. I’m seeing things. Eager to clear my mind of the daydreams already trying to fight their way into my skull, I grab the television remote and change the channel until it lands on some old, terrible sitcom from thirty years ago. Instead of focusing on that, my eyes land on Arthur’s book sitting on the cushion where he was once sitting. I pick it up and flip through the pages absentmindedly, stopping on a random one. Huh. There’s some chicken scratch in it. That’s certainly his handwriting.

I flip through the pages slower, and sure enough, almost every one has at least one or two annotations. Most of them are underlines or notations I don’t have the key for, but he’s written some full sentences as well. He’s bloody analyzing the book like an English professor. As if he could get any dorkier. I can imagine him sitting at his desk late at night, glasses on, scribbling intently in black ink about a story he’s read a dozen times already. The brain in that man’s skull must be overwhelming. I can tell he’s quick, but this level of dedication? He’s either bored out of his mind or he’s desperately eager to teach himself something, to satiate that urge to learn I’ve only ever seen in Ari. He’s probably brilliant. Which is why he was not considering putting his tongue down my throat. He knows better. I certainly don’t. If I had my way, he’d have been in my bed weeks ago.

~~~

“Do you really have to do this?” I ask uselessly for the thousandth time, running my fingers through my still-wet hair. After dinner, I took a shower and left Arthur to his unfortunate current task, which he is still participating in.

“This’ll go by faster if you tell me all of your hiding spots,” he insists. In his hand is a large black garbage bag being steadily filled with all of my alcohol.

“This is a bloody waste! At least tell me you’ll drink it,” I plead.

“It’ll go to the kitchen. Someone will have it eventually,” he says in an attempt to quiet me down.

“You should have to chug it all right now,” I decide, putting my hands on my hips.

“Shush,” he grumbles. He’s slowly getting grumpier as the evening goes on. It must be the lack of sleep. He’s practically dragging his body around. I sigh and take the bag out of his hand gingerly, wincing at the sound of glasses clinking into one another. I put my other hand on his chest and force him backwards until he has to sit down on the end of my bed.

“What are you –”

“Helping,” I interrupt. After letting out a final sigh of resignation, I comb through the room and reveal every hidden bottle of liquid courage. I do that through the whole flat, even taking out a beautiful bottle of Thomas Dakin gin that I’ve been saving for some special occasion it’ll now never see. I return to the bedroom, keeping that bottle in my hand away from the rest of his less meaningful friends.

“This one is –” I freeze. Arthur has half lied down on the bed. On my bed. His feet are still on the ground, his legs hanging off as though he’s still sitting, but his back is certainly on my comforter. His eyes are closed, but he says,

“I’m not asleep.”

“Right,” I say, cautiously putting the final bottle in the bag and placing said bag on the ground. I sit down next to him carefully, making an effort to not disturb his comfort. He looks so exhausted. His body is practically sinking into the mattress.

“Your bed is better than mine,” he grumbles like he’s actually a little peeved about it.

“Perks of princehood. You’re starting to crash, aren’t you?” I say.

“No. I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

“You’ve been up for nearly forty-eight hours. Sleep,” I order him.

“I’m working. I’m…watching you,” he mumbles.

“Sure looks like it. Would you at least put your legs on the bed? You look uncomfortable.”

“I’m getting up,” he says. He has made literally zero effort to do so. Christ. My stomach hurts. I’ve never seen him like this before. I’ve seen him a disaster and I’ve seen him exhausted, but never to this level and never simultaneously. His glasses are still on, his hair is sticking up in tufts, and his shirt is wrinkled to all hell. It’s like he got mugged and then left outside in a puddle for a few hours. My heartbeat speeds up without my permission as my fingers twitch. I could make him feel so good. I know I could. I could kiss all that exhaustion away, unravel him underneath me, and take him however he wants me to. I’d do anything he wanted. What do you like, Arthur? How do you like to be touched? I shake violently and attempt to dispel the thoughts, but they’re swimming through my head like always. I can’t stop myself from digging my fingers into his messy hair and caressing it, petting him like I’ve got any right to. Instead of panicking and protesting, he lets out a grunt of pleasure.

“Feels good,” he mumbles. Has he forgotten that I can hear him?

“Sleep, darling. You look terrible,” I lie.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

“Now you know how it feels,” I say. He smirks and scoffs.

“...It would be pointless,” he mutters.

“What?”

“You always look good. Saying it would be redundant.”

I freeze as my heart leaps into my throat and quickly falls back down into my stomach. He’s sleep-deprived. That’s why he said it. He didn’t really mean it. He can’t mean it. Even if he did, he’s just being polite.

“Mhm,” he grunts, nuzzling his head up against my hand. Only then do I realize that I’ve stopped running my fingers through his hair. Instead of adhering to his sleepy, silent request, I practically rip my hand away from him. He makes another noise of discontent, but he’s half asleep already. Carefully, I take his glasses off and fold them up, putting them on my nightstand next to my empty glass.

“Sit up. Just for a second,” I direct him. He groans in annoyance. Is this how I sound most of the time? Christ, stubbornness is annoying when you’re not the one employing it. “Arthur, come on now,” I repeat. That finally gets him. Though he does groan again, he sits up with his eyes still closed. Without even needing me to tell him, he pulls his legs up onto the bed and lies down again, sighing in relief as he does. Getting him under the covers would be an impossible task, but at least he’s fully on the bed.

“Five minutes. I’ll be up in five,” he mutters.

“Sure thing.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t wake me up,” he grunts. I shush him and stand up. It’s getting much too difficult to look at him right now. Not that it’s easier from up here. My bloody royal guard is falling asleep in my bed. Worse yet, I’d love to crawl in there next to him. Would he let me? Is he tired enough to forget himself, to forget his station and all of his obligations? Would he let me wrap my arms around him, hold him close? Would he nuzzle up against my chest? Or would he force me away, curse a few times, and kick me out of my bed? What would I prefer? A peaceful start to something that’ll doubtlessly end painfully, or a painful end that puts me on a rocky path to eventual peace? Lonely peace, but peace nonetheless. Christ, my head is spinning.

“You’ll kill me regardless,” I mumble, but he’s already fast asleep.

~~~

I sip on my tea slowly and shift in my seat at my table as the morning drags on. I fell asleep on the couch sometime past three in the morning and woke up to a very embarrassed Arthur rushing out of my bedroom at seven. Despite his insistence, he in fact remained asleep through the night in my bed. With a little more rest and some nutrients in me, I’ve gained more clarity. Life’s about to get a lot more miserable. Ariadne’s absence and the alcohol ban are enough to dull my mood for the foreseeable future, but Arthur’s surely going to walk back in here soon with a heap of future punishments. I trace the edge of my mug with my finger. I wish I could stop thinking about it. You always look good. Combine that with my “nice eyes” and “nice features,” and you’ve got a collection of phrases that are bound to keep me up night after night.

Sure enough, Arthur reenters my flat without bothering to knock. He’s back to his regular, composed self. Glasses-less, tie on, slicked-back hair, and notebook in hand. I wish I could say those features make it easier to look at him. “Easy on the eyes” as a phrase only works when you’re allowed to shag the handsome bloke you’re referring to.

“Good or bad news first?” he asks.

“Good morning to you, as well,” I say. He sighs. “Which is there more of?” I ask, giving up on pleasantries.

“You know the answer to that,” he replies.

“Fine. Bad first, then. Not that the good will save me, but might as well save the silver lining for last,” I decide. He nods and clears his throat.

“First of all, you have weekly meetings with a nurse every Wednesday. She’s going to check your vitals, measure your blood-alcohol levels, and drug test you,” he announces.

“Seriously? A bloody drug test? Do they think I’m on crack?” I say incredulously. He shrugs.

“Just let me get through this,” he begs. I wave my hand to usher him on. “You also have to make weekly public appearances at church with John. It’s to show the country that you’re…reforming.”

I laugh. He doesn’t. Oh, Christ. “You’re not joking, are you?” I ask even though I know the answer. He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. Me, in a church? I’ll set on fire!” I exclaim. He fights down a smile.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m getting dragged there, too. You’re back on my twenty-four-hour watch,” he continues. We’ll both pretend like that’s part of the bad news. I don’t know if I’ve ever really been off that watch. Maybe formally, but he doesn’t tend to stray far.

“You a religious man, Sir Arthur?” I ask. He chuckles and looks up at me.

“I don’t think heaven will take me,” he says.

“For the buggery, or have you committed a worse sin?”

“Buggery?” he asks, tilting his head. You’d think a well-read man would know more English vocabulary.

“Sodomy. Pedication. The sex you and I enjoy,” I clarify. He swallows hard.

“Is there a worse sin?” he asks as his shoulders slouch. He’s deflated a little at the conversation. Is it my inability to let him get through his list that’s upsetting him, or does he have some religious trauma like the rest of us sinners?

“Perhaps not. Though I don’t think pleasure should ever be punished,” I say and wink. He rolls his eyes and looks back down at his notebook.

“That’s pretty much the long and short of it,” he says.

“So, what’s the good news?” I ask.

“In a couple of weeks, my family is coming to visit,” he answers. I grin widely.

“Annie? She’ll be here?”

He smiles right back. “Yeah. She’s really excited about it.”

“That is good news! We’ve got to celebrate!” I announce, standing up. He frowns.

“I know you didn’t just say that.”

“Relax, relax. No alcohol, no fun. Unless I’ve got my dates wrong, July’s just started. There’s a little market at the beginning of every month just a few blocks from here. Bunch of local vendors and crafty folks. We should go,” I decide. He puts his hands on his hips.

“And what makes you think we’ll be allowed to leave?”

“I’ll talk to my darling mother. Besides…I feel I owe her,” I mutter. He tilts his head.

“For what?”

“She was terribly upset yesterday. She doesn’t usually get teary like that.”

“You think she deserves an apology?” he asks like it’s the craziest thought that’s ever come to his mind.

“You don’t?” I fire back.

“...Your parents are –”

“Pricks. I know. Then again, so am I.”

“I don’t understand you sometimes,” he mutters.

“I will schmooze us into a day trip. Trust me, darling. If we go, you can buy Annie a little gift,” I attempt to coerce him.

“...She’s in the garden. I just spoke with her. She’s not in the best of moods,” he warns me.

“She never is,” I lament.

The garden is unpopulated as always, its beauty tarnished by an absence of eyes to observe it. I mosey past bushels of flowers I’ve never known the names of until I finally come across my dear mother. She’s silently appreciating a large bunch of pink and purple round flowers. They’re odd, circular-looking ones with perfect teardrop-shaped petals building from the middle outwards. I suppose they’re rather pretty. My mother looks at home among them. She’s in a long, pale blue dress and hiding her thick hair under a sun hat the same shade as her dress. I hate to say it, but she’s a gorgeous woman. All of her best features and all of my father’s least menacing ones went to Johnny. I got none of that grace, none of the delicate beauty. Instead, I got crooked teeth, ratty hair, and eyes only an American could appreciate. It’s not surprising that she’s alone out here. I don’t know if she and my father ever even speak outside of obligation. No wonder they’ve been trying to stick me in a loveless marriage.

“I can feel you staring at me. Did I miss something, Mr. Galvit?” my mother asks.

“I like those ones,” I say, surprising her with my very much not American accent. She turns around and sighs. It’s like she’s already disappointed before I’ve even said anything.

“They’re dahlias,” she says. Figures. “Do you need something?” she asks. Her voice is unusually monotone. She doesn’t have the energy for me right now.

“I’d like to go to the market,” I skip the pleasantries once again.

“First of all, I cannot imagine why you’d want to go to that little event. Secondly, what makes you think you’ve earned such a privilege?” she asks, her foot already tapping away. Her inability to see me as anything other than a nuisance makes me want to forget this whole thing and skulk about all day, but I take a deep breath and hold strong instead. It’s too nice out to pass up dragging Arthur around Westminster.

“Arthur will be with me the whole time. He won’t let anything happen. Besides, wouldn’t it be good for the public to see me sober?” I suggest.

“Do you not remember that your incident was less than forty-eight hours ago? The media hasn’t stopped parading that picture around every news station in the country,” she argues.

“So we should replace that image with a new one. Damage control,” I argue back. She pauses for a moment, adjusting her hat as she does.

“...You still haven’t told me why you want to go. There’s nothing there that’s worth your money,” she says. Ah, yes. Our so-called queen of the people won’t even glance at the artistry of the common folk.

“Arthur wants something for Annie. His sister.”

“I know who she is. Fine. You can have an hour, no more, no less. You may leave at noon. But if you –”

“I won’t do anything! Geez. I’m not trying to get Arthur fired,” I interrupt.

“Eames –” she quickly catches herself, but it’s too late. My eyes widen as my heart skips a beat. Did she just…call me my middle name? “Edward. That’s Mr. Galvit’s fault,” she corrects.

“What is?”

“He earnestly tried to stick with ‘Edward,’ but he messed up so often that we’ve stopped calling him on it. It’s unconscious,” she answers with a sigh. My stomach flips. He hasn’t learned to correct himself, so much to the point that he’s got my mother accidentally calling me the right name. “I was going to say…Edward, you’ve grown fond of that man.”

I swallow hard. What does she mean by that? Does she know exactly how fond? I stare at her, try to read her thoughts through her eyes, but it’s pointless. I cannot comprehend something illegible. She knows I’m gay, though she will never, ever admit to that. She would deny til the day she died. But if she’s noticed…that could mean trouble. I need to shut this down.

“What makes you say that?” I start.

“Your stunts remain unacceptable, but there have been fewer of them. I do not believe you suddenly grew a conscience regarding your obligation and your family, which leads me to believe you don’t want to upset him,” she answers.

“Maybe he’s just good at his job,” I argue.

“Mrs. Cobb says the two of you never stop laughing together. I did not hire him to be a friend to you,” she says, exhaling loudly through her nose.

“...So you’re cross that I get along with him?”

“No. Not at all. If it keeps you out of trouble, by all means, let him entertain you. But remember that he is your royal guard, not a ‘pal.’” She says the word “pal” like she doesn’t understand the meaning of it.

“Yes, ma’am,” is all I can think to say. I can’t tell if she truly does believe our interactions are solely friendly, or if she’s just convinced herself of that.

“Mr. Galvit is fond of you, as well. He defends you to such an extreme that he’s made me question if I’m too hard on you. Then, you go and pull another stunt and prove him wrong,” she says. My chest tightens. Arthur’s fond of me. Of course he is. We’re friends. Everyone is fond of their friends. It’s normal. I should not feel sick at the thought of him endlessly taking my side.

“...I know you don’t believe me, but I actually am sorry. That night was a mistake. And Ariadne isn’t my lover or anything. She’s just a decent friend. Please don’t make her life any harder,” I beg. My mother takes her hat off, fans herself with it briefly, and lets her hand droop to her side with the hat-turned-fan still in it.

“Mrs. Cobb says she is a remarkably quick, loyal girl. You have good people on your side. It would do you well to remember that. She will not suffer by our hand for your mistake, though I cannot control the population at large. And I do not need your verbal apologies. Prove to me that you’re sorry through your actions. Then I will accept it.” I nod and don’t bother with another word. I’ve gotten all I wanted. If I stay any longer, I’ll say something I regret. Something about how I’ve got all these “good people” on a side that my mother is pointedly not on. And yet…she was forgiving today. That’s something. Beggars can’t be choosers.

After an hour of Arthur forcing me to listen to Chopin, we find ourselves at a large outdoor market outside of Westminster Bridge. Arthur is positively overwhelmed by all of the sights. There are stands on both sides of the wide street filled with lads and ladies selling their goods. Some are small family businesses, children selling bracelets with their parents’ loving approval, but others are larger, more genuine affairs. I pull my hood tighter over my head as I drag us to one of the latter stands. The street is packed with onlookers I’d desperately like to avoid making contact with for as long as possible. I owe my mother a photo opp at some point, but I’d like to put it off until the last moment. I’ll suffer sweating in my jumper to avoid the circus that may come if I take it off. Arthur’s also dressed in plain clothes to blend in, but he’s still got his pistol strapped to his ankle. He might as well keep a knife in his sleeve.

We stop in front of a shoddily put together stand, which Arthur analyzes like it’s an enemy in disguise. The stand is covered in photos of various desserts. In front of each photo is an index card with a price messily scribbled down. I smile at the woman behind the table, though the expression is wasted on her. She’s sitting comfortably with her hands folded on the table, her gray hair tied into a bun atop her head. Her cloudy, milky white eyes look somewhere past me, perhaps somewhere beyond me.

“It’s me, Evelyn!” I announce.

“Who?” she asks. I frown.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me, love,” I go along with her little game. Arthur looks back and forth between us like there’s some mystery he can solve if he stares long enough. Evelyn laughs hard and smiles widely, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing. She was a forty-something-year-old exasperated mother with two teenagers the first time I saw her. Now, fifteen years later, those rambunctious kids have grown into adults who help her run this stand every year. Neither of them are around right now, but I’m sure they’re running around drumming up business or picking up more desserts that have already sold out.

“It’s been too long, Eames! When’s the last time you dragged your arse here?” she scolds, but still smiles.

“It’s been a few months, I know. I’m sorry, darling. Time flies,” I say, and the apology is genuine. I try to get to her stand every chance I get.

“Who’s with you? Did you finally get your brother to tag along?” she asks. I swallow hard and clear my throat, forcing a smile that Arthur will surely be able to see right through.

“No, just a friend. Arthur, this is Evelyn. I’ve been buying her desserts since the nineties,” I introduce them. Evelyn holds out her hand and Arthur politely shakes it, mumbling some greeting. She raises her eyebrows at his voice.

“American? What are you doing with an American?” she asks, frowning.

“I know, I know. He’s proper nice, I swear,” I insist. She crosses her arms.

“None of them are nice! They’re greedy, conniving bastards,” she grumbles. Arthur snickers and grins. His smile is so handsome in the sunlight. It’s like his whole face glows. His blue polo is rather boring, but wearing something other than a suit brings out his gentler features and makes the dullness worth it.

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” Arthur says through his laughter. Evelyn scoffs.

“He’s trying to convince us he’s on our side. I can see right through you, American,” she warns.

“Easy, darling. I’m indoctrinating him. We’ll take two Eton messes, please,” I request. Her expression relaxes.

“An old favorite! Coming right up,” she says, nodding as she stands and grabs her white cane. She turns around and rifles through her supplies in her cooler, slowly acquiring everything necessary to assemble the desserts. After several trips, she’s satisfied with her collection and sits back down. She puts all of the components together in two large glasses, ignoring the feeling of our intent observation.

“What exactly is this?” Arthur asks.

“It’s –”

“Of course he doesn’t bloody know! Typical American!” Evelyn interrupts.

“It’s an English classic. It’s berries, meringue, and whipped cream. She makes her own ingredients. She even grows the berries,” I continue my explanation. Arthur nods.

“Every baker should,” Evelyn says, putting the final touches on the two glasses. Watching her make the dessert is part of the “experience,” in her words. The number of people who don’t believe a blind woman can put together a dessert is astounding. She even stopped wearing her glasses because people thought she was faking.

“Tenner each. Though it should be double for the American,” she asserts. I stop Arthur from reaching for his wallet, pushing his arm down.

“Keep your money, prat,” I say.

“I can –”

“Save it for Annie,” I insist.

“...Thank you,” he gives in. He sounds so earnest I could cry.

“Please bring your brother by one of these days,” Evelyn takes the money from my hand, “I always liked that kid. So sweet.”

“Sure. Next time,” I lie.

“You said that last time,” she grumbles.

“Have a lovely afternoon, darling,” I dodge her knowing expression. With that, I grab the desserts, hand one over to Arthur, and leave the stand. I eagerly stick my spoon into the glass, ignoring the memories the movement brings.

“Hey, this is pretty good! And I thought you guys couldn’t make food for shit,” Arthur teases, his mouth still half full. I nudge him with my shoulder.

“You really are uncultured,” I tease with a dramatic groan. He shoves me a little and smiles. We’re quiet for a beat before he asks the question I’ve been dreading:

“...Did you really come here with John?”

I sigh and admit, “I took him here when he was little. Before he was old enough to know me, he rather enjoyed my presence.”

“What was he like as a kid? Before he…y’know,” he asks.

“Still a little bugger. Rule-follower, goody-two-shoes. Always spent forever deciding on his outfits. But he was sweet. Genuine. And he’d look at me like I hung the stars,” I mutter.

“What happened?”

“He grew up. He gained more obligations, became more responsible. And he saw how much trouble I got into, how what he once saw as ‘cool escapades’ were really just foolish screw-ups. He stopped wanting anything to do with me by the time he hit secondary school,” I say, staring down at the ground. It’s hard to remember Johnny before he was the knob he is now. But in moments like these, I can see him so clearly. He’s standing right beside me, holding my hand, seven and wide-eyed. I’m fourteen and I’ve already accepted my fate, but he’s keeping me tethered to some kind of hope. He was the future. He still is, but he’s not my future anymore. I’m not part of his story. At least, not for much longer. He’ll cut me off the second he gets the chance. I wonder if he even remembers the time in his life when I was more than an obstacle. I certainly don’t remember much before I turned ten. Has he lost all memory of when we were actual brothers?

“...I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbles.

“Don’t be. I’m not blameless. I pushed him away. Told him to stop bothering me. He got in the way of drinking and fooling around with boys I was too young to be fooling around with. I rejected him first.”

“Do you think things will ever get better between you two?”

I look at him and smile wryly. “You Americans and your glasses half-full,” I tease. He doesn’t laugh.

“So that’s a no?” he persists. I shrug.

“I don’t know. Maybe when we’re old and repentant,” I answer as he eats another spoonful. I grin at him for real this time. Gingerly, I reach out my thumb and wipe a smudge of whipped cream from his chin. His face heats up considerably at my touch. I wink at him and lick my thumb. His eyes widen with gleefully overreactant horror.

“That’s disgusting!” he exclaims. His face is still bright red.

“You’re clean, I assume. Relax,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. He nudges me right back.

“Do you revel in my embarrassment?” he asks.

“Oh, darling, I revel in all of your emotions,” I flirt. He takes a cautiously small bite of his dessert.

“If I’m not careful, you’ll lick my face,” he grumbles. I snicker.

“Nonsense! I’d only do that if you asked very nicely,” I tease. He rolls his eyes and groans.

“The day you put your tongue on me is the day I quit,” he decides, pointedly looking away from me. The sentence doesn’t have the conviction he really should’ve instilled in it.

“Come on! I’d be gentle, I promise. Unless you don’t want me to be,” I continue. I’m not entirely sure what we’re talking about anymore, but I’m gonna rile myself up if I don’t put an end to this line of discussion.

“I honestly don’t know how you’ve gotten through life without being slapped more,” he says as he pauses walking. His eyes go to a stand to our right advertising handmade bracelets. We’ve somehow wandered into the jewelry section, not that I’m complaining. “Hey, give me a minute,” he says, quickly approaching the stand he’s got in his sights. For the first time since we got here, he’s left my side. I walk a little further, throw out my now-empty glass, and spot a necklace stand. A young, blonde woman is sitting anxiously behind her table, displaying various necklaces. I fumble through some of them and pause at one section that catches my eye.

“Those are, um, flower designs,” the woman mumbles.

“Do you make these yourself?” I ask.

“Mh-hm…I know they’re a little imperfect, but –”

“They’re beautiful. You’re ace at this,” I interrupt.

“I-, uh, thank you!” she says quickly, stuttering out the sentence. I gently take a silver necklace with a familiar flower as its charm away from its counterparts. The charm itself is silver as well, giving the piece a sense of quiet elegance. I’m not much of a jewelry person, but I can tell this is well-made. “That’s a dahlia. They represent –”

“Eternal love, I know. How much?” I interrupt again, looking her in the eyes. She bites her lip.

“W-well, that one took me a while, so it’s a little –”

“How much, darling?” I persist. Her face heats up.

“...Fifty-five pounds. But if you –”

“I’ll take it. Cheers,” I say, hastily taking out my wallet.

“Are you sure?! I can –”

“Love, don’t convince your customers to pay you less,” I interrupt her once again. She swallows hard and nods. Her eyes look a little watery.

“I have a mirror if you want to see how it looks on,” she offers. I shake my head.

“Thanks, but it’s not for me,” I say, handing over the money. She smiles and thanks me once again. I pull my hood down, turn around, and –

“Is that for Ariadne?!” a man shouts in my face. There’s suddenly a reporter-looking fellow standing directly in front of me. Behind him is a bloke holding a comically large camera.

“Excuse me?” I manage.

“Prince Edward! Is that for your lover?” the reporter shouts as he shakes a microphone in my face.

“Shouldn’t you be covering the market?” I ask, blinking hard. I was hoping I’d have a little more control over this press frenzy, but I guess it’s now or never. I briefly glance at the woman I’ve just purchased from. She’s staring at me with wild eyes of disbelief.

“Is she here with you right now?!” the reporter practically spits in my face while shouting. He’s slowly drawing a crowd. Christ, I just wanted a couple of pictures. This is too much.

“No, she isn’t. She’s just a friend,” I say and immediately wish I hadn’t. My only answer to the press is supposed to be two words: “No comment.” Mal would not be proud.

“Really? Because –”

“Time to go,” a godsent of a voice interrupts. Arthur grabs my arm and pulls me away from the reporter and his menacing cameraman.

“Wait! Who are you?!” the reporter persists.

“His security. Come on, let’s go,” Arthur says. The reporter’s eyes light up with realization.

“You’re the one who took the bottle to the face! What happened after that? Did you –”

“This woman sells beautiful necklaces! Really special. They’re prince-approved. You should give her a highlight in your show,” I say loudly. For a second, the reporter turns to the woman. I mentally apologize to her as Arthur quickly drags me away. There are dozens of eyes on us, but I attempt to ignore them as we hurry toward the Westminster Bridge. Some people have started calling out to us, and a few have even begun to follow, but Arthur remains focused on leading me the hell out of this maze. I resist the urge to close my eyes as a cacophony of voices swim around in the atmosphere and fuck about in my skull. A woman even attempts to grab my arm, but Arthur swats her away defensively and picks up the pace.

Once we finally reach the bridge, I pull my hood back up and allow us to disappear into the less knowing crowd. We catch our breath as we stare out at the River Thames and hope no stragglers will track us this far.

“...I don’t think I handled that well,” I mumbled.

“You were okay. They ambushed you,” Arthur says, waving his hand dismissively. I turn to him and sigh.

“I can’t seem to not screw up.”

“You didn’t. Not this time,” he says.

“We’ll see what my mother says,” I grumble, already accepting defeat. I bet she watched that live. Maybe this is the last time I’ll be allowed at this event. As I sulk, leaning against the railing of the bridge, Arthur takes something out of his pocket. He opens up the small, pink, velvet drawstring bag and smiles.

“For Annie?” I ask.

“Yeah. A few bracelets. I think she’ll like them,” he says. His smile draws out mine. I suppose there’s no point in pouting. I did the best I could. At least I’ve had time with him.

“She will,” I say with a nod.

“Did you actually buy from that woman, or was that just a distraction?” Arthur asks. I perk up and dig through my pocket for the necklace I haphazardly shoved away. For some stupid reason, my heart starts beating a little faster. There’s no logical explanation for it. This is no big deal. It means nothing, really. My stomach must be churning because of…the bridge. Sure, I’m afraid of bridges. That’s it. New fear.

“I, uh, did, actually,” I say, holding out the necklace in my palm. Arthur’s eyes light up as he hums.

“That’s pretty. Really well made. You weren’t kidding about it being special,” he says.

“It’s a dahlia. You know. Seemed too good a coincidence to pass up,” I mumble. Why am I stalling? It wasn’t even a coincidence. I sought it out. Not that I should see any special meaning in it finding my eyes. Dahlias are common flowers here. I shouldn’t make a big deal out of any aspect of this.

“Huh. Pretty on the nose,” he says, still looking down at the jewelry.

“It’s, uh. It’s yours. If you want,” I mutter, looking down at my palm along with him. He looks up, but I refuse to meet his eyes.

“What?” he blurts out.

“...I mean, I just. I don’t know. I just thought it’d be nice,” I continue to mumble. How much deeper can I dig this hole?

“It is. But shouldn’t you give it to the woman you’re supposed to marry or something?” he asks softly, so softly it sounds like he could cry. I finally look up and force myself to face his expression. Oh, Christ. He looks so dazed and touched I could smack him. I can’t look at him. Not at this face. I’d throw myself into this bloody river if it meant I could kiss him just one time, I swear it. One kiss and I’ll drown myself after, I promise. I’d die happy if I could just taste him. But instead, I swallow hard.

“Why would I give it to her?” I say like it’s obvious. Because it is. To me, it is.

“I-I haven’t earned this,” he mumbles. His face is heating up again.

“Of course you have. You just saved my arse, and you’ve been saving my arse for a month now. You don’t have to wear it. Just take it for my ego’s sake,” I practically beg, shoving the necklace into his hands. He carefully picks it up like he’s afraid it’ll shatter in his shaking hands. He clumsily undoes the clasp, puts the necklace around his neck, and closes it. He tucks the small charm under his shirt.

“Thank you, Eames. Really. You didn’t have to do that,” he says. His voice is still agonizingly soft.

“I owe you. I’m difficult,” I say, my own voice finally evening out. It’s done, it’s gone, it’s out of my hands now.

“You’re not. You really aren’t,” he says quickly. I scoff and smirk.

“Cut the shite,” I say, clicking my tongue.

“No, you cut the shit. Don’t act like I’m some saint for sticking by you. You’re a good man,” he insists, his inflection hardening. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s gotten a little cross.

“But I’m –”

“Don’t try to change my opinion. You might be this country’s pariah, but you’re not mine,” he interrupts.

“Pariah. Big word. Read that in your dog book?” I tease. He groans and rolls his eyes, but smiles.

The walk back to the palace is mostly quiet. The gift-giving has put a tone of seriousness on a lighthearted outing. Maybe it was the wrong decision. It certainly wasn’t a well-thought-out one. I’ve given my royal guard a necklace that represents eternal love. Which is ridiculous, because as much as I want to put my tongue down his throat, I don’t love him. Could I? Who knows. I don’t know if I’m capable of the emotion in any deep capacity. I don’t think I’ve felt it within myself in all of my years of life. As the thought passes my mind, a memory calls out to object. Young Johnny smiling widely, running down the street, forcing me to chase after him. I’d grab him, lift him into the air, and tickle him until he’d hit my arms and demand to be put down. Then, we’d start the whole game over again until he was practically falling asleep in my embrace. I loved back then. I loved that boy more than he’ll ever know.

Once we’re almost at the palace doors, something that’s been on my mind creeps up into my throat. “Hey, Arthur? You know that quote you read to me?” I ask. He turns to me and tilts his head.

“The one from The Call of the Wild?” he asks. I nod.

“Yeah. What did it mean?” I ask.

“What do you think it meant?” he counters. I roll my eyes.

“Can it, professor. I didn’t do the reading,” I say. He smirks and chuckles.

“Like all literature, it’s up to interpretation. To me, it’s about how we don’t usually know we’re in the best parts of our lives until afterward. We’re so caught up in the moment that we’ve lost all awareness of our enjoyment,” he says, nodding to himself like he’s writing an essay aloud. Images of Johnny as a young, blond, and loving boy pop into my head like alien invaders in an unprotected spaceship.

“Can you have more than one best moment?” I ask. He thinks for a moment.

“The quote makes it sound like you can’t, but I disagree. I think life’s full of little ecstasies. But the paradox of the quote is that you’ll never really know that those moments were your best ones,” he finally answers.

“You’re bloody brilliant, aren’t you?” I say. He looks down.

“Not really. I just read a lot,” he mumbles.

“Nonsense. I can tell,” I insist.

“Shut up,” he continues to mumble.

“Okay, fine. Be coy,” I say, then pause before blurting out, “When was your last little ecstasy?” He looks up again, directly looking me in the eyes. He reaches under his shirt and pulls out his necklace, holding it up to me.

“...This.”

I stare at him as my eyes widen. Without thinking, I reach my hand out and take the charm into my hand, stepping closer to him as I run my thumb over the delicately carved petals. Before I can process it, his hand lands gently on my cheek. I freeze up as he caresses me with his thumb. I force myself to look up away from the flower and at his face.

“Nice eyes,” he mutters to himself. I can feel myself burning up. His touch is too much to bear.

“You, too,” I mutter back. My breath catches in my throat as he moves his hand from my cheek to my hair. He gently combs his fingers through it. What is he doing? Why is he doing this? Has he gone mad?

“Arthur, please,” I whisper. I don’t know what I’m asking for. I haven’t got a clue. I don’t know if I’m begging him to stop or if I’m begging him to press our mouths together. Maybe both. But he seems to understand, somehow. He shakes hard and immediately pulls his hand away, taking a step back as he breathes hard. He blinks like he’s just broken out of a trance.

“I’m sorry, I –”

“No, I –” I interrupt him, but go silent as my hand lands on his arm. Bad move. My desires must travel through my skin and into his like electricity. Say something. Please, darling, say anything. Break the spell, save us, get us out of this mess you’ve thrown us into. It’s my fault. That stupid necklace. My stomach burns with anxiety and need swirled together like a tornado. Oh, Christ, he wants me, too. Maybe not always, but right now, he fucking wants me.

“Eddie! Oh my god!” A shrill voice shouts in our direction. I immediately pull my hand away and take a safe three steps away from Arthur. Both of us turn towards the noise, and my stomach drops. Walking down the path towards the palace is a young woman in a pleasant green sundress. Her ginger hair glistens in the sunlight, complementing her green eyes and very visible freckles. She’s grinning wide, so wide her eyes are creasing, as several men walk behind her. I recognize her father, but the others are unfamiliar guards hurrying to keep up with the eager twenty-something-year-old girl. I’ve got no time to process whatever the hell just happened between me and Arthur. We’ve got a bigger problem on our hands. I clear my throat and loudly call out,

“Hello, Faye!”

Chapter Text

Faye practically throws her arms around me, leaping into a forced embrace. It takes a good deal of strength to not tumble backwards as she steadies herself. I can feel several pairs of eyes on me, though there’s really only one pair I care about. A small part of me wants him to be jealous, but mostly, I’m worried for Arthur’s sanity. There’s only so much one man can take in a few days. He’s had to deal with my meltdown, the aftermath of said meltdown, the emotional exertion of the past hour, and now Faye’s overwhelming presence. She’s not a bad girl. That’s not it. In fact, she’s probably a better person than everyone in the palace combined. That’s not the problem. She’s just…well, I’ve never been quite able to describe her. She tightens her already tight grasp around me and pets the back of my head. I can feel her long, surely painted fingernails against my scalp. It’s an unwelcome sensation.

“It’s been too long,” she whispers like she means it, which makes my heart drop.

“It has,” I lie. Truth be told, I don’t keep track of her visits. She quickly pushes herself out of my arms and hits herself on the head.

“Oh, I’ve been so rude! Hello, sir, I’m Faye Darcie – well, technically it's Faith, but everyone calls me Faye,” she says, hurriedly curtseying to Arthur. The expression on his face forces me to cover my mouth and stifle a laugh. He looks like he’s staring at an escaped zoo animal. She doesn’t bite, darling, I promise.

“...Arthur. I’m –”

“His royal guard! Father told me about you! You must work hard,” she says, nodding to herself.

“I do my best,” Arthur finally gets out a full sentence. Now he sounds like he’s trying to talk said zoo animal down from mauling him.

“Thank you for protecting him,” she says, her expression hardening. Christ. She’s so earnest it makes me want to puke up my dessert. She really is a sweet girl. Full of energy, full of life, and certainly full of things to say. In another world, she’d be perfect for me. I can’t deny that she’s beautiful. There’s a straight bastard version of me in some other timeline enjoying the hell out of his future.

“You know what I’ve told you about running off,” a loud, exasperated voice booms from behind us. I turn and face her father, a tall, lanky, balding man with not enough fuel left in him to follow this girl around.

“I’m sorry! I just got excited,” Faye mumbles, lowering her head. Mr. Darcie sighs and pats her shoulder.

“Good to see you, your Highness. You look to be in…better shape,” he says. There’s that word again. “Better.”

“Compared to?” I dare to ask.

“You’ve had a…difficult couple of days, it seems,” he replies, his voice tight and withholding. What he’d really like to say is “Who is that whore you’re running around London with?”

“I’ve pulled it together,” I mumble. He nods like a student pretending to understand a maths lesson. The pieces are starting to come together in my head. This visit is no coincidence. Mr. Darcie must’ve seen me and Ariadne on the news, heard the rumors, and decided he had to make sure that whatever agreement he has with my parents still stands. They’ve been trying to finagle some love story between me and Faye since we were teenagers. She’s not royalty, but her father is one of the largest shareholders in Aston Martin. He comes from a long line of arsehole blokes with too much money and enough sense to hold onto it. Despite that, Faye’s image is squeaky clean. She’s a hard worker, a lover of humanity, and a bright feminine light on a family of masculine horrors. In essence, she’s their savior, and if she’s queen, she’ll fulfill her generational destiny.

“What brings you here?” I ask Faye despite knowing the true answer.

“Father told me he’d get me a new horse for my birthday! He said your family has connections to the best stable in the country, so we figured you could help us out,” she answers, smiling widely. Ah. What a flimsy excuse. Shame she believes it.

“That’s lovely,” I lie. Despite how much I loathe their plans, my parents aren’t fools for this pairing. Something about her demeanor makes me feel the need to cage up my darker features and put them on the back burner. She’d probably make a decent man out of me. An unhappy liar, but a decent one if those traits can coexist.

“We should head inside. Her majesty is waiting for us,” Mr. Darcie says. I resist the urge to groan. No wonder she let us go to the market. She kept this little piece of information a surprise to not just me but poor Arthur as well, given his reaction. Faye eagerly follows her father through the palace doors, her army of guards following behind. I mean, come on. What civilian needs that many guards? I know that isn’t Faye’s doing. Her father is a paranoid man, though I suppose he has reason. His grandfather apparently survived an assassination attempt. Or, at least, that’s the story he tells. I haven’t ever found any articles corroborating his story, but far be it from me to call the man a liar. I wouldn’t want to start that game.

Arthur and I wait for the entire posse to walk in before we follow behind them. When he’s sure we’re out of earshot of the rest, he whispers with a snarky grin,

“Cute nickname, Eddie.” I elbow him as he laughs.

“Shut up,” I grumble. He laughs harder. What a bloody sound.

~~~

After Faye charms the socks off my mother, naturally, we’re all sent off to Yusuf’s horse ranch. With some begging and puppy dog eyes, Faye managed to squeeze herself into our car. That means Arthur is far away in the front seat next to Saito. Between me and him, conversation tends to flow easily. I can always think up a joke or a topic depending on his mood, and he’ll usually take the bait. But with Faye, I haven’t the faintest idea what to say. I land on,

“So…you just got back to the country recently, right?”

She nods. “Yep. I was in Africa for six months. It was hard work, but we got the school done,” she says, beaming with pride. Right. She built a school for underprivileged children. I’m a numpty just for daring to be in her presence. Why does she want anything to do with me? This relationship may be forced on my end, but it’s never been for her. She’s always had affection for me, and I cannot fathom why.

“Must’ve been exhausting,” I comment. Oh, brilliant. Yes, I suppose building a school from scratch may have been a little tiring. What a genius I am!

“Sure, but it’s so worth it! One of these times, you should come with me. We could…stay together. I always make friends on these trips, but having a real close one would be nice,” she says softly, placing her hand on top of mine. She attempts to lock our fingers together, but some sort of panic alarm goes off in my head and causes me to immediately pull my hand away.

“R-right, sure! Yeah, sometime we’ll do that. Definitely. You, uh, ever built a school, Arthur?” I blurt out. Fucking hell. Maybe he’ll pull that gun off his ankle and shoot me with it. Faye giggles.

“You’re so shy!” she exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand. Arthur tries and fails to hold a scoff in.

“Arthur?” I repeat.

“What?” he asks like he’s never heard his name before. Come on, mate. Save me. It’s the least he could do after nearly stopping my heart. Why did he touch me like that? And why does he keep bringing up my eyes? He’s supposed to be the one with self-control. I’m bloody counting on it.

“Africa? Building experiences?” I stutter out. What Faye is picking up as innocent bashfulness is a far more desperate emotion.

“...No. Though I’ve read a couple of books about people with that particular type of kindness,” Arthur answers.

“Oh, you’re a reader! That’s brilliant! What else do you read?” Faye asks, eager to have an actual stimulating conversation.

“Anything, really. I like the classics.”

“...I’m more for romances. I read this one about a girl who gets teleported to the past and falls in love with a prince. I related to that one a lot,” she says, looking at me with a soft grin. Would it be rude to tuck and roll out of a moving vehicle?

“Those books never keep my interest,” Arthur says, suddenly curt. I raise my eyebrows. He’s not the type to be rude to a stranger. Faye sinks down in her seat a little.

“He’s a snob, that’s all. He won’t even listen to music from this century,” I tease. That cheers her up and gives her a decent laugh.

“It’s sweet that you know a guard so well,” she says. For some reason, the sentence threatens to draw out a sour attitude similar to Arthur’s. A guard? Is that what he’s reduced to? Some guy who’s below me? Is that how people see him?

“...I suppose,” I mumble instead of scolding her for assuming Arthur, with all his handsome intellectual stature, is just another employee. The disgruntled man himself grumbles something under his breath, but I don’t fight to hear it.

Once we’ve exited the vehicle, Faye refuses to let go of my arm the entire walk towards stable two. That’s the one that contains the horses not quite perfect enough to be royal but enough to cost an arm and a leg. She’s talking my ear off about something I lost the plot of a minute ago, not that she’s even noticed my disinterest. I keep turning back to look at the man diligently walking behind us with a scowl painted on his pretty face. Why’s he so cross all the sudden? I know I haven’t been the best of pals in the past forty-eight hours, but we were getting along just fine at the market. Better than fine, actually. Concerningly well. Now he’s glaring at me like I spat on his shoes and stole his lunch money while I was at it. Maybe that anger he lost yesterday is finally returning. It’s best to not poke him about it. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

Yusuf is standing and waiting outside the stable with a clipboard in his hand. His eyes brighten when they find mine and quickly squint at the woman beside me. “Hey, how are –”

“I’m so excited! I can have whatever one I want, right?!” Faye interrupts Yusuf’s greeting. Mr. Darcie, who has been walking to our left with his own guard luckily dismissed, nods.

“Anything you want, baby,” he confirms with a gentle smile. Faye finally lets go of my arm to hug her father and kiss his cheek. My stomach churns at the sight. She treats him like some hero. Yusuf opens the stable door, allowing Faye to skip right in and graciously forget my presence for the time being. Her father follows after her, but Arthur at least stays loyally by my side. Or rather, by my back.

“Man, are you okay?” Yusuf whispers as he steps closer to me.

“As well as I could be,” I whisper back.

“I saw the news. Ari’s number isn’t working. I’m guessing you have something to do with that?” he says, and if he’s truly cross with me, he’s hiding it well.

“I’m sorry, mate. When you see her next, could you tell her I’m sorry, too?” I ask. He frowns.

“You say that like you’re never gonna see her again.”

“...It’s gonna be a little while,” I mutter. He sighs.

“I won’t scold you, but –”

“I know. I’m a bastard incapable of making a good decision to save my life,” I interrupt him.

“I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that…” he says, then clears his throat as if absolving the lie, and continues, “who’s the girl?”

“Faye Darcie. Remember her?” I answer. Yusuf makes a loud noise of recognition and glances into the stable.

“Seriously? That’s her? She’s pretty. And she likes you?” he teases. I punch his shoulder.

“My soul may be ugly, but I cannot possibly be as minging as you all make me out to be,” I grumble.

“What do you think, Arthur? She too good for him?” Yusuf calls out. I turn to the poor bloke as he shakes back into reality.

“I guess,” he answers. He’s flipping the charm of his necklace around in his fingers anxiously. I fake a dramatic gasp.

“Even you’re against me! What’s the opposite of touched?” I ask, looking back at Yusuf as he laughs heartily.

“I’m just a guard. Don’t take anything I say too seriously,” he mumbles, walking into the stable quickly. I raise my eyebrows.

“What’s his deal?” Yusuf asks. I shrug.

“We were having a good day. I don’t know.”

He pats my back in some attempt at comfort. “C’mon. Let’s buy your girlfriend a horse,” he teases. I roll my eyes and follow him into the stable. Faye is fawning over a spotted gray horse with a black mane, the perfect contrast to her light skin and hair. The girl herself looks halfway to tears.

“She’s so beautiful! Please, I would take such good care of her!” Faye exclaims.

“That’s a dappled grey. She’s a good girl, around four. You can have her stabled here if you don’t have a place for her,” Yusuf explains.

“We have the room. We live on twenty acres, thank you very much,” Mr. Darcie snaps.

“...My mistake. Would you like to give her a test ride?” Yusuf asks, tightening up at the man’s attitude shift. How dare he insult the bloke’s home? What a travesty!

“Would I ever?! Do you have a changing room? I’ll have to put on my riding clothes,” Faye answers, looking down at her dress.

“Inside the rider’s club. I’ll take you there,” Yusuf offers.

“Thank you so much! And, Eddie…would you ride with me? You’ve got a horse here, don’t you? Father tells me you have one for the ball,” she says, begging with her familiar puppy dog eyes. I sigh. Is this how Arthur feels when I try to convince him to watch a terrible movie or listen to another Oasis album? Christ, I hope not. I hope he gives in because of some soft spot he’s got for me rather than simply taking the path of least resistance like I’m about to.

“Sure, why not?” I answer. Faye cheers, rushes over to me, and pulls me into a tight hug. This time, I do actually stumble back.

“Oh, thank you! I could kiss you!” she cheers. Oh, please, for the love of god, keep that urge nestled deep inside you like I’ve learned to do with a certain guard.

“I, uh –”

“Relax, I know you’re old-fashioned. See, everything they say about you on the news is bollocks. You’re so sweet, so gentle…” her voice fades away as she backs out of my arms. How am I ever going to let this girl down? Is it wrong for me to play along? We’ve never actually done anything physical, but still. It’s been years of this. If I rejected her, I’d never hear the end of it. That would be my fate sealed. Sure, my family could find me another suitor, but if I reject one, they know I’ll reject them all. But this feels almost worse. I’m stringing this poor girl along. She doesn’t deserve to spend her twenties pining over a man who can never love her. It isn’t fair. My stomach churns with that anxiety as she and Yusuf exit the stable, her father naturally following behind. Arthur is visibly uncomfortable being surrounded by so many horses.

“You have odd fears,” I tease.

“Whatever,” he mumbles dismissively.

“Hey, why are you being like this? What’d I do to you?” I ask. He turns to me, first with an expression of malice, but it quickly melts away.

“...Nothing. Sorry,” he continues to mumble, practically rushing out of the stable. Everyone wants to escape me today, it seems.

While Faye changes, a stablehand helps me get Neptune ready. I haven’t seen the fellow since he threw me, but it doesn’t seem like there are any hard feelings. I do take the helmet I’m offered, but don’t bother to change into proper clothing. I won’t be riding for long, hopefully. Once he seems mentally prepared to accept our partnership, I lead Neptune out of the stable and into the pasture. I take care to mount him slowly, and luckily, he doesn’t protest. Faye smiles widely at me as she hurries to her new potential best friend. I dodge her overwhelming gaze and look for a more comforting face. Arthur is standing beside Saito with his arms crossed and his foot tapping. Against my better judgment, I approach the two of them. Saito is staring at me with an uncomfortably knowing glare. He does not trust me to handle whatever is between me and Arthur. Can I really blame him for that belief?

“Let’s hope I don’t go flying this time,” I tease. Arthur bites his lip.

“Be careful,” he says sternly.

“I always am,” I lie. He scoffs.

“You’re not.”

“For you, I will be,” I insist with a wink. Saito grabs Arthur’s arm and mutters something, still glaring at me with daggers in his eyes. Giving up on being a part of the conversation, I turn around and trot over to the stable Faye will be emerging from. Sure enough, after a moment, she exits on the pretty horse’s back. She looks at home on the saddle, like she was born to ride off into some sunset. She’s right out of a children’s storybook, a heroine prepared to save herself and the world along the way. I’d admire her if I weren’t so bloody afraid of all she represents.

“Eddie! You look great!” she shouts.

“Not half as good as you,” I compliment back on instinct, hoping Arthur won’t hear it.

We ride around pleasantly enough for a while. I let Faye take the lead both in terms of direction and conversation. It’s hard to keep up with her in both regards. She’s another person wholly built for a life I cannot even begin to accept. How is she okay with being sold off to some prince? With all of her good work, all of her drive, can she really accept her accomplishments being overshadowed by my blood? I suppose she doesn’t do anything she does for attention. She’s one of those actual genuine people who don’t give a damn about popularity. But, still. Her whole life will be reduced to me. Does she really like me enough to be not just okay, but happy with that future?

“Eddie?” Faye breaks my train of thought. I blink hard and turn to her.

“Sorry, got distracted,” I say quickly. She smiles softly, but the joy doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I was just thinking about the memories riding brings up,” she presumably repeats herself.

“Good ones?” I ask. She nods.

“...Mom and I would ride together a lot. Now whenever I’m on a horse, it feels like she’s with me,” she says, ever so briefly closing her eyes. I pull back on the reins and force Neptune to slow down a little.

“How long’s it been?” I ask quietly.

“It’ll be eight years in September.”

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it,” I say.

“No, I like to talk about her! She always liked you. She’d always say, ‘As long as he calms down when he’s older, he’ll be perfect!’ If only she could see who you are now,” she marvels. I look away from her and clench my jaw. As if I could be more of an arsehole. Her mother’s ghost will haunt me if I break her heart. What does she bloody see in me that the rest of the world doesn’t? Has she deluded herself this much?

“...She’d be proud of you, darling,” I say softly.

“I hope so. I try to do right by her. It’s the least I can do,” she replies with visible reverence. My chest aches with pity, but along with it comes a darker emotion. What must it be like to have parents so kind you’d build your life around them even when they’re long gone? How much love does it take to turn death into more of a cage than life?

“Your dad hasn’t changed,” I attempt to change the conversation as I look back at her. She chuckles.

“He’s the best,” she continues her praise. Now I’m starting to feel a little sick. Her mother was a kind woman, but her father? He’s a defensive, overprotective warden just like my family, but he’s got far less reason to assume that role.

“The hovering doesn’t bother you?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“He’s been like that ever since mom. I don’t mind it. He’s just trying to protect me. Like your guard, Anthony.”

“Arthur,” I quickly correct her. She hits herself in the head and pouts.

“Sorry! It’s hard to keep track. My dad has so many guards, you know,” she says.

“Arthur’s not just a guard,” I snap. Her eyes widen at my sudden anger.

“I, um…didn’t mean to be rude,” she says, but she’s clearly more confused than apologetic. I suppose that’s her one vice. Sure, I’m spoiled, but I pay attention to people. That’s probably because most of them aren’t very fond of me. I might as well remember the ones who are. But for Faye? The entire universe adores her, including all her father’s employees. They probably turn into a mesh of loving nameless faces in her head. “What else is he? I mean, if not a guard?” she asks. Christ, she’s not even kidding, is she? She genuinely thinks he has another job title.

“...A friend,” I mumble.

“That’s so sweet! You’re kind to befriend him. He’s lucky,” she compliments. I fight the urge to grimace. If anyone’s lucky, it’s me. She shouldn’t act like I’m doing him a favor. On that note, I turn around and take the lead for the first time, trotting back toward the stables. Neptune has been behaving well, but I’d rather not push my luck.

“Let’s take a break, hm?” I decide. She nods and hums in agreement. We speed up and canter until we arrive at the front of the pasture. Yusuf waves us over with a forced smile on his face. He looks like he’s holding back a violent outburst. Faye and I dismount our horses, walking over to the ticking time bomb of a man.

“I definitely want her! I’ll talk to father,” Faye says, petting her horse’s mane.

“He already purchased her,” Yusuf says, clenching his teeth.

“Oh, goodie! You’re mine!” she says, kissing her horse’s head. She whinnies in apparent approval. Even horses are obsessed with her.

“I’m gonna kill her dad,” Yusuf whispers to me as Faye discusses names with the horse, who isn’t giving very meaningful feedback.

“He being difficult?” I whisper back.

“Worse. He keeps bragging about everything. His house, his daughter, his buildings, blah blah blah. I can’t take it anymore. Get these people out of here, I’m begging you,” he whispers desperately. I fight back a laugh.

“My future father-in-law is almost worse than my current one,” I tease. That forces Yusuf to snicker.

“Who knew your family could get worse?” he teases back.

“Careful. Maybe we’ll find out Satan is my long-lost, hidden brother.”

“Wait, is Lucifer not John’s real name?”

I laugh and shove his shoulder as a satisfied grin breaks out across his face. “Hey, at least I’m not the only one having a bad day,” he continues, looking to our right. I follow his gaze and find Arthur sitting on his own at a picnic table close to the edge of the pasture. He’s slouched over, writing in his notebook with a familiar focused glare. Even though he’s a good few meters away, I can still practically feel the intensity in his quickly moving hand. I still don’t know what’s eating at him. I know what should be the culprit: my behavior and the punishments he’ll have to endure with me. And yet, if that were the case, he would’ve been upset from the moment he woke up. Something’s changed since Faye arrived.

“I don’t know what’s got him all pouty,” I mumble. I turn back to Yusuf right as his eyebrows raise. He puts his hands on his hips and scoffs with a cheeky grin. About to school me, are you, mate?

“You don’t?” he asks, smiling wider.

“You do?”

“‘Oh, Eddie, come ride with me! Come hold my hand! I love you, Eddie!’” he impersonates, his voice just a little too loud. Faye looks over at us and tilts her head, though it’s luckily with curiosity rather than realization.

“Did you say something?” she asks. I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh.

“No, sorry!” Yusuf calls out quickly, his face heating up slightly.

“Numpty. What point are you even making?” I ask. He sighs.

“She’s been all over you, man,” he says, sure to whisper this time.

“Yeah? So what?”

“You’re wondering why Arthur’s upset, aren’t you?” he says. I pause and squint at him, my eyebrows furrowing.

“Are you saying he’s…jealous?”

“Duh. For the first time, he has to compete for your attention,” he says. I scoff and shove his shoulder.

“Shut up. I’m not playing this game with you,” I grumble.

“It’s not a game!”

“Arthur doesn’t want my attention.”

“Right. Which is why he’s been grumpy and dejected since she showed up. He’s definitely not envious that she can fawn over you all day while he’s gotta keep his mouth shut,” Yusuf continues.

“...You’re ridiculous,” I say instead of an actual defense.

“Try it. Go and talk to him. See what happens,” Yusuf dares.

“He’s not a child.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“So what’s he want my attention for?”

“What do you want his attention for?”

I blink at him and swallow hard. Yusuf doesn’t have the eye for this. He never has. He’s shite at relationships and even worse at reading people. But…maybe there’s a tiny shred of truth to his nonsense. It’s enough to compel me to wander on over to the pouting bloke. Regardless of whether Yusuf’s right, I’d still like to cheer him up. Seeing him so grouchy has gone from a mild inconvenience to a chest-hurting affair. I look at Faye as she continues to pet her horse and say,

“I’m gonna go sit down.”

“I’ll come with! Sir, could you watch our horses?” Faye asks Yusuf.

“You got it,” Yusuf says with robotic indignance.

“His name is Yusuf,” I say. Faye nods and smiles absently.

As much as I didn’t want her to join me, I don’t have much of a choice now. The two of us walk over to the picnic table slowly after she says a final goodbye to her still unnamed horse. She attempts to grab my hand, but I pretend to miss the gesture and put my hands behind my back. If she notices the intention of the movement, she doesn’t point it out. I slap my hand down on the picnic table once we’re right beside it, startling Sir Arthur to the point that he accidentally drags his pen across his notebook page. He swears under his breath as his eyes find me. He still seems tired. Perhaps another night in my bed would do the trick. How about several nights? Hell, why not all of them? I certainly wouldn’t mind the company. Somehow, even him sleeping in my bed while I kip on the couch feels more appealing than sleeping in that bed alone.

“Bored, darling?” I ask as I sit across from him.

“No,” Arthur answers.

“Not really,” Faye answers at the same time. Arthur shoots her a quite frankly frightening look as she sits beside me. Oh, Christ. Maybe Yusuf’s more accurate than I’m willing to give him credit for.

“What are you writing?” I ask. Arthur defensively closes the notebook.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

“Being sneaky, are we? Are you cross you didn’t get to go on the horsey ride? I can help you face your fears,” I offer, smiling smugly.

“Says the guy who got thrown from his horse the first time I saw him ride,” he counters. I fake a gasp and tut.

“Low blow! I distinctly remember you rushing to my aid,” I remind him.

“I was new,” he says, but it’s lighter than his last sentence. I snicker.

“You’d leave me to roll in the mud if it happened today?” I ask, incredulously raising my eyebrows.

“Well, obviously,” he teases, finally smiling. Ah, there you are. Pretty boy.

“When did you fall?! That’s terrible!” Faye exclaims. Not now, doll, I’m making some progress over here.

“It wasn’t a big deal, I promise,” I assure her. She sighs heavily. Arthur’s smile quickly fades as he watches her turn to directly face me. Whether it’s about me or not, anyone with eyes can tell he, at best, is annoyed by her presence and, at worst, already bloody hates her.

“Those things shouldn’t happen. You’ve got a guard for a reason,” she mumbles, twirling her hair around her finger.

“How am I supposed to stop a wild animal from doing anything?” Arthur snaps defensively. Faye freezes up.

“Uhm…I didn’t mean anything by it,” she says quickly, almost automatically. I raise my eyebrows at her as she and Arthur glare at each other. Uh-oh. There’ll be a cat fight if I don’t do something quickly.

“So, are you glad you got to see the market?” I pivot the conversation, directing my attention back to Arthur. He lowers his shoulders, rolls them, and sighs.

“Yeah, actually. It’s nice to –”

“What market? The one right by the palace? Oh, I love those! You should’ve waited for me to go!” Faye interrupts. Okay, now I’m starting to share Arthur’s annoyance. The girl doesn’t know when to shut her bloody mouth. “So, sir, what are the States like? I haven’t been since I was little,” she continues. I wouldn’t be surprised if she forgot his name again.

“...Depends on the state. Minnesota’s pretty nice,” he answers hesitantly. It’s like he expects the question to be laced with some trap he’s unknowingly already set foot in.

“Why are you a baseball fan if you’re from Minnesota? Aren’t you people supposed to like hockey?” I ask. He tilts his head.

“And why do you know that?” he asks back.

“I researched,” I admit. Okay, maybe I looked up some things about his home state. So what? It’s nothing. And yet, he’s just smiled like it’s definitely not…not something.

“Hockey’s too fast for me. And I don’t like the fighting aspect. There’s rules to it, but they don’t really follow etiquette a lot of the time,” he answers.

“I bet if Annie liked it, you would too,” I tease.

“Who’s–”

“Hey, I liked baseball before she played! She followed me,” Arthur interrupts Faye, though I don’t think he even realized she was about to talk.

“Trendsetter, are you? How daring. Maybe you could teach me sometime,” I offer.

“...About baseball?” he asks like he’s heard me wrong.

“Sure. Why not?” I answer. He could probably teach me about the process of paint drying, and I’d still listen. Granted, in that specific situation, it would probably be half listening and half imagining him pressed up against my wall.

“...We could watch a Twins game sometime if you guys get the channel over here. The season’s going on right now,” he says softly, looking down at the table to hide his reddening face. I’m considering this payback for his little Oasis piano stunt. We’d do each other good to stop being so bloody kind to one another.

“Did you ever play? Or just Annie?” I ask. He looks up.

“Yeah, for a while, actually. I pitched,” he answers with unabashed pride shining through the smile that quickly forms on his face.

“Were you any good?”

“I was decent. Nothing special. Annie’s got triple my skill already.”

“Who is –”

“Did you wear a cute little uniform? Do you have pictures? How much money do I need to pay you for them?” I interrupt Faye. Arthur scoffs and scrunches his nose up. My stomach flutters.

“Absolutely not. You are the last person I’d show those images to,” he says quickly. I put on a dramatic pout, sticking out my bottom lip. “Fine. Maybe not the last,” he amends.

“You do like me,” I tease.

“Only sometimes,” he mutters, looking down at the table. Yes, certainly sometimes. Including an hour or so ago, when he was a second away from kissing me in front of my future wife. Or, at least I’m choosing to believe that was his next move.

“My mother says you’re ‘fond’ of me,” I continue to tease. I can’t help myself. Watching him squirm brings me petulant joy, though I suspect there’s some further emotions that I’m not allowed to address.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, more confused than embarrassed. Can’t win them all.

“She says you defend me to an extreme,” I continue. That finally gets him to bite his lip and sink into his seat a little. I can still see you, darling.

“...I just tell the truth,” he mumbles.

“Relax. She says I’m fond of you, too,” I assure him.

“Well? Are you?” he dares.

“Not particularly,” I tease. He scoffs and kicks my leg under the table.

“You’re an arsehole,” he complains, doing an awful English accent that makes me want to tackle him to the ground and kiss him until he can’t remember his name. I break out into a fit of laughter and return his kick with one of my own.

“Is that your impression of me? That’s bloody awful!” I exclaim. He smiles widely, fighting back laughter.

“That’s exactly what you bloody sound like,” he insists, continuing his tarnishing of my culture. He’s started to fiddle with his necklace again, running his thumb over the charm.

“How are you so terrible at that? You’re around me twenty-four seven! Faye, doesn’t –”

I turn to my left only to see that the girl who was once beside me is long gone. I look briefly at Arthur, who shrugs with clear disinterest, and then look back out at the pasture. Faye is standing beside her new horse petting her mane slowly while staring at the ground. Oh, Christ. I didn’t even realize she got up and left. How am I supposed to keep both of my dates happy? Faye knows she’ll win out in the end, that if things go to plan, she’ll be my wife, and yet she’s pouting that I’m giving someone else the time of day. Then there’s Arthur, a whole other bloody mystery. Arthur, who sometimes stares at me like I’ve invented anarchy and other times seems about ready to pounce and make me his, as if I’m not halfway there already. I suppose I understand his feelings more than Faye’s, if his feelings are even what I simultaneously fear and hope them to be. If he’s jealous, it’s because he may have my time, may have my life, but he’ll never have me. Not if my family and the universe at large have anything to say about it.

“I’ve got to placate her,” I mumble, standing up.

“Do you?” Arthur asks, but it’s not really a question. I furrow my eyebrows at him.

“You talk to me enough. Don’t get greedy, doll,” I tease to lessen the tension, but it doesn’t do much good. He opens his notebook again and takes out his pen, immediately resuming his angry scribbling. I’m sure he mumbled something under his breath, but I don’t ask him to repeat it as I turn around. I walk over to Faye like I’m on a trip to the gallows, dragging my feet as I do. Her horse whinnies as I approach, bringing the suddenly somber girl’s attention to me.

“Her name is Ruth,” she mumbles.

“Good name. Everything okay?” I ask. She sighs.

“...I don’t like him,” she continues to mumble. She still hasn’t completely met my eyes. It’s like she’s looking behind me instead, which she very well might be.

“Who? Arthur?” I ask. She nods.

“He’s pretentious. I know that’s rude, but he is.”

“He’s my friend,” I say, gritting my teeth. Defending his honor too ardently would likely do more harm than good.

“They say things about you, Eddie. Bad things. Nasty things. Like I said, I really don’t believe them. Most of them. But sometimes…” her voice fades away. My stomach drops. Most of them. Which ones does she believe? Is it the one that would hurt her the most?

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say instead of really addressing her statements. She finally looks me in the eyes, perking up.

“Oh, I know! I promise. I guess it’s just, we don’t see each other that often. I’d like to…have more time with you,” she says, smiling as she takes a step closer to me. I take a not-so-subtle step back.

“W-when do you have to leave? We could watch a movie before you go. In my flat. If you’d like,” I stutter out. Oh, brilliant. Put the two of us in a dark room. I’m a genius. Still, it does the job of cheering her up, and at least Arthur will be there to break the tension. Faye lights up completely, her eyes sparkling as a huge smile shoots across her face.

“That would be perfect! Oh, thank you!” she cheers, jumping into my arms once again. I stumble back as she holds me tightly and not at all comfortably. I let her stay in the embrace for a few seconds before letting go and gently nudging her off me. She’s still smiling like I’ve given her the world. I’m bloody awful. I’ll go right to hell for this mess. I don’t want to lead her on, but I’ve been given very little choice in the matter. To make matters worse, I quickly turn around to check up on my other date. He’s already staring at me, and though he’s far away, I can see the disappointment swimming through his eyes. I hate when Yusuf’s right.

~~~

“I haven’t been here in forever! It hasn’t changed much,” Faye says as her eyes scan the room. She’s looking around as if it’s her first time setting foot in the space, betraying her statement. Arthur’s staring at her with complete and utter contempt, even grimacing as she haphazardly drops her purse onto my coffee table. He didn’t say a word on the way back and barely ate during dinner. He’s making himself sick with scorn, or something to that effect. There is no proper way to do justice to the expression his face contorted into when he found out Faye would be staying for a couple of hours longer than originally planned. It was the face I’d expect most crime-of-passion killers to make before shoving an axe into someone’s jugular. Fittingly, I think if Arthur had an axe, it would’ve been lodged in Faye’s skull before we even left the ranch. Then again, he carries a firearm, so maybe he’s got more self-control than I’ve given him credit for in the past twenty-four hours.

“Any ideas on what to watch?” I ask Faye as she plops down on my couch and smooths out her dress.

“Definitely something romantic,” she answers, combing her fingers through her long, gleaming hair. She’s a bloody Disney princess. I’m surprised birds don’t land on her shoulder on the regular. “Oh! How about Pride and Prejudice? I adore that movie!” she shrieks.

“Sounds like a plan. You ever seen it, Arthur?” I ask. Arthur shrugs dejectedly. Oh, Christ. If I didn’t feel so guilty, I’d shove him over for this attitude. Who am I kidding? I’d much rather kiss that glare away. It wouldn’t be nearly as difficult a task as picking a brawl with him.

“...He’s not staying, is he?” Faye asks. I have to suppress the urge to scoff in her face.

“He’s my guard,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

“But…you’re not in any danger here. You don’t need a guard right now,” she says, mumbling as she looks down at her feet.

“I just feel –”

“I’ll go. It’s fine, Eames,” Arthur says, sighing. I watch as he turns toward the door on his heels like a soldier. I desperately want to shout at him, to beg him to not leave me alone with her, but what can I do? How am I supposed to survive a romance movie without him? I’m going to have to sit here with her this entire time? He must want revenge on me for forcing him to listen to her flirt all day long.

“Will I see you again tonight?” I ask after him. He turns back and, for a brief moment, actually looks a little touched. But his face quickly hardens again as he answers,

“Probably not. Goodnight.”

“...Goodnight, darling.”

Faye is nothing if not predictable. As soon as the movie starts, she curls up next to me and rests her head on my shoulder with nauseating contentment. It painfully reminds me of that night a month ago when Arthur fell asleep on my shoulder and consequently made me realize how badly I’d like to drag my lips across his neck and give him a real royal welcome. This current moment is the complete opposite of that night. My heart certainly isn’t beating out of my chest, and my brain isn’t swimming with conversation starters that all end with getting her into my bed. But she’s quiet, the movie is a classic, and soon enough, this will all be over. Temporarily. Hopefully, Arthur will find it in his heart to forgive me.

I have to mentally remind myself to not sigh in relief as the credits begin to roll. Faye lifts her head off my shoulder and pulls her legs up onto the couch, turning her body completely to face me. I turn partially, but don’t make the effort to pick my feet up off the ground. She smiles warmly and caresses my arm with my hand. A straighter man would be losing his mind right about now.

“Mr. Darcy is so romantic. It’s such a great story,” she marvels, then adds, “but not as great as ours will be. I’m so excited for the ball!” My stomach drops. That bloody ball. I can’t stand the thought of it. What is she expecting out of me that night? What is anyone expecting? As the date draws nearer and nearer, the more and more I can feel a metaphorical noose tightening around my neck.

“Me too,” I lie. She smiles even wider, then perks up as if she’s just remembered something.

“Why does your guard call you ‘Eames?’ Is it an employee thing?” she asks. She’s doing that on purpose now, I bet.

“Not exactly. It’s…a nickname, I guess,” I grumble. In writing, it is, but to me, it’s the only real name I’ve got.

“Do you want me to call you that?” she persists.

“No! No, that’s fine,” I blurt out. What? Christ, I even surprise myself. I’d die happy if everyone would finally call me my preferred name, and yet the thought of her saying the word makes me want to vomit all over her pretty dress.

She nods intently. “Good. I like that you and I have something special, Eddie,” she says. It’s just now occurring to me that I have not the faintest clue of how I’m going to get her out of here. Horrifyingly, she moves her hand from my arm to my cheek and strokes it with her thumb. My breath catches in my throat.

“You’re so handsome,” she says softly. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she means it. Fuck. This poor girl. I should do something. I should say something. Put a stop to this, finally stand up for myself, for her in some roundabout way. But then she puts her other hand on my shoulder, and I’m frozen again. I wonder if cowardice is a learned trait.

“...You’re too kind,” I manage. My brain is screaming at me to move, to dodge this, to tell her the ugly truth, but my body refuses to move. What’s wrong with me? Am I so afraid of the unknown that I refuse to escape a certain hell?

“I’m not. You’re really something else. I’m really happy I know you,” she whispers, inching closer to me.

“T-thank you,” I stutter out. Really? “Thank you?” That’s all I can think to say? I need a dunce cap sewn into my scalp.

“Why haven’t you ever kissed me?” she asks suddenly. I practically choke on my own spit as my eyes widen.

“I, uh…the timing never seemed apt, you know,” I say quickly and clumsily. She chuckles and inches even closer. I can feel her breathing on my face.

“It’s rather ‘apt’ now,” she decides.

Right as she leans in and attempts to seal my fate, the flat door swings open. I jump up and scoot as far back away from Faye as possible as her hands fly off my face and to her sides. I turn and resist the urge to yelp with joy at the out-of-breath man standing in the doorway. Christ, as if he could be more of my hero.

“Faye, your, uh. Your father. Asked for you,” Arthur manages to stammer through his heavy breaths. For a moment, all she does is blink. Then, she quickly hops to her feet and makes a noise of annoyance.

“Damn! Now there’s someone with bad timing!” she says, and she sounds like her usual self, but she’s staring at Arthur with squinted eyes and furrowed brows. She suspects the same thing I do, but she knows better than to say a word. “I’ll see you soon, Eddie,” she says, blowing me a kiss. I force a smile and nod as she turns away. Arthur’s eyes follow her as she exits the flat quickly like a child who’s been caught playing hooky. As soon as the door closes, I spring to my feet and rush across the room, throwing my arms around him quickly as I belly laugh.

“Oh, Christ, I owe you a million quid for that!” I shout as Arthur stumbles back in my embrace. Still, he quickly returns it. This hug is different from our first. That first time was out of desperation, and it showed in the way he was holding me. But now? I could kiss him out of happiness, not that I wouldn’t kiss him in any and all scenarios. This hug is intense, but light and full of energy.

“I was just doing my job,” he says like it’s the truth. In a way, it is. He is supposed to protect me, after all.

“Did her father really ask for her?” I dare to ask.

“Why would I lie about that?” he says quickly, almost defensively.

“‘Cause you pity my poor gay soul,” I answer, tightening the hug. He takes a deep breath and grasps my shirt tightly, burying his face in my shoulder. We stay like that for a moment too long, turning what was once a friendly hug of relief into…something else. Something stronger, something more intentional. It becomes so difficult to stand that I have to push myself out of his arms, though neither of us go far. A grin shoots across my face as I look at his expression.

“You’re finally smiling again,” I marvel. Said smile widens at the comment as he blushes.

“Shut up,” he mutters. We stare at each other for a second before reentering reality. I take a step away from him and sit down on the couch, motioning for him to join me. He’s hesitant, but eventually follows me and sits to my left. He is a much more welcome presence compared to the one here previously.

“Aren’t you all torn up that she’s gone?” I tease. He looks down.

“Real shame,” he mumbles. I snicker.

“You hate her,” I say. He looks up with wide eyes as I continue to laugh.

“I don’t hate her!” he exclaims, raising his eyebrows. I poke him and laugh harder.

“You totally hate her,” I goad him. He finally breaks and smiles.

“I don’t! I hate…what she represents,” he tries. I shake my head.

“No, you bloody hate her, darling. You are not difficult to read,” I call his bluff.

“Fine. She’s…annoying. But hate’s a strong word,” he mutters.

“Don’t worry, she hates you, too,” I assure him.

“What’d I do to her? I gave her grace, gave her all the damn space to bother you, to get up in your business and fucking fawn all over you, and she’s got the nerve to hate me? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” he exclaims. I stare at him with a grin of disbelief.

“I haven’t seen you so riled up since you witnessed your first family dinner,” I marvel. He blinks and shakes a little, settling down. He releases his tightly balled fists and breathes deep.

“She’s entitled. And bratty. And she can’t remember anyone’s name. Why would your parents pick her?” he asks.

“Money and convenience, mostly. And she actually can stand me, somehow. I think she may really like me. I feel awful for it,” I mumble. He puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs it comfortingly. He’d better be careful.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. I shake my head.

“It is. I should tell her. Rip the band-aid off and face the consequences. I just…how am I supposed to break her heart?”

“She’ll be fine,” Arthur says curtly. I elbow him and scoff.

“Now you’re being a dick,” I warn him. He sighs.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it. It’s just…what’s the alternative? You can’t marry her,” he says like it’s a fact.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I mumble, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and wallow. He’s right. I can’t marry her. But if I don’t marry her or some other doomed woman, it’s over. I’ll be forced out, no longer royalty, a man without a family or a home. That reality is both too much to take and far easier to put off.

“...Thank you again for the necklace. It means a lot,” Arthur eventually mumbles, changing the subject. I scoot closer to him and angle my body to face him better. He mirrors my movement, moving so close that our thighs are touching. Even the heat from this contact is enough to drive me up the wall. His fingers are tangled up in the chain around his neck, a new restless habit I've quickly instilled in him. I want to feel those slender fingers all over my body, I want to push that necklace out of my way as I kiss his chest, I want to feel those hands grab onto my back as I fuck into him just the way he likes. Would he be loud, moaning my name in pleasure? Or would he fight to keep himself quiet, bite his lip and attempt to hold onto his dignity? Would he squeeze his lids shut, unable to manage the ecstasy any other way, or would he let me look into those gorgeous eyes? What’s he thinking about right now? Is he thinking about how good I’d feel inside him? Do I even want him to be? Oh, this is a bloody purgatory I can’t stand for much longer.

“You’ve thanked me enough already,” I assure him, somehow getting out the sentence without sinking my teeth into his neck.

“...I didn’t get to. Not really. Not how I wanted to,” he practically whispers. My heart’s pace quickens as it begins to beat out of my chest.

“And how’d you want to?” I dare to ask. My voice is practically caught in my throat. Every word has to fight its way out. Arthur shakes his head.

“Don’t ask me that,” he warns. I lift up my hand and place it on his cheek. He shivers, but doesn’t back away.

“At the ranch, I lied to you,” I say. He tilts his head as I somehow move closer to him. Much closer. So close that our noses are practically touching. I put my right hand, the one on his cheek, further back into his hair as my left hand lands on his face quickly. As I stroke his cheek, he grabs my left wrist, but miraculously doesn’t rip my hand off of him. Instead, he tightens his grip as if trying to feel my pulse, as if trying to feel my heart.

“About what?” he whispers.

“I’m fond of you. Very fond,” I whisper back. He bites his lip.

“Don’t. Please.”

I respond by pressing my forehead against his. I’m insane. I know it. This whole thing is insane. I’ve got my fingers carding through his hair and stroking his bloody face. He’s feeling my pulse quicken and gripping his own shirt so hard with his other hand that I’m afraid he’ll rip right through it.

“Christ, at least say it’s not just me,” I beg. He nuzzles his nose into mine, personal space be damned, as my breath catches in my throat. His lips are less than a centimeter away from mine. He leans in, almost closes the gap –

A loud bang against the door startles us both so badly that we practically leap away from each other. Arthur lets go of my wrist and flies to his feet, forcing my hands off of his face and out of his hair.

“I’m coming in!” Faye announces with a sing-song tone, opening the door. She stares at the two of us as I breathe heavily. “...I forgot my purse,” she mumbles, squinting. As my eyes go to said dastardly purse, Arthur rushes out of the living room.

“Arthur?” I rasp out. He turns around quickly.

“I, uh. Gotta go,” he stammers, turning back and hurrying out of my flat. Faye stares at the door and shrugs.

“Weird guy,” she picks up her purse and continues, “goodbye for real this time!” With that, she giggles and takes what’s hopefully her final leave. All I can do in her and Arthur’s wake is stare blankly and breathe.

It’s not just me.

Chapter Text

I, admittedly foolishly, believed things would get less tense after a week. Yes, almost making out with the royal guard who works for your family makes things rather complicated, but I thought we’d find a way to make things go back to normal after a week of grace. But after two weeks, that bastard of a man has doubly proven me wrong. Some things are okay. When we’re just talking, things are as they were. But anything physical has completely stopped. Even just standing beside me appears painful to him. He also won’t stay in my flat late for movie nights or linger in the mornings as we quietly enjoy tea. It’s as though he’s finally started to share a fear I’ve held since the day I met him: if he lets himself get too close, or hell, if he lets himself get close at all, he won’t be able to resist putting his tongue down my throat. I’m both incredibly flattered and utterly defeated. Part of me was hoping that mutual attraction could overcome common sense, but for someone like Arthur, that is far from the case.

We have not brought up the incident in my living room since its occurrence, nor the now less substantial incident outside the palace moments before Faye’s arrival. We’re letting them both exist as unspoken elephants in the room. After all, how would we even begin a conversation about it? “Hey, mate, I know we’re both dying to shag each other, but your status as a hard-arse employee working beneath demons conflicts with my status as a prince with an ungodly amount of unearned weight on his shoulders.” I can’t imagine that going over well. So, for now, we’ll just…live in this. I certainly don’t know how much longer I can take it. It feels like every dam I’ve put up has broken. First, there was the dam of hatred, which was dispelled fairly quickly. Then, there was his imagined straightness, a scapegoat he successfully killed. Finally, there was the strongest dam yet: Arthur’s certain disdain for and lack of attraction to me. That wall has been crumbling slowly since the day I met him, and on the day of Faye’s surprise visit, it finally fell apart entirely. Now, what is there? A dam of obligation? Fear? Uncertainty? How long could those possibly last? Will the water finally flood in, or will Arthur escape the country before it can?

Regardless, we’ve got an incoming temporary levee for the next couple of days. Arthur and I are standing side by side outside the front of the palace along with Saito, who is routinely checking his watch almost as often as Arthur. The handsome bloke himself hasn’t been able to wipe the smile from his face since he came to my flat this morning.

“You cannot make time move any faster, no matter how much you try,” I tease.

“I hope she likes it here. What if she’s jetlagged? Or the –”

“Darling, calm down. She’ll receive the finest treatment anyone could ask for,” I interrupt to reassure him, putting my hand on his shoulder. He freezes and looks at me with wide eyes like I’ve just slapped him. “Sorry,” I mumble, removing my hand.

“No, it’s fine, I –”

“Let’s not do this song and dance for the hundredth time,” I interrupt again. He sighs and nods. This is how it’s been: any touch is immediately taken back and apologized for as if we’re hurting one another by existing in each other’s space. I suppose, in a way, we are.

Luckily, we’re saved from our awkward discussion by a black "inconspicuous" van pulling up outside the front gates. Arthur’s smile goes from wide to blinding as the back doors open in sync. First out of the car is an older woman, probably around my mother’s age, with dark hair just like Arthur’s and equally dark eyes. This is Lilliana Galvit, a woman described to me by her son as “frazzled but more caring than anyone I’ve ever known.” That image made me want to vomit, but looking at her now, I can already see what he meant. There’s something oddly delicate in the way she stands and turns back to the palace, offering her hand to the next person exiting the vehicle. Maybe it’s the way her short hair kisses her shoulders, or how her dark blue dress flows loosely over her body, but something there is creating a sense of warmth my own mother has never exuded. Perhaps my standards are simply too low.

Before the most coveted guest leaves the car, Michael Galvit walks around the back of the vehicle and joins his wife’s side. He’s the least similar to the rest of the family, with light brown hair and eyes whose color I can’t quite identify from this far away. He also doesn’t share the rest of the family’s slender figures: his shoulders are broad and bulky, his muscles practically pop out of his sleeves, and he’s a great deal taller than my royal guard. Now I can see why he was supposed to have Arthur’s current job. He looks so sturdy that I’m convinced a bullet couldn’t pierce through his thick chest. Although he doesn’t look like my royal guard, his mannerisms certainly do. Just like Arthur, he stands as though he isn’t quite sure how to casually perform the action. He’s also already started unconsciously scanning the area as the bastard next to me tends to do whenever we’re in a new place. I suppose I know where he gets his paranoia.

Our third and final guest takes her mother’s hand and gingerly steps out of the car. After that, all bets are off. As Saito calls on his radio for the gate to be opened, Arthur rushes away from the two of us and toward the young girl standing several meters away from him. I follow after him, but stop short as the gates open. As soon as there’s enough space for him, he pushes through and pulls the darling girl into his arms as though he hasn’t seen her in years. To them, it might as well have been years. A month and a half with me is a lifetime with anyone else. Something uncomfortably strong swells in my chest, and I stop fighting the urge to walk closer to the rebonded pair. Annie is hugging her brother as tight as possible, her head buried in his chest as her fingers dig into his suit jacket. Arthur combs his fingers through her long, dark hair as he releases a sigh he’s likely been holding in for weeks.

“How you feeling?” Arthur asks as soon as the two part. He puts his hands on her shoulders as she beams at him.

“I’m great! Guess what? I got on the summer travel team!” Annie shouts. Arthur gasps and hugs her again, harder than the first time.

“Seriously?! That’s awesome! Wait, I thought you tried out for that a couple weeks ago,” he quickly realizes, leaving her arms again.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” she answers, smiling widely.

“You’re a little shit,” Arthur says, ruffling her hair as she laughs. Oh, god. This is not a levee. This is whatever the opposite of a levee is. This is a hurricane storming the walls of our flimsy dams. At least he’s still got some sort of reserved formality when we talk. He keeps his deeper emotions back, inhibits himself well. But with Annie, his beloved sister, he doesn’t hold anything back. Christ, just hearing him curse is enough to make me see stars. Annie finally looks behind her brother, glancing at me.

“Is that him?” she asks, quiet enough that it’s probably supposed to be a whisper but doesn’t quite make the cut. Have you been discussing me, Sir Arthur?

“Yes, that’s him,” Arthur says back quickly, also not whispering very well. Before he can turn around, another voice booms in,

“Not even saying hello to your mother, hm?” Arthur turns to Lilliana and sighs. She smiles as he finally leaves Annie and pulls her into a hug. It’s a short one, though, and when it’s over, she says, “You’ve got to be careful with her! Don’t squeeze her organs out.”

“Mom, relax. She’s fine,” Arthur insists with a sigh.

“If she gets so much as a papercut, her team will –”

“Mom, please!” Annie interrupts. Lilliana huffs, but smiles. Arthur then finally turns his attention to his father. They both nod to one another with the exact same motion. Like clones.

“Hi, dad,” Arthur says quietly. Now this is a more familiar family dynamic.

“Arthur. You look well,” Michael replies.

“I feel okay,” Arthur answers. This sounds a lot more like a nurse check-in than a fatherly reunion.

“Have you gotten skinnier? I hope you’re not slacking on your training. I want to see the gym they have here,” Michael insists, squinting at the palace as though he can see through the walls.

“I’ve been working out, I promise,” Arthur says with the cadence of a man who’s said it a thousand times. I can confirm: I’ve drooled over him several times watching him lift weights.

“The Prince of England has been standing here this entire time,” Lilliana announces loudly, her eyes widening at my presence. I shoot her a grin and a small wave. Arthur perks up and turns around, walking back over to me.

“Guys, this is Eames – uh, Prince Edward. Eames – shit, Edward, whatever, – this is my family,” he stumbles. Both of his parents stare at their son with tilted heads, but Annie covers her mouth as she chuckles like there’s something she knows that the other two don’t.

“Please, don’t try the ‘your Highness’ shite when my parents aren’t around. Eames is fine,” I say quickly. Michael outstretches his arm and traps me in an uncomfortably firm handshake.

“Hello, your Highness. Good to meet you,” he says. Ah. Good listener. I’d call him on the formality, but somehow I don’t think I’ll be able to change his mind on this. He even sounds just like Arthur. For how they interact, I wouldn’t expect them to be so behaviorally similar. As he steps away from me, he adjusts the cross necklace around his neck and nods to his wife.

“Should I bow? Is that proper?” Lilliana asks, looking at Arthur. He chuckles.

“Oh, Christ, please don’t. I won’t know what to do with myself,” I answer. Michael visibly stiffens as his wife laughs.

“You are not how I imagined you,” she says. I snicker.

“Far more handsome in person, I bet,” I tease. She rolls her eyes and smirks. It’s like watching Arthur’s eyes on someone else’s face. Speaking of, Arthur sighs and presumably glares at me, though I can’t quite see his expression while he’s by my side.

“Arthur told me you were funny,” she says. I turn to him and raise my eyebrows.

“Did he now?” I say as his face heats up. He refuses to answer, naturally, so I turn my attention to his sister. “It is especially nice to meet you, darling.”

Annie takes a step backward, partially hiding behind her father, before answering, “...Hi. Nice to meet you.” It’s a complete switch from how she was talking to Arthur. With him, she was animated, lively, and completely unafraid. But with me, she’ll barely make eye contact. Her voice is low, so low it’s almost hard to hear, and she’s unconsciously picking at her thumb with her forefinger. Arthur told me she was shy, but he didn’t say to what extent. If she were older than fifteen and not his sister, I would pry and push a little, try and get her to talk. But considering Arthur would likely kill me, and considering the streak of kindness he’s somehow instilled in me, I think it’s in my new nature to keep my mouth shut.

“Greetings. It’s a pleasure to have you all,” Saito says. I jump at the sound of his voice and turn. How in the hell does he move so quietly? As he and the family exchange pleasant greetings for a moment or two, Arthur doesn’t take his eyes off Annie for even a single second. “The sun is setting, and you must all be exhausted from your trip. I will introduce you to the King and Queen and then take you to your rooms,” Saito decides.

“Uh…the real King and Queen?” Annie asks. Saito smiles warmly.

“Don’t worry, they’re both very kind,” he says. I try and fail to fight a snicker that all four family members manage to catch. Attempting a save, I clear my throat and shift my weight from foot to foot. I may have fooled his parents, but Arthur knows me too well.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Saito,” Michael says, offering his hand. Saito takes it and shakes it eagerly.

“How long’s it been?” Saito asks.

“...I believe it was the dinner party in ‘07,” Michael answers, squinting. Christ, I’ve seen Arthur make that exact face. Saito lights up and laughs.

“Wow! That was a wild one. Do you remember what Brian did?”

“How could I forget?”

The two of them start walking side by side toward the palace, leaving Lilliana and Annie to trail awkwardly. Arthur stays planted by my side as his family makes their exit. Once they’re a meter or so away, Annie turns back.

“Are you coming?” she asks her brother.

“I have to –”

“Jesus, go be with your family. I’m on palace grounds. There are no serial killers or psycho bottle-throwers here,” I interrupt. He turns to face me.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Darling, I do know how to get around by myself. I, in fact, did live twenty-four years without your constant presence,” I assure him.

“I can’t imagine how,” he teases. I shove him playfully, smiling. He stares at my hand and bites his lip.

“You’ve actually made my life much more difficult, you know,” I remind him. He puts his hands on his hips.

“I’ve let you get away with an insane amount of bullshit,” he argues.

“But not all of it,” I say with a wink. Bad idea. He flushes and looks down. I try to keep the flirting to a minimum, but for god’s sake, look at him. I’ve never had more fun riling someone up, though it’s a bloody shame I’m not allowed to calm him down.

“Ahem,” Saito coughs loudly. Arthur and I turn back to the group only to see that they’re all staring at us already. Lilliana looks confused, Michael looks…unreadable, and Annie is once again covering her smile with her hand.

“Go be with your sister, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, patting his shoulder.

“You’ve got tomorrow’s schedule, right?” he asks.

“Yes, honey, and I’ll be sure to start dinner on time. Do pick us up some milk on the way home, though,” I tease. He blinks at me and stares like I’ve got something in my teeth. “Get it? We’re an old married couple,” I painstakingly explain the joke.

“I get it.”

He says so, and yet he’s staring at me like it wasn’t very funny.

~~~

Mornings are boring without Arthur. There’s no one to make breakfast for or share tea with, no one to watch read or pick at his fingernails while suffering through the news. Surely, none of that correlates to why I am wandering down the hallway toward his room. I really should leave him alone. I know that. I should give him time to be with his family, time away from my now intensely stressful presence. I make his life harder. I’ve always known I would, though I never could’ve imagined the reasons behind the turmoil. It would be much better for both of us if I could stay away, but I’m…bored. Yes, I’m bored. I’m not at all lonely. Because it would be ridiculous to pout over Arthur spending his morning elsewhere. He can do whatever he’d like with his time. One day, I’m going to wake up and he won’t be the first thing I think of. Hell, one night I’ll go to sleep and he won’t be the first thing I dream of. His face won’t be so bloody handsome, his body won’t be so bloody appealing, his mind won’t be so bloody inviting. There has to be an endgame to this that doesn’t end up with him in my bed nor him in the United States.

I pause at Arthur’s slightly cracked open door. In all of his time here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen his door left open. I take another soft step, tightly gripping the mug in my hand, and enter the range of soft voices. Against my better judgment, I take another step and turn my head.

“...gotta mean something,” I hear the end of Annie’s sentence.

“I don’t know. It’s probably in my head,” Arthur answers after clearing his throat. I shiver a little. I love his voice in the mornings. He has an hour or so where he’s still adjusting to his professional tone, during which he sounds gentle. Untrained. I will forever envy the lucky bloke who ends up getting to listen to that sound every sunrise. The thought makes my stomach drop and forces my hand to the door. Though it’s already open, I still knock to make my presence known.

“Am I interrupting something?” I ask through the crack.

“...Come in,” Arthur says hesitantly. Careful, darling, your excitement may give you a heart attack. I nonetheless push the door open and walk in. My eyes first go to the man sitting criss-cross on his bed, facing his sister. His hair is a mess, his t-shirt is too big, and his glasses are crooked. I’ve graduated to hating the awful, lucky bastard who will enjoy this sight for the rest of his daft days. Annie is slightly less disheveled, her hair still moist from an apparent shower. My eyes next go to the cot on the ground next to Arthur’s bed, so squished that it's completely flush with both the wall and the bedframe. My heart swells.

“Did you sleep in here, love?” I ask the girl. She looks at me and swallows hard.

“...Yes?” she says like it’s a question.

“That is disgustingly adorable,” I marvel.

“Good morning to you, too,” Arthur says, covering his mouth as he yawns. Christ, I want to find a way to get Annie to excuse herself, crawl into that bed, and hold him until he falls back asleep. Perhaps he has not turned me into a kinder man, considering how selfish my thoughts are as of late.

“...Do you two want breakfast? I can make something,” I blurt out. Annie raises her eyebrows.

“You really do cook, huh?” she says, then covers her mouth as if she’s committed a crime. Arthur’s face heats up as I smile.

“How much have you told her about me?” I ask.

“Your favorite band is Oasis, you hate the rain but like how it looks right after a storm, you once bought a rat and let it loose in your brother’s room, you –”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Arthur interrupts, his face burning up. I can feel my face heating up as well. Not only does he remember those ridiculous stories, but he also tells them to his sister. He and I are in deep trouble. Very deep.

“Christ, all of my crimes have been spread! I’ll be needing about a dozen embarrassing stories about him to make up for that,” I tease, attempting to keep the mood light so I don’t end up sucking on Arthur’s neck as a reward for his memory. Annie springs up and smiles.

“Oh, I’ve got some,” she says, finally speaking above a quiet mumble.

Her eagerness and my persistence are how the three of us end up in my flat, sharing stories while I flip pancakes. Annie struggles to think of anything at first, though I suspect it’s more out of anxiety than a lack of material. That’s proven after I run through a couple of Arthur’s offenses here. I tell her about the piano at the library, and the night out with Ari and Yusuf, and several other little stories I’m sure he wouldn’t think to remember. Things that meant the world to me but passed by his own eyes. All of that is enough to get the kid to, at first quietly, tell a few tales about her darling brother. There are funny ones, like the time she forced him on one of those spinning teacup rides until he puked in a garbage can, and the day he let her dress him up like a princess, tiara and all, and drag him around town. But she moves to sentimentality quickly and without prompting. How he would always help her with her homework back when he was home, and how he would stay for hours in the hospital while she got her chemo treatments. Arthur spends the entire exchange staring at the table with a tomato-red face.

In part due to our shared interest in her brother, Annie and I get along properly well. The three of us stuck together through the first half of the day, most of which consisted of boring tours made interesting by me trying to make Annie laugh and Arthur trying, and failing, to get us to quiet down. We managed to get through the morning until lunch with only one warning, though I surely deserved far more. Now, we’ve got a few hours of downtime, though “downtime” is not the correct phrase. To me, downtime is watching a movie and falling asleep with half a bowl of popcorn spilled on the floor. To the Galvits, it’s a pickup game of softball. Which is how I have been forced into athletic wear and given some fancy mitt to catch a projectile in. In all honesty, this would be all well and good if not for one particular factor.

“I’m not any happier about this than you are,” Johnny gripes, tightening his grip on his glove.

“Don’t you have eight million bloody things to do every day? How are you somehow available for this?” I gripe right back.

“Mrs. Cobb made me available,” he grumbles. I look up at her and scowl.

“It’s a good press opportunity. I’ll take some pictures and they can do a story about ‘brotherly bonding,’” Mal repeats for the hundredth time. She says that, but she doesn’t seem very eager about this, either. After all, she’s being forced to play, too.

“Aren’t the phony church trips enough bonding?” I ask.

“Quit complaining, both of you. You’re giving me a headache,” she snaps and walks away. My darling brother and I are hiding by the rear entrance to the palace as if we can somehow escape this. It’s fruitless: Saito has already assisted Annie and Arthur in setting up a makeshift softball field in our once untainted grassy garden. What was once an open field has been morphed into the perfect location for America's favorite pastime. There are, however, some benefits to being forced into physical labor, and most of them begin and end with a familiar positive of this place. Arthur’s in loose-fitting joggers, a Minnesota Twins jersey with the number twenty-eight, and a beat-up baseball cap. He doesn’t even have his usual ankle holster attached. I’ve spent the better part of the past twenty minutes watching him throw the ball with Annie rather than practicing myself, though it’s less him I’m watching and mostly his arse. Can you blame me? What else is this sport known for?

“Make yourself more obvious, why don’t you?” Johnny snaps. I blink and turn to him.

“Excuse me?” I blurt out, playing dumb.

“You’re appalling,” he grumbles.

“What exactly have I done wrong this time?” I ask.

“Don’t act like I don’t know what you’re thinking. You torment that twat enough. Do you really have to try to bring him down to your level?”

“Are we gonna have a problem already?” I ask, taking a step closer to him. He stays put, but wrings his hands together in a betrayal of his brave face.

“Eames, leave the situation,” Saito warns me. I jump and turn to him. He’s snuck up on me a startling second time. I grimace, but nod and give Johnny one last scowl before walking toward the object of my desires. As Arthur catches Annie’s most recent throw, he turns and nods to me.

“What position do you play, kid?” I ask Annie.

“...I like to pitch. I’ll play anywhere today, though,” she answers. My stomach twists.

“Just like your brother, huh?” I say. She nods and smiles softly.

“She’s way better than I was,” Arthur insists. Annie rolls her eyes.

“I am not. You were amazing! You were the star player every year,” she argues. I put my hands on my hips and tilt my head.

“Was he now?” I ask.

“I was not,” he mutters, kicking an imaginary rock.

“His picture is still up in our high school! He could’ve gone to college for it,” Annie brags on her brother’s behalf. I shove his shoulder and chuckle.

“Meanwhile, he told me he was ‘decent.’ You’re good at bloody everything,” I marvel. He finally flushes.

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

“Seriously! You’re brilliant, athletic, and easy to get along with. You got a flaw in there I don’t know about?” I ask.

“Great lot of good I did with it all,” he grumbles, looking away. I swallow hard. Somehow in the process of complimenting him, I’ve touched a nerve.

“Sorry I haven’t lived up to your life’s expectations,” I snap before I can stop myself. I don’t know what possessed me to say that. He looks up, eyes wide, and god, I wish there was anger within them. But instead, he looks like he’s on the stand and I’ve just given irrefutable evidence connecting him to some crime.

“I didn’t mean –”

“Christ, neither did I. Let’s leave it,” I interrupt. He nods and looks back at his sister. She gives him an expression I can’t quite read, but I’m certain he can. It’s the kind of sibling connection I’ve read about, some sort of understanding that can’t possibly just come from blood. If it does, I’ve done a great deal of work to cut it off.

“...I think we should start the game,” Annie pipes up.

With that, we round up all of the poor souls being forced into this. Lilliana, Johnny, Mal, Dom, Saito, and a dozen or so employees being paid overtime are now in a huddle of mostly unenthused participants. Naturally, my parents have chosen to not participate. It wouldn’t be a family event without me lacking the family itself, after all. I do feel a little better that Michael has also forgone the activity, choosing to play umpire instead of actually joining a team. Perhaps all fathers are sticks in the mud. The only two people away from the huddle, apart from him, are Arthur and Annie, who are standing in front of us, playing coach.

“We’re doing a school yard pick,” Arthur announces. Despite our little spat, or whatever that was, not even I can dull the joy of his sister’s presence. His voice is loud and theatrical, full of an energy I only see him possess on rare occasion. Sometimes, he’ll get too excited talking about some composer or a beat-up book under his arm, and then he’ll start to stumble over his words. I treasure the bloody sounds.

Nonetheless, I groan dramatically. “No one ever picks me in these!” I complain.

“Don’t worry! I want you,” Annie decides.

“Who says you pick first?” Arthur interrupts.

“I’m the youngest,” she argues, batting her eyelashes. Arthur doesn’t even bother to fight his smile down. “Unless you want to fight over him?” she adds on.

“No, I’d rather play against him,” Arthur says. I scoff and dramatically place my hand on my heart.

“Excuse me! This disrespect is unfathomable!” I say with egotistical flair.

“Have you ever thrown a ball before?” Arthur asks.

“...That is ethnocentric. We don’t have this bloody sport,” I mutter.

“I’m surprised you know what that word means,” Arthur taunts. I stick my tongue out at him and defiantly stomp over to Annie.

“Fine,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, “I don’t want to be on his team anyway. He’s a swot.”

“What?” Annie asks, giggling.

“A nerd. Loser. Dork. All of the above,” I say, pointedly staring at him. He rolls his eyes.

“It’s not my fault you’re daft,” Arthur does his horrible imitation of my accent, which sends Annie into a full-on laughing fit. I snicker along with her, more because of her joy than my own. I’ve never met such a pleasant teenager.

“I don’t sound like that! Annie, do I sound like that?” I ask.

“...Kinda,” she mumbles, covering her smile with her hand.

“Enjoying yourselves, boys?” Saito calls out. I quickly turn back to the crowd we’ve left hanging. Most of the employees have found suitable places to stare that aren’t centered on my face, but Lilliana doesn’t have that same restraint or know-how. She’s looking right at me, though her eyes glance quickly to her daughter as well. I know better than to under-analyze Saito’s statement. Despite the lightness of his voice, it’s a warning, and it’s one of many from him.

“...Let’s continue,” Arthur says, clearing his throat as his smile fades. Annie agrees, so one by one, the teams are sorted: Dom and Mal to Arthur’s, Saito and Lilliana to ours, and a mess of employees on each. Now, standing on his own with his head hung low is the last pick. I hate to say it, but it tickles me pink to see him so dejected at this outcome.

“...I’m not that bad at physical activity,” Johnny mutters.

“That’s not why they’re not picking you, mate. It’s cause –”

“Eames, easy,” Saito warns. I exhale loudly, but obey. “He’s on our team. That’s how the math works out,” he continues. I groan.

“Seriously?! I’m not playing with him!” I exclaim.

“Finally, something we can agree on,” Johnny grumbles.

“Shut up! You’re both obnoxious! You’ll work together and you’ll like it,” Mal shouts. With that, Johnny drags his feet over to our side.

My team flips a coin, wins, and decides to field first. I have no clue if that’s a good thing, but the kid seems excited, so I go with it. After an excruciatingly boring discussion, everyone decides it would be best to plop me far out into the grass and hope I don’t cause trouble. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t offended. Sure, maybe I’m lazy, but I’m certainly not weak. Still, the look of petulant glee on Arthur’s face as I got relegated to a location with the least potential for collateral damage almost made it worth it. We’ve got Annie pitching, Saito at first, Johnny at second, poor fear-stricken Abigail, who is somehow still employed, at short stop, and Lilliana at third. The outfield is populated with two other employees who either truly do not want to be here or are so unathletic that they’ve reached my level of skill.

Arthur comes up to the plate first, wearing a royalty-approved helmet and holding a bat that probably costs more than some houses. I have no clue where we got all of this shite, or if we already had it in the first place, but it makes my royal guard look even more suited to this role. He readies his bat and stares his sister down, who starts to wind up her arm. She said something earlier about fast-pitching and then had an argument about said pitching with her brother, but I mostly tuned them out while they came to an agreement. Arthur and I still haven’t gotten around to watching a game together, mostly because he’s surely afraid he’ll end up sweaty and moaning beneath me if we’re alone for too long. I also did not listen when he and Annie explained the rules. That felt all well and good at the time, but I fear it’s going to bite me in the arse later.

Annie throws her first pitch, and Arthur swings, but just nearly misses. Michael calls it a strike, and Annie nods with intense focus. Her father, who has also taken up the catcher position for both teams, throws the ball back. I’d like to watch Arthur swing again. A couple more times, actually. Annie throws her second pitch, but it’s over his head, more’s the pity. She shakes it off and takes a little more time before winding up her third throw. Once she does, she releases it quickly, and it’s apparently good enough for Arthur to take another crack at it. Another near miss. Isn’t he supposed to be good at this? Still, Jesus. The way his arms flex as he swings may very well send me into a coma. He’s so bloody muscular. He should wear short-sleeves more often. Could I put in a request to have his uniform changed, or would Saito see right through that?

Confident now, Annie nods to herself and prepares her fourth pitch. She winds it up slowly, rolls her shoulders, and tosses the ball. Arthur swings fast, making immediate contact. The ball flies through the air faster than I can comprehend. Oh, Christ, how did he hit it so bloody hard? I follow the ball with my eyes as it zooms over my head, but then look at Arthur running from home to first. He’s fast. Have I ever seen him run before, besides on the treadmill? How can someone make running look sexy? This really isn’t fair. The opposing team has an extreme distraction pitted against me.

“Eames! You’re supposed to catch that!” Annie shouts at me. I blink and look at her. Oh, right. The game. I turn around, but the bloke playing whatever position is to my left has already started chasing after the ball.

“I got it, your Highness!” he shouts.

“Cheers,” I say, nodding and standing still. He’s got it. Said so himself. Sure enough, he manages to scoop up the ball and chuck it to Johnny, who, to his credit, does catch it. He, however, can’t step on the base fast enough to catch my darling royal guard. Arthur stops safely on second, breathing hard as Johnny throws the ball back to Annie. I wander inward until I’m right behind second base.

“That was bloody ace,” I compliment.

“You’re supposed to be a bunch of steps back,” Arthur coaches.

“I’m bored,” I say and shrug. He scoffs.

“It’s easy to be bored when you won’t participate,” Johnny snaps.

“Hey! Would you rather me try and miss the ball anyway?” I ask. He sighs.

“I guess not,” he mutters.

“I wasn’t expecting you to catch that. Maybe you’re not hopeless,” I remark.

“Gee, thanks, arsehole,” Johnny deadpans.

“It was a compliment!” I exclaim.

“Shoo, you’re breaking my concentration,” Arthur complains.

“Aw, someone’s taking the royal baseball game seriously! You do know we don’t have trophies, right?” I tease. Johnny snickers right as my eyes dart to him. He covers his mouth quickly, but he can’t hide it. He just…laughed at something I said.

“I knew it! You still find me amusing!” I shout with unbridled glee.

“...Well, he is being very intense,” Johnny mutters.

“Glad you two can bond over this bullying,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t sound as peeved as he probably should. In fact, there’s a small smile on his face.

“Bond is a strong word,” I say quickly.

“Yeah, how dare you?” Johnny quips, putting on a dramatic, sarcastic tone. I laugh more out of shock than amusement. Did he just actually try to make a joke? Like, a genuine joke?

“Did you just try to be funny? Am I hearing this right?” I ask, blinding hard.

“Shut up. Listen to Mr. Galvit. You’re being distracting,” he reverts quickly, scrunching up his nose. This time, I finally listen, taking a good ten steps back. I still can’t believe it. I never thought I’d see Johnny’s sense of humor start to grow back. Perhaps there’s a chance for him yet.

The first half of the inning drags on without much input from me. The ball doesn’t often come in my direction, but when it does, one of the poor saps back here with me rushes to my aid. This is the one and only time I’ll accept the employees picking up my slack. Eventually, we make it off the field without my help whatsoever. Still, we’re losing three nothing. Due to that, everyone is hard-pressed to force me to hit last, but with some arguing, I manage to get myself up fourth. That’s mostly thanks to the employees being too afraid to defy me. There’s the one perk of my position, I suppose. Arthur has now taken up the pitcher’s position, and damn, here I was thinking he looked good hitting. He looks even more at home on the mound with the ball in his hand and without that gaudy helmet covering his handsome face.

Annie is up to the plate first, settling in on the left side of the plate. Arthur prepares his pitch differently compared to Annie’s. He doesn’t wind up in the same sort of windmill way, though perhaps I would’ve been less surprised if I had listened while they were explaining the rules. Alas, Arthur quickly throws a fast pitch that Annie lets pass her by.

“Strike! Annie, you need to swing the bat,” Michael coaches.

“Dad, not today. This is just for fun,” she pleads, exasperated.

“Every day is a day for –”

“Dad,” she repeats. He sighs and nods, giving in quickly. Arthur throws a second pitch, and she once again does not swing, but this time she’s rewarded for her good eye when Michael calls it a ball. It didn’t look like one to me, but that’s mostly because my eyes are mainly watching Arthur’s hand as he releases the ball rather than the ball itself. The way his fingers flex is mesmerizing. His grip is so strong, yet so ready to forcefully expel the ball when he’s ready. The movement of the pitch is so certain to him, so second-nature, it’s clear he’s done it thousands of times before. He throws his third pitch, and this time, Annie clobbers it. It flies over Dom’s head at first base and rolls just in front of the outfielder, giving Annie enough time to make it to first. Arthur nods and smiles like he’s not at all surprised nor upset. Next, Arthur quickly strikes Saito out. Lilliana is third to the plate, but she hits a ball right to Dom and is easily taken out.

“Looks like it’s up to you,” Arthur taunts as I come up to the plate.

“Don’t underestimate me, darling. I’m more than a pretty face,” I taunt back.

“We’ll see,” he says, almost too quiet for me to catch. I raise my eyebrows, but he’s already winding up his pitch. Did he just…I’m being ridiculous. I’m reading into that. And yet staring at him like this takes me painfully back to that night. I was looking so deeply into his eyes, my heart pumping out of my chest as he inched closer and closer, fully prepared to finally taste him and –

“Strike!” Michael calls out. Huh? When did he throw it?

“Pay attention, Mr. Eames,” Arthur teases.

“Does he get a penalty for trash-talking?” I ask Michael.

“Stay professional, Arthur,” Michael calls out. Arthur stiffens up. Geez. If I had known he would’ve taken me seriously, I wouldn’t have said it at all. Arthur prepares and throws again. God. What a good arm.

“Strike!” Michael calls out. Oops.

“At least swing! Come on!” Annie shouts. I shake a little. That poor kid is counting on me. I suppose I should try a little harder. I attempt to actually hold the bat correctly and focus just a little. Okay, stop staring at him as he moves. Just watch the ball. You can stare at him plenty the rest of the day. I settle in as he prepares his next pitch, this time watching the ball instead of his muscly arms or intense expression. The ball comes at me, and mostly on instinct, I swing hard. Miraculously, the ball actually hits the bat and flies through the air. It speeds right toward Arthur, who jumps and catches it in the air.

“Am I supposed to run now?” I ask.

“Nope. You’re out,” Arthur says, smiling smugly.

“Damn!” I exclaim, throwing the bat to the ground.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, but the bastard isn’t sorry at all. He’s still grinning wide right at me.

“You’re a knob,” I complain, taking a step closer to him.

“Hey, at least you hit it. That’s progress. Just not enough,” he says and winks. He actually bloody winks. I’m going to pass out.

“You’re a sore winner,” I manage to get out instead of rushing at him and tackling him to the ground.

“You’ve got a bunch more innings to learn how to hold the bat,” he continues to tease. I scoff and smile.

“It’d help if someone would teach me,” I complain. He sighs and motions toward it.

“Pick it up,” he orders. I tilt my head at him, causing him to take off his glove, drop it to the ground, and walk over to me. He picks up the bat himself and models how to hold it. “Keep your hands low down, close together, and line your knuckles up,” he directs. I nod, though I’m looking less at his form and more at those bloody hands. Strong hands. Not particularly large, but fuck if I care. Even though I’m a good deal bigger than he is, he could easily best me in a fight. Then again, if we were ever that close to each other, there’d probably be less fighting and less clothing, as well. My staring somehow convinces him that I’ve got the point, so he hands the bat over. I hold it up haphazardly, and he sighs as a result.

“Like this,” he directs, coming up behind me and putting his arms over mine. I freeze up and suck in a quick breath of air. Oh, darling, I wouldn’t if I were you. To make matters worse, he forcefully puts his hands on mine and pushes them together on the bat. “This way, you can –”

“Arthur. You gotta let go,” I say quickly.

“What?” he asks. Oh, please don’t tell me you’re so invested in this stupid sport that you can’t tell you’re breathing down my neck. You’re telling me I can’t touch his shoulder without him throwing a fit, but he can press up against me without a second thought? Christ, that breath feels good, though. Almost as good as his waist pushed up against mine. I’d prefer these roles reversed, but damn it all, I’ll take anything at this point.

“Get a room,” Annie teases. Arthur’s entire body tenses up as we both look at the young girl now standing in front of us. The poor startled bloke completely backs off me and takes a heavy step back.

“S-sorry,” he stutters out and quickly walks back toward his team.

“I, uh…I’m sorry, I was just kidding…” Annie mumbles, hanging her head in shame.

“S’okay, doll. Not your fault,” I say, looking out into the field. Saito is already at his place back at first, but he’s staring right at me with a tight, contemplative glare. I swallow hard, nod to him, and walk back out into the field.

The rest of the game goes on without incident. My team lost horribly, though it’s, obviously, hardly Annie’s fault. She was the only one on our team who could hit against Arthur consistently, and one batter isn’t enough to save us. Still, winning really wasn’t the point in my eyes. Not only did I get to watch Arthur twist around and show off that gorgeous body, but I also got a taste of a joy I’ve never seen within him. The look in Annie’s eyes when she sees him is painfully familiar. I hate the bloke my prick of a brother has become, but this young girl’s presence makes me remember a fonder version of dear Johnny. The urge to find that boy again digs through my stomach like a sickness, a sickness that’s exasperated by the quiet conversation Annie and Arthur have after the game. I can’t hear much of it, but he looks down at her like she’s sewn up the sky just for him. The sight of it brings me to my brother’s side.

“We’re a shite team,” I decide.

“Always have been,” he grumbles, pushing his hair back. Maybe half of my hate for him is because of those looks I never inherited.

“You excited for our joint dinner?” I tease. He groans.

“I don’t understand why we have to eat with his family,” he complains.

“Better than just with mother and father, hm?”

“...I guess,” he relents.

“You seem less cross than usual,” I comment. He glares down at me, but quickly expels the expression with a sigh.

“Everything is falling into place. You’ll marry Miss Darcie. Father says it’s all but decided. Your reputation isn’t great, but the people will accept you with her.”

“So,” I cross my arms and furrow my eyebrows, “you’re overjoyed that my fate will be sealed soon. Glad my suffering is music to your ears. You think I won’t abdicate?”

“...Seems like you don’t have the guts to.”

“There a reason you’d prefer me as King rather than gone?”

“I don’t have a preference either way.”

“You don’t want the job, either, do you?”

He exhales hard and bites his lip before saying, “That’s not what I said.”

“Your face said it for you.”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he snaps, quickly stomping away. I watch as he visibly shivers under the rare London sun, as though he’s been possessed by the ghost of a fear I know all too well.

~~~

The royal dining room is much fuller than it usually is. My father is naturally at the head, dressed well, but so pale he might as well be a corpse. He’s looking a little thinner these days, mostly just in his face. Directly to his right is my mother in a deep red gown, and directly to his left is Johnny in a navy blue dress shirt and black slacks. I’m mournfully sitting next to the bloke in a white dress shirt Mal forced upon me. She’s slicked back my hair as well, though I don’t mind that nearly as much as the clothing. Across from me is Arthur in his royal guard usual: black suit jacket, white polo, blue tie. I can’t tell if he’s staring at me or if I just look at him enough for him to focus on my glances. Next to him is Annie in a pretty blue blouse that she looks entirely uncomfortable in, her hair styled into a long braid that drapes along her right shoulder. To my right is Michael in an outfit identical to his son’s, and diagonally across from him is Lilliana in a pleasant enough black dress.

The meal is shockingly something I can stomach, and the conversation has been mostly small talk. Annie and Arthur have been having their own private conversation while my mother, Johnny, Lilliana, and Michael talk politics in the detached sort of way people do when they don’t actually give a damn. Predictably, I’ve become the odd man out, and yet I don’t mind it. The best kind of family dinner for me is one where I’m left alone. My father must feel the same. He’s been staring out at the wall blankly, moving his food around on his plate with his fork haphazardly. This is one of the dinners he would’ve skipped had he not had the additional obligation of guests. An employee keeps coming in every five minutes to check on him, and each time, he shoos her away with particularly vitriolic fervor. It’s almost hard to watch, especially since I’m the only one paying enough attention to be an audience to it.

“So, Arthur, what’s your favorite part of London?” Lilliana asks, forcing the bloke out of his giggly discussion with Annie. He perks up and turns to his mother like he’s never seen her in his life. He clears his throat, very briefly glances at me, and answers,

“The company.”

“He’s been performing to your expectations, correct?” Michael asks.

“He is sufficient,” my mother says curtly. Careful, love, you may appear to actually be grateful for the bloke.

“Anything he could improve on?” Michael asks.

“We’re doing a performance review?” I ask. Everyone stares at me like I’ve just announced a pregnancy. “Forgive me. Continue pretending like I’m not here,” I say, sighing. I expect a fight, but instead, it seems like they’re going to follow my instructions.

“He’s a little…friendly,” my mother says, choosing her words carefully. My heart drops into my stomach.

“Is that so? Arthur, are you remaining professional?” his father asks.

“I –”

“We just get along, that’s all,” I interrupt. Arthur gives me a glare that says Let me handle this, and I press my lips together tightly as a response.

“You shouldn’t be getting along. He’s your employee. What exactly are you getting along about?” Michael presses, turning to stare me down.

“I didn’t mean to imply that Mr. Galvit is not doing his job. Maybe we should…drop this line of discussion,” my mother says in a shocking moment of humility. Michael’s dark, endless intensity makes even her shudder in her seat.

“Has Arthur been bothersome to you, your Highness?” Michael persists. I sit up straighter in my chair as my eyes go wide.

“What? No, no, not at all!” I exclaim quickly.

“So his guard hasn’t been strict enough to cause discomfort?”

“What kind of trick questions are these?” I snap.

“Edward, that’s enough,” my father booms. Christ, I didn’t even think he was listening. I normally wouldn’t obey, but Arthur’s once frustrated glare has turned into a far more desperate expression of pleading. He wants me to stay out of it. Fine. If that’s your wish, darling, I’ll let your bloody father clobber you.

“You know you aren’t supposed to develop emotional attachments,” Michael scolds.

“Can we not do this now?” Arthur asks, but it’s a useless question.

“You are here to perform a job. You are to protect his Highness. You are a royal guard, not a court jester, yes?”

“I am doing my job,” Arthur grumbles.

“Michael, please. Let’s have this conversation some other time,” Lilliana pleads.

“Yeah, dad. Not now,” Annie chimes in. Arthur pulls out his necklace from under his shirt and anxiously flips the charm around between his fingers. Out of nowhere, my mother gasps.

“That necklace…wasn’t it – never mind,” she says quickly, stumbling over her words. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard my mother so flabbergasted.

“Something the matter, your majesty?” Michael asks. My mother quickly shakes her head.

“No. Just thinking of something,” she mumbles. The table is quiet, and for a moment, it seems as though Michael will heed his family’s requests. My father clears his throat, takes a long sip of water, and shakily puts the glass back down.

“Edward, I have information regarding Miss Darcie,” he says, his eyes brightening. Just gained some lucidity, did you, mate?

“Oh, joy. I’m sure I’ll love this,” I grumble.

“Originally, we planned to have her visit one more time before the event, but Mr. Galvit pointed out many flaws with that plan in his letter. Furthermore, you must keep your options open at the ball while ensuring Miss Darcie knows she is your true choice. You will spend the week before the ball working with Mrs. Cobb on your etiquette to the women of the event…” he keeps on talking, but I block him out. Arthur’s letter? What letter? I look at him to see that his face is already heating up. Annie is tugging on his shoulder and attempting to whisper something to him, but he’s too busy staring at the tablecloth. Then, a moment flashes before my eyes: Arthur sitting at a picnic table furiously scribbling on his lonesome. Is that what he was writing that day?

“What letter?” Johnny mirrors my thoughts once our father trails off. Out of all the people to ask, of course it's him.

“...Mr. Galvit wrote a strongly worded letter imploring Miss Darcie to not be invited to the palace without his express approval, and for her to not be asked to visit until after the ball takes place. His reasoning was that he didn’t want other suitors to notice her continued presence and become suspicious,” my mother says, but she’s saying it more to herself than anyone in the room. She has the cadence of a detective putting together mounds of evidence. Her eyes find mine, but I quickly look away to avoid her gaze. I can’t believe he wrote that letter. It was stupid. Beyond stupid. It makes him look incredibly obvious. Sure, he gave that flimsy excuse, but I can see right through it. I’m sure if Saito read that letter, he saw right through it as well, and it appears as though my mother is connecting the dots. Christ, that daft bloke! He begged my parents to not let my future wife see me? He might be the biggest numpty on the planet. I’d do an alarming number of things to wrap him up in my arms right now.

“Your lack of professionalism is appalling!” Michael explains.

“Excuse me? What lack? I’m just doing what I think is best for Ea-Edward!” Arthur fights.

“You won’t even call him his proper title! Don’t tell me you’re –”

“Boys! Outside, now! Your majesties, your Highnesses, I’m so sorry!” Lilliana says, jumping to her feet. She glares at her husband and son, who both grumble something under their breaths with alarming synchronicity as they stand up. As the three of them race to the doors, my father breaks out into a loud coughing fit. I turn as he picks up his napkin and spits into it haphazardly while the coughing persists.

“James!” my mother exclaims, hopping to her feet. Johnny follows in suit, the two of them uselessly rushing to his aid. My father waves his hands and grunts to shoo them away, but neither obeys. I look across the table and make direct eye contact with Annie. Instantly, I rise to my feet and say,

“Come with me, darling.”

Annie and I walk slowly in near silence all the way to the royal garden. Once outside, we take a moment to breathe in the cool July air and stare at the slowly setting sun. Not the best dinner I’ve ever attended, though definitely a unique one. I’ve never seen my mother so frazzled, and I hate to think about why. I can’t acknowledge it. If she’s really started to pick up on what’s between me and Arthur, we’re in seriously deep trouble. As if we weren’t already. I sigh as I lead the kid through the garden until we find a familiar bench, the one Saito frequents. Here I was thinking Arthur couldn’t relate to my familial woes. His mother is nice enough, but his father is a type of cruel even I haven’t encountered. My family sees me as a nuisance at best and a complete disgrace at worst. In fact, they barely even see me as family. But at least they see me. I don’t think Arthur is even human in his father’s eyes.

“Does he fight with his dad like that a lot?” I finally break the silence. Annie is sitting hunched over with her hands on her knees. The poor girl looks exhausted, her breathing heavy and slow.

“They’ve always butted heads. I love my dad, but he’s…uhm…” she pauses.

“Difficult?” I fill the blank. She nods.

“...Sometimes I think he’s like that because of me. When I got diagnosed, he shut down. It’s like the word ‘cancer’ switched something in his brain that he’s never switched back.”

I put my hand on her back and rub it gently. She perks up a little at the touch but accepts it. “It wasn’t your fault. Not at all,” I assure her.

“That’s what Arthur says. He was nineteen when it happened. I still remember the day when the doctor said it. I was only eight, so I didn’t really know what was going on, but my parents were crying in each other’s arms. But Arthur was hugging me and didn’t cry at all. That made me feel like everything was gonna be fine. You know…if Arthur was okay, then I could be, too,” she says softly. My heart aches with something fonder than I can comprehend. “I only realized it was an act when I went into remission. When we got that news, he broke down harder than I’ve ever seen him, or anyone, really. He couldn’t stop crying the entire way home from the hospital. He spent two years being like a father to me, but…” She pauses again and buries her head in her hands.

“What is it, love?” I coax her gently.

“...I screwed up his life, too. He got into Columbia. That’s uh, a great school in America. Really great. He did a year there, but I got diagnosed the summer before his sophomore year. I begged him to go back, we all did, but he refused. He transferred home to some awful community college. Eames, he almost failed out. He would spend all his time with me at appointments, during chemo, rubbing my back while I puked at three in the morning. He barely graduated. Dad wouldn’t let him get his masters after that. He didn’t think he was committed enough to do it. But he was. Just…to the wrong thing.”

“It wasn’t the wrong thing. Not at all. And you didn’t ruin his life. He’s happy, I promise. You’re everything to him,” I attempt to reassure her. She picks her head up and wipes her eyes. I pretend to ignore the tear rolling down her cheek as she sniffles.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put this on you. He’s just…Arthur’s sacrificed everything for me, and dad doesn’t even care,” she mumbles. Jesus. My stomach twists and turns with a storm I’ve never felt before in my life. The kid is right. He gave up everything. His entire future. The bloke got into a bloody ivy. He could’ve done his four years, found some handsome arsehole and a cushy job, and been painfully content. Instead, he chose her and ended up with me in the process. Someone for him to commit to without getting anything in return. At least Annie is his sister. There’s a lifetime of love there. But me? I can’t do anything for him. I can’t give him what we both want. And yet he’s here anyway. Christ, he’s the most selfless man I’ve ever known, and it’s not even close.

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve a right to be upset, but don’t blame yourself,” I say.

“...You sound just like him. Thank you,” she says, nodding. We’re quiet for a beat. She’s anxiously dragging her fingers through her hair over and over again, occasionally pulling out strands unwittingly.

“He wouldn’t change it for the world. He really cares about you. You’re all he talks about,” I break the silence.

“That’s something you and I have in common,” she says, chuckling a little. My heart skips a beat.

“Excuse me?” I blurt out. She finally smiles.

“I know way more about you than whatever his actual job is,” she says.

“All bad things, I hope,” I tease, winking at her. She finally makes direct eye contact.

“No, no! He, uh, he says you’re hilarious. And strong-willed. He likes your hair, and your eyes, I think. He – I, uh, shouldn’t be saying this,” she realizes midway through her sentence. I can feel my face heating up.

“...That bastard. You’ve got a remarkable brother, you know that?” I say softly. She nods.

“I know. He’d like to hear you say that,” she replies.

“He has to know. He knows I’m…that I care for him,” I say carefully. There’s only so much I can admit to a fifteen-year-old kid.

“I don’t think Arthur can ever really tell when someone likes him. He’s smart, but he’s really stupid when it comes to stuff like that,” she says.

I chuckle and say, “He must be daft if he can’t tell by this point.”

“...He told me what happened a couple weeks ago. He panic-called me,” she mutters, looking away from me and at her shoes. I freeze. How much exactly did he tell her?

“He panics and calls a fifteen-year-old?” I tease, mostly to break the tension. She chuckles.

“It was dinner time, too! I almost choked on my green beans. But he told me…he really wished he had done it,” she says so quietly it’s almost impossible to hear. Done “it.” Does she know what “it” is?

“...I wish he had done it, too.”

“Then you should. He’s a big baby. He won’t do it himself,” she continues in her quiet volume.

“Can I speak plainly?” I finally can’t help but ask. She looks back at me.

“...Yes,” she says hesitantly.

“Are you asking me to kiss your brother?”

She laughs hard, so hard she nearly keels over. That laughter breaks me out into my own giggling fit. We continue on for at least a minute, not even entirely sure what we’re laughing at.

“I think that would really help him out. It would at least get him to stop talking about you,” she says once she’s caught her breath.

“You think so?” I ask. She grins.

“No. But he’d still really like it.”

“Christ, so would I.”

“...This is a really hard situation for you guys, I bet,” she whispers.

“You have no idea,” I answer. She buries her head in her hands.

“I can’t believe I’m trying to get my brother laid. This is a terrible conversation,” she mutters. I snicker.

“You’re too young for this! Tell him to stop dragging you into his dreadful romantic life,” I say, ruffling her hair.

“I have! He won’t shut up about you anyway!” she exclaims.

“I will give the bloke a stern talking to so long as he’s still standing after your dad’s berating,” I assure her, but it’s a falsehood. I have not the faintest idea of what to do with everything I’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours, but I know that I certainly won’t bring it up to Arthur. How could I?

“...Thanks for being so nice to him. He tells me how sweet you are. And how good you are to people. I was wondering if he was exaggerating, but now that I’ve met you, I can see why he likes you so much.”

“I bloody like him, too.”

“If only that was all that mattered,” she says. Intelligence must run in the family.

After a few more minutes of silence, we decide we can’t hide from the music any longer. With any luck, we’ll have missed the brunt of it. We take our sweet time walking back through the garden, pausing to look at the flora every so often. It feels good to show this place to someone else, someone who sees value in it. Annie’s got the same mannerisms as her brother, ones he stole from his father. The girl has made them her own, but I can still see the remnants of my royal guard in how she gracefully dances her fingertips across the flower petals and steps softly as though walking on carpet. I wonder if Johnny and I share any of these sorts of similarities. Fat chance. That boy has disconnected himself from anything that could resemble his older brother. It’s for the best. I know that, but that knowledge can’t explain the pit that’s been sitting in my stomach ever since Annie arrived.

Back inside the palace, we head back toward the royal dining room. Right as we turn the corner into the proper hallway, we both freeze. At the end of the hallway, stomping towards us, is Arthur being followed by his father. He spins around quickly to face the older man, not catching us in his view as he turns his back to us.

“Fine! You’re right! Are you happy now?” Arthur shouts at Michael. Annie and I take a few cautious steps closer to the still-arguing pair. So much for missing the brunt.

“If I’m right, then say it,” Michael orders like he’s telling the bloke to drop and give him twenty.

“Eames – shit, Edward, is a man-child who I ‘get along’ with only because it’s easier to entertain someone with the mindset of a toddler than stand up to him. Can I keep my job now?” Arthur snaps, talking like he’s reading from a script. Annie gasps and covers her mouth to hide the sound.

“And what is he to you?” Michael follows up.

“Nothing. He’s work,” Arthur twists the knife. He’s mumbling the way a student does when they’ve been scolded. He doesn’t mean it. I know he doesn’t. He can’t. And yet his words have kicked me so hard in the gut that it feels like I can’t breathe. I bring a hand to my stomach in an attempt to quell the storm, but it keeps on raging. The word repeats in my head like a broken record spinning and spinning: nothing. It’s not true, but it could be. It bloody could be. And it’s supposed to be. I take a few more steps forward so that I’m only a meter away from Arthur.

“He’s not nothing. He’s resume building. You’ll never be declined a job when you come back home,” Michael graciously corrects the bloke. Arthur sighs and drags his fingers through his hair.

“What a privilege,” he says with an alarming amount of scorn. He might as well spit on his father’s shoes. Michael looks behind his son and finally makes eye contact with me. If it causes a reaction, he doesn't show it. Instead, he looks beside me and says,

“This is a stepping stone, Arthur. Please, don’t get distracted. Remember who this is for.” I look at Annie as she swallows hard and stares at the ground, avoiding her father’s gaze. I look back at the fight as Arthur turns around. All at once, his eyes widen as they meet mine, his jaw nearly hits the ground, and his hands automatically wring themselves together. He bites his lip, looking like he wants to say something, but ultimately holds it back. There’s no life to his expression. It’s been beaten out of him. That should give me some sense of empathy, or at least the confidence of understanding. I’ve been beaten down the same exact way by my father and my mother. But Arthur was supposed to be better. He’s supposed to be some white knight, always willing to fall on a sword for me. It’s the privilege I’ve come to expect, but when it comes to his own blood, he no longer has the courage to stand beside me. My back aches with the imagined wound of a switchblade. I expected too much. Had too much faith. In a way, I’m no better than his father.

“Annie, let’s go to bed. You should sleep in your own room tonight,” Michael breaks the silence. Annie looks up at me, then at her brother. Arthur looks about ready to collapse.

“...Sure. I’ll see you, Eames,” she answers, saying her goodbye softly. Hesitantly, she drags her feet to her father’s side as he turns. The two of them walk down the hallway toward the guest rooms as Arthur and I stand and stare. There’s never been so much distance between me and him. He rushes over to me as I remain still and puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off.

“Eames, you know I didn’t mean any of that,” he says quickly, stumbling over his words. He looks so distressed he could cry, and yet I can’t manage a single emotion other than some expansive emptiness I can’t name.

“I know,” I say, because I do. I do know. How much it matters is another story.

“I just have to say anything to appease him. You get it, don’t you?” He’s talking with the desperation of a man being handcuffed.

“Painfully.”

It hits me then, all at once. I’ve earned this. I’ve spent nearly two months biting my tongue and looking for some third option. Not just with my future in this family, but with him as well. I keep holding onto this continued defiance of black and white, a refusal to accept that one way or another, I’ll have to make a choice. I can’t live like this. I can’t have half of him, can’t have the joys of knowing him and the pains of not really knowing him. I’ll have to pick. He’s always known that, and yet now, he won’t make his choice. He’s pulling my move: buying time. Saying anything. Trying to get out of it. I’ve taught him well. I thought he was the braver of the two of us. I suppose few men can stand in the darkness of their father’s shadow.

“...Was Annie okay?” Arthur asks in his continued roleplay of my ideology: avoid, ignore, outlast.

“Yeah. She’s a good kid,” I mutter, staring at the ground. I can’t bear to look at him right now.

“Oh, come on. Don’t do this,” Arthur begs.

“Do what?”

“Pout.”

I look up fast and glare at him. Pout? How dare he? How bloody dare he? I ball my hands into fists and clench my teeth. “You didn’t know I was standing here. You would’ve just said that rubbish and let it be. You’re okay with pretending I’m worthless to you.”

“Don’t you dare say anything about pretending,” he snaps.

“You know my circumstances. Don’t turn this against me.”

“Do you think you’re the only one with obligations? How can you expect me to throw my life away to defend you?!”

“I didn’t know that was what it required.”

He pauses and blinks hard, shaking with something akin to regret. “Hey. I didn’t –”

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight,” I grumble my interruption, turning around. Arthur grabs my arm and prevents me from making the complete rotation. I look back at him as he flushes and takes his hand back.

“Eames, I –”

“No! I’m not doing this bloody back and forth with you anymore! Make up your mind!” I interrupt. He scoffs.

“You’re a hypocrite.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

I cross my arms and bite my lip so hard I can feel the skin tearing under my teeth. He stomps away defiantly as if he’s owed something, as if I’m the one in the wrong. Self-preservation has always been my motto, my savior, my religion. Who knew it could hurt so bad to be on the receiving end?

Chapter Text

The sun has set on the eve of the Dahlia Ball, and I’m almost positive nothing could be worse. Things haven’t been the same since the fight between Arthur and his father. It’s been nearly two weeks, and we’ve barely spoken outside of our beloved “obligations.” Sure, he completes all of his duties. He tells me my schedule, protects me out in public, and ensures that I can’t sneak out. As if I have anyone to see at this point. I still have yet to speak to Ariadne since I spiraled her life in the process of spiraling my own. I had forgotten how empty my existence was without her. I used to have a safe place, a safe person. Someone to go to and talk to until I felt less like caving my skull in, someone whose couch was always open to crash on, someone who could never truly understand my predicament but did a damn good job trying. But at least for the first half of the month, I had Arthur in her absence. A friend, a confidant. Now, it appears he’s chosen a side. His father did in an evening what my family and ecosystem couldn’t do in two months: he scared him. He made him realize what I’ve always known: I’m a liability in his life. Can I really blame him for that? I only wish he would’ve realized it sooner.

Tomorrow, it appears that everything will fall right into place as everyone has been hoping. I’ll dance around with a dozen girls who look exactly the same through my indiscriminate gaze, peck their cheeks and give them polite compliments, and tell Faye I intend to choose her as my bride in the future. It’s a half commitment without a ring, or a date, or even a promise to follow through, but half is still enough to kill my appetite, disrupt my sleep, and leave me with a weariness I haven’t felt since before I met Ari. There are a number of ways this could be made easier. If I had Ariadne, she could talk me through things, but she’s practically a person of the past. If I had Yusuf, he could at least distract me, but he’s been on a tour across the country showing off horses to blokes poorer and happier than I. If I had alcohol, I could numb my mind and forget all of this incoming hell, but I’m forcibly sober and have been for the month. But really, losing all of that wouldn’t even bloody matter if I had Arthur. If I had not even his comfort but just his company, a smile across the room. Some sign that even when I’ve got nothing, I’ve got him, some guarantee I unconsciously developed and had shattered before my eyes. But I’m lost that too, and so I’m left with myself and my ghosts.

I’ve found myself aimlessly wandering the halls, not hungry enough to make dinner for the effort it’ll cost. I wonder what he’s doing. Hiding in the gym? Stuck in a meeting? Eating with the other employees? He hasn’t seemed well lately. Our rift has been hurting him to some degree, though it’s impossible to tell how much when he still won’t bloody talk to me. I should swallow my pride and reopen the door between us. But how could I? He seems perfectly content with turning this back into the job it never really was. If he wants nothing to do with me anymore, that’s fine. It isn’t, but what am I supposed to do about it? He made his choice. I suppose I did tell him to make up his mind. I just hoped he would have chosen the other option. I wish he would’ve chosen me. How naive. He’s got a life, a career, and a family to look after. How foolish am I to believe he would’ve thrown it all away for some prince he just met?

I pause in front of the door into the family kitchen. It’s very rarely ever used, but its intent is for my mother and father to be able to feel like actual human beings and make meals for us every so often. Evidently, my parents do not care about feeling alive, and so this room goes untouched for months at a time. Still, I know it’s kept fully stocked. Maybe there’s something pre-made in there that I can force into my stomach. Part of me wants to just go to sleep early, but if I do, then I bring myself right to tomorrow. Right to doomsday. Avoiding my inevitable fate, I gently push the door open. My eyes widen as I take in the stuffy room. Sitting at the small, round wooden table in the middle of the room is Johnny, cradling a tall glass of wine like it’s his child. For the first time in his life, he looks completely out of place. He’s among white tiles, pale yellow wallpaper, and pristine, expensive kitchen equipment, and yet he’s sitting in a tattered t-shirt and short trousers with a frown plastered across his face.

“...Johnny?” I say hesitantly. He looks up and gasps, hopping to his feet.

“Edward! I wasn’t –”

“Oh, can it. You know I don’t give a damn,” I interrupt. He sighs and sits back down, resuming his moping. He rests his chin and cheek on his left hand, grasping the wine glass with his right. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so dejected before. It’s like his dog died twenty minutes ago. “...Do you have a second glass?”

He perks up and pauses, but then motions toward the cupboards. I walk in slowly, close the door behind me, and grab a glass from the cabinet he pointed out. I take the seat across from him and pour myself a generous glass of red wine. Who cares if it shows up in my toxicology report? I haven’t gotten into any trouble in a month. Arthur’s reports must be glowing. I can afford a screw-up.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dry?” Johnny asks.

“Aren’t you seventeen?” I argue. He swallows hard.

“...Don’t tell mum,” he mumbles. He looks a little hazy and sounds like he’s on another planet.

“Do I seem like a snitch to you?”

“I don’t know what you are.”

We sit quietly for a moment, giving me enough time to finish my glass and pour another one. Despite the recent sobriety, I know it would take this entire bottle and then some to get me drunk. But the taste of the alcohol is still a welcome comfort. It can’t fill the ever-growing void, but it’s a start.

“What are you moping around for?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he snaps.

“There’s got to be some reason perfect Johnny-boy is underage drinking by himself in the kitchen,” I press. He grimaces and seemingly debates shooing me away, but instead sighs and decides I’m not worth the effort.

“...I do this sometimes. No one comes in here. It’s the only place I can be alone,” he mumbles.

“What about your flat?” I ask, hiding my startled reaction to his honesty by taking a sip of wine.

“It doesn’t feel alone,” he answers. I wish I felt the same. I don’t know if I’ve ever not felt lonely in this place.

“And what does Prince Johnny need the comforts of alcohol for?”

“...It just quiets everything down.”

“What do you need to quiet? Everything is going how you’d hoped. I’ll marry the girl, take the throne,” I say. He scoffs.

“You know, you’re not the root of all of my problems, even though you’d love to think you’re that important.”

I pause, at first thinking to snap, but I don’t find the words to fuel the resistance. I’ve never really stopped to consider how Johnny experiences all of this. I just assumed it came easily. He makes it look like it does. But when I think about it…Johnny doesn’t have any more friends than I do. There was a girl I think he liked a couple years ago, but from what I learned from overheard conversations, that got shut down quickly. Maybe she was too poor or too human for this family. Most of the world is. He’s got pressure on him, too. He’s the spare. The one who’ll have to come to the country’s salvation when I screw it all up like I indubitably will, and yet he gets none of the glory. All the stories about him are fluff pieces, light praise. But the world doesn’t know him. No more than it knows me. What reason does he have to not drink?

“Forgive my ego,” I decide to say.

“...Mr. Galvit hasn’t been around you much,” he mutters. I close my eyes hard and take a deep breath.

“Nope,” I manage.

“He’s depressed. Everyone says so,” Johnny says. I open my eyes and stare him down, looking for his usual expression of sickening malice or gleeful cruelty. I find neither.

“Who’s everyone?”

“Mr. Saito. Mum and dad. The Cobbs. You should come to a meeting for once,” he answers.

“...More’s the pity,” I mutter, taking a long sip of my wine. He’s depressed. He…misses me. And yet he hasn’t done a thing about it.

“So you hate him now?”

“What? Where’d you get that idea from?”

“I don’t know. He walks around like you hate him,” he says.

“You let me deal with my problems, and I’ll let you handle yours. Sound fair?” I snap. He sighs.

“Fine by me. But…”

“What?”

“Sorry, I guess. Things are going to be so bloody terrible for you,” he mutters, looking down into his glass as he swirls it around. Did I just hear him correctly? Did Johnny, my bastard of a brother, just…apologize to me?

“I’m sorry, too. I’ve made your life difficult.”

“You make everyone’s life difficult.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan.

“You should abdicate.” It’s an odd request from a boy who seems so desperate for me to take the throne.

“No shite.”

“But you won’t. Why? What are you so afraid of? You can’t lose something you don’t have,” he argues. I can feel anger boiling up in my blood, my mind going back to that pivotal conversation with him and our father.

“Remember when I said we’ll handle our own problems?”

“Right.”

As I’m about to continue, I hear the door creak open. I whip my head around as Johnny’s eyes widen. Our mother’s eyes stare right back at him as she storms into the room, her face painted with every wrinkle a grimace can create. Following behind her is a man who never fails to take my breath away. On the surface, Arthur looks like himself. Slicked-back hair, suit and tie, stolid expression. But I can see deeper. I can see the bags under those dark eyes hiding behind his glasses, the exhaustion floating through those windows to his soul. He’s slouching more than normal, his shirt is wrinkled beneath his tie, and it looks like not even his shoes fit quite right. He’s been through the wringer just as much as I have. It makes a sickening sense of sympathy rip through my body, giving me the intense urge to wrap him up in my arms and hold him until he finally releases some of that tension buried just below his skin. But instead of listening to my gut, I find solace in my brain. What are they doing here? How did they find us?

“John! I can’t believe this!” my mother shouts. Oh boy. This could get bad fast. My brother rises to his feet quickly, his hands shaking. This is probably the first time he’s been caught in years. He’s not nearly as used to the sensation as I am.

“W-what are you doing here?!” Johnny stutters out his shout.

“Mr. Galvit and I were having a discussion when I noticed the light in here was on,” my mother says through clenched teeth, like it’s taking her considerable effort to keep calm and explain herself rather than explode. Just that restraint is enough to make my stomach swirl with jealousy. I’ve never been given this much grace, and she’s barely giving him any at all. Meanwhile, Arthur continues staring right at me like he’s sorry he entered the room in the first place.

“It was Edward’s idea!” Johnny quickly blames me. I shoot to my feet and snarl at him.

“Oh, was it now?! That’s fucking rich!” I shout in his face. The nerve of this kid! Whenever he starts becoming human again, he reminds me that he’s far more our blood than I’ll ever be.

“I don’t care who started it! Edward, I expect this from you! At least it’s legal! But Johnny? You’re a child! You know better!” my mother screeches, her face red and hot with rage. I could probably cook a steak on her forehead.

“He made me!” the little bastard lies.

“You’re a bloody lying twat and you know it!” I defend myself.

“Silence! Both of you! I can’t believe this!” my mother continues her onslaught.

“Is it really so bad? It’s just wine. Don’t you even care –”

“I don’t want your excuses. Not anymore! Johnny, you’re on house arrest for the week,” my mother interrupts me. The kid gasps, but quickly closes his mouth. Like magic, he contorts his anxiety and fear-ridden face into one of quiet acceptance.

“...Yes, mother. I’m sorry for my actions. It won’t happen again,” he mumbles. Great. Play the fucking goody-two-shoes card like always. Pretend like you’re above indignation. He’s a coward and a liar. Add it all to the never-ending list.

“Edward, I’ll let Mr. Galvit deal with you. John…you’ve disappointed me immeasurably,” my mother completes her outrage. Are you satisfied? You’ve caught your underage son drinking silently, looking like he’s returned from a visit to the morgue. It’s not like she caught him partying with hookers or doing a keg-stand. She found her seventeen-year-old child sulking with a bottle of expensive red wine and eyes so somber they look like they belong on my face. Her lack of care for the reasoning behind my actions apparently extends to him as well. It’s almost comforting to know he matters just as little to her as I do. Almost.

“It won’t happen again. Mum, please –”

“Quiet! I don’t want to hear it! You are supposed to be the model child! I have faith in you. Do not make me take that faith away,” my mother shuts down his plea, stomping over to the table to snatch the bottle of wine away from it. She huffs, glares at both of us one last time, and rushes out of the room. That leaves the three of us standing in the aftermath.

“Guys, what –”

“This is your fucking fault!” Johnny interrupts Arthur, shouting in my face. I raise my eyebrows and scoff as I put my hands on my hips.

“Excuse me? How in the bloody hell is me stumbling across you drinking alone my fault?!” I shout back.

“You, it, I – you made him come here! You got me caught! Nothing is safe from your fucking tornado!” he screeches, his face heating up. Even he knows that his reasoning is flimsy at best and nonsensical at worst.

“Right. I just summoned our mother and Arthur because I’m a glutton for punishment,” I say sarcastically.

“You are! How else can you explain the way you act?! You cast everyone who cares about you aside, betray your family, and fucking string along some girl you’ll never love!”

“I hate to break it to you, kid, but you can’t have it both ways! You can’t beg me to take the throne and simultaneously ostracize me for the measures I have to take to do it!” I shout.

“You’re a selfish fucking monster,” he snaps, still snarling like a tiger watching his prey through the bushes, waiting for the right moment to pounce. “Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you take the alcohol away?”

“I was trying to be a good brother and bloody talk to you!”

“Oh, really? ‘A good brother?’ Is that some kind of joke?”

“John, take it easy. You can’t blame him for this,” Arthur pipes up. I turn to him and resist the urge to gasp. He’s…defending me. Like always. Maybe the Arthur I knew is still the Arthur I know.

“Oh, right, go ahead and take his side! What makes you think this isn’t his fault? He’s the alcoholic!” Johnny shouts.

“I’ve seen the light on in here every so often since I got here. You think I didn’t know something was going on?” Arthur continues. Johnny swallows hard and turns his attention back to me.

“You’ve never actually cared about me, never been an actual brother. You use me. You probably just wanted some alcohol and saw me as a means to an end,” he grumbles.

“I don’t have to entertain this conversation,” I mutter, turning away.

“Yes, you do! Maybe you’re okay with being the fuck up, but I’m not! I won’t let you ruin my reputation more than you already h-have!” he says, slurring a little.

“You’re drunk. Lay off,” I warn him.

“No. No, you fucking bellend. You ruined my life and you ruined Mr. Galvit’s, too!” he shouts, fighting back a burp. I glance at the garbage can in the corner of the room and see what I feared: an empty wine bottle sitting at the top. He’s had far more than I anticipated.

“He didn’t ruin anything! Leave him alone!” Arthur shouts, suddenly animated. I turn back to him and bite my lip at his intense expression. All at once, life has flooded back into him. He’s balled his hands up into tight fists, which somehow remain by his sides and not in Johnny’s face.

“Really? He didn’t? So you’ve been moping around all month for some other reason?” Johnny dares. Arthur scowls at him and takes a step forward.

“I’m fucking sick of all you people blaming Eames for all of your goddamn problems! You have reasons to drink, fine, but don’t act like he caused them! He’s done nothing but bend over backwards for you, and none of you appreciate it!” he shouts so hard it sounds like his vocal cords are about to break. I can’t comprehend why he’s doing this. We’ve been in a cold war for two weeks, biting our tongues and spending most of our days without one another. And yet here he is, right back to our usual programming: protecting my arse while burning his in the process. Maybe I’ve been too harsh on him. He stumbled once solely to keep his father from kicking him out of this country, and I’ve punished him by giving him the cold shoulder for half a month. What if he, like Johnny, really does think I despise him now? I shiver hard at the thought, nausea briefly gracing my stomach.

“It is his fault! He makes this palace a living hell! I can never be alone, never find quiet! Now the one place I had is gone!”

“You can’t –”

“In fact,” Johnny fully burps and wipes his mouth haphazardly, “You wanna know why they let you stay in Dubai for so long? You wanna know?”

“You’re gonna throw up, kid. Fucking drop it,” I say. He scowls.

“They wanted you to get arrested. Mum said so. ‘Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson,’ she said. If it wasn’t for Mr. Saito, you’d probably still be there,” he says, giggling childishly in a betrayal of his dark, emotionless tone. “You’re perpetually someone else’s problem. Mr. Saito’s, Dubai’s, now Mr. Galvit’s – no one wants you.”

I freeze as I try to process the words that have come out of my darling brother’s mouth. It never made sense to me how I could’ve stayed in Dubai for so long without them coming for me, but if Johnny isn’t lying…it was on purpose. They were hoping I’d get into some real trouble and end up in some cell somewhere. Of course. It makes sense. What better way to teach me humility than to get me punished by someone I can’t scream at? I’m not surprised they abandoned me. I’m not even surprised that Saito was the only one who gave enough of a damn to look after me. What I can’t understand is why they told Johnny. Johnny, who was eleven at the time, had to internalize the reality that if he ever screwed up, if he ever made a mistake, he would be left to the wolves. They’ve fucked this kid up almost as badly as they’ve fucked me up. As much as Arthur defends me, part of this is my fault. I put this pressure on this family, made them afraid to raise a child with anything but an iron fist.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re a petulant child with no regard for any life other than your own. You can’t even see how you’re both victims,” Arthur scolds, his voice so chilling it sends shivers down my spine. The now frighteningly intense man takes a few steps towards us, though he’s really only approaching my brother. “Eames deserves better than you fucking people. He deserves better than me. You all abandon him constantly when he needs you! And…so have I. Fuck, I’m no better than you bastards.”

All Johnny can do is stare. He doesn’t have a comeback for that. Who would? If it wasn’t me he was defending, I’d be scared out of my mind. It would be less frightening if he was screaming. But he isn’t, not anymore. Whether that’s due to a lack of energy or a deeper emotion, I’m not sure, but it has darkened his eyes either way. Still…if I can displace myself from the fear and look at the man behind it…a smile dances across my face without my permission. He’s still my Arthur. Maybe things are more complicated now, and maybe he’s just as afraid of his father as I am of mine, but thank Christ, he’s still himself.

“...You guys are beyond help,” Johnny grumbles, stumbling away from us and quickly toward the door. He has to brace himself against the wall to keep himself upright before practically pulling himself out of the room. That leaves me and Arthur staring at each other in a situation we’ve found ourselves in a dozen times. The anger quickly leaves his eyes, his fists unclenching as he struggles to meet my gaze. He looks exhausted. I suppose I do as well. I don’t think I’ve slept more than five or six hours a night since our last real conversation, and by the looks of it, the same is true for him. His stubble has even grown in a little, something I don’t know if he’s ever let happen. It looks good on him. Anything does. But I hate to think of the cause behind it. What have we been doing, torturing ourselves like this for two weeks? It’s clear to me now that regardless of what happens next, we’ll go insane if we try to cut each other off cold turkey.

“Arthur –”

“Eames –” he says at the same time. We both stop and laugh a little, beside ourselves.

“You first,” he says, looking down at his shoes.

“...You didn’t have to defend me like that. Thank you,” I mumble. He rapidly shakes his head.

“Yes, I did. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for how I talked about you to my dad. I should’ve never said any of that, I just, I just didn’t know how to get him to let me stay, so I just said anything and I –”

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy! Relax. It’s okay. I just wish you had said this two weeks ago,” I mutter, walking around the table so I can put my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t shy away from it. I shouldn’t let him off the hook this quickly. It’s pathetic. But fuck. Look at him. It’s Arthur.

“I know. I know I should’ve. But I just…I don’t know. I was such a dick.”

“When aren’t you?” I tease, smiling at him. He exhales and tries to smile, but can’t quite cut it.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks so earnestly I can feel my heart snapping in my chest.

“Darling, you’re acting like you’re apologizing for beating the snot out of me. You protected yourself. Stop beating yourself up.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he mutters.

“You are the most stubborn man alive,” I say and pull him into a hug. He tightens his arms around me quickly and sighs into my shoulder, not even bothering to pretend like he’d like to fight out of my grasp. He lowers his head and nuzzles his nose against my neck, his hot breath tickling my skin. I finally let out a sigh I’ve been holding in for two weeks. He hasn’t given up on me after all. So, what in the bloody hell am I supposed to do tomorrow? Without him, I was fully prepared to accept my fate. But with him in my arms, I feel…alive again. Like I’ve got a fighting chance. I can’t stop the ball from happening. That’s inevitable. But maybe…maybe I don’t have to commit to anything at all. It would raise hell. If I gave Faye no guarantee, she would go back to her parents, who would complain to mine, and I’d be screwed. They’d probably pledge my hand in my stead. Do I really have a choice here? Maybe it’s still easier if I bite the bullet and try to solve the problem after I’ve already trapped her. Christ, what a lot of options I’ve got.

“Don’t ever avoid me for that long again,” I scold him, putting my hand on the back of his head and digging my fingers into his hair to show that I’m really not all that cross with him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“Shut up. I just missed you,” I blurt out before I can take it back. My skin heats up as his breath hitches in his throat.

“I…you, too,” he mutters, not brave enough to say the full sentence.

“You know how boring it is here alone?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Big day tomorrow,” I say softly after a beat of silence.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I go back and forth between wanting to pass out and wanting to vomit,” I say with a chuckle. He sighs and hugs me even tighter, somehow. He’s acting like this embrace can make up for two weeks of near cut contact, and Christ, maybe it can. I’m a weak man. He’s warm, he smells good, and I can feel the muscles in his back popping out through his shirt.

“I can’t believe I left you when you needed someone most. I’m such a –”

“Arthur, would you stop it already? I know you’re the biggest numpty in the world, you owe me a million quid, and you’re petrified of your father like every other man on the planet. I’m fond of you regardless of it all.”

“Eames, this is…we can’t –”

“I’m being sold to the highest bidder tomorrow. Would you give me the grace of ignoring the giant, looming elephant in the room?” I beg. He finally releases the hug, practically having to peel my arms off his body. Still, he nods. “I haven’t picked my tux for tomorrow yet. Wanna help me out?”

“Doesn’t Mal decide these things for you?” he asks.

“She gave me two options. I’ve been avoiding picking for some reason,” I say as if it’s really been just “some reason.”

“...Happy to help,” he says softly, finally smiling for the first time in two weeks.

~~~

Arthur and I stare blankly at the two tuxes wrapped up in plastic lying on my bed. He looks at me, then down at the bed, then at me again.

“...I wear suits every day and I still can’t tell these apart,” he finally says. I snicker.

“Firstly, they’re tuxedos, love. Secondly, that one,” I point to the tux on the left, “is apparently midnight blue. The other is black.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says.

“They look less similar when they’re on,” I lie.

“By all means, then,” he says, motioning to the straitjackets eagerly awaiting me. I sigh as he politely leaves the bedroom and closes the door behind him. I painstakingly put on the black tuxedo, fumbling with the bowtie in the mirror. After a minute, I give up on it and let it hang over my neck like a dog wearing a loose collar. Staring at myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath and smooth out the jacket. I’m not built for clothes like these. I should be, considering I was raised in them, but I never could fit the mold. These clunky bits and pieces make me feel less like a formal prince prepared to waltz around and more like a criminal about to be walked to meet my cellmate. I wonder if Saito will scold me if I carry a shiv in my coat pocket.

It takes a minute to convince myself to walk to the door and gingerly push it open. Arthur looks up as I step into the living room, swallowing hard as I reflexively tug on the untied bowtie and nearly throw it to the ground. His eyes widen, and his lips part like he’s about to say something, but he presses them back together just as quick. He shamelessly looks me up and down several times without any regard for how he’ll excuse the action. I suppose we’re beyond that now. Still, I freeze up under his gaze, looking down at my socks as I bite my lip. There’s always the chance he doesn’t like what he sees. Rumor has it he’s fond of my eyes, but that might not be enough to make up for the rest of me.

“Any chance you know how to tie this thing?” I break the silence. He perks up as if I’ve pulled him out of a dream. He stands quickly and walks toward me. Without a word, he reaches out and takes the two ends of the tie into his hands. I stare downwards as he maneuvers the fabric into a neat bowtie. Once he’s done, he tugs on the ends with a small hum of satisfaction and takes a step back. It’s not far enough. “So? Am I halfway decent?” I find the courage to ask.

“More than halfway,” he answers, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Three quarters, then?” I tease, expecting him to laugh. Instead, he huffs and takes another step back.

“You’re – what did you say when we met? Devastatingly handsome?” he says, doing his titular English accent. He’s smiling as he says it, but it looks almost…forced. Like he’s holding something back behind his teeth. Okay, darling. I’ll play along. Christ, I’m just happy he’s talking to me again. He can be as awkward or facetious as he wants, especially if he’s remembering things from the day we first crashed into each other’s atmospheres.

“You finally admit it! Your sister was right,” I goad him. He raises his eyebrows.

“What did she tell you?” he asks quickly, like a cop looking for clues.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” I say, winking. He groans.

“You really are a prick,” he grumbles.

“Hey, you’re the one who avoided me for two weeks,” I argue. It’s probably too soon for that, but if he thinks so, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he takes a step closer to me and playfully shoves my shoulder.

“You avoided me, too, you know,” he reminds me.

“Only because you looked about ready to kill me,” I say, shoving him backward a little. He chuckles and steps back into my personal space bubble, putting his hands on my shoulders.

“I would never hurt you, Mr. Eames. I’m here to protect you,” he says, smiling like it’s a joke but speaking like it isn’t. As if he could get any more dizzying. Against my better judgment, I grab his tie and pull him even closer, so much so that I can once again feel his breath on my lips.

“You’re bloody rubbish at it,” I tease, briefly looking him up and down. You’d think two weeks of bad blood would lessen this feeling in my gut, but it’s done the opposite. I’ve been looking at him with strictly guilt and melancholy for so long that I thought I’d forget how to look at him in any other way. But now that the tension’s squashed, the other tension that used to be there in its place has come back in full strength. I’d like to feel his stubble against my cheeks and grunt in pleasure at the feeling of him leaving his mark on my skin. I could do it so easily right now. Another tug on this tie still between my fingers, and his mouth would be on mine. My lips would finally trace his, my tongue would finally taste his spit, my hands would finally explore all the places on his museum of a body. How I long to know his skin as though it were my own. Will I really never get the privilege?

“You look good,” he whispers against my lips. Oh, fuck this. I pull on his tie, but right as I do, he steps back heavily. I nearly fall forward as he stumbles back and forth, almost losing his balance. He has to put his arms out to steady himself and prevent an impromptu meeting with my carpet.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I blurt out, breathing in hard.

“No, Jesus, I’m sorry,” he says quickly back, taking an equally hard breath. I can’t help but stare at him and laugh.

“This is ridiculous,” I declare.

“You’re the one who said we can’t talk ab –”

“I know, I know. But come on. It’s ridiculous, right?” I say, still laughing. I don’t know why I can’t stop. Something about this whole situation is exceedingly humorous to some deep part of my brain. Out of shared insanity or perhaps simple anxiety, he starts laughing along with me.

“Extremely,” he finally answers.

“After the ball, we’ve got to at least address it,” I mutter.

“...You should try on the other tux,” he says, avoiding a real response.

Predictably, tuxedo number two looks virtually identical to the first one. But said first one feels almost defiled already due to our banter, and for that reason, we choose the midnight blue. It’s almost as ridiculous to choose a suit based on the one you were acting less gay in as it is to completely ignore the fact that you’ve almost made out with someone three or four times, but Arthur and I have set a new standard for absurdity. I can’t even imagine how the conversation about it is going to go between us. Will we decide to forever ignore our urges? The thought makes me sick to my stomach, and yet it also feels like the best outcome of a discussion like that. Worse, he could say he’ll return home despite his frequent fights to do the opposite. Or he could try to get moved into a different position and forgo being my guard specifically. Christ, with Faye’s new status in my life after tomorrow, my parents may not see the need for Arthur’s presence at all.

After neatly hanging the chosen tuxedo up in my closet and haphazardly pushing the other one onto the floor, I plop down on the right side of my bed. Arthur sighs and picks up the clothing I’ve defiled, hanging it on my closet door handle. I lie down and sigh, finally back in my usual t-shirt and joggers, and fold my hands across my stomach.

“Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?” Arthur asks.

“Fifty-fifty shot,” I mumble my response. He doesn’t know it, but those are better chances than I’ve had in weeks. As I close my eyes, the weight of the mattress shifts beneath me enough to force my eyes right back open. I turn my head as Arthur sits down on the left edge of the bed. “Take off your jacket and stay awhile. Lie down,” I order him. He scoffs.

“Are you being serious?”

“Very much so. Come on. Indulge me. I’m a gay man who will have to court two dozen pining women all day tomorrow. Have some sympathy,” I beg. He sighs like he’s not going to obey, but reluctantly takes off his suit jacket and haphazardly throws it to the ground. He’s in a long-sleeve white button-up today, more’s the pity. Still, he quiets my mental complaint by lying down beside me on his back, far enough away to keep my heart from completely beating out of my chest but close enough to feel some warmth radiating off of his body.

“I mean, the ball isn’t really the stopping point, is it? So maybe you declare who you're with at the moment. That doesn’t mean anything. This isn’t the sixteenth century. They can’t trap you in anything,” he attempts to reassure me.

“Maybe not. But still,” I mumble. It’s a great relief to have him back by my side, but it feels too little, too late. The ball will still happen. I’ll still have to spend an evening in that stuffy venue staring over my shoulder and pointedly not eating any of the multi-course meal. They outta let me hide in the kitchen and cook up something edible that was not once submerged in saltwater.

“It’s not the beginning of the end,” Arthur continues his foray. He must be using two weeks’ worth of comfort in one evening.

“It’s the end of the beginning,” I correct. He turns on to his side to face me, but I stay staring at the ceiling and keep my hands clasped together. I can’t trust myself to not kiss him if I look at him right now.

“How so?” he asks.

I clear my throat and answer, “I can’t keep playing both sides forever. I’ll have to decide.”

“Is there really a choice?” he asks. I scrunch my nose.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again,” I mutter. Circles and circles, love.

“You never let us have this conversation in the first place! I can’t see how you could ever accept marrying a woman and ruling this country for a family that doesn’t care about you!” he exclaims. I can hear his heavy breathing.

“Please, can we just lie here quietly?” I beg. Why won’t the bloke let me sulk? The mattress shifts again, this time with the movement of Arthur sitting up.

“I should go,” he says. Right as the words leave his mouth, I shoot up and grab his hand.

“No, please. Arthur. Stay. Just stay,” I beg, finally staring into his goddamn beautiful dark eyes. His breathing remains heavy as he swallows hard.

“You know I can’t do that,” he whispers.

“I won’t do anything. I swear it. I just…I haven’t seen Ari in ages, and Yusuf doesn’t understand. You’re all I have.”

“That’s flattering. I love being your last option,” he says, attempting vitriol, but he can’t even pretend to manage it.

“You’re a bloody fool if you believe that’s true. I’m not entertaining that sentiment.” Arthur sighs, but lies back down beside me. More notably, he does not let go of my hand. I follow suit, lying down on my back and tightening my grip. He drags his thumb across my index finger gently, maybe even unconsciously. The touch is so soft, so genuine that it makes me shiver. We stay silent for a good five minutes listening to nothing but each other’s breathing. Platonic. Very platonic.

“...I just don’t want you to be unhappy. You deserve a good life,” Arthur eventually whispers, his voice shaking through the sentence. Christ, he sounds like he’s a moment away from bursting into tears. How dare I assume he no longer gave a damn about me? Everything he’s done has been out of resilient, painfully constant care. Even ignoring me was an attempt to spare me some sort of suffering. Does this man know how to do anything but sacrifice?

“And what of your life? What’s your end game with this job? Do you plan to stay by my side forever?” I ask.

“As long as you need me,” he answers without hesitation. A festival of butterflies erupts in my stomach. They’re different from the ones he normally gives me, though I can’t quite tell how so.

“Don’t you have a life you want to live? People you want to meet, blokes you want to fall in love with?” I press. He has to have some purpose to his life that isn’t about someone else. Some desires that go beyond protection or obligation. Everyone does.

He squeezes my hand even tighter. It could mean nothing. “I’m…content with you.”

“And if I abdicate? What will you do then?”

“You might still need protection. You’re still a prince even if you leave, you know,” he says, and it’s meant to be light, maybe even a little accusatory, but he can’t hide how hard he’s fighting to remain in my future. God, if I turned over, I’d kiss him so hard he’d forget his name.

“So you’ll follow me to the ends of the Earth?” I attempt a tease, but it doesn’t come out as one.

“You make it sound so dramatic,” he dodges.

“And what if I don’t want to employ you?”

“I’ll stick around only if you want me, Eames.”

“To the ends of the Earth, then,” I decide. He clears his throat hard, but says nothing. We’re quiet for so long that I’m half-certain he’s fallen asleep until he croaks out,

“...I can’t stop dreaming of you.”

My heart leaps into my throat. It’s…not just me? A brief joke of a conversation passes through my head: “You know, they say you dream of your soulmate.” Ari’s voice taunts through my skull as my blood runs cold. It’s an entirely new level of absurdity once thought to be impossible. I don’t believe in soulmates, or much of anything at all, for that matter. But he dreams of me. He dreams of me just like I dream of him. We’re so trapped in each other’s skulls, in each other’s lives, that we’re both torturing each other endlessly. Whether he physically stays with me or not, he’ll follow me to Earth’s edge, or Heaven’s gates, or Hell’s staircase. There’s no ridding myself of his presence. You can’t fully forget anyone, not really, but Arthur especially is someone I could never unlearn in a million lifetimes.

“I dream about you, too,” I whisper.

“...A lot?” he dares to ask.

“Almost every night.”

He sighs almost in relief. “Maybe I’m not crazy, then.”

“No, you are. We both are,” I correct. He chuckles wryly.

“This is a mess,” he declares.

“Obviously.”

“...You’re okay if I sleep here?” he asks as if he actually has to.

“I probably won’t be able to sleep in this bed if you don’t,” I confirm.

“...Try to dream of someone else, Mr. Eames,” he says, stroking my finger a little slower now.

“You too, Sir Arthur.”

End of Act Two

Chapter Text

Act Three

The patio faces westward, giving me and my fellow viewer an excellent view of the full moon. It sits in a starless sky all alone in some perceived solitude. In reality, that giant rock has thousands of fiery masses surrounding it, but they all hide behind the London fog that will not rest even at this hour. The air is chilly, but not inhibiting. It’s enough of a cold to prove we’re alive but not enough to threaten that reality. Most of my warmth is internal, a good view and a distant memory of an even better meal, but there is one external factor. My hand is entangled in the grasp of my companion, a man with dark eyes staring out at the deceptive sky. My own gaze is brought to him, to his figure, to the gentle smile painted on his handsome face. Arthur hasn’t said much, but I know he enjoyed dinner. I think I made one of his favorites. We’ve fallen into some sort of peaceful routine, a way of life that I never thought –

“Something’s coming,” he says. There’s no gravity in his voice. It’s like he’s accepted some fate I’ve not been made aware of. Before I can ask for some clarification, the ground beneath starts to shake. It’s slow at first, but quickly speeds up. Our chairs tremble at the movement, forcing me to my feet. Arthur lets go of my hand but keeps on staring out at the sky like nothing’s the matter. As the porch light rattles in the quake, I back up and press my body against the wall. The shaking worsens, the lights go out, the windows shatter, and suddenly, he’s gone. I’m alone with a world about to swallow me whole.

I wake suddenly, automatically taking a deep breath as though I’ve been drowning. I blink hard and stare to my left. Arthur’s already sitting up with his nose in a book, his legs pulled up toward him so he can rest said book against his thighs. My heart skips a beat as the past night comes back into my memory. Sure, he asked to sleep here, but I didn’t think he actually would. It doesn’t seem like he ever went under the covers, but it also doesn’t look like he left at any point. He’s still in his slacks and long white shirt from yesterday, though he did take off his tie at some point. His hair is sticking up in tufts, his eyes still squinty behind his glasses from morning grog. If there was ever a way to pull me out from under whatever spell he’s got on me, it would be this moment. He’s raw, entirely himself, something larger society has taught me to reject. I’m not supposed to see him without his built-up skin. And yet, my stomach flutters with a feeling all too familiar.

“You shouldn’t sleep like that,” he says. How does he know I’m awake? He’s not even looking at me.

“Like what?” I ask as I turn over and sit up.

“On your stomach. It’s bad for your spine and neck.”

“It’s comfortable,” I counter.

“It makes it harder to breathe,” he argues.

“Good morning to you, too,” I break out of our spat. He closes his book and nods more to himself than to me.

“How you feeling?” he asks. I shrug.

“Same as always,” I lie. In all honesty, I’ve rarely felt worse than how I currently feel. My stomach is aching with a lack of sustenance, partially because I skipped dinner yesterday evening. My head is threatening some kind of wine headache despite how little I drank, and, come to think of it, my back does feel a little stiff. It’s very frustrating to hang around a bloke who’s both always right and knows it. I should be stressing about the ball, and somewhere in my subconscious, I am. It’s been a constant stressor since its inception and has been keeping me up at night for weeks, but despite today being the day itself, I feel less afraid than I have in some time. Instead, my mind is filled with a different concern. I didn’t wake up from a lucid dream. For the first time in a month or so, I didn’t know I was asleep. I genuinely believed in that storyline my mind just created, a life in some pretty cabin cooking meals for my royal guard. Self-awareness is supposed to be my only weapon. What am I going to do without it?

“I’ll be right at Saito’s table if you need me,” he assures me, seemingly seeing through my lie.

“And what if I tell all the girls you’re the true prince? You look more the part,” I tease. He raises his eyebrows and scoffs.

“Then I’m forcing some of that seafood down your throat,” he counters. I fake a gasp, but quickly quip,

“Actually, I’d probably prefer to choke to death rather than dance with those lasses, so you’d be doing me a favor.”

“I live to serve, Mr. Eames.”

“Where’d you get the book from?” I ask out of nowhere. He blinks hard.

“It’s one of the ones I left in your living room,” he says, showing me the cover. It’s titled “The Alchemist.” Probably one of his boring classics or something. Despite his dorkiness, my heart aches at his sentence. He left a book here, perhaps purposefully. What's more, after he went and retrieved it, he came back to sit with me in bed. How painfully domestic.

“What’s it about?”

“This kid Santiago dreams of finding treasure, so he –”

Arthur’s interrupted by a knock at my front door. It’s muffled through the bedroom door, but still loud enough to travel through both sets of walls. His eyes widen as he scrambles to his feet.

“They can’t know –”

“Relax, relax! I’ll get it. Just stay in here. Whoever it is won’t come into my bedroom,” I assure him, forcing myself up and out of bed.

“It’s not like we did anything,” he says, biting his lip. He’s abandoned his book on the bed in favor of picking at his thumbs. Before I can answer, there’s another, more aggressive knock. It goes on for double the time as the first one.

“Stay here and trust me,” I say before exiting my bedroom and closing the door behind me, leaving Arthur to stand in fear. I drag my feet to the door as the knocker goes at it a third time. I groan and grab the handle mid-knock, swinging the door wide open. My mother herself, fist still raised, stares at me with mild annoyance. She clicks her tongue and pushes past me, inviting herself in. I briefly glance at the bedroom door, still closed tight, before looking back at mummy dearest. She’s still in her nightgown, a blue and gold thing that looks like something a civilian would wear to a school prom. Her hair is spooled up into a dozen or so black curlers, her eye bags are hidden under some rubbery slivers stuck to her face, and her lips are shimmery with some sort of cream she’s clearly just rubbed off. Despite her being my mother, I’ve never seen her even close to this level of unproduced. It’s like I’m Dorothy staring behind the curtain. How many times do I have to click my heels to get back to that moonlit cabin?

“Looking spiffy,” I can’t help but say. She sighs.

“I would not be here if it were not necessary,” she says. Right. It would be a great tragedy for her son to believe she’d actually want to see him before a crucial event. This is supposedly the defining moment of my life, but god forbid she give me any comfort on that front.

“So, get on with it,” I push. She swallows hard and digs through her nightgown pocket. Who knew those things had pockets in the first place? I stare with raised eyebrows as she continues digging with determination, reminiscent of a kid in her nose. Finally, she fishes out a small black box and hands it over silently. “...And this is?” I ask.

“Just open it,” she snaps. Yes, ma’am. I follow her instructions and reveal a small, glimmering golden ring. My stomach drops as my eyes trace the little diamonds etched into the band, all leading toward a diamond carved into a heart as the center attraction. Is this…

“An engagement ring?” I finish my thought aloud. She shakes her head rapidly as if I’ve just cursed her out.

“No! It’s a promise ring. There’s, uh, a difference,” she stutters. Who is this woman? This must be a clone. My mother has never stumbled through a sentence in her life. In fact…her foot is tapping unusually fast, and her eyes are darting around the room rapidly. Is she anxious about this? Why in the world would she be?

“And what’s it for?” I continue, staring down at the shiny piece of jewelry in my palm. It’s a gaudy thing, something only a – oh no.

“You will give it to Faye tonight.”

“Excuse me?! You told me I didn’t have to make that kind of commitment!” I immediately exclaim, slamming the little box shut and shoving it into her hands. She pushes the box back, but not with much force.

“I know what I told you! But you have to! It’s out of my hands,” she says, and she actually sounds like she may feel a little sorry about it. Or maybe I’m mistaking what is really guilt for sympathy. That would explain the lack of eye contact.

“Really? Out of your hands? You’re the bloody queen for god’s sake!” I shout even though it means a whole lot of nothing. I’m the bloody prince, and I don’t even get to decide who I marry. Any power any of us have is wrapped up in centuries of tradition and precedent.

“Please. Don’t make this harder for me,” she pleads.

“Harder for you? How is this hard for you at all?!”

“You think I want to see you upset? I’m your mother!” she claims, but it falls flat. I scoff and snicker.

“That’s funny. That’s hilarious, actually. You’d like to pretend you’re a mother, huh? I hate to break it to you, but you can’t change twenty-four years of history, darling,” I snap, suddenly cold. She swallows hard and shivers a little. The way she’s begun to shrink in front of my eyes makes me feel almost sorry, but the emotion can’t quite reach my heart. She’s spent my entire life calculating exactly how to upset me, how to ruin my life, and now she’s pretending like she gives a damn about how it affects me? Christ, just yesterday I watched her ignore her teenage son’s drinking problem the same way she used to ignore mine. Now she wants to play victim?

“This was your father’s idea,” she mutters, clenching her teeth.

“Sure. Blame it all on the man who’s practically half-dead.”

“Don’t say that!” she exclaims, finally looking up at me. I fight back a gasp by biting my lip. Her eyes have filled with tears.

“...There a reason he sent you to do his dirty work?” I attempt to change the subject, lowering my voice. Jesus. She’s a crap mother and a cruel woman, but my father is still her husband. In some small way, she must love him.

“Just give it to her, Eames. Do what you’re told for once. Please,” she mutters. I swallow hard. Another use of my preferred name. Was it on purpose? She turns away as my hands fall to my sides, the box still clasped between my fingers. As she walks to the door, she looks back at me with a sober somberness I’ve never seen on her face.

“I can’t love her, mum,” I somehow manage to say. She wipes her eyes before the tears can fall and replies,

“Marriage isn’t love.” With that, she exits the flat with none of the cadence she entered it with. I sigh and stare at the little life-ruiner in my palm as I walk back through the bedroom door. Arthur is standing right behind it, nervously tapping his fingers against the side of his thigh and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He’s fixed his hair a little, but still isn’t quite put together.

“I’m gonna guess you heard most of that,” I mutter. He nods.

“You weren’t exactly using inside voices.”

I wordlessly offer the box to him. He opens it carefully like it’s about to explode, bringing the ugly thing closer to his eyes. As he stares at the craftsmanship, or lack thereof, he steps backward until he’s against the bed. I follow his lead and sit beside him as his arse hits the comforter. He deflates significantly, his shoulders slouching down as he closes the box and hands it back to me. I pocket the thing and drag my fingers through my hair. So much for half-commitments. I suppose a promise ring, in a way, is its own half-measure. It’s essentially giving my word to eventually propose to the girl, something I can’t ever imagine myself doing. Maybe Arthur is right. Maybe I really don’t have an actual choice. I don’t think I can stomach going through with any of this, especially knowing that if I left, he’d come with me. He’d stay by my side. And yet I’d be dooming him to whatever I become. I’d be a man without family, without skill, without even a real home. Sure, he says he’d stick by my side, but what happens when there’s nothing left to stand with?

“...Will you give it to her?” he asks. I shrug.

“I guess I’ll have to. I don’t know,” I mutter. He swallows hard, maybe considering scolding me for the rescinding of my free will. Instead, he pats my hand and squeezes it.

“Quite a family you’ve got,” he mutters. I chuckle wryly.

“Astute observation,” I tease.

“That ring is ugly as shit. She’ll love it,” he teases back. I turn to look at him and smile, actually laughing this time. He smiles right back. God, what a perfect smile. The things I’d do to keep it on his face. What an endless list.

“Any chance she’ll find me repulsive and avoid me the entire night?” I ask.

“Not a shot,” he answers immediately. I groan and nudge his shoulder with mine.

“And why’s that?” I ask.

“I saw you in the tux.”

I swallow hard. Oh, what a terrible ball this is about to be.

~~~

Neptune is about as appreciative of all this fanfare as I am. After Arthur and I’s little conversation akin to soldiers speaking before a battle, we had to split up. He had a meeting with Saito and Luther about security, while I had about a dozen different things to endure from Mal. It took far too long for her to fancy me up. There is an incalculable amount of gel gooped up in my hair, which has been elegantly slicked back. It’ll probably be crusted into the position for a week or two. Still, that’s not worse than what’s been done to my face. I’ve been shaved so close I don’t know if my stubble will ever dare to come back, my pores have been filled with concealer as well as other very masculine beauty enhancers, and my skin has been so prodded I’m shocked my entire face hasn’t puffed to twice its size. All of this would be well enough if not for the tiny headstone in my pocket. I could maybe survive this event, even with all of its pompous guests, bollocks food, and stifling tradition, if I could get out of it with a clean break. But this little ugly thing sitting against my thigh is ruining what little hope I had left.

“You’ve got the easy job, mate,” I whisper to Neptune, petting his mane gently. We’re standing in a makeshift stable, meaning a large tent, that my lovely family has placed a good four hundred meters away from the venue. I’ve got to ride the poor creature that entire way while a million cameras flash at both of us. I told about a dozen people that Neptune is not a fan of fame and would prefer to live out his days out of the public eye, but those pleas fell on deaf ears. I suppose I would prefer to get thrown from the horse and break a leg rather than make it safely. A broken leg means I can’t dance. Oh, what a pity that would be.

“Time to go, kid,” Mal says, patting my cheek gingerly.

“I don’t get why you can’t come,” I mumble. She sighs.

“Not my type of event. Come on, you’ll be fine. You look handsome,” she says, smiling softly.

“Feeling oddly sentimental, are you?” I tease. She scoffs and shoves my shoulder.

“I spent hours on this face. I deserve to be proud,” she grumbles with a tut, smoothing out my tux jacket. “Don’t forget to smile. And actually hang out with the women, please.”

I scoff dramatically. “Excuse me! Where else would I be?”

“Leave Arthur alone for a night. Just this once,” she says with an almost motherly cadence.

“Arthur will be there?” I attempt a bluff, but smile through it. She clicks her tongue and groans.

“He looks good,” she mumbles like it’s a bad thing.

“Naturally.”

“Eames, behave.”

“I will! What do you think I’m up to?” I keep up my incredulous attitude. Mal, like Saito, has some sense of at least my attraction toward my royal guard. She’s less overt about it, but it’s certainly a concern of hers.

“Always something with you. Get on the horse,” she orders. I roll my eyes, but nod. After giving Neptune one last reassuring pat, I climb onto his back. He whinnies, but accepts me as his rider.

“How do I look?” I ask, looking down at Mal. She’s got her hair pulled up in a messy bun, concealer all over her old t-shirt, and heavy bags under her eyes. She’s the most beautiful woman within a thousand meters. It’s a pity she isn’t allowed inside this bloody ballroom.

“Like a prince for once,” she says and smiles. With that, she waves over a couple of employees who have been loitering around and directs them to the tent’s closed flaps. The two blokes struggle a little to get them open, but eventually, they manage to reveal me to the outside world. The gentle light of the setting sun pours into the tent as I close my eyes and block the light with my hand. I can already hear the shouting of lively reporters and the flashing of dozens of eager cameras, but worse yet, I can also hear what sounds like a helicopter whirling above us. There’s no way. My family did not hire some airman to film this, did they? Part of me thought they’d want to hide this event from as many people as possible in case I somehow screw it up, but I guess this is my one chance. The finale of their restructuring of my character. The church visits, the drug testing, the lack of bad news, it’s all been building me into a reformed man. If Prince Edward walks out of the Dahlia Ball with a future fiancée, my transformation into a proper member of society will be complete.

I urge Neptune forward despite the growing pain in my gut. I could hurl off the side of this horse right now, but instead, I trot out to begin my worst nightmare. The path I’m on is heavily guarded and blocked off, so much so that the reporters and paparazzi can’t get within even ten meters. Still…I’m alone. No Arthur by my side to watch out for bottle throwers or more dangerous lost souls. I force myself to look forward as Neptune trots ahead without a care in the world. In fact, he seems to be enjoying the walk. Good for him, the prat. Everyone around is screaming my name, asking me to look in their direction, but all I can do is stare forward at the doors looming ahead. They look like they’re getting further and further away the more I walk. Am I still dreaming? Yes, that must be it. I must be asleep. I continue onward, blocking out the voices around me. I’m asleep. I must be.

“The hard part is over,” a voice breaks me out of my dissociation. I look down to my left at Saito, who’s apparently been waiting by the door. As I climb off of Neptune, he grabs the reins and pats my shoulder. “You look like a ghost,” he whispers.

“I think I just left reality for a moment,” I whisper back.

“Like I said, hard part’s done,” he assures me. I shake my head.

“Not even close.”

He pats my back one final time uselessly before leading Neptune down the path I just took him down. That sort of dulls the whimsy, doesn’t it? Still, that idiosyncrasy can’t take my attention away from the doors looming before my eyes. So bloody tall. Why did we have to do this at a separate venue? The palace would’ve been just fine. Having a secondary location makes this feel more…real. I can’t go in there, can I? Suddenly, like I’ve just been cut from a radio station, the sounds of the world around me fade out and are replaced by a dull ringing. I can feel my heartbeat thumping faster and faster in my throat as a bead of sweat travels down my forehead and sticks to my lip. The large, incomprehensible doors slowly open from the inside, inviting me into my purgatory. I try to take a deep breath, but the air doesn’t come. Instead, two men dressed as nicely as I am welcome me into the ballroom.

Without thinking about it, I step inside the large building. The room is overwhelmingly expansive, the ceilings high enough to fit three stories. The walls are dark red with gold carvings and decorations along them, something that should be gaudy but is rather fitting. The room itself is warmly lit, bright enough to see everyone as they stand up from their seats, but dark enough to hide some of their expressions. There are dozens of round tables with white tablecloths all around the edges of the room, each one adorned with at least eight chairs that are all being abandoned in unison. Where the second floor would be, there’s a gallery that goes around the entirety of the nauseating room. The only people in said gallery looking down on us are guards, most of them standing by doors that likely lead out to balconies. The floor beneath me is carpeted, but the entire middle of the room is wooden and glossy. It’s the dance floor, which no one is yet on.

“Introducing Prince Edward James Eames Stuart!” some voice announces over a loudspeaker. Everyone in the room claps politely, some even raising their fancy champagne glasses. My eyes dart around the room from face to face, around and around in circles, until I finally find him. They’ve shoved the poor bloke into the left back corner of the room, but I still manage to meet Arthur’s eyes. Mal was right. He does look good. He’s in one of his usual suits, but he’s got a navy blue tie and a similarly colored pocket square. His hair is slicked back similarly to mine, though the look fits him much more than it does me. He smiles as he processes my gaze, raising his glass a second time to me. Finally, finally, air reaches my lungs. The world moves back into focus, my heart leaves my throat, and my stomach stops threatening to release all of its contents. He’s here. It’s all fucked, but at least he’s here.

My mother, of all people, walks into the middle of the room wearing a gown I can only describe as heinous. She looks like a pastry in her pink, fluffy dress full of useless ruffles and shiny sparkles. Her hair is in her usual elegant updo, making me question the curlers she had in earlier. I much prefer the woman screaming in my kitchen compared to whoever this woman is. At least the woman shaking in my home was, in theory, my mother. This is the Queen. Queen Eleanor, destroyer of worlds, holder of useless cocktail parties, executive life ruiner. Maybe the woman from this morning felt guilty about selling off her son, but that woman was effectively killed. The Queen stares at me with resolute pride, not in me but in herself, in the fact that she’s somehow made a man out of me. It makes me clench my fists at my sides and bite my tongue. Proud of me now, mummy? You’ve beaten every characteristic I possess out of my body and dressed me like your personal dolly, but at least I’ll look good for the camera.

“Ahem,” my mother clears her throat. She’s been mic’d up, for god’s sake. Everyone in the room quiets. “You may sit.” They obey. Except for me, of course, who must stand awkwardly in the doorway with a billion pairs of eyes on me.

“Thank you all very much for coming to the Dahlia Ball. This is a tradition my family started many, many decades ago. I am so thankful to my husband for adopting this event into the royal bloodline when I married him. He could not be here today, but he sends his best wishes.” Everyone applauds my missing father as I tilt my head. He’s not here? Perhaps he physically couldn’t be here? It’s not like him to miss something this important. Why did no one tell me?

“We all know that Edward has had…tumultuous growing pains, but I am so pleased with the man standing before me. I know one of you wonderful women will make him a very happy man,” she says, looking around the room at the dozens of women in beautiful, expensive, pointless dresses. I resist the urge to laugh. “I know this event seems antiquated, as do all suitor balls, but remember we’re all here to have fun! So, everyone, come out to the dance floor and enjoy yourselves!” She raises her glass again, shows off one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever seen in my life, and accepts the roar of applause. Once the crowd dies down, she quickly moves across the floor to the largest table. I assume that’s where I’ve been placed, not that I’ll have much time to sit tonight. Now that they’ve been given the go-ahead, dozens of people, young and old, hurry out onto the dance floor. I know what’s supposed to happen. The girls will approach me, I’ll play nice, we’ll dance. Then, Faye and I will take the floor, I’ll give her this gaudy thing in my pocket, and bam, fate sealed. If it’s bound to happen, might as well stall.

I take a hard left and practically hug the wall as I make my way to the opposite side of the room. It requires a lot of pushing and many hurried greetings, but eventually, I find my way to Arthur’s table. He looks up at me as I sit down beside him in what must be Saito’s chair.

“Quite an entrance, hm?” I ask. He smiles, but it’s a little sad. His champagne glass is almost empty already. I don’t blame him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out there?” he asks, motioning to the dance floor. I shrug.

“I guess. You look nice,” I say, shamelessly looking him up and down. He really does look bloody great. Not a hair out of place.

“So do you,” he says, his eyes trained on my face.

“I feel like a show pony,” I mumble. He snickers.

“That is a lot of gel,” he teases, smiling for real this time as he examines my hair. I roll my eyes. “You really should go dance. You’re going to get in trouble,” he insists.

“Trying to get rid of me already?” I tease.

“It’s your reputation, not mine,” he says like he doesn’t give a damn, but he bites his lip hard.

“Why don’t you come dance with me?” I offer.

“You think it’s wise to dance with your royal guard when you’re supposed to be finding a wife?”

“No, I don’t think it is,” a third voice enters the fray. We both turn in our chairs and face Saito. He’s got his arms crossed and is tapping his foot rapidly. “You’re in my seat.” I sigh and stand up.

“Terribly sorry, darling,” I apologize, bowing dramatically.

“Eames, stop making this harder for yourself. Go,” he says through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t –”

“You aren’t helping. You’re here as a courtesy, but I can have you escorted out if you’re too much of a distraction,” Saito interrupts Arthur. I shiver. Ice cold.

“Jesus, Saito. Chill out,” I say.

“Go,” he snaps. What’s gotten into him? I nod to Arthur, who awkwardly hangs his head, and drag my feet to the dance floor. Within the minute I step onto the wood, a woman approaches me. Woman is actually not very accurate of a word. She looks much more like a girl, her face young and dainty. Her bright blue eyes match her flowy, light blue dress that moves through the air like wind in a child’s drawing as she approaches me. She curtsies awkwardly, her short blonde hair briefly kissing her cheeks as she looks downward. Jesus. Is she even eighteen? What kind of family sends in their little girl to be snatched up by some dastardly prince? I suppose half the girls here have been just as forced into this as I am. We’re all being sold off by some shite families.

“...M-may I have this dance, Prince Edward?” she asks, her voice shaking through the question. I smile and nod in an attempt to calm her down.

“I’d be honored,” I say, syrupy sweet. She glances behind her as if looking for someone, then smiles and sighs in relief. We enter each other’s personal space and set ourselves up for a Viennese waltz. The live music is at least decent and the perfect pace for this kind of dance. It’s a bit difficult to move around with all of the people around us, but we find a rhythm quickly.

“My name is Lauren Bellrose. My f-father runs the most prolific private journalism company in t-the –”

“Darling, you don’t have to talk from that memorized script. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, hm?” She freezes.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you!” she exclaims.

“How old are you, love?” I ask.

“Eighteen,” she says robotically.

“How old are you really?” I try again.

“...I’ll be eighteen in a month! My father says that by the time we’d actually be married, I’d be of age! It’s just, well, age is only a number! It doesn’t mean anything,” she rattles off her family’s talking points. My heart sinks. This poor thing. She’s been brainwashed so heavily, I don’t know if anything could undo it.

“Your family’s rotten,” I can’t help but mutter. Her eyes widen. She starts to shake in my grasp, so I pull her into a hug instead of restarting the dance. “Have you even finished school?” I ask.

“...They pulled me out when I turned sixteen,” she whispers.

“You’re a bloody child. Jesus,” I mumble.

“My father says I’m very mature,” she says against my chest. I let her out of my arms as she wipes her eyes. I reach my hand out and wipe a tear from her cheek.

“Try to enjoy the party, dear.”

“...If you don’t pick me, they’ll send me back for Prince John,” she mumbles.

“Bellrose, right? I’ll look into that. Why don’t you try to make a friend? The girls here seem plenty nice,” I suggest. She sighs, smiles, and thanks me quietly before hurrying away. Not exactly a great start to the evening, but I’ve got no time to process Lauren’s plight. It doesn’t take long for another girl to approach me. And then another. And another, and another, and another. For the next hour or so, I prance around with random girls and have the same conversation a thousand times. “Oh, wow, your family has a vineyard! How elegant!” “Yes, I do love your dress and how expensive you’ve told me it was.” “No, I do not want to go find somewhere ‘more private.’” I’ve kissed more cheeks tonight than I’ve ever kissed in my life. Most of the women have been plenty polite and only slightly disappointed after being sent off, though a few have stomped their feet. One attempted to persuade me by implying she’d fall to her knees in the bathroom, which I quickly put a stop to. Every time I think I’ve exhausted all my options, another one comes out of the woodwork. For a family so hellbent on me marrying Faye, they’ve certainly brought in a lot of bloody women.

“Guess it’s my turn,” yet another woman announces herself. I turn to her and tilt my head. She’s slouched over and practically grimacing at me, looking entirely uncomfortable in her orange gown. It’s too small for her, far too sheer, and squeezing her body in every wrong place. Her long, black hair looks so damaged that it could fall off her head from a strong wind, and her dark eyes are so bloodshot that it appears she hasn’t slept in weeks. Now this is my type of girl.

“You seem chuffed,” I comment as we get into position. She scoffs.

“Thrilled, Prince Edward,” she says sarcastically.

“Why are you here, then?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“My parents, I guess,” she says with a shrug. She proceeds to step on my foot. I grunt as she says, “My bad. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“S’okay, love.”

“You know, I liked you before they made you all Christian and shite. All of this reformation crap is bollocks, right?” she says. I snicker.

“No, I’m a changed man,” I tease.

“Half the people online think you’re gay,” she says.

“That’s preposterous,” I say, giving nothing away through my smile. She finally grins.

“We’d be a bad match,” she says, glancing at something over my shoulder.

“Something behind me?”

“...A friend of mine is here, too,” she mumbles, her eyes darkening. Ah. A “friend.” Guess we may be even more alike than I thought. Her longing gaze prompts me to scan the room. He’s not at his table anymore. I waltz us around in a circle until I spot him standing by the edge of the dancefloor, his eyes already on me. How long has he been watching this charade? He looks…different. Deflated. His shoulders are slouched, his hands are tangled up with one another in some battle, and his mouth has formed a tight frown. It’s double the expression he carried during our two-week sabbatical. My stomach flips. This can’t be easy for him to watch. We’ve been…doing whatever we’ve been doing for the past two months, and yet he still has to watch me dance around with two dozen women who somehow have a better shot at my hand than he does. Oh, my darling, they’re nowhere close to my heart. He has to know that, doesn’t he?

“You should go over there,” my dance partner comments. I look back at her.

“What?”

“Your boyfriend looks upset,” she comments. I freeze and stop the dance.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say quickly, automatically.

“Tell him that,” she says, motioning to Arthur. He looks down, unable to take the heaviness of our collective stares.

“It was nice to meet you…” I pause.

“Cassidy. You too,” she says, breaking out of our formation and walking in the direction of her “friend.” For the first time since Saito shooed me away, I approach my royal guard. I push through the crowd and sidle up next to him, nudging his shoulder with mine.

“Having fun?” he asks, his voice low and dejected. Jesus. Who crapped in his cereal? Actually, that’s a silly question.

“So much. A girl offered to blow me,” I whisper. He gasps and covers his mouth to hide a snicker.

“And?” he asks.

“She was alright,” I tease. He kicks my leg and fully laughs this time.

“You’re the worst,” he says through the laugh.

“How long have you been watching me prance around?” I ask, finally turning to look at him.

“...Since you started,” he admits.

“Why?”

“Masochism,” he mumbles under his breath. I don’t think I was meant to hear that. I put my hand on his shoulder and grab his hand with my free one.

“Come on. Let’s dance,” I implore.

“Eames, you know we can’t,” he says, ripping his hand back. That darkness I briefly dispelled has come back in full force.

“But I just…God, this sucks,” I grumble.

“No shit,” he grumbles back.

“Eddie!” A familiar voice shrinks and shatters what little hope I had left in my heart. I turn around and take my hand from Arthur’s shoulder as Faye parts the crowd like the Red Sea and rushes over to me. She’s in a gorgeous purple gown covered in flower petals. Her ginger hair has been pinned into a delicate updo, though some strands have been pulled out to frame her face. Her eyes are sparkling brightly, her cheeks are rosy, and her smile is practically blinding. There she is. My future wife. Suddenly, the little thing in my pocket comes into full focus. Is it time? Time to seal my fate? Am I really going to give this thing to her? I can’t. I can’t do it. But what happens if I don’t? How will I be punished? What if Saito tells them about Arthur and I’s…predicament? What if he gets sent away? I can’t let him lose this job. Neither he nor I would be able to take it. Would Saito really do that to us if I didn’t follow protocol? What about Mal? They’ve been on my side this long, but would this be the thing to change that reality?

“Goodness, you look amazing!” Faye shrieks.

“So do you, darling,” I force myself to say.

“It’s been too long! I’ve missed you so much,” she says loudly, pulling me into a tight hug. It’s like she’s trying to make the other women jealous. The crowd has diminished around us, giving us room to breathe, though I’m certain many of the guests are now watching us. I freeze up in her embrace as she rubs my back. This is wrong. This is the most wrong thing I’ve ever been forced into. How is Arthur, bloody Arthur, somehow the immoral choice? He’s fucking gorgeous, he doesn’t make me feel like dying, and Christ, I could actually fall in love with him if someone would finally let me. How is Faye the proper option? How is that fair? How is this level of deceit what the country needs, what my family needs? Why does the entire country benefit from my unhappiness? My mother, the Queen, says I’m at my best in this state: a lying, loveless bastard. How is this my best self?

“Let’s dance,” she says, leaving my arms. I sigh and nod. For the millionth time, I prepare for the Viennese waltz, but Faye shakes her head. “No need for that,” she decides. She promptly wraps her arms around me and rests her head on my shoulder, forcing us into an intimate slow dance. The music slows down as if the entire ball has been building to this moment. Perhaps it has. This is the thing my family has been waiting for. I just wish fewer people were watching. I even wish Saito had kicked Arthur out. He shouldn’t have to see this.

“You okay, baby? You seem tense,” Faye says. I could smack her for that pet name. She hasn’t earned it.

“Fine. It’s just been a…long night,” I mutter.

“I know, right! Watching you with all those girls has been the worst. But your mum gave me the go-ahead, so here I am,” she says, hugging me tighter. She may very well crush me. I look over my shoulder at my royal guard, who has taken a few steps backward. He looks about ready to pass out. Oh, darling, will you ever forgive me? “I can’t wait until this silly thing is over and everything is…established,” she says softly.

“Me too,” I half-lie. I really can’t wait until this is done, but I’m not exactly looking forward to the death of my future.

“Let’s enjoy this moment,” she says softly. I don’t think I’ve got a choice, love.

We dance around for some time, the song changing what feels like a dozen times. Luckily, the longevity makes most of the crowd lose interest. The only remaining audience member is the one I’ve always had. As we twirl and sway around, I continuously glance at the poor bloke with his eyes trained on us. Arthur’s been staring with the determination of a bird watcher looking for some rare species he’s never seen. It’s like he’s waiting for the inevitable, for the bird to spread its wings and fly away so he can take a picture of it and lose sight of the thing forever. He can’t take his eyes off of us, no matter how much it hurts. Part of him knows what I’ve always known: it may be the last time he can look at me this way. I’m going to have to leave my perch.

Faye takes her head off my shoulder and presses her forehead against mine, slowing our dance down to practically a standstill. She puts her hands on my cheeks and takes a deep breath. “This is so perfect, isn’t it?” she whispers.

“Mh-hm,” I manage. She’s close. Too close. Her breath is on my lips. Her thumb starts to stroke my cheek, and I freeze. No. It’s not right. It’s not bloody right. This isn’t supposed to happen, I didn’t sign up for this, I want out. I’ve always wanted out.

“Pretty great timing,” she comments.

“Faye, I can’t –”

Right as I finally attempt my confession, she leans in and closes her eyes. Before I can stop or process it, her lips are against mine. The kiss sends cold shivers down my spine akin to an electric shock, but it’s not even close to a pleasant sensation. It feels unnatural, forced, barely even real. Still, she keeps her lips against mine and manages to deepen the kiss, my hands on her waist. Her teeth are on my bottom lip, threatening to bite down, and her tongue is attempting to force its way into my mouth. She tastes like caviar. I think I may vomit. All at once, I remember I actually have control over my body, and I disconnect our mouths forcefully with a pop.

“Oh, Eddie, that was…” her voice fades away as my head darts to my right. Arthur is storming away toward the back of the room, hurrying in the direction of the staircase that leads to the gallery. Oh, Christ. The poor bloke. What am I going to do now?

“Attention! Dinner is served!” the same earlier voice bellows over the loudspeaker. I take the distraction as an opportunity to break out of Faye’s intense grasp and follow after my royal guard. She calls something out to me, but I ignore it. If he hadn’t broken already, that certainly did the trick. He knows I didn’t want that, right? None of this is what I fucking want. The only thing I actually want is running away up the stairs. I push past the crowds of people hurrying to their tables, crashing into several of them along the way. When I finally reach the staircase, Arthur is already at the top of it. “Arthur, wait!” I shout out to him, but he doesn’t listen. I curse under my breath and practically fly up the stairs, nearly tripping over my own shoes as I do. Right as I reach the top, Arthur disappears through a tall brown door. Before it even fully closes, I force my way through and crash onto the balcony.

Arthur turns around, wiping his eyes quickly as if I can’t see the moisture pooled in them. My stomach drops. Oh, love, please don’t cry. It’s all a show, a sham. You know that. He balls his hands into fists and clenches his jaw tightly.

“You know it isn’t real! You know I don’t like her! It’s fake!” I shout desperately, stepping closer to him as I wipe my mouth.

“It doesn’t matter!” he shouts back, his face bright red.

“Why? How doesn’t it?!”

“It just has to look real! That’s all that matters to you, to your family, to this backwards country!” he screams, taking a heavy step in my direction. He’s breathing hard, just as winded as I am from the run up here. I briefly look past him and into the dark, starless sky. The moon is full and gleaming.

“You’re wrong! I don’t give a damn about this facade anymore!” I shout, my voice cracking as I do. How do I keep you, Arthur? How do I stop you from slipping through my fingers?

“That’s not what that looked like,” he chokes out.

“You think one kiss can erase months of evidence?” I say, lowering my voice slowly to match his own.

“Evidence of what?!” he shouts. So much for lowered voices. I groan and grab him by the collar, pulling him to me. His breath hitches in his throat as his eyes widen.

“Of my feelings, you goddamn fool!”

“What feelings?” he whispers.

“Christ, you’re a fucking bastard.” I force our lips together and kiss him hard, harder than I’ve ever kissed anyone in my life. He grunts against my mouth and brings his hands to my chest, grasping my shirt tightly as he sucks in my bottom lip. God, his lips are so soft, and his grip on me is so tight, desperate, even a little needy. I tug on his collar again, pulling him even closer to me, but right as I part his lips, he shoves me off of him.

“What are you doing?!” he asks, breathless. His lips are glimmering with my spit. Fuck, he’s so hot.

“Tell me to stop and I will. I’ll never touch you again, I’ll leave you alone, but you have to say it. Say you don’t want me, say it hasn’t been killing you to –”

He lurches forward and pounces on me, grabbing my face as he reconnects our lips. God, it’s real this time. Our mouths practically bruise together as I back him up against the railing, my heart pounding out of my chest. I swipe my tongue across his bottom lip, and he sighs in relief as I push deeper into his mouth. Our tongues clumsily tangle with each other’s as I dig my fingers into his hair, causing him to gasp and ever so briefly leave my lips. He gets me right back again without hesitation, barely even breathing before reconnecting us. I press up against him harder, moaning into his mouth as he runs his hands down my torso and tightly grabs my waist. He's almost whining, desperate to keep his lips on mine, and grinding against me. I push against his nose in a fruitless attempt to get closer to him, pull on his hair, and kiss him harder. It’s so easy to work our mouths together, so natural to finally taste his spit. Oh, Christ, I’m bloody tasting Arthur. What am I doing?

He disconnects us, gets in a quick breath of air, and kisses me again immediately, shutting my rational thoughts off. Good kisser. He’s a good kisser. I put all my weight against him, trusting the balcony railing far too much, and lightly bite his lip. He moans and unconsciously juts his crotch up against mine. Okay, he likes that. Good. Good to know. My hands shake as the kiss travels through my whole body, sending a tingling sensation to all of my nerves. It’s a lightness, a sensation of floating. We're making a mess of each other, I know it, I've never had less control over myself and I've never cared less. He’s quivering against my body, I can feel it, but he’s not stopping. He’s so ready, so pliant, so willing for me to explore his mouth. His hands toy with the ends of my jacket, and I get the express urge to tell him to take it off me. Instead, I kiss him even harder, so hard my lips sting, in a desperate attempt to quiet the burning ripping through my body. He moans yet again and tightens his grip on my waist so hard his thumbs may leave bruises on the skin beneath my trousers. He moves his hands up my back and pulls on the fabric of my jacket, willing it to evaporate. I keep my hands up in his hair and briefly pull back my tongue to suck on his lip, before going back –

“What the fuck?!” a loud, angry voice shouts into the air. Arthur bites my lip hard in surprise, forcing me to suppress a groan of pleasure as our mouths disconnect with a pop. Oh, Christ. I turn around, standing defensively in front of Arthur as we catch our breaths. Standing before us is Saito, his face so contorted with rage that he doesn’t look even close to the man I know. This is, uh, bad. I think this is bad. But only one thought pervades my skull, and it’s that I have to get Arthur into a dim room with a lock on the door or so help me God.

“We, uh…” My excuse dies in my throat. What the fuck am I going to say? My tongue got into Arthur’s mouth by accident?

“I fucking warned you against this, Eames! Jesus Christ! Do you know how much damage control this is going to take?!” he shouts.

“...Sorry,” I mumble. Arthur still hasn’t said a word. He’s huffing and puffing behind me, his hand resting anxiously on my shoulder.

“How long has this been going on for?! How long since Arthur got here?!”

“Just today, I swear!” I answer quickly. Saito’s eyes widen, and okay, now he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him.

“This was your first kiss and I already caught you?” he says in utter disbelief. Well, that makes it sound worse. A lot worse.

“...I mean, the circumstances are –”

“You’re at your suitor ball, where you are supposed to find a wife, and you’re making out with your royal guard! Fucking…goddamn it!” Saito exclaims. “I came looking for Arthur! You’ve got a call— Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking employee! This was completely consensual, yes? You’re not going to sue us at the very least?” Saito stammers, losing his train of thought.

“Shit, yes, I wanted it,” Arthur says quickly before he can think to rephrase. I have to fight down a smile. You sure did, darling. God, the sounds he was making. I shiver at the not-at-all distant memory. Saito groans and covers his face with his hands for a long moment.

“I want that in writing,” he mumbles into his hands before pulling them off his face. He has to take another long, heavy breath before speaking again. “Eames, you have to get back out there. You,” he points at my blushing royal guard, “come with me. Once this mind-numbingly ridiculous event is done, we’re going to have a long conversation,” Saito says, turning around. Arthur and I follow after him, but he quickly turns back and snaps, “Not yet, Eames! Wait here for five minutes. It’s suspicious!”

“...Are you gonna tell?” I dare to ask. Saito glares at me.

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course not. Just…fuck,” he grumbles, beside himself. Arthur walks ahead of me, looking back briefly. Our eyes meet, and he smiles. Really bloody smiles. He’s so handsome. And covered in my sweat and spit. His eyes are hazy and darkened with desire. Finally. Fucking finally, I got him. I don’t know what this means or what the consequences will be, but right now all I can focus on is the stinging on my lips and the burning in my trousers. That was not smart. It was, in fact, the opposite of intelligent. But, Christ, he kisses damn good. What a thing to deprive myself of for two months. I should’ve kissed him the day I met him. It would’ve saved me a lot of heartache. I should be nervous, I should be afraid, but I can’t stop smiling. Saito grabs Arthur’s arm and pulls him toward the door, forcing him to turn back and walk out.

I turn around and rest my hands on the railing, staring out into the void as small raindrops begin to fall from the sky. For the first time since Faye defiled my mouth, I take an actual deep breath. It feels like I just blacked out. I mean, did I really do that? What’s gotten into me? I can’t take that back, nor do I want to. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out, right? Quite frankly, I don’t even care about figuring it out right now. I’ve spent too long trying to rationalize my future. What I’d really like is to pull Arthur off of that phone call he’s on and take him back to the palace, show him exactly what he’s been missing. He liked it. He wanted it. He moaned into my mouth, he pushed for more, he’d go further if we had time. Fuck the future. I’m here now and so is he. As soon as this bloody circus ends, I’ll have him all to myself.

Following Saito’s unfriendly advice, I wait a good five or six minutes on the balcony. I have to will myself to calm down, and though I can mostly get my mind in order, my body is a different story. I’m practically shaking with want, my lips burning in the absence of his. Christ, his mouth. I shiver hard and turn to the door. For now, I need to focus. I need to pacify Faye – oh, fuck. Faye! I dig through my pocket, hoping that the box within it has somehow disappeared into thin air. No such luck: my fingers find the little life-ruiner and trace its edges slowly. What am I supposed to do with this thing? Do I still give it to her directly after making out with my bloody royal guard? Will that buy me an express ticket to Hell, or will it protect me enough to buy me and Arthur some time? What’s the right choice?

Without a solution, I push through the door and reenter the event. I can see over the railing that about half of the crowd has returned to the dance floor, though it’s mostly established older couples slowly ambling about. I scan the entire room from above, but I can’t spot Saito nor Arthur. I’ve not a clue where they’ve gone. Who I do spot is a much less welcoming sight. Faye is wandering the room like a lost puppy, her head swiveling around. Even from up here, I can sense her turmoil. I’m awful. Truly awful. That poor woman is looking around for me with a metaphorical glass slipper in her hands, hoping that the shoe will fit. Meanwhile, I just abandoned her, snogged my royal guard, and got so turned on that it’s hard to focus on much else besides the filthy pictures flashing behind my eyes. Hey, I said I had my mind mostly in order. Not fully.

Still blank on how I’m going to get out of this, I walk carefully down the stairs like nothing’s the matter. Nothing to see here, just a regular old prince, definitely not mesmerized by the thought of shagging my royal guard in a coat closet. As soon as I reach the main floor, I carefully head toward the middle of the room. I’ll let her find me, we’ll talk, and…that’s about all I’ve got planned.

“Eddie! I found you!” a shrill voice shouts right as I take my first step. Seems like I’m out of time. I look to my left as Faye hurries to my side, practically running up to me. My stomach sinks further and further with her every step. What in the bloody hell do I say to her? Christ, Arthur’s spit is still in my mouth.

“Hey, Faye…” I manage. Oh, great start. You sure don’t sound dejected at all, Eames. Really ace work there. She nonetheless grabs my hands and squeezes them, smiling brightly.

“I thought I lost you!” she exclaims, attempting to pull me closer. I stand my ground and manage to stay put.

“I just needed…the loo,” I decide. She giggles as her face heats up. Uh, how did she just interpret that sentence?

“That was a great kiss,” she says. Was it really? I don’t think I contributed much to that one.

“Sure was,” I blurt out, Arthur’s tongue tracing circles in my memory. Damn great kiss. Great kisses. She doesn’t have to know we’re not talking about the same one.

“...Your mum said you have something for me,” she whispers, smiling even wider. I can practically feel the color drain from my face. I break one of my hands from her grip and shove it in my pocket. Am I really doing this? Is this happening? My fingers once again trace the box delicately, like I could break it if I’m not careful. As my grip stabilizes, a cacophony of images fly past my eyes. Arthur raising his glass, Arthur staring at me with tears in his eyes, Arthur grabbing my waist as if I’ll float away if he doesn’t. The images go even further back, well beyond this night. Him playing the piano, him taking a shot in Mr. Rallus’ basement, him dancing around with me as Johnny spewed his hatred in our direction. The knock on my door that placed him in my life, the moment I saw him and knew he’d be far more trouble than I could ever handle. I let go of the box and practically rip my hand out of my pocket.

“I, uh, sorry. I’ve got to find someone,” I say quickly.

“What? Who do –”

Before she can finish her sentence, I pull my other hand out of hers and swivel around, hurrying toward the entrance of the ballroom. I make the mistake of looking back as I reach the door, my eyes quickly finding Faye’s confused, somber face. I’m sorry, darling, but if I’ve got to pick a heart to break, it was always going to be yours.

Chapter Text

The cool August rain patters down on the ground around me as I stare blankly ahead. Without all the fanfare and overpopulation, this road feels intensely isolated. My family picked some fancy ballroom in the middle of nowhere for a reason, and though they’ve said that reason was to keep “regular folk” from invading the event, I really think it was just in case I tried to pull what I am currently pulling. It’s harder to escape from somewhere when you’ve got nowhere to run to. There’s not another soul in my vicinity, let alone a car I could bribe my way into. Did Arthur and Saito really leave? There’s a line of black cars in the car park, all of which chauffeured the guests here, but it doesn’t seem like any of them are missing. Could I have missed them inside? I can’t go back in there now that I’ve run away from Faye. I can’t face her again. But I also can’t stay out here, or she’ll come out and find me. I’m in a familiar rock and a hard place. Sometimes I think this is the only type of place I know how to find.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?” A threatening voice sends a shiver down my spine. I turn around and directly stare at the guard who has clearly been circling the perimeter. He stiffens and nods when he sees me. “Oh, I’m sorry, your Highness. Everything okay?” he asks. Ah, the perks of princehood.

“Right as rain. Just needed some air,” I mumble. He chuckles and scratches his chin.

“Can’t blame ya. Lots of pretty birds in there. I’d get overwhelmed, too,” he says, winking.

“Right,” I say lifelessly, faking a smile. He nods to me again and continues his walk around the building. If I don’t disappear soon, even that daft bloke will get suspicious. He will, at the very least, send me back inside, which we cannot have. If Saito was going to take Arthur anywhere, it’d be the palace. That’s my best bet. But how do I get there? As lightning cracks through the air, illuminating the sky, I just barely make out the tent still standing four hundred meters away. There’s no way he’s still here. That would be ridiculous. But it’s worth a shot. I take a final scan of the area before hurrying along the path, ducking down to dodge the rain the best I can. So much for the expensive tux. As the rain quickens its pace, I quicken my own as the tall white tent comes closer and closer into view. This walk felt a lot shorter when I was on a horse rather than my own two feet.

Miraculously, I reach the tent and pull the flap open, hurrying inside. I sigh in relief as Neptune whinnies in response to my entrance. A young man sitting on a box smoking a cigarette jumps to his feet and gasps. He drops the cigarette and quickly crushes it under his shoe, bowing his head.

“Your Highness! I, uh, how can I help you?” he stutters out. He’s wearing overalls, a flat cap, and cowboy boots. Right out of a western, aren’t you, darling?

“Why hasn’t he been taken back to the stable?” I ask, feigning annoyance. As cruel as it is, the meaner I am, the more likely he is to listen to me.

“Uh, I-I don’t know. I was just told to watch him. E-everyone else left, so I’ve just been…sitting here,” he mutters, staring at the ground with apparent shame. I sigh. I’ve never been good at this role.

“It’s fine, love. Let me take him off your hands,” I give in quickly. So much for meanness. What’s that thing they say about flies and honey?

“...What? Isn’t the party still happening?” he asks.

“Sort of, but…listen. There’s this girl, and I’d really like to impress her. She loves horses,” I spew out. Sure. Why not? The guy stares at me blankly for a moment, then glances at Neptune and says slowly,

“I guess he is yours. He’s real nice. Just make sure he doesn’t get too cold,” he says. I nod and smile.

“One more thing. Do you know how to get back to the palace from here?”

~~~

My willpower is severely tested on the ride back to the palace, but by the slight grace of my tenacity and the much more palpable grace of Neptune’s perseverance, we manage to make the trip. There were certainly some odd stares in our direction, and I’m already loathing tomorrow’s headline, “Runaway Prince Escapes Via Horseback,” but you know what they say about desperate times. Standing outside the palace gates, two pertinent problems stick out in my mind: firstly, I’m not supposed to be back. I don’t know if I can get away with waltzing back in like nothing’s the matter. Secondly, and perhaps more pressingly, I’m on the back of a horse that does not live here. Sure, there’s the Royal Mews, but I can’t exactly just throw any old horse in there. As I dismount Neptune, I stare ahead at the guard standing by the gates. Perhaps I may have to abuse my power. Doing so has never exactly been my forte. I find ways above and around my power, but never really through it. Still, there’s a first time for everything, and Arthur may very well be in that building pacing the floors waiting for me. His hands may be dug in his hair, his legs carrying him across the tile as he tries and fails to block out imagery of me sweating above him. I shiver hard and nod to myself. Some idiotic decisions are worth worse ones.

I grab Neptune’s reins and march up to the palace guard like I’m about to give him a piece of my mind. He tilts his head and stands strong as his face shifts from confusion to recognition. I don’t even let him get out his “your Highness” before I order,

“You! Get this horse back to Rallus Stables.” He blinks at me.

“...Aren’t you –”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” I snap. He swallows hard.

“But I –”

“No buts! Or should I report you to my mother?” I dare. His eyes widen. He’s younger than he should be, maybe about my age. I don’t recognize him. Where are we getting all these new youngsters from? Maybe we left the B team back here during the ball.

“I, uh…yes, your Highness! Right away!” he stutters out, his voice shaking. My stomach sinks as he looks around helplessly. He has not a clue what to do. I sigh and take a step closer to him.

“Do you have access to a phone?” I ask. He nods. “Call the stable. The number’s on their website. They’ll send someone to pick him up,” I explain, nodding to the bored, probably hungry horse standing out in the rain. He really should get inside soon.

“...Is that how it works?”

“If they give you trouble, tell them it’s on Yusuf’s order,” I say. Let’s hope that won’t bite me or him in the arse. Sorry, mate, but that’s what you get for going on some pony tour. The guard has no follow-up questions, instead radioing in to the gate control to let me in. As he requests a call over said radio, I give my regards to Neptune and amble into the palace like I’ve got no better place to be. The foyer is eerily dark and quiet. I’ve never seen this place so empty. My father is here somewhere, hacking up a lung or sleeping through a hot flash. I shiver at the thought. If something’s actually wrong with the bloke and things start going south…then I’ll really be out of time. Christ, look at me go. Standing by my father’s made-up deathbed and only worrying about how it’ll affect my own life. Son of the year award. Looks like neither of us will have to prepare a winning speech on that front.

My search through the palace takes me to every corner of the alarmingly massive building. I haven’t been all around the premises in ages, and this manhunt is reminding me why. Every ugly room proves more useless than the last. I started with the obvious moves: first, my own flat, a presumptuous choice, followed by Arthur and Saito’s quarters. After all the bedrooms were out of the way, I tried more employee locations. The lounge, the kitchens, even the gym. There was no sign of them anywhere. That’s when I got more desperate: I stalked about each and every meaningless room, left dozens of doors open to keep track of them, and even retraced my steps in case we’d been chasing each other around the place. All of that and no dice. Arthur’s gone. Poof, like he was never here in the first place. That reality leaves me with a pit in my stomach and a whirlwind in my mind, both replacing the much more pleasant and aroused sensations I was happily living in previously.

I drag my feet through the hallway and kick imaginary rocks. Where could he be? What happened on that phone call? What could be so important that he left without saying goodbye? Did Saito force him out? Did he make up the phone call just to get the bloke away from me? Or…did Arthur get cold feet? Did I scare him? He smiled at me, didn’t he? He liked it. He kissed me the second time, he pulled me back, he wanted me. He’s not exactly known for standing his ground in matters of our relationship, but this…would he really run? Could he bring himself to do so after all of that? To me, that kiss was practically life-altering. I’ve never had a kiss, or kisses, like that in my life. I’ve hooked up with plenty of guys in dim bars and dark alleyways, even found myself in several of their beds and escaped them as the sun rose. But those were all nothing. Pretty faces without names. Arthur’s…well, Christ, he’s Arthur. For him to disappear on me like I’ve done to so many before feels like a particularly cruel yet apt dishing of karma.

After a sabbatical in my flat to rid myself of my tux and some of my exhaustion, I find myself wandering the hallways again. I approach the dining room only to see a light already on inside. I peek through the door and gasp at my mother sitting alone at the table. I cover my mouth, but it’s not in time. She looks up, catches my eyes, and sighs. She looks exhausted. Her hair has been released from its updo, piling up on her shoulders in beautiful, loose curls. Her makeup is smeared just a little, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. What’s more alarming is the half-empty bottle of Thomas Dakin gin sitting on the table next to her, along with a nearly empty glass. That bottle…is that gin mine? Well, it’s technically not mine anymore, but it used to be. I was saving that. Is my mother getting pissed by herself in the dining room? What in the bloody hell is happening to this family?

I briefly consider running for cover, but instead I tiptoe into the room like a lion tamer on his first day. She doesn’t say a word as I pull out the chair to her right and sit down slowly. I’ve never seen her so fragile in her life.

“Proud of yourself?” she says flatly. Her voice is devoid of care, of even the smallest bit of emotion.

“Not particularly,” I answer. It’s honest. She scoffs, but it can’t cover the look in her eyes. I know that look. I saw it in Arthur’s eyes when I first found him on the balcony, I saw it in Faye’s eyes when I left the ball, I saw it in my father’s eyes on the thirtieth anniversary of his brother’s death. It’s a distinct loss of hope.

“You stole a horse, ran away from the ball, and didn’t give Miss Darcie the ring. That’s impressive,” she lists. There’s no malice in her voice.

“Technically, Neptune is my horse. And you don’t seem that bothered by any of this,” I say. It’s perhaps the wrong thing, but it’s what comes out.

“I am bothered. Miss Darcie’s family will be furious. She herself will be crushed.”

“Sorry,” I attempt. It comes out sounding just as false as it is.

“...You came back looking for him, right?” I freeze. How do I play this? Right as I go to stall, she continues, “You came back for Arthur. I don’t know why, but Mr. Saito got him on a flight home.” She said his first name. I don’t think she’s ever done that before. Alcohol turns some people into criers, others into violent menaces, and a select few into melancholic, mournful mothers just drunk enough to drop subtle formalities.

“He’s going back to Minnesota?” I say, my voice cracking. Back home. Somewhere that’s not here, somewhere away from me. As far as he can get.

“Mh-hm. Don’t know if or when he’ll be back,” she says like it’s no big deal, like it’s not her employee being shipped off without a return date. “You care for him deeply, don’t you?”

The sentence rips a hole through my heart. Do I really wear the beating thing so proudly on my sleeve? “He’s a good man,” I say through clenched teeth.

“That necklace he wears. You bought it for him, right? I saw on the news when you were at the fair,” she says. Another shot at the tattered thing strapped to my shoulder. It’s a wonder it’s still pumping. How long has she been noticing these things? How deep does her knowledge go? Is she only admitting these things because she knows he won’t be back?

“What necklace?” I bluff. I’m not playing this off well, am I? She sighs and wipes her eyes, smearing her mascara further. You’d think the stuff would be a little more resilient.

“You have to understand. I lived my entire life with duty, without passion. I cannot comprehend your…feelings. But I…I can’t ignore them, can I?”

“No more than I can,” I answer, rewarding her honesty.

“I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you. If I find anything incriminating, I’ll have to act on it. But, Eames…” she sniffles and finishes her drink, “you have to do what’s best for yourself. Don’t live your life for someone else.” Right after she says it, she takes the already open bottle and pours herself another glass. It’s far too heavy a pour for that kind of gin, but she sips it like it’s water. Who knew she had it in her? Despite everything, despite her complete and utter lack of empathy for me and my darling brother, I can’t help but feel sorry for the mess of a woman sitting before me. She taps her ring finger against her cup, staring at her wedding band as it softly clangs against the glass.

“Why wasn’t my father at the Ball?” I ask, staring at the ring right along with her.

“He’s feeling…under the weather,” she answers, not even looking up. Her eyes are trained on that wedding band, on that thing which locked her into the future I’m so petrified of.

“He always is.”

“Seems to be.”

“Are you worried something’s going to happen to him?”

“Worried, yes. For the right reasons? I don’t know.”

I’m unsure of what the right reasons for worry are. I wasn’t aware there was a wrong way to care. But the way she’s staring at that ring like it’s got a chain attached to it makes me think I’ve been naive. Her final words from this morning ring out in my head like a gunshot: marriage isn’t love. I never thought my parents really loved each other. Not in any deep, meaningful way. But I thought there was something there. Anything. You’d have to develop some kind of appreciation for someone after so long together, right? Or is that another naive hope I’ve developed to give myself some sort of respite for my own life? Is resentment all that’s ever grown between my parentst? Has their marriage eaten my mother alive mentally and ripped my father’s body apart bit by bit? Can people really ruin each other like that?

“...Do you ever wonder if you’ve made the right choice?” I ask so quietly it’s practically a whisper. I don’t know who I’m asking for, but I know that Arthur’s lips are burning on mine as the question leaves my mouth.

“No. I know what I’m doing is right for the country,” she answers robotically. I repress a groan as some of that earlier empathy leaves my body. Always a soldier, aren’t you, love?

“Oh. How noble of you.”

“But right for myself? That, I wonder about,” she mutters, ignoring my sarcasm as she takes a particularly long sip of her drink. For a frighteningly quick moment, I notice how similar our eyes are. The color, the shape, the feeling. She’s sacrificed everything. Her entire being has been folded up and tucked into a neat little envelope with England’s name on it. All she got out of it was a loveless marriage and a queer son so whipped over his royal guard that he can’t fulfill a single duty. Not that I could before Arthur. No wonder she’s the way she is.

“Mum, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted.” She doesn’t have a response for that. She once again drains her glass, coughs loudly, and closes her eyes tightly. With her eyes still squeezed shut, she asks,

“Does your…affection for Arthur make you happy?”

Before I can stop myself, I answer, “Yes. Very.”

“What a thing.”

“Affection?”

“Happiness.”

Never has that word been filled with such sorrow. I almost go to rest my hand on her shoulder, but I keep my arms at my sides. I don’t know how to comfort her. Hell, I barely know how to talk to her. We’ve never had a conversation close to this before. She’s still not a mother. In fact, this whole experience makes her even less of one, but at least she’s human. It may take copious intoxication to make her one, but there is a way to find the woman she constantly buries and forgets to mourn.

“...What will you do with me? With Faye?”

“I will handle her family for now. You will have to choose, just like always. John’s birthday is approaching. Soon you may abdicate.”

“And then you can all be rid of me.”

“More like you can be rid of us. Of this…mockery,” she says, waving her arms around the room as though to encompass it.

“Mum, I –” She stands up abruptly and cuts off my sentence, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I have to go check on your father.” With that, she leaves me to sit in solitude with her empty glass and the remnants of her heart. I’ll make a plan to find Arthur. I’ll talk to Saito, I’ll make some calls, I’ll find the bloke and give him a piece of my mind. Or, at least, that’s the goal. But right now, I feel so frozen in this chair that I very well may turn to stone in it. I thought I was the only one capable of seeing through all of this. Turns out, my mother created the damn facade and trapped herself in it. She was once one of those young girls dancing around with a man, not for her sake, but for her family’s. She got sold off like an animal to my father, a man who has likely never not been repressed and never once been truly kind to her. I can’t end up like that. I won’t put myself or Faye, or any other woman for that matter, into that situation. But with Arthur gone, it feels like the walls are closing in once again.

~~~

I stand in front of the familiar door, my hand hovering above the handle with a closed fist. I really should not be back here, but I’m desperate. The past week has been a trudging nightmare. I’ve heard nothing about Arthur’s whereabouts. I’ve asked every single employee, any soul who may have heard from him, and even got a hold of his cell number. No one had a clue why he left, only that he was gone, and he hasn’t answered any of my numerous calls. I’ve even, rather shamefully, left him a handful of voicemails which I’m desperately hoping he hasn’t listened to. There was a particularly awful one I left at two in the morning, not that any of those messages are any better than the rest. I wish I could say that I’m only worried about him. That is mostly true. The rational side of me knows that Arthur is not the type of person to abandon me without a trace without a good reason. But, Christ, he put his tongue down my throat and then just…left. How could I not be a little cross?

What’s worse, there’s no end in sight to this nearly unbearable lack of knowledge. Not only have I not seen Arthur in a week, I haven’t seen the one person who could actually tell me why he’s gone. Saito has been just as MIA as my handsome royal guard. You’d think the lack of supervision of me would make my family nervous, but my mother has been remarkably passive as of late. She walks around like the ghost of Christmas past, flitting about the halls with an expression only the dead carry. Speaking of dead, I haven’t seen my father in a week as well. It reflects poorly on me that his missing status concerns me the least out of the three, but in my defense, I know where he is and why he’s gone. He’s been locked away on bedrest and has a nurse around the clock attempting to bring him back to life. He’ll bounce back, I know the bastard will, but his sickness has sent my mother into a spiral she may not be able to come back from. It would be a great irony for my father’s sickness to kill the wrong person.

I take a deep breath and attempt to hype myself up. I have no clue how she’ll feel about my presence. It’s been a month since we’ve spoken, and we didn’t exactly leave things off on a good note. But I can’t keep away any longer. At the risk of screwing her life up even further, I have to push my way back into her world. I know the damage I’ve done, I know it must’ve been a nightmare to clean up, and I’m sure she won’t be jumping for joy to have my nonsense back. Nonetheless, I build up the courage to softly knock on the door. If she sees my face and slams the door, at least I’ll know how she feels. With all the uncertainty I’ve been stuck with, I’d like to at least attempt to rediscover something stable. When no one answers, I knock again with a little more vigor. It takes a minute, but eventually, the door creaks open. An eye peeks out at me, and then the door swings open.

“Eames!” Ariadne shrieks, pulling me into her arms tightly. I stumble forward and quickly return the hug, letting out a sigh of relief as I do.

“It’s been a minute,” I say as a smile breaks out across my face. The girl’s still got love in her heart for me. She quickly pushes her way out of my arms and shoves me backward, her eyes widening.

“A minute? A minute? It’s been over a month! Where have you been?!” she scolds, pushing me back further.

“After everything that happened, I figured it was better to stay away. They flipped your whole life upside down, didn’t they?”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you can up and abandon me out of nowhere! I’ve been hearing about your life through the news! You left your own ball early? What the hell has been going on, man?”

“It’s been…a lot,” I admit.

“Tell me everything! Hurry up and come in.”

Despite the fact that we haven’t spoken in what feels like ages, she invites me into her home. We sit on her couch and cycle through every part of each other’s lives we’ve missed: her progress on her master’s application to some fancy school in the good old US of A, some bloke whose heart she’s somehow broken in a month, and her painfully uncomfortable experiences with the fame of being a prince’s concubine. The amount of death threats the poor girl has received from jealous women is quite frankly appalling. I had no clue so many ladies wanted to claw their way into my pants, but Ari has certainly gotten a taste of it. In return for her war stories, I’ve told her about all of the family drama she’s missed as well as my many missteps with darling Faye. The entire time, she’s been staring at me with a blank expression.

“...Something the matter?” I ask after finishing my story about my father’s sickness.

“You haven’t brought him up at all,” she comments. I swallow hard.

“I was…getting to that,” I mutter. She scoots closer to me on the couch, taking a sip of her water as she does.

“Did something happen between you two? Did you ever make up after we got caught? Cause, you know, he was a huge dick that day. Why are you being cagey?” she presses.

“Well, at the –”

“Where is he? Did he leave? Is he pissed at you?”

“I’m trying to –”

“How did he let you leave? Did he get fired for what happened with us?! Oh my god, if I am in any way responsible for that I’ll never –”

“Christ, Ari, stop it! We kissed!” I shout over her. She covers her mouth as she gasps, then immediately moves her hands to reveal her wide smile. Within the second, she’s wrapped her arms around me in an awkward side hug that I don’t quite know how to respond to. Luckily, she releases me quickly.

“Thank fuck! I thought you were gonna go crazy! How was it? Was it good? How’d it happen? What did – why do you look so damn sad about it?” she interrupts her line of questioning. I sigh and bite my lip.

“...He’s gone. Afterward, he got some call and disappeared. I haven’t seen him since. No one can get a hold of him,” I mutter. She settles down, her expression darkening, and pats me on the back.

“He’ll come back,” she mutters.

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. She groans and grabs my shoulder, shaking me until I turn to look at her.

“Come on! You kissed him! That’s progress!” she exclaims. I can’t help but smile, my face heating up as I point my eyes to the ground. “Was it amazing? Or was it bad? Was it awkward? Did he –”

“Jesus, Ari! Bloody breathe! Yes, it was good. God, it was great…” I mumble, replaying the moment for the thousandth time in my head. I can’t stop thinking about it. It keeps me up at night almost as much as his absence. Those soft lips against mine, the way he moaned at my touch, how his body pressed up against me with so much desire. I can’t think about it without working myself up.

“Give me some details! Who kissed who? How long was it? Was there tongue?”

“Are we in secondary school?”

“I don’t know what that means, and come on. We haven’t talked in a month! You have to give me something,” she pleads.

“Fine, fine. I kissed him. Then he pushed me away,” I mutter. The face she makes is reminiscent of someone smelling rotten eggs.

“...Yikes,” she mumbles.

“Wait, wait, he pulled me back. We kissed again,” I quickly amend the story. She brightens up and sighs in relief.

“How much? For how long?!”

“I don’t know! A while!”

“Did he like it?”

“I bloody hope so. It seemed like he did,” I say, fighting the urge to close my eyes and relive the experience. Those lips. Christ. Those hands.

“And you? I’m guessing you liked it,” she teases, raising and lowering her eyebrows with a knowing smile.

“Best kiss of my life. No contest,” I admit. She squeals and nearly hugs me again, but instead focuses and continues,

“So, what happened? What made you stop?”

“Saito caught us. We were at the ball, so –”

“You made out with Arthur at the ball?! Are you fucking nuts?!” she exclaims, jumping out of her seat. I groan and bury my face in my hands.

“I know it was a bad idea! But he got so upset, and I didn’t know what to do, and Christ, have you seen him? How could I resist?” I attempt to defend myself.

“No wonder you left early! What did Saito do?”

“He just…took him away. They’ve both been gone ever since,” I mutter. She pauses, putting her hand on her chin. Then, her entire face lights up. She puts her hands on my shoulders, leaning down suddenly, and says,

“I can get you in contact with him. With Saito.” I shake my head.

“No, you can’t. I’ve called him and Arthur both hundreds of times. Neither of them are picking up,” I say, dismissively waving my hand.

“I have his private number!”

“...What?” Not even I have his private number, and I’ve known him for a lifetime. For all I know, the only people who have that number are his family members. Why would he give it out to her? Before I can ask her for a follow-up, she rushes out of the living room and into her bedroom. When she comes back, it’s with a small slip of paper tucked between her fingers. She opens the folded paper and mouths the number to herself, letting go of one end of the apparent solution to all of my problems to fish her phone out of her pocket.

“Ari, why do you have that?” I ask, springing to my feet. She looks up and almost scowls.

“If you had talked to me, you would’ve known. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you,” she says, halfway through dialing the number already. I rip the phone out of her hand and hold it above her head. She groans and swats at me, but fails to retrieve the stolen device.

“I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry I left you. I know how awful it feels,” I mutter. She swallows hard.

“It was awful. You’re a shit friend for it.”

“I know I am. I never wanted to leave you for so long. Life’s terribly dull without you,” I mutter, hanging my head.

“...Life sucks without you, too,” she mutters back.

“I promise I’ll never do it again,” I assure her.

“You better not, or I’ll kill you,” she says, her eyes and voice both stone cold. I know she means it.

“Would you tell me how you got the number?” I beg. She sighs and motions to her phone. Hesitantly, I hand it back to her, and she luckily doesn’t continue frantically dialing. She just stares at the five numbers sitting in wait and bites her lip.

“...After the first week without you, I was getting so many of those threats. It was insane. I didn’t know how to stand it. I didn’t feel safe in my apartment, even with the guards you guys posted outside. So I called Mal, and she sent Saito. He calmed me down and tried to get me a personal permanent bodyguard, but I wouldn’t let that happen. He did have someone change my locks, though. He’s really a good guy,” she says. My heart pangs at the story. I caused this. I made her feel unsafe, I put her in a dangerous situation. Maybe I should’ve stayed away. She’d probably be physically better for it. And yet…I could never leave her again. It’s already been such a breath of fresh air to have her back. I can’t do this ridiculous life without her.

“I thought so too until he whisked Arthur away,” I mumble.

“Hush. After the two of us talked for a while, he told me that if I ever needed someone, I could call him on this number. He told me barely anyone had it and that he’d always answer,” she finishes.

“So you’re going to use that kindness to help me interrogate him?” I say incredulously, putting my hands on my hips as I raise my eyebrows.

“No, I’m going to use that kindness to get you your boyfriend back,” she corrects.

“He’s not my –”

“I’m dialing,” she says, quickly typing in the rest of the number. Before I can stop her, she calls who is apparently Saito and puts the phone to her ear. He must pick up fast, because nearly right away she chirps out a polite greeting. After some small talk, she says,

“Listen, I need a favor. You have to not hang up, okay?” After a pause, she nods to herself and offers me the phone.

“What? What am I supposed to say?” I whisper harshly, gritting my teeth. She shrugs and thrusts the phone into my palm. I groan and take it reluctantly, bringing the device to my ear.

“Miss Paget? Are you still there?” Saito asks over the phone. I get the express urge to curse him out, but instead hold my tongue.

“Hello, darling,” I say perfectly pleasantly. Saito pauses and perhaps considers ignoring his promise to Ari. Just when I think he’s dropped the phone and run off, he clears his throat.

“...Eames. I will explain –”

“Where the hell have you been?! Where’s Arthur? What’s going on?” I rattle off quickly. Ari looks at me with raised eyebrows and a smirk. She mouths one word to me: “desperate.” I scowl at her and attempt to shoo her away, but she stays put.

“His sister got sick. Her lupus flared up and she ended up with pleurisy,” he says. My stomach drops.

“Is she okay?” I ask quickly.

“Yes, she’s out of the woods.” I sigh in relief. Christ. What an arsehole I’ve been. Here I was, pouting and pining for a week, meanwhile the poor bloke was trying to be there for Annie. That poor girl. Thank god she’s okay. This, however, still doesn’t explain why I wasn’t given this information in the first place.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you still stateside?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. It didn’t feel right to share his private information. And yes, I’m in Minnesota with him. I felt it was best to…remain here.” There’s so much he’s keeping behind his tongue. He’s even using his professional voice. What’s he hiding from me? Why is he playing coy?

“Cut the bull, Saito. Stop acting like we’ve got no history. You should’ve bloody told me,” I say sternly. He coughs to buy himself half a second. It won’t help.

“You think I should’ve told a prince about his employee’s personal family issues?” he attempts to buy more time.

“No, you should’ve told me, your fucking friend, that a man I deeply care about did not, in fact, leave me behind for no reason and instead went to support his sick sister. I could’ve comforted him, at least talked to him, but you took that from me!” I exclaim.

“Think about the situation you’re putting me in! How could I have stopped you from flying out here if I told you the truth? I couldn’t hide that trip from the press. People would ask questions. I’m the only one out of the three of us who gives a damn about the gravity of this mess you two started,” he fights back, finally his true self again. It’s almost relieving to hear him this cross. He’s supposed to be angry, not some mindless robot babbling off code.

“Did you tell him to not answer me?”

“No. I ordered him not to.”

“You’re a bloody piece of work, you know that?”

“Can you not appreciate the disaster I’m trying to prevent? Eames, I’m just –”

“We’ll argue about this later. Where is he now? Is he…is he ever coming back?” I stumble through the question I’ve been both desperate and afraid to ask. I don’t know how I’ll take the answer if it’s not in my favor. As my chest tightens up, he says,

“...He’ll be back tomorrow. We both will.” I let out a quite frankly shocking sigh of relief. He’s coming back to me. We’ll figure it all out together. I’ll at the very least be able to see his handsome face.

“I’ll see you then,” I say curtly.

“Please, you have to think about the gravity of your actions. You don’t know –” before he can finish his sentence, I hang up the phone and let a huge smile split open across my face. Annie’s okay, and my Arthur is coming back. It’ll all be right as rain. Ari stares at me as I plop down on the couch and put her phone down on the coffee table. She picks the thing up and slides it into her pocket before sitting down next to me. She snickers and pats my shoulder, saying,

“You look like you just won the lottery.”

“...He’s coming back tomorrow,” I say more to myself than her. She cheers and punches my arm.

“Hey, that’s great! What are you going to do?”

“I have not the faintest idea.”

~~~

After a pleasant dinner with Ari, I successfully snuck back into the palace. It’s considerably easier to get in and out when I’ve got not only no royal guard, but no Saito breathing down my neck as well. Back in my flat, I killed some time watching a couple of movies and then attempted to sleep. But now, close to one in the morning, I have almost entirely given up on the task. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for almost an hour now. He’ll be back tomorrow. Technically today, if we want to get mathematical about it. What will we do? What will we say? We didn’t speak after the kiss. The kisses. The making out. Whatever that was. We just looked at each other, and then he was gone. What if he regrets it? He’s had a week to think on it. It’s not exactly a good omen for his beloved sister to get sick moments after he snogged me. What if he’s changed his mind? What if it was a heat-of-the-moment thing? His self-control is a lot better than mine. The only thing I’ve learned over this week is that my only regret is not kissing him sooner. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, but how am I supposed to know if he shares that sentiment?

Right as I’m about to turn onto my stomach and try my luck with that position, there’s a knock on the flat door. That’s never been good. It could be my darling mother looking for some alcohol to steal. Or my lovely brother skulking around for the same thing. I think to stay in my bed, but the knocking persists. It’s louder this time. These walls aren’t that thin. Can’t they give it a rest? It’s the bloody early morning. No one is supposed to be awake except for drunks and lonely princes. Once I accept that the banging won’t stop until I address it, I pull myself out of bed with a groan. I smooth out my white t-shirt and stare down at my gray joggers. What a way to greet company. Whatever. They’re the one disturbing my slumber. I drag my feet through my bedroom and close the door behind me. I yawn, amble out into the kitchen, and approach my flat door, mumbling under my breath for the knocker to quit it as my hand grips the front door handle.

As soon as I open the door, I gasp. I actually have to take a few steps back to process it as the door creaks open and reveals the man standing behind it. His hair is borderline disastrous, sticking up on his head in dark tufts, though his contacts are in. He’s in casual wear, a jumper and jeans, and staring at me like he can’t believe I’m standing in front of him. The feeling is mutual. Though he’s right there, I can’t compute it. Arthur’s here. He’s back. In my doorway. Early. He’s early. How…where’s Saito? Aren’t they supposed to be together? He’s a mess, and he still looks bloody perfect. God, those eyes. So dark and intriguing, so full of life. You’d think that getting a small piece of him would calm me down, but it’s only making my body burn even further. Now that I’ve had a taste, I want the whole thing. I want those soft, gorgeous lips all over me, and I want it now.

Instead of doing exactly that, I throw my arms around him and pull him into a tight hug. He grunts and accepts it quickly, grabbing the back of my shirt with forceful desperation.

“Christ, it’s good to see you,” I say softly, hugging him even harder.

“Yeah. Fuck,” he whispers. He smells great. Just like himself. God, his skin. He’s so warm. We stay in our silent embrace for a long time, partly because neither of us have a clue what to say to each other. The last time we were together, we weren’t exactly talking. Still, after a long moment, Arthur’s arms drop away from my body, and I have to let him go. He closes the door behind him and stays a bit away from me, breathing hard.

“How’s Annie? She alright?” I ask quickly. He nods.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. It was rocky for a bit, but she’s okay.”

“How bad did it get?”

“...Pretty bad. We almost took her to the emergency room,” he mumbles, staring at the ground.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, love. If I had known, I would’ve –”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I ran off. I should’ve told you, it all just happened so fast and –”

“It was your family. I get it. You have to do what you have to do. For your family,” I stutter out. God, we’ve never been so awkward. We can’t stop speaking over each other. I can’t stand this, but I have no clue what to do with this space. He’s so close. He’s right here, standing in front of me. I will myself to think about anything else besides wrapping him up in my arms again, but I fail to produce anything of value. Fuck, he’s beautiful. Look at that face. Such gentle eyes, such supple lips. Those cheekbones, too. He’s a bloody painting. What am I supposed to do? How can I resist this now that I’ve had it? Did Eve really take just one bite? “Arthur –”

“I’ve been thinking,” he interrupts, “about what happened. For a week it’s been in my head, and I took the time to decide what I wanted to say to you. Now I’m just gonna…say it.” It’s like he’s talking from a script.

“...Okay,” I mumble. Sure. Take over, mate. If you can find some words, by all means, use them. In the meantime, I’ll try to find a way to stop undressing you with my eyes.

“I, uh…um,” he pauses and shakes his head, looking down at the ground as his face heats up. “Shit, I practiced this,” he mumbles. I have no clue what to say. “Stop doing that!” he exclaims suddenly.

“Excuse me? What am I doing?” I ask. He looks up and bites his lip.

“You’re the worst,” he snaps. I raise my eyebrows.

“Arthur, what –”

Without warning, he rushes toward me and grabs my face, pulling me in and kissing me fast. I make some sort of “hmph” sound before settling into the kiss, quickly putting my hands on his waist. Oh, fuck, it’s happening again. He practically growls as he repositions himself to get closer to me, pressing his body up against mine. I grunt and hold him tighter, attempting to keep him steady in my arms. He deepens the kiss, sucking on my lip as he pushes his tongue into my mouth. I hum in pleasure and bring my hands up to his head, sinking my fingers into his hair to give myself a little more control. Jesus, he kisses so hard it’s almost too much to stomach. Bloody Americans and their desperation. Fuck, I’m one to talk. I happily match his intensity and moan into his mouth as he very briefly drags his teeth across my bottom lip. That gives me the opportunity to break the kiss and press our foreheads together. He’s breathing heavily and caressing my cheeks with his thumbs. Fuck, he doesn’t know how good that feels.

“Talk later?” I suggest.

“Fuck, yes, later,” he rasps out.

“You’re a saint.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

I oblige, pulling his lips back to me and nearly knocking my teeth into his in the process. I’m a mess, we’re both messes, but it doesn’t matter. His stubble is scratching against my face and I don’t give a damn if it leaves a mark. I’ve wanted this man since I met him, and I’ll bloody get what I want for once in my life. He kisses me hungrily and without restraint, fitting our mouths together with ease. It’s like we were built to do this, like our bodies were designed for each other’s hands. I decide to test that theory further, taking my hands out of his hair and running them down his chest. I pull at his jumper and groan, breaking the kiss.

“Too many layers,” I complain. He makes some sound akin to a laugh and takes his hands off of me, quickly pulling the useless fabric over his head. Now we’re at least on the same level. He’s in a tight t-shirt, a fucking sexy t-shirt that I want off of him immediately, but he gets his lips back on mine before I can make the request. We practically attack each other’s mouths, a relentless battle we’re both winning, as I back him up toward my bedroom door. Once I’ve got him pressed up against it, I break the kiss a second time to grab the doorknob and force ourselves in. He stumbles backwards as the door opens, steadied by my hands now on his hips. He grabs my shirt and holds it as I kick the door closed and push him up against my bed. I kiss his neck gently at first, then suck on the soft skin just above his collarbone. Fuck, he smells so good, I could fucking devour him.

“Eames, Eames, fuck –” he moans and interrupts himself as I continue to suck on his warm skin. He puts his hands in my hair and pulls on it. “Eames, don’t leave a mark,” he rasps out a warning. I hate to admit it, but he’s got a point. I reluctantly leave his neck and return to his mouth, which he readily accepts. I easily bypass his swollen lips and push my tongue into his mouth, finding his and making contact quickly. As he sits down on the edge of my bed, he tightens his grip on my shirt and pulls me down with him. I’m practically sitting in his lap now, a weight he won’t be able to stand for much longer, and kissing him even harder now that I’ve got more leverage. He lets go of my shirt and slides his hands downward, quickly going under the fabric. His hands are cold against my bare skin, so cold I shiver as his fingers move up my stomach and to my chest. He runs his fingers up and down my chest hair and breaks the kiss to get rid of the shirt entirely. I help him out, working with him to lift my shoddy t-shirt over my head. He gasps and runs his hands quickly up and down my chest with wild, wandering eyes.

“You’re so fucking hot, Jesus Christ, I can’t stand it,” he whispers under his breath. I stand up and get out of his lap, nodding toward the bed. As if reading my mind, or maybe just hoping he’s got it right, he kicks his shoes off and pulls his legs onto the bed, waiting for me. I climb on top of him and grab his wrists, pinning him down underneath me. Fuck, I’ve got him. I’ve bloody got him. I lean down and kiss him passionately with all the softness I can muster, try to convey to him how much this means to me, but I’ve no idea if I can get it across. I grind against him, and he moans, already getting off on the friction in his jeans. God, he’s so turned on. He wants me so fucking bad. Oh, darling, the feeling is mind-bendingly mutual.

“You have no clue how hard it’s been, holy shit,” he rasps against my lips.

“Yes I do, yes I bloody do,” I manage.

“No, you don’t. I’ve watched hundreds of girls fucking throw themselves at you, you fucking asshole, and I –” I silence him with a long, hard kiss. I let go of his wrists and allow him to dig his hands up into my hair as I slide my hands up under his shirt and shamelessly feel him up. Fuck, I can feel his abs through his skin. My fingers trace every inch of his muscular torso over and over again as our mouths bruise together so intensely that I know they’ll be sore afterward. I break the kiss and sit up, straddling him as I grab the bottom of his t-shirt. He leans up so I can pull it off of him and throw it to the floor. That fucking body, holy mother of god. I’ve seen it before, I know how good he always looks, but it’s different when he’s beneath me.

“You can have me. You can fucking have me, and none of them ever will,” I whisper into his ear. His breath hitches in his throat.

“Fuck, oh fuck. Eames, touch me, now,” he begs.

“Where?”

“Fucking anywhere.”

I lean down and kiss him, running my hands up and down his chest. He’s rocking his body against mine, trying to create some more friction, but it’s only frustrating him more. I cup his cock through his jeans, and he moans so loud he has to break the kiss, unconsciously thrusting up against me. Even through the thick fabric, I can feel how hard he his, how badly he needs to be fucked. Jesus, I’m gonna start seeing stars. I’ve thought about this moment for so long, fantasized about it, bloody imagined it in every waking second for the past week. But now I’m here. I won’t screw this up. I’ll make him feel so good that he never wants to leave my sight. I can’t lose this opportunity. He’s so fucking gorgeous, so painfully turned on, and God, he’s staring at me like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. I must have the same damn look in my eyes.

I get off of him fast and move toward the head of the bed, going to my right nightstand. I throw open the drawer and take out a condom along with a tube of lube. When I turn back around, my eyes widen at Arthur already halfway out of his jeans. He gets them off quickly, leaving me to gawk at those legs. Fucking hell. I’ve never seen his bare legs before. They’re so muscular. Who has legs like that? It’s inhuman. It shouldn’t be possible. I don’t think I could be any harder right now.

“What? What is it?” Arthur asks. I blink hard. How long have I been staring at him for?

“You’re incredible. I can’t believe you’re real,” I say. His face flushes as he bites his lip. I look him up and down, particularly at his cock begging to get out of his pants. I can solve that one for you, darling. He lies down fully again, his head by the foot of the bed. With the lube and condom still in hand, I make my way back to him, dropping the contents of my hand by the side of his head as I lean over him. I carefully put my weight on him as I kiss him deeply, sliding my tongue easily into his mouth. He moans into the kiss and wraps his legs around my waist on instinct. Propping myself up with my left hand, I take my right and slide it into his pants, satisfied with the loud gasp that follows. I wrap my fingers around the length of him and run my thumb over his leaking head, spreading his precum as I stroke him slowly. He moans and closes his eyes, thrusting in my hand.

“Oh, god, Eames, don’t fucking tease me,” he says through the moan. He’s once again got a bloody point. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. My own cock is throbbing with want, begging for some much-needed attention. I take my hand off of him and instead use it to pull his pants part of the way off. I sit up and back off, forcing his legs off of me, as he fully removes his final piece of clothing. I take the time to remove my own joggers and pants, finally freeing myself of the constricting garments. We take a brief moment to gawk at each other. Fuck, that body. He’s right out of a Greek myth. The years it’s taken him to sculpt that form certainly could not have been easy on him. I could get off on just this, on just staring at him and pleasuring myself, but that’s certainly not the option I’ll pick today. Instead, I grab the tube of lube and twist off the cap, pouring a generous amount onto my right index and middle fingers. I move back over him, stealing a few hungry kisses as he wraps his arms around my neck. He's so close, god, feeling his skin against mine is nearly overwhelming. Ignoring my fast beating heart, I kiss him one more time and nuzzle my nose against his, whispering,

“Are you –”

“Yes, whatever you’re asking to do, the answer’s yes,” he interrupts. I raise my eyebrows and smirk. I’d make a quip about how I’m so going to tease him about this later when he’s less horny, but I don’t feel like wasting the time right now.

“You ready?” I nonetheless finish my sentence.

“I’ve been ready for months, you bastard,” he rasps out, staring at me with blown eyes. They’ve gone dark with deep desire, deep want he can’t hide.

“That’s rude,” I tease. He whimpers. He actually bloody whimpers. I almost moan at just the sound.

“I’ll kill you, I swear,” he threatens.

“Will you now?”

“I’ll fucking –” I push my fingers deep inside him, satisfied by the loud moan that follows. What was about to be another threat becomes “fuck, fuck, yes, Eames,” which gets me off almost as much as the tightness enveloping my fingers. Oh, Christ, there’s the perfect amount of pressure. It feels so bloody good around my fingers alone, I can’t imagine how good it’ll feel around my cock. I’m gonna need to have an extreme amount of self-control that I’m not quite sure I possess. Fuck, how could anyone get used to this? I’ve never been with anyone like him, not even close. I move my fingers in and out of him slowly, watching his face contort as he moans and pushes up against me. God, I’m making him feel so good right now, I can hear the pleasure in his voice. I speed up, push in deeper, and his muscles constrict around me so tightly I almost lose my breath.

“Right there, Jesus, fuck,” he blurts out, his eyes shooting open as they roll into the back of his head. Instead of giving him what he wants, I pull my fingers out fast and grab the condom with my still clean hand. He at first looks at me with annoyance, but his eyes quickly widen as he sees what’s in my hand. He puts his head back down and almost smiles to himself, taking a deep breath. I tear the condom with my teeth and put it on quickly, twitching against the touch. I crawl over him until we’re face to face, leaning down to kiss him. We soak up a few noncommittal kisses until I lock him into a deeper one, sucking on his lip until he wraps his legs around my waist. I break away and kiss his neck a few times, lightly enough so he won’t complain, but enough that he moans a little.

“You’re so bloody gorgeous, you know that?”

“Fuck, no, you are. Jesus,” he says breathlessly. I lean down and suck on his earlobe, which makes him moan a lot louder than I thought he would.

“I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good,” I whisper.

“Do it. Now,” he orders. I’ve never had any trouble listening to him.

I push into him hard and moan uncontrollably. He’s so tight, so ready for me, and Christ, I never thought I’d get this. I never thought I’d be allowed to have him. I press my forehead against his and kiss him quickly, but I can’t hold it for long. He and I moan together as I thrust into him, slowly at first until I can find a rhythm. It’s almost impossible to keep it together inside him, especially with our lips so close. Every moan out of his mouth threatens to push me over the edge prematurely, so I bury my face in the crook of his neck and focus only on fucking him. He’s rewarded for that, his low moans replaced with louder ones as I hit that sweet spot over and over again.

“That feels so fucking good, fuck,” he interrupts himself with a loud moan which rolls right into another exclamation, “oh, god, don’t stop, please don’t stop." His voice is wracked with pleasure, Jesus, he sounds so fucking hot when he’s coming undone. I keep on going, following his pleas, and he moans even louder.

“Please don’t fucking stop, keep going, god,” he begs, his voice almost shaking. If only he knew that it’d be unimaginable for me to stop right now. I've never felt like this in my life, I don't even know what to do with how good he feels, but I do know that I'm certainly not fucking stopping.

“Never, I’m not stopping, fuck, Arthur, you feel incredible,” I rasp out, finally assuring him with what he really should know already.

“Shit, right there, fuck –” he moans through the rest of his sentence. I never thought I’d ever hear him so fucking gone, so lost in pleasure that he can’t stop himself from crying out.

“Christ, you sound insanely fucking hot,” I can’t help but tell him. He responds by clawing at my back in some attempt to steady himself, but I think he knows it won’t work, that we’re entangled in something uncontrollable by this point.

I kiss his shoulder, his skin hot beneath my lips. That kiss turns into several, and as I speed up, it turns into a bite. He gasps at the sensation, and I quickly lift my head up to see his face. Luckily, it’s still contorted in absolute bliss. Oh, fuck, his face. His gorgeous face. If I’d just close my eyes, I’d have a chance, but looking at him? I start to lose control, moaning loudly as I fuck into him faster and harder without even meaning to. He feels so goddamn good, the way his muscles constrict against my cock as I fuck into him with reckless abandon. He brings his hands up into my hair and pulls me down, forcing our mouths together. We kiss messily, hard, sometimes missing each other’s mouths. I end up kissing up his jaw and again to his ear, sucking on his earlobe until he moans my name.

“Eames, Eames, you’re – holy shit, I’m gonna –” he cuts himself off with another insanely hot moan and quickly bites his lip. His hands dig into my hair harder, pulling on it. I didn’t know the sounds I’ve been making were even possible.

“You’re bloody incredible,” I manage to whisper into his ear. God, fuck, I need to focus, but the intense pleasure fucking him this hard gives me is impossible to resist. “You, god, Arthur, is this –”

“Yes, just like that, fuck,” he interrupts. Thank god, thank god he feels as good as I do, thank every fucking god I’ve got him beneath me. He takes one hand out of my hair and grabs his cock, stroking it fast as I continue thrusting into him so hard the bed is shaking. I grab his fast-moving hand and replace it with my own, running my fingers down the length of him. Arthur gasps and moans loudly, breathing so shakily I can hear his voice breaking. He doesn’t stop, either, each moan melting into the next as I keep on fucking him and stroking his cock. God, he sounds so wrecked, so fucking gone, I can’t believe he’s somehow turning me on even more. He can’t hide how good I’m making him feel, can’t stop himself from practically screaming in pleasure, fuck, I’ve never moaned so loud in my life — I run my finger over his leaking head and suddenly, his cock twitches hard against my touch. That moan becomes a near scream of ecstasy as he comes, his muscles tightening around me. Oh, fuck, fucking hell – my vision goes white as I lose it, coming hard inside him as I attempt to fuck him through our orgasms. I keep on coming, longer than I thought was possible, until I’m completely spent. I pull out of him as he breathes hard, struggling to get in shaky breaths, and lie down on my back beside him.

It takes both of us a few minutes to catch our breath. I have never in my life had sex quite like that. They always say it’s different when it’s with someone you’ve actually got a bond with, but I always took that as bollocks. Pleasure is pleasure, or at least, that was the assumption I was running under. I never knew how wrong I was. This was an entirely different ballpark, a completely new experience. There was a kind of intensity and desperation about it that I’ve never felt before. Does he feel the same? Maybe I’m just crazy, or maybe he’s just unusually good in bed. He may just be the perfect specimen of man, but something tells me the months we’ve spent building up whatever the fuck our relationship is just made whatever just happened possible.

“...Holy shit,” Arthur finally mumbles. He still sounds out of breath.

“Yeah,” I manage. I force myself to turn over and look to my left. He’s visibly shaking, sweat dripping down his forehead as he stares at the ceiling. “Darling, you alright?”

He perks up and turns to face me, shuddering as he does. “I’m amaz— oh, damn,” he interrupts himself, sitting up abruptly.

“What?”

“You’re, um,” he points at my torso and draws a wide circle in the air. I look down and gasp. My stomach and right hand are covered in his cum, which I probably should’ve expected and yet somehow didn’t. The bastard actually laughs as I sit up.

“Glad to know this is amusing to you,” I grumble through a smile.

“I just slept with the Prince of England,” he marvels to himself, his voice still shaking.

“Hope it was worth getting fired,” I tease. He scoots closer to me, whispers “shut up,” and kisses me softly, humming against my lips. It’s hard to comprehend how gentle he’s being, especially after that shag. Hell, it’s even hard to comprehend that we do this now. Touch. Kiss. Fuck.

“…No regrets, then?” I whisper once we’ve parted. It’s supposed to sound like a joke, but it doesn’t quite come out with the lack of sincerity I had hoped for. He strokes the back of my head gently and whispers back,

“No regrets, Mr. Eames.”

We take a brief pitstop to the bathroom to clean ourselves, or mostly just me, up and rediscover reality. I put on a pair of joggers and offered one to Arthur, who accepted the gift despite them not fitting him quite right. Part of me worried he’d try to hit and run, but as soon as he put my trousers on and took out his contacts, he got back in bed as if he owns the place. It seems that he’s in the same boat as I am when it comes to considering the consequences of this. We’ve known this would be a bad idea, but quite frankly, I don’t think either of us care anymore. If anyone finds out, Arthur will at the very least lose his job, but will likely lose his reputation and any future job options in the process as well. I’ll at best be kicked out of the palace and at worst exiled to some deserted island with Faye, punished with her presence for the rest of my days to teach me some lesson about buggary. That should worry us, should strike fear into our hearts, but all I feel right now is delirious relief.

Arthur rests his head on my shoulder, sitting to my left in the same spot he slept in the night before the ball. I thought it would be hard to accept his touch, to settle into his closeness, but it’s the opposite. It’s like I can finally breathe for the first time in two months.

“...Did you really prepare a speech?” I break our silence. He scoffs, but I placate him by putting my arm around him and pulling him closer.

“Not a speech, ass. Just…some things I wanted to say,” he mumbles. Oh, the poor bloke’s embarrassed.

“Let’s hear it, then,” I press, tapping my fingers against his shoulder.

“It’s pretty pointless now, all things considered.”

“I’ll kiss you if you tell me,” I offer. He lifts his head off my shoulder and smirks. I unwittingly shiver at the sight. He looks so pleased, so pleasantly tired out.

“You’ll kiss me either way,” he says.

“How presumptuous,” I say with mock annoyance, pressing my forehead against his. Right as the words leave my tongue, he presses our mouths together. My lips tingle against his gentle touch as he turns his body to face me. The kiss is soft, a far cry from the hard, desperate making out that preceded our union, and yet my stomach still flips at the sensation. I don’t know if I’ve ever kissed a guy after sleeping with him, but Arthur’s never been just “a guy.” We keep up the lazy snogging for a few minutes until I finally have to break to take a full breath.

“Presumptuous,” Arthur mocks in his fake English accent. I snicker and kiss his cheek.

“C’mon, mate. Don’t leave me in suspense,” I attempt to convince him. He sighs and looks away from me, settling back into his seat.

“...I wanted to tell you that kissing you back was the best choice I’ve made in a long fucking time. I-I can’t stand being around you without touching you. I feel guilty for even looking at you. I know it’s risky, but…I want to try. I want to try to make this work,” he practically whispers, still refusing to look at me. My heart swells at the sentiment. After months of unspoken longing and apologized-for glances, to hear it so plain and simple feels almost more wrong than ignoring our relationship entirely. He wants me. Could it really be so easy? Are we allowed this?

“I want that, too. So badly,” I whisper back. Those two sentences are the only things tonight that feel like a crime. Sex, even forbidden, is one thing. But desire? The two aren’t nearly as bound as I thought. Desire goes beyond the flesh. Much further beyond.

Arthur coughs to hide some sort of other sound, then mumbles quickly, “Good. That’s good.” We’re both quiet for a moment, taking in the energy of our shared offense.

“...Then I was going to lecture you about how careful we need to be. The stipulations, the rules…” his voice fades away through the sentence.

“But?” I encourage him.

“But then I looked at you.”

“And we know how that ended,” I tease, relieved to move the conversation to a language I’m more familiar with.

“Yes, we do,” Arthur says, and I can practically hear the smile in his voice.

“I thought it was a rather brilliant conclusion,” I continue to push his buttons, mostly to see if I still can. He bites his lip and heats up, luckily meaning that despite sleeping with me, I can still embarrass him. I’d be sour if I lost that joy. I elbow him and press, “Oh, come on. You’re not gonna admit how great that shag was?”

He snickers and mocks in his fake accent, “Shag.” I nudge his shoulder with mine and scoff.

“So you didn’t have a good time, then? We should never do that again?”

“Yeah, it was awful,” he teases. He has some gall to lie so plainly when not fifteen minutes ago, he was begging me to never stop shagging him for the rest of our pleasurable lives. I fake a gasp and groan, fully turning to grab him by the shoulders.

“You take it back,” I warn, getting so close to him I can feel his breath. He responds by cupping my face and pecking my lips. There’s even a thrill to such a small sensation. I can have this now. Little kisses that remind me I won’t forget how he tastes. Still, I protest, “You can’t kiss your way out of every situation now!”

“Sure I can,” he gloats, because yes, he indeed can.

“You taught me to fight, you know. I could best you,” I say, even though I know it’s most likely not true. I highly doubt my size alone can make up for his training and strength.

“Yeah, right,” he says dismissively, forcing my hands off his shoulders as he lies down facing away from me. I immediately follow suit and wrap my arms around him tightly without thinking. I press my chest up against his back, the warmth radiating through our bodies. It’s not a joke anymore. I’m fully spooning him, my legs fighting to find a way to comfortably entangle with his. There has to be a way to make this funny, right?

“See? Now you’re trapped,” is what I decide on.

“What a shame,” Arthur murmurs, his voice completely devoid of comedy and full of sarcasm. He places his hand over mine, squeezing it tightly and ensuring I keep a close grasp on him. I would never take him for a cuddler, nor did I ever think I would fit the role. I suppose I’ve never tried. As we settle into the silence, I try to rationalize the way my heart is beating out of my chest. I was just inside of him, just as close as I could possibly get, and yet this somehow feels more intimate. How is that possible? Have I ever been this close to someone for this long in my life? I’ve never slept beside anyone besides him, certainly never slept with anyone in my arms. Will I be able to? Arthur seems fully capable. In fact, he hasn’t spoken for several minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if –

“You’re warm,” he interrupts my thoughts in practically a whisper. I dare to nuzzle closer to him, tightening my grip.

“I assume you’re comfortable like this?” I say once I’ve repositioned myself.

“Mh-hm,” he mutters like he’s ashamed to admit it, “anything to keep you from sleeping on your stomach.”

“You’re doing a great service, Sir Arthur. We may not fire you yet.”

“I’ll do anything to keep my job, Mr. Eames.”

“We’ll see about that,” I decide, kissing the back of his neck.

“I’m tired. Let me fall asleep before you start snoring.”

“I do not snore!”

“Yes, you do. This isn’t our first sleepover,” he counters.

“Fine. Enjoy my warmth, prat.”

“Trust me, I will.”

Chapter Text

Arthur, at least this morning, is a remarkably quiet sleeper. Even his breathing is almost imperceptible, the only evidence of it being his chest rising and falling below my fingers. I’ve spent the early morning tracing every aspect of his body, the places I never thought I’d get the chance to memorize, as he sleeps without any knowledge of my analysis. His chest is mostly hairless, but graced with some slight divots I’ve determined to be little scars. From what, I’m not sure, but I’d love to learn. Some things skin alone can’t teach you. My fingers have found all of the muscles I can reach, giving me a diagram of some sort of strength I’ve never been able to possess or comprehend. Just feeling how tough his body is, how tightly woven every fiber is below his skin, makes me wonder why he was so willing to let me have total control last night, not that I’m not chuffed for it. My only theory is that he’s so high-strung, so constantly on guard, that it must feel bloody good to finally let all go for once. As for me, well, it’s fairly obvious that I’ll do anything to have a little power in this mess of a life.

Suddenly, Arthur takes a hard breath in and jolts in my arms. His entire body tenses as he quickly breaks out of my embrace and sits up, shaking hard. I bolt up next to him and put my hand on his shoulder, saying hastily,

“Easy, easy, it’s just me.” He blinks hard as he turns to me and sighs, his shoulders immediately relaxing.

“Sorry. I forgot where I was,” he mumbles, looking me up and down like he’s seeing me for the first time. I suppose it would be surprising to anyone to wake up in bed shirtless with the Prince of England.

“Are you disappointed?” I ask, mostly joking. Mostly. He rolls his eyes and smiles softly. Christ, what a look. Aren’t butterflies supposed to go away after a certain point? Why is it still so hard to look at him without swooning?

“Extremely,” he says, leaning in and kissing my cheek. When his lips leave my skin, he doesn’t go far. That gives me the chance to kiss him fully on the mouth, waking us both up a little by going further than a peck. Our lips part as my tongue tastes his spit, but then I pull away. His eyes are wide already, maybe mostly with shock, but hopefully there’s some arousal as well.

“I think you’ve got a crush on me,” I tease.

“Was it the sex or the cuddling that gave me away?” he deadpans, glaring at me like I’m the biggest fool he knows. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were actually the case.

“Admit it. I caught you,” I continue, poking his bare chest. Wow, his pecs are incredible. If only I were allowed to leave hickeys all over them. He wanted to emphasize rules and regulations of some sort. I suppose leaving no trace is the only one for now.

“Do you really need me to say it?” he complains.

“I bloody knew it all along! Did you?” I, in fact, did not know it all along, but he can infer that.

“Did I what?”

“Know I liked you.”

“What, after we almost made out several times? Yeah, I think I had an idea,” he answers with an eye roll. Sarcasm is a pretty sound on his lips.

I groan and nudge him a little as I say, “Anyone on the planet could tell I liked you by that point. I mean before all of that.”

He pauses, then shrugs. “...I don’t know. Sometimes,” he mumbles, suddenly shy. He averts his eyes as his face heats up. I lean in and place my hand on his cheek, stroking his skin with my thumb.

“More’s the pity,” I mumble. It really wasn’t obvious? Everyone else could certainly tell. I mean, I was constantly practically drooling over him. He’s a smart bloke. How could he not know?

“You started off flirting. I thought you were just trying to…annoy me.”

“I was. Because you were fucking gorgeous and I couldn’t stand it,” I say softly. He still won’t look at me.

“Don’t flatter me. You already got in my pants,” he attempts to avoid the sentiment.

“It’s not flattery,” I refuse his attempt, pressing my nose against his. He slides in closer and connects our mouths slowly, lazily. He’s better at this part than speaking about it. What starts as a couple of quick kisses becomes a mess of one long, connected one. I fully cup his face in my hands as he digs his hands into my hair and moans a little, breathing hard through his nose. Quickly, he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against mine, keeping his eyes closed as we breathe heavily.

“...I have a lot to do today. I have to go talk to Saito. Tell everyone I’m back. Write up a report about my absence. Call home,” he lists, but it’s more like he’s telling himself than me.

“Or,” I clear my throat, “you could take a shower with me.”

“Fuck, yes,” he says almost immediately as he opens his eyes. We both blink at each other for a moment as the request processes, then shoot out of bed abruptly. I’d be embarrassed about how quickly I’m moving to the bathroom door, but he’s moving just as fast. Before we even get into the room, he grabs me and kisses me hard, pushing me up against the door in a showing of all that strength. I grunt against his mouth, barely able to keep up with his speed. I can’t quite figure out how to fit my lips against his, which leads to him nipping at me and groaning in frustration.

“Easy, love, I’m not going anywhere,” I rasp out as he goes for a much easier target: my neck. As badly as I want him to, he doesn’t suck on my skin, instead pulling himself away and pressing his forehead against mine.

“Your accent drives me crazy,” he whispers.

“What happened to ‘not yours specifically?’” I tease, recalling a conversation he’s likely forgotten.

“I was lying, obviously,” he says, kissing me a few quick times.

“Hey, Arthur?” I ask through the kisses.

“Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

He swallows hard at that and kisses me again, pushing the words he can’t say into my mouth with his tongue. Don’t worry, darling, I understand this language very well. He digs his fingers into my hair harder as I move my hands from his face to his waist. He pushes up against me needily, bucking his hips into mine hard. I grunt and break the kiss, taking one hand off of him to open the bathroom door. We practically fall inside as he closes the door behind us, staying apart only to each remove our trousers and flick on the bathroom light. God, seeing him in the brightness is fucking dizzying. Last night was not a fluke. Certainly not. He still wants me, even maybe more badly now. You’d think that after that shag, we’d be satiated, but it’s the opposite. I want to experience every single sensation he’s capable of giving me, want to feel up every inch of his body until I know it like my own. He’s so hard, so turned on so easily, so ready to give himself to me. I can see the desire in his eyes, the tunnel vision that’s taken over his skull.

I turn on the water as I step into the tub, the shower quickly blaring to life as the water turns warm in an instant. Another perk of royalty. Arthur steps in right after me, backing me up against the far wall away from the shower head. The water is mostly hitting only his back, but Christ, I couldn’t care less. I grab his face and kiss him as he wraps his arms around me, moaning into my mouth as our cocks rub up against each other’s. Jesus, fuck, I never even considered the advantages of us being around the same height. We grind up against each other, moaning louder now as we recklessly pleasure each other. Fuck, we’re rushing, I can tell we’re rushing, but he did say he has a busy day. We don’t have all the time last night donated to us, but fuck if I care, fuck if it matters at all. All it requires is some creativity. I reach my hand down and stroke his cock slowly as we continue to get off on the friction between us. He pushes himself up against my body harder and sucks on my lip greedily, nearly whimpering as he tries to get closer to me. He’s struggling to keep our mouths together through his pleasure, and, god, I’m having the same problem. As if it’s actually an issue. I speed up my pace, stroking him faster, and he moans so loud I briefly think I’ve killed him. He has to break the kiss and bury his head in my shoulder.

“Your hands are so fucking big,” he rasps out. His voice sounds almost dirty, laced with want and desperation. He puts his hands on my ribs and kisses my shoulder, then moves to my chest. He, to my frenzied glee, starts kissing down my body. He leaves behind wet, sticky kisses that make up for the loss of his body tightly pressed up against mine. Once he’s fully on his knees, I dig my hands into his hair, mostly on instinct. Now that he’s out of the way, the hot water is pouring onto my skin, making every sensation that much more intense. Arthur kisses my thighs hungrily, grabbing them so tightly his dull nails may leave marks behind. I moan, partly in anticipation, and resist the urge to push his head closer to me. Give him time, Eames, have some bloody patience for once. My willpower is rewarded by his hand, which grabs my cock tightly and holds it by the base. I gasp and bite my lip. Christ, this is not a morning I ever thought I’d get, but I’ll fucking treasure it.

He easily sucks me in, taking no time at all to fully envelope me without a hint of trouble. I practically cry out and close my eyes, pulling at his hair even harder. He sucks hard with rhythm and clear intent, and fuck, fuck, he’s insanely good at this, why is he so bloody good at everything? My hearing is taken over, the sound of my own moaning fading out as only the sound of rushing water comes into my eardrums. Everything’s gone white, everything’s stopped making sense, everything around me has faded away. All I know is Arthur’s mouth, Arthur’s bloody tongue as he takes me apart piece by piece. I know I’m moaning, maybe even making some sound beyond moaning, and I’d be ashamed if I wasn’t so overwhelmed and wracked with ecstasy.

“Arthur, fuck, fuck, how are you –” my own voice briefly comes back into the realm of sound, but fades out again as I moan through the second half of my sentence. I regain my vision for a moment, looking down to see him completely swallowing me, completely ruining me, cupping my arse hard with one hand and pleasuring himself with the other. Oh, god, he looks so hot, so fucking gorgeous, how in the everloving fuck did he end up in my life? I close my eyes again and press my head up against the shower wall, my legs shaking as I get closer and closer. God, I’ve felt on the edge this entire time, I have no fucking clue how I’ve held it together this long, and I – he sucks even harder, runs his tongue along my leaking head, and instantly, I lose it. I come hard, taking every ounce of strength left in me to not fall to the ground as I sink lower, lower, coming and coming to such a degree it makes my head pound.

Before I can process it, Arthur is back on his feet and within grabbing distance. I don’t even know that I’ve done it, but somehow I’ve grabbed him and pushed his lips against mine. He tastes like me, holy mother of god. Still halfway out of reality, I reach down and haphazardly grab his leaking cock, stroking him fast. He gasps and thrusts into my hand as I stroke him, multiplying his own pleasure. As his kissing quickens with desperation, so do my movements. I need him to come, need him to finish before I pass out, or – he breaks the kiss and moans loudly into the crook of my neck, wrapping his arms around my shoulders to hold himself up as he breathes hard through his orgasm. Finally, finally, I give myself permission to relax. My vision returns as we lean up against each other, somehow keeping one another from falling over as we catch our breaths. We don’t say a single word for several minutes, instead opting to reassociate with reality. I’ve gotten blowjobs before, or at least I thought so, but I’ve never gotten whatever the fuck he just gave to me. I didn’t know humans were capable of that kind of pleasure.

“I think the entire palace just heard me,” I finally manage. He breathes in hard.

“I needed you to know,” he whispers.

“Know what? That you’ve got the world’s best mouth?” I tease. He scoffs.

“No. I needed you to know…” he pauses and nuzzles his nose against mine, pressing our foreheads together.

“What, darling?”

“Well, you know.”

“I don’t.”

“I, you know. You.”

A lightbulb manages to go off through his stumbling. For a man who just had my cock in his mouth without shame, he’s gotten rather sheepish.

“Ah. You do like me.”

“...A lot,” he whispers.

“Do you blow everyone you’re fond of?” I tease.

“Only the handsome ones,” he teases back, laughing against my skin.

We take a few extra minutes to calm down before actually completing the intended purpose of a shower, an experience that, like the cuddling, feels more intimate than sex. There’s a different kind of connection that comes with someone shampooing your hair, a selflessness that isn’t present in much of anything else. We’re quiet for most of the moment, wordlessly scrubbing each other off our bodies. I’m almost disappointed to rid myself of his fingerprints and his spit, but something tells me I won’t have to miss the sensation for long. I keep waiting for the shoe to drop, for reality to kick in, but it hasn’t happened. Logically, I know I’ve never gotten away with anything, and that this very well may blow up in our faces. I highly doubt sex with our employee will be the one abnormality, the sole thing that causes only good consequences. I’m not supposed to enjoy myself. Rationality says I’ll pay dearly for this, but I still can’t get myself to give a damn. Fuck, it’s Arthur. He’s worth whatever happens next. Let’s hope he feels the same.

Once we dry ourselves off, we step out of the bathroom. I shamelessly drop my towel, opening my drawers to find something suitable to wear. After a moment, I tease,

“You enjoying the view?”

“I can’t even see you,” Arthur responds as I slide on my pants and trousers. I turn around, and sure enough, he’s standing by the edge of the bed squinting at me. His hair is wet, sticking up on his head in tufts from both my and his fingers. His face is still a little flushed, his eyes hazy with gentle satisfaction. I’m once again surprisingly relieved he’s enjoyed himself as much as I have, but instead of saying that, I opt to tease him again.

“Christ, how blind are you? Can you see me now?” I ask, taking a few steps closer. He shakes his head, so I step even closer, blatantly up in his face. “Now?”

“Maybe get a little closer. Just in case,” he says softly, looking down.

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” I ask. He heats up even more. “Wow. You are. You’re terrible at it.”

“Shut up,” he mutters. I stroke his cheek with my thumb.

“Relax, love. You can’t be good at everything. It’s unfair to the rest of us,” I reassure him, leaning in and pecking his lips before he can get a chance to reply. He responds to my kiss quickly, cupping my face in his hands. It’s incredible how willing he is, how badly he wants me at any given moment. I’m used to having a short shelf life. My hand trails down his face and to his chest, where my fingers trace the chain of his necklace. As we pull away, I drag my thumb across the small dahlia charm.

“You’re still wearing it,” I whisper, looking down at the piece of jewelry.

“I never take it off,” he whispers back. Before I can think to do otherwise, I pull him into my arms and hug him tightly. He grunts against my grasp, but settles into the embrace with a heavy sigh. “Cuddling all night wasn’t enough?” he quips.

“Would you like me to let go?” I counter. He squeezes me tighter and runs his fingers down my bare back. “Promise to stop disappearing on me,” I whisper after a moment.

“I promise,” he whispers back. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding in. We’re quiet for a few minutes, somehow still needing this time. We slept side by side and bloody showered together, but god forbid he leave my arms. “...I do need my clothes. I don’t think I can walk to my room in your towel,” Arthur finally breaks the silence.

“I’ll go grab your suitcase,” I offer, finally letting go of him and taking a step back. He smiles wider than he probably means to and nods. I put on a t-shirt, wink at him, and leave the flat feeling more rejuvenated than I ever have in my life. There’s a different kind of rest that comes from sleeping beside someone, or at least that’s what I’ve decided to conclude. As I leave my flat and walk down the hallway, memories of last night flood my mind like scenes in a film. Oddly enough, those first moments stick with me the most: opening the door to his face, hugging him, smelling him for the first time in a week. A bloody week, a blip of time stretched over what felt like centuries. As I approach his door, that promise echoes in my mind. He won’t go again. Not without me.

I open his luckily unlocked door slowly, step inside, and –

“I was wondering when you’d come in.” I freeze and stare blankly at the man sitting on Arthur’s bed like he’s staging an intervention. Saito looks the opposite of rested, so much so that I almost feel guilty for sauntering in here acting like I’ve gotten the best sleep of my life. My heart pounds as half a dozen thoughts rage through my head at the same time. What could he possibly have to say to me after what he did? Does he really think he has the right to be cross after whisking Arthur away for a week without a word? How much does he know? How much has he inferred? Has he told anyone? Is this the other shoe I was waiting for? My stomach churns at the barrage of thoughts. Out of all the people in this palace, I never thought I’d be at odds with Saito. He’s supposed to be one of the few allies I’ve got here. Am I only allowed a certain number? Must I lose him to have Arthur? Who else must I sacrifice? More importantly, who am I willing to give up, and if the list is long, who does that make me?

“...Good morning,” is all that comes out of my mouth.

“He didn’t even unpack his bag,” Saito says, motioning to Arthur’s navy blue suitcase. It’s toppled over onto the floor like he rolled it into the room without a care in the world. “I told him to at least wait until morning, to think on it before running to you. He didn’t listen, clearly,” he grumbles. There’s a lifeless aspect to his voice I haven’t heard before, a lack of energy.

“You can’t control him any more than you can control me,” I say through clenched teeth.

“He went right into your bed, I’m assuming? Didn’t even stop to think about his career, about your reputation, about the consequences,” he continues, rising to his feet.

“You act like we don’t know the risks!” I snap.

“Do you? Do you actually? Because if you do, then you’re both stupider than I thought! If you are thinking, it’s certainly not with your head!”

“Do you need something? Or are you planning on parroting soliloquies at me all morning?”

Saito groans and rubs his face, lowering his shoulders as he takes a step closer to me. “I’m not here to lecture you or change your mind. I know that’s a pointless endeavor. But the three of us need to have a talk,” he says, motioning to the door. I tilt my head.

“...Now?”

“Yes, Eames. Now.”

“But –”

“What, would you like fifteen minutes to fool around with your family’s employee? Should I start a timer?” Instead of saying yes, I grimace and turn around, walking out of the room knowing he’ll follow. I don’t know why he thinks his name has suddenly materialized on my birth certificate, but he certainly believes he’s gained access to some sort of fatherhood. Saito at least drags Arthur’s suitcase behind him as we drag our feet back to my flat. As soon as I open the door, I fight a gasp. Arthur is in my kitchen, in the process of putting the kettle on. Thankfully, he’s still in his towel, but still nothing else. What would in any other situation be a dream come true is now a nightmare-inducing affair.

“I thought I’d make –”

“Arthur,” I say quickly. He turns to the door and nearly drops the mug in his hand as his eyes widen. His face completely reddens, which should please me, but instead makes my stomach drop. His embarrassment’s not as fun when it’s not my doing.

“Get dressed,” Saito says curtly, rolling the suitcase vaguely in Arthur’s direction. “And both of you, brush your teeth. I can smell sex on your breaths.” I don’t believe him, but I decide not to question him further. Arthur gives me an incredulous look as if I’ve somehow done this on purpose, and I return the expression with one that hopefully conveys fuck if I know. After following his orders, we sit down on the couch and stare at Saito expectantly. He’s standing in front of us like a teacher about to scold us for goofing off in class, his hands practically glued to his hips. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, leaving us to sit in uncomfortable silence. Even Arthur’s presence can’t dispel the queasy feeling in my stomach.

“I –”

“No, don’t say anything,” Saito stops Arthur in his tracks.

“Well, someone’s got to,” I gripe. Saito scowls and shakes his head.

“You both leave me at a loss for words. Here I was thinking you’d finally have a good influence. ‘Oh, a younger guy! He’ll have some perspective! Maybe Eames will learn something from him!’ I, at the very least, thought you wouldn’t be able to get around him. Sure, you can escape plenty of old fools like me and your royal guards before, but a twenty-something trained by Michael Galvit? You’d never be able to bypass him, right?” Saito starts what I know will be an agonizing rant.

“Get on with it, mate,” I mumble under my breath. What happened to no lectures?

“I was wrong! Little did I know that you had one more trick up your sleeve!” he shouts, taking a step closer to me. “You actually did the one thing I never thought you’d do! You managed to get around an impossible royal guard by sleeping with him,” he growls. It takes a lot of willpower to not break out into a fit of laughter. Is he being serious?

“That implies I’m using him. I’d sleep with him regardless of my prisoner status,” I can’t help but say. Arthur groans and buries his face in his hands. Saito gawks at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“You’re a nutcase. I’ve always known that. It’s my fault for thinking you wouldn’t go through with this. But you?” Saito steps away from me and to my royal guard. Arthur reluctantly looks up, his face once again a rosy hue. The poor darling is mortified. Is he that ashamed of himself? “You’re an employee! Your one job is to protect Eames and keep him out of trouble! How does fucking him achieve that goal?”

“If I may interject,” I clear my throat, “I’ve been remarkably well behaved since he showed up. Don’t you think a new hobby is beneficial?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Arthur grumbles just loud enough for me to hear. Saito looks about ready to smack me upside the head, but I’ve started to enjoy myself. Arthur is the one who told me not to roll over and submit, after all. I’m just doing what he asked.

“Ignore his rambling. Do you honestly want to put your entire livelihood on the line for him?” Saito asks. Ouch.

“If that’s what it takes,” Arthur blurts out before he even fully processes the sentence. I turn to him and bite my lip. Bad at flirting? Yes. Painfully, endearingly, accidentally sweet? Another yes. Saito sighs, finally letting his hands drop to his sides.

“...At least you actually like each other,” he mumbles. I tilt my head. Excuse me? He shakes out his hands and sighs, appearing to finally settle down. Was that really a concern of his? “You both need to understand how much this needs to stay a secret. It does not leave this room, understand? Eames, that means not telling Mr. Rallus or Miss Paget. Arthur, that means not telling your family.” Though I say nothing, my face must express enough, because Saito groans. “You told her when she called me, right?”

“...Technically, she only knows we kissed. She’ll infer everything else,” I mutter.

“And you?” Saito turns to Arthur. He looks at the ground.

“...I may have mentioned the kiss to Annie.” My heart swells. It was rather foolish of Saito to think he wouldn’t tell his darling sister.

“You’re both impossible. Fine. It does not leave the five of us. When you’re out in public, I do not want there to be even an inkling that you enjoy each other’s company. If you so much as stand too close to one another, I’ll intrude. Am I going to be able to stop you from sleeping in here?” Saito asks, looking at Arthur.

“Probably not,” he answers quietly. Saito looks about ready to give up entirely and throw us to the wolves, but instead, he clears his throat and shakes his head.

“Fine. But you won’t leave this flat in anything other than your suits. And I don’t want to see a single ounce of evidence on either of your bodies. Hickeys, bruises, bites, don’t let it fucking happen. Do you at least have that modicum of self-control?” If Saito’s embarrassed by this topic, he certainly isn’t showing it. I don’t mind it much either, but Arthur is practically radiating discomfort next to me. He looks like he’s trying to find some way to make himself disappear.

“Sure, we do,” I answer, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve already almost broken that rule twice now.

“If this gets out, I won’t be able to protect either of you. Arthur, you will doubtlessly lose your job, and you may never work in this field again. Eames, you’ll be subjected to public scrutiny unlike anything you’ve ever faced. But that’s the least of your worries. You’ll lose your family, your chance at the throne if you ever want it, maybe even your money. Your parents will disappear you into some countryside and pretend you don’t exist for the rest of your days,” Saito threatens. I don’t mention how my consequences don’t particularly bother me that much. Someone would at least make the choice for me. The countryside could be nice, especially if I could drag Arthur along with me.

“We understand,” Arthur says perfectly cordially.

“I’ll have you,” Saito turns to Arthur, “sign an NDA. It’ll be exclusively for my and the family’s protection. If, worst-case scenario, it does get out, people will be concerned that Eames is abusing his power. You’ll sign off and say that isn’t the case.”

“...I don’t mind,” Arthur says. I raise my eyebrows and finally snicker.

“You’re gonna make him put in writing that he likes shagging me?” I say. Saito huffs.

“That’s not what it is. It’s a statement of a consensual, confidential relationship,” he attempts to argue. I grin wider.

“Arthur, you’ve gotta legally admit you like me,” I goad, elbowing him. He scoffs.

“Would you stop it?” he complains, looking at me just to roll his eyes.

“My ego is gonna shoot through the roof.”

“It hasn’t already?”

“You’re being awfully mean for someone who’s about to admit to having a big, fat, incurable crush on me.”

“Your attitude is currently curing it, actually,” he says, but he’s started to smile. Can’t hide much from me anymore, love.

“No, it isn’t. You like it. And you hate that you do,” I tease.

“I don’t –”

“Ahem. Are you two seriously flirting right in front of me?” Saito asks. We both turn to look at him. I may be making things up in my head, but for a brief moment, I swear there was a smile on his face before we turned our heads. “Just because I know about this doesn’t mean I want to,” he complains, walking out of the living room. “Arthur, –”

“Wait! I have a question,” I interrupt and call out after him. He reluctantly turns back around, crossing his arms.

“What could you possibly want?”

“I’d like to take Arthur out to dinner.”

Saito’s eyes practically pop out of his head as he twitches hard. I think he might actually shoot me. He does carry a gun. Maybe I should be more careful about what I say, but the way his face is contorting like a cartoon character’s gives me just enough glee to not regret taking the risk.

“You’re joking, right?” Saito tries. Bad attempt.

“It’s rude to shag a man and not buy him a meal,” I double down.

“Eames,” Arthur whisper-growls, elbowing me in the ribs.

“I’m just taking the piss,” I whisper back. He swallows hard and settles into the couch further. That reasoning didn’t seem to cheer him up.

“Here’s what you can do. You can go to your interview, and Arthur can stand a meter away. That’s the closest to a date you’re getting,” Saito snaps, unwilling to tolerate my tomfoolery and Arthur’s not-so-sweet nothings any longer.

“What interview?” I ask.

“You didn’t just ask me that.”

“In case you forgot, both of you have been gone for a week. I haven’t exactly been getting the daily scoop,” I remind him. Saito and Arthur both stiffen quickly. I put my hand on my royal guard’s shoulder and rub it gently in some attempt to make sure he knows he’s forgiven.

“...You have an interview at one. Arthur, come with me so you can be briefed. It won't be a quick meeting. You – we’ve missed a lot,” Saito mumbles, staring at his shoes. Arthur sighs, stands, and walks toward Saito. As the two head to the door, Arthur looks back and stares at me for a moment. He grabs Saito by the sleeve, forcefully pulling his ear to his lips. The two go back and forth while I stare with my head tilted. Eventually, Saito groans and exits the flat while Arthur walks back to me.

“Darling, I –” Before I can get out the sentence, he leans down and cups my face in his hands, kissing me softly. I hum into his mouth and grab his shirt, pulling him down closer to me. You’ll never catch me rejecting his lips. He breaks the kiss fast, pressing his forehead against mine as he breathes hard. “Did you just ask Saito if you could kiss me goodbye?”

“Those weren’t the exact words,” Arthur mutters. He’s practically in my lap. It’s taking almost all of my willpower to not pull him down completely on top of me and help him relax after our scolding. Instead of doing exactly that, we share a few more quick kisses.

“...I know you’re risking a lot for this,” I whisper, unable to get out what’s implied in the sentence.

“You’re risking more,” he whispers back.

“No regrets on my end, Sir Arthur.”

He smiles wonkily as though he’s trying and failing to push it down. It makes him look silly, a little awkward, and painfully himself. You’d think a scowl would suit his face, but he looks much more Arthur with a goofy grin. We stay quietly close for a moment as if we can somehow pause time through silence, then share one final quick kiss before he exits the flat.

~~~

“You’re in a good mood,” Mal comments, brushing her fingers through my overworked hair. I snap back into reality and rediscover some awareness of my surroundings. I’m sitting in the dressing room of some expensive studio I’ve been dragged to, my arse practically glued to a white leather chair that is both painful and painfully out of style. I’ve been staring at my face in the mirror for an hour now as Mal prods and pokes at my every imperfection, trying to find some way to make me presentable. When Saito said “interview,” he really did not emphasize the word enough. Interview to me means a pleasant little sit-down that will be dropped on page eight of some magazine no one under sixty-five will touch. Interview to Saito means a recorded session with a professional journalist who certainly does not write fluff pieces about my outfits for a living. This gal is the real deal, someone who actually wants to analyze everything I’m about to say before it airs to the entire country in a week or so. I’ve not a clue what we’re even meant to speak about.

“That’s odd,” I answer, because it is. This type of thing is my worst nightmare, and yet I’ve got not even an inkling of fear in my stomach. The door into the dressing room swings open, and Arthur pokes his head in. He smiles quick, pushes it down, and says,

“He’ll be ready soon, right? He’s on in fifteen.”

“Don’t rush me, chiant!”

“But –”

“He’ll be ready! Shoo,” Mal interrupts, waving Arthur away quickly. He sighs and closes the door. He’s been running around since he left my room this morning. We’ve survived through stolen glances, hidden winks, and quick chats interrupted by voices yelling over us or doors slamming. What a pretty face. He should be the one on camera. Let’s do an op-ed on a handsome, brainiac American. That’ll actually catch the attention of far more English folk than my charade.

“So, someone’s back,” Mal says, grabbing my head and turning me away from the door. I’m forced to look back into my eyes, squinting to blur the view.

“Someone is,” I say. Saito was very clear about how much of a secret we’ve got to keep. Mal suspects, I know she does, but I’ll keep it under wraps.

“You can’t stop smiling,” she says. I try to force the accused motion down, but fail. It’s easier to make it a snarkier, less genuine thing, but something real still shines through.

“...It’s odd when he’s not around,” I mutter.

“Mh-hm,” she hums, finally taking off the towel that’s been cloaked around me all afternoon. She swipes her palms across my shoulders, then leaves her hands on them. “This lady is tough. She refused to give me the question transcript, so it certainly won’t be a walk in the park. She’ll likely ask about the ball. Do you know how to answer?”

“Half-truths, love.”

“Maybe less than half.”

I snicker as she finally smiles back at me through the mirror.

After a final quick check, Mal gives me the green light and allows me to leave the room. Waiting right outside the door is Arthur, his nose in his notebook as always. He looks up as I twirl around and curtsy with an invisible skirt. He stares at me and covers his smile with that dastardly book.

“How do I look?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.

“Like you’re about to get reamed on television,” he answers. I put my hands on my hips and huff.

“I am trained for this sort of thing, you know.”

“Just be careful. I tried talking to her, but she just pretended like I didn’t exist. None of us will be able to help you out there,” he warns, motioning down the hallway as he starts to walk. I follow after him, having to stay a pace behind so we don’t smack into each other. The narrow path is stuffier than anyone would like, the red walls covered in framed newspaper clippings. I’d pause to take a look at one, but I fear Arthur will start literally dragging me if I don’t keep up our brisk speed. Despite my attempts to keep up, he reaches the door far before me, pushing it open and holding it for me as I step into the filming room. I’m no stranger to a set: the bright lights, the dozens of folks in black rushing around, and the phony smiles from everyone in the room. This place is no different except for one aspect, and it’s the intimidating energy coming from the woman in the interview chair. She’s in a pantsuit, looks no older than forty-five, and has a frown pasted on her face like it lives there for most of the year. I shiver and pause in my tracks at the sight of her. I’ve seen her on the telly ripping apart businessmen, politicians, and fraudsters alike. Something tells me she won’t go easy on royalty.

“I’ll be right beside you off-screen,” Arthur whispers in my ear, hoping it’ll help. I don’t see how it could, but somehow, the anxiety that had begun to bubble in my gut simmers down. I look at him and nod as the reporter rises in her seat. She approaches me and holds out her hand, still not smiling. I nonetheless accept the handshake, quipping,

“Go easy on me, hm, love?”

“I don’t appreciate pet names, your Highness. My name is Dr. Heleen, and you will address me as such,” she deadpans, taking her hand back sharply. I resist the urge to flex my fingers and don’t bother with an apology. I don’t suppose this will end well, but I’ve got no choice but to grin and bear it. She motions to the white leather couch sitting across from her chair. I suppose she has very specific taste in furniture. Either that, or she’s trying to make me and all of her past guests uncomfortable. I shuffle across the floor to the deathtrap, but Dr. Heleen stays put and stares at Arthur. He avoids eye contact, taking a step back toward the wall with that trusty notebook-shield. Instead of letting him flee, she takes another step closer to him and says,

“You can sit beside him. You are his guard, no?” My heartbeat speeds up as Arthur’s eyes widen. Don’t get me wrong, I love when the bloke’s close to me, but this isn’t exactly the time for us to be snuggling up to one another.

“Oh, I’m not really, uh, meant for cameras,” he stutters, trying and failing to find anything safe to look at. I’d disagree with him, but I better keep my mouth shut.

“Go on. Sit down,” she orders. Her English accent is even more posh than mine. It gives her a sound of authority that she’s likely earned over her lifetime.

“But I –”

“We’re on a tight schedule. Sit,” she interrupts his final plea. He makes a face at me that I return with a shrug. Left without a choice, he ambles over to the couch and sits to my left.

“This was not addressed in the meeting,” he whispers.

“No shite,” I whisper back.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Just sit still and look pretty, darling,” I flirt in an attempt to calm him down. All it does is make him curse under his breath and shift in his seat. I look out past the set and to the crowd that has gathered around to watch us. Mal and Saito are both whispering to each other while glancing at Arthur, clearly just as surprised to see him by my side. Dr. Heleen pays them no mind as she takes her seat and orders the cameramen to start rolling. Some tall gentleman starts a countdown from five, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably again. The poor bloke is far from prepared for this. Let’s pray to whichever God has sympathy for me that she doesn’t ask him a single thing, because if she does, he very well might melt into the couch.

The interview starts off the same way every one of these things does. We go through basic greetings and “catch up” as if we somehow know each other. I put on all the charm I can muster, trying to ignore the nervous energy radiating off of the man beside me. It seems as though Arthur is just a piece of decoration, part of the set, as if he’s some lamp or ice sculpture. He contrasts well against the couch, his black suit distinguishing itself well from the ugly leather. Dr. Heleen clears her throat and flips through her notebook, slowly turning the pages like we’ve suddenly got all the time in the world.

“So, Edward, your Dahlia Ball was last week. That tradition is from her majesty’s side of the family, no?” she asks. I don’t know why Mal tried to frighten me. This is all in the ordinary. I could do this interview in my sleep.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s a funny story, actually. The Queen met –”

“Don’t you think it’s rather antiquated? Selling a bunch of women off to some rich man?” she interrupts. My stomach drops. We’re not playing around anymore.

“I suppose it seems that way on the surface, but it really isn’t so archaic. It’s a fun night of dancing with only guests who want to be there,” I answer, looking past Dr. Heleen. Mal nods in approval and shoots up her thumb as images of Lauren and Cassidy flash before my eyes. Neither of them wanted to be there, that’s for certain.

“Tell me then, if it’s so fun, why did you leave?” she asks, putting her notebook down and staring me dead in the eyes. Hers are hazel and foreboding, almost turning orange with the heat of her gaze.

“...Excuse me?” I buy a few seconds.

“Everyone knows you left the Dahlia Ball early. You didn’t walk out with a woman like you were supposed to at the end. So, why did you leave?” she repeats the question. I have an answer designed for this question, but it feels rotten to say aloud. I suppose I have no choice. I clear my throat and put on my best mournful voice.

“...Well, my dad – his majesty, sorry, wasn’t present. It was hard to focus while thinking about where he was.” I’ve got to be careful with my words here. Every syllable is calculated.

“So his majesty was sick, then? For how long?”

“No, no! He’s right as rain, I assure you. It was –”

“You just said he wasn’t present. Why wouldn’t he be present besides sickness? Or is there some other animosity between you two?”

“I –”

“You’re lying to me, Edward. Why did you leave? To drink? Party? Or maybe to go fool around with Miss Paget?” she insists, scooting forward in her chair as I grimace. How dare she bring Ariadne into this? She doesn’t deserve any further airtime.

“Leave her out of this. She’s a bloody civilian. She doesn’t deserve this country’s scrutiny,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Mal and Saito facepalm in unison, but Dr. Heleen smiles.

“We’re getting somewhere now. Fine. If it wasn’t her, what could’ve made you leave Miss Darcie behind? She is your intended bride, is she not?” she continues. I take a deep breath. I don’t know how to save this now, but I’ve got to press on. I’m going to be locked away in some dungeon after this. Hopefully Arthur will visit on weekends.

“...Miss Darcie is a lovely girl, as were all the other women. I didn't mean to upset her or anyone else, things just got hectic,” I mutter.

“Really? Because that’s not why Miss Darcie thinks you left,” she says. I stop myself from gasping as I ask,

“You’ve spoken with her?” Dr. Heleen responds by turning in her chair to face my companion, completely ignoring me. For the first time since we’ve begun, I look at my royal guard. He’s at least not sweating bullets, but swallows hard at Dr. Heleen’s overwhelming glare.

“Mr. Galvit, yes? You’ve been working for the royal family for two months now. How has the experience been?” she asks. He perks up and shudders. It’s a familiar look to when my mother called upon him at the dinner table so many weeks ago.

“...Uh, very rewarding,” Arthur mumbles so low he’s hard to hear.

“Someone get a mic on him, now,” Dr. Heleen orders.

“You’re interviewing me, not him,” I interject. This whole thing is already a mess, might as well not fear making it messier.

“I just have a few questions, Edward. Unless you’re afraid of something he’ll admit?” she asks. I resist the urge to curse her out. She’s got me trapped.

“...No. Go ahead.”

Sure enough, some lackey hurries onto the set with a mic. He takes no time to attach it to Arthur, who is giving me a frankly upsetting look of fear through the whole process. I wish I could grab his hand, stroke his hair, try to really calm him down with my tongue if I have to, but all I can do is watch the anxiety and horror fight for dominance on his face and through his body. His foot has started tapping against the floorboards, the sound radiating throughout the room and its high ceilings. What could she possibly have to bother him with? And when did she speak to Faye? Isn’t this a breach of some sort of rule? Mal has disappeared somewhere, hopefully calling someone who can stop this, but Saito is still watching like Arthur and I are a crash he just can’t look away from. I suppose that’s what Arthur and I have been to him from the start. Soon enough, the lackey finishes his work and rushes off set with a nod to his overlord.

“Now, then. Mr. Galvit – may I call you Arthur?” He nods. “You’re Edward’s royal guard, specifically, yes? An American. That’s odd. Why were you called in?”

“...I, uh, my family has been in this business for years,” Arthur mumbles his non-answer. It’ll only get him so far.

“I know. Your father is renowned. Still, it seems like you’re an extreme measure. Has your work been difficult?” she asks. Arthur once again fidgets uncomfortably. I still can’t figure out why the attention has been shifted to him. Dr. Heleen had me dead to rights pulling Faye into this, and yet she pivoted away. What does she have planned?

“All work is difficult. But, like I said, it’s been valuable,” he answers. He doesn’t sound half bad. His voice is shaking, but I don’t think that can be helped. He can’t be expected to sound confident when he’s never had a day of media training in his life. At least this isn’t live.

“Miss Darcie certainly thinks so. She thinks you’ve been getting a lot out of this job,” Dr. Heleen says. Oh no. I know where we’re going. Faye may be a bit of an airhead, but that’s all a presentation. She’s an observant gal under all that manufactured ditz. It’d do me good to remember that more often, but I clearly haven’t in some time. She’s seen how I interact with Arthur, and she watched me run to him during the ball before once again running from her. She knows the rumors. She may love me, she may endlessly want me, and she may very well end up forcefully marrying me, but she knows the bloody rumors.

“...I don’t know what you mean,” Arthur murmurs, looking down.

“Are you and Edward friends?” Dr. Heleen asks. Say no, love. Say no, tell her –

“Yes, in a way,” he answers. I drag my fingers through my done-up hair. Oh, Arthur, you are a sweetheart and an absolute fool.

“That’s odd, isn’t it? You’re an employee, no?”

“I’m always by his side. It would be weird if we didn’t get along,” Arthur speaks a little louder, getting defensive now. This is every great, annoying reporter’s playbook. Build your target up until he’s too angry to lie.

“He’s a polite bloke. You –”

“I’m not talking to you,” Dr. Heleen cuts me off. Ouch. Whatever organ my pride is stored in may start failing. “Miss Darcie seems to think you’re getting in the way of Edward’s future. Now, why would she think that?”

“I have no clue. Maybe she should learn to mind her business,” Arthur snaps. I hang my head and sigh. He bloody hates her and cannot hide it. Come on, mate, don’t you think you’ve won out over her? Do you really still have to despise her when you’ve had your tongue in my mouth more often than not in the past twenty-four hours?

“Wow. That’s harsh. Miss Darcie deeply cares for Edward. The two of them are in love, according to her. Are you really trying to get between that in some way?” I fight the urge to break out into a fight of laughter. In love with Faye. That’ll be the bloody day.

“I’m not getting in between anything. What exactly are you accusing me of? Doing my job? Should I be some silent robot and forge no connections to the man I work for? Is it a crime to enjoy my work?” Arthur argues, getting even louder now. He’s right. He’s exactly right, but he shouldn’t be saying a damn word of it.

“I think it’s a crime to come into a country and start meddling with one of its most important people,” Dr. Heleen argues. It’s bait, clear hyperbole to trick Arthur into an explosion, and it’ll work.

“Are you kidding me? I’m a spy now? I’m a criminal for being friendly?”

“Don’t you think Edward has enough concubines with Miss Paget? Does he really need you, too?”

Arthur springs up from the couch, the camera quickly following him as he rises. I think to grab his arm and pull him back down, but it’s too late. There’s no way for me to fix this now. Christ, this whole time I thought this was going to be an exposé against me. I never imagined Arthur could be the target.

“I don’t have to take this! You forced me into this damn interview, knowing I wouldn’t know how to talk to you, hoping you could get some confession out of me! You think you can bring Eames down through me? Or are you just trying to get your ratings up? Just how desperate are you?”

“Who’s Eames?” Dr Heleen asks, but it’s not a real question. There’s a smug smile dancing across her face. I fully groan and bury my face in my hands. We’re fucked. Arthur pauses, likely trying to find some excuse, but he can’t dig one up. “Edward, who are you sleeping with? Miss Paget or him?”

“That’s enough! This interview is over!” Mal shouts, forcing me to look up. She’s brought in an army of palace workers, all of whom hurry to shut the whole disaster down. Dr Heleen rushes to her feet and protests, but my saviors continue to take apart the room. Within the minute, they’ve taken control of the cameras, lighting, and every man in black in the building. Dr. Heleen picks a fight with Mal, one she’ll lose, but still one that’ll go on for the next several minutes. I stand up and put my hand on Arthur’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and face me. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes still wide with adrenaline. He stares at me like he’s unsure of who I am at first, but then it registers. He shrugs my hand off of him and takes a step back, dragging his fingers through his hair as he groans.

“Oh, fuck, I completely fucked that up,” he scolds himself, talking to the air.

“You’re okay, love. You didn’t –”

“They can’t air that, can they? I fucked us. You’ll be completely screwed,” he continues his litany of self-scorn.

“Arthur –”

“Why did I say all of that? I should’ve just walked away, stayed quiet, but instead I ruined your life!” he interrupts again.

“Arthur! Dressing room, now,” I say, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the door into the narrow hallway. He protests, but doesn’t force my hand off of him as I pull him through the doorway and all the way down the corridor. I usher us into my dressing room and lock the door, finally letting go of him as he teeters to the middle of the room. He blinks hard at me and groans heavily.

“Darling, listen to me. My family is incredibly powerful. That tape will never see the light of day. You don’t have to worry about that,” I assure him.

“She’s a reporter. She’ll get it out somehow, she’ll –”

“Get out what? You didn’t say anything wrong! She accused me of sodomy, fine, it’s all been done before. All you said is that we’re mates. There’s nothing wrong with that,” I interrupt. He takes a deep breath, finally seemingly calming himself a bit. I take a step closer and put my hands on his shoulders.

“...It’s really okay?” he whispers.

“Yes. It’s okay,” I say, but I have no clue if it’s true. Yes, my family is powerful. But Arthur’s right. Dr. Heleen is a reporter. She’s the one type of person who could get around us. She’s supposed to be the country’s last line of defense, the seeker of truth. If she wants that information out, truly wants it out, she’ll get it to the public somehow. We’ve just got to hope she’ll sign enough forms and take enough money to keep her quiet for the foreseeable future. I could’ve said all of that to Arthur, and I’m sure he knows it, but the way he’s looking at me keeps my mouth shut. It’s like he’s just fallen off the Titanic, and I’m the raft that floated by him just when he was about to freeze to death. He’s been my rock, my support for months. I owe him the same.

“...This is too hard. How are we going to get away with this? It’s been a day, not even, and we’ve already been caught twice. Maybe Saito won’t protect us after that disaster,” he mumbles. My heart drops. He isn’t going to give up already, is he? After everything?

“What are you saying?” I ask, my voice quivering. So much for strong support.

“I don’t know. Eames, I don’t know,” he whispers.

“You told Saito you’d give up your livelihood for this if you had to. I didn’t ask that of you. You gave that up. I…I won’t blame you if you decide it’s too much, but you have to tell me now. I can’t fucking do half-measures with you anymore. You’re either with me or you’re not,” I say firmly, looking him directly in the eyes. I’ve never made up my mind about bloody anything except for him. After a moment of staring, Arthur puts his hands on my cheeks and closes his eyes, pulling our lips together. He kisses me softly, gently, wrapping his arms around my neck as I grab his waist. I hum into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, parting my lips and nuzzling his nose against mine. Before I can return the favor, he breaks away and keeps his eyes closed.

“Of course I’m with you. I just…I don’t want to destroy your life,” he whispers against my skin.

“You’re the only part of my life that makes sense, darling. There’s nothing there to destroy.”

“That’s not true. You know it isn’t.”

“I’m all in all the same,” I cement.

“...So am I.”

“Even though you’re a spy?” I tease. He scrunches up his nose, which I respond to by kissing his forehead. He smiles and pulls me back in for another kiss, a real one, something that most certainly should not be happening in the dressing room of a studio we almost got outed in. I cup his face in my hands as he tightly grabs my shirt, toying with the fabric as I kiss him deeply yet gently, forcing myself to stay calm so I won’t get turned on enough to do a lot more in a place where a lot less really should be taking place. After a minute, I smile against his mouth and accidentally force his lips away. He smiles too, backing up a little to look into my eyes.

“You asked how we’d get away with it. We are. Right now,” I say. He rolls his eyes.

“Just barely,” he replies.

“Still counts. We can get away with it more later, if you’d like. I’ll even make you dinner,” I offer.

“I’ll take being a concubine, I guess,” he teases.

“You’re my favorite one,” I tease back, kissing him a few quick times.

“Excuse me? There are others?” he says with mock indignance after we part.

“So many. You can have every other Tuesday.”

“How lucky am I?”

“You’re the –”

A loud bang at the door interrupts our flirting, which is for the best, considering that in a couple of minutes we’d probably take advantage of the leather couch sitting in the right corner of this room. I’ve never had more than one night stands, never been with anyone long enough to know how deep yearning goes. How much more of him do I need to satisfy the cravings? Will it ever end? Do I really even want it to?

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, letting go of my royal guard to walk to the door. I open it and reveal Saito, who enters the room without my permission. He seems a little shaken up, a few hairs on his neatly-groomed head out of place. He looks both of us up and down, likely guessing what was just occurring, but he doesn’t seem all that cross about it. Instead, he closes the door behind him and nods to us.

“Dr. Heleen has decided to not air the tape. As long as you stay on your best behavior, you’ll be okay,” he says. Arthur and I both let out a loud sigh of relief. Another day in the land of the living.

“I can’t believe Faye went to a reporter. And bringing up Ariadne like that? What a bloody mess,” I grumble. Saito hangs his head and takes a deep breath.

“I should’ve known better than to accept the offer. Mal and I thought –”

“It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself. You’ve already done enough for us,” I interrupt him. Maybe I shouldn’t be forgiving him so easily after the past week, but he looks so stressed he could pass out. I’ll throw him a bone. He pauses, glancing between us, and then says,

“...Why don’t you two take the rest of the day off? Obviously, don’t go anywhere public, and be careful, but…take it easy.” I grin at the man staring at us like he’s embarrassed to be giving us the leeway.

“Admit it. You think we’re adorable together,” I tease. Arthur groans behind me.

“Just get out of here before I change my mind. And try to avoid Dr. Heleen on your way out. She’s not in the best of moods.”

“How surprising,” I quip. Saito smiles a little before stepping out of the way of the door, providing us with our much-needed escape.

After leaving the building, Arthur and I hop into one of the palace cars and request a ride to a location I haven’t been to in years. Back when we were teenagers, Yusuf and I would go to Box Hill and walk the trails until sunset, sometimes drinking along the way. As we got older and busier, it became less feasible to take the long drive all the way out to the area, but the studio we were just trapped in was located at the perfect middle point between the palace and Surrey County. A stroll in a forest isn’t exactly the most romantic of locations, but there aren’t many places we can go to be alone. On the way here, I called in a favor with an old bloke who had a soft spot for me and Yusuf back in the day. Thanks to that, Arthur and I will at the very least have some alone time at the cafe located at the top of the hill.

“I can’t believe you’re making us walk through the woods,” Arthur complains, but he hasn’t let go of my hand since we started the hike. We’re nearly at the cafe, and though there have been some moments of quiet concentration as Arthur attempted to not step in mud, we’ve mostly been talking freely. Without the physical constraints of the palace and the mental constraints of a yet-to-be consummated relationship, we’ve finally torn down many of the walls that were standing between us.

“You’re lucky I haven’t murdered you out here,” I tease as I tug him forward. He grunts as he reluctantly takes his place by my side. We trudge through a particularly muddy portion, a side effect of doing just about anything outdoors in this country, and lament the dirtiness of our trainers. Arthur glares at me as we begin the final uphill portion, but I kiss his cheek and calm him down.

“I didn’t give Faye the ring,” I blurt out as soon as my lips leave his skin. I don’t know what possessed me to say that. She’s taken up a lot of my time today without my permission.

“I hoped you didn’t,” he says, smiling to himself.

“How could I? I had just kissed a very handsome bloke. I was practically dizzy,” I tease, snickering.

“Oh, yeah? Do I know him?”

“Probably not.”

Arthur scoffs and nudges my shoulder with his, squeezing my hand tighter as he does. “Prick,” he grumbles, but he’s still smiling.

“...You know, things sort of fell apart after you left. My mother’s been floating around the halls like a ghost, my father’s been inching closer and closer toward the grave, and Johnny’s been even more irritating than normal. Sometimes I think you sucked up the good of that place and take it with you when you go,” I mumble, looking away from him. Arthur completely stops in his tracks, forcing me to face him.

“That’s not true. You…you’re what’s right about the palace,” he says without making eye contact. It’s hard for him to push out the words, nearly impossible to get his tongue to form the syllables.

“You don’t think they’ve tainted me?” I ask, and it’s half a joke, but he seems to pick up on the half that isn’t. He lets go of my hand and runs his palm down my arm.

“Not a chance,” he whispers, leaning in toward me. I close the gap and kiss him softly, gently. Something’s different in this kiss. It’s slower, stabler, maybe even more…alive. My hands settle easily around his waist as I pull him closer to me. His left hand stays on my cheek, his thumb stroking it gently, but his right creeps up to the back of my head. I shiver hard as our lips slowly mesh together, back and forth, neither of us fighting for any sort of dominance. The kiss isn’t lazy, or messy, or even horny. It’s a feeling I can’t place, an emotion I don’t have a name for, but it makes my stomach rise with a lightness almost as unfamiliar as the sensation against my lips. Vaguely, in the back of my mind, I marvel at the novelty of it, but most of my thoughts remain blank as we move within the kiss, maybe even beyond it.

Once we part, I don’t dare to let him go. We stare at each other like we’ve just breathed fresh air for the first time. Arthur’s eyes are just as glossy as his lips, his expression dazed yet pleased. Was that new for him, too? Is any of this as unknown to him as it is to me? Or has he already known feelings like this before? Has some boy he loved before given him this, or am I as special to him as he is to me? If only I had the courage to ask. Instead, I clear my throat and say,

“...You remember that thing you said about little ecstasies a while back?” He blinks hard like he’s just remembered his reality and answers,

“I think so. Why?”

“Just had one.”

Arthur’s pretty, deep brown eyes widen as the words meet his ears. Those eyes gleam even further, and for a moment, it looks like they’re about to fill with moisture. He’s staring at me like I’m in a museum, like I’m some painting that had been lost for centuries and rediscovered in some crypt. He’s giving me a look I’ve only ever seen in the eyes of my brother many years ago, a childish wonderment I never thought I’d recognize again. I almost want to look away to save myself from the overwhelming wave of emotion passing over me, but I force myself to stay steady.

“...You’re an anomaly,” he whispers.

“That’s too big a word,” I quip, finally breaking. He rolls his eyes and smiles softly, easily breaking out of my grasp after taking his hands off of me. He intertwines our fingers again, brings my hand to his lips, and kisses it.

“Let’s finish this damn hike, Mr. Eames.”

He walks ahead like he knows something I don’t, and to his credit, he probably does.

Chapter Text

“You know, it’s been a month since you’ve slept in your own bed.”

Arthur pauses his routine of tracing circles on my bare chest, one of his several morning rituals that I’ve gotten to know through the rest of August and the beginnings of September. There are things you learn about someone naturally, like their favorite color or least favorite food. There are even the things you learn with a little more effort, their embarrassing childhood memories, their Christmas traditions, their world views. But then, there are those things you didn’t know were learnable in the first place. Things you thought were contained, kept in solitary confinement, things no one could ever know because there would be no reason nor place to share them. These things aren’t scandalous, aren’t secrets, aren’t things kept from the world for some reason. They are, in fact, the most human things about a person, who they are when they’ve got no audience. Over the past month, I have traversed into this final category of knowing, this understanding that requires closeness masked by that very closeness itself.

Arthur is chock-full of little humanities. Firstly, he talks in his sleep. Not often, and not coherently, but there are at times full sentences. He typically addresses things to Annie, though one time he mumbled something about going to Rome and ended it with my name. I’ll stay up a little longer after he’s gone to sleep every so often just to hear his voice without his mind fully behind the words, an activity I’d just about die before admitting to. He also hums while he combs his hair and taps his foot while he brushes his teeth, which I’ve theorized to be a combination of his musical inclination and military-like training. Speaking of, he always wakes up with almost soldier-like precision. Half the time, he shoots up like he’s just heard the start of a shelling, but the longer he spends his nights with me, the more he’s woken slowly. Still always around the same time, but less like he’s got a gun to his head. That all leads to the most endearing and dizzying thing I’ve learned about his subconscious: he’s calmer around me. Standing on his own, he’ll chew his lip, bite his nails, scan the room like he’s looking for enemies. But I’ll saunter up and suddenly, he’ll stand a little less tall. He may even dare to smile. I don’t know what I’ve done to earn that privilege, considering he should probably be more alert while beside me, but I won’t dare ruin our little bubble of protection.

“Does that bother you?” Arthur asks, and he’s not serious, I know he isn’t, but he could be, and that’s enough to pull out a genuine answer.

“Quite the opposite, love.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not leaving,” he says, kissing my shoulder. Another obvious Arthur factoid: he is very touchy. Not clingy, that isn’t the right word, but he’ll certainly do a lot to get his skin against mine. What a travesty.

“We are going to have to get up at some point,” I remind him, dragging out my vowels on the “are.” He groans and nuzzles against my chest. He’s lying essentially on top of my arm and has been since we woke up some time ago.

“We’re supposed to be off today. I’m not moving,” he complains.

“I promised Yusuf we’d go to his horse show. I don’t break my promises,” I say, finally mournfully taking my arm back from him. As I crawl out of bed, he complains again,

“I hate horses.”

“I know you do, but you’ve got no choice,” I say, flashing him a cheeky grin. He groans yet again and rolls right into my spot in bed. After a deep breath, he closes his eyes and gets properly comfortable where I was just lying seconds ago. I put my hands on my hips and glare at him until he, sensing my gaze, opens his eyes. “You’re shameless.”

“And comfortable,” he tags on. My heart swells with something that’s become familiar and yet still unnameable. Is this really the man who came into my flat three months ago in a suit and tie, all business? I cannot overstate the achievement of staring at him, shirtless in my bed, bickering with me like we’ve known each other for years.

“I’m taking my place back,” I decide, stepping closer to the bed with determination. He rolls onto his back and props himself up on his elbows, pulling one knee up in the process. Christ, his abs really show through his skin in that position. If only I had a camera.

“I’d like to see you try,” he challenges, raising his eyebrows. Fair enough, darling. I grab his wrists fast and wrestle his arms back as I climb on top of him. “Eames!” he protests, giggling like a little kid as I plop down right on him and plant quick, wet kisses all over his face. He laughs harder and breaks out of my grasp, grabbing my face to kiss me on the lips. I hum into his mouth as he knocks his nose into mine, trying to get closer to me. We kiss for longer than we probably both planned, only pulling away to breathe.

“I win,” I declare.

“You’re not back in your spot. You win nothing,” he argues.

“We’re in a stalemate, then,” I attempt a compromise.

“Sure. Stalemate,” he concedes, pulling me down to kiss me a few more times. When his mouth leaves mine, I keep him close. He’s so handsome just like this, looking up at me and hanging on my every word. My chest constricts, and I blurt out,

“Are you my boyfriend?” He immediately laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says through the persistent snickering.

“We’ve been shagging for a month. Are you mine, darling?” I ask, putting on my best dramatic voice. Sometimes, he can’t quite handle sentimentality any better than I can. Arthur grabs me by the back of the head and pulls me down to him for another kiss. This one is a little longer than the previous ones.

“Sure, Eames, I’m yours,” he says sarcastically. I furrow my brows and protest,

“Hey, I’m not kidding around!” He kisses me a few more times, taking a little extra time on the last one to swipe his tongue across my bottom lip.

“I like you,” he whispers against my mouth. The sudden sincerity in his voice makes me shiver.

“No, you don’t. You’re using me for my warmth,” I insist, not willing to fully give up the game. Arthur sighs, hooks his legs around my waist, and pecks my lips. God, he looks good. Really good. Seemingly reading my mind and sensing my needs, he kisses me again, this time not pulling away in a hurry. He tightens his grip around my waist, and, with a quick grunt against my mouth, flips us over like it’s easy. Fuck, he’s strong. Where’d he learn how to do that? Now on top of me, he kisses my nose and says,

“No, I’m using your spot in bed for warmth. I’m using you for sex.” I finally laugh, and he laughs right along with me, but before I’ve fully stopped, he leans down and kisses me. After a couple of quick ones, he takes a deep breath and digs his fingers into my hair, going in for a third. Suddenly, he parts my lips, and no one’s laughing anymore. He kisses me harder now, kneading his hands in my scalp as I wrap my arms around his back. I run my fingers up and down, feeling his warm skin and tracing all the spots I’ve already started to learn by heart. The curve of his shoulder blades, the divet of a scar right above the small of his back from an accident he got in when he was seventeen, the mole he got checked a few months after Annie got diagnosed “just in case.” Little humanities.

“Go on, then. Use me,” I say against his lips. Arthur leans down and kisses my neck, a spot he’s normally too afraid to frequent, traveling up until he’s reached my ear.

“Hey, Eames?” he whispers.

“What?”

“I’m your boyfriend,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. My stomach flutters so intensely that it almost pushes an odd sound out of my mouth. Instead of letting it out, I say,

“Thank god.”

“And I’m not using you. Don’t act like you get nothing from this,” he says, and he’s walking me into a trap, I know it, but I’ll still fall regardless.

“I don’t! I suffer through it for you,” I lie. He rolls his eyes, kisses my chest a few times, and moves his hand down toward my crotch. He snakes his hand into my pants with ease and feels up my already hard cock, causing me to bite back a moan.

“Right. Feels like you’re suffering. What a martyr,” he teases.

“Kiss me, you prat,” I manage to rasp out. He smiles like he’s won a contest and leans back down, kissing my lips again. I tighten my grasp around him as he works our mouths together, grinding up against me as the kissing becomes more frantic, less controlled. We keep it up until he physically can’t anymore, breaking away from my mouth. He attaches to my neck instead, fully sucking on the tender skin right above my collarbone. I try to hold it back, but after a few seconds, I let out a loud moan. Fuck, he normally won’t do this, and I’ve accepted that. No marks, no signs, but this time he seems to have forgotten. I don’t have the willpower to remind him. He sucks harder, and fuck, his mouth, I don’t understand how his bloody mouth can do all that it does.

“Christ, don’t stop, please,” I moan out without meaning to. He responds by lightly biting the spot he’s been attacking. I thrust up against him and cry out in pleasure again, my vision briefly leaving. I was unaware I was so into this, but Jesus, something about it being forbidden makes me see stars. He keeps going, sucking and biting on my neck like he’s been waiting for it, like he’s been itching to do it for months. After a final bite that I’m sure will leave a mark, one that just manages to please more than it pains, he leaves my neck and plants a few desperate kisses on my jaw.

“Fuck, I need you,” he rasps out, surely on accident, immediately covering the sentiment with a long, hard kiss. Not just a want. A need. I won’t unhear that sentence for a very long time. It echoes through my head over and over as he climbs off of me. I sit up fast and say,

“Where you going?”

“Coming back,” he answers quickly, and seems like we’ve regressed to incomplete sentences. I watch with blown eyes as he slides off his pajama trousers, trousers that are certainly mine, and takes his pants along with them. I stare at his arse, his bloody perfect arse and his back and his legs as he digs through my nightstand for a condom. I blink hard and kick off what little part of the comforter is still on me, quickly sliding out of my own clothes. Nearly forgot that step, fuck, how can he still do this to me? We’ve done this dozens of times, likely more times than there are days in the month we’ve been together. Dating. Boyfriends. Fuck.

“You’re gorgeous,” I feel the express need to remind him. He turns back to me, his eyes glazed over, and bites his lip hard.

“Says you,” he practically whispers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I dare to waste time with banter. Sometimes I cannot help myself.

“You’re a fucking prince,” he says and grabs my cock. I gasp at the touch and thrust upward on instinct. He’s sitting beside me, looking at me with such intensity that I can’t bear the gaze. I train my eyes to the ceiling as he strokes me agonizingly slowly, drawing out long, low moans.

“No one said I was a pretty one,” I strain out.

“Fuck you. You know you are,” he argues, taking his hand off of me. I think to protest, but I know more is coming soon. Sure enough, he tears open the condom and slides it onto my throbbing cock.

“You just have to say that cause you’re my boyfriend,” I manage through a moan at his touch. He seemingly ignores my self-deprecation completely, instead propping himself over me. I grab his waist quickly as he lowers himself down onto my cock, moaning loudly in the process. As he moves, he throws his head back, closes his eyes, and this time moans out my name. Fucking Christ, he’s so goddamn good – my head snaps back without warning as he fully puts his weight on me, an intense groan of pleasure leaving my lips. “Arthur, fuck,” I rasp out.

“You’re,” he pauses to grunt and bite his lip, manually stopping himself from rocking his hips, “so fucking hot. Always. Fucking prince,” he grumbles like it’s actually making him a little cross. He presses his hands against my chest hard, finally moving on top of me. I moan and thrust up into him, which makes him gasp and dig his nails into my skin. We move right into the rhythm we’ve found through trial and error over the past month, him riding me slow and deep, me pushing up into him as he moves. God, every time I think I’ll be able to keep myself stable, it doesn’t bloody work. Maybe with some other bloke it would, but with him, I can’t fucking stand it. I move my hands from his hips to his thighs, leaving him to do more of the heavy lifting as I unravel beneath him. Somehow, I always lose track of time when we’re in this, never know if it’s been minutes or hours, focus so hard on our pleasure that reality ceases to exist.

I force my eyes open so I can see him, so I can read the pleasure on his face. He’s got sweat dripping down his forehead, his fingers gliding through my chest hair like he can’t find a place to hold onto. Fuck, he’s breathing so hard, each breath turning into a moan as I thrust up into him with his every movement. He moves a little faster now, bringing his hands to my shoulders to give himself more leverage. He sinks down hard onto my cock, so fucking hard, and my eyes shut without my consent as I moan so loud I almost think to cover my mouth. My hips lift up, and I thrust into him fast a few times, causing him to gasp louder and louder each time.

“God, you’re so good,” he rasps out, leaning down to press his forehead against mine. I attempt to lean up and kiss him, but all I do instead is thrust into him even harder than I’ve been. He gasps and practically shouts, “More, Eames, holy fuck.” Before his moan is even done, I thrust up again nice and hard just the way he likes, and he shudders hard, rocking his hips faster now. That pulls a loud gasp out of me as my body jolts at the pleasure of it. Fuck, he’s so tight, I’m so deep inside of him, I’m gonna lose my bloody mind. He starts moving more frantically now, my hips moving without my mental direction. Finally, finally, he leans down and kisses me. I reward him by grabbing his waist and pushing him down as I thrust into him again, causing him to bite my lip and cry out. He pulls away from me suddenly, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. We’ve lost that delicate rhythm, falling back on guarantees we know will get each other off.

“You’re gonna kill me, darling,” I manage as I dig my fingers into his thighs, crying out in pleasure right after the sentence.

“I love when you call me that,” he moans out, practically slamming down on my cock. Holy hell, he really is going to kill me, I’m going to die if I don’t come soon.

“You’re mine,” I remind him and myself, running my hands up his legs and back to his waist. He nods rapidly.

“Yes, yours,” he manages. His cock is so hard, so tantalizing, but I keep my hands on his body. I don’t have to touch him to make him finish, I know I don’t, I know that –

“Arthur, oh god,” I shout. His mouth has found that sensitive spot on my neck again somehow, and he’s digging his teeth into it now, god have mercy, I’m not gonna fucking make it. I start to shake, my hips moving completely without direction, pushing into him hard and desperately, and he’s just fucking taking it. He bites me hard, slams down on my cock, and instantly, my eyes roll into the back of my head. Before I can even think it, I’m losing it hard, and he’s still fucking himself on me as my vision goes white. I’m loudly moaning through the orgasm, clawing at his sides in some futile way to stand it somehow. I can’t, I can’t find a way to make it manageable, all I can do is let the pleasure wreck my body and take over. Then, one more movement on my overstimulated cock registers, and Arthur’s releasing too, losing it on top of me and prolonging our noise violation.

By the time I regain control of my body, Arthur is already climbing off of me. He plops down to my right with a sigh, inhaling deeply and shakily. “You okay?” I manage to ask.

“I win,” he answers. I sit up and tilt my head at him.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m still in your spot.”

Something in me breaks, and I lean down over him to connect our lips fast. He’s not ready for it, doesn’t know what to do with his mouth, but I kiss him anyway with some gentle resolve even I don’t quite understand. Just when he gets his hand into my hair, I pull away. He stares at me and swallows hard, a typical “Arthur” reaction when he’s at a loss for words.

“...What was that for?” he finds his vocabulary. For a moment, the truth dances on my tongue. I think to tell him I’ve never known anyone like him, that I’ve never been so charmed, so in over my head. But then, I look deeper into those eyes, notice the slight fire always in them, the fire that made it possible for him to uproot his life and move to another country, that same fire that could grow and get him to run and do it again.

“Your reward. For winning,” I tease, and it doesn’t come out quite right, can’t fully hide that there’s something behind it, but I smile through it anyway. He smiles back and combs his fingers through my hair, brushing the loose strands back off my forehead. It’s almost too gentle, too knowing. Then, his eyes wander, and his jaw drops.

“Oh, fuck,” he says with the cadence of a bobby who’s just lost a suspect. That can’t just be a reaction to the usual mess we’ve made.

“What is it?” I ask quickly as he sits up. He reaches his hand out and touches the right side of my neck.

“Ow, Jesus,” I blurt out as his fingers meet my collarbone. Why would that – oh. “How bad?” I ask.

“Pretty bad, fuck. I’m so sorry. What are we gonna do? Everyone’s gonna see that! How are –”

I put my hands on his shoulders and shush him, chuckling a little. “Darling, relax. It’d be way worse if it was on you,” I assure him, patting his cheek. It doesn’t help much. His eyebrows are still knit with fear, his eyes practically shaking.

“It’s not just a hickey, it’s like – how did I do that?” he says, and he almost sounds more surprised than worried now.

“Let me see,” I decide, getting out of bed. I wobble a little on my feet and snicker to myself before strolling into the bathroom. Footsteps follow me as I flick on the bathroom light and gasp. There’s a little coven of hickies on my neck, one so dark it’s pretty much purple. Arthur sidles up next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, staring at me through the mirror.

“I got carried away. I didn’t mean –”

“Would you stop it? I liked it. A lot,” I interrupt.

“Well, I know that. I was there,” he says, finally smiling a little. I tilt my head to get a better look at the markings. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little fond of them.

“This is fixable. It’s not my first hickey, you know,” I say after a little more analysis. Arthur puts his hands on his hips.

“Oh, really?” I turn to him and grin.

“Don’t get jealous on me now, pet. None of them were from a boyfriend,” I reassure him. He bites his lip, his eyes going between the massacre on my neck and my eyes. He’s squinting a little, maybe because he really can’t see too well, but I can’t help but think he’s painting some unfortunate pictures in his head.

“I’m not jealous,” he grits out through his teeth. He’s started squinting harder now.

“Oh, don’t pout. You’re the best I’ve ever had,” I placate him, turning back to the mirror. I watch his face shift through the glass, the light returning to his eyes as his snarl fades away.

“...Really?” he practically whispers. He sounds so earnest I could die.

“You’re a dork,” I reply, ruffling his hair before turning to leave the bathroom. “I’ve got to call Mal.”

“What? No, you can’t call her!” he calls after me as I root around my room for my phone.

“She’s done this for me before,” I say dismissively, scanning the room as I do.

“She’ll know it was me!” he exclaims.

“There’s no way she’s gonna know. Just put on your suit and pretend we were having breakfast together. Act a little cross at me.”

“She’s gonna know, Eames.”

“There’s not a shot in hell.”

~~~

“Are you going to try and convince me this isn’t from Arthur?” Mal says as she takes out her makeup brushes. Arthur, standing to her left, covers his mouth to hide a gasp and glares at me.

“It’s not! I got out last night!” I exclaim quickly, scooting further back on my couch. She, sitting on one of my kitchen chairs we’ve dragged into the living room, compensates by leaning forward. She wipes some cold serum on my neck, ignoring my wince. She already wasn’t happy when I called her, and when she learned it was going to be a home visit, she knew what she was in for.

“How long have you and him been fucking?” she asks plainly. Arthur groans and this time covers his entire face as it goes red, taking a decisive step back as if he can slowly exit the room without anyone noticing.

“We’re not, I swear!” I insist. Saito is going to kill me if another person finds out. Then again, has Mal ever really not known?

“I’m not going to tell. I haven’t so far, have I? So just admit it,” she presses, drying off my neck and taking out a large pink sponge. She digs through her bag again, finds concealer, and squirts a hefty amount on her new tool.

“We haven’t done a thing,” I double down. I’m not sure how long I can keep this up for. Arthur has taken up residency in his shame, his face still covered behind his hands.

“Fine. Who was it from, then?” she tries. Arthur peeks out through his fingers, his eyes darting from me to Mal.

“Some guy at a pub. Who cares?” I lie, and rather well, might I add. Unfortunately, Arthur makes some sort of noise and tenses up. Oh, darling, please. The jealousy is attractive when we’re together in my room and I can calm his fears, but it has become increasingly unhelpful in public. How can he not control his impulses? Mal must notice my eyes on my royal guard, because she follows suit and turns to stare at him. She actually smiles and scoffs, shaking her head.

“Arthur’s twitching at the thought of those things being from someone else,” she says, her shoulders slouching a little. Glad someone’s entertained, at least.

“What?! No, I’m –”

“You’re proud of it. You should be. You gave a prince a hickey. Several, actually. I could probably get your dental records from his neck,” Mal interrupts, now laughing to herself.

“It wasn’t me,” Arthur says weakly and not at all believably. I resist the urge to sigh and facepalm.

“You should pay attention to what I’m doing. I’m not coming here every morning for the next week to cover his love bites. Walking in on the two of you is a personal worst nightmare,” Mal says to my royal guard as she turns back to me.

“I said it wasn’t me,” he tries again. Mal rolls her eyes and clears her throat.

“Sure. Eames, I’ve never seen you with anything this bad. You must really like this ‘random’ pub guy,” she says. I look over her shoulder.

“You have no idea,” I say directly to Arthur.

“I have some idea. I’ve never seen you like this,” she says. Arthur’s face heats up as he unsuccessfully fights down a smile.

“Like what?”

“Giddy.”

“How long have you known?” I break, sighing as I hang my head.

“Eames!” Arthur shouts, his smile immediately falling.

“Oh, come on! She bloody knows, mate. She can keep a secret,” I argue. He crosses his arms and bites his lip, looking away. “Well? How long?” I press. Mal takes a brush and blends in the concealer as she says,

“That depends. How long have I known you were fucking, or how long have I known you were going to?” I smile wryly and shake my head, which makes her click her tongue and wave the brush at me.

“Sorry,” I turn and give her better access to her canvas, “I suppose both.”

“I knew you were fucking the morning after Arthur got back. He didn’t stop smiling for a single second in the morning meeting. I knew you were going to fuck the first day he got here.”

“And how did you know that?”

“He’s your type.” Arthur flushes even further, unable to look in our direction.

“How do you know? And why’s everyone keep saying that?” I ask. Mal takes out a setting spray and shakes it hard.

“Well, isn’t he?” she says as she takes the cap off the bottle. I train my eyes on Arthur, looking him up and down for the millionth time. My heart skips a beat.

“Painfully so.” She smiles, really smiles, and sprays my neck.

~~~

The horse ranch has been transformed into a furthering of Arthur’s worst nightmare. Every year, Yusuf hosts a fair of some sort where the richest of the rich can mosey around the pasture and put bids on any horse they please. Since only the most obnoxious, well-to-do blokes and ladies are allowed entry, I can walk around without fear of being mobbed. I’ve met many of these people before, and the ones I haven’t couldn’t care less about making my acquaintance. Arthur’s eyes have been darting around as if we’re in an active combat zone, his entire body tensing up every time one of the many horses hanging out in makeshift pens whinnies or, god forbid, kicks up his foot. There are rows and rows of them, pretty creatures put on display and treated like purses and accessories rather than living beings. It’s one of the most royal-esque things Yusuf does, and I despise it. But the ranch needs the money, and I suspect he likes the attention of being allowed to prance around and explain the stats of seemingly every horse in the country.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Arthur asks, standing just a little too close to me. Saito would not approve.

“We’re supporting a friend,” I repeat for the hundredth time.

“We haven’t even seen Yusuf. Let’s just tell him we stopped by and go,” he insists, tugging on my sleeve like a child. I turn to him and grin.

“They’re horses, not wolves, love. They don’t eat people,” I tease. He scowls at me and crosses his arms.

“You think I’m scared.”

“No, I know you’re scared.”

“I’m not! I just understand the –”

“Hey, look!” I interrupt, looking past him and at the back of a familiar head. Arthur has no choice but to follow me to one of the enclosures containing a tall, brown, bulky horse anxiously pacing back and forth from one side of the fence to the other. It’s not nearly enough space for the bloke, poor thing. Once we’re standing behind my target, I clear my throat and put on my best arsehole voice,

“I don’t think you can afford that.” Ariadne whips around, ready to pounce, but immediately smiles when she sets eyes on me. The combination of her pair of braids and overalls make her the spitting image of a farmhand, minus the manure stench that would likely follow her if she really had the job. She punches my shoulder, the shiny “special guest” pass shimmering on the lanyard around her neck.

“I was wondering when you’d show up!” she says, grinning wider. Arthur is standing completely behind me and seemingly refusing to step any closer.

“I didn’t know you were coming! I’m shocked they let you in,” I tease. Despite my mocking, I really am pleased to see her. Her lease is up in November, meaning our time is limited. Far too limited. Soon enough, some fancy American school will whisk her away, and she’ll get her Masters among football players and solo cups rather than a shoddy English prince.

“Yusuf gave me special privileges,” she brags, holding up the lanyard and shoving the card at the end of it in my face. I push her hand away and chuckle.

“I can see that, darling.”

“Why’s Arthur look green?” Ari asks, glancing over my shoulder as she quirks her eyebrow.

“He’s scared of horses,” I say plainly.

“I’m not!” he protests. The horse in the pen whinnies loudly and hops up on his back two feet, drawing out loud, impressed noises from the crowd. Well, not the entire crowd. Arthur instead yelps and takes another huge step back. Ari breaks out into a fit of laughter as we turn to the terrified bloke holding his hand on his heart as he breathes hard.

“That’s embarrassing,” she whispers, still snickering.

“Cute, isn’t he?” I whisper back. She groans and elbows me.

“So, you telling Yusuf or what?”

I bite my lip. “...Still undecided,” I mutter.

“Come on! You can’t keep hiding such a big secret from him. He’ll figure it out eventually, and then he’ll be pissed,” she complains.

“Too many people already know! Mal just found out this morning,” I mutter.

“Really? How’d that happen?”

“...Well, she kind of always knew,” I dodge the real damning reason. No need to embarrass myself or Arthur further.

“That doesn’t even count, then. You have to tell him. It’s been a month!” she insists.

“How about we go find him and I’ll decide then?”

“Could you, for once in your life, not leave something down to the wire?”

I wink at her and shake my head, grabbing her wrist and dragging her away from the enclosure. We force Arthur to stand tall and walk with us through the pasture as we look for our friendly neighborhood entrepreneur, passing plenty of horses and their snobby future owners along the way. With now two people to shield him, my definitely not frightened royal guard stays a deft pace behind us and ignores most of the conversation. As we near closer and closer to the back of the pasture, Ariadne points out a large crowd gathering around a central spot in the grass. We glance at each other and nod, speeding up to push through the onlookers. Much to Arthur’s chagrin, we fight our way to the front and lay our eyes on the scene that’s caught everyone’s attention.

Yusuf is on the back of a large, gray horse, fully equipped in his riding clothes and helmet. Sometimes I forget he actually does this for a living, and then moments like these help me remember. He’s got a bunch of obstacles set up around the area for him and his horse to jump over, easily showing off both his and the pony’s abilities. I nudge Arthur and grin as Yusuf jumps over a particularly high log fence, earning a loud cheer from the crowd.

“Whoa! You think I could do that?” Ariadne asks, eyes wide on our impressive friend.

“Not a shot,” I tease. She scoffs and kicks my leg.

“This is needlessly dangerous,” Arthur murmurs.

“Chicken,” I tease.

“You do remember falling off a horse, don’t you?” he argues, crossing his arms.

“No, love, I’ve forgotten. Perhaps it’s the brain damage from this so-called fall,” I say, sticking out my tongue at him.

“Hey, shut up! He’s coming over here!” Ari squeals. She’s acting like she doesn’t know the bloke. Sure enough, though, Yusuf rides up toward us and the entire crowd, dismounting the horse with elegant grace. He takes off his helmet and waves it as everyone claps. He revels in the attention for a moment with a shit-eating grin, even bowing a couple times. Christ. How do I get him to take my job? He’s far more suited to it.

“Thank you, everyone! Remember, for a modest starting price of thirty thousand pounds, you can take this guy home! If you want to make an offer, please put one of your allotted tickets in the box for the auction,” Yusuf directs the crowd. Instantly, at least a dozen numpties rush toward the makeshift box, pushing past us four to do so. Once the crowd has dispersed, Yusuf shoots down his fake grin and replaces it with a genuine smile.

“You’re bloody robbing these fools,” I marvel. He snickers and pats my shoulder.

“You guys all came, even Arthur!” he says, his eyes moving from person to person.

“Why’s that surprising?” Arthur snaps defensively, earning a snicker from Yusuf.

“Sorry, I forgot you and Eames are attached at the hip,” he says, making a face at Ari. She returns it with an equally mischievous look. “Hey, we rented a lounge for later tonight in case I needed to schmooze any potential buyers, but I don’t think I’ll need it. Anyone down for a classy party?”

Ari and I cheer, and even Arthur seems to settle a little. “We’re in,” I decide.

“Obviously,” Ari adds.

“...Anything will be better than this place,” Arthur submits.

After Yusuf finishes selling his overpriced ponies, and after we three onlookers enjoy a hefty dinner courtesy of the rider’s club, we all head out to our secondary location. I’ve been remarkably well-behaved for a month, meaning some of my restrictions have loosened a little. I suspect Saito has something to do with that. Despite how enraged he was at first, he seems to have softened toward me and Arthur significantly. That sympathy plus my stellar behavior means I’m treated like slightly more of a person than I used to be. Who knew the key to gaining acceptance from my family was to start shagging my royal guard? Really, though, I highly doubt it’s actual acceptance. I’ve been quiet, subdued. Sure, things with Faye are still a mess, but Johnny will be eighteen in a week. They expect to get rid of me before the month’s up. But abdicating feels like a messier and messier idea the more I think about it, so I’ve decided to not think about it at all.

Yusuf tips our driver and leads us all to some fancy, tall building made of white marble. There’s a fountain on the lawn and roughly eight billion lights crowding the grass, making the whole thing look like some gaudy mess that really belongs in the States rather than here. I step forward on the path, but Yusuf shakes his head and pulls my arm, leading us around the building.

“You do actually have a reservation here, yes?” I ask as we creep around the side.

“Dude, you’re the prince of the country. You can’t go in the front door,” he says. Ah. Right. We continue sneaking around, Ari and I making a show of our tiptoeing as Arthur walks behind us completely normally. He’s no fun. Once around the back of the building, Yusuf goes up to the security guard at the door and strikes up a conversation. Within the minute, both of them are laughing up a storm, and bam, the back door’s open. Yusuf waves us over, and the three of us give each other similar confused looks before following after our leader. Inside the building, he guides us to a door labeled “PRIVATE” and pushes through. We all enter a lounge that looks well-suited for a group of seventy-year-old white men prepared to puff on cigars and talk politics. The room seems far too stuffy despite its large size, the black leather armchairs all crowded together around a small round table. The floor is completely carpeted in an ugly brown shade, the tall walls white and filled with paintings of old blokes who probably stood right where we’re standing a thousand years ago.

“...Are we congressmen now?” Ariadne asks, and only Arthur snickers.

“I’m supposed to be selling rich guys horses! Come on, at least the bar is stocked,” Yusuf insists, nodding toward the right side of the room. True to his word, the old-timey wooden bar has a wall of alcohol behind it. Yusuf rushes on over, ducking down and searching for some bottle. While he does, Ariadne looks around the room with wide, disapproving eyes.

“I think I may be the first woman to ever set foot in here,” she decides. Her overalls are now extremely out of place, as are my t-shirt and jeans. Arthur is, as usual, the only one in uniform, his suit meshing with the room nicely. Now that we’re indoors and miles away from any four-legged creatures, he’s calmed down significantly. His face is gentle, soft, the way he looks when he thinks no one can see him. Pretty boy.

“Guys! I’ve got the drink of the night! Had it hand-delivered yesterday,” Yusuf says, holding a large, unlabeled bottle of brown liquid with both hands. We all quirk our heads at him as he places it down on the bar. It looks so heavy that it may break through the wood below it.

“That looks poisonous,” Arthur deadpans. Yusuf rolls his eyes.

“My dad and I made it. It’s the Rallus specialty,” he says. Ari and I both groan at the same time.

“Not that shit again!” Ari protests, her hands rapidly finding her hips.

“You’ve had it before?” Arthur asks.

“I’ve blacked out the memories,” I mutter.

“Come on, just one shot! It’s good stuff,” Yusuf insists, taking out four shot glasses. Arthur takes a step away from the bar.

“I’m working,” he says.

“No, you’re not! We’re off today,” I argue.

“I’m never off when we’re in public.”

“This isn’t public, is it?”

That argument is enough to get Arthur to gather around the bar with all of us. Yusuf raises his eyebrows and lowers them repeatedly, looking from us to the moonshine with a grin.

“Fine. But just the one. It’s a right of passage,” Ari quickly gives in. Yusuf twists open the bottle, letting out a rancid smell of rot that makes my eyes water. Arthur gasps and immediately says,

“No way.”

“Come on, darling. When’s the last time you had a drink? And you can’t count that puny shot from Mr. Rallus’ house,” I goad him.

“...Not since I moved here,” he mutters. I dramatically sigh.

“That’s insane! You deserve to let loose,” I continue. He eyes the liquor and squints. He’s thinking about it a little. “What if I don’t drink? I don’t mind being designated driver, metaphorically speaking.”

He looks away from the bottle and back at me. “Why would you do that?” he asks.

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Besides, you don’t know how badly I need to see you pissed out of your mind,” I say, playfully pushing his shoulder.

“...I’m not getting drunk. But I’ll do one. Right of passage, you said?” he says, looking at Ari. She grins and winks. Happy with the turnout, Yusuf pours out three shots, spilling just a little on the bar. I wouldn’t be surprised if it burned right through.

“Were you planning on giving this to potential buyers?” Arthur asks as he raises his glass and stares through it.

“Drunk people buy pricier horses, especially if you tell them the alcohol is a family recipe,” he says.

“You’re a spinster and a crook. I adore it,” I decide, raising an imaginary glass.

“To the spinsters and crooks!” Ari toasts. The three of them take their poison, and not a single one of them does so “like a champ.” Ariadne immediately starts coughing so loud I’m afraid her lung is going to come up, Yusuf leans against the counter with his head lowered, and Arthur closes his eyes and shivers so hard I can visibly see him shake. I snicker and rub his shoulder, leaving my hand there for a beat too long to caress him with my thumb. He smiles a little and eases into the touch. Oh, how a month changes you if you let it.

“Holy fuck, that’s way worse than I remember,” Ari grumbles. Yusuf snickers and walks around the bar, finally joining up with us. Arthur nods and clears his throat.

“Hey, Tigers seem like they’re going to the playoffs,” he says in Ari’s direction. Her eyes light up.

“Yes! Finally, an American I can talk to about baseball! Twins not doing so hot this year, huh?” she replies. As the two of them fall into a conversation that Arthur is far too gay for, Yusuf pours himself a glass of milder, better-smelling whisky. He and I wander over to the stiff leather chairs and sit down, deciding to have a conversation that’s more our speed. Yusuf taps his fingers against the small table as we turn our attention away from the two gabbing at the bar.

“Arthur’s different. He wouldn’t have touched that stuff when we first met him,” he comments. I swallow hard and shift in my chair. I can’t keep it a secret from him. He’s been far too good to me, to us. I owe him the truth. Besides, if Arthur does end up getting pissed, chances are it’ll get out regardless.

“...I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that, actually. Arthur and I –”

“Are together? Yeah, I know,” he interrupts. My jaw drops as I lean forward in my seat.

“What? How?! Did Ari tell you?” I ask immediately. Would she really do something like that? No, not the Ariadne I know, so what gives?

“She didn’t have to. You think I couldn’t tell?” he says, shrugging. He doesn’t sound upset in the slightest. In fact, his face is completely neutral.

“What gave me away?”

“You’re different, too.”

I wait for further explanation, but he stays quiet. Looks like that’s enough of an answer for him. “You’re not cross at me? For not saying anything?”

He shakes his head. “I know how things are there. I didn’t expect you to ever say anything.” He’s being surprisingly level-headed about this. He’s the other shade of the man who was just dancing behind the counter and jumping horses over sticks. He hardly lets this part of himself out, very rarely shows his hand. “So, what are you gonna do? You going Stateside?”

I shrug and say, “I’ve not a clue.”

He furrows his brows and shakes his head at me. “You should probably get a clue soon, man. What, are you just gonna become King and keep him as your secret forever?”

“...The thought’s crossed my mind,” I admit. He scoffs.

“You think Arthur deserves that?” he asks the way teachers ask things you should already know the answers to. We both look over at Ari and the man in question. They’re both laughing as Ari refills their glasses, her hands wobbling under the weight of the hefty thing. Arthur’s smiling so wide his eyes are creasing.

“No. No, he doesn’t,” I say, not looking away.

“So, make up your mind. Him or the country,” Yusuf says.

“It’s not that simple. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, mate,” I answer, trying to sound as unbothered as possible. I’ve already got a dozen people breathing down my neck about this. I don’t need one more. Yusuf sighs and smiles.

“Sorry. It’s a celebration night, anyway. I’m happy for you, man. You got the guy,” he says, raising his glass. I smile back at him crookedly.

“Somehow,” I add on.

We chat on for a while longer, gradually hiding away the serious, future-inspecting Yusuf and bringing back the loud, eccentric man I’d much prefer to talk to. We forget all about the two people hiding at the bar until Ari shouts out,

“No way!”

Yusuf and I turn in our chairs. Oh boy. The bottle of moonshine is about a fifth empty, and the two Americans are struggling to sit still on their stools. They’re already not built for real drinking, and Arthur’s been sober for months. This may be a recipe for disaster, but I can’t help but smile. His face is rosy and radiating heat, his smile painted onto his face. This may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“Arthur says he can do a hundred push-ups in a row!” Ari shouts in our general direction.

“He can. I’ve seen it,” I confirm. Arthur jumps off his stool and points at Ari, letting out a loud “Ha-ha!” Good lord.

“Do it right now! I dare you,” Ari shouts, egging Arthur on.

“You want me to? I’ll do it,” Arthur falls right for it. I stand up and walk over to them, sighing.

“No one is doing push-ups. Ari, just believe the bloke,” I insist. She groans, but doesn’t press further. Arthur puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles at me, his eyes nearly closed.

“Hi,” he says like he’s on an entirely different planet.

“Hi, love. How much have you had?” I ask. He shrugs noncommittally.

“At least one,” Ari says and taps on her forehead. Brilliant.

“The Twins suck,” Arthur mumbles into my neck. I put my arm around him and bring him closer to me.

“They’ll pull it together next year,” I assure him without any shred of evidence. He brings his fingers into my hair and cards them through it. Oh, Christ, drunk Arthur is just who he becomes when he’s tired in bed.

“Sorry I gave you a h-hickey,” he says, far too loudly. Ariadne gasps and giggles, covering her mouth.

“Holy shit! That’s how Mal found out, isn’t it?! I wanna see!” she shouts. Yusuf rises to his feet with his empty glass and adds on,

“I second that!”

“No one is seeing anything, Jesus!” I exclaim, taking my arm back and stepping away from the group as my skin heats up. Is this how I make Arthur feel every day? How has he put up with me for so long?

“Show us or we’ll do another shot!” Ari threatens. Arthur giggles like he’s got no responsibility for this fiasco.

“You know what hickies look like, don’t you? Just imagine it!” I argue, defensively bringing my hand to my neck. The concealed skin stings under my fingertips, but it’s not a bad sensation. It’s in fact a rather pleasant reminder.

“Hickies? Like, plural?” Yusuf catches.

“Leave it!” I practically beg.

“Looks like it’s shot time,” Ari says, threateningly shaking her glass. Arthur sighs and shakes his head.

“No. No, I’m good. I’ve done enough,” he mumbles. Looks like part of his sober self is still in there somewhere. Ari pouts and pushes out her lip, causing Yusuf to come to her side.

“I’ll take one with you,” he offers, grinning. She cheers and smiles right back, happy with this outcome. As they fill their glasses, Arthur wanders to the chairs and plops down in one. I follow after him and sit in the one to his left. He looks at me and attempts a wink, but all he does is blink slowly.

“Hey, Eames?”

“Yes, love?”

“Are you…” he pauses and shakes his head.

“Am I what?” I encourage him.

“Are you happy?” he finishes his sentence. I reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Extremely. Do I not seem it?”

“You do. You do, but I’m – Eames, I’m no good at any of this,” he mumbles.

“Yes, you are. You’re good at everything. It’s actually one of your annoying traits,” I tease. He snickers and smiles.

“You’re handsome. And sweet. I don’t tell you enough,” he says. I stroke his hand with my thumb.

“Don’t know if I’m either of those things, but I appreciate it, darling,” I say. He scowls, suddenly agitated.

“No, stop it. Stop it! You know y-you’re good, too, right?”

“Yes, yes, take it easy,” I attempt to placate him. He rises to his feet and steps in front of me, grabbing my other hand and pulling me up. I wobble onto my feet with a slight thud right as he cups my face in his hands.

“You’re good, Eames,” he says and pecks my lips. “You’re good at that, and you’re good with people, and you make me laugh. You make everyone laugh. Why can’t you believe that?” he asks, and he sounds genuinely distressed now. How am I supposed to convince him? How do you convince a drunk man of any conviction besides his own?

“I do believe it, I swear,” I say quickly. He kisses me again, that disgusting liquor lingering on his breath, and then pushes me back.

“You don’t! Why can’t you?” he asks, his eyes shaking. How much did he drink, really? “You’re clever, and you know things, and you can read anyone. You understand my books even though you pretend you don’t. I hate them,” he grumbles.

“Who do you hate?”

“Your stupid fucking family. I hate your mom and I hate your dad and I really hate John. I hate every idiot who makes you think you’re less than them! You’re the only good thing in that family!” he exclaims, his eyes now watering. Oh, Jesus. I grab him and pull him into a hug fast, holding him tight.

“Hey, hey, I know, darling. I know. Relax,” I whisper.

“They’re so mean, Eames. Why are they so mean to you?”

“I don’t know. But I’m okay. Everything’s okay. I’m happy,” I assure him, running my hand up and down his back. He’s quiet for a moment before he says,

“I’m gonna drink more.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. He pushes out of my arms, his expression no longer anguished. Now that I’ve pulled him off the ledge, the meaning of his ramblings set in. The poor bloke. He’s apparently got me figured out far more than I’ve figured out myself. I wasn’t aware of my apparent extreme self-loathing, but he sure seems to see it within me. Is he over exaggerating, or has their cruelty really become so ingrained in me that I can’t see it anymore? Have my own veins turned against me?

“You think you’re the boss of me?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips.

“Tonight, I am,” I say, glancing toward the bar. Yusuf and Ariadne are having an arm wrestling contest that is a surprisingly close match.

Arthur snickers and says, “I like that.”

“I know you do,” I say quietly.

“We’re talking about sex right now, right?” he says. I roll my eyes and laugh.

“Yes, love, that’s what I figured.”

“You’re great at that too,” he says, attempts and fails another wink, and saunters on over to the bar. He’s a rollercoaster while drunk, hm? It’s a good thing he doesn’t do this often. I don’t think I’d be able to keep up with him even if I were drunk myself. I follow him over to the rest of the group right as Yusuf slams Ari’s arm down onto the bar.

“You cheated! You’re not as drunk as I am,” Ari complains, shaking out her hand as Yusuf smiles with all of his unearned glory.

“I can fix that,” he decides, hurrying behind the bar. Arthur giggles to himself as I stare at Yusuf with wide eyes. He takes out three large glasses and turns around, grabbing a large bottle of tonic water. He fills each glass about halfway and proceeds to pour far too much of his moonshine into each one. He doesn’t even bother to mix the drinks before sliding one over to each alcoholic heathen. “You sure you don’t want, Eames?” he asks. I shake my head.

“I’ll make sure you lot survive the night,” I assure them. Ari giggles.

“Arthur’s made you all responsible,” she teases, pushing my shoulder playfully.

“Hardly,” I mutter, but smile. Her eyes have started to glaze over the way they do when she’s truly pissed. We’re certainly defiling this classy place. It feels almost natural to do so.

“We’re playing never have I ever,” Yusuf announces. Arthur groans while Ari cheers.

“That shit’s for kids,” Arthur complains.

“Don’t be a snob! You’re just afraid to lose. Here, I’ll start. Never have I ever been American,” Yusuf says. This time, both Ari and Arthur groan.

“That’s exactly why this game is s-stupid! You can target easily!” Arthur continues his complaints.

“Drink, American,” Yusuf says, waving his hand dismissively at the angry pair. The two of them oblige, each gagging on the awful concoction. I can’t help but snicker at their discomfort, which makes Arthur thrust his cup into my hand and say,

“You try this shit and see if you keep laughing.” I indulge him, taking a tiny sip of the nasty crap. Sure enough, even a minuscule amount burns down my throat and makes my eyes water. I cough and close my eyes, handing him back the glass as I turn away.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter.

“Fooking hell,” he imitates me, giggling to himself.

“I don’t sound like that!” I protest.

“Yeah, you do. My turn. Never have I ever slept with a prince!” Ari shouts.

“This game s-sucks,” Arthur grumbles and takes a sip of his drink.

“Oh, this makes it way easier! Never have I ever made out with Eames,” Yusuf tags on.

“Guys, you’re gonna kill him,” I say as Arthur begrudgingly takes another sip. Despite my warning, the two of them go on and on inventing new ways to trap Arthur into another drink with the same old trick. It’s quite honestly impressive to watch them create a million ways to say “never have I ever shagged Eames,” but it’s clear after far too much booze that they’re getting bored of torturing my royal guard. Ari and Yusuf fall into some other conversation, completely forgetting about the game, while Arthur leans against me with his eyes nearly closed. If he was pissed before, I have no idea what level he’s at now. What I do know is that he’s gonna have a horrid morning tomorrow.

“Your friends. Bad. They’re bad,” he mumbles, stumbling into me. I put my arm around him, mostly to protect him from hitting the floor.

“We’re a rotten bunch,” I agree. He grabs my shirt and looks up at me, smiling lazily.

“Eames, I…” he pauses.

“Yes, love?”

He stares for a moment longer, standing up straight and shrugging my arm off of him. His eyes glimmer for just a second, threatening to release something he doesn’t seem to be able to let out. Then, it goes just as fast as it arrived, and he cups my face in his hands. “Darling –”

He kisses me hard before I can get the sentence out, nearly knocking me over with his aggression and incoordination. I smile against his lips and attempt to gently push him off of me, but he attaches to me again and reattempts the kiss. He can’t quite figure it out, can’t get our mouths to fit properly, but I give him the decency of a proper try as I put my hands on his waist.

“Hey, the noise – oh fuck!” an unfamiliar voice shouts, scaring me and Arthur off of each other. All four of us look at the now open door and the man standing in front of it. Some bloke in a fancy suit and tie with graying hair and wrinkled skin is staring at me like I’ve just murdered his daughter in front of his eyes. Oh fuck was right. Arthur and I are supposed to be careful, supposed to understand how few people can know about this, and yet we keep revealing ourselves to people left and right. Mal and Yusuf were one thing. I can trust the both of them. They would at least give us the respect of a warning before outing us. But this random employee? He’s an entirely different story. If I don’t fix this, it could blow up in our faces in a catastrophic way. What are the chances he doesn’t know who I am?

“...Prince Edward?” he says through his shock. Brilliant.

“Eames –”

“Stay put,” I interrupt Arthur and stroll toward the bloke like nothing’s wrong. He looks me up and down as if he’s never seen a gay man in his life while I fish my wallet out of my pocket.

“You never saw us, hm?” I say, handing him two fifty-pound notes quickly. He doesn’t take the money and keeps on staring.

“...Are you bribing me?” he asks.

“Depends. Are you taking it?” I press. He looks down at my hand and coughs. Repressing a groan, I take out a third note and add it to the total. The bastard nods, takes the money, and leaves the room. Thank Christ. Crisis averted, for now. I turn back to my very quiet mates and put my hands on my hips. They’re all staring at me with wide, worried eyes. At least, that’s the face Ari and Yusuf are making. Arthur doesn’t look like he’s processing well enough to feel any emotion besides a primal desire to put his tongue down my throat.

“Party’s over, darlings,” I decide, and no one’s got enough wits to argue.

Getting Yusuf and Ari home is a task in and of itself, but I somehow manage to shove them into cabs and ensure they’ll make it through the night. The amount of money I’ve burned through in the past hour is appalling, but it’s hard to give much of an actual damn about it. Arthur doesn’t say much in the cab back to the palace. Either he’s too afraid or too tired to. He opts to rest his head on my shoulder and close his eyes, occasionally mumbling something incoherent to himself. This was a bad idea, I’ll stand by it, but there’s something painfully endearing about seeing him so out of himself. Little by little, he’s allowed me to learn about the man he’s spent years trying to repress.

Once the cab is far enough off, we walk down the street and make our way to the palace. Only when we’re on the path to the front doors does Arthur grab my arm and mutter,

“I’m so sorry.” I stop and turn to him right as his face contorts with drunken anguish.

“What for?” I ask.

“I k-kissed you. And that guy, h-he saw,” he whispers. I ruffle his hair and put my arm around him, holding him close.

“Relax, love. Not your fault,” I whisper back. I don’t want him to spiral, especially now that he’s even more wasted than he was earlier.

“I can’t stand being…watched. We have to leave this c-country,” he mumbles. My chest tightens as my stomach drops. Seems like everyone but me is barrelling toward some sort of ending.

“You need to get to bed,” I change the subject.

“Your bed! Not mine,” he falls for the bait, suddenly animated. I force us to walk forward, stumbling as I attempt to move without stepping on his feet. He’s practically walking on top of me.

“Yes, my bed. When’s the last time you drank this much?” I can’t help but ask, even though I’m not sure if he can give me a proper answer without having a brain aneurysm. He pauses long enough for us to make it to the door. I have to take my arm back to open the door, but he grabs onto said arm as soon as we’re inside.

“I don’t know. C-college. Summer after. When I moved,” he finally responds.

“Moved?”

“Left. New school. Annie,” he stutters out the explanation. My eyes widen as the memory comes back to me. Annie and I sitting outside, her telling me about him abandoning his dream life to watch what could’ve been the end of hers. I can’t fathom the amount of responsibility he’s taken on through his life. How does he handle the stress of it? How does he get up each day with that kind of weight? God knows I’ve been running from boulders since I was old enough to notice I should’ve been pushing them.

“Do you think things would’ve been different if you stayed at Columbia?” I can’t help but ask. He shrugs.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he answers quickly this time.

“Don’t care?” I repeat, laughing a little. I’ve never heard him speak so plainly while still fully dressed.

“I’m here now. With you,” he says with his continued cadence of ambivalence. There’s something about when he speaks with such ease, when he says things like I’m supposed to know them already. It’s annoying when he’s telling me some fact about history or correcting my grammar, but when he’s talking about us? He treats certain things like they’re sure things, like it’s obvious to everyone but me. He’s my boyfriend, obviously. He’s happy here with me, obviously. He’s almost offended that I didn’t assume it already. He genuinely can’t understand how I can’t see his certainty.

“That can’t possibly make up for it all,” I mutter more for myself than him.

“Why not?”

“...You’re something else, mate.”

He groans and tugs on my arm. “I’m not your mate, I’m your b-boyfriend,” he complains. I snicker and tap my head against his.

“My mistake, love.”

“That’s b-better,” he decides, calming down.

Content in his convictions, he stays quiet as I guide us to my flat. Once we enter the correct hallway, I freeze in my tracks. Walking back and forth with his head in his hands like a dog on a lead is Johnny. He makes eye contact with me, but doesn’t say a word as he paces right past us.

“Weirdo,” Arthur mutters under his breath. I repress a laugh as we enter my flat. It’s hard to get Arthur into the bedroom, but as soon as I do, he plops down on the bed. I just manage to get his shoes off before he pulls his legs onto the bed. I think to crawl in right after him, but the image of my kid brother wandering the halls flashes before my eyes. What is he doing up so late? I haven’t spoken to him much since his alcoholic confessions. He seemed to bounce back from the incident quickly, going right back to his usual arsehole self, but maybe he’s better at hiding his turmoil than I realize.

“Come here,” Arthur mumbles, his eyes already closed. I attempt to take a step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me closer to him. “Come to bed. Lay with me,” he persists.

“I will. I’ve just got to check on him,” I say. He scrunches up his nose.

“He’s a dick,” he grumbles.

“I know. But he was my brother once.”

“When?”

I don’t have an answer for that, but Arthur luckily seems to accept that I’ll go despite not having one. “If I fall asleep, wake me up when you come back,” he says quickly, opening his eyes as if it helps him get the words out properly.

“Sure,” I say as I turn around.

“Eames! I need you t-to,” he insists. I look back at him and meet his shaking eyes.

“Okay, okay, I will. I promise,” I say with a nod. He nods back and turns over. This isn’t the first time he’s done this. Granted, he’s usually more covert with his intentions, but the implication is always the same. I don’t know why it matters so much to him, but I suppose I won’t break the promise.

When I reenter the hallway, Johnny is already gone. Part of me wants to turn back and lie down with my royal guard, wrap my arms around him and hold him through the night. It’d certainly be more comfortable. And I don’t owe a damn thing to Johnny. But like I said to Arthur…I did, once. Whether I take the throne or not, I’ll be punishing him to some degree. It’s like we’ve always been destined to never coexist, never find any sort of common ground. The world wasn’t built for the both of us. It never has been, so I don’t know why it’s just started to bother me now. But that nagging feeling, that odd ache, drives me to take after the kid and wander around myself, going from corridor to corridor to find the lost bloke and at the very least fight with him to confirm he’s still the same arsehole I’ve always known.

Right when I’m about to give up, I walk past the dining room and freeze. One of the doors is creaked open just a little, revealing a crack of light. The urge to turn back nearly gets me to keep walking onward and pretend like I didn’t notice a thing, but my curiosity wins out. I push the door open further and step inside the room. Only the overhead chandelier is lit, giving the dining room an odd, almost unworldly glow. Johnny is standing in front of the portrait on the far wall with his hands behind his back, looking up at the thing like he’s in a chapel. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were praying to his likeness. He doesn’t seem to notice my footsteps as I walk past the table and to his side. Even with me right next to him, he doesn’t say a thing. He has to know I’m here by now.

“It’s not very good,” he mumbles, the smell of expensive wine wafting from his breath. Oh boy. I’m getting a real taste of what I’ve subjected everyone to for years. Alcohol’s no fun when you’re not partaking.

“Doesn’t really look like us,” I agree.

“You’re eighteen in this,” he says. He, at least, isn’t pissed enough to not have some of his wits. The way he says the number sounds like a death sentence.

“You excited to be an adult?” I attempt to lighten the mood. He doesn’t laugh. In fact, I seem to have deepened his frown.

“Chuffed,” he says sarcastically. Something stirs within me at the tone of his voice. Maybe he really is still my blood. “Are you going to make me King?” he asks.

“I wish people would stop asking that,” I mutter. He grumbles something under his breath, then raises his voice,

“We can’t all wait on you forever. Sorry you’re in a shite spot, but so are the rest of us. You’re not special.”

“Cheers, mate. Always charming to talk to you,” I say, going to turn around.

“Wait!” he says, grabbing my arm. “You’re right! I don’t want it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, turning back to him. He’s looking at me like I’m his shrink.

“The throne. You said I don’t want the job. I don’t. But you shouldn’t have it. Because it’s not a want. You don’t get that,” he says, and now it sounds like he’s just rambling, but I indulge him. Who would want the throne? I was making an educated guess when I accused him. Still…if anyone were to rise to the challenge, I thought it would be him. He’s been prepped his whole life for the occasion. It would be much easier to believe he’s not just suited for it but fond of the idea.

“You think it’s okay to be forced into something?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips. He digs his fingers into his hair and likely resists the urge to slap me.

“You really don’t get it! You’re so self-centered! It’s not about want, it’s not about what’s ‘okay,’ it’s about duty! But…” he clears his throat, trying not to crack. He’s holding to his script well, but something else is breaking through.

“But?” I goad him.

“But I don’t want it. You think you’re trapped? You don’t know what being trapped even means. I’m trapped, and it’s your fault.”

“Must we always go in circles? Can you fathom speaking to me without claiming I’ve ruined your life?” Somehow, I hold strong despite the desperate look in his eyes. He’s on the edge of something, prepared to go right over the edge, and I don’t have the willpower to not push.

“...You didn’t ruin it. But I saved yours, and I never asked for that,” he mutters, looking back up at the painting. Our analysis was correct. The more I stare at the thing, the less I see myself in the boy on the wall.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but it’s mostly a way to buy time.

“Don’t act like I’ve never been anything more to you than a cop-out.”

“Arthur’s right. We aren’t really brothers, are we?” I give in, this time fully turning around. He doesn’t try to stop me again. As I walk away, he manages,

“Fuck Arthur. You act like a delinquent and get rewarded.”

I don’t look back, but I do answer, “Rewarded?”

“...At least you’ve got someone,” he mutters. I almost turn. It would be easy. But then I’d have to see the look on his face, register the anguish I know is there. I’d feel guilty, gain some sort of sympathy for the boy, and I don’t know how to stand that.

“You’ve got the world,” I remind him through gritted teeth. He scoffs.

“Some fucking world. It’s a crock of shite.”

A snicker escapes my lips as I say, “There’s something we can agree on.”

He doesn’t laugh nor respond. Looks like nothing’s funny to him right now. Is he right? Do I really only see him as an escape plan? That can’t entirely be the case. In fact, him nearing his birthday hasn’t produced the relief I hoped it would. It’s only brought me more pressure, more indecision. All this time to prepare, and I haven’t used a second of it. It should be easy. Leave. Just go and try my hand at real life. It’s a no-brainer, something I should’ve done years ago, and yet something’s keeping me here, something that’s far beyond Arthur or Johnny or even my parents. I could try to talk some sense into the kid, give him some sort of pep talk like I partially planned upon finding him, but what could I possibly say to help him? I don’t know a damn thing about his predicament. I’m a prince who can’t even comfort his own brother. And somehow I’m expected to give an entire country the ability to breathe easy? Who am I kidding?

I leave the room quickly, closing the door fully behind me. In a matter of minutes, I’m back in my flat with Johnny’s somber face already fading behind my eyes. Sure enough, I peek through the bedroom door at an already asleep Arthur. He’s at the very least gotten himself under the covers, though not with much efficiency. I pull them up over him further and walk around the bed, taking my spot to his right. I think briefly to let him stay unconscious, but think better of it as I put my hand on his back. He may not even remember the request he made, and he certainly won’t remember it tomorrow morning, but something about how he begged me to wake him is stuck in my head. He’s turned away from me, so I sit up, move closer, and rub his shoulder, whispering,

“I’m here, doll.” He rolls onto his back and says something incoherent, still half-asleep. “Arthur?” I try again. He breathes in deep as his eyes flicker open. Once they meet mine, he smiles and turns to face me.

“How’d it go?” he asks, now sounding more groggy than drunk.

“Not well,” I mutter.

“Told you,” he says, still smug even though he’s wasted in my bed at some ungodly hour. The nerve of some blokes.

“Go back to sleep,” I order him, resisting the urge to rise to his taunt. I expect him to turn back over like he normally does so I can hold him, but instead he grabs my arm and pulls on it.

“Come,” he mumbles. I obey, lying down beside him on my back. He wraps his arms around me and puts his head on my chest, quickly getting one of his hands up under my shirt. He rests it on my stomach and taps his fingers against my skin. I almost don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know if we’ve ever slept like this before. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For waking me.”

“Your wish is my command, Sir Arthur.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, already drifting off again. As his breathing evens out, his fingers gradually move slower and slower until they’ve come to a complete stop. I manage to get my left arm out from under him and put it around his shoulder, holding him closer to me. Some urgency this night had instilled in me dies down in the quiet of Arthur’s presence. Instead, a gentle wash of peace passes through my body. Maybe Johnny’s not the only one with the world.

Chapter Text

I tap my fingers against the blue tablecloth, resting my head in my free hand. It was rather silly of me to think Johnny couldn’t make his own birthday party into a way to torture me, but perhaps I thought for once he would focus on his own enjoyment rather than creating a lack of mine. Seating me at the family table isn’t all too bad, in that I expected it. I can handle sitting in silence while my mother discusses politics with her sister, whom we see twice a year, and entertains every grifter she’s invited to her child’s party. No event is without advertisement. The problem is that this table is strictly family, and that means no Arthur. Naturally, I put up a fight. “He’s supposed to protect me, his job is to be by my side, I’ll be so bloody bored without him,” but no one heard my copious pleas. He’s placed across the room of this dastardly hall decorated in blues and grays, Johnny’s favorites. The flowers in the middle of each table are making my nose itch, the music is classical crap even Arthur wouldn’t give the time of day to, and the guests are at best mind-numbingly plain and at worst psych ward-inducingly obnoxious. I wish he simply hadn’t invited me at all.

Half of the guests are still filtering in, meaning the clientele is about to get even worse, but there is one missing name on the list. Right next to my mother is a glaringly empty chair with my father’s full name plastered in front of it on a large notecard. Now, I don’t know if he attended my eighteenth birthday, considering I also did not find the time to go to the big bash, but something tells me he would be here if he could. In fact, I can’t even recall the last time I saw the bloke. Was it that disastrous dinner with Arthur’s family? I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to bail on all events after that mess. But deeper down, I know that there’s something bad going on with my father. My mother has gotten better at hiding it, but whatever his ailment is has been eating her alive from the inside. It makes it almost hard to look at her. Sure, she looks beautiful in her long, intricate, pale blue gown, but I can see right through the glitz and glamor. It doesn’t look like she’s slept more than four hours in the past month. I almost feel guilty that I’ve been enjoying myself so much recently while the rest of my family has been, for lack of a better word, crumbling. Key word: almost.

“You look bored,” a sudden voice, combined with a hand on my shoulder, nearly bounce me out of my seat. I turn back and shoot Saito a “no shite” expression, forcing myself to hold back an eye roll.

“Cheers, love,” I say perfectly cordially. He tilts his head toward his table, the security table shoved in the back corner that includes my royal guard, and leans in. He whispers,

“Come with me.”

“Pardon?”

“Get up,” he says a little louder this time. My legs obey before I get the chance to question him again, automatically following him as we cross the room. He shifts his eyes back and forth as if looking for someone, then says, “You can take my seat.”

“What? Why?”

He coughs a little and slows down just a hair. I almost think he won’t answer me, but then he mutters, “I’m next to Arthur.”

I raise my eyebrows and nearly clap the bloke on the back. There’s got to be some kind of catch here. Saito hasn’t been exactly a fan of Arthur and I’s union. “Why would you do that? Isn’t it suspicious?”

“He’s sitting there just staring at you. It’s more suspicious than if you were together,” he grumbles like it’s genuinely making him cross. Sure enough, I squint at the half-empty table we’re approaching and catch Arthur’s watchful eyes. He’s fiddling with his napkin, probably unknowingly, and chewing on his lip. As our eyes meet, I waggle my fingers and shoot him a cheeky wink. Even from a distance, I can see his face reddening as he looks pointedly down at the table. Saito groans and grabs my arm, pulling me along faster until we’re in front of his chair.

“Where will you sit?” I ask as he ushers me into his seat.

“Let me figure that out. Don’t cause trouble,” he says curtly, walking away before I’ve even fully sat down. Now with Arthur to my left, my stomach settles a little. Perhaps I still have friends in high places.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I tease, looking him up and down. He’s a little fancier than normal, if you can really get fancier than a suit. His hair is slicked back neatly, his neck adorned with a bowtie instead of his regular tie. There’s something almost overwhelming about it, some sense of want that I thought would go away after some time. There’s still a chance, but not much of one.

“This place is a security nightmare,” he mutters, scanning the room with marked disapproval.

“You’re not on the clock, doll. Quit worrying,” I reassure him.

“I’m always on the clock,” he starts up a familiar spat. I’m about to reignite my typical arguments when the room suddenly quiets. I follow everyone’s eyes to the front doors as a mass of suits walks in, surrounding who I can only assume must be the second-most important person of the event. I wasn’t graced with the guest list, perhaps because they thought I would erase my own name, so whoever is being hidden by eight or ten scary-looking men with guns strapped to their waists is a mystery to me. If Arthur is a soldier, each one of those men is a bloody tank. Who could possibly need more protection than the Queen herself? Is there anyone in this room who doesn’t like to put on a show?

“Prime Minister of Ireland,” Arthur says quietly. Looks like he got the list.

“Who invited him? Has Johnny started hanging around with old farts?” I whisper back. Arthur stifles a chuckle and answers,

“He probably knows your mom. He has a son. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were behind those human shields, too.”

“Hm. Odd. One more question. Who is the Prime Minister of Ireland?”

I look at Arthur right as he rolls his eyes and sighs. “Eames, come on.”

“Forgive me, I make it a mission of mine to stay uninformed.”

“Maurice Fischer. He’s had the role since you were born. His son, Robert Fischer, is my age, I think,” Arthur begrudgingly answers my stupidity.

“And why do you know all of this?”

“Because I’ve watched the news more than once in my life,” he deadpans. I scoff and elbow him.

Sir Fischer, or whatever I’m supposed to address him as, breaks out of his flesh tomb and walks directly toward the family table. Meanwhile, all of his showy toys march toward our table with laser-sharp focus. All of their faces hold the same exact dead-eyed expression. If my parents were smarter, they would’ve hired one of these blokes to be my royal guard. As they all approach our table, a table that must be half theirs, Arthur sits up a little straighter and nods to himself like he’s making a pact in his head. Are these really your people, love? He’s quick, smart, and strong as hell, no doubt about it, but his demeanor has never matched the others in his occupation. It’s clear as day he wasn’t born for this in the way everyone in his life has made him out to be, but I seem to be the only one able to notice that.

Arthur rises to his feet, then makes a face at me as if I’m supposed to do the same. I begrudgingly follow the order and turn right as an unfamiliar chap approaches the two of us. He has a naturally pretty face, like one you’d see in a magazine, and perfectly trimmed hair. There’s a kind of flawless attractiveness about him, the type that makes my blood boil. There’s almost a lack of humanity in it. How am I supposed to trust someone who looks like an android? Naturally, he’s dressed in some expensive tux like the rest of the numpties here, but he wears his like he was born in the outfit. What’s this guy doing coming up to us? Why was he invited in the first place? Perhaps most importantly, who is he?

“Robert Fischer, your Highness,” he says agonizingly politely, extending his arm. I accept the offer, half-heartedly shaking his hand. He doesn’t seem to mind as he turns his attention to Arthur and repeats the gesture. “Your service doesn’t go unnoticed,” he says. My royal guard gives me a quick look and then takes the man’s hand. I don’t know why some Irish bloke knows Arthur’s occupation, but something about it smells fishy.

“...Thank you,” he manages.

“I don’t know why my father insists on bringing this brigade to every event. I feel like I’m walking around with a scarlet letter,” Robert says, now apparently making conversation beyond a greeting. Does he need something? Arthur, for some reason, chuckles at the nonsensical babbling.

“Do you read Hawthorne?” Arthur asks. Why are they both speaking gibberish? Robert’s eyes light up, bringing even more light to his already blinding face.

“I’ve been going through his short stories, actually,” Robert answers. Now it’s Arthur’s turn to fawn. He smiles widely and nods, quickly replying,

“Young Goodman Brown is one of my favorites of his. Have you gotten to it yet?”

“That’s the one I just started! He’s not an easy writer to get through, but once you get it –”

“You really get it,” Arthur finishes his sentence. Oh, brilliant. Arthur’s actually found someone on his level of intellect. That’s ace. Really great for him.

“You a reader, your Highness?” Robert turns his attention to me. I nearly jump out of my skin. I thought I was successfully melting into the wallpaper.

“Only the back of the cereal box,” I joke, snickering a little. Neither of them laugh. Fancy that.

“You have a favorite author?” Arthur asks his new soulmate.

“Come on, that’s impossible! I could give you a top twenty at best,” Robert answers. They both laugh at that for some reason, despite it not being the least bit funny. How much trouble will I get in if I smack a Prime Minister’s son? This conversation is clearly beyond me, so I tune the two of them out as I look back toward the front of the room. Right on cue, as though he were reading my mind, the doors open and allow entrance to the guest of honor. The entire room rises in a hauntingly familiar way as Johnny enters in his birthday best. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from bursting out into laughter in the silent room. His suit, for some ungodly reason, is not only completely white but also has a long, thick train that some poor sod has to carry behind him. His blond hair has been cut and neatened, erasing any shag that gave him a slight resemblance to his older brother. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were purposefully trying to deny our relation.

My mother immediately rushes out onto the floor like the fire alarm has started going off and pulls my brother into her arms. Due to the combination of my mother’s rigidity and my brother’s arms squarely at his sides, the hug is unnatural, fraudulent. The rest of the room must buy it, though, because they all start to clap as though they’ve seen some stellar film. Robert’s applause is particularly loud, so loud it makes my ears sting. Some intern hurries a microphone into my mother’s hand, which she resists coughing into. This outta be good. A speech at a child’s birthday party. What a marvel.

“Ahem! Eighteen years ago, on this very day, September seventeenth, my youngest son was born. Since then, he has given me nothing but joy, pride, and endless amusement. He is a shining star of youth and proof that this generation may be our brightest one yet,” she announces, putting on her favorite announcer voice. Ha. How beautiful. I wonder what she would’ve said at my birthday. “Here is my eldest son. He is a profound pain in my arse, and we would all be happier if I had birthed a daughter on that fateful day.” In fact, I bet that’s what she uttered in my absence. “Now, I will allow John to say a few words.” How delightful. Johnny takes the microphone and mouths something to himself. He must have this memorized. I was supposed to give a speech at my party as well, if I recall, but I don’t think I ever so much as glanced at the script I was given. I knew I wasn’t showing up, and besides, I’ve always been better at improvising.

“I’m honored you all came for this occasion. I promise I will not disappoint any of you in my adulthood. Rest assured, I will always do what is best for this country. All of you, as well as the public, are my number one priority. Your happiness is my own. I will not rest until a better future is cemented for England. Thank you,” he parrots perfectly. The crowd roars in unanimous approval. This might as well be his coronation. I can’t stop the twisting, dark feeling building up in my stomach. They’re a ceremony short of handing him the crown entirely. Must I really give up my birthright without so much as a second thought about it? I’ve never wanted it, don’t know what the hell I would do with it, but Christ, it’s supposed to be mine. Not a soul in this room believes that. He’s their king. Even if I were to miraculously take the throne, no one would respect a word out of my mouth. How am I supposed to stomach that?

Johnny-boy shuffles back to his seat amid the applause, my mother following dutifully behind him. That permits everyone to take their seats, but instead of floundering back to whoever’s side he’s supposed to be at, Robert stays standing in front of my royal guard. The two of them have separated from me and fallen into another conversation that I’ve got no business being a part of. Arthur’s smiling like somehow everything the numpty is saying is hilarious, and Robert is standing just a little too close for comfort. Looks like Saito’s noble sacrifice will be moot in the end. I’ve got some sort of duty to address my kid brother, and Arthur seems plenty placated with his new pal. As I walk past the two of them, Arthur puts his hand on my arm and stops me in my tracks.

“Where you going?” he asks quickly. Robert looks at me like he’s wondering the same thing.

“Gotta say something to the kid,” I say, attempting to not sound bitter about it. Arthur nods and lets me go, turning back to his new playmate. With his very necessary permission, I meander back to my original table. Johnny is sitting at the head staring into his empty champagne glass like he can refill it with solely his mind. I sit down to his left and tap his glass, nearly tipping it over. “Drank that in a hurry, hm?” I can’t help but mock him.

“I don’t need your snark today,” he grumbles.

“Could the two of you set aside your differences for one night?” my mother practically pleads.

“I didn’t come over here to start a fight. In fact, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” I say through my teeth. Johnny looks at me like he actually believes it for a second, but the hope is short-lived.

“...Do you know where father is?” he asks quietly. I shrug.

“Dying in some cavern? How should I know?” I answer, probably too harshly. My mother winces and stands up abruptly, heading to the table to our right. Sir Fischer is sitting there in all his ancient glory next to a dozen fellow old lads and ladies. That table is the only one which rivals our own in terms of utter joy and amusement.

“You shouldn’t talk like that,” Johnny mutters, but he hardly has the strength to properly scold me. Is his day of honor really depressing him this much?

“Come on. You know that old arsehole is fine. He probably didn’t want to see your cape,” I tease.

“Leave me alone if you’re going to be…uncivilized,” he says, choosing his words carefully.

“Yes, your Highness. How dare we banter?”

“Banter’s supposed to be funny.”

“Touché.”

He doesn’t have the gall to respond, so I glance back across the room. Oh, of course. Naturally, Robert has taken the seat Saito gave up for me. He and Arthur are chatting it up like they’ve been friends since primary school, leaning in toward each other as if they can’t hear one another from a few more centimeters away.

“Why’s Maurice Fischer here anyway?” I ask without turning away.

“He and father were close when they were younger,” Johnny answers, relieved to not have a taunt to rise to.

“So why does his obnoxious son have to show up, too?” I spit out like it’s an insult.

“Robert is a cultured man. Unlike you. I get why Art – why Mr. Galvit would want to spend his time with him.”

I whip my head around and look at my now slyly smiling brother as he glances over my shoulder. “Arthur can talk to whoever he pleases,” I say carefully, calculated.

“Has it ever occurred to you that he only gets along with you because of proximity?” he says, painting his cruelty with a coat of casual ambivalence. I won’t let him get under my skin.

“I know you don’t know what friendship is like, so I don’t blame you for misunderstanding it,” I fire back. I don’t know why every conversation between us has to become some battle, some game of quick tongues and unfair lashings.

“When’s the last time you read a book? Or watched a movie without Ricky Gervais in it? Do you really have anything to say to that guy?” he doesn’t relent.

“Enough, kid. You win, you’re making me angry, take the victory and stuff it,” I grumble through a tightly-formed grimace.

“Don’t you think he’s counting down the days to go back home? I would if I were stuck with you,” he snaps. I rise to my feet and resist kicking his chair over.

“Fuck you! You know, I never asked to have a snotty little brother. Do you think I enjoyed dragging you around through my teenage years? Do you think I enjoyed wasting that time? You stole my youth, and you’re in the process of stealing my future, so would you give me the privilege of keeping some aspect of my dignity? Or are you so hollow inside you can’t get off on anything besides bringing me down to your level?”

His face immediately falls, all of his petulant joy leaving along with the smile I’ve wiped from his expression. That was too far. I know it was. I really didn’t mind stomping around the palace with him when he was a child. In fact, that was when I liked him best. He doesn’t remember it. I know he doesn’t, but he’s staring at me like I’ve crushed his dreams in one quick scolding. The color drains from his skin as he stands up, towering above me not just physically but in some mental way as well. I’ve never had a chance against him, against his charming looks, against his well-mannered way of speaking, against his every quality that makes him perfect for my job. Somewhere along the way, he became the enemy. He’s earned it, he deserves it, he doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for me, so why should I care that he’s hurting? Why is he even hurting in the first place?

“You,” he steps closer to me as if about to saunter past, “are no better than them. You’re a fraud and a fucking joke.”

“At least I’m not a lonely bastard living a lie,” I snap back.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he mutters and walks forward. As he walks away, I swear I see his arm move over his eyes, but I block out the motion immediately. I don’t have the power to wound him. No one does. He’s a brick wall. Which all does not explain him storming out of the hall through some door he’s likely not meant to go through. I look back at the table that Boy Wonder and I have effectively cleared, save my dreadful aunt. She’s sitting staring at me in her gaudy green and purple dress that does not match the atmosphere nor her ratty hair. Are she and my mother really related? What is up with the siblings in this family?

“Hi, Emily,” I greet her, mostly to break the silence.

“It’s Evie,” she deadpans. Whoops. I really don’t see her often.

“Oh, right. How’s your…daughter?” Fifty-fifty shot.

“Son.”

“Lovely.” Two strikes, Eames. Brilliant. She coughs and scoots in her chair, looking me up and down with palpable disdain. I get that look a lot.

“I heard you ran away from every woman at your ball,” she snipes, scrunching up her face as though something smells funny.

“Cheers, love,” I strike out and give up, turning around and looking back out into the hall. Everyone has taken their seats at their stuffy tables full of dreadful people in this ugly building. I’ve already done my civic duty of angering every member of my family, and I certainly can’t sit with Evie after that conversational failure. Carefully, I train my eyes back to Arthur and his new god awful pal. They’re still laughing up a storm in my absence. You know, I don’t think I’ve had my fill of masochism for the day. The shame of being the family reject and the useless son hasn’t quite done enough, so I wander on over to the security table before I can think twice about the decision. As I get closer, Arthur turns his head and catches my eye. He smiles softly, almost unknowingly, and that’s enough to get my heart beating a little faster. No wonder everyone always flocks to him.

Once I’m within speaking distance, Arthur asks, “How did it go?” I shake my head.

“About as you’d expect,” I answer. He sighs as his face falls.

“Forgive me, I’ve overstayed my welcome. My father will be wondering about me,” Robert says, standing up as he looks between us. The look on his face makes him appear to be reading a book written out in the air in invisible ink, but he shakes the expression quickly and turns back to Arthur. “Try out Behan, alright? You Americans need history lessons,” he teases. My royal guard smiles and nods as I retake my seat next to him.

“What a bellend,” I mutter as soon as Robert’s gotten far enough away.

“I thought he was nice,” Arthur muses, watching after the Irish bastard. I resist the urge to scoff and instead say,

“Course you did.” Arthur turns and tilts his head, a slight smile creeping up on his face.

“What’s that tone?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. I have not a clue what he’s on about. I’m cool as a cucumber.

“Nothing. He just seemed…fond of you,” I manage, keeping my very normal tone completely even. Arthur lets out a snort of a laugh and blinks at me like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Seriously? He’s the son of a prime minister,” he says, like that means anything to me.

“And I’m the son of a king! Maybe important people fancy you,” I attempt to joke. Okay, that didn’t come out quite how I wanted it to.

“We were just talking about books,” Arthur says, still grinning at me like I’ve got food stuck in my teeth.

“Ah, yes. Literature. So formal. Such intellects you two are,” I say through my teeth. Wow, what is wrong with me? I should stop talking. Arthur’s face lights up as he scoots closer to me and claims,

“Oh my god. You’re jealous.”

“What?! Am not!” He’s being ridiculous. That’s a ridiculous claim. Why would I be jealous of some Irish bloke who likes dirty old books? Arthur is the jealous one. That’s his trait. I don’t claim that kind of emotion. He’s got a right to it. If I had to watch Faye fawn all over him, I would be a jealous wreck, too. But this is a completely different situation. I have absolutely no business caring about what obnoxiously intelligent, no-hair-out-of-place gentlemen have the nerve to speak to him.

“You so are. Holy shit,” Arthur marvels, and damn it all, he’s actually enjoying this. He’s got a shit-eating grin still plastered on his stupid, handsome face.

“Why would I be jealous of that wanker? His face is probably plastic anyway,” I cannot help but insult the poor sod. Let’s hope he’s secretly a serial killer, or I’m gaining a lot of bad karma by talking about him like this. Arthur moves in even closer and clears his throat.

“I sleep next to you every night, so I don’t know what you’re getting all worked up over,” he whispers.

“I told you I’m not worked up. Not at all,” I say very convincingly. Arthur sits up and moves back a little, his smile finally fading. He looks me up and down as though he’s seeing me for the first time. I still cannot fully understand what he’s trying to find when he gives me looks like these. Maybe there’s a part of the brain that only blokes like Arthur and Robert have access to, some kind of observational deck I’ve never had the keys to.

“Eames, I was just making conversation. I don’t mind that you don’t want to talk about old books or dead musicians. If I wanted to talk to someone like that all day, I’d talk to a mirror,” he says, pivoting completely. He’s moved entirely away from teasing and to something far more sincere. Something in my stomach lightens at the gentle glow lingering in his eyes. Alright. Maybe I was a little jealous. Just a hair.

“...I’ll read some old books. If you want. Just saying,” I mutter, glancing down at my hands before reacquainting myself with his gaze. I’m not sure why I said that. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this out of control of my tongue. Arthur’s entire face shifts in some incomprehensible way. For a brief moment, those soft eyes look like they’re about to fill with tears. What is it? What have I done? He looks ready to start sobbing, or maybe screaming instead. In fact, it appears like he’s choosing between the two. But then, a rarity of a smile graces his lips, a smile I don’t see from him often. It’s a helpless thing, a look I think I saw last on our impromptu walk in the woods. That day feels like it was centuries ago. How many lives have he and I lived together already?

He rises to his feet, and the moment’s passed. He offers me his hand and says, “Let’s go outside and get some air, your Highness.” I obey the request, taking his hand briefly as I stand and letting go just as quickly.

“Good idea. That spat with Johnny has my head all muddled,” I say, knowing full well Johnny’s only part of the whirlwind. Arthur nonetheless accepts the excuse as we walk through the hall, leading us toward the doors Johnny escaped through minutes ago. Looks like this is our only way out. We push through and find ourselves in a short hallway with a door to the outside directly across from us. After moving down the hallway, Arthur tries the door and scoffs as it swings open.

“I mean, come on. Whoever organized this is getting fired. You know how much of a hazard that is?” he complains as if we are not currently trying to escape through said door.

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, love,” I remind him, nodding toward the exit. We step out and take in the humid air, breathing in what feels like fifty percent water. Still, it’s better than the air of Johnny’s rich, fake friends and their richer parents. We’re in another one of my family’s coveted middle-of-nowheres, surrounded by fields of trimmed grass. Must every place we grace with our presence be so made-up? There’s something so arbitrarily fake about these locations, about these buildings, even about the plots of land they’re built on. Sometimes it feels like the only real thing about this country is the man standing by my side.

“Damn, it’s stuffy in there,” Arthur says, tugging on his bowtie reflexively. That’s one way of putting it.

“We have a habit of running out of parties, hm?” I say, taking a breath as I turn to him. There’s something about him that’s different in the night sky, something softer in his expression. Out here, I can see the man Robert doesn’t know, the man Johnny doesn’t know, the man I’ve somehow got the privilege of learning. Arthur stares back at me, accepting the silence for a moment, but then quips,

“You’ve got a staring problem.”

“According to Saito, so do you,” I say, pushing his shoulder lightly. He smiles and pushes me back, not putting much effort into the motion. “Hey, I still haven’t gotten my dance,” I blurt out. He tilts his head at me.

“I wasn’t aware I owed you one,” he replies, scratching his head.

“You wouldn’t dance with me at the ball,” I fake a pout, crossing my arms as I push out my bottom lip.

“I think something better might’ve happened that night,” he says with a small smile.

“Maybe, but you still owe me,” I don’t relent. He sighs as I force him into a tight waltz, one that is not formal nor proper, but comfortable.

“We don’t even have any music,” he complains, but still sways along with me despite his reluctance.

“You want me to sing?” I tease. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve had enough of your singing for a lifetime,” he deadpans. I groan and think to take my fake disappointment further by letting go of him, but I don’t know if I’d be able to get him back again. Though we’re not in exactly the correct form, it’s close enough to bring back a memory. That first day we were dancing around the palace ballroom, before he knew a thing about me other than the years of bad first impressions I’d given him, back when I thought that was the closest I’d ever get to him. I still remember how he tensed up against me, how I held my breath as if touching something behind a red rope, as if pooling water in my hands despite knowing how it’d trickle through my fingers. Can he really blame me for seeing some sort of threat in Robert? Anyone’s a safer choice, anyone’s a smarter choice, and maybe I’m just waiting for the day he wakes up and realizes that, realizes what Johnny’s clearly always known. I may not be phony to Arthur, and I may not be a fraud, but when I am to the rest of the world, how much does what he thinks make a difference?

“Bet Robert can’t dance like I can,” I tease instead of sharing any real fears.

“Are you going to do this every time a decent-looking guy speaks to me?” Arthur asks, raising his eyebrows.

“You admit you think he’s handsome!” I dramatically accuse him, earning an eye roll.

“Hey, Eames?” he says, pausing our dance.

“Yes, traitor?” I tease.

“Shut up,” he calmly requests, breaking our formation to cup my face in his hands and kiss me gently. I wrap my arms around him without a care for the consequences, pressing my body against his as I lean into the kiss. He’s moving slowly, with intention, like he’s trying to ease my anxiety and not rile me up at the same time. When he pulls away, he presses his forehead against mine. “If you can’t tell how crazy I am about you, you really are an idiot, Mr. Eames.”

It’s so simple, it’s one sentence, but it swirls through my head and my stomach and my fast-beating heart. I should return the sentiment, I should fall to my knees in reverence and beg his insanity to stay, I should pray that he doesn’t find his mind and his sense, but instead I say,

“I don’t think I can tell yet. Maybe you should kiss me again.” He smiles, and it’s exactly what he expects me to say and not at all what I wish would come out of my mouth. He fulfills the request, pecking my lips, but I shake my head. “Still can’t tell.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re the one trying to make a point,” I counter. He sighs and kisses me another time, this time a little harder. It’s what I’ve been trying to draw out of him, something I can metaphorically speak through, some way to show him what words can’t. It doesn’t make any sense, because he’s the jealous one, he’s the one who chokes on tenderness, and yet I’ve somehow assumed those roles. Perhaps we take turns. He can tell I’m trying to kiss him deeper, and though he accepts it at first, he pulls away fast.

“Easy, we’ve still got the rest of this party,” he whispers.

“Awful bloody party,” I mutter.

“They usually are,” he agrees and kisses my nose. I use his closeness to kiss his lips again, and he lets me, he’ll always let me.

“Wow. What a show, guys.”

Arthur and I disconnect in a hurry and whip our heads to the left. To our abject horror, Johnny is standing to our left, putting his phone back in his pocket. I bounce away from my royal guard and step towards my bastard of a brother as he dramatically claps his hands.

“Did you just bloody film us?” I growl in an attempt to spook him, but he just shrugs. His eyes are cloudy, he’s definitely not all the way there, but there’s enough of the arsehole to drive away any guilt I’d develop from my treatment of him through the night.

“I knew it. I fucking knew you two were shagging,” he says, not bothering to respond to my accusation.

“Johnny, answer me,” I try again.

“He obviously did,” Arthur says, drawing my attention. He doesn’t look afraid the way he did when we were caught the first couple of times. Maybe he’s used to it, or maybe he expects it from my brother dearest.

“Listen to your lover. He’s got an actual brain in his head,” Johnny says, and his voice is almost as disconcerting as Arthur’s. He’s calm, cool, and collected despite a slight quiver on his vowels. I look back at the kid and attempt to read his expression, but there’s nothing there I can decipher. What does he plan to do with that video? How will he use it? This isn’t Mal, or Yusuf, or Saito, or even that bloody awful reporter who tried to expose us to the public. This is Johnny, this is my blood, this is a boy – no, a man who I’ve done nothing but scorn for the past eighteen years of his life. I’ve even just written off the good of his childhood. There’s nothing I can stand on, no empathy to appeal to, no bond to lean against. Whatever this is, we’re trapped in it.

“You know, you were right in there. You didn’t ask for me. Hell, I didn’t ask for me. But I’m here, and I’m going to shake the curse you put on me. You’re going to do what I say when I say it, or that video is going to every news station in the world. The both of you would never know peace again,” he threatens, his face still stone cold. There’s not even a hint of a smile on his lips. If there’s pleasure in this for him, he’s not letting it through.

“As if some shoddy video can prove anything,” I bluff. He scoffs.

“Sure, maybe a shoddy video couldn’t. Except, this one isn’t shoddy. What do you think the world will think when they see Prince Fuck Up making out with his royal guard? Well, Mr. Galvit, they’ll ruin your life. You think what happened to Edward’s little girlfriend was bad? That was one picture. You’ll be lucky if you’re ever able to step outside again. Your career, your family, your affair with this arsehole, you’ll lose it all. Maybe my family will disappear you, have to put you in witness protection. Or maybe you’ll crawl into some hole and never come out again. Who knows? Want to find out?” Johnny threatens. I stomp closer to him and grab his shirt, but he barely reacts.

“You leave him alone! Leave him out of this! He didn’t do anything to you!” I shout in his face. It’s as though he can’t hear a single word coming out of my mouth. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with him?

“You think things would end up okay for you? You think you’d be able to scrape by? Losing him would be the least of your worries. Say goodbye to your comfy, cushy life. Mother wouldn’t let you stay, father wouldn’t even look at you as you left. Maybe they’d take all your money, too! Tell me, what’s a lost prince going to do without his daddy’s cash and his mummy’s protection? Would you go on talk shows, try to drum up some profit on your downfall? Would you throw your lover under the bus? Fuck, I almost want to see it! You’ll –”

“We get the damn picture. What do you want?” Arthur snaps, somehow now by my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and nudges me back, forcing me to let go of the kid and step away. Johnny smooths out his shirt and clears his throat.

“You’re not fit for the throne. You’d ruin this country. But I can fix that. I can fix you, I can mold you into this country’s savior. In fact, it might be good for you. You’ll finally have the world’s love. Clearly, you put a lot of weight on that, don’t you?” he says. My stomach drops. He’s this desperate to not wear the crown?

“...You want to puppet me around just so you don’t have to take on the responsibility?” I say slowly. For the first time since he revealed himself, his expression shifts. He snarls, his mouth forming a tight grimace as his eyebrows furrow. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to start stomping and screaming like a child, but he keeps some of his composure and stops himself from having a full tantrum.

“You don’t get it! All I’ve ever had is responsibility! I’ve been your fucking back-up plan! You’ve spent your entire life getting away with bloody murder because you knew I’d clean up after you! I’m sick of it! When’s it my turn to live? You hated me as a kid, you hate me now, you’d do anything to erase me, fine! I don’t want your love or your tolerance. I’m not your fucking family, and I certainly won’t play boy savior anymore. You’re going to make up for everything and save me for once, whether you want to or not.”

For a moment, all I can do is stare. Have I really earned this? Have I really treated him so horribly? It’s not like he’s ever been kind to me. He’s pushed me aside since he knew how to talk, he won’t even call me my real name, he feels no bond between us. I thought that all amounted to some lofty indifference, but fuck, he hates me. He really, genuinely hates me. He thinks I’ve ruined his life, and maybe I have.

“...Johnny, don’t do this. I never –”

“Shut up! I’m not ‘Johnny,’ I’m not your little brother who you can punish for existing, I’m not your scapegoat anymore! You’ll do what I say or you’ll lose him!” he screams over me, flecks of spit flying from his mouth.

“...What’s my role in all of this?” Arthur manages to ask through the haze of brotherly hate.

“You want to keep fucking him? Fine. Go ahead. But how long will you be able to take that, Mr. Galvit? Do you really want to be a king’s confidant for the rest of your days? You really want to be his little secret? I can’t stop you. But don’t think you won’t be on a short leash. You’re not getting caught unless I want you to,” Johnny explains his master plan. He isn’t saying it, but I know the only reason Arthur’s allowed in this equation is leverage. If he got Arthur sent away, it could cause me to snap and leave despite the threat of his little home movie. He’d much rather watch Arthur leave me himself. Could I blame him if he did? Christ, it’s already hard enough for him to be with me the way things are now. The way things were moments ago. “Did you honestly both think you could get away with it forever? You’ve barely been hiding it! I mean, you walked through the one door you saw me go through so you could go fool around outside my fucking party.”

“I’m not taking the throne. Not like this. The public doesn’t even like me,” I say so quietly it’s practically a whisper. I’ve lost, I know it, but something in me doesn’t know when to quit.

“They will. Soon, they will. I’ll whip you into shape.”

“People have been trying to do that all my life. Does it look like it’s working?”

For a moment, he falters. His face falls as he looks between us, but then it hardens again. If he had a sense of hesitation, he shot it down quickly. “It will work. Because of him, it will.”

I turn to the man in question, expecting him to have a scowl painted across his face. What I find is much worse. Arthur’s shaking something awful, his entire body shuddering beneath the weight of Johnny’s explosion. How do I fix this? How do I keep him?

“...I’ll abdicate,” I attempt to threaten, but it’s weak and he knows it.

“Doubt it. But if you do, that little video will come out. Hey, you think someone will try to kill Mr. Galvit? There’s a lot of crazies out there who don’t agree with your lifestyle,” Johnny says, walking past us toward the door back into the building.

“Johnny, please. If you’ve got anything left for me in your heart, you’ll delete that video and forget all about this,” I attempt. He scoffs.

“You should be happy. I’m no longer ‘stealing your future.’ Enjoy it, King Edward.”

With that, he saunters inside, leaving me and Arthur to stand in quiet shock. “Fuck,” I whisper. He takes my hand, squeezes it, and breathes in deep. Without a thing left to say, we stay still with our fingers interlocked, taking in one last moment of the before. Before it sets in, before the threat really takes hold, before we fully realize the magnitude of this catastrophe. I have not one single clue what we’ll do in the after.

Chapter Text

The rising sun, despite being a sign that we’ve somehow made it through the night, gives me and Arthur very little comfort. We earnestly tried to sleep after the party, told each other we’d figure out what to do in the morning, but it quickly became apparent that neither of us would be getting much rest. I should’ve expected Johnny to do something like this, to pull some kind of stunt for some twisted sense of revenge. He acts like he’s owed this, like he’s got to control my fate to control his own. I suppose I haven’t treated him well. Certainly no better than he’s treated me. But do I really deserve this? My choices are, on the surface, simple: accept the loss and protect myself and Arthur from something life-ruining, but doom us to a life of secrecy that I’m not sure either of us could survive, or take our chances against the world and explode in a blaze of glory, let them eat us alive and hope we somehow make it out on the other side without too many teeth marks.

If that choice really was simple, Arthur and I wouldn’t be sitting at my kitchen table nursing mugs of coffee, hunched over like soldiers in trench warfare. He hasn’t had much to say, opting to listen to my bitching and moaning about how it isn’t fair, how my brother’s a rotten piece of work, all the things he already knows and has learned a thousand times. I commend him for his patience. I went silent a moment ago, lost the will to keep circling the issue like a vulture around a carcass. Arthur looks tired yet contemplative, staring off behind me like he’s searching for the answer in the sunlight slowly peeking its way into my flat. His eyes are hidden behind his glasses, his fancy clothing replaced with one of my t-shirts and trousers whose ownership I’ve forgotten sometime in the past month and a half. Christ. I can’t lose him. Not after all we’ve gone through to have this, not after all he’s given up. But both scenarios seem impossible. He’ll be miserable if he’s confined to this place, but if we leave, he’ll be the exact opposite of a secret. He’ll be the country, no, the world’s talking point. It’ll all get blamed on him. Ariadne pressed her forehead against mine for half a second and still gets death threats over it. Could Arthur make it out of this country with me alive?

“I think we try our luck,” Arthur gives his first suggestion of the discussion. I perk up, scared out of my head, and stare at him.

“Did you not hear all the consequences? Love, they’ll ruin your life. If it’s not my family who does it, it’ll be the larger public,” I warn him. He shakes his head like he’s not convinced.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know how anyone will react. But don’t you think it’s worth a try? It’s certainly better than dooming yourself to the throne. You’ve never wanted that,” he continues. My stomach twists at the argument. He’s right, so why do I feel so sick over it? How can he be so ready to thrust us into the unknown?

“I thought Johnny wanted it. He used to practically beg me to abdicate. I don’t know what’s changed,” I attempt to turn us away from all this solution talk. It’s far too logical.

“He got scared. He’s not the only one,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“What are you implying?” I dare, taking the final sip of my coffee and wincing as I do. I’ll only ever choose to drink this shite when times are truly desperate. Arthur shifts in his chair and clears his throat.

“I’m not implying it. I’m saying it. Your dad is…indisposed. You and John see that, and it’s scaring the shit out of you both.”

“I’m not scared, I’m angry. I’ve always known this would happen. Johnny screwed it all up,” I snap. His expression doesn’t change in the slightest. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but he already seems over this conversation.

“Yeah, because it seemed like you were really ready to choose before his little stunt,” he snaps back, his voice laced with threatening sarcasm. I nearly shiver in the tone. He must read something on my face, because his softens, and he quickly retcons, “I’m not trying to be a dick. But you’ve been on the fence since I met you. John’s not the reason you haven’t picked a side.”

“Well, he’s certainly not making it any easier.”

“He’s not? Eames, you don’t want to be King, and even if you did, you don’t want to be a puppet for your asshole brother. I’m telling you I’m fine with the risk of everyone finding out about us,” he argues, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. I’m frustrating him, I know I am, but he isn’t doing himself any favors, either.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand how things have been here, you don’t know how long –”

“I know you, though. I know you were never built for this life in the first place,” he interrupts.

“You’ve sure got a lot of faith in me,” I mutter.

“It’s not about faith! I’m sure you could do it. It’s about what you want.”

“It’s not. It never has been.” I can hear how I sound, can hear the record needle scratching, but I've never learned another song to scream out into the void.

“Well, it is now. John’s handed you the choice on a silver platter, all you’ve gotta do is take it.”

“Arthur, they’ll bloody rip you apart!”

“I don’t care! I’ll fucking take it!”

“Jesus, we’re going in circles,” I give in, putting my arms down on the table and resting my head on the makeshift pillow. I don’t move until I feel fingers gliding through my messy hair.

“We’re tired,” he mutters like it’s a worthy excuse, but Christ, his touch feels so bloody good. Will he leave me if I’m too afraid to go? What are his limits? Right as I’m about to lift my head and perhaps build up the will to ask exactly that, there’s a loud knock on the door.

“Eames? It’s Saito!” he practically yells through the wall.

“Come in,” I call out as I lift my head. He obeys quickly, swinging the door open with reckless abandon. He looks nervous, maybe something beyond nervous, as he blurts out,

“You’ve got to come with me. Alone.”

I tilt my head and briefly look at Arthur. He shrugs and shakes his head.

“Everything alright?” I ask.

“...I’m not exactly sure,” Saito admits. It’s not like him to not be on top of something. The uncertainty in his voice is enough to bring me to my feet. As I walk past Arthur, I squeeze his shoulder and nod to him. He nods back, a little more alert now as well. I feel his eyes on me as I leave the flat with Saito, who starts rushing ahead before I’ve even stepped out the door. I hurry to catch up with him, saying quickly,

“Slow down, mate! What’s going on?”

“I told you, I’m not sure, but you’ve all been summoned by your father immediately,” he answers. My stomach drops. I don't know which part of that sentence scares me the most. What could he possibly want? Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe he’s healing up, maybe he’s prepared to shout at us for all of our blunders while he’s been, in Arthur’s words, “indisposed.”

“Who’s ‘you’ve all?’” I dare to ask.

“Her majesty and your brother,” he answers quietly.

“Great,” I mutter.

“What happened between you and John last night? You look like you haven’t slept,” Saito says, pausing his urgency to check in. He’s one of the only people here who remembers to. I wave my hand dismissively and fake indifference. Saito might genuinely have a heart attack if he finds out there’s video of me and Arthur snogging and whispering sweet nothings moments away from being released to the public.

“Same old shite. Nothing special,” I lie. He pauses like he doesn’t quite believe it, but quickly decides he doesn’t have the time to question me. We find our way to the lift, which I rarely frequent, and step inside. Saito takes us to nearly the top floor, another place I rarely frequent. It’s one of the floors my parents spend a lot of time on, which means I keep away as much as I can. We stay silent on the ride, me twiddling my thumbs and Saito scrolling quickly through his phone. After what feels like an eternity, the lift dings, and Saito takes a deep breath before stepping out. We walk until we reach a room at the end of the hall, a room I’ve never been in before. The door is devoid of clues save a label: “PRIVATE.”

“This is as far as I go,” Saito says.

“Seriously? What the hell is going on?” I ask myself more than him, but he still answers,

“I wish I knew. Eames…” He puts his hand on my back and pats it, opting to do so instead of finishing his sentence. I nod and push through the door, accepting my fate.

It takes everything in me to not gasp as I enter the room. The curtains are drawn shut, the only light coming from clinical-looking lamps, but the darkness cannot hide the sight in front of me. My father, the King of this country, is lying in what is clearly a hospital bed cleverly masked as a regular one. He’s hooked up to what looks like a dozen machines, each one cursed with the Sisyphean task of keeping the man alive. His hair is almost completely gone, his sickly-pale skin dotted with small brown lumps. He looks only half-alive, his eyes glazed over and his lips so chapped it looks like he hasn’t tasted water in weeks. How did this happen? When was the last time I saw him? He didn’t look this bad, did he? Has he really fallen apart so awfully in the past month? While I was out and about, finally happy, my father was rotting – no, my father was dying. My father is dying.

My mother is by his bedside, looking just as shocked as I am. Has she seen him? Has she been watching this progress, or is she just as lost as I am? How have I let my own family pass me by? Johnny is staring with wide eyes and shaking hands like he’s watching a car crash over and over. He was just as left out of the loop as I was. For a moment, everything in the past twenty-four hours, no, the past weeks, the past months, far before Arthur tumbled into my life, fades away. My father is dying, my father has been dying, my father has left it to the last minute to finally tell us that he is dying. My mother won’t survive this. Will I? How am I supposed to feel? Apart from the dreadful pit in my stomach that was already there, I feel nothing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say.

“...I know this must be hard for you all to see,” a woman’s voice says. I perk up and look toward the sound. When did she get here? Standing to the left of my dying father, my half-dead father, is a nurse dressed in her palace-certified scrubs. She’s middle-aged, maybe around the same age as my mother, but that may just be premature aging caused by the wrinkles of stress across her face.

“How could you hide this from us?!” Johnny immediately snaps.

“His majesty wants –”

“I don’t care what he wants! I’m his son! My fucking dad is dying and you didn’t tell us!” he accuses, pointing his finger dramatically. Right. Blame the employee. Anyone but our dear father.

“S-stop,” my father strains out. Christ. His voice sounds like a death rattle already. The room goes deadly quiet apart from the beeping of the systems that must be keeping him alive.

“What is it, honey?” my mother asks, syrupy sweet.

“Edward…too loud,” he rasps out. Johnny and I briefly glance at each other. My father’s on his deathbed, and I’m still taking the fall for Johnny’s errors. Figures.

“Has he lost his mind? What the fuck?” Johnny says, seemingly without meaning to let it out.

“...His disease has been progressing quickly,” the nurse admits.

“How quickly?” I manage to ask.

“He has small-cell lung cancer. Most common in smokers. It’s a fast-growing, aggressive–”

“We don’t give a damn about definitions! Don’t you think we’re beyond that?!” Johnny interrupts.

“John, please! Stop yelling! It upsets him,” my mother says softly, stroking my father’s bald head. Moisture fills my eyes as I watch her, a woman of stone, crumble at my father’s side. She’s been wilting away just as he has.

“He was given six months to live in May. Now…we take things day by day,” the nurse mumbles. Excuse me? May?

“Jesus Christ. Hey, you hear me in there, pops?” I snap, marching toward the end of his bed.

“Edward, don’t!” my mother pleads.

“You hear me? You had to keep this a secret, huh? Couldn’t tell your bloody children you were on death’s door, didn’t bother to get your affairs in order?” I practically spit at the dying man.

“His affairs are in order! You’ll abdicate and John will take the throne,” my mother says with an eerily calm tone.

“No! That’s not what’s happening! He’s taking it!” Johnny argues.

“Excuse me?” my mother says.

“You see what you’ve done? This family is a fucking disaster, and you get to cop out now? Leave us to consume each other? What kind of father are you?” I continue my soliloquy and ignore my arguing mother and brother. She’s now left my father’s side to get closer to Johnny, perhaps to smack him upside the head.

“...I’m so sorry. He requested it remain a secret to you boys until he was physically incapable of retaining that decision,” the nurse whispers to me.

“Not your fault,” I mumble back, then ask, “What are those marks on his skin?”

“Metastases. It’s the spreading of the cancer to other parts of his body,” she answers softly. What a fitting side effect. It’s almost hard to hear her over my brother and mother’s bickering, but I manage to block them out.

“So he’s fucked, then?” I blurt out.

“...The prognosis is not good,” she mutters.

“I’m next in line. For his seat.”

“I know, your Highness. It must be a heavy burden. As w-well as a great honor, of course.”

“He’s gonna fucking die. The bastard,” I grumble, turning away abruptly. I can’t stay in here, can’t listen to my father’s shaky breaths and my mother’s sob-stricken blubbering and my fucking brother’s indignance, his miraculous ability to make any situation about himself. I push my way past them and out of the room, moisture dripping down my face as I do. I don’t know what the tears are for. They’re not for my father, they’re not for my brother, and I don’t know why they’d be for me. Maybe they’re for my mother, for her sorrow, for how her life has fallen apart and still all her children care about is who has to take their dying father’s place. If I leave, he dies, and Johnny takes the throne, in some way or another, she loses us all.

I slide down against the wall like a shoddy film character and bury my face in my hands. My father and I have never been close, never had any sort of real relationship, but this feels like his worst betrayal yet. He let himself rot away in there, abandoned us when given one final chance to do right. How is this what’s best for the country? At least before this, I could rationalize that his heart was elsewhere, that he mentally abandoned his family because his blood belonged to the country. But maybe there’s no heart left in him. Maybe his heart shattered when his brother died, maybe he never picked up the pieces, maybe the loss was so difficult to take that he decided to die along with him. Has he spent his life going through the motions, a King because he had to be, another spare just like my little brother? If I abandon Johnny, will it be some sort of death? Will it be the nail in his coffin, will I ruin his life just as my father’s brother ruined his? Am I just as selfish as the rest of us?

“...Eames?” a familiar voice softly speaks my name, my actual name, the one my father never called me by. I lift my head up and look at him, at my ticket out of here, at the dream of a man who barreled his way into a nightmare. Who am I if I throw it all away for him? How much does my happiness matter? Can I really abandon this place? Can I leave Johnny to get crushed underneath the weight of the work that likely killed my father worse than the tobacco? Can I let my mother attempt to coach an eighteen-year-old on how to run a country on her own? Do I get to be happy when they’re so miserable? Am I supposed to go down with them? Maybe I should, but Arthur’s staring at me like the entire world’s in my eyes, like he sees a bloody life and a future if only I’d just grab it. I’ll fucking ruin him either way, I’ll destroy him one way or another just like everyone always knew, but fuck, I fucking want him more than anything. He’s all I’ve got that I’ve ever asked for, the only thing I’d ever beg for, but if I keep him, really keep him, I’m exactly the failure my mother expects me to be, I’m exactly the coward my brother knows I am, I’m exactly the son my father wishes he never had.

“Eames, come here,” Arthur tries again, offering his hands. Without much thought, I take them and let him pull me to my feet. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, and I don’t think he knows why, I don’t think he has a clue, but he came for me. “Saito told me to find you. What happened?” he asks, and his voice is so soft, so gentle.

“My father’s going to die,” I say plainly, like it’s nothing, like it’s something I’ve known for years. Maybe, somewhere deep down, I have known for that long.

“Fuck, I’m so –”

“No. No, I don’t want that. Just…please don’t go,” I whisper. He tightens his grasp and pets my hair, breathing in deeply.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” he whispers back, but I don’t think he knows what I mean. I want to croak it out, I want to beg him to stay no matter what I choose, I want him to give up everything no matter the cost. But maybe he has to leave, and maybe I have to stay. Maybe we can’t make it out of this without every piece of our hearts. He’s so warm, and he’s so good, and maybe I’m not meant to have this.

“Arthur, please,” I whisper, and I still can’t get it out, but there’s a desperation to my voice I have never heard before. I’m shaking now, I know I am, but I can’t do a thing to stop it.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out,” he assures me, and he’s trying to talk me off the ledge. We’ve been here before, he’s had this role in the past, and he doesn’t deserve this. What do I do for him? What part of me appeals?

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you, nothing ever has been and I don’t –”

“Eames, it’s okay. I want to be here. I chose this. Just breathe,” he interrupts, and I’m trying, but it feels like the world is closing in on me, like his arms are the only things keeping the void from swallowing me whole.

“They hate me, but I can’t destroy them. I can’t,” I whisper.

“You won’t. You won’t destroy anyone. You deserve a life you love,” he whispers back.

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.”

He says it like it’s simple, like it’s easy, but nothing ever has been. My father is dying, and when he does, I’ll be out of time. It’s a rock and a hard place, it’s the fork in the road I’ve been standing at for years. Martyr has never been my non de plume, but my father can’t breathe, my mother can’t live without his suffocating air, and my brother will lose his mind before the year is up. I take the throne, and I give them the protection they never gave me, the protection they haven’t earned. And I lose Arthur. He’s worth more than them all combined, he’s already better than them, he’s already made me happier than anyone here ever could, but…what kind of man abandons his family? What kind of person?

“I can tell you’re ripping yourself apart. Let’s go to sleep, okay? We can figure it out later. There’s still time,” Arthur says, whether he believes it or not.

“Mhm. Still time,” I agree, but the clock’s never been ticking faster.

End of Act Three