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William is tired.
Unbearably so, but all the same unspeakably— for he knows that nothing good can ever come out of mentioning it. So, he keeps his chin up even as his eyelids feel so very heavy in their sockets. The scrape of his boots against the cold stone feels almost deafening against his pounding head, but he doesn’t let it show across his face when he nods to the guards as he passes them.
William can practically hear his father reprimanding him in the back of this head for the little grace he has. He’s never had much to begin with in all honesty, and he’s certainly been told that enough. The fact of the matter is that he honestly can’t imagine a day without criticism from him at this point, and he’s heard enough of it today to warrant a headache in the first hour of the day alone.
The shadows cast on the wall creep long. William can’t even begin to guess the hour— he doesn’t even want to try. All he knows is that an entire day of lessons with his father and meetings with the noblemen makes him want to sleep for a week straight.
He hates them. He never shows it. He hates them and their closed minds so much. Every quip about magic users, every little shudder builds the feeling up. He can’t ignore the glances they send him either, like he’s a pity for even associating with something so demonic.
(Those are of course their words, not William’s own.)
They gawk at him when they think he isn’t paying attention— which is most of the time. They whisper things to each other when they think he can’t hear, or is lost in his own head or whatever else he’s managed to convince them he does. They all think he’s completely and utterly stupid anyways. They all think he’ll never hear or catch on to what they truly think.
After all, it’s common knowledge that the young Prince is a good man, but a little misguided and not too terribly bright.
He isn’t exactly sure when he started doing it on purpose. But he’s been doing it long enough that he’s convinced them all he’s an absolute dunce.
It’s easier to let them think that.
Weariness creeps at William again, and he tugs a hand through his bangs. How much he longs to be in bed is almost funny to him at this point.
At first, he thinks it truthfully wasn’t an act. William knows that he struggles at picking up concepts and ideas, and even with practice he’s still clumsy and he tends to fumble along. He’s mediocre at a lot of things at best— but the one thing for sure he’s good at is being there for his country.
He plays the part of the likeable idiot.
The people love him. In times like these it’s good to have charisma. The people need someone who is undoubtably on their side, who will do anything for them. He needs the support of the people more than ever too, for he knows that the coughs that plague his father’s chest are getting worse and worse.
(He doesn’t comment on the smug look on Monica’s face whenever she sees. That one is to be expected.)
He’s going to be King soon.
And it would kind of be really nice if Monica would actually agree to being his Queen.
It’s not like he really wants to marry her.
Wants are funny little things he’s been told time and time again he’s not supposed to have. So he tries not to. He shoves them down and ignores them. He can’t want anything personal, unless it’ll benefit the kingdom, unless it’s for the best of the people. He’s learned to function off of near necessity alone.
Plainly, he needs to marry her.
If there’s any chance of recovering her kingdom: it relies on unity. She’s got a million plans, but without support from both kingdoms he knows every one is bound to flop. She hardly even spends any time in public anymore too; he can’t even say he’s seen her out of her room very often as of late.
He can’t blame her for that too terribly much though. Her parents are dead and the world is grim and every time she comes face to face with his dad he insists that she should get on with marrying his son.
She always says no.
William presses a finger to his temple, feeling another strain of ache shoot through his skull.
Monica is a handful. A headache. She’s been one of his best friends for what he’d assume to be around ninety percent of his life and is someone he cares tremendously for, but hell if he isn’t tired of this.
She’s always been so very caught up on the concept of true love. In truth, it’s probably a whole ton of bullshit that’ll never come true, and she just needs to stop her silly little game and do what’s best for the people.
(Though in all honesty, no matter how many times the thought of it being ridiculous has been hammered into his head, he can’t stop the flutter in his chest. True love is a concept that hits a little too close to the heart— but it sounds like too much of a want and he’s simply not allowed to dwell on that thought. Or much rather, dwell on that kiss. The logical part of his brain his father installed in tells him its wrong and foolish. The part of him that still beats like a human can’t help but get caught up in that web of thought in the dark of the night all alone.)
But still, he’ll respect Monica’s choice all the same. He loves her, not quite sure in what way still, but he cares about her and does want to see her happy. There’s a longing deep down in her eyes sometimes when he sees her, and he can’t help but wonder about how much he really missed when he was asleep.
Speaking of sleep.
Every time he comes back to this castle, his childhood home, he can’t help but wonder why there’s so many damn stairs. He catches his foot on the first step he takes and watches all the guards fumble to try to help him, entirely used to it by now. His room is still far away, and quite honestly at this point he just considers finding the closest chair and curling up there.
But then he remembers that he’ll both get yelled at and have a nasty crick in his neck, and neither of those are things he wants to encounter anytime soon.
(Though, the former is a constant. He can count on it again to happen tomorrow, as much as he’d prefer not to. Crick in the neck is avoidable though.)
Most the lights are out in the rooms now, flickering torches and lanterns and guards who too look like they’d rather be sleeping to guide his way. He’s learned the pathways again since having come here two years ago in the wake of all the tragedy, long since having forgotten them from his childhood. He knows now it’s just past the library— the very bright library— and around the corner till it’s all just a straight path up to his room.
Wait.
William’s head turns in confusion towards the source of the light. His mind isn’t playing tricks on him; the library is alight with the steady warmth of lanterns. The heavy door is cocked open for reasons he can’t seem to comprehend at this hour, and it’s bright light spills out into the hallway. William squints.
Who’s even in there at this hour? The most plausible explanation that hits him is that it’s probably just a rather persistent maid— but who cleans when the moon is in that position?
Then again, Monica always seems to be working on something nowadays. Not that she ever tells him what, but William feels his brows quirk in sympathy at the thought of her working all through the night. She needs sleep, and he ought to corral her to bed.
Or, it could be nightmares. With the amount she’s seen at the age she’d saw it at, it’s no surprise that they plague her. Sometimes it’s her parents. Sometimes it’s Dorian. Sometimes it’s the hell they currently live in. He’s familiar with it too.
William slips into the library, blinking hard against the sudden brightness that assaults his bleary eyes. She doesn’t always want to talk about it, but he thinks it might do her some good to get some of the weight off of her chest. He wants her to be happier.
So, he hides back his own bone deep weariness he feels and makes his way deeper in.
The room is so very still when he enters. There’s no flutter of movement like he expected. No frantic maid. No busy hands scribbling down words faster than their head can think them. It’s just still.
His footsteps feel too loud. William tries to lighten them up, but his head pounds. He doesn’t see anything or anyone in here, can’t understand the door propped open or the lanterns glowing bright.
Then, he turns his head.
Oh.
In a corner of the library, tucked away into a chair that looks almost comically large against his hunched shoulders is Damien.
His arms are crossed on top of the table, a quill still pinched between two of his fingers. The ink on it has long since formed a puddle where it’s tip lays against the page, a dark blot against careful handwriting. His cheek is pressed against his forearm, snow white bangs messily splayed across his forehead while long white eyelashes rest against his cheeks. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.
William freezes where he stands, feeling a warmth spread deep within his chest, pushing away the numbness and the agitation he was so focused on only moments ago.
Oh indeed.
Fuck.
William’s heart pounds in his chest, and he feels a warmth spread across his cheeks. It takes him a full moment to process the scene before him before one thought clearly breaks through the jumble in his head:
He’s absolutely adorable.
The thought definitely isn’t a foreign one. It comes up far more than he’ll ever be willing to admit. It’s in his head when he sees Damien’s nose scrunch in concentration, the soft furrow of his brows when he smiles, the way his cheeks dust with pink so very easily—
Okay, he thinks it a lot. But he can hardly help it, he thinks. Not when Damien is that damned cute.
But he’s not supposed to think that.
It’s bleak. But he knows he can’t. He can’t and it chills him to the bone and makes him weary.
He shouldn’t think Damien’s cute. Because thinking Damien’s cute leads to wanting to hold him and kiss him and be in between those pale thighs— and quite simply, he’s not allowed that.
He’s the prince heir and prince heirs aren’t allowed anything except duty and what’s good for their country and being in love with his best friend apparently doesn’t match up to either of those two things. Or so they say.
He can’t help it though. Can’t help the way he feels oh so very much softer around him and the fact that Damien always pops into his head. William can’t help that those rare but pretty, oh so very pretty smiles will brighten up even the worst of his days. He can’t help that sometimes his eyes drift to Damien’s lips before he can stop it from happening and it leaves him internally cursing because he knows that he can’t.
William is so very tired.
He can’t feel like this. He has to marry Monica. He has to do what’s best for the people no matter what.
So, he has to push down all these feelings and never let them show. He has to pretend that he doesn’t love Damien. It’s hard, but he’s always been a good actor. He couldn’t survive in the political mind games of the royal court if he wasn’t.
William allows himself to look upon Damien’s sleeping form for a moment longer, eyes soaking up the details and painting a picture he hopes not to forget.
It’s funny, how at peace Damien looks here, untouched by the worlds cruel fingertips. It seems to contrast so greatly with the tension he so often sees between Damien’s brows now, and how dark the bags beneath his eyes have grown to become within the last year or so.
If William could find a way to make Damien always look like this he would give up more than he’s willing to admit.
William shrugs his coat off, gently draping it over narrow shoulders. He knows that Damien is a fairly light sleeper, so nerves hit him as he contemplates his next move.
He can’t just leave Damien in here.
It’s bound to be uncomfortable to sleep like this, and he’s sure whatever staff that finds him won’t give him the most pleasant wake up call. In the end he knows that there’s really only one option here, so William shoves down the flutter in his chest and prays he won’t wake Damien up as he scoops him up into his arms as gently as he can.
He’s so light.
It’s not the first time he’s picked up Damien. Hell, he can’t even count the amount of times he’s done it, but it still surprises him all the same. Damien has never been a very large man; William passed him in height when he was ten years old and kept growing until Damien only comes up to his chin. But all the same, he makes a mental note in his head to make sure Damien is actually eating nonetheless. He knows he forgets sometimes.
William sucks in a breath as he counts to five. He really really doesn’t want Damien to wake up cause he doesn’t know if he’ll even manage to fall back asleep. The eye bags don’t lie; Damien hasn’t been sleeping well. William can’t really blame him for it. He deserves a good rest.
Then, once he’s finished counting he takes a step. His heart is in his throat as he does so, soft hair tickling against his neck and fuck Damien is really cute. He looks like he fits so perfectly curled up against William’s chest, like the spot was meant for him.
Well, if the kiss doesn’t lie, perhaps it is—
No. William shakes the thought out of his head as soon as it appears. He can’t, he absolutely can’t. Cant want this. Cant need this.
As he steps out of the room, a guard gives him a funny look. He realizes now how he must look, and tries to brush it off with what he hopes comes off as a rather cheery nod of his head. The guard reaches out a hand.
“Your Highness—“ Flinch.
“Please lower your voice a little, okay?”
The man’s lips draw into a tight line and he nods quickly. William glances from the man down to see Damien shift in his arms, nose scrunching up ever so slightly.
William’s heart pounds and he makes a few mental promises he knows he can’t keep just to keep Damien asleep. The moment passes, and then William feels his heart nearly stop.
Damien shifts again, nuzzles his head deeper into William’s chest and stills once more.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He’s so cute like this and William really can’t handle it. He feels a heat rise in his cheeks and wants to savour the moment until he hears a rather unwanted cough in the distance.
His head whips up, and just then he remembers that oh, a guard was trying to speak with me.
The man, for all it’s worth, at least doesn’t comment on the redness in his cheeks. “Your Highness, would you like me to carry Lord Damien off to bed?”
William shakes his head before the question even ends. “Don’t trouble yourself sir, I’m fine with doing it myself.”
“Ah, but you’ve had a long day, Your Highness. Surely you’d like to go to bed as soon as possible.”
“It’s really no trouble at all—“
“Please let me take Lord Damien from you—“
William puts on his smile that’s brighter than the sun.
“Ah, but who would guard the corridor then? I’m happy to carry Lord Damien up to his chamber. I wish you a good night, sir!”
With that, William walks away as briskly as he can without jumbling Damien, ignoring the way the guard reaches out in one last attempt before rendering it hopeless.
Once he’s rounded the corner, William lets out a sigh. He glances down one more time to make sure Damien’s still asleep, and begins to climb up the stairs.
His feet carry him faster than anticipated. Soon enough he’s rounded a corner and there’s the door— wait.
Ah, he’s so stupid. So very stupid. A groan leaves William’s lips before he can stop it, and he internally curses his own head.
He didn’t go to Damien’s chamber. No, the door he’s standing in front of is his own. The guards posted outside of it give him a rather funny look, and William decides that he’d really rather not talk with them. Not tonight. Before they can say a word, he offers them a little wave and enters the room.
The door shuts with a soft click behind him, and William leans back against it for a moment. He stands there as he catches his breath and tries to slow down the rapid beating in his chest. In his arms, Damien shifts again. William can’t help but smile.
Though, in all honesty, he’s probably totally screwed right now. The guards will tell his father, and his father will yell at him ,and honestly it all just seems like such a headache and William really doesn’t want to think about it. Not right now.
More pressingly, he kinda just carried his best friend that he’s still trying to convince himself he’s not in love with into his bedroom.
He’s only got one bed. It’s massive, granted, but it’s still only one bed.
They’ve shared a bed before more times than he can count. He’s spent many morning waking up to Monica pressed into one side and Damien pressed into the other, blankets draped across all of their shoulders by the late King’s own hand. The memory is fond, but the knowledge that comes from knowing that Monica’s father is dead and times aren’t that simple anymore is painful too.
William could sleep on one of his chairs. They’re comfy— made for a Prince, and he definitely is one of those— so it wouldn’t be painful or anything. But his bed is just so comfy. A little whine leaves his throat at the thought. He needs sleep.
It is a very large bed.
He could easily sleep on one end and Damien on the other. That way Damien wouldn’t be weirded out when he wakes up in the morning or anything along those lines. With that logic in his head he pulls back the covers and gently lays Damien down upon a pile of his best pillows.
His fair hair sprawls out against them, the white a pretty contrast to the deep blues and greens of the covers. He looks so comfortable there, engulfed from head to toe in—
Shoes.
He reaches down as softly as he can, which unfortunately he’s rather sure isn’t that soft, and unties the laces. He pulls them off with a lot of prayers of please stay asleep and sets them down gently on the bedside.
He’s sure the rest of his outfit isn’t that comfy to sleep in, but he’s not going to undress him. That thought leaves him red in the face and he can’t even wrap his head around how absolutely indecent that would make him feel.
William changes quietly into his own sleeping clothes. Gently tugging up the covers on the other side of the bed and sliding himself in, he pauses once he realizes that he never pulled the blankets back over Damien. He crawls over sleepily, wrapping the blankets over Damien’s lithe form. Once finished, thoughtlessly his hand flys up to brush some of the stray strands of fine hair out of Damien’s face. And before he can stop himself, he bends down.
Wait.
He stops himself mere inches from Damien’s forehead. He’s not thinking straight, that he knows. He’s overtired. But even still, a burning voice in his head tells him to bend down just a little bit further and brush his lips against Damien’s forehead.
The thought is mad. It’s also maddening. It would be so very easy to, and it’s so very tempting to all the same.
But he can’t.
He absolutely can’t.
William draws back, covers himself with the blankets, and blows the candle on his bedside table out.
Oh, how he wants to kiss Damien’s forehead. Much more than that, too. He wants to tell him everything and wants to be with him.
But he can’t have wants. Not like this.
He can’t.
So, he curls up on his half of the bed. It manages to feels empty, despite having one more occupant than usual. But that one occupant he can’t take into his arms and press him up against his chest, can’t wrap his arms around his waist, can’t bury his nose into his soft hair no matter how his heart calls for it, so he just supposes that the longing is what makes the loneliness.
William’s head aches as sleep finally, finally overtakes him.
—
Sometime in the morning, before the sun is properly up, Damien wakes up.
His first thought is that’s it’s far too damn early to be up and I hate my body for waking me now. Then, of course, Damien comes to the realization that’s he’s definitely not in his own bedroom. The bed is too soft, the covers too fine. His head spins for a moment as he tries to recall last night.
Then, he notices the steady warmth he’s pressed up against and the arm that’s tucked neatly against around his waist.
His eyes startle upwards, where he’s met with a sight that instantly makes his heart pound and his cheeks feel oh so very warm. Perhaps they’re even warmer than the broad chest he’s nuzzled up so contently against.
William is sleeping peacefully mere inches away from his face. If he leaned forward just the slightest bit more he could probably brush noses with him.
He looks so very handsome. Dark eyelashes rest against strong cheekbones, and theres a soft look across thick eyebrows. Lips, ever so slightly parted, are very close to his right now. Damien’s not sure he could get any redder at this point.
He loves him so much.
He’s not exactly sure how he got here, but William has to be the reason. His head swims as he tries to recall any details but he can’t seem to think of anything past the library—
Oh.
William must’ve found him and carried him off to bed.
To William’s own bed, rather curiously, but he isn’t really complaining. It’s cozy and the way William holds him is a feeling he hopes he won’t forget soon.
Though nevertheless, his heart hurts knowing that this embrace was something that must’ve happened in William’s sleep. It couldn’t have been intentional. Perhaps he’d dreamt of Monica and simply taken Damien into his arms on accident.
Damien lets himself close his eyes and savour the feeling for a moment. He lets himself savour the feeling of the warmth and strong arms around him while he can.
And for once in this damned war, he manages to feel safe in this castle.
Damien reasons with himself that he can allow for more sleep. It’s far too early anyways, and he’d wake Will if he shifted too much. He knows William hasn’t been sleeping well. He deserves this.
A small smile graces Damien’s lips as he presses closer to the warmth of William’s body. The morning can come later, and William can wake up and pull away when he wants to. He can realize his mistake later, but for now they can both just sleep.
For once, Damien almost feels well rested.