this evening's empire, ai rpf, 3/3
this evening's empire, 3/3
part one | part two
One downside to confiding in Paula is that most of the castle has now been warned to step lightly around him, a fact he discovers with no small amount of annoyance the next morning, when he finally ventures out of his chambers.
He attempts to eat breakfast in the kitchen with the staff, who force upon him a deluge of food, as if poached eggs, starberry waffles and honey milk will somehow heal his broken heart. Everything at the palace is a delicacy, the best of the best, but it all tastes like ash in his mouth. To his disgust, he finds himself yearning for sugar-crusted scones, cinnamon toast and blueberry juice, the breakfast fare of Wyldbore, and gives up halfway through, abandoning his attempt at eating.
He wanders around the palace, uninterested in his library for maybe the first time in his life, instead heading outside for the stables. The servants flee at his presence, a small blessing, and he wanders through the stalls, reacquainting himself, greeting the horses like old friends he hasn’t seen in years.
One small brown mare catches his eye, spotted with grey spots on her flank, a quiet thing whose tag reads Athene. He slips into her stall, soothing her with a calm hand on her neck and an apple, introducing himself as men do with horses.
He gives her coat a thorough brushing, laughing as she seems to preen under his attention. She seems to have a personality of her own, snorting and shaking her head when he hits a snag in her mane with her brush, stomping her hooves when he pulls too hard, whinnying and shifting closer when he rubs behind her ears.
“Have you found a compatriot?”
Kris turns at the voice, the unexpected sight of his father causing him to nearly drop his brush. “Father.”
“You’ve been home nearly three days and you haven’t come to see me,” Neil comments, leaning against the stall on the opposite side of the door, reaching out with one hand to pat Athene on the nose fondly. “I feel a little slighted, son.”
“I’m sorry,” Kris apologizes. “I was very weary from the journey back.”
“We weren’t expecting you back so soon,” Neil says neutrally. Kris stays silent, concentrating on pulling the brush through the horse’s mane, already silky smooth. “What did you think of the festival?”
“It lived up to its reputation,” Kris says blankly.
“Well of course it did,” Neil says. “That wasn’t exactly what I asked.”
“I loved it,” Kris says quietly, swallowing thickly.
“I knew you would,” Neil replies. Kris keeps his face turned away, knowing his father is examining him. “Would you like to talk about it, Kris?”
“Not really,” Kris says quickly.
“Too bad,” Neil says cheerily. “Avoidance is unhealthy.”
Kris sighs sharply. “Father, please.”
“Would you like me to have him killed?”
Kris really does drop his brush then. “What? No!”
Neil stares at him intensely, then laughs, a little eerily. “It was a joke, son,” he says merrily. “Lighten up.”
Kris looks at him warily, turning away to start bridling the horse. “Uh huh.”
“You’re doing that all wrong. Here.” Neil opens the stall door and squeezes inside, pushing Kris aside and lifting the saddle from his hands. “Like this.”
Kris watches his father slip the saddle on Athene’s back, soothing her with soft, murmuring noises, fitting the harness over her head softly, pulling the straps tight with deft movements of his hands.
“Thank you,” he says.
“I don’t know exactly what happened,” Neil says casually, his attention on the straps of the reins. “I’m not sure if I want to know. But I know I’ve never seen you like this before. And it breaks my heart, my son.”
Kris ducks his head into the horse’s coat, afraid to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not asking for an apology,” Neil says, sounding slightly exasperated. “Kris. You took a chance, and you got burned.” He sounds sad, voice far away. “Welcome to life.”
“You’re telling me life is pain?” Kris asks bitterly. “That every time I open my heart I should expect an attack?”
“Not every time,” Neil says. “But sometimes.” He reaches out, gripping Kris’s shoulder. “Son, I can’t tell you how much it pains me to see you hurting. Really.” Kris looks away resolutely. “But I’m not sorry for pushing you into going. Because - look at me.”
Kris swallows, turning to meet his father’s gaze. “What?”
“You’ve spent years hiding in this castle,” Neil says firmly. “I’ve watched you, all this time, waiting for you to take a chance, to open yourself up to something, and have been disappointed time and time again.”
Kris frowns. “I’m sorry,” he says, exasperated.
“Stop apologizing,” Neil says. “I know why you did it. I do.” Kris winces, looking down. “There’s no shame in pain, son. And there’s no shame in loving, either.”
Kris concentrates on his breathing, staring at his feet. “But it didn’t work,” he finally says, voice thick. “I tried - I thought - and he’s not who I thought he was, I couldn’t - “
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Neil says kindly, and Kris chokes on his own words, nodding gratefully. “But promise me something, please? Don’t carry this here,” he says, touching Kris’s chest gently, “because you have such a great capacity for love, my son, and nothing would break my heart more than to see you put yours back on the shelf.”
“I don’t,” Kris insists, shaking his head. “I don’t, Father. I don’t know how.”
“You do,” Neil says, pulling him into a hug. Kris sags in his grip. “Maybe it doesn’t work out this time,” he says softly, “but it might next time. Or the time after that. And if you listen to nothing else I tell you for the rest of my years, listen to me now - giving up is the worst thing you can do.”
“I know,” Kris mumbles.
“Do you?” Neil asks, sighing. “I just want you to be happy, son.”
Kris pulls away, wiping stubbornly at his cheek. “Me too,” he says. “Easier said than done.”
“A profoundly true statement.” Neil straightens up, transforming from Kris’s gentle father back into King Neil Allen with a simple movement. “Well. Are you up for a ride, Kristopher? We can go down and visit the South Bridge, I’ve been told the renovations are almost complete.”
“If you don’t mind,” Kris says quietly, rubbing at Athene’s flank, “I’d like to ride alone.”
“Of course.” Neil reaches out and grips Kris’s shoulder one last time, turning and exiting the stall door, carefully stepping around Athene. “Come eat dinner with us tonight, won’t you? Your mother’s been worried.”
Kris nods his assent and Neil departs, leaving Kris alone with his thoughts. And Athene.
“Keep my heart open, he says,” Kris murmurs, carefully fitting his foot in the stirrup, lifting himself into the saddle in one quick, albeit slightly awkward movement. “A taller order than he thinks.”
--
It takes a few weeks of some solid moping before his mother gets involved, intercepting Kris on his way back in from a ride with Athene, wrinkling her delicate nose at the state of his clothing.
“Kristopher,” she says, “do not even think about walking inside in those boots, the servants are scrubbing the floors and I’ve informed them to feel free to smack anyone who interferes.”
Kris stops short, stepping out of his filthy boots right there in the courtyard. “Better?”
Kim sniffs. “I suppose.”
“Why are we scrubbing the floors?” Kris asks, shuddering in sympathy for the servants. Not a pleasant job.
“We’re having a ball,” Kim informs him. Kris rolls his eyes. “For you.”
“What?”
“Really? I thought I’d told you already,” the queen says, faking nonchalance. “Oh, well. Yes. In your honor.”
“In honor of my what, exactly?” Kris says incredulously.
“Of just you, generally,” Kim says, shrugging. “You know, your overall strength, valor, sensitivity, kindness, and all those other wonderful qualities you have, my son.” She smiles, taking his arm. “It’ll be wonderful.”
“I don’t want a ball, Mother,” Kris says sourly. “I hate balls. You know I hate balls.” Kim giggles. “Oh honestly, you’re worse than Daniel.”
“Sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. “I just thought it would cheer you up, Kristopher. You’ve been so sad.” She turns the full power of her stricken expression on him, clutching at his arm in a motherly grip of evil. “I just want to cheer you up. Won’t you give it a chance?”
Kris groans. “Fine,” he says, shaking out of her hold grumpily. “I’m going back out to ride some more.”
Kim smiles sunnily. “Wonderful, all right. Don’t forget your boots!”
From then on, Kris is inundated with a thousand inane tasks relating to “his” ball, choosing between color swatches that look exactly the same, decisions on food he does not care about, wine and invitations and decorations and he never wants to do this, ever again. If this is what Brad and Adam had dealt with in planning the festival, he wants no part of it. Then he curses himself of thinking of the festival, or Adam, or Frijola in general at all, and turns back to the tasks with renewed vigor that lasts a grand total of ten minutes.
He’s buried in piles of blank invitations one morning when Paula pokes her head in, announcing that he has a visitor, in the tone of voice that signals Kris that she disapproves. Anyone Paula disapproves of is bound to be more fun than choosing between invitation designs, so he scoots back gratefully. “Send them in.”
He nearly freezes in place a second later when Bradley Bell bounces inside, his hair now a normal-looking shade of brown, but dressed head to toe in bright yellow. “Your majesty,” he says grandly, doing his awkward/endearing bow/pirouette combination, eliciting a small snort from Paula. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Kris says, barely managing to recover. “It’s good to see you, Brad, have a seat.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Brad says, sinking down into Kris’s vacated chair and smiling in delight at the invitation samples. “Ooh, these are lovely!”
“Something to drink?” Kris offers, and Brad shakes his head, absorbed in the invitations. Kris waves his hand at Paula, twice when she only glares at him. When she finally flounces out of the room, Kris takes the seat across the table, unable to stop himself from smiling as Brad pours over the designs, making little excited noises at each new one he uncovers. “Do you like them?”
“Like them?” Brad says. “These are all amazing! So original! Who designed them?”
“Someone here at the palace,” Kris says, shrugging. “I don’t remember the name.”
“Well if you don’t mind I will be kidnapping them on my way back to Frijola,” Brad says. “Are these for your ball?”
Kris starts slightly. “How do you…” trailing off. No point. “Yes. I’m supposed to choose between them.”
“What a delightful task,” Brad comments.
“You’re welcome to it,” Kris says. “They all look somewhat the same to me.”
Brad shoots him a scandalized look. “Blasphemy, Prince. You’re so lucky I’m here, don’t worry. I’ll choose the best,” he says, shuffling through the piles, sorting them into separate stacks in an order indiscernible to Kris.
“Not that I’m not glad to see you,” Kris comments lightly, leaning backward in his chair, content to watch him work. “But what brings you to Central City?”
“I was visiting friends in Clippington, down the road,” Brad says idly, distracted. “Plus,” he says, looking up, slightly stern. “You didn’t say goodbye.”
Kris flushes. “No,” he manages. “I didn’t. I apologize.”
“It’s okay,” Brad says, instantly snapping back to cheery. “I don’t blame you. The Duke certainly ran you off quick enough.”
Kris jolts in surprise. “You - “
“Oh, I am so angry with him,” Brad says fiercely, cutting Kris off. “When I found out why you’d left, I mean. Mind you, it took about three bottles of wine and a neck massage to get him to open up about it, the blubbering fool. I refused to speak to him for a whole hour.” Brad looks at him proudly. “In honor of you, majesty, of course.”
Kris swallows thickly, unable to deny the warmth he feels at Brad’s indignation. “I’d rather thought you’d have taken his side.”
“Side?” Brad repeats. “What sides? This isn’t a war, Prince.” Brad shakes his head. “Well, on second thought…”
“I just meant - I left rather quickly, and without explanation. I thought you’d assume I was overreacting, or - or something.”
“There is no such thing as overreacting,” Brad says wisely. “You feel what you feel, it’s as simple as that.”
Kris smiles. “Thank you,” he says genuinely.
Brad waves it away nonchalantly. “I wanted to apologize to you, actually,” he says. “I didn’t know about his silly proposal game, if I did I’d have told you. Or nagged Adam until he told you himself, rather.” Brad shrugs, looking down at the table steadily. “I feel very badly, highness.”
“Don’t,” Kris insists. “Really, it’s not your fault.”
Brad brightens slightly. “And I want you to know that I’m not here on Adam’s behalf, to plead his case,” he says intently. “In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“Okay,” Kris says.
“And on that note, let me plead Adam’s case,” Brad says cheerily. “Kris - can I call you Kris?”
Kris swallows, bracing himself. “Of course,” he says warily.
“Kris,” Brad says, setting the invitations aside. “What he did was stupid and hurtful, and foolish and juvenile and stupid and immature and stupid - “
“Believe me, I get the point,” Kris interrupts.
Brad smiles innocently. “But let me tell you a story about Adam,” he says smoothly. “I’ve known him forever. Since we were boys, even. I even fancied that I was in love with him myself once, though that didn’t last long. But I remember one time, we were - oh, eighteen or so, maybe - and he met a boy from the village. He was just beginning to start taking over his father’s duties of running Frijola, and he was incredibly stressed you know, worried about letting everyone down, wanting to do a good job,” Brad waves his hand, making an et cetera gesture, leaning in farther, one elbow on the table. “So it was a very tense time, and this boy - his name was Wolf, or his nickname, anyway - who names their child Wolf, honestly? - I’m digressing, anyway. Adam spent all his free time with him. I thought they were going to get married or something, they became that close. And then, out of nowhere, Adam broke things off with him.” Brad snaps his fingers. “Like that. Wolf was despondent, the poor boy, and Adam seemed - nonchalant. Like what had happened was nothing. He was laughing and joking the next day.” Brad shakes his head. “Wolf moved away from Frijola soon after - I’ve never forgotten that.”
Kris winces, rather violently. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks.
“Because I want you to understand something,” Brad says seriously. “Adam can be cruel. He plays games, not because he has to, but because he likes them. It’s how he blows off steam. If he didn’t love Frijola so much, and didn’t have near the amount of disdain for the nobility as he does, he’d be a master at your father’s court. The king of the pack.” He shakes his head wryly. “He’s cut from the same cloth as many of those nobles you disdain, make no mistake about that.”
Kris clenches his jaw tightly. “Okay?” he says. “I had gathered that much when I found his letters.”
“I know. But that’s not the whole picture,” Brad continues. “Do you honestly think that if that’s all there was to him, he’d be half the leader that he is?”
Kris looks away. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t. But that doesn’t change where I stand with him.”
“Where you stand with him,” Brad repeats thoughtfully, then shakes his head. “Look, majesty, I’m the last person who will indulge you with tales and tales of Adam’s generosity and strength of spirit and honor and blah blah blah,” Brad says, rolling his eyes. “I know him far too well for that, and I respect you far too much to assume that you haven’t already noticed all those things. You know he’s a good man, and I think you also know that he never really meant to hurt you.” Brad pauses slightly. “I think you also know that he’s been despondent the last few weeks, since you left. He barely leaves his room.”
Kris fidgets with a stray invitation, blinking rapidly. “I think I did,” he says hoarsely. “Or I do. I do know all that.”
Brad nods approvingly. “What I came to tell you,” he says, “is that I’ve never seen Adam happier than those days when you were at Wyldbore,” he says softly. “And though I haven’t known you nearly as long as I’ve known Adam, I saw happiness in you as well. And judging at how you look now,” Brad shoots him a critical look, “I’m guessing you’ve been in a similar state as he since you departed.”
Kris grins wryly. “I’ve been driving the entire palace insane,” he confides.
Brad rolls his eyes. “Well whatever you’ve done, I can promise it’s not nearly as dramatic as what Adam’s been putting us through.” He huffs. “Anyway. I ask you this, then - you are miserable. Adam is miserable. Through all this misery, shared and separate, isn’t there some sort of pathway back to that happiness?” Brad grins hopefully. “I liked the happy place much better. It was a lot more fun. Less mopey, and not nearly as much whining.”
Kris sighs. “I don’t know, Brad.”
“I’m not saying you should forgive him right away,” Brad says quickly. “Whether he meant it or not, he hurt you, and you have every right to deal with that in whatever method you find suitable.”
“You speak as if it’s a given that he actually cares for me,” Kris says, holding up a hand to quell Brad’s protest. “Yes, okay, he cares for me. But - I can’t trust that he cares enough, or in the right way. I don’t know. You said yourself he’s a good man, and I believe that, but - I can’t be with someone that I’m constantly afraid will pull the rug out from beneath me. And those letters - “ Kris takes a deep breath. “Certainly did that.”
Brad looks a bit sad. “I can’t tell you what to do,” he says. “That’s a decision you have to make all by yourself, majesty.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Kris says honestly. “It scares the hell out of me.”
“Faith is a scary thing,” Brad says agreeably. “But when faith is rewarded, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. And I know that from experience.” He smiles warmly, kindly.
Kris stays silent for a few moments, head spinning slightly. “Thank you,” he finally says, intently.
“Of course.” Reaching into a pile, seemingly at random, Brad pulls out a invitation, handing it over to Kris with a smile. “This is the one.”
“Did you even look at them all?” Kris asks, bemused.
“Yes,” Brad insists. “But I’d decided straight away, about two seconds after sitting down.” He shoots Kris a sly look. “I was just stalling for time so I could give you my big epic speech.”
Kris laughs. “I appreciate it.”
Brad jumps up to kiss Kris’s cheek, giving him a surprise-attack side hug, squeezing quickly then darting away again. “You’re ever so welcome majesty,” he exclaims, bouncing away to explore the room curiously. “Now comes the part where I invite myself for dinner, on the desperate hope that a royal such as yourself is polite enough to offer a poor traveler sustenance before his long trek back to the homeland.” He turns around, smiling hopefully. “Yes?”
Kris shakes his head, smiling wider than he has since his hasty escape from Wyldbore. “What kind of royal would I be to turn away a dashing advisor such as yourself?” he says, grinning.
“Not a good one,” Brad says, eyes wide, and Kris laughs again.
--
After an unfortunate incident involving a high-strung dressmaker, a glass of red wine, and a white gown, Kris is - finally - released from ball-decision-making duties. However, this leads to the unfortunate side effect of having utterly nothing to do but think, which is always a regrettable situation to be in, in Kris’s opinion. Especially thinking after a conversation with Bradley Bell, which Kris has come to learn carries twice the impact of a conversation with any other person.
It’s a product of this thinking that he does - most of it done riding with Athene, exploring the lands with an intensity Kris has never experienced before - that he makes the decision to issue a proclamation, something he hasn’t done since he was eighteen years old and still hurt from his experience with Ryan.
“You want to what?” Paula asks, tone halfway between gleeful and suspicious, something that only Paula alone could ever pull off.
“I want to accept suitors at the ball,” Kris says calmly, inwardly laughing at the look on her face. “Come now Paula, it’s what you’ve been trying to convince me to do for years, don’t look so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked, highness,” Paula says unconvincingly, “just - mildly surprised. Mildly.”
“Of course,” Kris agrees mildly.
“May I - “
“I’m not marrying Lady Katherine,” Kris says firmly, cutting her off. “No matter how many times you tell me she would be okay with pretending, I know she wouldn’t, not really. I’m not going to do that to her.” Paula nods meekly. “And that goes for anyone else, too - I’m not looking for a marriage, I’m looking for a companion. Make sure that goes in.”
Paula nods quickly, jotting down notes on a stray bit of parchment. “And you want this to go out - “
“As soon as possible,” Kris says. “Before the ball.”
“Before the - “ Paula gulps. “Yes, majesty.”
Kris smiles at her innocently. “Thank you, Paula,” he says. She shoots him a withering look, dashing off and muttering beneath her breath. Kris grins to himself. “Your move, Adam,” he mutters, turning away to eke away at the intimidating pile of correspondence.
The proclamation goes out, as ordered, before the ball - a full week before, in fact. His parents react in the regal, nonplussed way that they react to everything - Neil raises an eyebrow at him over the dinner table one evening, and his mother calmly asks him if he’d like it to be sent to the neighboring kingdoms.
“You know, Mother,” Kris tells her patiently, “I think that sending it out to the eighty-one jurisdictions in this kingdom will be sufficient. But that’s just a feeling I have.”
Queen Kim shrugs. “Well,” she says, “I’m just saying, you never know. The more you expand your pool of candidates, the more likely you are to find what you’re looking for.”
“I already know what I’m looking for,” Kris tells her, and then refuses to elaborate.
By the time the evening of the ball approaches, Kris is surprisingly calm, allowing his mother’s dressmaker (suspicious of Kris and incredibly wary of liquids) to dress him as he likes, watching from his chamber window as carriage after carriage pulls up to the courtyard, nobles from every corner of the kingdom emerging from the tiny black boxes, dressed to the nines and beyond.
“I’m impressed at your composure, majesty,” the dressmaker says timidly. “I once dressed the Princess of Frell before a ball in her honor. She nearly fainted, six times.”
“I’ve done all the fretting I can already,” Kris informs him wryly, adjusting his wrist-cuffs serenely.
He isn’t set to make an appearance in the ballroom until after all the guests have arrived, so he seeks refuge in the kitchens, snatching hors d’oeuvres from the trays of passing servants and chatting with the maids. One of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting comes to retrieve him at one point, and he is announced with an unnecessary - in his opinion - amount of pomp and fanfare. He barely manages to keep himself from blushing as he makes his way to the start of the receiving line.
It’s only when he begins to greet his guests - and would-be suitors - that he begins to regret his proclamation. Most of them are the unpleasant nobles that had driven Kris to refuse the idea of marriage in the first place. Most of them are either older than the west wing of the palace (a suitable measuring stick, Kris has always found) and therefore, weird, or younger than Kris himself, which is, Kris thinks, weirder.
He has to stop himself from searching the crowd for Adam every two minutes after his neck starts to ache from craning it so much - and also because of the odd looks from his guests. With each person he greets and bears conversation with grimly, his hope falls slightly deeper. At one point, a servant brings him a drink to soothe his parched throat and he makes a face at the dry white wine, bland and flavorless. Even the hors d’oeuvres lose their vitality after a bit, and Kris munches on them, hiding his wince, gritty and tasteless between his teeth.
Finally, the line thins out, until there are but a few people left. He has just bid a happy evening to Lady Caldwell when Kris spots him, leaning against a pillar, staring him down intensely.
“Your majesty,” Adam greets, whooshing up dramatically, unapologetically cutting in front of a nobleman Kris doesn’t recognize. “May we speak in private?”
“Hmm,” Kris says, pretending to consider. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, okay,” Adam says, voice forcefully cheerful. “Let’s discuss this here, then. Loudly.”
Kris rolls his eyes, gesturing to the balcony. “I’ll meet you there when I’m done with the receiving line.” Adam stares at him skeptically. “I will! I promise.”
“If you don’t, I will make a scene,” Adam threatens, and sweeps away, snatching a glass of wine from a startled waiter. Kris sighs, turning back determinedly to the offended nobleman, resisting the urge to trail after Adam.
There is one nobleman, then another, then a woman who spends ten minutes trying to coerce Kris into a dance, and by the time Kris finally pulls himself away he’s expecting Adam to be in a temper, pacing the balcony in frustration. But when he steps through the curtain separating it from the ballroom, Adam is hunched over the railing rather despondently, wineglass dangling precariously from one hand.
“Adam?”
Adam shudders slightly, turning and gulping down the rest of his wine. He grimaces. “This is terrible,” he says.
Kris nods in agreement. “But a delicacy.”
Adam rolls his eyes, letting the hand with the glass fall to his side listlessly. “I guess I should start with an apology,” he says, and holds up his free hand to stall Kris’s response. “Not for - that. For not attempting to contact you, these past few weeks. I’ve found myself - out of sorts. I should’ve - written.”
Kris digests this. “I didn’t expect you to,” he says.
“I know.” Adam winces. “That’s the worst part.”
“Adam,” Kris says, taking a hesitant step forward. “I wanted to - explain. About the proclamation.”
“Oh?” Adam stiffens. “You mean the one where you threw yourself head first onto the marriage market?”
“Yes,” Kris says slowly.
“If you meant to hurt me,” Adam says, seemingly nonchalant, “congratulations.” He smiles bitterly. “You hold the record, there.”
Kris flinches at his own words, thrown back in his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, then pauses. “Well, maybe I did. A little.” Adam scoffs. “But that wasn’t my main intention.”
“Then what was it?” Adam asks, exasperated. “You know, every time I’ve gotten a handle on you, you turn around and do something infuriatingly unexpected. It’s maddening.” He turns and in a sudden burst of fury, hurls the wineglass angrily. It shatters on the stone of the balcony floor, causing Kris to take a surprised step backwards.
“Adam,” Kris blurts, alarmed.
“Are you scared, my prince?” Adam asks. “Better go get one of those dashing noblemen inside to protect you, then.”
“Adam, stop this,” Kris says sternly.
Adam huffs, breath creating a sharp cloud of mist in the cool air. Turning away, he visibly collects himself, gripping the railing with white knuckles. “I apologize,” he says, after a moment. “That was out of line.”
Kris sighs. “Adam,” he says, moving to stand beside him, looking up at Adam’s frozen face. He looks a million miles away. “I didn’t make that proclamation - or agree to this ball, for that matter - to find a spouse.”
Adam blinks. “Then why did you?” he says, markedly calmer than before.
“Why do you think?”
Adam turns to look at him, irritated. “Kris.”
“You idiot,” Kris says, exasperated himself. “I’m sending you a very clear message here. Please pull your head out of the sand and pay attention.”
“And you say I’m the one who plays games?” Adam bites out. “Stop this foolishness and just talk to me, Kris, this is ridiculous.”
“Am I expected to spell it out for you like you are a child?” Kris asks angrily. “Fight for me, Adam.”
Adam blinks at him, stunned. “What?”
Kris throws his hands up. “Come find me when you figure it out,” he spits, turning on his heel and storming back into the ballroom. He nearly runs over a startled young lady in the process and he retreats to his throne, dodging the dance floor and the crowd of expectant nobles waiting to pounce on him at the first opportunity.
He stews for a while, trying not to stare too obviously at the balcony where Adam is obviously still sequestered, ignoring the looks sent his way by his parents. He’s finally propelled out of his chair by an insistent Paula, hissing in his ear about manners and decorum and appearances, and is shoved into the arms of a random dance partner, who pulls him out onto the floor for an awkwardly stiff waltz.
Kris is then subjected to a line of eager nobles waiting for a dance, each one blending together into a line of overly made up faces. Kris’s toes are sore after the first fifteen minutes - after that, it gets really difficult.
He’s in the arms of Lord Braden - whose breath stinks oddly of basil, and who also is even older than Kris had originally thought - when he becomes aware of an odd murmuring among the crowd. As Braden swoops him into a quick turn, Kris stops abruptly, nearly sending them both tripping to the ground.
It’s Adam, which honestly Kris had been expecting since the moment he’d first heard the shocked mutterings around him, but what he didn’t expect, is Adam standing on top of a statue. A big statue. Of Kris’s great-grandfather. The statue is one of the biggest in the palace, and Adam’s head nearly touches the ceiling.
“Your majesty,” Adam booms, and Kris winces. Does he take that voice amplifier everywhere? “I have an announcement to make.”
“Why, of all the - “ Lord Braden begins, and Kris steps back quickly.
“My apologies,” he says quickly, darting away before Braden can stop him. Moving as close to the statue as he can get, glaring as hard as he can. “Adam,” he hisses, trying to reach a happy medium between ‘loud enough so Adam can hear him’ and ‘loud enough that the entire ballroom can hear him.’ “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Fighting for you,” Adam says, with a beaming smile. Clearing his throat, he looks up at the crowd, staring up at him with a mixture of shock, disdain and amusement. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, voice booming through the large room, echoing off the tall rafters. The band stops playing abruptly, the music falling away. “I would like to inform you all that I, Duke Adam Lambert of Frijola, son of Lord Eber Lambert the fifth, am hopelessly in love with Prince Kristopher Allen the fourth - “
Kris blinks. “The third,” he calls.
“ - the third, thank you darling - and am hereby proposing marriage to him on the grounds that I will spend the rest of my life attempting to make up to him the heinous mistake I made in betraying his trust.” Adam looks down and connects eyes with Kris. “I will cherish and protect him above all others, and even though I am, admittedly, a gigantic bastard,” gasps erupt in the crowd at the language, and Kris detects a faint smirk on Adam’s face, “I hope that he will accept me as the bastard I am, and marry me anyway.” He finishes with a flourish, bowing awkwardly while simultaneously holding onto Kris’s ancestor’s scepter, feet balanced precariously on the great, marble shoulder.
Kris has so many possible responses bubbling up in his mind, it’s hard to choose just one. “How did you get up there?” he blurts, which, admittedly, is perhaps not the ideal one to go with.
Adam blinks. “I climbed up,” he says blankly.
Kris frowns up at him. “Well come down!”
“No,” Adam says decisively. “I, Duke Adam Lambert - “
“Oh, for the love of God,” Kris interrupts.
“ - will not come down until the prince agrees to marry me.” Adam shoots a triumphant look down at Kris, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “So there.”
“I am not going to have this conversation with you while you’re sitting on top of a blasted statue, Adam,” Kris calls angrily. “Let alone in front of half my father’s court, which, thank you so much by the way - “
“I thought it would be more effective this way,” Adam says.
“You are such a - “
“What’s going on here?” Kris breaks off at the sight of his father, sweeping into the ballroom, no doubt from the kitchen where he’d probably been doing the same exact thing Kris had been doing earlier. To his credit, Adam only pales slightly at the sight of the king, gripping the marble scepter tightly.
“I, Duke Adam Lambert of Frijola, son of - “
“Do not do that again,” Kris yells sternly, and Adam breaks off with a pout.
The king raises an eyebrow, glancing at the feverishly whispering crowd, Kris, and Adam in even succession. “Kristopher,” he says calmly, “why is there a Duke standing on my grandfather?”
Kris sighs. “He’s a bastard.”
“True,” Neil comments, glancing up at Adam warily. “That doesn’t clear anything up for me, I’m afraid.”
“Your royal highness,” Adam says grandly, attempting to bow again and only managing to slip slightly, giving Kris a minor heart attack and the crowd to erupt into surprised yells and calls of alarm and outrage. “Sorry. Fine, fine, I’m fine!” He nods to the crowd, grinning, and Kris rolls his eyes. “King Allen,” he says, his solemnity somewhat contradicted by the booming volume of his voice. “I want to apologize sincerely for the hurt I’ve caused your son. I am truly unworthy of a man such as Kristopher, and I want you to know that I know that.” He pauses. “But I’m also not coming down until he agrees to marry me, in spite of that, so…please don’t arrest me?”
Neil sighs. “You started out strongly,” he calls up to Adam, “and then tapered off at the end. You should work on that.”
Adam blinks. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
Neil turns to Kris. “You deal with this,” he says, leaning in and clasping Kris on the shoulder. “Remember - heart and eyes open, son.”
Kris nods, catching a glimpse of a wicked smile on his father’s face before his expression smoothes out once more. “Yes, Father.”
“I disapprove of this,” Neil says loudly. “So I will be in the kitchens.” He turns on his heel and departs the way he came, holding his head regally high.
Adam watches him go, a somewhat awestruck look on his face. “A truly superior leader,” he says. The crowd erupts in whispers again.
Kris pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming. “Adam please,” he calls, “just come down so we can talk about this like normal human beings.”
“No!” Adam says grandly, readjusting his grip on the scepter again. “I will only come down when you accept my proposal, and not a second before that.”
“I’m not going to just - marry you, just like that!”
“Why not?” Adam demands. “Would like a list of why you should marry me? Because I have one - “
“No,” Kris says, aghast.
“No, no, it’s very good,” Adam assures him. “Numbers one through five are all about all we have in common, then there’s some stuff about how much you love Frijola, and how everyone in Frijola loves you, and then there’s the sex - well, numbers ten through, perhaps, fifteen or sixteen are all about the sex - “
“Stop talking right now,” Kris says sternly, face burning. Behind him, he can practically feel the crowd boiling with indignation and delighted, malicious glee.
“Kris,” Adam says, frowning down at him determinedly, “I am sorry.” He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, and also for Kris to meet his eyes once again. “I do foolish things. I do hurtful things. And I will continue to do foolish, hurtful things. The truth is - I did lie to you, a lot. Or I let you think that I was - was better than I am. Because - because I wanted you to think I was noble, and good, and wonderful, and perfect for you. I wanted to be someone worthy of - not a prince, but of you. You, who is honest and pure and good, and everything I’ve always wanted but never been able to have.” Adam looks stricken. “I’m not that man, though. I’m not perfect - not anywhere close to it - but I want to try and be.”
Kris finds himself oddly breathless, clutching at his own elbows with tight fists. “I can’t - “ he says, forcing the words through his choked throat. “I don’t want you to be perfect,” he says. “I just want you to be honest.”
“I will be,” Adam insists. “Kris, I will. From this moment on, I will always be honest with you, about everything. About who I am, my past - everything. I swear.” Adam swallows, straightening up slightly. “And I can’t promise that - that you won’t get hurt again. I wish I could.” He looks down at Kris earnestly, his free hand on his breast, hair in disarray around his face, rings winking at Kris mischievously. “But a marriage between us would be a marriage between partners. I will try my hardest, with the sincere hope that you will do the same.” He quirks a hopeful smile that hits Kris straight in the gut. “If you’ll have me.”
Kris blinks, the whispers of the crowd falling away. “Okay,” he says softly, almost to himself.
Adam leans forward. “What?” he says loudly, voice cutting sharply through the room and causing a few of the nearest gawkers to step back sharply, hands on their ears. “Sorry, sorry. What’d you say?”
“I said okay, you bastard,” Kris says, laughing. “Get down here before you kill yourself.”
Adam breaks out into a wide smile. “Okay? We’re getting married?”
“Apparently,” Kris says, throwing up his hands.
Adam whoops, swinging around to the back of the statue’s neck. “I’ll be right there,” he calls. “Do not move a muscle!” He climbs down far too quickly for Kris’s liking, and when he disappears from view, a loud crash echoes through the ballroom, and Adam’s still-amplified voice lets out a stream of curses that sends the crowd into a scandalized stupor.
“Adam?” Kris calls. “Adam?”
“I’m all right,” Adam’s voice calls out, sounding anything but.
Kris sighs in utter exasperation, darting across the dance floor and behind the statue where Adam is lying, his heart stuttering in its beat at the sight of the blood smeared across his forehead. “What in the hell have you done to yourself?” Kris asks angrily, darting to Adam’s side and keeping him from sitting up with a push of his hand. “Don’t move, you idiot.”
“Okay, okay,” Adam says, and Kris winces as his voice nearly breaks his eardrums.
“Turn your amplifier off,” Kris says sourly, and Adam smiles sheepishly, reaching up to his collar and turning the tiny contraption off.
“Handy little thing,” he says hoarsely.
“You couldn’t have picked something a little shorter for your last stand?” Kris mutters, waving at a servant, who scurries off, hopefully in search of a doctor. “For Christ’s sake, Adam. You’re bleeding.” He reaches up and touches Adam’s forehead gently, wiping the blood away from his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve.
“I’m fine!” Adam says insistently, blinking rapidly. “It was a tiny little fall, barely a few feet.” Kris stares down at him, unimpressed. “Are you going to be this overprotective about everything?”
“Yes,” Kris informs him shortly.
A doctor is called, who examines a squirming, complaining Adam, bandaging what turns out to be a rather shallow cut on his forehead.
“It’s not a concussion,” the doctor informs Kris, much to the pique of Adam.
“You’re telling him, not me?” he squawks. “We’re not married yet.” Kris shoots him a look which silences him instantly.
“A few hours’ rest and he should be fine,” the doctor says, shooting a wary glance at Adam. “Sooner rather than later would be preferable. It shouldn’t be too hard for him to sleep.” The doctor leans into Kris conspiratorially. “He’s a bit drunk, I think.”
“No, really?” drawls Kris.
“Are you done talking about me as if I’m not here?” Adam says sourly, waving away a servant attempting to clean the blood off his face irritatedly.
Kris regards him, unimpressed. “You’re going to rest now,” he tells him, glaring sternly when Adam’s mouth opens to protest. “No! No arguing! I am your sovereign, I can have you hanged.”
Adam huffs. “But you won’t,” he says.
“But I can,” Kris says. “This nice doctor,” he says, gesturing to the man, who balks slightly, “will escort you to my chambers, and you will go to sleep. That is the end of it.”
“And if I don’t?” Adam says, crossing his arms.
“Then I will not join you later,” Kris says.
Adam blinks, turning to the doctor. “Well, man, let’s get a move on, for God’s sake,” he says swiftly, turning to regard Kris through narrowed eyes. “I will see you later,” he promises - threatens - and Kris barely manages to control his shiver. Also, his breath of relief as Adam disappears in the direction of his bedchamber.
When he emerges from behind the grand statue, most of the crowd has returned to the business of the ball - their thin veneer of nonchalance nothing more than an act, as revealed by the blatant stares and whispers as Kris makes his way to the front of the ballroom, where his mother is sitting on her throne serenely.
“Were you here the whole time?” Kris asks, kneeling at his mother’s side.
“Most of it,” Queen Kim says. “So you’re engaged?”
Kris sighs mournfully. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” she replies briskly. “He seems like a nice boy.” Kris looks up at her incredulously. “Well, aside from most aspects of his personality.”
“Mother,” Kris says, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Oh, I know,” Kim replies, reaching out cupping Kris’s cheek fondly. “And I’m so glad, Kristopher.”
--
Kris doesn’t make it to his chambers until hours later - mostly because of the tedious business of cleaning up after Adam’s horrific scene (and Kris vows to himself many times while soothing the nerves of this and that nobleperson that he will enact revenge on Adam for causing such a ruckus and then skipping out on the clean up - with a head injury, but still, it was rude) and also, a little bit, to make sure that Adam is most definitely asleep by the time Kris joins him.
In fact, Adam is asleep when Kris finally walks inside his room, shutting the doors tightly behind him with a grateful sigh. Sprawled out on Kris’s bed, suit askew and the large bandage above one eye, he looks rather ridiculous. One boot is off, on the floor by the bed, the other still on his foot, and his trousers are halfway undone. Kris snorts, moving further into the room, and noticing without any surprise that many of his things have been obviously rifled through. Well, he supposes Adam has the right to. Or something.
Not bothering to undress himself, Kris collapses next to him, tucking into Adam’s side and pulling the coverlet halfway up over their legs lazily. Within minutes, he’s out, the warmth of Adam’s body and the rhythm of his breath lulling him into a peaceful sleep.
He awakens, hours later, to an insistent mouth on his neck, and something even more insistent pressing against his lower back. Sighing inwardly, he stretches into the touch, keeping his eyes closed, feeling Adam’s grunt reverberating against his skin.
“Do you always take without asking?” Kris murmurs, reaching around blindly to thread his fingers through Adam’s hair.
“If one does not want to be taken,” Adam replies, “one should not get into my bed.”
“It’s my bed,” Kris corrects.
“Semantics,” Adam says, pulling at Kris insistently until he rolls in Adam’s grip, onto his back. “Hello there.”
“How’s your head?” Kris asks, then scowls. “Your big, stupid head.”
“My big, stupid head is fine,” Adam says. “You’re very feisty now. I think I like it.”
“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” Kris says. “I mean it.”
“Okay,” Adam says indulgently.
“It was very romantic, don’t misunderstand me,” Kris says, “but still. Don’t do it again.”
“My next romantic overture,” Adam says soothingly, “will be on solid ground. I promise.”
“Good,” Kris says, and pulls Adam down into a kiss.
“Mmm, hello again,” Adam mumbles, pulling away to trail his lips down Kris’s neck, flexing his fingers in the material of Kris’s trousers, sending little shockwaves of heat down his legs. “Oh, I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Kris says, gasping. “Oh I - I’m sorry I ran off, and yelled at you - “
“Don’t be,” Adam says fiercely. “Don’t be.”
Kris breaks away, laughing breathlessly. “I’m a fool,” he says. “I’m such a fool.”
Adam grins. “We’ll be fools together,” he says, and drags him back downwards.
Everything else Kris wants to say drifts away in favor of skin and heat and rhythm and oh, tongue - and he barely registers the door opening, but oh, he definitely registers the shriek.
“Your highness! Duke - I - oh Gods - “
Kris blinks, turning his head with great effort towards the door, where Paula is practically melting into the carpet.
“Oh,” Adam says, completely nonchalant despite being caught with his pants down - literally - and on top of the crown prince - also literally. “You must be Paula.”
Paula squeaks.
“Adam,” Kris groans, hiding his face. “Or - Paula. Uh - come back later, please. Okay?”
“I’m so sorry, your majesty - majesties. I mean. Um.” Paula backs up, looking everywhere but at the bed. “Jesus.”
“Quite all right,” Adam says cheerily. “Watch out for the wall, dear - er, yes, that wall.”
Paula backs away, rubbing the back of her head sourly. “I’ll - um, lock the door,” she says, and flees.
“Thank you,” Kris calls feebly after her.
“Well,” Adam says. “I think that went well.”
“Adam, shut your gob,” replies Kris, mortified.
Adam laughs.
--
the end.
Fun fact: a week ago, this fic didn't exist! *collapses*
part one | part two
One downside to confiding in Paula is that most of the castle has now been warned to step lightly around him, a fact he discovers with no small amount of annoyance the next morning, when he finally ventures out of his chambers.
He attempts to eat breakfast in the kitchen with the staff, who force upon him a deluge of food, as if poached eggs, starberry waffles and honey milk will somehow heal his broken heart. Everything at the palace is a delicacy, the best of the best, but it all tastes like ash in his mouth. To his disgust, he finds himself yearning for sugar-crusted scones, cinnamon toast and blueberry juice, the breakfast fare of Wyldbore, and gives up halfway through, abandoning his attempt at eating.
He wanders around the palace, uninterested in his library for maybe the first time in his life, instead heading outside for the stables. The servants flee at his presence, a small blessing, and he wanders through the stalls, reacquainting himself, greeting the horses like old friends he hasn’t seen in years.
One small brown mare catches his eye, spotted with grey spots on her flank, a quiet thing whose tag reads Athene. He slips into her stall, soothing her with a calm hand on her neck and an apple, introducing himself as men do with horses.
He gives her coat a thorough brushing, laughing as she seems to preen under his attention. She seems to have a personality of her own, snorting and shaking her head when he hits a snag in her mane with her brush, stomping her hooves when he pulls too hard, whinnying and shifting closer when he rubs behind her ears.
“Have you found a compatriot?”
Kris turns at the voice, the unexpected sight of his father causing him to nearly drop his brush. “Father.”
“You’ve been home nearly three days and you haven’t come to see me,” Neil comments, leaning against the stall on the opposite side of the door, reaching out with one hand to pat Athene on the nose fondly. “I feel a little slighted, son.”
“I’m sorry,” Kris apologizes. “I was very weary from the journey back.”
“We weren’t expecting you back so soon,” Neil says neutrally. Kris stays silent, concentrating on pulling the brush through the horse’s mane, already silky smooth. “What did you think of the festival?”
“It lived up to its reputation,” Kris says blankly.
“Well of course it did,” Neil says. “That wasn’t exactly what I asked.”
“I loved it,” Kris says quietly, swallowing thickly.
“I knew you would,” Neil replies. Kris keeps his face turned away, knowing his father is examining him. “Would you like to talk about it, Kris?”
“Not really,” Kris says quickly.
“Too bad,” Neil says cheerily. “Avoidance is unhealthy.”
Kris sighs sharply. “Father, please.”
“Would you like me to have him killed?”
Kris really does drop his brush then. “What? No!”
Neil stares at him intensely, then laughs, a little eerily. “It was a joke, son,” he says merrily. “Lighten up.”
Kris looks at him warily, turning away to start bridling the horse. “Uh huh.”
“You’re doing that all wrong. Here.” Neil opens the stall door and squeezes inside, pushing Kris aside and lifting the saddle from his hands. “Like this.”
Kris watches his father slip the saddle on Athene’s back, soothing her with soft, murmuring noises, fitting the harness over her head softly, pulling the straps tight with deft movements of his hands.
“Thank you,” he says.
“I don’t know exactly what happened,” Neil says casually, his attention on the straps of the reins. “I’m not sure if I want to know. But I know I’ve never seen you like this before. And it breaks my heart, my son.”
Kris ducks his head into the horse’s coat, afraid to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not asking for an apology,” Neil says, sounding slightly exasperated. “Kris. You took a chance, and you got burned.” He sounds sad, voice far away. “Welcome to life.”
“You’re telling me life is pain?” Kris asks bitterly. “That every time I open my heart I should expect an attack?”
“Not every time,” Neil says. “But sometimes.” He reaches out, gripping Kris’s shoulder. “Son, I can’t tell you how much it pains me to see you hurting. Really.” Kris looks away resolutely. “But I’m not sorry for pushing you into going. Because - look at me.”
Kris swallows, turning to meet his father’s gaze. “What?”
“You’ve spent years hiding in this castle,” Neil says firmly. “I’ve watched you, all this time, waiting for you to take a chance, to open yourself up to something, and have been disappointed time and time again.”
Kris frowns. “I’m sorry,” he says, exasperated.
“Stop apologizing,” Neil says. “I know why you did it. I do.” Kris winces, looking down. “There’s no shame in pain, son. And there’s no shame in loving, either.”
Kris concentrates on his breathing, staring at his feet. “But it didn’t work,” he finally says, voice thick. “I tried - I thought - and he’s not who I thought he was, I couldn’t - “
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Neil says kindly, and Kris chokes on his own words, nodding gratefully. “But promise me something, please? Don’t carry this here,” he says, touching Kris’s chest gently, “because you have such a great capacity for love, my son, and nothing would break my heart more than to see you put yours back on the shelf.”
“I don’t,” Kris insists, shaking his head. “I don’t, Father. I don’t know how.”
“You do,” Neil says, pulling him into a hug. Kris sags in his grip. “Maybe it doesn’t work out this time,” he says softly, “but it might next time. Or the time after that. And if you listen to nothing else I tell you for the rest of my years, listen to me now - giving up is the worst thing you can do.”
“I know,” Kris mumbles.
“Do you?” Neil asks, sighing. “I just want you to be happy, son.”
Kris pulls away, wiping stubbornly at his cheek. “Me too,” he says. “Easier said than done.”
“A profoundly true statement.” Neil straightens up, transforming from Kris’s gentle father back into King Neil Allen with a simple movement. “Well. Are you up for a ride, Kristopher? We can go down and visit the South Bridge, I’ve been told the renovations are almost complete.”
“If you don’t mind,” Kris says quietly, rubbing at Athene’s flank, “I’d like to ride alone.”
“Of course.” Neil reaches out and grips Kris’s shoulder one last time, turning and exiting the stall door, carefully stepping around Athene. “Come eat dinner with us tonight, won’t you? Your mother’s been worried.”
Kris nods his assent and Neil departs, leaving Kris alone with his thoughts. And Athene.
“Keep my heart open, he says,” Kris murmurs, carefully fitting his foot in the stirrup, lifting himself into the saddle in one quick, albeit slightly awkward movement. “A taller order than he thinks.”
--
It takes a few weeks of some solid moping before his mother gets involved, intercepting Kris on his way back in from a ride with Athene, wrinkling her delicate nose at the state of his clothing.
“Kristopher,” she says, “do not even think about walking inside in those boots, the servants are scrubbing the floors and I’ve informed them to feel free to smack anyone who interferes.”
Kris stops short, stepping out of his filthy boots right there in the courtyard. “Better?”
Kim sniffs. “I suppose.”
“Why are we scrubbing the floors?” Kris asks, shuddering in sympathy for the servants. Not a pleasant job.
“We’re having a ball,” Kim informs him. Kris rolls his eyes. “For you.”
“What?”
“Really? I thought I’d told you already,” the queen says, faking nonchalance. “Oh, well. Yes. In your honor.”
“In honor of my what, exactly?” Kris says incredulously.
“Of just you, generally,” Kim says, shrugging. “You know, your overall strength, valor, sensitivity, kindness, and all those other wonderful qualities you have, my son.” She smiles, taking his arm. “It’ll be wonderful.”
“I don’t want a ball, Mother,” Kris says sourly. “I hate balls. You know I hate balls.” Kim giggles. “Oh honestly, you’re worse than Daniel.”
“Sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. “I just thought it would cheer you up, Kristopher. You’ve been so sad.” She turns the full power of her stricken expression on him, clutching at his arm in a motherly grip of evil. “I just want to cheer you up. Won’t you give it a chance?”
Kris groans. “Fine,” he says, shaking out of her hold grumpily. “I’m going back out to ride some more.”
Kim smiles sunnily. “Wonderful, all right. Don’t forget your boots!”
From then on, Kris is inundated with a thousand inane tasks relating to “his” ball, choosing between color swatches that look exactly the same, decisions on food he does not care about, wine and invitations and decorations and he never wants to do this, ever again. If this is what Brad and Adam had dealt with in planning the festival, he wants no part of it. Then he curses himself of thinking of the festival, or Adam, or Frijola in general at all, and turns back to the tasks with renewed vigor that lasts a grand total of ten minutes.
He’s buried in piles of blank invitations one morning when Paula pokes her head in, announcing that he has a visitor, in the tone of voice that signals Kris that she disapproves. Anyone Paula disapproves of is bound to be more fun than choosing between invitation designs, so he scoots back gratefully. “Send them in.”
He nearly freezes in place a second later when Bradley Bell bounces inside, his hair now a normal-looking shade of brown, but dressed head to toe in bright yellow. “Your majesty,” he says grandly, doing his awkward/endearing bow/pirouette combination, eliciting a small snort from Paula. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Kris says, barely managing to recover. “It’s good to see you, Brad, have a seat.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Brad says, sinking down into Kris’s vacated chair and smiling in delight at the invitation samples. “Ooh, these are lovely!”
“Something to drink?” Kris offers, and Brad shakes his head, absorbed in the invitations. Kris waves his hand at Paula, twice when she only glares at him. When she finally flounces out of the room, Kris takes the seat across the table, unable to stop himself from smiling as Brad pours over the designs, making little excited noises at each new one he uncovers. “Do you like them?”
“Like them?” Brad says. “These are all amazing! So original! Who designed them?”
“Someone here at the palace,” Kris says, shrugging. “I don’t remember the name.”
“Well if you don’t mind I will be kidnapping them on my way back to Frijola,” Brad says. “Are these for your ball?”
Kris starts slightly. “How do you…” trailing off. No point. “Yes. I’m supposed to choose between them.”
“What a delightful task,” Brad comments.
“You’re welcome to it,” Kris says. “They all look somewhat the same to me.”
Brad shoots him a scandalized look. “Blasphemy, Prince. You’re so lucky I’m here, don’t worry. I’ll choose the best,” he says, shuffling through the piles, sorting them into separate stacks in an order indiscernible to Kris.
“Not that I’m not glad to see you,” Kris comments lightly, leaning backward in his chair, content to watch him work. “But what brings you to Central City?”
“I was visiting friends in Clippington, down the road,” Brad says idly, distracted. “Plus,” he says, looking up, slightly stern. “You didn’t say goodbye.”
Kris flushes. “No,” he manages. “I didn’t. I apologize.”
“It’s okay,” Brad says, instantly snapping back to cheery. “I don’t blame you. The Duke certainly ran you off quick enough.”
Kris jolts in surprise. “You - “
“Oh, I am so angry with him,” Brad says fiercely, cutting Kris off. “When I found out why you’d left, I mean. Mind you, it took about three bottles of wine and a neck massage to get him to open up about it, the blubbering fool. I refused to speak to him for a whole hour.” Brad looks at him proudly. “In honor of you, majesty, of course.”
Kris swallows thickly, unable to deny the warmth he feels at Brad’s indignation. “I’d rather thought you’d have taken his side.”
“Side?” Brad repeats. “What sides? This isn’t a war, Prince.” Brad shakes his head. “Well, on second thought…”
“I just meant - I left rather quickly, and without explanation. I thought you’d assume I was overreacting, or - or something.”
“There is no such thing as overreacting,” Brad says wisely. “You feel what you feel, it’s as simple as that.”
Kris smiles. “Thank you,” he says genuinely.
Brad waves it away nonchalantly. “I wanted to apologize to you, actually,” he says. “I didn’t know about his silly proposal game, if I did I’d have told you. Or nagged Adam until he told you himself, rather.” Brad shrugs, looking down at the table steadily. “I feel very badly, highness.”
“Don’t,” Kris insists. “Really, it’s not your fault.”
Brad brightens slightly. “And I want you to know that I’m not here on Adam’s behalf, to plead his case,” he says intently. “In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“Okay,” Kris says.
“And on that note, let me plead Adam’s case,” Brad says cheerily. “Kris - can I call you Kris?”
Kris swallows, bracing himself. “Of course,” he says warily.
“Kris,” Brad says, setting the invitations aside. “What he did was stupid and hurtful, and foolish and juvenile and stupid and immature and stupid - “
“Believe me, I get the point,” Kris interrupts.
Brad smiles innocently. “But let me tell you a story about Adam,” he says smoothly. “I’ve known him forever. Since we were boys, even. I even fancied that I was in love with him myself once, though that didn’t last long. But I remember one time, we were - oh, eighteen or so, maybe - and he met a boy from the village. He was just beginning to start taking over his father’s duties of running Frijola, and he was incredibly stressed you know, worried about letting everyone down, wanting to do a good job,” Brad waves his hand, making an et cetera gesture, leaning in farther, one elbow on the table. “So it was a very tense time, and this boy - his name was Wolf, or his nickname, anyway - who names their child Wolf, honestly? - I’m digressing, anyway. Adam spent all his free time with him. I thought they were going to get married or something, they became that close. And then, out of nowhere, Adam broke things off with him.” Brad snaps his fingers. “Like that. Wolf was despondent, the poor boy, and Adam seemed - nonchalant. Like what had happened was nothing. He was laughing and joking the next day.” Brad shakes his head. “Wolf moved away from Frijola soon after - I’ve never forgotten that.”
Kris winces, rather violently. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks.
“Because I want you to understand something,” Brad says seriously. “Adam can be cruel. He plays games, not because he has to, but because he likes them. It’s how he blows off steam. If he didn’t love Frijola so much, and didn’t have near the amount of disdain for the nobility as he does, he’d be a master at your father’s court. The king of the pack.” He shakes his head wryly. “He’s cut from the same cloth as many of those nobles you disdain, make no mistake about that.”
Kris clenches his jaw tightly. “Okay?” he says. “I had gathered that much when I found his letters.”
“I know. But that’s not the whole picture,” Brad continues. “Do you honestly think that if that’s all there was to him, he’d be half the leader that he is?”
Kris looks away. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t. But that doesn’t change where I stand with him.”
“Where you stand with him,” Brad repeats thoughtfully, then shakes his head. “Look, majesty, I’m the last person who will indulge you with tales and tales of Adam’s generosity and strength of spirit and honor and blah blah blah,” Brad says, rolling his eyes. “I know him far too well for that, and I respect you far too much to assume that you haven’t already noticed all those things. You know he’s a good man, and I think you also know that he never really meant to hurt you.” Brad pauses slightly. “I think you also know that he’s been despondent the last few weeks, since you left. He barely leaves his room.”
Kris fidgets with a stray invitation, blinking rapidly. “I think I did,” he says hoarsely. “Or I do. I do know all that.”
Brad nods approvingly. “What I came to tell you,” he says, “is that I’ve never seen Adam happier than those days when you were at Wyldbore,” he says softly. “And though I haven’t known you nearly as long as I’ve known Adam, I saw happiness in you as well. And judging at how you look now,” Brad shoots him a critical look, “I’m guessing you’ve been in a similar state as he since you departed.”
Kris grins wryly. “I’ve been driving the entire palace insane,” he confides.
Brad rolls his eyes. “Well whatever you’ve done, I can promise it’s not nearly as dramatic as what Adam’s been putting us through.” He huffs. “Anyway. I ask you this, then - you are miserable. Adam is miserable. Through all this misery, shared and separate, isn’t there some sort of pathway back to that happiness?” Brad grins hopefully. “I liked the happy place much better. It was a lot more fun. Less mopey, and not nearly as much whining.”
Kris sighs. “I don’t know, Brad.”
“I’m not saying you should forgive him right away,” Brad says quickly. “Whether he meant it or not, he hurt you, and you have every right to deal with that in whatever method you find suitable.”
“You speak as if it’s a given that he actually cares for me,” Kris says, holding up a hand to quell Brad’s protest. “Yes, okay, he cares for me. But - I can’t trust that he cares enough, or in the right way. I don’t know. You said yourself he’s a good man, and I believe that, but - I can’t be with someone that I’m constantly afraid will pull the rug out from beneath me. And those letters - “ Kris takes a deep breath. “Certainly did that.”
Brad looks a bit sad. “I can’t tell you what to do,” he says. “That’s a decision you have to make all by yourself, majesty.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Kris says honestly. “It scares the hell out of me.”
“Faith is a scary thing,” Brad says agreeably. “But when faith is rewarded, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. And I know that from experience.” He smiles warmly, kindly.
Kris stays silent for a few moments, head spinning slightly. “Thank you,” he finally says, intently.
“Of course.” Reaching into a pile, seemingly at random, Brad pulls out a invitation, handing it over to Kris with a smile. “This is the one.”
“Did you even look at them all?” Kris asks, bemused.
“Yes,” Brad insists. “But I’d decided straight away, about two seconds after sitting down.” He shoots Kris a sly look. “I was just stalling for time so I could give you my big epic speech.”
Kris laughs. “I appreciate it.”
Brad jumps up to kiss Kris’s cheek, giving him a surprise-attack side hug, squeezing quickly then darting away again. “You’re ever so welcome majesty,” he exclaims, bouncing away to explore the room curiously. “Now comes the part where I invite myself for dinner, on the desperate hope that a royal such as yourself is polite enough to offer a poor traveler sustenance before his long trek back to the homeland.” He turns around, smiling hopefully. “Yes?”
Kris shakes his head, smiling wider than he has since his hasty escape from Wyldbore. “What kind of royal would I be to turn away a dashing advisor such as yourself?” he says, grinning.
“Not a good one,” Brad says, eyes wide, and Kris laughs again.
--
After an unfortunate incident involving a high-strung dressmaker, a glass of red wine, and a white gown, Kris is - finally - released from ball-decision-making duties. However, this leads to the unfortunate side effect of having utterly nothing to do but think, which is always a regrettable situation to be in, in Kris’s opinion. Especially thinking after a conversation with Bradley Bell, which Kris has come to learn carries twice the impact of a conversation with any other person.
It’s a product of this thinking that he does - most of it done riding with Athene, exploring the lands with an intensity Kris has never experienced before - that he makes the decision to issue a proclamation, something he hasn’t done since he was eighteen years old and still hurt from his experience with Ryan.
“You want to what?” Paula asks, tone halfway between gleeful and suspicious, something that only Paula alone could ever pull off.
“I want to accept suitors at the ball,” Kris says calmly, inwardly laughing at the look on her face. “Come now Paula, it’s what you’ve been trying to convince me to do for years, don’t look so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked, highness,” Paula says unconvincingly, “just - mildly surprised. Mildly.”
“Of course,” Kris agrees mildly.
“May I - “
“I’m not marrying Lady Katherine,” Kris says firmly, cutting her off. “No matter how many times you tell me she would be okay with pretending, I know she wouldn’t, not really. I’m not going to do that to her.” Paula nods meekly. “And that goes for anyone else, too - I’m not looking for a marriage, I’m looking for a companion. Make sure that goes in.”
Paula nods quickly, jotting down notes on a stray bit of parchment. “And you want this to go out - “
“As soon as possible,” Kris says. “Before the ball.”
“Before the - “ Paula gulps. “Yes, majesty.”
Kris smiles at her innocently. “Thank you, Paula,” he says. She shoots him a withering look, dashing off and muttering beneath her breath. Kris grins to himself. “Your move, Adam,” he mutters, turning away to eke away at the intimidating pile of correspondence.
The proclamation goes out, as ordered, before the ball - a full week before, in fact. His parents react in the regal, nonplussed way that they react to everything - Neil raises an eyebrow at him over the dinner table one evening, and his mother calmly asks him if he’d like it to be sent to the neighboring kingdoms.
“You know, Mother,” Kris tells her patiently, “I think that sending it out to the eighty-one jurisdictions in this kingdom will be sufficient. But that’s just a feeling I have.”
Queen Kim shrugs. “Well,” she says, “I’m just saying, you never know. The more you expand your pool of candidates, the more likely you are to find what you’re looking for.”
“I already know what I’m looking for,” Kris tells her, and then refuses to elaborate.
By the time the evening of the ball approaches, Kris is surprisingly calm, allowing his mother’s dressmaker (suspicious of Kris and incredibly wary of liquids) to dress him as he likes, watching from his chamber window as carriage after carriage pulls up to the courtyard, nobles from every corner of the kingdom emerging from the tiny black boxes, dressed to the nines and beyond.
“I’m impressed at your composure, majesty,” the dressmaker says timidly. “I once dressed the Princess of Frell before a ball in her honor. She nearly fainted, six times.”
“I’ve done all the fretting I can already,” Kris informs him wryly, adjusting his wrist-cuffs serenely.
He isn’t set to make an appearance in the ballroom until after all the guests have arrived, so he seeks refuge in the kitchens, snatching hors d’oeuvres from the trays of passing servants and chatting with the maids. One of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting comes to retrieve him at one point, and he is announced with an unnecessary - in his opinion - amount of pomp and fanfare. He barely manages to keep himself from blushing as he makes his way to the start of the receiving line.
It’s only when he begins to greet his guests - and would-be suitors - that he begins to regret his proclamation. Most of them are the unpleasant nobles that had driven Kris to refuse the idea of marriage in the first place. Most of them are either older than the west wing of the palace (a suitable measuring stick, Kris has always found) and therefore, weird, or younger than Kris himself, which is, Kris thinks, weirder.
He has to stop himself from searching the crowd for Adam every two minutes after his neck starts to ache from craning it so much - and also because of the odd looks from his guests. With each person he greets and bears conversation with grimly, his hope falls slightly deeper. At one point, a servant brings him a drink to soothe his parched throat and he makes a face at the dry white wine, bland and flavorless. Even the hors d’oeuvres lose their vitality after a bit, and Kris munches on them, hiding his wince, gritty and tasteless between his teeth.
Finally, the line thins out, until there are but a few people left. He has just bid a happy evening to Lady Caldwell when Kris spots him, leaning against a pillar, staring him down intensely.
“Your majesty,” Adam greets, whooshing up dramatically, unapologetically cutting in front of a nobleman Kris doesn’t recognize. “May we speak in private?”
“Hmm,” Kris says, pretending to consider. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, okay,” Adam says, voice forcefully cheerful. “Let’s discuss this here, then. Loudly.”
Kris rolls his eyes, gesturing to the balcony. “I’ll meet you there when I’m done with the receiving line.” Adam stares at him skeptically. “I will! I promise.”
“If you don’t, I will make a scene,” Adam threatens, and sweeps away, snatching a glass of wine from a startled waiter. Kris sighs, turning back determinedly to the offended nobleman, resisting the urge to trail after Adam.
There is one nobleman, then another, then a woman who spends ten minutes trying to coerce Kris into a dance, and by the time Kris finally pulls himself away he’s expecting Adam to be in a temper, pacing the balcony in frustration. But when he steps through the curtain separating it from the ballroom, Adam is hunched over the railing rather despondently, wineglass dangling precariously from one hand.
“Adam?”
Adam shudders slightly, turning and gulping down the rest of his wine. He grimaces. “This is terrible,” he says.
Kris nods in agreement. “But a delicacy.”
Adam rolls his eyes, letting the hand with the glass fall to his side listlessly. “I guess I should start with an apology,” he says, and holds up his free hand to stall Kris’s response. “Not for - that. For not attempting to contact you, these past few weeks. I’ve found myself - out of sorts. I should’ve - written.”
Kris digests this. “I didn’t expect you to,” he says.
“I know.” Adam winces. “That’s the worst part.”
“Adam,” Kris says, taking a hesitant step forward. “I wanted to - explain. About the proclamation.”
“Oh?” Adam stiffens. “You mean the one where you threw yourself head first onto the marriage market?”
“Yes,” Kris says slowly.
“If you meant to hurt me,” Adam says, seemingly nonchalant, “congratulations.” He smiles bitterly. “You hold the record, there.”
Kris flinches at his own words, thrown back in his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, then pauses. “Well, maybe I did. A little.” Adam scoffs. “But that wasn’t my main intention.”
“Then what was it?” Adam asks, exasperated. “You know, every time I’ve gotten a handle on you, you turn around and do something infuriatingly unexpected. It’s maddening.” He turns and in a sudden burst of fury, hurls the wineglass angrily. It shatters on the stone of the balcony floor, causing Kris to take a surprised step backwards.
“Adam,” Kris blurts, alarmed.
“Are you scared, my prince?” Adam asks. “Better go get one of those dashing noblemen inside to protect you, then.”
“Adam, stop this,” Kris says sternly.
Adam huffs, breath creating a sharp cloud of mist in the cool air. Turning away, he visibly collects himself, gripping the railing with white knuckles. “I apologize,” he says, after a moment. “That was out of line.”
Kris sighs. “Adam,” he says, moving to stand beside him, looking up at Adam’s frozen face. He looks a million miles away. “I didn’t make that proclamation - or agree to this ball, for that matter - to find a spouse.”
Adam blinks. “Then why did you?” he says, markedly calmer than before.
“Why do you think?”
Adam turns to look at him, irritated. “Kris.”
“You idiot,” Kris says, exasperated himself. “I’m sending you a very clear message here. Please pull your head out of the sand and pay attention.”
“And you say I’m the one who plays games?” Adam bites out. “Stop this foolishness and just talk to me, Kris, this is ridiculous.”
“Am I expected to spell it out for you like you are a child?” Kris asks angrily. “Fight for me, Adam.”
Adam blinks at him, stunned. “What?”
Kris throws his hands up. “Come find me when you figure it out,” he spits, turning on his heel and storming back into the ballroom. He nearly runs over a startled young lady in the process and he retreats to his throne, dodging the dance floor and the crowd of expectant nobles waiting to pounce on him at the first opportunity.
He stews for a while, trying not to stare too obviously at the balcony where Adam is obviously still sequestered, ignoring the looks sent his way by his parents. He’s finally propelled out of his chair by an insistent Paula, hissing in his ear about manners and decorum and appearances, and is shoved into the arms of a random dance partner, who pulls him out onto the floor for an awkwardly stiff waltz.
Kris is then subjected to a line of eager nobles waiting for a dance, each one blending together into a line of overly made up faces. Kris’s toes are sore after the first fifteen minutes - after that, it gets really difficult.
He’s in the arms of Lord Braden - whose breath stinks oddly of basil, and who also is even older than Kris had originally thought - when he becomes aware of an odd murmuring among the crowd. As Braden swoops him into a quick turn, Kris stops abruptly, nearly sending them both tripping to the ground.
It’s Adam, which honestly Kris had been expecting since the moment he’d first heard the shocked mutterings around him, but what he didn’t expect, is Adam standing on top of a statue. A big statue. Of Kris’s great-grandfather. The statue is one of the biggest in the palace, and Adam’s head nearly touches the ceiling.
“Your majesty,” Adam booms, and Kris winces. Does he take that voice amplifier everywhere? “I have an announcement to make.”
“Why, of all the - “ Lord Braden begins, and Kris steps back quickly.
“My apologies,” he says quickly, darting away before Braden can stop him. Moving as close to the statue as he can get, glaring as hard as he can. “Adam,” he hisses, trying to reach a happy medium between ‘loud enough so Adam can hear him’ and ‘loud enough that the entire ballroom can hear him.’ “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Fighting for you,” Adam says, with a beaming smile. Clearing his throat, he looks up at the crowd, staring up at him with a mixture of shock, disdain and amusement. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, voice booming through the large room, echoing off the tall rafters. The band stops playing abruptly, the music falling away. “I would like to inform you all that I, Duke Adam Lambert of Frijola, son of Lord Eber Lambert the fifth, am hopelessly in love with Prince Kristopher Allen the fourth - “
Kris blinks. “The third,” he calls.
“ - the third, thank you darling - and am hereby proposing marriage to him on the grounds that I will spend the rest of my life attempting to make up to him the heinous mistake I made in betraying his trust.” Adam looks down and connects eyes with Kris. “I will cherish and protect him above all others, and even though I am, admittedly, a gigantic bastard,” gasps erupt in the crowd at the language, and Kris detects a faint smirk on Adam’s face, “I hope that he will accept me as the bastard I am, and marry me anyway.” He finishes with a flourish, bowing awkwardly while simultaneously holding onto Kris’s ancestor’s scepter, feet balanced precariously on the great, marble shoulder.
Kris has so many possible responses bubbling up in his mind, it’s hard to choose just one. “How did you get up there?” he blurts, which, admittedly, is perhaps not the ideal one to go with.
Adam blinks. “I climbed up,” he says blankly.
Kris frowns up at him. “Well come down!”
“No,” Adam says decisively. “I, Duke Adam Lambert - “
“Oh, for the love of God,” Kris interrupts.
“ - will not come down until the prince agrees to marry me.” Adam shoots a triumphant look down at Kris, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “So there.”
“I am not going to have this conversation with you while you’re sitting on top of a blasted statue, Adam,” Kris calls angrily. “Let alone in front of half my father’s court, which, thank you so much by the way - “
“I thought it would be more effective this way,” Adam says.
“You are such a - “
“What’s going on here?” Kris breaks off at the sight of his father, sweeping into the ballroom, no doubt from the kitchen where he’d probably been doing the same exact thing Kris had been doing earlier. To his credit, Adam only pales slightly at the sight of the king, gripping the marble scepter tightly.
“I, Duke Adam Lambert of Frijola, son of - “
“Do not do that again,” Kris yells sternly, and Adam breaks off with a pout.
The king raises an eyebrow, glancing at the feverishly whispering crowd, Kris, and Adam in even succession. “Kristopher,” he says calmly, “why is there a Duke standing on my grandfather?”
Kris sighs. “He’s a bastard.”
“True,” Neil comments, glancing up at Adam warily. “That doesn’t clear anything up for me, I’m afraid.”
“Your royal highness,” Adam says grandly, attempting to bow again and only managing to slip slightly, giving Kris a minor heart attack and the crowd to erupt into surprised yells and calls of alarm and outrage. “Sorry. Fine, fine, I’m fine!” He nods to the crowd, grinning, and Kris rolls his eyes. “King Allen,” he says, his solemnity somewhat contradicted by the booming volume of his voice. “I want to apologize sincerely for the hurt I’ve caused your son. I am truly unworthy of a man such as Kristopher, and I want you to know that I know that.” He pauses. “But I’m also not coming down until he agrees to marry me, in spite of that, so…please don’t arrest me?”
Neil sighs. “You started out strongly,” he calls up to Adam, “and then tapered off at the end. You should work on that.”
Adam blinks. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
Neil turns to Kris. “You deal with this,” he says, leaning in and clasping Kris on the shoulder. “Remember - heart and eyes open, son.”
Kris nods, catching a glimpse of a wicked smile on his father’s face before his expression smoothes out once more. “Yes, Father.”
“I disapprove of this,” Neil says loudly. “So I will be in the kitchens.” He turns on his heel and departs the way he came, holding his head regally high.
Adam watches him go, a somewhat awestruck look on his face. “A truly superior leader,” he says. The crowd erupts in whispers again.
Kris pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming. “Adam please,” he calls, “just come down so we can talk about this like normal human beings.”
“No!” Adam says grandly, readjusting his grip on the scepter again. “I will only come down when you accept my proposal, and not a second before that.”
“I’m not going to just - marry you, just like that!”
“Why not?” Adam demands. “Would like a list of why you should marry me? Because I have one - “
“No,” Kris says, aghast.
“No, no, it’s very good,” Adam assures him. “Numbers one through five are all about all we have in common, then there’s some stuff about how much you love Frijola, and how everyone in Frijola loves you, and then there’s the sex - well, numbers ten through, perhaps, fifteen or sixteen are all about the sex - “
“Stop talking right now,” Kris says sternly, face burning. Behind him, he can practically feel the crowd boiling with indignation and delighted, malicious glee.
“Kris,” Adam says, frowning down at him determinedly, “I am sorry.” He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, and also for Kris to meet his eyes once again. “I do foolish things. I do hurtful things. And I will continue to do foolish, hurtful things. The truth is - I did lie to you, a lot. Or I let you think that I was - was better than I am. Because - because I wanted you to think I was noble, and good, and wonderful, and perfect for you. I wanted to be someone worthy of - not a prince, but of you. You, who is honest and pure and good, and everything I’ve always wanted but never been able to have.” Adam looks stricken. “I’m not that man, though. I’m not perfect - not anywhere close to it - but I want to try and be.”
Kris finds himself oddly breathless, clutching at his own elbows with tight fists. “I can’t - “ he says, forcing the words through his choked throat. “I don’t want you to be perfect,” he says. “I just want you to be honest.”
“I will be,” Adam insists. “Kris, I will. From this moment on, I will always be honest with you, about everything. About who I am, my past - everything. I swear.” Adam swallows, straightening up slightly. “And I can’t promise that - that you won’t get hurt again. I wish I could.” He looks down at Kris earnestly, his free hand on his breast, hair in disarray around his face, rings winking at Kris mischievously. “But a marriage between us would be a marriage between partners. I will try my hardest, with the sincere hope that you will do the same.” He quirks a hopeful smile that hits Kris straight in the gut. “If you’ll have me.”
Kris blinks, the whispers of the crowd falling away. “Okay,” he says softly, almost to himself.
Adam leans forward. “What?” he says loudly, voice cutting sharply through the room and causing a few of the nearest gawkers to step back sharply, hands on their ears. “Sorry, sorry. What’d you say?”
“I said okay, you bastard,” Kris says, laughing. “Get down here before you kill yourself.”
Adam breaks out into a wide smile. “Okay? We’re getting married?”
“Apparently,” Kris says, throwing up his hands.
Adam whoops, swinging around to the back of the statue’s neck. “I’ll be right there,” he calls. “Do not move a muscle!” He climbs down far too quickly for Kris’s liking, and when he disappears from view, a loud crash echoes through the ballroom, and Adam’s still-amplified voice lets out a stream of curses that sends the crowd into a scandalized stupor.
“Adam?” Kris calls. “Adam?”
“I’m all right,” Adam’s voice calls out, sounding anything but.
Kris sighs in utter exasperation, darting across the dance floor and behind the statue where Adam is lying, his heart stuttering in its beat at the sight of the blood smeared across his forehead. “What in the hell have you done to yourself?” Kris asks angrily, darting to Adam’s side and keeping him from sitting up with a push of his hand. “Don’t move, you idiot.”
“Okay, okay,” Adam says, and Kris winces as his voice nearly breaks his eardrums.
“Turn your amplifier off,” Kris says sourly, and Adam smiles sheepishly, reaching up to his collar and turning the tiny contraption off.
“Handy little thing,” he says hoarsely.
“You couldn’t have picked something a little shorter for your last stand?” Kris mutters, waving at a servant, who scurries off, hopefully in search of a doctor. “For Christ’s sake, Adam. You’re bleeding.” He reaches up and touches Adam’s forehead gently, wiping the blood away from his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve.
“I’m fine!” Adam says insistently, blinking rapidly. “It was a tiny little fall, barely a few feet.” Kris stares down at him, unimpressed. “Are you going to be this overprotective about everything?”
“Yes,” Kris informs him shortly.
A doctor is called, who examines a squirming, complaining Adam, bandaging what turns out to be a rather shallow cut on his forehead.
“It’s not a concussion,” the doctor informs Kris, much to the pique of Adam.
“You’re telling him, not me?” he squawks. “We’re not married yet.” Kris shoots him a look which silences him instantly.
“A few hours’ rest and he should be fine,” the doctor says, shooting a wary glance at Adam. “Sooner rather than later would be preferable. It shouldn’t be too hard for him to sleep.” The doctor leans into Kris conspiratorially. “He’s a bit drunk, I think.”
“No, really?” drawls Kris.
“Are you done talking about me as if I’m not here?” Adam says sourly, waving away a servant attempting to clean the blood off his face irritatedly.
Kris regards him, unimpressed. “You’re going to rest now,” he tells him, glaring sternly when Adam’s mouth opens to protest. “No! No arguing! I am your sovereign, I can have you hanged.”
Adam huffs. “But you won’t,” he says.
“But I can,” Kris says. “This nice doctor,” he says, gesturing to the man, who balks slightly, “will escort you to my chambers, and you will go to sleep. That is the end of it.”
“And if I don’t?” Adam says, crossing his arms.
“Then I will not join you later,” Kris says.
Adam blinks, turning to the doctor. “Well, man, let’s get a move on, for God’s sake,” he says swiftly, turning to regard Kris through narrowed eyes. “I will see you later,” he promises - threatens - and Kris barely manages to control his shiver. Also, his breath of relief as Adam disappears in the direction of his bedchamber.
When he emerges from behind the grand statue, most of the crowd has returned to the business of the ball - their thin veneer of nonchalance nothing more than an act, as revealed by the blatant stares and whispers as Kris makes his way to the front of the ballroom, where his mother is sitting on her throne serenely.
“Were you here the whole time?” Kris asks, kneeling at his mother’s side.
“Most of it,” Queen Kim says. “So you’re engaged?”
Kris sighs mournfully. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” she replies briskly. “He seems like a nice boy.” Kris looks up at her incredulously. “Well, aside from most aspects of his personality.”
“Mother,” Kris says, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Oh, I know,” Kim replies, reaching out cupping Kris’s cheek fondly. “And I’m so glad, Kristopher.”
--
Kris doesn’t make it to his chambers until hours later - mostly because of the tedious business of cleaning up after Adam’s horrific scene (and Kris vows to himself many times while soothing the nerves of this and that nobleperson that he will enact revenge on Adam for causing such a ruckus and then skipping out on the clean up - with a head injury, but still, it was rude) and also, a little bit, to make sure that Adam is most definitely asleep by the time Kris joins him.
In fact, Adam is asleep when Kris finally walks inside his room, shutting the doors tightly behind him with a grateful sigh. Sprawled out on Kris’s bed, suit askew and the large bandage above one eye, he looks rather ridiculous. One boot is off, on the floor by the bed, the other still on his foot, and his trousers are halfway undone. Kris snorts, moving further into the room, and noticing without any surprise that many of his things have been obviously rifled through. Well, he supposes Adam has the right to. Or something.
Not bothering to undress himself, Kris collapses next to him, tucking into Adam’s side and pulling the coverlet halfway up over their legs lazily. Within minutes, he’s out, the warmth of Adam’s body and the rhythm of his breath lulling him into a peaceful sleep.
He awakens, hours later, to an insistent mouth on his neck, and something even more insistent pressing against his lower back. Sighing inwardly, he stretches into the touch, keeping his eyes closed, feeling Adam’s grunt reverberating against his skin.
“Do you always take without asking?” Kris murmurs, reaching around blindly to thread his fingers through Adam’s hair.
“If one does not want to be taken,” Adam replies, “one should not get into my bed.”
“It’s my bed,” Kris corrects.
“Semantics,” Adam says, pulling at Kris insistently until he rolls in Adam’s grip, onto his back. “Hello there.”
“How’s your head?” Kris asks, then scowls. “Your big, stupid head.”
“My big, stupid head is fine,” Adam says. “You’re very feisty now. I think I like it.”
“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” Kris says. “I mean it.”
“Okay,” Adam says indulgently.
“It was very romantic, don’t misunderstand me,” Kris says, “but still. Don’t do it again.”
“My next romantic overture,” Adam says soothingly, “will be on solid ground. I promise.”
“Good,” Kris says, and pulls Adam down into a kiss.
“Mmm, hello again,” Adam mumbles, pulling away to trail his lips down Kris’s neck, flexing his fingers in the material of Kris’s trousers, sending little shockwaves of heat down his legs. “Oh, I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Kris says, gasping. “Oh I - I’m sorry I ran off, and yelled at you - “
“Don’t be,” Adam says fiercely. “Don’t be.”
Kris breaks away, laughing breathlessly. “I’m a fool,” he says. “I’m such a fool.”
Adam grins. “We’ll be fools together,” he says, and drags him back downwards.
Everything else Kris wants to say drifts away in favor of skin and heat and rhythm and oh, tongue - and he barely registers the door opening, but oh, he definitely registers the shriek.
“Your highness! Duke - I - oh Gods - “
Kris blinks, turning his head with great effort towards the door, where Paula is practically melting into the carpet.
“Oh,” Adam says, completely nonchalant despite being caught with his pants down - literally - and on top of the crown prince - also literally. “You must be Paula.”
Paula squeaks.
“Adam,” Kris groans, hiding his face. “Or - Paula. Uh - come back later, please. Okay?”
“I’m so sorry, your majesty - majesties. I mean. Um.” Paula backs up, looking everywhere but at the bed. “Jesus.”
“Quite all right,” Adam says cheerily. “Watch out for the wall, dear - er, yes, that wall.”
Paula backs away, rubbing the back of her head sourly. “I’ll - um, lock the door,” she says, and flees.
“Thank you,” Kris calls feebly after her.
“Well,” Adam says. “I think that went well.”
“Adam, shut your gob,” replies Kris, mortified.
Adam laughs.
--
the end.
Fun fact: a week ago, this fic didn't exist! *collapses*