this evening's empire, ai rpf, 2/3
this evening's empire, 2/3
part one
The morning of the festival, Adam takes Kris out riding.
“All of this is a part of the estate,” Adam says, sweeping a hand across the dizzying fields of purple flowers, the slight tang of the pollen washing over Kris in waves of breeze. “We’re at the very edge of Frijola. The tree line marks the border between us and Sheraton.”
Kris pulls his horse, a beautiful white mare, into a slow trot beside Adam and his Fiddlesticks, a horse far more imposing than his name implies. “Sheraton,” he says. “Isn’t that ruled by the Baroness Joy?”
“Megan,” Adam says fondly. “She’s a wonderful friend of mine. She’ll be at the festival tonight, probably. Have you met?”
“Briefly, I think,” Kris says. “At some function or another of my mother’s.”
“She hates court politics as much as I do,” Adam says. “We much prefer to stay here. The people are much nicer.” He grins wickedly.
“You keep insulting the nobility, as if I would actually take offense,” Kris says. “And you realize that you yourself are, what, eighth in line for the throne?”
“Ninth,” Adam corrects. “Thankfully, the odds that eight other people should all die at exactly the same time are rather small.”
“Lucky you,” Kris says.
Adam gives him a sideways look. “You do not wish for the crown?” he asks.
Kris sighs. “My father is a superior king,” he says. “And I don’t just say that because he is my father.”
Adam nods. “I agree with you there,” he says. “Our kingdom is more prosperous than ever because of his guidance.”
“I have no wish to cut his rule short in any way,” Kris says.
“Well, obviously,” Adam says. “But as superior of a ruler he is, he still cannot change the laws of nature. Sooner or later, he will need a successor.”
“My brother Daniel wishes to rule,” Kris says lamely.
“You are the eldest,” Adam says, needlessly.
“It’s - “ Kris stammers, turning his face to the sky and feeling Adam’s curious gaze. “It is a complicated duty,” he says finally. “Of all the demands it has on my father, the worst is the requirement to compromise one’s values in order to court public favor.”
Adam is quiet a moment. “Yes,” he finally says, “that is difficult, if not necessary.”
“Often what he says publicly disagrees almost completely with what he says in private,” Kris confides. “I have no desire whatsoever to live in that sort of duplicity.”
“You value honesty more than anyone I’ve ever met,” Adam says thoughtfully. “More so than I would’ve expected from a prince. No offense.”
“There is no offense,” Kris assures him. “You are right. I - have never understood the motivation behind lying. It brings only pain to those involved, every single time.”
“Kris,” Adam says, with feeling. “I - “ he cuts himself off abruptly, wrapping the reins around his hand absently.
Kris frowns. “What is it?”
Adam seems to struggle for a moment before shaking his head decisively. “Nothing,” he finally says. “I just - if you don’t find me too intrusive - wish to know what happened to you to make you so wary of dishonesty.”
Kris swallows. “Our conversations over the last few days have been the very definition of intrusive, Duke.”
Adam smiles. “Ah, and I’ve enjoyed them. And I think you have, as well.” Kris ducks his chin, unable to discount the statement. “Still, I trust you know that as my sovereign, you are fully capable of telling me to shut my gob, at any moment.”
Kris falls quiet, studying their surroundings. They’ve reached the tree line, and the sunlight falls on their shoulders, dappled by the shadows cast by the leaves. “Let’s rest,” he says decisively. “We’ve been riding all morning; I’m sure the horses could use some refreshment.”
The quiet smile on Adam’s face betrays his ability to see through Kris’s excuse, but he tugs on the reins anyway, pointing up ahead. “There’s a pond a ways ahead. Follow me.”
They stop at a truly picturesque scene, a tiny, blue-green lake surrounded by the rich purple wyldbore flowers, all of it framed by the trees, improbably dark green with foliage despite the season.
Adam swings off his mount gracefully, slipping the harness off and allowing the horse to wander over to the water’s edge lazily. He smiles over at Kris as he releases his own horse, wiping at the sweat on his brow and collapsing beneath the shade of a tree.
“I used to explore these woods as a boy,” Adam says, joining Kris beneath the shade and stretching out against the tree bark, hands locked behind his head. “Many days, I would lose track of time and spend hours out here, only to be greeted with my near-hysterical mother back at the estate.”
Kris smiles at the picture. “I have no doubt that you were a mother’s nightmare as a child.”
Adam laughs. “That’s not too far off the mark,” he says. “You, on the other hand, were probably the very picture of obedience.”
“Something like that,” Kris says.
Adam sits up, his thigh dangerously close to Kris’s, body heat rolling off him in waves. “And where, in that history of obedience, did someone betray you?” Kris clenches his jaw, looking away. “I am a very determined man, if you hadn’t already noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Kris sighs, leans back against the tree, his shoulder against Adam’s. “Do you know the Earl of Rigamore?”
“Seacrest,” Adam says. “Ryan Seacrest, I believe.” He makes a face of the utmost distaste. “Yes, we’ve met.”
Kris picks a stem of wyldbore from the ground beside them, slowly shredding it into pieces. “Before he was married,” he says quietly, “he was a fixture at court. He and I were friends in childhood, and when he returned from his schooling, he took an interest in me again.”
Adam looks at him solemnly. “I do not believe I shall like where this is going,” he says.
Kris smiles wryly. “Well,” he says. “I was very smitten with him, you know. I was very young, only sixteen or so. He was much older than me, and he’d been to university, and traveled all throughout the kingdoms. I’d never even set foot out of Central City.” Kris shrugs. “He and I were inseparable. We’d have these long conversations into the night about literature and politics. It was like I’d always dreamed having a companion would be like - someone to talk to, who would treat me like a fellow human being rather than some kind of demigod, just for the simple fact of my birthright.”
Adam hums thoughtfully, face neutral. “Go on.”
“He began to talk of marriage,” Kris says, swallowing the lump in his throat determinedly. “Began to send me tokens, compliments, love notes, that sort of thing. There was no doubt in my mind that we’d marry, I was just waiting for the proposal.” He rolls his eyes in disgust. “And then he went back to Rigamore on business, and when he returned, he brought his wife.” Kris laughs, wincing at the bitter tinge to the sound. “He was so surprised that I was upset. Said he’d never imagined I would take him seriously.” Kris shakes his head. “That it was the cosmopolitan thing to do, or some nonsense like that.”
Adam makes a dismissive noise. “Fool,” he mutters.
“I was the fool,” Kris contradicts. “I was very young, and far too naïve.”
“Ryan Seacrest is a rat with a tongue as silver as that ridiculous castle he lives in,” Adam says angrily. “He took advantage of you.”
“Yes,” Kris concedes. “And taught me a valuable lesson in the process.”
“What, that everyone is out to hurt you?” Adam asks. Kris looks away. “It’s not a completely ridiculous concern in a place such as the royal court. But this,” Adam sweeps a hand to their surroundings, “is not court, highness.”
“You’re telling me that I should trust you,” Kris says, “when every instinct I have is telling me to guard myself.”
“I’m asking you to have faith,” Adam says. “In me. And in Frijola.” He smiles. “Frijola is my heart, highness. If you’ve fallen in love with my land, you’ve fallen in love with everything that I am.”
Kris takes a shaky breath. “It’s not as easy as you make it out to be.”
“Yes, I know that,” Adam says slowly. Reaching out, he takes Kris’s hand, dislodging the wyldbore stem, which falls to the ground in sweet-smelling pieces. “But I’m asking for a chance,” he says, “to prove your instincts wrong.”
Kris frowns down at their entangled fingers, Adam’s rings cold against his skin. “I do not understand,” he says, not without some effort, “why you are so determined to pursue me. Other than my throne, I can’t see anything I have to offer that you couldn’t find somewhere else.”
Adam sighs mournfully, and Kris watches his chest move beneath his tunic. “That is the most tragic thing you’ve said to me,” he says.
Kris flushes. “I just meant - “
“I know what you meant,” Adam says darkly, and seizes Kris’s chin, slanting their mouths together too quickly for Kris to resist. Kris makes a muffled noise of surprise, and Adam slides his hand around to the back of his neck, holding him in place.
When he finally releases his grip, Kris is breathless and shaky. “That,” he says, pulling back further and trying to regain his composure, “was very intrusive.”
“Forgive me,” Adam says, sounding anything but apologetic. “I find that a kiss is the best defense against nonsense.”
Kris swallows, tearing his gaze away from Adam’s bottom lip to the horses, grazing innocently by the edge of the pond. “You make me - “ he says, and breaks off abruptly. “I can’t think when I’m around you.”
“Then I’m doing something right,” Adam replies, sliding his arm around Kris’s shoulders. “Would you relax? I’m not going to ravish you.”
“Well, that I definitely don’t believe, for some odd reason,” Kris says dryly.
Adam laughs. “There’s a certain order to these things,” he informs Kris. “All in good time. Of course, if you’d like to speed up the timetable - “
“Adam,” Kris interrupts, “shut your gob. You’re ruining the moment.”
Adam tugs Kris backwards until he’s leaning against Adam’s chest, chuckling. “I am so very smitten with you,” he murmurs, nuzzling gently into the back of Kris’s neck.
Kris shivers, leaning back into Adam’s embrace, and tries to ignore the fear rising in his throat.
--
Cassidy and Brad are waiting for him when he returns, Brad bouncing impatiently while Cassidy perches serenely on Kris’s desk, watching with bemused eyes. He’s already dressed in what must be his costume, unless he normally wears a leather harness and skin-tight breeches every day at any rate, and Kris nearly does a double take.
“Finally,” blurts Brad. “I mean, well, I’m so glad you’re here, majesty.”
“Did we have an appointment I am not aware of?” Kris asks, barely containing his yelp as Brad yanks him inside the room.
“No,” Brad says, “but if we want to be ready for the festival we should have started an hour ago. Now go undress, Cassidy has your costume ready.”
Kris blinks. “I thought it didn’t start until sundown?” He ducks out of the way of Brad’s shoving hands, moving behind the privacy screen to start pulling at his clothes.
“Yes, but it’s already half past two,” Brad calls, “and these things take time, majesty. We’re not superheroes.”
“I would have never guessed,” Kris replies dryly.
It takes all three of their combined efforts to install Kris into his costume, a four-part contraption that looks more complicated hanging on its hook than any piece of machinery Kris has ever seen before.
“I feel like a mannequin,” Kris comments, holding out his arms obediently as Cassidy and Brad painstakingly wrap long green vines around them artfully.
“A very royal mannequin,” Brad chirps, messing with one of the leaves fussily. Finally satisfied, he steps back, looking Kris up and down approvingly. “I must say Cassidy, this is your best work yet.”
“You think so?” Cassidy raises one critical eyebrow. “If I’d had another day I could’ve done something more with those shin guards.”
“Nonsense, they look divine!” Brad exclaims, grinning sunnily. “Prince, how do you feel? Comfortable? You can still move, right?”
Kris rolls his shoulders experimentally. “I suppose so.”
“Wonderful! Now let’s get to the painting, I’ve my own outfit to slip into, you know.”
“Paint?” Kris repeats. “There’s paint?”
“Of course,” Brad says, as if Kris had just asked him if the sky was blue. “What is a Yule Festival without body paint?”
Cassidy smirks, leaning in to adjust a stray strap on Kris’s costume. “Just close your eyes and think of Frijola,” he says. “It’ll help the process along, trust me.”
It’s all in all, one of the most bizarre afternoons of his life, sitting in front of a blue-haired advisor and being painted on like a vine-speckled canvas. Brad works quickly and deftly, dotting the spaces left bare by the gaps in his costume with different splashes of color, directing Cassidy to wave a fan in each direction to help it dry more quickly. Kris’s arms become a pale green beneath the dark green of his fake vines; his neck and chest, above where his fitted vest sits, is streaked with black and brown. His face is attacked by a combination of kohl and rouge until he barely recognizes himself, and powdered color is dusted into his hair, turning it a shade darker than usual.
“There,” Brad says decisively. “A royal wood sprite. Or nymph. Or spirit. Or whichever, you look glorious, majesty.”
Kris shifts, a little uncomfortably. He’s no stranger to dressing up, but this is a level he’s never thought of before, let alone encountered. “Thank you,” he says. “Really. I very much appreciate your help.”
“It’s our pleasure, majesty,” Brad says, packing away the pots of paint and smearing streaks of green and brown all over the place. “Cassidy will escort you to the town square, that’s where the kick-off ceremony will be, won’t you, Cassidy? Oh thank you honeybee, I’ll see you there, yes?” He doesn’t wait for a nod before rushing out, barely managing a tiny wave in his haste.
“I’ve heard rumors of his costume,” Cassidy says, shaking his head. “Young Allison glimpsed it yesterday; she said it was the most glamorous thing she’d ever seen. Apparently he swore her to secrecy, though.”
“I have no doubt that he will put us all to shame,” Kris comments.
“He does that even without a costume,” Cassidy says fondly. “I’ve no doubt he will continue the tradition. Though he’ll have some strong competition in the form of the dashing prince, this year.”
Kris wiggles a little, unused to the tight clothing. “If I don’t pass out before I even make it there.”
“Don’t worry,” Cassidy says, winking and taking his arm. “I’ll make sure you arrive in one piece.”
--
The streets of the city have been transformed into a world of blue and purple. Wyldbore flowers coat the streets like snowfall, and long banners of fabric fall from practically every surface, the royal crest of the kingdom, and the family crest of Lambert emblazoned on each one in inky black. Looking at the villagers in costume is like looking straight at a rainbow - an extravagantly dressed one. Kris had thought he’d feel out of place in his vine-leather mass of an outfit, but in actuality he’s one of the tamest of the crowd. He sees one woman with a spiny, vertical column of hair piled on top of her head at least a foot high, and a man covered head to toe in wildflowers bigger than Kris’s head.
Cassidy leads him to a makeshift stage set up in the town square, where a group of gypsies sit with an assortment of drums, horns and other instruments. In the middle is Allison, dressed in a flared skirt with every color imaginable, her bright red hair pulled into a complicated looking knot on top of her head. She smiles merrily and waves at Kris, a tiny little burst of Technicolor.
Cassidy leads him to a group of chairs before darting off into the crowd, leaving Kris to flounder by himself on the stage.
He’s saved by a willowy blonde woman, dressed in a long black dress that trails on the ground behind her. Her arms are bare, one arm covered in the bright, colorful tattoos that mark her nobility, and her hair is curled into a bouncy halo around her face.
“Your majesty,” she says, and curtseys deeply. “I’m so glad to see you here. And I must say, you look very dashing.”
“You think so?” Kris looks down at himself sheepishly. “Well, thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she says. “I am Megan Joy of Sheraton. I think we’ve met.”
“I believe we have as well,” Kris says, reaching out and laying a kiss on the back of her hand. “I was rather differently dressed at the time, I think.”
“Well, I much prefer this version of the prince,” Megan says, beaming. “Forgive me, you looked a bit out of place - would you like to join me in my tent for the kickoff ceremony?”
“Tent?”
Megan gestures to a tent off the side of the stage. “Lord Lambert provides us with one. My son can get a little overwhelmed by the crowd, sometimes.”
“I would love to,” Kris says honestly.
Kris finds himself sitting on a padded, reclining throne (“traditional thrones are so uncomfortable,” Megan informs him) with a young boy in his lap, poking curiously at his vines and staring, fascinated, at the paint on Kris’s face.
“Are you really the prince?” the boy asks suspiciously.
“The last time I checked,” Kris replies.
“When was the last time you checked?” He responds, unconvinced.
“Ryder,” Megan scolds. “Be respectful.”
“But Mama,” Ryder whines, “princes don’t wear makeup.”
“It’s all right,” Kris says to Megan, grinning. “Who says they don’t?”
“Everyone,” Ryder says stubbornly. “Princes are serious and stuff, they don’t come to the Yule Festival.”
“Maybe this prince decided to take a break from being serious,” Kris says, “to have some fun with everyone else.”
“Maybe,” Ryder says, “but that’s still a long shot.” Kris laughs.
“Ryder, enough,” Megan scolds, holding out her arms for Ryder to clamber into. “Sorry, Prince, sometimes people will dress up as members of the royal family at the festival, so he’s a little suspicious.”
“As the royal family?” Kris repeats, surprised. “People dress up like us for this? Like me?”
“Oh yes,” Megan says. “Last year there was a boy who dressed up like you and placed second in the baker’s costume contest. I believe he won a year’s supply worth of danishes.”
“Well that’s…flattering?” Kris says. “Will there be other Prince Kristophers this year as well?”
“Oh no, probably not,” Megan says. “With you here, it’d be disrespectful. You’ll probably see many miniature King Neil and Queen Kimberlys, however.”
“I wanted to come as King Neil,” Ryder informs Kris solemnly, “but we can’t stay for the costume contests this year.”
“Past our bedtime,” Megan says wryly. Turning to look at the stage, Megan grins. “Oh, looks like we’re about ready to start.” Peering out at the sun, just beginning to sink below the horizon line, she nods approvingly. “Just on time.”
On the stage, Kris is caught by what appears to be a moving mass of feathers. When the glob turns, he nearly jumps. “Brad!”
Megan follows his gaze and laughs loudly. “Is that Bradley Bell?” she says. “Oh, heavens.”
Brad is dressed head to toe in peacock feathers, his face matching his hair in a shade of bright blueberry blue. Catching sight of Kris and Megan in the tent, he waves merrily, nearly knocking a gypsy man holding a drum clear off the stage.
Kris waves back, and Megan blows a kiss, turning to Kris and waggling her eyebrows. “He’s been trying to catch a certain someone’s attention for months now. If this doesn’t do the trick, I’ve no idea what will.”
Kris raises an eyebrow, but Megan refuses to elaborate, lying back on her throne and snuggling Ryder up in her arms, staring at the stage raptly.
The band starts to play, a pounding, almost tribal-sounding mix of drums and harps that pulses through the air insistently. The crowd hushes, moving up to surround the stage, a mismatched mix of polka-dotted, feathered, striped and painted villagers. So many people have gathered in the streets that they surround Megan and Kris’s tent, and when he stretches his neck to look backwards, he sees a mass of solid people, reaching all through the street, spilling over into the alleyways. Others hang from balconies and windows of the buildings, smoke pouring from incense and smelling salts burning in the street lamps, the intense light of dusk coloring everything in eerie sunlight.
“Look,” Megan says, nudging him and pointing towards the stage. “The Duke is about to come out.”
Kris snaps his gaze forward, seeing Brad ducking down to sit next to Allison, merrily grabbing a drum and pounding along to the beat. Other advisors and servants that Kris recognizes all do the same, sitting cross-legged with drums and harps in their hands, adding to the cacophony of noise rising from the stage.
The music swells magnificently, then quiets, falling to a slow beat, and Adam steps up on the stage from behind, previously hidden behind a stray banner. Kris’s breath catches and he leans forward instinctively, fingers twitching on his knees.
Adam’s costume is made out of his signature leather, vest and pants practically molded to his body. A long coat falls around his knees in tapered off points, slashes cut into the arms to reveal bare skin, painted purple to match the violent streaks in his hair. Purple lines his eyes as well, little dots of color in spirals down his cheek, a flash of silver in his ears, a rakish grin on his face. Kris has a stray thought, Paula would be appalled, and Adam straightens to his full height and Kris’s mouth goes dry.
“Welcome to the Yule Festival,” he calls, his voice unnaturally loud, and the crowd erupts into cheers.
It takes long minutes to calm the crowd down, Adam laughing and holding out his hands, looking delighted and happy.
“Thank you,” he finally says. “I’m so pleased to see everyone here. Tonight is sure to be a night to remember.” He holds his hands out to stem the cheers again, grinning toothily. “As you all know, tonight is a night of celebration,” he says regally, “a celebration of ourselves, and of our loved ones. But most of all - our good fortune. That we are at peace, that we are prosperous, that we are beautiful and surrounded by love and light.” Adam looks down at the crowd fondly. “Tonight, we celebrate life, and new beginnings. And we’ll start with a dance.” He turns back to the drummers, waving grandly. “Make some music! Grab someone and let’s begin!”
Cheers fill the air again, and the music rises in volume. Kris watches as people start to dance and move, grinding against each other, a smile on every face, laughter pouring from every corner of the street.
Megan laughs delightedly, bouncing to the beat with a beaming Ryder in her lap. “Now you see why the tent is a requirement,” she calls, straining to be heard over the drums.
“Where is my prince?” Kris hears Adam call, voice still louder than should be possible. Kris blinks, seeing Adam standing on the stage, hands on his hips. “Kris?”
Megan nudges him. “Well, go, get up there!”
Kris barely has time to react before he’s being shoved into the crowd, a multitude of hands propelling him up toward the stage. Adam spots him and with a whoop, reaches down and pulls him up, smiling widely.
“You look delectable,” he says, voice still loud, and Kris winces. Looking sheepish, Adam reaches inside his collar and presses something. “Sorry,” he says, voice normal again and nearly drowning beneath the music. “Voice amplifier. Very handy.”
The drums right behind them, all Kris can do is shake his head, clutching at Adam’s forearms. “You look - “ he calls, unable to come up with words that seem adequate enough.
Adam seems to understand, shaking his head. “Dance with me,” he calls, leaning in so Kris can hear him over the sound. Around them, the musicians have begun to rise, moving along to the beat themselves, feet pounding and rattling the boards of the stage. Off in one corner, Brad and Allison shimmy together, bumping hips and twirling beneath each other’s arms.
Kris opens his mouth, he doesn’t know how to dance, he wants to say, but Adam just slips behind him, hands sliding down his shoulders.
“Relax,” Adam says into Kris’s ear, plastering himself to Kris’s back. “Have you ever danced something other than a waltz, highness?”
Kris shakes his head, wanting to reply verbally, but knowing Adam won’t be able to hear him.
“It’s easy,” Adam says, and slowly begins to move. “Just do what I do.”
The music pounds through Kris’s body like a second heartbeat, Adam’s hands on his hips, guiding his movements, following a beat slower than the one the drums are creating. Kris reaches down at places his hands over Adam’s, smearing the purple paint on his skin, leaning backward into the cradle of Adam’s body, letting his movements mirror the swivel of Adam’s hips, the press of his chest, the dip and flow of his shoulders.
The musicians press closer, circling them like brightly-colored hawks. Kris moans involuntarily, swept away by the heady combination, the music, the eyes of an entire crowd, the other dancers moving in close, closer, foreign hands and eyes brushing him familiarly, Adam at his back, solid and tall and warm.
The music swells, mixing with the laughter and shouts of the crowd until they’re indistinguishable from each other, and Adam presses his mouth hotly to Kris’s cheek, gripping his waist beneath his vest, smearing paint and sweat, “see,” he says, “it’s easy.” And Kris tilts his head back and surrenders.
--
The festival continues on through the night, time passing in a hazy flow. Little pinpricks of clarity stand out brighter than the rest, a blur of dark, tangy blueberry wine, the scent of the wyldbore seeping into every pore, music and laughter and dancing. Megan saying goodbye, kissing his hand formally and giggling, Ryder waving, still eyeing him critically from over Megan’s shoulder. Dancing with Cassidy, whooping with laughter as his vines fall from his arms as the glue wears off, Cassidy pouting sourly. Brad doing back flips in the street, his feathers flying through the air wildly, laughing as he tumbles into the grass, little bits of straw sticking to his cheek. Adam and Allison singing hymns together, collapsing into a pile together on the stage, giggling and snorting like children. And Adam again, kissing Kris’s cheek, pulling him along by the hand, massaging his shoulders, laughing in his ear, hugging him and laughing, chest rumbling beneath his cheek.
Kris finally loses track of him at some point when the crowds start to thin, the barest beginnings of sunrise peeking through the buildings. He finds Brad halfway upside down in a barrel of onyxberries, humming to himself drunkenly, in a state halfway between debauchery and unconsciousness.
“Are you alive?” Kris asks, poking his shoulder.
“What?” Brad pulls himself out of the barrel, black juice running down his hands. “Oh, Kris! Look! Onyxberries! My favorite.”
“Mine too,” Kris says. “Let’s go back to Wyldbore, yeah? And get some sleep?”
“Oh fine, if you want to be a spoilsport,” Brad says, lurching forward. Kris barely manages to keep him from face planting into the cobblestone street. “Oh, the street is spinning,” Brad murmurs into Kris’s shoulder. “Naughty street, stop that at once.”
“I’ll have a stern talk with it later,” Kris says, and starts the trek back to the estate.
“You’re a very good prince,” Brad slurs later, as Kris attempts to remember in his own disconnected state which hallway leads to the bedchambers and which to the laundry rooms. Brad drips feathers like bread crumbs on the carpet, the blue paint on his face mostly smeared and rubbed away. “The absolute tops, I’ve always thought so.”
“I’m glad I meet to your approval,” Kris replies. “Left or right?”
Brad’s head lolls on his shoulders and he blinks owlishly. “Left.”
“Left it is.”
“Did you like my costume?” Brad mumbles, propped up against the wall as Kris concentrates on opening the door.
“It’s glorious,” Kris grunts.
“I know,” Brad says with a sigh, and falls down.
Kris snorts with laughter, reaching down to scoop Brad into the room. Brad wobbles to his feet shakily and promptly collapses on the duvet inside with a grateful moan. Kris has a fleeting thought of the impropriety of the situation, a sort of Paula-influenced moment of panic, before shrugging and moving behind the screen to peel himself out of his costume.
“Adam thinks so too,” Brad mumbles, as Kris emerges in fresh nightclothes.
“Adam thinks what?” Kris asks, freezing in place.
“That you’re the tops.” Brad giggles dreamily. “He told me so. He didn’t say that exactly though.”
Kris wonders just how childish it would be to ask him what exactly Adam said about him, but Brad soon solves that problem for him.
“He said you make him lose his head,” Brad says, blinking up at Kris and grinning. “And I approve. By the way.”
Kris withdraws slightly. “Does he need his friends to speak for him?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Brad stretches out lazily, for all appearances completely uninterested in the conversation he’s having with Kris. “And don’t hurt him, please.” Kris blinks. “Your majesty.”
“Hurt him,” Kris repeats blankly.
“I had to say it.” Brad’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs contentedly. “Would I be thrown in the stocks for falling asleep in the prince’s chambers?” he mumbles.
Kris studies him as his breaths even out, streaked paint rubbing off on the duvet beneath him. Loud, funny, precious Brad. “No,” he says quietly, and turns away.
The mirror in his room takes up half a wall, huge and ornate, lined in an intricate silver frame. Kris walks over and studies his own reflection, sees the paint still streaked across his face, the skin of his neck, sparkling with sweat, the outline of his legs through his trousers. He is royalty, his body more precious than Brad’s, or Adam’s, or Paula’s or Allison’s or anyone else’s, but for the first time, tonight, it feels wholly his own.
He takes a cloth from the vanity, carefully wipes the paint off his eyelids, the rouge off his cheekbones. The color in his hair is a bit trickier, but he does the best he can, scrubbing with the towel until it’s been blackened with the dye. Folds it carefully and puts it back in place, and makes a decision.
--
Adam’s chambers are on the opposite end of the castle as Kris’s, a fact that he’d been grateful for just a few days before, but now is simply annoying. Kris makes the trek through the dark hallways, focusing on keeping his knees steady, ignoring the stray servant or reveler, wandering drunkenly towards the servant’s quarters.
He knocks quietly and Adam answers almost instantly, causing Kris to take a step back in surprise.
“Kris,” he says, voice pitched lower than usual. His makeup is smudged, but still mostly present, and he’s changed into linen nightclothes, drawstring pants pulled tightly around his hips, a tunic hanging loosely off one shoulder. “You made it back. One of the servants told me she saw you and Brad walking back earlier, but I wasn’t sure.”
Kris feels slightly dizzy, and he leans against the doorframe, feeling as if he might tip over with the slightest breath of wind. “Adam,” he says, and Adam starts slightly at the use of his given name. “Can I come in?”
Adam blinks at him for a second before moving aside. “Of course,” he replies, holding the door open for Kris to step through.
Kris wanders in, concentrating on his breath like Brad had shown him, in, out, in, out. “Thank you.”
The door clicks shut decisively, and Kris jumps.
“Would you like a drink?” Adam says, practically slinking across the room. “Blueberry wine?” He smirks. “Or have you had enough already?”
“No, that’s all right.” Kris waves a hand.
Adam shrugs, pours himself a glass the deep blue liquid, leans against the ornate desk. He seems remarkably steadier than he had earlier in the streets. “Well,” he says, “here we are.”
Kris smirks. “Here is where we are.”
Adam smiles softly. “Did you enjoy the festival?”
“It was…ethereal,” Kris says.
Adam hums thoughtfully. “Yes,” he says finally. “That’s a good word for it.” He pauses to sip, studying Kris over the rim of the glass. “You will certainly have some stories to take back to your mother.”
Kris purses his lips. “I didn’t come here for small talk.”
Adam sets the glass down carefully on the desk, not taking his eyes off of Kris. “What did you come here for?”
The bed is huge and sprawling. Sheets of deep forest green lay rumpled in invitation, the coverlet crumpled at the foot. It should look intimidating, but instead all Kris feels is anticipation. Tilting his head, he wanders over, sitting on the edge experimentally, resisting the urge to let himself fall backwards into the softness. Runs a hand down the blankets, breathes in deeply, shivers.
“Kris,” says Adam, voice sounding far away. Kris looks up, and Adam’s gaze is intent, edged with darkness. “Do you intend to test my willpower tonight?” he asks.
“No,” Kris says, and blinks.
Adam narrows his eyes at him. “You’re drunk,” he says.
“Just a little.” Kris holds out one hand, shakes it impatiently. “Really. Come here.”
Adam takes a deep breath and obeys, stopping short, just close enough to take Kris’s hand. Even a few steps away, he still looms over Kris imposingly, and Kris feels breathless.
“I have considered your proposal,” Kris says slowly, pulling Adam in closer by his hand, pressing it to his chest. His heart pounds frantically beneath his breast, and he imagines that Adam could press his hand in farther, reach in all the way and squeeze. “And I have concluded,” he continues, “that we are a terrible match.”
Adam huffs out a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Kris informs him gravely. “However.”
“However?”
“However,” Kris repeats, and slides his hands up Adam’s arm, smearing the leftover paint on his skin, the waxy color rubbing off on his fingers. “I, frankly, don’t give a goddamn.”
Adam’s hand twitches on Kris’s chest, and when he looks up, Adam is smiling softly, eyes sparkling. “Such improper language, my prince,” he purrs.
“Forgive me, I had - had hoped,” Kris says, strained and thin, voice breaking as Adam slides his hand up and catches Kris’s cheek, palm big and wide and warm. He takes a deep breath. “I am not your prince tonight.” He quirks a wry smile. “Well, today.”
“What are you then?” Adam asks, his other hand joining the first, framing Kris’s face, thumbs brushing over his fluttering eyelids.
Kris’s head spins, and his hands fall to the bed. “Yours, my lord,” he murmurs.
Adam breathes in sharply and bears Kris down onto his back, moving so swiftly that Kris gasps in surprise. “You should not say such things so carelessly,” he drawls against Kris’s cheek, pressing down with his hips, locking Kris in place.
“I am never careless,” Kris gasps, clutching desperately at the sheets. Adam bears down harder and a moan tears its way out of Kris’s throat, piercing the room sharply.
“I am aware,” Adam says, and rolls them over with the push of one powerful knee. Kris clutches at Adam’s shoulders, drawing his legs into Adam’s sides and bracing his hands on his chest. “Disrobe.”
Kris shudders. “Am I to be your wife?” he says, but his hands move instinctively to the base of his tunic regardless.
“I hope not,” Adam replies mildly, watching his movements through a hooded gaze. “You would make a terrible woman.”
“Well you would make a wonderful one,” says Kris, pulling the cloth over his head, baring his chest. He slides off Adam’s stomach onto the floor and reaches for the fastenings on his trousers, trying to hide the tremors in his hands and knees.
“Are you nervous, Kris?” Adam asks gently.
“No,” Kris says firmly, lifting his chin and tugging the material down around his hips.
Adam chuckles indulgently. “So proud,” he mutters, sitting up and sliding his hands down Kris’s bare shoulders, palming his breastbone, pressing firmly on his abdomen, sliding around to the small of his back and pulling in. “And so serious,” he says, touching a thumb to the edges of Kris’s mouth. “Will you smile for me?”
Kris clutches at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut. “I - “
“You steal my breath with your smile,” says Adam gently, “it’s a shame I have to work so hard to see it.”
Kris ducks his head, allowing a smile to spread across his face.
“There you are,” says Adam, and pulls him down into a kiss.
The floor tilts beneath Kris’s feet, and he clenches his fists in Adam’s tunic. Feels Adam’s hands sweeping down his legs, then back up again, and his knees buckle, tumbles forward into Adam’s chest. They hit the mattress roughly, tearing apart clumsily, and Kris feels the rumbly earthquake of Adam’s laughter beneath his hands.
“My beautiful boy,” Adam murmurs, nuzzling into the side of Kris’s jaw, hand pressed to his chest and moving with his rapid pants. “Let me,” he says, nipping at Kris’s mouth, fingers skittering up his collarbone, “let me, my love, let me - “
“Yes,” Kris gasps, caught in the motion of their hips, the press of Adam’s clothes against his skin, clinging and sticking with their sweat. “Yes, anything, yes - “
Time stretches out, twists, slows down. Kris finds himself pressed back into the sheets, Adam’s mouth on his thighs, the ceiling blurring before his eyes, a great wave welling up in his chest, and he reaches out and grasps for Adam’s hands, tilts his head back, and holds on.
--
Kris awakens with the sunset, slipping out of bed and stealing out onto Adam’s balcony, wrapped in a blanket. He’s sore all over, muscles strained and worn. He rolls his shoulders, runs his hand down the angry marks on his neck, shivering as flashes from the early hours of the morning roll through his thoughts.
The wintry air nips at his bare skin but he doesn’t move, allows it to slip in beneath the blanket and raise goose bumps down his body, closes his eyes to the rising sun and just breathes, adjusting.
He doesn’t hear Adam rise, and jumps sharply when warm lips graze the back of his neck, nearly dropping the blanket. A rough chuckle and hands pull it back up, wrapping it around his shoulders snugly.
“What a lovely picture you make,” Adam says, bracing his arms on the balcony railing, trapping Kris in-between his skin and the cold stone. “It almost makes up for waking alone,” he continues pointedly.
Kris sighs, leaning back into Adam’s strength. “I apologize,” he says lazily, reaching out and tracing the skin of Adam’s forearms, leaning his chin against the hard bicep. “What could I possibly do to make up for my grievous error?”
“Marry me,” Adam says easily, and Kris blinks. “No - that’s not a request. That’s an order.”
“An order?” Kris repeats, bemused.
“Well, asking hasn’t gotten me anywhere with you,” Adam replies, shuffling closer, closing the space between their bodies. “So I’ve given it up. We will get married.”
“Commanding your sovereign,” Kris muses, hissing through his teeth as Adam presses him into the railing, blanket slipping down, precariously close to fluttering away completely. “A bold move.”
“I am a bold man,” Adam proclaims, plastered up against Kris’s back, sliding his hands inward and trapping him further in the embrace. “And I will marry you, in the spring, I think. A big to-do in Central City for the nobles, of course, but a more private one, here at Wyldbore.” Kris lets his head tilt back, feeling Adam’s words against his skin, scratchy and soft. “We’ll have it in the fields. You’ll let Brad plan your outfit. The villagers will be invited to attend naked.”
“You’ve certainly thought all this out,” Kris says, and gasps as Adam’s teeth latch onto his shoulder.
“And I will make you happy,” Adam continues, “and you will make me happy. And I will have you every night, every day, every morning - “ the blanket slips to the ground and Adam kicks it out of the way impatiently, slipping his hands between Kris’s legs, making him cry out in surprise. “Just as I will have you now, on my balcony, for the whole world to see. Yes.”
Kris laughs shakily. “Yes, I’m sure the flowers will be very scandalized,” he says, gesturing out to the empty wyldbore fields below.
“No more talking,” commands Adam, and sinks to his knees. And Kris promptly shuts his mouth.
After, Kris lies panting for breath on the balcony tile, the rumpled, dirty blanket the only barrier between him and the stone floor. Adam smirks down at him smugly.
“Any protests, majesty?”
“To your overwhelming presumptuousness?” Kris reaches for Adam’s hand, pulling him down beside him roughly. He lands with a grunt and a wheezy laugh, throwing one leg over Kris’s hip carelessly. “I suppose not.”
“Well, good.” Adam nuzzles into Kris’s cheek happily. “I knew you’d come around eventually,” he says haughtily.
“Arrogance is very unattractive, Adam,” Kris says.
Adam shivers. “I love it when you say my name,” he says. “Do it again.”
“Adam?”
Adam growls, pulling at Kris’s ear with his teeth. “Good boy.”
Kris laughs, pulling away. “You do realize we’ve been asleep all day?” He gestures out to the sun, now almost completely sunken below the horizon.
“It’s tradition,” Adam says, pouting. “Sleeping the day away after a night of debauchery at the festival.” He shudders dramatically. “Until tomorrow - the cleanup.”
“I don’t actually remember much sleeping,” Kris says wryly.
Adam grins wickedly and reaches for him again, only to be stopped by an embarrassingly loud rumble from the vicinity of his stomach. Pulling back, he grins sheepishly. “Ah, now I remember why making love constantly is impractical.”
“Impractical,” Kris says dryly, “seems somewhat of an understatement.”
Adam clambers to his feet, stark naked, pulling Kris up by his elbow, who scrambles for the blanket. “Just wait until the honeymoon,” Adam says, strolling back inside the room, reaching for a stray robe and pulling it around his shoulders lazily. “Three days sequestered in the wedding chambers,” he says dreamily.
“Three days,” Kris squeaks.
Adam grins. “It’s - “
“Tradition?” Kris finds his trousers, discarded on the floor, and pulls them on. “I would have never guessed.”
Adam laughs, sweeping over and laying a knee-shaking kiss on Kris, bending him backwards into the desk. Pulling away with a smack, he taps Kris’s chin. “You stay here,” he says. “I’ll go grab some food from the kitchens. Maybe Allison will whip us up something special.”
“You can’t just order me around,” Kris says. “I am the prince, and subsequently, the boss of you. You know.”
Adam chuckles. “You are so precious,” he coos, and sweeps out of the room before Kris can reply.
Kris sighs, attempting to be offended but unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face. Rummaging through the mess of clothing on the floor, he finds a stray tunic and pulls it over his head, only then realizing that it’s too big for him - Adam’s, then. Shrugging, he turns and sinks down in Adam’s desk chair, shuffling through the blank pieces of parchment idly. Spotting a stack of books behind the ink blotter, Kris seizes upon them, finding to his surprise editions of Dickens, Saint Augustine, the Bible, and Shakespeare among the copy of the royal code of conduct of the kingdom. The last volume in the stack is a copy of Kris’s own treatise on the sociological trends of poverty, a project that had taken up a feverish year of his life and had been read by a total of twenty people. Kris smiles, tracing the words of the title with one finger. Twenty-one, he thinks, and sets it aside.
Standing up, Kris aims to re-familiarize himself with Oliver Twist until Adam returns, but as he turns, knocks over a stack of parchment perched on the very edge of the desktop. Frowning, Kris sets the novel aside the gather them back up onto the desk, attempting to organize them back into a semblance of tidy order again, when something catches his eye.
Pulling one of the sheets from the pile, Kris examines it with shaking hands, burning disbelief erupting in his chest. The words are familiar, the name at the top, however, is not.
It’s a letter, a proposal letter, to be specific, addressed to the Earl of Bristol. Letting it flutter to the floor, Kris grabs for another sheet, seeing it again, addressed to Baron Thomas. Lord Weston. Duke of Warrenton. Marquess of Stylwell. Baron Risa. The names blur together, each letter a carbon copy of the one Kris had received barely a week earlier, different noble names written in at the top. The words seem to burn on the page, relationship based on mutual respect, trust and maturity, what had stood out before now just one in a line of many.
Stumbling away from the silvery pile on the ground, Kris turns away, hands trembling. His eyes land on the rumpled bed, the sheets messy with body paint and glitter, rubbed off from their bodies. Kris feels sick.
He isn’t sure how long he stands there, attempting to regain control of his roiling stomach, before Adam returns, pushing inside the room with one shoulder, a tray in his hands.
“Sorry it took so long,” he says, setting the tray on the night stand, not noticing Kris’s frozen gaze at the bed. “Allison wasn’t there, but the dear old maid insisted on making us eggs, isn’t that sweet?” Looking up when Kris doesn’t answer, he frowns. “Kris? What - “ he breaks off, eyes falling to the pile of silver parchment on the ground. “Did you - Kris - “ he pales slightly, moving forward, hand outstretched.
“Don’t touch me,” Kris says, moving backward violently. “Just - don’t.”
“Kris,” Adam says soothingly. “I can explain.”
“Explain?” Kris repeats shrilly, moving backwards until he hits the edge of the desk chair, sending the contents of the desktop rattling. “How could you possibly - I - “
“Listen to me,” Adam says insistently. “Those don’t matter, all right? They’re a - a joke, nothing. Don’t - don’t get upset about this, okay - “
“A joke?” Kris repeats, incredulous. “They’re exactly the same as the letter you sent to me, Adam. Word for word!”
“It - I - “ Adam flounders, brow creased. “Look, it’s - a game,” he finally says, wincing. Kris makes a small sound, trying to move away again, trapped by the desk. “I send them to anyone, to get a - a rise out of the nobles. Most people ignore me, some of them get angry. It’s not serious, okay, never once has anyone responded seriously - “
“Except me,” Kris croaks out, feeling his stomach rebelling again.
“No!” Adam says, aghast. “I mean, yes, you did, sort of, but I was serious about yours, Kris, please. All the others - I mean, I only send one, I don’t send them out regularly, year after year. Yours - I was serious about. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t, actually,” Kris snaps. “My letter was an exact copy of all those - others,” he says haltingly. “You were so serious about me that you couldn’t even be bothered to make any changes?”
“No, Kris - it isn’t like that - “
“It’s exactly like that,” Kris croaks. “I - I can’t believe I - “ Adam makes an anguished noise, reaching for him, and Kris jerks away, nearly crashing into a lamp. “Don’t touch me!”
Adam looks stricken. “I wanted to tell you,” he says. “I almost did, a few times. I just - I knew you would react like this, and I wanted to - “
“To gain my trust?” Kris says bitingly. “Oh, I can see how exposing yourself as a liar would have made that difficult for you.”
“I am not a liar,” Adam says heatedly. “I am not. Kris, I never once lied to you about anything, I swear to you.” Kris shakes his head, looking away, throat clogged with disbelief and anger. “Kris, you have to believe me - think on all we’ve shared, everything we talked about. Do you honestly think that was a game?” Adam gestures angrily to the balcony. “That I was playing a game when we made love?”
“If you were, congratulations,” Kris says coldly, “you managed to bed the prince. You hold the record, there.”
“Kris,” Adam chokes, “my love, please - “
“Don’t follow me,” Kris tells him, and slams the door behind his back, the crack echoing down the empty hallway.
--
Kris packs his things in a daze, calling a servant, a quiet man whom Kris doesn’t know, to help him gather everything together, abandoning anything that isn’t vital. It isn’t until he’s halfway down the drive to the carriage that he realizes he’s still in Adam’s tunic, and he strips it off in the middle of the courtyard, flinging it to the ground carelessly and climbing into the carriage bare-chested.
He keeps his eyes resolutely on his hands until the carriage wheels hit the gravel roads outside the city, biting his lip until it stings, the copper taste of blood hitting his tongue.
The night breeze sweeps in through the window and Kris shivers, goose bumps popping up on his bare skin. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the shirt he’d worn riding, still smelling of hay and horses, pulling it over his head slowly, his muscles still sore and tired.
Reaching into the breast pocket, he pulls out his letter, worn at the edges, Adam’s spindly handwriting stark against the sheaf of silver parchment. Unfolding it slowly, he runs a finger down the well-read words, feeling a wave of anguish so strong it nearly makes him cry out.
Growling in frustration, he crumples the parchment in one fist, tossing it out the window angrily. Slamming the window shade shut against the purple fields and the sweet-smelling wind, he leans forward and taps on the partition, gaining the attention of the driver.
“Push as fast as you can,” he says, pulling his legs up on the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
--
When Kris returns to the palace, he heads straight for his chambers and sleeps for two days. When he awakes, Paula is there.
“You’ve given your parents quite a fright, highness,” she says, fluffing his pillows. “Here, eat. That’s not a request.” She pushes a tray of soup into his hands, the smell reaching Kris’s nose and sending his stomach growling. “What on earth happened? We weren’t expecting you back for another three days.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Kris mumbles, scarfing the soup down ravenously.
Paula frowns. “Don’t burn yourself,” she scolds. Kris gulps, making an effort to eat a little slower. “Are you sick? You look so pale.” She reaches out and feels his forehead, tutting and shaking her head. “Did something happen?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Kris repeats, tearing at a piece of bread sullenly.
“Oh I knew this would end badly,” Paula frets, fussing with the covers, pulling them up around his waist, face creased in worry. “I knew that dreadful festival would upset you, I just knew it. And the Duke - who knows what he did - did he do something, highness? Ooh, just wait until he shows his face again, I’ll rip him to shreds, I don’t care if they throw me in the stocks for it - “
“Paula,” Kris repeats. “Stop. Really.”
Paula huffs. “Finish your soup,” she says, and proceeds to sit at Kris’s feet, arms crossed, until he does so. “Done?” she asks briskly. Kris nods timidly and hands her the tray. She takes it and slams it down on the breakfast table, turning back to push Kris back into the pillows, drawing the blankets up and tucking them in around him tightly, muttering under her breath.
“Paula,” Kris says, wriggling out of her grip. “Paula, enough.”
Paula raises one eyebrow at him. “It’s my job to take care of you,” she says haughtily. “It’s been my job since the moment you were born, and I don’t care how old you are now, it’s still my job, and it becomes ever so difficult when you refuse to listen to me, majesty.”
Kris sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says tiredly. “I - “ he breaks off, squinting his eyes shut.
“Kris,” he hears, and a gentle hand on his cheek. “What happened?”
Kris leans into the touch. “I thought it was different,” he mumbles, shame flooding his cheeks with color. “I - I was wrong. He’s just like - all the others.”
“Oh, darling.” Kris keeps his eyes stubbornly shut, feeling the bed dip as Paula climbs up next to him. “Hush, come here.”
Falling sideways with a sigh, Kris lets her guide his head into her lap, deft hands stroking his forehead. “Everything - hurts,” he mutters, feeling the comforting rhythm of her breath, the soft clicking of metal of her jewelry, the familiar scent of her robes.
“I’m sorry,” Paula says quietly. “Oh, Kris. I’m so sorry.” Kris just turns his face into her leg, and tries to breathe.
--
part three
part one
The morning of the festival, Adam takes Kris out riding.
“All of this is a part of the estate,” Adam says, sweeping a hand across the dizzying fields of purple flowers, the slight tang of the pollen washing over Kris in waves of breeze. “We’re at the very edge of Frijola. The tree line marks the border between us and Sheraton.”
Kris pulls his horse, a beautiful white mare, into a slow trot beside Adam and his Fiddlesticks, a horse far more imposing than his name implies. “Sheraton,” he says. “Isn’t that ruled by the Baroness Joy?”
“Megan,” Adam says fondly. “She’s a wonderful friend of mine. She’ll be at the festival tonight, probably. Have you met?”
“Briefly, I think,” Kris says. “At some function or another of my mother’s.”
“She hates court politics as much as I do,” Adam says. “We much prefer to stay here. The people are much nicer.” He grins wickedly.
“You keep insulting the nobility, as if I would actually take offense,” Kris says. “And you realize that you yourself are, what, eighth in line for the throne?”
“Ninth,” Adam corrects. “Thankfully, the odds that eight other people should all die at exactly the same time are rather small.”
“Lucky you,” Kris says.
Adam gives him a sideways look. “You do not wish for the crown?” he asks.
Kris sighs. “My father is a superior king,” he says. “And I don’t just say that because he is my father.”
Adam nods. “I agree with you there,” he says. “Our kingdom is more prosperous than ever because of his guidance.”
“I have no wish to cut his rule short in any way,” Kris says.
“Well, obviously,” Adam says. “But as superior of a ruler he is, he still cannot change the laws of nature. Sooner or later, he will need a successor.”
“My brother Daniel wishes to rule,” Kris says lamely.
“You are the eldest,” Adam says, needlessly.
“It’s - “ Kris stammers, turning his face to the sky and feeling Adam’s curious gaze. “It is a complicated duty,” he says finally. “Of all the demands it has on my father, the worst is the requirement to compromise one’s values in order to court public favor.”
Adam is quiet a moment. “Yes,” he finally says, “that is difficult, if not necessary.”
“Often what he says publicly disagrees almost completely with what he says in private,” Kris confides. “I have no desire whatsoever to live in that sort of duplicity.”
“You value honesty more than anyone I’ve ever met,” Adam says thoughtfully. “More so than I would’ve expected from a prince. No offense.”
“There is no offense,” Kris assures him. “You are right. I - have never understood the motivation behind lying. It brings only pain to those involved, every single time.”
“Kris,” Adam says, with feeling. “I - “ he cuts himself off abruptly, wrapping the reins around his hand absently.
Kris frowns. “What is it?”
Adam seems to struggle for a moment before shaking his head decisively. “Nothing,” he finally says. “I just - if you don’t find me too intrusive - wish to know what happened to you to make you so wary of dishonesty.”
Kris swallows. “Our conversations over the last few days have been the very definition of intrusive, Duke.”
Adam smiles. “Ah, and I’ve enjoyed them. And I think you have, as well.” Kris ducks his chin, unable to discount the statement. “Still, I trust you know that as my sovereign, you are fully capable of telling me to shut my gob, at any moment.”
Kris falls quiet, studying their surroundings. They’ve reached the tree line, and the sunlight falls on their shoulders, dappled by the shadows cast by the leaves. “Let’s rest,” he says decisively. “We’ve been riding all morning; I’m sure the horses could use some refreshment.”
The quiet smile on Adam’s face betrays his ability to see through Kris’s excuse, but he tugs on the reins anyway, pointing up ahead. “There’s a pond a ways ahead. Follow me.”
They stop at a truly picturesque scene, a tiny, blue-green lake surrounded by the rich purple wyldbore flowers, all of it framed by the trees, improbably dark green with foliage despite the season.
Adam swings off his mount gracefully, slipping the harness off and allowing the horse to wander over to the water’s edge lazily. He smiles over at Kris as he releases his own horse, wiping at the sweat on his brow and collapsing beneath the shade of a tree.
“I used to explore these woods as a boy,” Adam says, joining Kris beneath the shade and stretching out against the tree bark, hands locked behind his head. “Many days, I would lose track of time and spend hours out here, only to be greeted with my near-hysterical mother back at the estate.”
Kris smiles at the picture. “I have no doubt that you were a mother’s nightmare as a child.”
Adam laughs. “That’s not too far off the mark,” he says. “You, on the other hand, were probably the very picture of obedience.”
“Something like that,” Kris says.
Adam sits up, his thigh dangerously close to Kris’s, body heat rolling off him in waves. “And where, in that history of obedience, did someone betray you?” Kris clenches his jaw, looking away. “I am a very determined man, if you hadn’t already noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Kris sighs, leans back against the tree, his shoulder against Adam’s. “Do you know the Earl of Rigamore?”
“Seacrest,” Adam says. “Ryan Seacrest, I believe.” He makes a face of the utmost distaste. “Yes, we’ve met.”
Kris picks a stem of wyldbore from the ground beside them, slowly shredding it into pieces. “Before he was married,” he says quietly, “he was a fixture at court. He and I were friends in childhood, and when he returned from his schooling, he took an interest in me again.”
Adam looks at him solemnly. “I do not believe I shall like where this is going,” he says.
Kris smiles wryly. “Well,” he says. “I was very smitten with him, you know. I was very young, only sixteen or so. He was much older than me, and he’d been to university, and traveled all throughout the kingdoms. I’d never even set foot out of Central City.” Kris shrugs. “He and I were inseparable. We’d have these long conversations into the night about literature and politics. It was like I’d always dreamed having a companion would be like - someone to talk to, who would treat me like a fellow human being rather than some kind of demigod, just for the simple fact of my birthright.”
Adam hums thoughtfully, face neutral. “Go on.”
“He began to talk of marriage,” Kris says, swallowing the lump in his throat determinedly. “Began to send me tokens, compliments, love notes, that sort of thing. There was no doubt in my mind that we’d marry, I was just waiting for the proposal.” He rolls his eyes in disgust. “And then he went back to Rigamore on business, and when he returned, he brought his wife.” Kris laughs, wincing at the bitter tinge to the sound. “He was so surprised that I was upset. Said he’d never imagined I would take him seriously.” Kris shakes his head. “That it was the cosmopolitan thing to do, or some nonsense like that.”
Adam makes a dismissive noise. “Fool,” he mutters.
“I was the fool,” Kris contradicts. “I was very young, and far too naïve.”
“Ryan Seacrest is a rat with a tongue as silver as that ridiculous castle he lives in,” Adam says angrily. “He took advantage of you.”
“Yes,” Kris concedes. “And taught me a valuable lesson in the process.”
“What, that everyone is out to hurt you?” Adam asks. Kris looks away. “It’s not a completely ridiculous concern in a place such as the royal court. But this,” Adam sweeps a hand to their surroundings, “is not court, highness.”
“You’re telling me that I should trust you,” Kris says, “when every instinct I have is telling me to guard myself.”
“I’m asking you to have faith,” Adam says. “In me. And in Frijola.” He smiles. “Frijola is my heart, highness. If you’ve fallen in love with my land, you’ve fallen in love with everything that I am.”
Kris takes a shaky breath. “It’s not as easy as you make it out to be.”
“Yes, I know that,” Adam says slowly. Reaching out, he takes Kris’s hand, dislodging the wyldbore stem, which falls to the ground in sweet-smelling pieces. “But I’m asking for a chance,” he says, “to prove your instincts wrong.”
Kris frowns down at their entangled fingers, Adam’s rings cold against his skin. “I do not understand,” he says, not without some effort, “why you are so determined to pursue me. Other than my throne, I can’t see anything I have to offer that you couldn’t find somewhere else.”
Adam sighs mournfully, and Kris watches his chest move beneath his tunic. “That is the most tragic thing you’ve said to me,” he says.
Kris flushes. “I just meant - “
“I know what you meant,” Adam says darkly, and seizes Kris’s chin, slanting their mouths together too quickly for Kris to resist. Kris makes a muffled noise of surprise, and Adam slides his hand around to the back of his neck, holding him in place.
When he finally releases his grip, Kris is breathless and shaky. “That,” he says, pulling back further and trying to regain his composure, “was very intrusive.”
“Forgive me,” Adam says, sounding anything but apologetic. “I find that a kiss is the best defense against nonsense.”
Kris swallows, tearing his gaze away from Adam’s bottom lip to the horses, grazing innocently by the edge of the pond. “You make me - “ he says, and breaks off abruptly. “I can’t think when I’m around you.”
“Then I’m doing something right,” Adam replies, sliding his arm around Kris’s shoulders. “Would you relax? I’m not going to ravish you.”
“Well, that I definitely don’t believe, for some odd reason,” Kris says dryly.
Adam laughs. “There’s a certain order to these things,” he informs Kris. “All in good time. Of course, if you’d like to speed up the timetable - “
“Adam,” Kris interrupts, “shut your gob. You’re ruining the moment.”
Adam tugs Kris backwards until he’s leaning against Adam’s chest, chuckling. “I am so very smitten with you,” he murmurs, nuzzling gently into the back of Kris’s neck.
Kris shivers, leaning back into Adam’s embrace, and tries to ignore the fear rising in his throat.
--
Cassidy and Brad are waiting for him when he returns, Brad bouncing impatiently while Cassidy perches serenely on Kris’s desk, watching with bemused eyes. He’s already dressed in what must be his costume, unless he normally wears a leather harness and skin-tight breeches every day at any rate, and Kris nearly does a double take.
“Finally,” blurts Brad. “I mean, well, I’m so glad you’re here, majesty.”
“Did we have an appointment I am not aware of?” Kris asks, barely containing his yelp as Brad yanks him inside the room.
“No,” Brad says, “but if we want to be ready for the festival we should have started an hour ago. Now go undress, Cassidy has your costume ready.”
Kris blinks. “I thought it didn’t start until sundown?” He ducks out of the way of Brad’s shoving hands, moving behind the privacy screen to start pulling at his clothes.
“Yes, but it’s already half past two,” Brad calls, “and these things take time, majesty. We’re not superheroes.”
“I would have never guessed,” Kris replies dryly.
It takes all three of their combined efforts to install Kris into his costume, a four-part contraption that looks more complicated hanging on its hook than any piece of machinery Kris has ever seen before.
“I feel like a mannequin,” Kris comments, holding out his arms obediently as Cassidy and Brad painstakingly wrap long green vines around them artfully.
“A very royal mannequin,” Brad chirps, messing with one of the leaves fussily. Finally satisfied, he steps back, looking Kris up and down approvingly. “I must say Cassidy, this is your best work yet.”
“You think so?” Cassidy raises one critical eyebrow. “If I’d had another day I could’ve done something more with those shin guards.”
“Nonsense, they look divine!” Brad exclaims, grinning sunnily. “Prince, how do you feel? Comfortable? You can still move, right?”
Kris rolls his shoulders experimentally. “I suppose so.”
“Wonderful! Now let’s get to the painting, I’ve my own outfit to slip into, you know.”
“Paint?” Kris repeats. “There’s paint?”
“Of course,” Brad says, as if Kris had just asked him if the sky was blue. “What is a Yule Festival without body paint?”
Cassidy smirks, leaning in to adjust a stray strap on Kris’s costume. “Just close your eyes and think of Frijola,” he says. “It’ll help the process along, trust me.”
It’s all in all, one of the most bizarre afternoons of his life, sitting in front of a blue-haired advisor and being painted on like a vine-speckled canvas. Brad works quickly and deftly, dotting the spaces left bare by the gaps in his costume with different splashes of color, directing Cassidy to wave a fan in each direction to help it dry more quickly. Kris’s arms become a pale green beneath the dark green of his fake vines; his neck and chest, above where his fitted vest sits, is streaked with black and brown. His face is attacked by a combination of kohl and rouge until he barely recognizes himself, and powdered color is dusted into his hair, turning it a shade darker than usual.
“There,” Brad says decisively. “A royal wood sprite. Or nymph. Or spirit. Or whichever, you look glorious, majesty.”
Kris shifts, a little uncomfortably. He’s no stranger to dressing up, but this is a level he’s never thought of before, let alone encountered. “Thank you,” he says. “Really. I very much appreciate your help.”
“It’s our pleasure, majesty,” Brad says, packing away the pots of paint and smearing streaks of green and brown all over the place. “Cassidy will escort you to the town square, that’s where the kick-off ceremony will be, won’t you, Cassidy? Oh thank you honeybee, I’ll see you there, yes?” He doesn’t wait for a nod before rushing out, barely managing a tiny wave in his haste.
“I’ve heard rumors of his costume,” Cassidy says, shaking his head. “Young Allison glimpsed it yesterday; she said it was the most glamorous thing she’d ever seen. Apparently he swore her to secrecy, though.”
“I have no doubt that he will put us all to shame,” Kris comments.
“He does that even without a costume,” Cassidy says fondly. “I’ve no doubt he will continue the tradition. Though he’ll have some strong competition in the form of the dashing prince, this year.”
Kris wiggles a little, unused to the tight clothing. “If I don’t pass out before I even make it there.”
“Don’t worry,” Cassidy says, winking and taking his arm. “I’ll make sure you arrive in one piece.”
--
The streets of the city have been transformed into a world of blue and purple. Wyldbore flowers coat the streets like snowfall, and long banners of fabric fall from practically every surface, the royal crest of the kingdom, and the family crest of Lambert emblazoned on each one in inky black. Looking at the villagers in costume is like looking straight at a rainbow - an extravagantly dressed one. Kris had thought he’d feel out of place in his vine-leather mass of an outfit, but in actuality he’s one of the tamest of the crowd. He sees one woman with a spiny, vertical column of hair piled on top of her head at least a foot high, and a man covered head to toe in wildflowers bigger than Kris’s head.
Cassidy leads him to a makeshift stage set up in the town square, where a group of gypsies sit with an assortment of drums, horns and other instruments. In the middle is Allison, dressed in a flared skirt with every color imaginable, her bright red hair pulled into a complicated looking knot on top of her head. She smiles merrily and waves at Kris, a tiny little burst of Technicolor.
Cassidy leads him to a group of chairs before darting off into the crowd, leaving Kris to flounder by himself on the stage.
He’s saved by a willowy blonde woman, dressed in a long black dress that trails on the ground behind her. Her arms are bare, one arm covered in the bright, colorful tattoos that mark her nobility, and her hair is curled into a bouncy halo around her face.
“Your majesty,” she says, and curtseys deeply. “I’m so glad to see you here. And I must say, you look very dashing.”
“You think so?” Kris looks down at himself sheepishly. “Well, thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she says. “I am Megan Joy of Sheraton. I think we’ve met.”
“I believe we have as well,” Kris says, reaching out and laying a kiss on the back of her hand. “I was rather differently dressed at the time, I think.”
“Well, I much prefer this version of the prince,” Megan says, beaming. “Forgive me, you looked a bit out of place - would you like to join me in my tent for the kickoff ceremony?”
“Tent?”
Megan gestures to a tent off the side of the stage. “Lord Lambert provides us with one. My son can get a little overwhelmed by the crowd, sometimes.”
“I would love to,” Kris says honestly.
Kris finds himself sitting on a padded, reclining throne (“traditional thrones are so uncomfortable,” Megan informs him) with a young boy in his lap, poking curiously at his vines and staring, fascinated, at the paint on Kris’s face.
“Are you really the prince?” the boy asks suspiciously.
“The last time I checked,” Kris replies.
“When was the last time you checked?” He responds, unconvinced.
“Ryder,” Megan scolds. “Be respectful.”
“But Mama,” Ryder whines, “princes don’t wear makeup.”
“It’s all right,” Kris says to Megan, grinning. “Who says they don’t?”
“Everyone,” Ryder says stubbornly. “Princes are serious and stuff, they don’t come to the Yule Festival.”
“Maybe this prince decided to take a break from being serious,” Kris says, “to have some fun with everyone else.”
“Maybe,” Ryder says, “but that’s still a long shot.” Kris laughs.
“Ryder, enough,” Megan scolds, holding out her arms for Ryder to clamber into. “Sorry, Prince, sometimes people will dress up as members of the royal family at the festival, so he’s a little suspicious.”
“As the royal family?” Kris repeats, surprised. “People dress up like us for this? Like me?”
“Oh yes,” Megan says. “Last year there was a boy who dressed up like you and placed second in the baker’s costume contest. I believe he won a year’s supply worth of danishes.”
“Well that’s…flattering?” Kris says. “Will there be other Prince Kristophers this year as well?”
“Oh no, probably not,” Megan says. “With you here, it’d be disrespectful. You’ll probably see many miniature King Neil and Queen Kimberlys, however.”
“I wanted to come as King Neil,” Ryder informs Kris solemnly, “but we can’t stay for the costume contests this year.”
“Past our bedtime,” Megan says wryly. Turning to look at the stage, Megan grins. “Oh, looks like we’re about ready to start.” Peering out at the sun, just beginning to sink below the horizon line, she nods approvingly. “Just on time.”
On the stage, Kris is caught by what appears to be a moving mass of feathers. When the glob turns, he nearly jumps. “Brad!”
Megan follows his gaze and laughs loudly. “Is that Bradley Bell?” she says. “Oh, heavens.”
Brad is dressed head to toe in peacock feathers, his face matching his hair in a shade of bright blueberry blue. Catching sight of Kris and Megan in the tent, he waves merrily, nearly knocking a gypsy man holding a drum clear off the stage.
Kris waves back, and Megan blows a kiss, turning to Kris and waggling her eyebrows. “He’s been trying to catch a certain someone’s attention for months now. If this doesn’t do the trick, I’ve no idea what will.”
Kris raises an eyebrow, but Megan refuses to elaborate, lying back on her throne and snuggling Ryder up in her arms, staring at the stage raptly.
The band starts to play, a pounding, almost tribal-sounding mix of drums and harps that pulses through the air insistently. The crowd hushes, moving up to surround the stage, a mismatched mix of polka-dotted, feathered, striped and painted villagers. So many people have gathered in the streets that they surround Megan and Kris’s tent, and when he stretches his neck to look backwards, he sees a mass of solid people, reaching all through the street, spilling over into the alleyways. Others hang from balconies and windows of the buildings, smoke pouring from incense and smelling salts burning in the street lamps, the intense light of dusk coloring everything in eerie sunlight.
“Look,” Megan says, nudging him and pointing towards the stage. “The Duke is about to come out.”
Kris snaps his gaze forward, seeing Brad ducking down to sit next to Allison, merrily grabbing a drum and pounding along to the beat. Other advisors and servants that Kris recognizes all do the same, sitting cross-legged with drums and harps in their hands, adding to the cacophony of noise rising from the stage.
The music swells magnificently, then quiets, falling to a slow beat, and Adam steps up on the stage from behind, previously hidden behind a stray banner. Kris’s breath catches and he leans forward instinctively, fingers twitching on his knees.
Adam’s costume is made out of his signature leather, vest and pants practically molded to his body. A long coat falls around his knees in tapered off points, slashes cut into the arms to reveal bare skin, painted purple to match the violent streaks in his hair. Purple lines his eyes as well, little dots of color in spirals down his cheek, a flash of silver in his ears, a rakish grin on his face. Kris has a stray thought, Paula would be appalled, and Adam straightens to his full height and Kris’s mouth goes dry.
“Welcome to the Yule Festival,” he calls, his voice unnaturally loud, and the crowd erupts into cheers.
It takes long minutes to calm the crowd down, Adam laughing and holding out his hands, looking delighted and happy.
“Thank you,” he finally says. “I’m so pleased to see everyone here. Tonight is sure to be a night to remember.” He holds his hands out to stem the cheers again, grinning toothily. “As you all know, tonight is a night of celebration,” he says regally, “a celebration of ourselves, and of our loved ones. But most of all - our good fortune. That we are at peace, that we are prosperous, that we are beautiful and surrounded by love and light.” Adam looks down at the crowd fondly. “Tonight, we celebrate life, and new beginnings. And we’ll start with a dance.” He turns back to the drummers, waving grandly. “Make some music! Grab someone and let’s begin!”
Cheers fill the air again, and the music rises in volume. Kris watches as people start to dance and move, grinding against each other, a smile on every face, laughter pouring from every corner of the street.
Megan laughs delightedly, bouncing to the beat with a beaming Ryder in her lap. “Now you see why the tent is a requirement,” she calls, straining to be heard over the drums.
“Where is my prince?” Kris hears Adam call, voice still louder than should be possible. Kris blinks, seeing Adam standing on the stage, hands on his hips. “Kris?”
Megan nudges him. “Well, go, get up there!”
Kris barely has time to react before he’s being shoved into the crowd, a multitude of hands propelling him up toward the stage. Adam spots him and with a whoop, reaches down and pulls him up, smiling widely.
“You look delectable,” he says, voice still loud, and Kris winces. Looking sheepish, Adam reaches inside his collar and presses something. “Sorry,” he says, voice normal again and nearly drowning beneath the music. “Voice amplifier. Very handy.”
The drums right behind them, all Kris can do is shake his head, clutching at Adam’s forearms. “You look - “ he calls, unable to come up with words that seem adequate enough.
Adam seems to understand, shaking his head. “Dance with me,” he calls, leaning in so Kris can hear him over the sound. Around them, the musicians have begun to rise, moving along to the beat themselves, feet pounding and rattling the boards of the stage. Off in one corner, Brad and Allison shimmy together, bumping hips and twirling beneath each other’s arms.
Kris opens his mouth, he doesn’t know how to dance, he wants to say, but Adam just slips behind him, hands sliding down his shoulders.
“Relax,” Adam says into Kris’s ear, plastering himself to Kris’s back. “Have you ever danced something other than a waltz, highness?”
Kris shakes his head, wanting to reply verbally, but knowing Adam won’t be able to hear him.
“It’s easy,” Adam says, and slowly begins to move. “Just do what I do.”
The music pounds through Kris’s body like a second heartbeat, Adam’s hands on his hips, guiding his movements, following a beat slower than the one the drums are creating. Kris reaches down at places his hands over Adam’s, smearing the purple paint on his skin, leaning backward into the cradle of Adam’s body, letting his movements mirror the swivel of Adam’s hips, the press of his chest, the dip and flow of his shoulders.
The musicians press closer, circling them like brightly-colored hawks. Kris moans involuntarily, swept away by the heady combination, the music, the eyes of an entire crowd, the other dancers moving in close, closer, foreign hands and eyes brushing him familiarly, Adam at his back, solid and tall and warm.
The music swells, mixing with the laughter and shouts of the crowd until they’re indistinguishable from each other, and Adam presses his mouth hotly to Kris’s cheek, gripping his waist beneath his vest, smearing paint and sweat, “see,” he says, “it’s easy.” And Kris tilts his head back and surrenders.
--
The festival continues on through the night, time passing in a hazy flow. Little pinpricks of clarity stand out brighter than the rest, a blur of dark, tangy blueberry wine, the scent of the wyldbore seeping into every pore, music and laughter and dancing. Megan saying goodbye, kissing his hand formally and giggling, Ryder waving, still eyeing him critically from over Megan’s shoulder. Dancing with Cassidy, whooping with laughter as his vines fall from his arms as the glue wears off, Cassidy pouting sourly. Brad doing back flips in the street, his feathers flying through the air wildly, laughing as he tumbles into the grass, little bits of straw sticking to his cheek. Adam and Allison singing hymns together, collapsing into a pile together on the stage, giggling and snorting like children. And Adam again, kissing Kris’s cheek, pulling him along by the hand, massaging his shoulders, laughing in his ear, hugging him and laughing, chest rumbling beneath his cheek.
Kris finally loses track of him at some point when the crowds start to thin, the barest beginnings of sunrise peeking through the buildings. He finds Brad halfway upside down in a barrel of onyxberries, humming to himself drunkenly, in a state halfway between debauchery and unconsciousness.
“Are you alive?” Kris asks, poking his shoulder.
“What?” Brad pulls himself out of the barrel, black juice running down his hands. “Oh, Kris! Look! Onyxberries! My favorite.”
“Mine too,” Kris says. “Let’s go back to Wyldbore, yeah? And get some sleep?”
“Oh fine, if you want to be a spoilsport,” Brad says, lurching forward. Kris barely manages to keep him from face planting into the cobblestone street. “Oh, the street is spinning,” Brad murmurs into Kris’s shoulder. “Naughty street, stop that at once.”
“I’ll have a stern talk with it later,” Kris says, and starts the trek back to the estate.
“You’re a very good prince,” Brad slurs later, as Kris attempts to remember in his own disconnected state which hallway leads to the bedchambers and which to the laundry rooms. Brad drips feathers like bread crumbs on the carpet, the blue paint on his face mostly smeared and rubbed away. “The absolute tops, I’ve always thought so.”
“I’m glad I meet to your approval,” Kris replies. “Left or right?”
Brad’s head lolls on his shoulders and he blinks owlishly. “Left.”
“Left it is.”
“Did you like my costume?” Brad mumbles, propped up against the wall as Kris concentrates on opening the door.
“It’s glorious,” Kris grunts.
“I know,” Brad says with a sigh, and falls down.
Kris snorts with laughter, reaching down to scoop Brad into the room. Brad wobbles to his feet shakily and promptly collapses on the duvet inside with a grateful moan. Kris has a fleeting thought of the impropriety of the situation, a sort of Paula-influenced moment of panic, before shrugging and moving behind the screen to peel himself out of his costume.
“Adam thinks so too,” Brad mumbles, as Kris emerges in fresh nightclothes.
“Adam thinks what?” Kris asks, freezing in place.
“That you’re the tops.” Brad giggles dreamily. “He told me so. He didn’t say that exactly though.”
Kris wonders just how childish it would be to ask him what exactly Adam said about him, but Brad soon solves that problem for him.
“He said you make him lose his head,” Brad says, blinking up at Kris and grinning. “And I approve. By the way.”
Kris withdraws slightly. “Does he need his friends to speak for him?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Brad stretches out lazily, for all appearances completely uninterested in the conversation he’s having with Kris. “And don’t hurt him, please.” Kris blinks. “Your majesty.”
“Hurt him,” Kris repeats blankly.
“I had to say it.” Brad’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs contentedly. “Would I be thrown in the stocks for falling asleep in the prince’s chambers?” he mumbles.
Kris studies him as his breaths even out, streaked paint rubbing off on the duvet beneath him. Loud, funny, precious Brad. “No,” he says quietly, and turns away.
The mirror in his room takes up half a wall, huge and ornate, lined in an intricate silver frame. Kris walks over and studies his own reflection, sees the paint still streaked across his face, the skin of his neck, sparkling with sweat, the outline of his legs through his trousers. He is royalty, his body more precious than Brad’s, or Adam’s, or Paula’s or Allison’s or anyone else’s, but for the first time, tonight, it feels wholly his own.
He takes a cloth from the vanity, carefully wipes the paint off his eyelids, the rouge off his cheekbones. The color in his hair is a bit trickier, but he does the best he can, scrubbing with the towel until it’s been blackened with the dye. Folds it carefully and puts it back in place, and makes a decision.
--
Adam’s chambers are on the opposite end of the castle as Kris’s, a fact that he’d been grateful for just a few days before, but now is simply annoying. Kris makes the trek through the dark hallways, focusing on keeping his knees steady, ignoring the stray servant or reveler, wandering drunkenly towards the servant’s quarters.
He knocks quietly and Adam answers almost instantly, causing Kris to take a step back in surprise.
“Kris,” he says, voice pitched lower than usual. His makeup is smudged, but still mostly present, and he’s changed into linen nightclothes, drawstring pants pulled tightly around his hips, a tunic hanging loosely off one shoulder. “You made it back. One of the servants told me she saw you and Brad walking back earlier, but I wasn’t sure.”
Kris feels slightly dizzy, and he leans against the doorframe, feeling as if he might tip over with the slightest breath of wind. “Adam,” he says, and Adam starts slightly at the use of his given name. “Can I come in?”
Adam blinks at him for a second before moving aside. “Of course,” he replies, holding the door open for Kris to step through.
Kris wanders in, concentrating on his breath like Brad had shown him, in, out, in, out. “Thank you.”
The door clicks shut decisively, and Kris jumps.
“Would you like a drink?” Adam says, practically slinking across the room. “Blueberry wine?” He smirks. “Or have you had enough already?”
“No, that’s all right.” Kris waves a hand.
Adam shrugs, pours himself a glass the deep blue liquid, leans against the ornate desk. He seems remarkably steadier than he had earlier in the streets. “Well,” he says, “here we are.”
Kris smirks. “Here is where we are.”
Adam smiles softly. “Did you enjoy the festival?”
“It was…ethereal,” Kris says.
Adam hums thoughtfully. “Yes,” he says finally. “That’s a good word for it.” He pauses to sip, studying Kris over the rim of the glass. “You will certainly have some stories to take back to your mother.”
Kris purses his lips. “I didn’t come here for small talk.”
Adam sets the glass down carefully on the desk, not taking his eyes off of Kris. “What did you come here for?”
The bed is huge and sprawling. Sheets of deep forest green lay rumpled in invitation, the coverlet crumpled at the foot. It should look intimidating, but instead all Kris feels is anticipation. Tilting his head, he wanders over, sitting on the edge experimentally, resisting the urge to let himself fall backwards into the softness. Runs a hand down the blankets, breathes in deeply, shivers.
“Kris,” says Adam, voice sounding far away. Kris looks up, and Adam’s gaze is intent, edged with darkness. “Do you intend to test my willpower tonight?” he asks.
“No,” Kris says, and blinks.
Adam narrows his eyes at him. “You’re drunk,” he says.
“Just a little.” Kris holds out one hand, shakes it impatiently. “Really. Come here.”
Adam takes a deep breath and obeys, stopping short, just close enough to take Kris’s hand. Even a few steps away, he still looms over Kris imposingly, and Kris feels breathless.
“I have considered your proposal,” Kris says slowly, pulling Adam in closer by his hand, pressing it to his chest. His heart pounds frantically beneath his breast, and he imagines that Adam could press his hand in farther, reach in all the way and squeeze. “And I have concluded,” he continues, “that we are a terrible match.”
Adam huffs out a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Kris informs him gravely. “However.”
“However?”
“However,” Kris repeats, and slides his hands up Adam’s arm, smearing the leftover paint on his skin, the waxy color rubbing off on his fingers. “I, frankly, don’t give a goddamn.”
Adam’s hand twitches on Kris’s chest, and when he looks up, Adam is smiling softly, eyes sparkling. “Such improper language, my prince,” he purrs.
“Forgive me, I had - had hoped,” Kris says, strained and thin, voice breaking as Adam slides his hand up and catches Kris’s cheek, palm big and wide and warm. He takes a deep breath. “I am not your prince tonight.” He quirks a wry smile. “Well, today.”
“What are you then?” Adam asks, his other hand joining the first, framing Kris’s face, thumbs brushing over his fluttering eyelids.
Kris’s head spins, and his hands fall to the bed. “Yours, my lord,” he murmurs.
Adam breathes in sharply and bears Kris down onto his back, moving so swiftly that Kris gasps in surprise. “You should not say such things so carelessly,” he drawls against Kris’s cheek, pressing down with his hips, locking Kris in place.
“I am never careless,” Kris gasps, clutching desperately at the sheets. Adam bears down harder and a moan tears its way out of Kris’s throat, piercing the room sharply.
“I am aware,” Adam says, and rolls them over with the push of one powerful knee. Kris clutches at Adam’s shoulders, drawing his legs into Adam’s sides and bracing his hands on his chest. “Disrobe.”
Kris shudders. “Am I to be your wife?” he says, but his hands move instinctively to the base of his tunic regardless.
“I hope not,” Adam replies mildly, watching his movements through a hooded gaze. “You would make a terrible woman.”
“Well you would make a wonderful one,” says Kris, pulling the cloth over his head, baring his chest. He slides off Adam’s stomach onto the floor and reaches for the fastenings on his trousers, trying to hide the tremors in his hands and knees.
“Are you nervous, Kris?” Adam asks gently.
“No,” Kris says firmly, lifting his chin and tugging the material down around his hips.
Adam chuckles indulgently. “So proud,” he mutters, sitting up and sliding his hands down Kris’s bare shoulders, palming his breastbone, pressing firmly on his abdomen, sliding around to the small of his back and pulling in. “And so serious,” he says, touching a thumb to the edges of Kris’s mouth. “Will you smile for me?”
Kris clutches at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut. “I - “
“You steal my breath with your smile,” says Adam gently, “it’s a shame I have to work so hard to see it.”
Kris ducks his head, allowing a smile to spread across his face.
“There you are,” says Adam, and pulls him down into a kiss.
The floor tilts beneath Kris’s feet, and he clenches his fists in Adam’s tunic. Feels Adam’s hands sweeping down his legs, then back up again, and his knees buckle, tumbles forward into Adam’s chest. They hit the mattress roughly, tearing apart clumsily, and Kris feels the rumbly earthquake of Adam’s laughter beneath his hands.
“My beautiful boy,” Adam murmurs, nuzzling into the side of Kris’s jaw, hand pressed to his chest and moving with his rapid pants. “Let me,” he says, nipping at Kris’s mouth, fingers skittering up his collarbone, “let me, my love, let me - “
“Yes,” Kris gasps, caught in the motion of their hips, the press of Adam’s clothes against his skin, clinging and sticking with their sweat. “Yes, anything, yes - “
Time stretches out, twists, slows down. Kris finds himself pressed back into the sheets, Adam’s mouth on his thighs, the ceiling blurring before his eyes, a great wave welling up in his chest, and he reaches out and grasps for Adam’s hands, tilts his head back, and holds on.
--
Kris awakens with the sunset, slipping out of bed and stealing out onto Adam’s balcony, wrapped in a blanket. He’s sore all over, muscles strained and worn. He rolls his shoulders, runs his hand down the angry marks on his neck, shivering as flashes from the early hours of the morning roll through his thoughts.
The wintry air nips at his bare skin but he doesn’t move, allows it to slip in beneath the blanket and raise goose bumps down his body, closes his eyes to the rising sun and just breathes, adjusting.
He doesn’t hear Adam rise, and jumps sharply when warm lips graze the back of his neck, nearly dropping the blanket. A rough chuckle and hands pull it back up, wrapping it around his shoulders snugly.
“What a lovely picture you make,” Adam says, bracing his arms on the balcony railing, trapping Kris in-between his skin and the cold stone. “It almost makes up for waking alone,” he continues pointedly.
Kris sighs, leaning back into Adam’s strength. “I apologize,” he says lazily, reaching out and tracing the skin of Adam’s forearms, leaning his chin against the hard bicep. “What could I possibly do to make up for my grievous error?”
“Marry me,” Adam says easily, and Kris blinks. “No - that’s not a request. That’s an order.”
“An order?” Kris repeats, bemused.
“Well, asking hasn’t gotten me anywhere with you,” Adam replies, shuffling closer, closing the space between their bodies. “So I’ve given it up. We will get married.”
“Commanding your sovereign,” Kris muses, hissing through his teeth as Adam presses him into the railing, blanket slipping down, precariously close to fluttering away completely. “A bold move.”
“I am a bold man,” Adam proclaims, plastered up against Kris’s back, sliding his hands inward and trapping him further in the embrace. “And I will marry you, in the spring, I think. A big to-do in Central City for the nobles, of course, but a more private one, here at Wyldbore.” Kris lets his head tilt back, feeling Adam’s words against his skin, scratchy and soft. “We’ll have it in the fields. You’ll let Brad plan your outfit. The villagers will be invited to attend naked.”
“You’ve certainly thought all this out,” Kris says, and gasps as Adam’s teeth latch onto his shoulder.
“And I will make you happy,” Adam continues, “and you will make me happy. And I will have you every night, every day, every morning - “ the blanket slips to the ground and Adam kicks it out of the way impatiently, slipping his hands between Kris’s legs, making him cry out in surprise. “Just as I will have you now, on my balcony, for the whole world to see. Yes.”
Kris laughs shakily. “Yes, I’m sure the flowers will be very scandalized,” he says, gesturing out to the empty wyldbore fields below.
“No more talking,” commands Adam, and sinks to his knees. And Kris promptly shuts his mouth.
After, Kris lies panting for breath on the balcony tile, the rumpled, dirty blanket the only barrier between him and the stone floor. Adam smirks down at him smugly.
“Any protests, majesty?”
“To your overwhelming presumptuousness?” Kris reaches for Adam’s hand, pulling him down beside him roughly. He lands with a grunt and a wheezy laugh, throwing one leg over Kris’s hip carelessly. “I suppose not.”
“Well, good.” Adam nuzzles into Kris’s cheek happily. “I knew you’d come around eventually,” he says haughtily.
“Arrogance is very unattractive, Adam,” Kris says.
Adam shivers. “I love it when you say my name,” he says. “Do it again.”
“Adam?”
Adam growls, pulling at Kris’s ear with his teeth. “Good boy.”
Kris laughs, pulling away. “You do realize we’ve been asleep all day?” He gestures out to the sun, now almost completely sunken below the horizon.
“It’s tradition,” Adam says, pouting. “Sleeping the day away after a night of debauchery at the festival.” He shudders dramatically. “Until tomorrow - the cleanup.”
“I don’t actually remember much sleeping,” Kris says wryly.
Adam grins wickedly and reaches for him again, only to be stopped by an embarrassingly loud rumble from the vicinity of his stomach. Pulling back, he grins sheepishly. “Ah, now I remember why making love constantly is impractical.”
“Impractical,” Kris says dryly, “seems somewhat of an understatement.”
Adam clambers to his feet, stark naked, pulling Kris up by his elbow, who scrambles for the blanket. “Just wait until the honeymoon,” Adam says, strolling back inside the room, reaching for a stray robe and pulling it around his shoulders lazily. “Three days sequestered in the wedding chambers,” he says dreamily.
“Three days,” Kris squeaks.
Adam grins. “It’s - “
“Tradition?” Kris finds his trousers, discarded on the floor, and pulls them on. “I would have never guessed.”
Adam laughs, sweeping over and laying a knee-shaking kiss on Kris, bending him backwards into the desk. Pulling away with a smack, he taps Kris’s chin. “You stay here,” he says. “I’ll go grab some food from the kitchens. Maybe Allison will whip us up something special.”
“You can’t just order me around,” Kris says. “I am the prince, and subsequently, the boss of you. You know.”
Adam chuckles. “You are so precious,” he coos, and sweeps out of the room before Kris can reply.
Kris sighs, attempting to be offended but unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face. Rummaging through the mess of clothing on the floor, he finds a stray tunic and pulls it over his head, only then realizing that it’s too big for him - Adam’s, then. Shrugging, he turns and sinks down in Adam’s desk chair, shuffling through the blank pieces of parchment idly. Spotting a stack of books behind the ink blotter, Kris seizes upon them, finding to his surprise editions of Dickens, Saint Augustine, the Bible, and Shakespeare among the copy of the royal code of conduct of the kingdom. The last volume in the stack is a copy of Kris’s own treatise on the sociological trends of poverty, a project that had taken up a feverish year of his life and had been read by a total of twenty people. Kris smiles, tracing the words of the title with one finger. Twenty-one, he thinks, and sets it aside.
Standing up, Kris aims to re-familiarize himself with Oliver Twist until Adam returns, but as he turns, knocks over a stack of parchment perched on the very edge of the desktop. Frowning, Kris sets the novel aside the gather them back up onto the desk, attempting to organize them back into a semblance of tidy order again, when something catches his eye.
Pulling one of the sheets from the pile, Kris examines it with shaking hands, burning disbelief erupting in his chest. The words are familiar, the name at the top, however, is not.
It’s a letter, a proposal letter, to be specific, addressed to the Earl of Bristol. Letting it flutter to the floor, Kris grabs for another sheet, seeing it again, addressed to Baron Thomas. Lord Weston. Duke of Warrenton. Marquess of Stylwell. Baron Risa. The names blur together, each letter a carbon copy of the one Kris had received barely a week earlier, different noble names written in at the top. The words seem to burn on the page, relationship based on mutual respect, trust and maturity, what had stood out before now just one in a line of many.
Stumbling away from the silvery pile on the ground, Kris turns away, hands trembling. His eyes land on the rumpled bed, the sheets messy with body paint and glitter, rubbed off from their bodies. Kris feels sick.
He isn’t sure how long he stands there, attempting to regain control of his roiling stomach, before Adam returns, pushing inside the room with one shoulder, a tray in his hands.
“Sorry it took so long,” he says, setting the tray on the night stand, not noticing Kris’s frozen gaze at the bed. “Allison wasn’t there, but the dear old maid insisted on making us eggs, isn’t that sweet?” Looking up when Kris doesn’t answer, he frowns. “Kris? What - “ he breaks off, eyes falling to the pile of silver parchment on the ground. “Did you - Kris - “ he pales slightly, moving forward, hand outstretched.
“Don’t touch me,” Kris says, moving backward violently. “Just - don’t.”
“Kris,” Adam says soothingly. “I can explain.”
“Explain?” Kris repeats shrilly, moving backwards until he hits the edge of the desk chair, sending the contents of the desktop rattling. “How could you possibly - I - “
“Listen to me,” Adam says insistently. “Those don’t matter, all right? They’re a - a joke, nothing. Don’t - don’t get upset about this, okay - “
“A joke?” Kris repeats, incredulous. “They’re exactly the same as the letter you sent to me, Adam. Word for word!”
“It - I - “ Adam flounders, brow creased. “Look, it’s - a game,” he finally says, wincing. Kris makes a small sound, trying to move away again, trapped by the desk. “I send them to anyone, to get a - a rise out of the nobles. Most people ignore me, some of them get angry. It’s not serious, okay, never once has anyone responded seriously - “
“Except me,” Kris croaks out, feeling his stomach rebelling again.
“No!” Adam says, aghast. “I mean, yes, you did, sort of, but I was serious about yours, Kris, please. All the others - I mean, I only send one, I don’t send them out regularly, year after year. Yours - I was serious about. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t, actually,” Kris snaps. “My letter was an exact copy of all those - others,” he says haltingly. “You were so serious about me that you couldn’t even be bothered to make any changes?”
“No, Kris - it isn’t like that - “
“It’s exactly like that,” Kris croaks. “I - I can’t believe I - “ Adam makes an anguished noise, reaching for him, and Kris jerks away, nearly crashing into a lamp. “Don’t touch me!”
Adam looks stricken. “I wanted to tell you,” he says. “I almost did, a few times. I just - I knew you would react like this, and I wanted to - “
“To gain my trust?” Kris says bitingly. “Oh, I can see how exposing yourself as a liar would have made that difficult for you.”
“I am not a liar,” Adam says heatedly. “I am not. Kris, I never once lied to you about anything, I swear to you.” Kris shakes his head, looking away, throat clogged with disbelief and anger. “Kris, you have to believe me - think on all we’ve shared, everything we talked about. Do you honestly think that was a game?” Adam gestures angrily to the balcony. “That I was playing a game when we made love?”
“If you were, congratulations,” Kris says coldly, “you managed to bed the prince. You hold the record, there.”
“Kris,” Adam chokes, “my love, please - “
“Don’t follow me,” Kris tells him, and slams the door behind his back, the crack echoing down the empty hallway.
--
Kris packs his things in a daze, calling a servant, a quiet man whom Kris doesn’t know, to help him gather everything together, abandoning anything that isn’t vital. It isn’t until he’s halfway down the drive to the carriage that he realizes he’s still in Adam’s tunic, and he strips it off in the middle of the courtyard, flinging it to the ground carelessly and climbing into the carriage bare-chested.
He keeps his eyes resolutely on his hands until the carriage wheels hit the gravel roads outside the city, biting his lip until it stings, the copper taste of blood hitting his tongue.
The night breeze sweeps in through the window and Kris shivers, goose bumps popping up on his bare skin. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the shirt he’d worn riding, still smelling of hay and horses, pulling it over his head slowly, his muscles still sore and tired.
Reaching into the breast pocket, he pulls out his letter, worn at the edges, Adam’s spindly handwriting stark against the sheaf of silver parchment. Unfolding it slowly, he runs a finger down the well-read words, feeling a wave of anguish so strong it nearly makes him cry out.
Growling in frustration, he crumples the parchment in one fist, tossing it out the window angrily. Slamming the window shade shut against the purple fields and the sweet-smelling wind, he leans forward and taps on the partition, gaining the attention of the driver.
“Push as fast as you can,” he says, pulling his legs up on the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
--
When Kris returns to the palace, he heads straight for his chambers and sleeps for two days. When he awakes, Paula is there.
“You’ve given your parents quite a fright, highness,” she says, fluffing his pillows. “Here, eat. That’s not a request.” She pushes a tray of soup into his hands, the smell reaching Kris’s nose and sending his stomach growling. “What on earth happened? We weren’t expecting you back for another three days.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Kris mumbles, scarfing the soup down ravenously.
Paula frowns. “Don’t burn yourself,” she scolds. Kris gulps, making an effort to eat a little slower. “Are you sick? You look so pale.” She reaches out and feels his forehead, tutting and shaking her head. “Did something happen?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Kris repeats, tearing at a piece of bread sullenly.
“Oh I knew this would end badly,” Paula frets, fussing with the covers, pulling them up around his waist, face creased in worry. “I knew that dreadful festival would upset you, I just knew it. And the Duke - who knows what he did - did he do something, highness? Ooh, just wait until he shows his face again, I’ll rip him to shreds, I don’t care if they throw me in the stocks for it - “
“Paula,” Kris repeats. “Stop. Really.”
Paula huffs. “Finish your soup,” she says, and proceeds to sit at Kris’s feet, arms crossed, until he does so. “Done?” she asks briskly. Kris nods timidly and hands her the tray. She takes it and slams it down on the breakfast table, turning back to push Kris back into the pillows, drawing the blankets up and tucking them in around him tightly, muttering under her breath.
“Paula,” Kris says, wriggling out of her grip. “Paula, enough.”
Paula raises one eyebrow at him. “It’s my job to take care of you,” she says haughtily. “It’s been my job since the moment you were born, and I don’t care how old you are now, it’s still my job, and it becomes ever so difficult when you refuse to listen to me, majesty.”
Kris sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says tiredly. “I - “ he breaks off, squinting his eyes shut.
“Kris,” he hears, and a gentle hand on his cheek. “What happened?”
Kris leans into the touch. “I thought it was different,” he mumbles, shame flooding his cheeks with color. “I - I was wrong. He’s just like - all the others.”
“Oh, darling.” Kris keeps his eyes stubbornly shut, feeling the bed dip as Paula climbs up next to him. “Hush, come here.”
Falling sideways with a sigh, Kris lets her guide his head into her lap, deft hands stroking his forehead. “Everything - hurts,” he mutters, feeling the comforting rhythm of her breath, the soft clicking of metal of her jewelry, the familiar scent of her robes.
“I’m sorry,” Paula says quietly. “Oh, Kris. I’m so sorry.” Kris just turns his face into her leg, and tries to breathe.
--
part three