Fic post: The Prince's Man (The Lost Prince)
Title: The Prince's Man
Word count: 4662
Pairing: Marco/The Rat
Summary: Marco drinks something he shouldn't at the Samavian New Year.
Notes: Written for
trope_bingo's 'sex pollen' square, cheerfully missing the point of sex pollen. I am fully aware that all of my other
trope_bingo fics have been lucky to hit 1k. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. (I do partly know what happened. In the comments of my last Lost Prince story, I had a fantastic conversation with psuedo_catalyst, one of those conversations that always fills me with love for fandom and squee and joy: RIDICULOUS LOST PRINCE AND SECRET GARDEN CHAT. That kind of joy always makes me want to create things.) I also want to say that writing this was so much fun, because I could give in to my desires to use overblown language and ridiculous descriptions. (Spoiler: I used both 'manhood' and 'emissions' in this fic. I'M NOT SORRY.)
Also available at the AO3.
Jem had finally managed to settle himself at the edge of a crowd of other courtiers, in a chair on the verandah where he could see the fires and the celebrating people of the capital city on the palace lawns below, when he felt Marco’s strong hand clasping his shoulder. Jem turned to smile up at the prince from his chair. “Happy counterfeit new year,” he said cheerfully in Samavian. It was an old joke between them, from the days when a younger Jem in his first year in Samavia had been horrified to discover that the Samavian calendar did not operate like his own.
Marco didn’t respond, as he should have done, with a pleased, “Happy true new year,” but instead held onto Jem’s shoulder more firmly, and swayed a little. “Rat,” he said, more slowly than he usually would, and the sound of that name out here made Jem’s eyes narrow. He took a closer look at Marco. The smooth tan skin of the prince was a little darker than its wont, and his big black eyes seemed somewhat bigger and blacker.
“Are you drunk, your highness?” he said sharply, because now was not the time. There were visitors here from all of Samavia’s neighbours, and a few from further afield, and Marco knew that a drunken Crown Prince could damage Samavia, whose economic prospects were only recovering with the help of clever men in other countries who trusted Stefan Loristan and his son… Jem’s thoughts whirled on for a moment, skipping over consequences and reparations and damage, even as Marco frowned in concentration and shook his head as though he was underwater.
“No,” Marco said, and there was a note of distress in his voice. “I’m not, Rat, I wouldn’t.”
Which was true, of course, and Jem brought his thoughts forcibly to a halt. No one knew his duties more thoroughly than Marco, and Jem had never had to remind him of them, not once. “What’s happened then?” he said, and now that the initial flash of panic had subsided, he could see that Marco was unhappy, even upset, and his voice was soft with concern.
“I don’t know,” Marco said, his hand tightening on Jem’s shoulder. Jem put his own hand up to cover it, gently, called to offer support by the lost note in Marco’s voice. “I was in the crowd, talking, and they offered me something.” His brow wrinkled. “Getuv, they called it. And I had a glassful, and now I… I feel…” He stumbled to a halt, and Jem sighed.
“Some potent peasant liquor, I expect,” he said soothingly. “You’ve greeted all of the guests, your highness? Particularly the Lady Rochelle?” Marco looked confused for a moment, eyes focused on where Jem’s thin pale hand lay over his own strong brown one, and then he nodded. “Good,” Jem said. “Well done. Let me… we’ll get you out of here, don’t worry.”
He motioned an armsman over with a small, sharp signal, cursing the fact that he could not help Marco himself. “My lord,” the man said coming to stand in front of them, and Jem was pleased to note that he was clever enough not to make any kind of large obeisance, or to stare at the swaying prince, or to do anything that would draw attention.
“The prince is sick,” he said peremptorily. “He needs assistance to his chambers. Discreet assistance, Armsman…?”
“Armsman Rogev,” the armsman said, touching two fingers to his brow. He was certainly tall and broad enough to help Marco alone. Jem committed the name to memory for later use, and then twisted in his chair again to look up at Marco above him.
“Your highness,” he said quietly in English. “You need to go with the armsman, and do it quietly. I’ll make your excuses.” He squeezed Marco’s hand to make sure he was paying attention. “Do you hear me?”
Marco’s eyes travelled slowly from Jem’s hand, along his arm and up his neck until they finally rested on his face. Jem felt a prickle of heat bloom in his cheeks. Marco was staring at him strangely for a moment, until he nodded and said, “I heard you, Jeremy.” Jem squeezed his hand again, and then lifted it away. After a second, Marco took his own hand away, fingers brushing against the gold braiding on Jem’s shoulder as he did so.
Jem cleared his throat, and looked at the armsman, feeling oddly unsettled. “Be careful with him, please,” he said, somewhat more softly than he was used to speaking to people who weren’t Marco. The armsman nodded, and slipped an unobtrusive hand under Marco’s elbow. They disappeared into the crowd within moments.
Jem let himself stay seated for a moment longer, facing the task before him. There were about thirteen people, by his count, who needed to be personally notified that the prince had left without bidding them a formal farewell, and none of them were going to be pleased to be faced with the prince’s crippled aide-de-camp instead. He sighed, and then gestured a serving woman closer and asked her to fetch his crutches.
He only managed to pass on Marco’s apologies to three people before someone tapped his shoulder. “Ratcliffe,” Lazarus said, and beckoned him towards a slightly secluded area, around the corner of the palace and away from the main party.
“Yes?” Jem said impatiently, following.
“Ratcliffe,” the man said again, when they reached the corner, speaking English as they did when they wanted to slightly lessen the chances of an eavesdropper. Not that it was any kind of guarantee. “What’s the prince been drinking?” His eyes were narrowed. “I’ve an armsman asking.”
“I told him discreet,” Jem hissed, suddenly both furious and exhausted. He had a headache starting, and balanced one elbow on its crutch so that he could rub his forehead.
“He’s been discreet,” Lazarus said, a mild rebuke in his tone. “I’m never the enemy, boy, you know that.”
Jem did know that, but the distress on Marco’s face lingered in his memory. Marco wouldn’t want Lazarus to know that he’d been unwise in any way, and the betrayal hurt Jem on his behalf. There was no help for it, now, though. “He said they called it getuv,” he said wearily. “Something brewed in someone’s cellar, I assume.”
Lazarus’ eyes had widened in his weather-beaten old face. He coughed. “Well,” he said. “You assume correctly. You haven’t… neither he nor you? God’s teeth, you’ve been in this country six years!”
“I’ve never heard of it, no,” Jem said.
Lazarus shifted his weight a little, and this was such an unusual sight from such a disciplined old soldier that Jem felt his shoulders tighten in anticipation of whatever blow was about to fall. “It’s a… probably the best way to describe it is ‘love potion’.”
There was a ringing silence. Jem felt as though a gun had been discharged, right next to his head, and now he could hear nothing through the muffling shock in his ears, nothing except the beating of his own heart.
“Will he recover?” he said, and his voice was icy calm. “From the drug? Who will it turn his affections towards?”
Lazarus shook his head. “It seems immoral to talk about this plainly,” he said, and his tone was complaining, but the mildness of it seemed to begin to bring Jem down, just a little, from the murderous place that he’d gone. “Getuv only makes you… it makes you want someone in your bed, boy, enough for it to hurt. Just for the night.”
Jem tried that thought in his head a few times, turning it over and sideways and inspecting it from all angles. He didn’t want to let it settle into place, and he certainly didn’t want to consider the consequences of what Lazarus was saying. “What does he need?” he said instead.
“He needs to learn a little more about this country of his, is what he needs,” Lazarus said. “But mainly he needs someone on watch. There’s a few people - only a few - that get angry on getuv, get mean. Sometimes try to… take.”
“Marco would never -” Jem heard the icy tone back in his own voice.
“I know,” Lazarus interrupted. “Of course he wouldn’t, he’s the King’s son. But it’s as well to be careful.”
“Why would they…?” Jem couldn’t know it, but as he looked at Lazarus there was an uncertainty in his face that he would never usually have allowed. The old man’s own face softened a little.
“You know as well as I do, boy. Not everyone thinks the same things are funny.”
“This will break his heart.”
Lazarus shook his head. “Not so fragile a thing as that, a Loristan’s heart. You need to relieve Armsman Rogev, Ratcliffe, so I’m relieving you.”
“Yes, sir.” Jem nodded, and got his crutches back under his arms. He left without another word.
When he got there, Armsman Rogev was not actually in Marco’s chambers, for which Jem was glad. He was waiting outside in the hallway, and he saluted sharply as he saw Jem swinging down the corridor. “My lord,” he said. “I beg your pardon, it was necessary to consult with the general -”
“Yes, yes,” Jem said impatiently. “I know. How is he?”
The armsman paused. “I haven’t gone in,” he said. “I could hear him, that’s how I knew. It comes on fast.” He was staring straight ahead, as though trying to pretend he hadn’t just admitted to being acquainted with the use of the draught Marco had been fed.
“Can you hear him now?” Jem asked, and they both paused to listen. There was no sound from within the chambers.
“It comes in waves, sir,” the armsman said.
Jem looked at him sharply. “I need information, armsman,” he said. “What do you know? You needn’t tell me how you know.”
Armsman Rogev’s cheeks were turning red. “We drink it at the harvest festivals, sir. It’s not something you’re supposed to do alone. It…” He didn’t move a muscle, but he managed to convey with his body that he was extremely uncomfortable with the whole conversation. Jem didn’t care. He waited. The armsman finally continued. “It’s painful, if it’s alone. And you can’t… help yourself.” Jem nodded, as though there was nothing strange about alluding to such intimate topics in the hallway outside the chambers of a prince. “That’s all, really.”
“Thank you, armsman, you may stand down.”
“Do you need someone -” Rogev caught Jem’s eye, and stifled the question. Now was clearly not the time to be questioning the prince’s aide-de-camp. There was danger in his eyes and anger in the lines of his face. The armsman saluted, and left sharply.
Jem had no idea what he’d find inside Marco’s chambers. The sitting room was empty and dark. Through the unshuttered windows, the glow of the New Year fires could still be seen, but up here there was no warmth. “Marco?” Jem called, and heard a note of caution in his own voice.
“Don’t come in!” he heard Marco say from the bedchamber, in an anguished edge to his voice.
“I won’t,” Jem said soothingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t. But I’ll be out here.”
He settled himself in an armchair, leaning his crutches where he could get to them easily, and stared out of the windows, unseeing. The fireworks began. Usually, fireworks called a kind of joy to the fore in Jem that one might almost call childlike, if Jem had ever really known joy as a child. They were something magical, collisions of light and noise and colour that he remembered watching once, only once, from the banks of the Thames, wrapped in his mother’s arms. It was his only memory of her. Now, tonight, they stirred nothing in him. He barely saw them. Down there, enjoying the palace’s hospitality and marvelling at the palace’s display, were some men who had thought it would be amusing to dose the prince with a drug, and Jem knew that they would never be punished. They wouldn’t be found, for one thing, and even if they were it would be stupid to do anything to them. It would reveal the prince’s weaknesses, seem cruel to a populace constantly watching for cruelty in their rulers. But they should be punished, he thought passionately, the part of him that would always believe in undiluted truth and justice crying out, and his fingers gripped the arms of the chair.
He passed the night in an agony of fury and worry. At some points he thought he could hear noises from the bedchamber, noises that he refused to listen to. It seemed too great an intimacy, to know how Marco might sound if driven mad by lust, and too great a betrayal for any friend to strain his ears to hear it. At other points all was silent, and he could barely restrain himself from going in to check that Marco was still breathing, for who knew if the wickedness had stopped at feeding him only one illicit substance. It grew colder, and he barely noticed. The party finished, and he barely noticed. Eventually, all was dark, and there was no one on the lawns beneath him anymore, no sounds anywhere except sometimes the faintest of cries from Marco’s chamber.
He did not fall asleep. He was too faithful a servant for that, no matter how his eyes burned or his body ached. Dawn found him still in the chair, as upright as he could be, still staring out of the window.
He only stirred when he heard the creak of Marco’s bedchamber door. “Rat?” Marco said from behind him, voice hoarse. “I knew you were here.” Jem swung himself quickly to his feet.
“Marco?” he said. “Are you well?” He was already moving, with the object of putting his hands on Marco as soon as possible, checking whether he was truly unharmed, when Marco put up a hand, warding him off.
“I have to say this now,” he said in a rush, “or it won’t get said at all.”
Jem halted, watching him warily. “Tell me you are well first,” he said.
Marco cast him a glance. “I feel physically fine,” he said. That was not an answer, and they both knew it, but Marco hurried on. “Rat, I have come to know something, please let me say it? And will you… can you promise not to hate me?”
“Of course,” Jem said automatically, not even needing to consider. “I never would.”
Marco fixed his gaze above Jem’s head and said, “I was… consumed, last night. By one thought.” He stopped, and his cheeks darkened. “If you… if you had come in, I would have… I would have been unable to restrain myself.”
“You would never have -” Jem protests, thoughts on Lazarus’ dire mention of what happened to a few people when they drank that vile concoction.
“No, I mean…” Marco turns his face away, the red of his flush beginning to show clearly through his tan. “Because of you.”
That made no sense to Jem, none at all. “Because of me?” he said, dumb and uncomprehending. He retreated to the chair and sat down again, leaning his crutches precariously at his shoulder. “Have I provoked you?” For a wild moment he thought that Marco had meant to visit violence on him.
“Daily,” Marco sighed, and looked into Jem’s eyes. “But not in the way you mean.” He hesitated, and then said, “I mean to say, I love you.”
“I love you t-” Jem began, automatically, and then slowed and stumbled to a stop. “I must be mistaking your meaning.”
“No, you are not!” Marco said sharply. “At least do me the honour of not pretending to misunderstand.”
“I am not pretending!” Jem said indignantly. “I only - I am not sure I can believe it.” His mind was whirring away at its usual speed, and he could not conceive of Marco’s words meaning anything other than the most obvious thing. It was impossible, but it truly seemed to be what Marco meant. “How can you… me?”
The stumbled words softened Marco’s grim visage. “The thought doesn’t disgust you?”
“You couldn’t disgust me,” Jem said, just as quickly as he had responded to Marco’s worry that he would hate him. He looked down at that floor. “But I truly don’t understand why.”
“Can I - might I show you?” Marco said, a little nervously. His glance up at Jem through his eyelashes was lingering, and Jem felt himself go hot.
“After the night you’ve just had?” he said, practicalities coming immediately to his mind.
“It was not so bad,” Marco said, waving it away with a hand. “It sounds a little mad, but I think I could smell you, or hear you, or something of the kind. It enabled me to concentrate a little, and then, you know, the mind is always more powerful than the body, if focused. And I would like to -” He coughed. “You know. It’s been somewhat on my mind in the last few hours.”
Jem still could not quite make sense of what Marco was saying, and he felt his appeal for reason must have shown on his face, for Marco took two or three strides and fetched up standing in front of Jem in his chair. He looked down at Jem for a moment or two, and then dropped to his knees so that their faces were level. “I wish I had known,” Jem said suddenly. “I could have helped.”
“But now I can do this for the first time in my right mind, and that is more precious to me,” Marco said, resting his hands on Jem’s thighs. Jem tried not to allow himself to be conscious of the wasted muscle Marco would feel under his palms, but it was difficult when it was Marco, his own personal standard for perfection, touching him. Marco must have felt his involuntary feeble flinch, for he ran one hand gently along Jem’s leg, and leaned up to kiss him without further ado.
It was like nothing Jem had ever experienced, of course. No one had ever given him a second look, much less kissed him. Marco’s lips were a little dry, and there was roughness on the bottom one that caught at Jem’s own lips. Jem felt that every part of his body was straining towards Marco, trying wordlessly to be touched, although he knew in truth that he had not moved.
Marco lifted his head away after the space of only a few breaths, gazing into Jem’s eyes and smiling. “You won’t stop there?” Jem said before he could prevent himself.
“Not if you don’t wish it,” Marco said. “I have imagined this.” He pressed a little against Jem’s legs, and Jem suddenly realised that if he opened them - like so - then Marco could move forwards - like so. Marco was suddenly close against Jem, the heat of his chest and stomach permeating through Jem’s clothes. Jem shifted a little, not sure whether to be ashamed at what Marco could no doubt feel pressing against him. Marco touched his cheek, and when Jem focused his eyes on Marco’s face he found a smile waiting for him, one of the broad, beautiful Loristan smiles. “You’re erect,” Marco said, pleased.
The sheer straightforwardness of it startled Jem into a giggle. An evening and night of trying not to think about Marco’s predicament in plain terms, trying to respect his dignity and not delve pruriently into the details of how he must be suffering, and Marco had cleaved straight through the middle of the mess of euphemistic thought. “Yes,” he said. “I congratulate you on your perspicacity. And,” he added, daring a little, “your achievement.”
Marco’s dear face shaped itself into smug lines, and Jem found that the idea that Marco felt such triumph in the idea of having aroused him made uncertainty leave him for the moment. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on Marco’s broad shoulders and thrusting his hands into Marco’s dark hair, and rested his forehead against Marco’s. “I think you can kiss me less chastely than that,” he said, heart beating faster. “I’ve seen you a few times.” He licked his lips.
“Oh?” Marco said, eyes on Jem’s mouth.
“Yes,” Jem said. “In Romania, I saw you with…” He searched his mind for the name. “With Lord Lupu’s daughter. It was…” He had been flushed for a while now, reddened by strong emotions, but he felt his cheeks flame now at the admission. “I enjoyed watching. It was difficult to turn away.”
Marco breathed in sharply, and his eyes flew up to meet Jem’s for a moment, before he leaned forwards again. Jem twitched as Marco bit gently at his mouth, and his hands in Marco’s hair tightened, unconsciously pulling on the thick, silky strands. Marco made a noise in his throat that Jem had never heard before, and his tongue - slick, hot, alien - nudged at the seam of Jem’s lips until Jem, slow as he never usually would be, realised what Marco wanted. He opened his mouth.
The sensation was strange, and intimate, and it made Jem press closer to Marco, unconsciously beginning to move his hips a little against Marco’s stomach. One of Marco’s hands was on Jem’s cheek, directing him where to angle his head, and the other ran over Jem’s back, down his hump. The sensation of Marco touching that most maligned and hated part of his body sent a powerful wave of longing through Jem, the mad wish that this would never end. He felt enclosed, cradled between the sturdy back of the chair behind him and the sturdy body in front of him, and he had never felt safer in his life. He dimly heard a clatter, and realised that Marco must have dislodged his crutches from their resting place. He didn’t care.
The hand on his cheek moved, but Jem barely noticed until a moment later there was space between their lower bodies. Marco had shuffled back a little, although his mouth was still on Jem’s. Jem pulled away, ready to protest, when Marco laid a hand firmly over his manhood, which stilled Jem completely. For a moment he did nothing, not even breathe.
“May I?” Marco said, and Jem nodded wordlessly.
“You may do anything,” he managed to say a moment later, voice cracking, which made Marco’s smile shrink a little, into something smaller and sweeter.
Marco did nothing at first, just left his hand resting there and craned up to meet Jem’s lips again. “It’s just as I thought it would be, last night,” he murmured just before their lips met, and Jem couldn’t help surging forward to close the last inch. The kiss was fiercer, and Jem was emboldened enough to become the aggressor, plundering Marco’s mouth as he felt Marco’s hand begin to rub up and down the length of him, too gently to be of any use. He heard himself make a frustrated sound and felt himself tug again at Marco’s hair and wondered at his own loss of reticence. He couldn’t bring himself to feel much shame when Marco leaned away again, looking at him with amusement.
“Are you going to… to do anything useful?” he said boldly.
Marco laughed softly. “Of course,” he said, also bold, and he slipped loose the top button of Jem’s trousers between one breath and the next. Jem’s stomach muscles quivered. Marco looked up at him and smiled, and then undid the second and third buttons. He pulled at the trousers, and Jem lifted his hips enough for Marco to get them down to around his thighs.
Jem’s emissions had already dampened the soft cotton of his underwear, and now, with Marco looking at him so closely he felt their rate increase. He did not think he was far from the edge. “Marco,” he said, stumbling over his own tongue. “Marco, I…” He was not sure what to say, not sure whether Marco needed to or should know how very much the mere weight of his gaze affected Jem.
Marco looked at him, holding his eyes. “I want to do something,” he said solemnly. “I am afraid you will find it very shocking.”
Jem laughed weakly. “This is all very shocking, Marco,” he said, “and we have managed so far.” He persuaded his fingers to uncurl and extricate themselves from their grip on Marco’s curly locks. He gripped the arms of the chair instead.
Marco nodded, a determined set in his jaw that Jem recognised. The next Jem knew, Marco had bent his head and Jem was staring at the thick black hair as he felt Marco’s mouth - Marco’s mouth! - touching his manhood through his underwear. It was barely a whisper of moisture and heat at first, and then Marco seemed to become emboldened by Jem’s lack of protest. Jem could not have protested even had he wanted to: his mind was overwhelmed with too much new and unlooked-for sensation. Marco mouthed at the line of it, and every muscle in Jem’s body tensed as he suddenly spent, with a thin wordless cry.
“Oh,” he said, a moment later, still rigid and panting. “Oh, oh, oh. That is why people get so stupid over love.”
“Not just that,” Marco said. He had laid his head on Jem’s leg, and one hand was stroking up and down Jem’s calf, soothing the quivering there. “There is more to it, I think. But that is very nice. Have you never?”
“In my sleep, sometimes. And sometimes when I could not help it. But you know they always said touching yourself was unhealthy.”
Marco snorted. “England.” His hand curled gently around Jem’s ankle, inching up his trousers so that his thumb could rub over the prominent bone there. Jem shuddered, and wondered at his skin’s capacity to constantly feel, even when he felt that by rights everything in his body should have the decency to be numb for a moment or two, to let him recover.
They sat there for the space of a few minutes, Jem trying to control his breathing and Marco seemingly content to lean against his legs and touch him here and there, gentle strokes of his free hand on Jem’s cloth-covered hipbone and knee and stomach. It did not take long for Jem’s fierce sense of fairness to raise its head. “And you?” he said. “I should like to wash, and then may I…?” He shrugged, unable to finish the sentence, even as possibilities multiplied in his head.
“I have had a long night, I would also like a wash,” Marco said. He didn’t lift his head, only shuffled a little so that he could peer up at Jem a little bashfully. “Perhaps we could wash together?”
Jem’s instinctive thought was protest at the thought of being seen naked, and Marco having to help him in and out of the tub, and how strange and unnatural he would look in the cool white light of Marco’s bathroom. He envisaged his twisted, crippled body in the clear water next to - or beside or against, his brain helpfully supplied - Marco’s golden strength, and it seemed to him that even only in his mind he polluted the scene.
Marco must have read it on his face, for the hand anchored to Jem’s ankle suddenly squeezed fiercely. “I want it,” he said. “I want to look at you and touch you.”
In the face of such bare desire, Jem felt unable to say anything. He could not wholly believe it, but perhaps he could try to act as though he did, at least for a while. He nodded mutely. “Let me get decent before you call a servant. Perhaps I can cover my lap with a blanket?”
Marco’s face shone with joy as he agreed, and Jem couldn’t help the way his own heart echoed it.
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://surexit.dreamwidth.org/73208.html with
comments. Comment wherever you like.
Word count: 4662
Pairing: Marco/The Rat
Summary: Marco drinks something he shouldn't at the Samavian New Year.
Notes: Written for
trope_bingo's 'sex pollen' square, cheerfully missing the point of sex pollen. I am fully aware that all of my other
trope_bingo fics have been lucky to hit 1k. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. (I do partly know what happened. In the comments of my last Lost Prince story, I had a fantastic conversation with psuedo_catalyst, one of those conversations that always fills me with love for fandom and squee and joy: RIDICULOUS LOST PRINCE AND SECRET GARDEN CHAT. That kind of joy always makes me want to create things.) I also want to say that writing this was so much fun, because I could give in to my desires to use overblown language and ridiculous descriptions. (Spoiler: I used both 'manhood' and 'emissions' in this fic. I'M NOT SORRY.)
Also available at the AO3.
Jem had finally managed to settle himself at the edge of a crowd of other courtiers, in a chair on the verandah where he could see the fires and the celebrating people of the capital city on the palace lawns below, when he felt Marco’s strong hand clasping his shoulder. Jem turned to smile up at the prince from his chair. “Happy counterfeit new year,” he said cheerfully in Samavian. It was an old joke between them, from the days when a younger Jem in his first year in Samavia had been horrified to discover that the Samavian calendar did not operate like his own.
Marco didn’t respond, as he should have done, with a pleased, “Happy true new year,” but instead held onto Jem’s shoulder more firmly, and swayed a little. “Rat,” he said, more slowly than he usually would, and the sound of that name out here made Jem’s eyes narrow. He took a closer look at Marco. The smooth tan skin of the prince was a little darker than its wont, and his big black eyes seemed somewhat bigger and blacker.
“Are you drunk, your highness?” he said sharply, because now was not the time. There were visitors here from all of Samavia’s neighbours, and a few from further afield, and Marco knew that a drunken Crown Prince could damage Samavia, whose economic prospects were only recovering with the help of clever men in other countries who trusted Stefan Loristan and his son… Jem’s thoughts whirled on for a moment, skipping over consequences and reparations and damage, even as Marco frowned in concentration and shook his head as though he was underwater.
“No,” Marco said, and there was a note of distress in his voice. “I’m not, Rat, I wouldn’t.”
Which was true, of course, and Jem brought his thoughts forcibly to a halt. No one knew his duties more thoroughly than Marco, and Jem had never had to remind him of them, not once. “What’s happened then?” he said, and now that the initial flash of panic had subsided, he could see that Marco was unhappy, even upset, and his voice was soft with concern.
“I don’t know,” Marco said, his hand tightening on Jem’s shoulder. Jem put his own hand up to cover it, gently, called to offer support by the lost note in Marco’s voice. “I was in the crowd, talking, and they offered me something.” His brow wrinkled. “Getuv, they called it. And I had a glassful, and now I… I feel…” He stumbled to a halt, and Jem sighed.
“Some potent peasant liquor, I expect,” he said soothingly. “You’ve greeted all of the guests, your highness? Particularly the Lady Rochelle?” Marco looked confused for a moment, eyes focused on where Jem’s thin pale hand lay over his own strong brown one, and then he nodded. “Good,” Jem said. “Well done. Let me… we’ll get you out of here, don’t worry.”
He motioned an armsman over with a small, sharp signal, cursing the fact that he could not help Marco himself. “My lord,” the man said coming to stand in front of them, and Jem was pleased to note that he was clever enough not to make any kind of large obeisance, or to stare at the swaying prince, or to do anything that would draw attention.
“The prince is sick,” he said peremptorily. “He needs assistance to his chambers. Discreet assistance, Armsman…?”
“Armsman Rogev,” the armsman said, touching two fingers to his brow. He was certainly tall and broad enough to help Marco alone. Jem committed the name to memory for later use, and then twisted in his chair again to look up at Marco above him.
“Your highness,” he said quietly in English. “You need to go with the armsman, and do it quietly. I’ll make your excuses.” He squeezed Marco’s hand to make sure he was paying attention. “Do you hear me?”
Marco’s eyes travelled slowly from Jem’s hand, along his arm and up his neck until they finally rested on his face. Jem felt a prickle of heat bloom in his cheeks. Marco was staring at him strangely for a moment, until he nodded and said, “I heard you, Jeremy.” Jem squeezed his hand again, and then lifted it away. After a second, Marco took his own hand away, fingers brushing against the gold braiding on Jem’s shoulder as he did so.
Jem cleared his throat, and looked at the armsman, feeling oddly unsettled. “Be careful with him, please,” he said, somewhat more softly than he was used to speaking to people who weren’t Marco. The armsman nodded, and slipped an unobtrusive hand under Marco’s elbow. They disappeared into the crowd within moments.
Jem let himself stay seated for a moment longer, facing the task before him. There were about thirteen people, by his count, who needed to be personally notified that the prince had left without bidding them a formal farewell, and none of them were going to be pleased to be faced with the prince’s crippled aide-de-camp instead. He sighed, and then gestured a serving woman closer and asked her to fetch his crutches.
He only managed to pass on Marco’s apologies to three people before someone tapped his shoulder. “Ratcliffe,” Lazarus said, and beckoned him towards a slightly secluded area, around the corner of the palace and away from the main party.
“Yes?” Jem said impatiently, following.
“Ratcliffe,” the man said again, when they reached the corner, speaking English as they did when they wanted to slightly lessen the chances of an eavesdropper. Not that it was any kind of guarantee. “What’s the prince been drinking?” His eyes were narrowed. “I’ve an armsman asking.”
“I told him discreet,” Jem hissed, suddenly both furious and exhausted. He had a headache starting, and balanced one elbow on its crutch so that he could rub his forehead.
“He’s been discreet,” Lazarus said, a mild rebuke in his tone. “I’m never the enemy, boy, you know that.”
Jem did know that, but the distress on Marco’s face lingered in his memory. Marco wouldn’t want Lazarus to know that he’d been unwise in any way, and the betrayal hurt Jem on his behalf. There was no help for it, now, though. “He said they called it getuv,” he said wearily. “Something brewed in someone’s cellar, I assume.”
Lazarus’ eyes had widened in his weather-beaten old face. He coughed. “Well,” he said. “You assume correctly. You haven’t… neither he nor you? God’s teeth, you’ve been in this country six years!”
“I’ve never heard of it, no,” Jem said.
Lazarus shifted his weight a little, and this was such an unusual sight from such a disciplined old soldier that Jem felt his shoulders tighten in anticipation of whatever blow was about to fall. “It’s a… probably the best way to describe it is ‘love potion’.”
There was a ringing silence. Jem felt as though a gun had been discharged, right next to his head, and now he could hear nothing through the muffling shock in his ears, nothing except the beating of his own heart.
“Will he recover?” he said, and his voice was icy calm. “From the drug? Who will it turn his affections towards?”
Lazarus shook his head. “It seems immoral to talk about this plainly,” he said, and his tone was complaining, but the mildness of it seemed to begin to bring Jem down, just a little, from the murderous place that he’d gone. “Getuv only makes you… it makes you want someone in your bed, boy, enough for it to hurt. Just for the night.”
Jem tried that thought in his head a few times, turning it over and sideways and inspecting it from all angles. He didn’t want to let it settle into place, and he certainly didn’t want to consider the consequences of what Lazarus was saying. “What does he need?” he said instead.
“He needs to learn a little more about this country of his, is what he needs,” Lazarus said. “But mainly he needs someone on watch. There’s a few people - only a few - that get angry on getuv, get mean. Sometimes try to… take.”
“Marco would never -” Jem heard the icy tone back in his own voice.
“I know,” Lazarus interrupted. “Of course he wouldn’t, he’s the King’s son. But it’s as well to be careful.”
“Why would they…?” Jem couldn’t know it, but as he looked at Lazarus there was an uncertainty in his face that he would never usually have allowed. The old man’s own face softened a little.
“You know as well as I do, boy. Not everyone thinks the same things are funny.”
“This will break his heart.”
Lazarus shook his head. “Not so fragile a thing as that, a Loristan’s heart. You need to relieve Armsman Rogev, Ratcliffe, so I’m relieving you.”
“Yes, sir.” Jem nodded, and got his crutches back under his arms. He left without another word.
When he got there, Armsman Rogev was not actually in Marco’s chambers, for which Jem was glad. He was waiting outside in the hallway, and he saluted sharply as he saw Jem swinging down the corridor. “My lord,” he said. “I beg your pardon, it was necessary to consult with the general -”
“Yes, yes,” Jem said impatiently. “I know. How is he?”
The armsman paused. “I haven’t gone in,” he said. “I could hear him, that’s how I knew. It comes on fast.” He was staring straight ahead, as though trying to pretend he hadn’t just admitted to being acquainted with the use of the draught Marco had been fed.
“Can you hear him now?” Jem asked, and they both paused to listen. There was no sound from within the chambers.
“It comes in waves, sir,” the armsman said.
Jem looked at him sharply. “I need information, armsman,” he said. “What do you know? You needn’t tell me how you know.”
Armsman Rogev’s cheeks were turning red. “We drink it at the harvest festivals, sir. It’s not something you’re supposed to do alone. It…” He didn’t move a muscle, but he managed to convey with his body that he was extremely uncomfortable with the whole conversation. Jem didn’t care. He waited. The armsman finally continued. “It’s painful, if it’s alone. And you can’t… help yourself.” Jem nodded, as though there was nothing strange about alluding to such intimate topics in the hallway outside the chambers of a prince. “That’s all, really.”
“Thank you, armsman, you may stand down.”
“Do you need someone -” Rogev caught Jem’s eye, and stifled the question. Now was clearly not the time to be questioning the prince’s aide-de-camp. There was danger in his eyes and anger in the lines of his face. The armsman saluted, and left sharply.
Jem had no idea what he’d find inside Marco’s chambers. The sitting room was empty and dark. Through the unshuttered windows, the glow of the New Year fires could still be seen, but up here there was no warmth. “Marco?” Jem called, and heard a note of caution in his own voice.
“Don’t come in!” he heard Marco say from the bedchamber, in an anguished edge to his voice.
“I won’t,” Jem said soothingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t. But I’ll be out here.”
He settled himself in an armchair, leaning his crutches where he could get to them easily, and stared out of the windows, unseeing. The fireworks began. Usually, fireworks called a kind of joy to the fore in Jem that one might almost call childlike, if Jem had ever really known joy as a child. They were something magical, collisions of light and noise and colour that he remembered watching once, only once, from the banks of the Thames, wrapped in his mother’s arms. It was his only memory of her. Now, tonight, they stirred nothing in him. He barely saw them. Down there, enjoying the palace’s hospitality and marvelling at the palace’s display, were some men who had thought it would be amusing to dose the prince with a drug, and Jem knew that they would never be punished. They wouldn’t be found, for one thing, and even if they were it would be stupid to do anything to them. It would reveal the prince’s weaknesses, seem cruel to a populace constantly watching for cruelty in their rulers. But they should be punished, he thought passionately, the part of him that would always believe in undiluted truth and justice crying out, and his fingers gripped the arms of the chair.
He passed the night in an agony of fury and worry. At some points he thought he could hear noises from the bedchamber, noises that he refused to listen to. It seemed too great an intimacy, to know how Marco might sound if driven mad by lust, and too great a betrayal for any friend to strain his ears to hear it. At other points all was silent, and he could barely restrain himself from going in to check that Marco was still breathing, for who knew if the wickedness had stopped at feeding him only one illicit substance. It grew colder, and he barely noticed. The party finished, and he barely noticed. Eventually, all was dark, and there was no one on the lawns beneath him anymore, no sounds anywhere except sometimes the faintest of cries from Marco’s chamber.
He did not fall asleep. He was too faithful a servant for that, no matter how his eyes burned or his body ached. Dawn found him still in the chair, as upright as he could be, still staring out of the window.
He only stirred when he heard the creak of Marco’s bedchamber door. “Rat?” Marco said from behind him, voice hoarse. “I knew you were here.” Jem swung himself quickly to his feet.
“Marco?” he said. “Are you well?” He was already moving, with the object of putting his hands on Marco as soon as possible, checking whether he was truly unharmed, when Marco put up a hand, warding him off.
“I have to say this now,” he said in a rush, “or it won’t get said at all.”
Jem halted, watching him warily. “Tell me you are well first,” he said.
Marco cast him a glance. “I feel physically fine,” he said. That was not an answer, and they both knew it, but Marco hurried on. “Rat, I have come to know something, please let me say it? And will you… can you promise not to hate me?”
“Of course,” Jem said automatically, not even needing to consider. “I never would.”
Marco fixed his gaze above Jem’s head and said, “I was… consumed, last night. By one thought.” He stopped, and his cheeks darkened. “If you… if you had come in, I would have… I would have been unable to restrain myself.”
“You would never have -” Jem protests, thoughts on Lazarus’ dire mention of what happened to a few people when they drank that vile concoction.
“No, I mean…” Marco turns his face away, the red of his flush beginning to show clearly through his tan. “Because of you.”
That made no sense to Jem, none at all. “Because of me?” he said, dumb and uncomprehending. He retreated to the chair and sat down again, leaning his crutches precariously at his shoulder. “Have I provoked you?” For a wild moment he thought that Marco had meant to visit violence on him.
“Daily,” Marco sighed, and looked into Jem’s eyes. “But not in the way you mean.” He hesitated, and then said, “I mean to say, I love you.”
“I love you t-” Jem began, automatically, and then slowed and stumbled to a stop. “I must be mistaking your meaning.”
“No, you are not!” Marco said sharply. “At least do me the honour of not pretending to misunderstand.”
“I am not pretending!” Jem said indignantly. “I only - I am not sure I can believe it.” His mind was whirring away at its usual speed, and he could not conceive of Marco’s words meaning anything other than the most obvious thing. It was impossible, but it truly seemed to be what Marco meant. “How can you… me?”
The stumbled words softened Marco’s grim visage. “The thought doesn’t disgust you?”
“You couldn’t disgust me,” Jem said, just as quickly as he had responded to Marco’s worry that he would hate him. He looked down at that floor. “But I truly don’t understand why.”
“Can I - might I show you?” Marco said, a little nervously. His glance up at Jem through his eyelashes was lingering, and Jem felt himself go hot.
“After the night you’ve just had?” he said, practicalities coming immediately to his mind.
“It was not so bad,” Marco said, waving it away with a hand. “It sounds a little mad, but I think I could smell you, or hear you, or something of the kind. It enabled me to concentrate a little, and then, you know, the mind is always more powerful than the body, if focused. And I would like to -” He coughed. “You know. It’s been somewhat on my mind in the last few hours.”
Jem still could not quite make sense of what Marco was saying, and he felt his appeal for reason must have shown on his face, for Marco took two or three strides and fetched up standing in front of Jem in his chair. He looked down at Jem for a moment or two, and then dropped to his knees so that their faces were level. “I wish I had known,” Jem said suddenly. “I could have helped.”
“But now I can do this for the first time in my right mind, and that is more precious to me,” Marco said, resting his hands on Jem’s thighs. Jem tried not to allow himself to be conscious of the wasted muscle Marco would feel under his palms, but it was difficult when it was Marco, his own personal standard for perfection, touching him. Marco must have felt his involuntary feeble flinch, for he ran one hand gently along Jem’s leg, and leaned up to kiss him without further ado.
It was like nothing Jem had ever experienced, of course. No one had ever given him a second look, much less kissed him. Marco’s lips were a little dry, and there was roughness on the bottom one that caught at Jem’s own lips. Jem felt that every part of his body was straining towards Marco, trying wordlessly to be touched, although he knew in truth that he had not moved.
Marco lifted his head away after the space of only a few breaths, gazing into Jem’s eyes and smiling. “You won’t stop there?” Jem said before he could prevent himself.
“Not if you don’t wish it,” Marco said. “I have imagined this.” He pressed a little against Jem’s legs, and Jem suddenly realised that if he opened them - like so - then Marco could move forwards - like so. Marco was suddenly close against Jem, the heat of his chest and stomach permeating through Jem’s clothes. Jem shifted a little, not sure whether to be ashamed at what Marco could no doubt feel pressing against him. Marco touched his cheek, and when Jem focused his eyes on Marco’s face he found a smile waiting for him, one of the broad, beautiful Loristan smiles. “You’re erect,” Marco said, pleased.
The sheer straightforwardness of it startled Jem into a giggle. An evening and night of trying not to think about Marco’s predicament in plain terms, trying to respect his dignity and not delve pruriently into the details of how he must be suffering, and Marco had cleaved straight through the middle of the mess of euphemistic thought. “Yes,” he said. “I congratulate you on your perspicacity. And,” he added, daring a little, “your achievement.”
Marco’s dear face shaped itself into smug lines, and Jem found that the idea that Marco felt such triumph in the idea of having aroused him made uncertainty leave him for the moment. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on Marco’s broad shoulders and thrusting his hands into Marco’s dark hair, and rested his forehead against Marco’s. “I think you can kiss me less chastely than that,” he said, heart beating faster. “I’ve seen you a few times.” He licked his lips.
“Oh?” Marco said, eyes on Jem’s mouth.
“Yes,” Jem said. “In Romania, I saw you with…” He searched his mind for the name. “With Lord Lupu’s daughter. It was…” He had been flushed for a while now, reddened by strong emotions, but he felt his cheeks flame now at the admission. “I enjoyed watching. It was difficult to turn away.”
Marco breathed in sharply, and his eyes flew up to meet Jem’s for a moment, before he leaned forwards again. Jem twitched as Marco bit gently at his mouth, and his hands in Marco’s hair tightened, unconsciously pulling on the thick, silky strands. Marco made a noise in his throat that Jem had never heard before, and his tongue - slick, hot, alien - nudged at the seam of Jem’s lips until Jem, slow as he never usually would be, realised what Marco wanted. He opened his mouth.
The sensation was strange, and intimate, and it made Jem press closer to Marco, unconsciously beginning to move his hips a little against Marco’s stomach. One of Marco’s hands was on Jem’s cheek, directing him where to angle his head, and the other ran over Jem’s back, down his hump. The sensation of Marco touching that most maligned and hated part of his body sent a powerful wave of longing through Jem, the mad wish that this would never end. He felt enclosed, cradled between the sturdy back of the chair behind him and the sturdy body in front of him, and he had never felt safer in his life. He dimly heard a clatter, and realised that Marco must have dislodged his crutches from their resting place. He didn’t care.
The hand on his cheek moved, but Jem barely noticed until a moment later there was space between their lower bodies. Marco had shuffled back a little, although his mouth was still on Jem’s. Jem pulled away, ready to protest, when Marco laid a hand firmly over his manhood, which stilled Jem completely. For a moment he did nothing, not even breathe.
“May I?” Marco said, and Jem nodded wordlessly.
“You may do anything,” he managed to say a moment later, voice cracking, which made Marco’s smile shrink a little, into something smaller and sweeter.
Marco did nothing at first, just left his hand resting there and craned up to meet Jem’s lips again. “It’s just as I thought it would be, last night,” he murmured just before their lips met, and Jem couldn’t help surging forward to close the last inch. The kiss was fiercer, and Jem was emboldened enough to become the aggressor, plundering Marco’s mouth as he felt Marco’s hand begin to rub up and down the length of him, too gently to be of any use. He heard himself make a frustrated sound and felt himself tug again at Marco’s hair and wondered at his own loss of reticence. He couldn’t bring himself to feel much shame when Marco leaned away again, looking at him with amusement.
“Are you going to… to do anything useful?” he said boldly.
Marco laughed softly. “Of course,” he said, also bold, and he slipped loose the top button of Jem’s trousers between one breath and the next. Jem’s stomach muscles quivered. Marco looked up at him and smiled, and then undid the second and third buttons. He pulled at the trousers, and Jem lifted his hips enough for Marco to get them down to around his thighs.
Jem’s emissions had already dampened the soft cotton of his underwear, and now, with Marco looking at him so closely he felt their rate increase. He did not think he was far from the edge. “Marco,” he said, stumbling over his own tongue. “Marco, I…” He was not sure what to say, not sure whether Marco needed to or should know how very much the mere weight of his gaze affected Jem.
Marco looked at him, holding his eyes. “I want to do something,” he said solemnly. “I am afraid you will find it very shocking.”
Jem laughed weakly. “This is all very shocking, Marco,” he said, “and we have managed so far.” He persuaded his fingers to uncurl and extricate themselves from their grip on Marco’s curly locks. He gripped the arms of the chair instead.
Marco nodded, a determined set in his jaw that Jem recognised. The next Jem knew, Marco had bent his head and Jem was staring at the thick black hair as he felt Marco’s mouth - Marco’s mouth! - touching his manhood through his underwear. It was barely a whisper of moisture and heat at first, and then Marco seemed to become emboldened by Jem’s lack of protest. Jem could not have protested even had he wanted to: his mind was overwhelmed with too much new and unlooked-for sensation. Marco mouthed at the line of it, and every muscle in Jem’s body tensed as he suddenly spent, with a thin wordless cry.
“Oh,” he said, a moment later, still rigid and panting. “Oh, oh, oh. That is why people get so stupid over love.”
“Not just that,” Marco said. He had laid his head on Jem’s leg, and one hand was stroking up and down Jem’s calf, soothing the quivering there. “There is more to it, I think. But that is very nice. Have you never?”
“In my sleep, sometimes. And sometimes when I could not help it. But you know they always said touching yourself was unhealthy.”
Marco snorted. “England.” His hand curled gently around Jem’s ankle, inching up his trousers so that his thumb could rub over the prominent bone there. Jem shuddered, and wondered at his skin’s capacity to constantly feel, even when he felt that by rights everything in his body should have the decency to be numb for a moment or two, to let him recover.
They sat there for the space of a few minutes, Jem trying to control his breathing and Marco seemingly content to lean against his legs and touch him here and there, gentle strokes of his free hand on Jem’s cloth-covered hipbone and knee and stomach. It did not take long for Jem’s fierce sense of fairness to raise its head. “And you?” he said. “I should like to wash, and then may I…?” He shrugged, unable to finish the sentence, even as possibilities multiplied in his head.
“I have had a long night, I would also like a wash,” Marco said. He didn’t lift his head, only shuffled a little so that he could peer up at Jem a little bashfully. “Perhaps we could wash together?”
Jem’s instinctive thought was protest at the thought of being seen naked, and Marco having to help him in and out of the tub, and how strange and unnatural he would look in the cool white light of Marco’s bathroom. He envisaged his twisted, crippled body in the clear water next to - or beside or against, his brain helpfully supplied - Marco’s golden strength, and it seemed to him that even only in his mind he polluted the scene.
Marco must have read it on his face, for the hand anchored to Jem’s ankle suddenly squeezed fiercely. “I want it,” he said. “I want to look at you and touch you.”
In the face of such bare desire, Jem felt unable to say anything. He could not wholly believe it, but perhaps he could try to act as though he did, at least for a while. He nodded mutely. “Let me get decent before you call a servant. Perhaps I can cover my lap with a blanket?”
Marco’s face shone with joy as he agreed, and Jem couldn’t help the way his own heart echoed it.
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://surexit.dreamwidth.org/73208.html with
comments. Comment wherever you like.