Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keith awoke slowly, noting first how warm he was, skin brushing against surprisingly soft linens as he shifted. There was a deep pain in his side and an ache in his muscles, but, other than that, he was comfortable, cozy even. It set him on edge.  
He opened his eyes to find himself in a lavishly decorated room. Tapestries hung on the wall across from him on either side of an ajar door. Just past it he could see the shining white marble of what was likely a bathroom. Thick brocade curtains hung on one side of the room, and he assumed they covered tall windows. He looked up, finding the vaulted ceiling as richly decorated as the rest of the room. Even the comforter was heavily embroidered, though soft and warm underneath. He had just moved his arms from beneath the covers— a surprisingly herculean task— when there was a noise across the room. A door creaked open and he heard hurried whispers. 

“No, Hunk— leave it be. It has been made perfectly clear that this is my issue and I am taking full responsibility. Now shoo!” 

“Lance—” 

“Shoo!” 

Keith settled back under the covers, watching silently as a young man pushed into the room, a bundle of fabric tucked beneath one arm and a tray in his other hand. He eased in, walking to a corner desk and setting the tray down and the bundle after it. He went back and quietly pushed the door close. Keith stiffened, moving a hand to his waist for his knife— only to realize he’d been stripped to his breeches. He fought not to snarl, settling back down. The boy unfolded the bundle, holding up a torn shirt with a frown. He balled it back up, putting it in the chair, before grabbing the other half and unfolding Keith’s pants. He draped them over the back of the chair, before disappearing into the doorway on the other side of the room. Keith heard muttering for a long minute before the boy emerged again, carrying another shirt. He held it up, grabbed the torn one, and compared them. 

“That’ll be too small,” Keith rasped, throat dry. The boy jumped with a yelp, dropping both shirts. He fumbled to pick them up, looking to the bed. He smiled shakily. 

“You- you’re awake!” he said, placing both shirts in the chair. He hurried towards the bed, a small smile curving full lips.

“I’m glad. We weren’t sure when you would recover, or even if—“ 

“Stop,” Keith commanded. The boy froze a yard from the bedside.  

“S-sorry, I—” 

“Who are you?” Keith said, trying to push himself up, hissing against a burn in his side as he did.

“Please—” he said, reaching forwards. Keith sent him a glare and he pulled his hands back. “Please, you’ll reopen your wounds—” 

“Who are you?” Keith repeated, voice stern. 

“My- my name is Lance. Lance McClain. I’m from Varadero. Now please, will you lay back down—” 

“What is this place? Where are my things?” 

“This is the Palace of Altea. Your horse is in the stables and I have all your belongings—”

“Get them,” Keith growled. 

“If you lay back down,” Lance said.  

“Now!” Keith snapped. Lance shrunk back with a flinch. 

“Please do not yell at me,” Lance said quietly. “I can get your things, and you can even leave if you want— I don’t advise it, they say your wounds are bad and this is the first time you’ve been awake in over a week—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “But I can get your things. Now would you please lay down?”

Keith took a deep breath, lowering himself slowly back onto the pillows. He suddenly realized that he was sweating, his heart pounding in his chest and the pain in his side was worse. He pushed the blankets down, trying to get some air and saw the bandages wrapped tight around his middle. There was a smattering of red dots showing through. 

“Oh, heavens,” Lance cursed, coming to sit beside Keith on the bed. He carefully looked at the smattering of dots and sighed. “Let me get new bandages.” He crossed the room to the desk, pulling a basket from underneath and rummaging for a roll of bandages. He came back to the bed, reaching for Keith as he lay panting on the linens.

A hand rose to push him away, but there was no strength behind it, and the boy gently raised Keith's torso, rearranging the pile of pillows to support him. Lance sat on the bed by Keith's hip, reaching for the new bandages and setting them on the bed. He reached for Keith's old ones, unwrapping them gently.  

Keith watched him carefully, measuring the boy in front of him. Even in his injured state, he couldn't bring himself to see him as a threat. He was young, slight of figure, and with a softness to him that spoke of sheltered nobility. His fingers were soft and cool as they ran over his skin. He sighed as he unbandaged the wound.  

“I'll have to call Coran for another poultice for it,” Lance said, turning to stand from the bed.  

“No,” Keith said, grabbing Lance's wrist. “No one else,” he panted, sweaty fingers slipping against his wrist.  

“I can't make a poultice on my own—” 

“Please, just— No, it's not- not safe.” 

“Not— What?” Lance asked. He sat back down on the bed. “You're perfectly safe here,” he said, brushing cool fingers over Keith's damp forehead. “Whatever hurt you is gone. You've been safe here for weeks, and you'll be safe here for as long as you need.” He stood again, tugging his hand from Keith's grip. “Now I'm going to go get help.” 

Keith tried to speak again, but his head was heavy, mouth hanging open uselessly as he watched Lance slip out the door.  

The next time he awoke, it was dark, and there were sounds coming from the hallway. Lance entered again with yet another silver tray. He shut the door quietly and crossed with his tray, a single flickering candle lighting the way, and set it on the nightstand. He lifted a washcloth out of a small bowl, wringing it out gently before turning and laying it over Keith's forehead.  

“How are you feeling?” he whispered, smoothing a hand under Keith's chin to check his temperature. Instead of answering, Keith narrowed his eyes at him.  

“You aren't a maid. Why is this your duty?” 

“I found you during the storm and insisted on helping you, even though my advisers disapproved. Only Coran said yes and, since he's Allura’s right hand, they had to say yes too, but no one else wanted to approach you, so Coran and I have been taking care of you. The castle doctor came to see you your first night, but not since. Your sleep was largely unbroken.” 

“Allura. Why is that name familiar?” 

“She is the current ruler of Altea,” Lance said simply, rearranging the pillows and helping Keith sit up.  

“Altea,” Keith repeated sleepily. “So far south.” 

“Far south from where?” Lance asked, reaching for the tray and pouring a cup of clear broth. “Your homeland?” 
Keith said nothing, simply watching the other boy. Lance sighed.  

“You spiked a fever and have been asleep for the past two days. Will you drink some soup for me? Or some water?” Again, he said nothing, ignoring both Lance and the mug he offered. “Please, you must be hungry. And the fever has been dehydrating you. You need to put something in your body. I'm only trying to help.” 

“Forgive me,” Keith said plainly, “but I don't believe in benevolent strangers.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You have to have an ulterior motive.” 

Lance raised an eyebrow. “How horrible. If I were truly cruel, I would never have saved you in the first place. You're a secretive drifter in the royal palace. If anyone has ulterior motives, it has to be you. You haven't even told me your name.” 

“You've never asked it,” Keith mumbled tiredly. Lance was quiet for a moment, shocked by the truth of the statement, before he let himself smirk.  

“Well, how could I have cruel things to demand of you if I'm entirely unaware of even the simplest of details. As far as I know, you are penniless and without a title. The very most I could take from you is your horse, who honestly is a temperamental thing hardly worth the trouble.” 

A sleepy smile spread over Keith's face.  

“Well, you obviously are lying about being a noble. No true nobleman has so wicked an attitude.” 

“I don't have a wicked attitude, simply a wicked tongue,” Lance said, barely withholding a pout.  

“So you've heard that before, then. That's a prepared response.” 

Lance ignored him, picking the mug back up and attempting yet again to get him to eat. Keith turned his face away.

“Besides, I never said I was a nobleman.” 

“Well, you certainly don’t work,” Keith said through a yawn. “Hands as soft as yours? No tools but maybe a writer’s quill.” His eyes closed tiredly and Lance was grateful for it, as his cheeks were surely reddening. 

“I don't know where you get this energy when you haven't eaten in days,” he scolded, voice barely hiding his sudden nervousness.  

“I've been in far worse conditions than this,” Keith huffed, opening one eye at Lance.  

“A soldier then?” He received no answer. Lance sighed, giving the man a firm look before lifting the mug of broth to his own lips and taking a loud sip. He lowered it again, smiling as his charge finally seemed to consider the mug’s contents. “I can't make you trust me, but I hope I can at least get you to eat.” He offered the mug again, letting a small smile cross his face as Keith leaned  forwards. He scooted close, lifting the mug to Keith’s lips, helping him drink it slowly. 

“I also brought water and tea,” Lance said when Keith finished, leaning over the tray and pouring a cup of each.  

“Water,” Keith said between mouthfuls. Lance held up the cup of water, taking a demonstrative sip himself before offering it to Keith. He traded him for the empty mug, pouring him another mug of broth as he finished the water.  

“More soup?” Lance asked, taking the cup away. Keith shook his head, leaning back against his pillows with a tired sigh. He looked tiredly at Lance.  

“You've been taking care of my horse?” He asked, brows furrowing. Lance nodded, rearranging the pillows yet again so Keith could lay back down.  

“I go out sometimes with the stable boy. He's good at his work, but yours is… testy. Nearly didn't let me near you that first night. He asked for a hand with her.” 

Keith simply hummed and nodded tiredly. Lance re-wet the washcloth from earlier, laying it gently over Keith's forehead. He pulled the covers up over his chest. Lance's eyes roamed his drawn face and he barely resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. He clenched his fingers in the fine fabric of the duvet just to keep them from tracing up the tantalizing scar up his cheek. 

“What's your name?” Lance asked, voice barely a whisper.  

The man said nothing, breath already deep and easy with sleep.  

Chapter Text

Keith woke the next time to sunlight streaming into the room. He looked around the room, stiffening when he found not Lance but an unfamiliar man standing at the desk. 
“Sorry for the light,” he said without turning around. “But Lance was worried about your wound again, and I needed to see to check you over.” 
Keith looked down his chest, surprised to find his bandages separated and his stomach bare. He could see clearly the gash along his side. It was beginning to heal in some spots,  though still swollen and irritated in others. He looked away, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. He took a shuddering breath, hating the way his heart sped up at the memory of the fight. He could barely remember escaping, nearly certain that he would bleed out before he found shelter from the storm that night. 
He shook himself, trying to clear his mind of the foul memories. 
“Where’s Lance?” he asked, voice raspy as it left his throat. 
“He had a meeting this morning and is, much to his disappointment, indisposed. Though I’m certain he’ll be up just as soon as he’s free.” 
“What type of meeting?” Keith asked reluctantly, hating himself for being so curious about the other young man. 
“We’re hosting a ball this season, and some guests are already arriving to stay in the castle and take leisure in Altea for the weeks leading up to the ball. As the visiting prince, it has become his job to receive them.” 
“So he’s a prince,” Keith wondered aloud. Coran turned to him with a slight smile, a small bowl in his hands. 
“Yes, though not officially of Altea. He’s joined the kingdom by marriage.” 
“You’re being rather candid with a stranger in your house.” 
“You’ve been forced to trust us an awful lot. The least I can do is be honest with you.” 
“So you’re the advisor who let me stay?” Keith asked, turning to watch as the old man rounded the bed to his injured side and rearranged the blankets, covering Keith for warmth while still allowing him to see the full breadth of the wound. He slowly began to apply the new combination of herbs and oils to his wound. 
“Coran Wimbeldon-Smythe, at your service.” 
“If you’re the one in charge, why is this—” 
“My responsibility? You asked Prince Lance the same thing. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but he’s a rather compassionate boy. The rest of the council wasn’t keen on helping him, but I have the experience to be of service and the heart to see him happy. It was a natural progression.” 
“When you say the experience—” 
“I was Alfor’s second in command long ago and have seen plenty of fights and even more wounds. This was my basic training.” 
Keith only nodded, laying still and staring up at the painted ceiling while Coran worked. Finally, he began to re-bandage the wound, helping Keith sit up against the pillows so he could wind the bandages around his torso. Lance came in as they were finishing up, carrying a tray with soup and toast. 
“Everything alright in here?” he asked easily, coming and setting the tray on the bedside table. 
“Fine,” Coran said, narrowing his eyes at Lance. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs?” 
“Oh, Lady Nyma decided to go lay down for a bit in the guest quarters, so I figured I’d come check on our patient.” He crossed to the bed, sitting on Keith’s uninjured side and leaning close. As if on instinct, his hand found Keith’s forehead, checking his temperature before sliding back to brush through his hair. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. 
“Exhausted,” Keith answered, hating how he was driven to honesty. He couldn’t tell if it was the boy’s presence or his temperature, but his waking hours now felt exceptionally vulnerable. 
“That’ll be the fever,” Lance said, sitting back. He leaned to the nightstand, pouring a cup of soup. “And you’re dehydrated,” Lance added, pouring a cup of water. He brought it to his own mouth, taking a pointed sip before offering it to Keith. He took it without issue, finishing the cup and even a second before laying back against the pillows. 
Coran simply watched as Lance continued to coax their stranger into drinking some soup before he finally pushed the mug away, closing his eyes yet again and slipping into a doze. Lance sat on the bed, watching the strange man fondly for a long moment. 
“What did Lady Nyma say, Lance?” Coran asked easily. The boy startled, rising quickly from the bed and grabbing the tray he’d brought. 
“Nothing,” Lance insisted. “She was simply tired from a long day of travel and wanted to rest before dinner.” 
“Lance,” Coran sighed, also rising from his perch. 
“Not everything is a disaster, Coran. Sometimes duchesses really are tired,” Coran simply watched, amazed how Lance, so young for being displaced to an entirely new kingdom, could ignore the fine tremors in his hands and lie so convincingly that he was fine. It worried Coran beyond belief. Nevertheless, he only nodded and followed Lance out of the room. 
They walked in companionable silence down to the servants' quarters, where Lance stored the undrunk soup and poured himself a cup of the untouched tea. Coran pursed his lips, watching the familiar routine of Lance withdrawing. 
When Allura had been courting Veronica, he’d met the boy in Varadero and had been charmed by his bright personality and openness. He was the youngest of seven, his other siblings all marrying off and moving up the ranks while he remained the quintessential, spoiled youngest child. He’d had every luxury afforded royalty, in addition to the guidance of his elder siblings. It had made him headtsrong and spirited, yet clever beyond what many would think of someone whose looks were often their first mentioned attribute. In a way, it was a pity. 
When Veronica had suddenly announced that she wanted to move Lance to Altea, Coran had been concerned but, seeing no reason to contest it, agreed to prepare a suite in the royal wing for him. 
When he’d arrived, he’d been surprised to see how the prince had dulled. Now, he simply looked across the table at Lance and sighed, missing the bright young man he’d barely gotten to know. There were glimmers of him, yes, but so fleeting and rare that Coran worried that the cruelty of others had harmed him irreparably. 
“You’re giving me that look, Coran,” Lance said over his cup of tea. Coran shook himself, gifting him a small smile and shaking his head. 
“No look,” he promised. “Simply an old old man getting lost in his thoughts.” Lance gave him an easy smile. 
“You’re not old, Coran,” Lance said with a small giggle. 
“You just haven’t been here that long, love,” Romelle said, swirling into the room in a huff, her long blonde hair and a wave of perfume floating behind her. “Be here long enough and this one—" she pointed to Coran “—will be grandfathering you in a heartbeat.” 
“Lady Romelle, that’s not a real word,” Coran scolded with a huff. Romelle only giggled. 
“See what I mean?” she gave Lance a bright smile and a wink, “Pour me a cup?” Lance grabbed another teacup and poured Romelle some tea as she rummaged in the cupboards for a jar of jam. She cut thick slices of bread off a nearby loaf and set them on the counter before slipping onto the stool beside Lance. He hadn’t known her, or anyone else in the castle, long, but he loved her bright energy and unapologetic attitude. 
“You two really shouldn’t sneak into the kitchens quite so often. Shay will have nothing left to cook with,” Coran scolded gently, dipping his finger into the jar of jam and taking a taste. They all laughed, and Lance felt a swell of gratefulness to them for keeping him from being alone. He listened eagerly to Romelle’s gossip from around the castle and her own manor nearby, nearly getting lost in the easy flow of the conversation before she turned to him. 
“Speaking of dreadful relatives, I’m so sorry for my dreadful cousin, Lance.” 
“Allura?” Lance said, brow furrowing. 
“No, of course not. Luka. She’s been a right bitch to you—” 
“Romelle!” Coran scolded. 
“It’s true! Just today she called Lance a tart for sitting with Lady Nyma upon her arrival and said she was going to tell Dayak about his ‘inappropriate flirtations.’ That’s the backstabbing behavior of a bitch Coran. She’s more than earned the word, judgy, obnoxious thing. Lance, if that wretch or Dayak says so much as a word to you, tell me. I’ll set Luka straight.” 
Lance stuttered out a thanks and Romelle laid a warm hand on his arm, rubbing gently to console him before continuing on with her gossip. Lance listened half-heartedly, stomach turning with shame. 
Finally, the afternoon passed them by and Shay bustled into the kitchen, shooing them all away so she and her brother could get started on that evening’s dinner. Lance walked through the halls with Coran and Romelle, delivering Romelle to her favorite sitting area for the evening and promising to see her at dinner. She kissed both him and Coran on the cheek before retiring. 
They proceeded through the halls in silence, Coran walking Lance to the royal suite. It was usually Allura and Veronica’s room, but, with them away from the palace and Lance’s own room occupied, Lance had been staying there. 
“Will I see you before dinner?” Coran asked, the words so gentle they nearly hurt again. 
“Er, no, I- I think I’ll read for a while. Veronica handed me a novel she thought I’d like before they left and I haven’t started it yet.” 
“Very well,” Coran said, bowing slightly. Lance had told him before it was unnecessary, but Coran insisted it was (and that even if it weren’t, it was a long-standing and thus unbreakable habit). “As always, let someone know if you need anything. I’m always here to listen, Lance.” 
“Thank you Coran,” Lance said quietly before slipping between the grand doors and closing himself in the quiet room. He sighed, kicking off his shoes and crossing to the great bed. He flopped face first onto the plush comforter. 
He felt a bit like crying, but didn’t allow himself to. Dinner that night was with the council and they already didn’t think well of him. The last thing he needed was to show up with puffy, red eyes. Instead, he actually did grab the book Veronica had given him and read. He only made it a chapter in before he dozed off. He was awoken in the evening by Hunk. 
Lance couldn't help but smile at his guard. Hunk’s mother was the cook in their castle in Varadero, and he and Hunk had been friends since they were young. When Hunk had decided to join the army, Lance had cried for two days before convincing his father to have him trained as a royal    guard. Now, he was Lance’s personal bodyguard. It gave Hunk the training he enjoyed while keeping Lance close to his best friend. 
“How long until the sharks?” Lance asked. Hunk only chuckled. 
“You’ve got about an hour before dinner, but knowing Dayak, anything less than ten minutes early is late.” Lance groaned, flopping back against the pillows and laying his arm over his eyes. 
“I left Varadero to escape the judgement of high society and instead moved in with it.” He felt the bed dip in a familiar way, and turned on instinct towards Hunk. 
“You just need to give Altea more time. You’ll come into your own again.” Lance bit his lip to keep it from quivering. 
“How are you so sure?” he asked, voice shaking and giving him away. 
“Lance, you’re a firecracker,” Hunk said, a smile in his voice. “You’re my best friend for a reason. You’ll make friends here too.” 
“I doubt Dayak wants to be my friend." 
“Well Dayak doesn’t want to be anyone’s friend.” That won a chuckle from Lance and Hunk gave him a smile. “Now go get ready. Shay’s got a beautiful roast waiting.” 
Lance sat beside Coran at dinner, welcoming his steady presence as Dayak droned on and on about propriety over the five courses. Luka nodded along sagely the entire time before adding her own reasonable monotone to the conversation. 
“It’s important for the upcoming ball that all of us, especially those of us who are younger and more prone to foolishness, are on our best behavior.” Lance clenched his fist around his fork to keep from reacting, letting his face stay carefully neutral. Across the table, Romelle coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like “bitch” and Lance couldn’t help but smile into his wine. Dayak made a stern noise in the back of her throat and they both calmed, turning to the remainder of their roasts. 
“Lance,” she said sternly, forgoing his title entirely. “I will have a series of papers delivered to your quarters. This is a list of names for all the guests we are expecting. Please memorize them. You will be quizzed at next week’s council meeting.” 
“Yes, Lady Dayak,” Lance said plainly, nodding from across the table. 
“This is of the utmost importance, Lance. We cannot have you unaware.” 
“Yes, Lady Dayak,” he repeated, barely keeping his frustration out of his voice. She simply huffed, ignoring him and silently tapping a finger against her wine glass. In a moment a servant came and refilled it. Dayak continued to speak, largely to the other council members about upcoming political events and other affairs in the kingdom. Lance finished his meal quietly, listening halfheartedly to the conversations around him. 
Dessert passed without consequence or snide comment and Lance made a grateful escape at the end of the meal, only to arrive in his bedroom and realize no one other than Romelle or Coran had said a single kind word to him the entire meal. The rest of the council had said a few different things about him, and Dayak had offered her critical advice, but no one had so much as asked how his day was. 
“Don’t worry about it,” Hunk said, reading Lance’s mood perfectly. “You’re still new to the castle and—” 
“I’ve been here over a month, Hunk. That’s two council dinners and four weekly meetings. They can at least make polite conversation.” He unbuttoned his jacket and threw it on the floor, unbuttoning his shirt collar and running his fingers through his hair. He went into the bathroom, looking at the beautiful tub and walking back out to Hunk. He hugged his arms against his chest, looking surprisingly small given his height. 
“Who do I ask to have a bath drawn?” he asked quietly. “I’d like a bath.” 
“I’ll tell Florona,” Hunk said with a nod. He turned to leave the room. 
“Hunk—” Lance called, cutting himself off. His hands clenched around his arms. On instinct Hunk crossed to him, pulling him into a long hug. 
“Things will get better Lance,” he said gently. “They always do.” Lance leaned gratefully into Hunk’s familiar arms, giving the other boy a firm nod when he pulled away. Hunk gave him a smile. 
“I’ll go fetch Florona. Do you want anything from the kitchens?” Lance shook his head, before stopping. 
“I’ll actually head down there myself, thanks.” Hunk rolled his eyes but insisted on walking him and they meandered through the quiet halls together. Hunk left Lance in the kitchens with Shay, heading down through the servant’s quarters to fetch Florana. 
Shay turned from her stove and gave Lance a smile. 
“There’s a tray already prepared, Prince Lance,” she said easily, gesturing over her shoulder to the silver tray on the counter. 
“Thank you, Shay,” Lance said. Picking the tray up easily and sliding out the door. Hunk was waiting for him out in the hall. He sent an easy wave to Shay and the chef gave him a smile that set Hunk’s cheeks alight. Lance bit his lip to keep from grinning, walking slowly away and leaving Hunk to catch up. 
Lance balanced the tray carefully as they made their way through the halls. Hunk opened the door to Lance’s bedroom, silently letting him in and leaving him alone with his charge. 
The room was dark; the only light came from the candle on Lance’s tray. Nevertheless, Lance saw immediately when the other occupant turned his head on the pillow. 
“Lance?” that gravelly voice rasped. Lance nodded uselessly before finding his voice. 
“It’s me,” he whispered, easily crossing the dark room and setting the tray beside the bed. He looked down at the man, his dark hair like ink in the candlelight. Lance lit a second candle, widening their circle of light and looking down into the stranger’s wide eyes. He frowned to see the thin sheen of sweat of his face, hand moving on instinct to his forehead. He swiped his fingers easily over the clammy skin, knowing that this had to be one of two things: the fever increasing, or its last vicious burst before it broke. 
“How are you feeling? Better or worse?” he asked, sliding onto the bed beside him. 
“Tired,” he said, the words little more than an exhale. “Tired to my bones.” 
“It’s possible your wound is infected,” Lance said, pity lacing his voice. He wet a washcloth, patting along his face and gently brushing back the wisps of his hair sticking to his damp skin. “I’m hoping your fever will break tonight. If not, we may have to call the doctor back from—” 
“No one else,” he rasped, that same hard paranoia creeping into his voice. 
Lance clenched his jaw. “I can’t make any promises. If you need more help, I’ll get it for you.” 
“Why—” he cut off on a weak cough and Lance quickly poured him a cup of water. 
“Drink,” Lance said, shifting to cradle him in his lap and offering a cup of water. The man took it without hesitation, finishing the cup in slow sips. Lance held him for a quiet minute after, waiting for him to inevitably speak again. His breath grew easy as he lay over Lance’s legs, and Lance nearly thought he’d fallen asleep when— 
“Why are you so committed to helping me?” 
Lance wished he could be shocked by the question, but given the stranger’s air of distrust he could only shake his head sadly in the darkness. Almost on instinct, Lance’s hand found his hair, fingers sliding through the dark tresses with ease. 
“You were alone. And you were hurting. Those were things I could fix.” 
The stranger huffed a cruel laugh, shaking his head before leaning back into Lance’s gentle touch. When he spoke, it was slow and labored, but Lance didn’t interrupt.
“You must be younger than I initially thought. You’re far too trusting. You’re heart is dangerously pure.” 
“There’s no danger in compassion,” Lance said quietly. The stranger’s eyes opened, nearly glowing yellow in the candlelight as he looked up at him. They searched his face for a long moment before sliding closed once more. 
“That naïveté could get you killed one day.” 
Lance stiffened. He’d been told more than once that he was too trusting, and on one wicked occasion had felt the devastation of having that trust betrayed. Yet, no matter how he tried, his foolish heart remained open to all. 
“Perhaps,” he mused quietly, fingers still playing in the ink of the man’s hair. “But you don’t mean me any harm.” And as Lance said it, he knew somehow that it was true. The stranger sighed, shaking his head before laying still and quiet in Lance’s lap. 
“I suppose you’re right,” he said after a while, and something warm bloomed in Lance’s chest. 
They lingered in silence, his head a warm weight in Lance’s lap as he helped him drink more water and eat a bit of soup, stroking soothing fingers through his hair whenever he began to shiver from the fever. Finally, his breath began to slow again and Lance slid from the bed, rearranging the pillows beneath his head and pulling the blankets up over his chest. 
“Thank you, Lance,” he sighed. 
“You’re welcome…” Lance trailed off, turning and blowing out one of the candles, setting the other back on the tray. Its flicker was warm in the dark room, the flame nearly as hot as the question pushing from Lance’s mind to his lips— 
“What’s your name?” 
The stranger smiled sleepily, a hum rumbling out of his chest. Lance fidgeted, unsure if he was being laughed at. 
“My name is Keith.” 

Chapter Text

Similar to life in Varadero, the weeks leading into the ball in Altea were exciting. Lance had relatively few responsibilities around the castle, as he was largely regarded as a guest; but it meant that, when Dayak wasn’t breathing down his neck about ‘proper Altean customs’ and he wasn’t answering to the ridiculous whims of the council, he was free to spend his time as he pleased. 
It was late fall, which meant lots of cold rain and more scattered snow as Altea started to cool into winter; but there’d been a few satisfying bursts of sun over the past few days. Lance had taken them as opportunities to head out to the stables and take his horse out for a ride. His horse, a dappled, gray filly he called Blue, hated the chill in Altea, but would begrudge him a ride if he brought enough sweet apple slices to bribe her into it. He’d taken to bringing some for Keith’s horse as well— a huge,  jet black thoroughbred that scared the poor stable hand. 
He and Hunk had just left the palace with a small bag of sliced apples and were walking towards the stables when they were stopped by the captain of the guard. 
“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked, brow furrowing as he looked between Hunk and Lance. 
“Prince Lance was going to the stables, Captain Griffin,” Hunk explained. Lance looked up at the head of the guard innocently, raising his bag of sweet treats for the horses. 
“I figured it’s so nice and sunny and we have so few days like that left heading into the winter—” 
“No disrespect, Prince Lance,” Captain Griffin said, stepping towards him,  “but I will have to take you back inside. You’re late for a fitting and Lady Dayak is...perturbed.” 
“I don’t have a fitting today,” Lance said, brow furrowing, He turned and looked at Hunk, who nodded at him, confirming. “I don’t have a fitting at all. I’ve brought dress clothes from Varadero.” 
“Lady Dayak has arranged for you to have traditional crimsons made for the ball,” Griffin said, an apology hidden in his voice. “May I escort you back into the castle?” 
Lance clenched his jaw but nodded, keeping his question at the word ‘crimsons’ in his mind before thrusting the bag of cut apples towards Hunk. 
“Will you still go give Blue these? They’ll brown if they aren’t eaten soon.” Hunk nodded, ignoring what he could feel of his friend’s rapidly souring mood. He accepted the bag and gave Lance a slight bow (a formality they usually skipped, but that Hunk made sure to acknowledge with the captain nearby) as he gave him over to Captain Griffin to be escorted into the palace. 
Griffin gestured for Lance to go ahead before falling in step beside him, one hand lingering on the hilt of his sword as the other floated at the small of Lance’s back. 
He eyed the prince carefully, taking in the straight line of his back and the tense set of his shoulders. His blue eyes stared straight ahead, full lips a hard line. 
“I can only hope you’re adjusting well,”Captain Griffin said, guiding him towards the stairs. 
“Of course,” Lance responded calmly. “Altea is beautiful in the fall.” 
“Though I’m sure the chill is much different from the warm beaches of Varadero.” A sad look passed briefly over the prince’s face, but was quickly replaced by a calm, if not beatific smile. 
“Every place has its benefits, captain.” 
Griffin couldn’t withhold a chuckle. The prince looked back at him, eyes somewhere between a glare and alarm. 
“Forgive me,” Griffin said, laying a hand on his chest. “It’s simply amusing how, even in private, you’re ever the gracious diplomat.” 
“Should I be anything else? Even in private?” 
“Well, you’re a young man. And rumor has it, generally quite spirited,” he said, watching carefully as the prince’s shoulders wound even tighter towards his ears. His steps faltered and they paused on a landing. Prince Lance’s eyes flicked to the side, looking Griffin up and down. The captain did his best to look perfectly innocent, but his eyes landed too heavily for Lance’s liking. 
“Well,” Lance started, a slight tremor in his voice. He raised his chin like he’d been taught, looking down his nose. “I would hope that as a captain you would know better than to listen to rumor or hearsay and take it as fact.” He stood still, looking flatly at the captain. Griffin bowed his head. 
“Of course. Forgive me for speaking so callowly. I simply meant that your sister has made extensive preparations for your safety and comfort in Altea, including discussing your well-being with me. She only hopes to see you happy, and warned me of your, shall we say, propensity for mischief.”The captain shrugged, the casual movement out of place with the severe way he carried himself. “I suppose I was simply excited to see you in action.” He watched as the prince weighed his words carefully, ultimately seeming to find them adequate. 
Lance bit the inside of his lip as he weighed his next words carefully. Captain Griffin made him uneasy, but, then again, most of the people he’d met in Altea did.
“I will not apologize for being different than your expectations, Captain, but I do hope you will accept me as I am. After all, my sister, your queen, has put me in your care.” Lance inclined his head slightly, looking up at Captain Griffin through his lashes. The captain looked abashed, embarrassed even. 
Lance rose and continued up the stairs, deciding to try not to care what the captain thought. After all, Hunk was his personal guard, and he had Coran to protect him from the counsel. Whether or not Captain Griffin liked him would not be allowed to matter. 
Lance and the captain arrived in a room on the fourth floor, where Romelle was speaking animatedly with an elegant older woman. Romelle was wearing an extravagant, crimson gown and beaming. 
“Luxia you have truly outdone yourself,” Romelle sighed. 
“And I’ve made sure Luka’s gown is nothing like it,” the woman, Luxia, Lance assumed, said conspiratorially.  
Romelle cackled, long hair bouncing as she threw her head back. Lance couldn’t help a smile. 
“Making trouble as usual Romelle?” Lance said from the door. Romelle turned to face him and her smile widened. 
“Of course, Prince Lance,” she said, before striking an elaborate pose. “I’ve got only the greatest crimsons to wear for the ball. Any duchess would be overjoyed.” She narrowed her blue eyes at him. “And knowing that my horrendous cousin won’t be able to come close to this design? I’m simply thrilled.” 
Lance laughed, stepping forward with a smile. Romelle took his hand and he squeezed hers in return. 
“So you are the designer Dayak arranged to fit me?” Lance asked hopefully. 
The woman turned to look at him, kind eyes looking him over. 
“Unfortunately, I have nothing else scheduled for the day. Though I’d be happy to help you if you have something to be altered quickly?” 
Lance’s brow furrowed. He turned to the captain, who was still standing in the doorway. 
“Captain Griffin,” Lance said sternly, pulling the room’s attention to the other man. “Explain. You called me here for a fitting, even implying that I was late, and I find this to be untrue.” 
The captain stepped forwards, bowing slightly to Romelle. 
“Duchess,” he said quietly. 
“Captain,” Romelle said primly, tugging Lance towards her. 
“To answer your question, Prince Lance, I simply wanted to give you time with your friend. Your fitting is in the adjoining room with a more traditional clothier. Lubos has served Dayak and the royal family for many years.” 
“Lubos? Why I thought he’d retired?” Romelle said, brows “He hasn’t worked in the castle for years. Dayak knows as much.” 
“Then you should take that up with the mistress. In the meantime, I have orders to deliver Prince Lance to Lubos’s care.” 
“Well now you have additional orders. Lance is your charge in this castle, you will not leave Lubos unmonitored. Lord knows the old man’s eyes are going, followed swiftly by his mind.” 
“Duchess, I’m hardly able to consult on the fashions of the day,” the captain said with a smirk. Romelle bristled. 
“Captain, I am certain you understand my meaning. Left to his own devices, a simple fitting will take Lubos all day.” 
“Of course, Lady Romelle. I will keep a close eye on the situation and keep the clothier on task,” he assured her, bowing slightly before stepping forwards to collect Lance. 
“Come see me?” Lance asked, trying to keep the edge of desperation from his voice and sure he failed. 
“As soon as Luxia and I are done,” Romelle whispered, squeezing his hand before letting it go. 
Lance followed Griffin through the room to a sliding door, which revealed an adjoining study that had been set up for a fitting. A stout older man was bustling about a mannequin that was wearing an outfit of crimson silk. In the bright daylight shining through, it shone in a nearly pearlescent way, as if it belonged to a ghost. 
“So this is the foreigner Dayak mentioned,” the man said. He threw his arms open, striding confidently towards Lance and drawing him into a tight hug. He kissed him sloppily on both cheeks, before releasing him, leaving Lance feeling both unsteady and put off. 
“Lubos, this is Prince Lance of Varadero. Lance, this is Lubos. He was one of the royal clothiers for several years under King Alfor.” 
“My family has served the crown for generations,” Lubos said smoothly. He reached for Lance’s hands pulling them both to his lips. It wasn’t an uncalled for protocol, but, when Lubos looked intently up at Lance’s face, the other boy went tense, struggling to form even the most fake of smiles. His eyes flicked to the captain, who cleared his throat loudly. 
“If we could get along with the fitting, Lubos,” Captain Griffin said smoothly as he stepped into the clothier’s space, separating him from Lance. “The visiting prince has already had his day interrupted.” Lubos took a hurried step back, bowing to Lance and the captain. 
“Of course, of course. A young man has much to do during the festival season!” 
“Festival season?” Lance questioned as he was bustled behind a screen to strip. 
“Altea is aburst with energy in the fall! The Crimson Gala is only the beginning of many celebrations welcoming the winter months. The kingdom will be painted crimson as we thank the earth and its workers for a good harvest. The citizens bring gifts into the palace for the royal family in order to return the well-wishes sent to them before the harvest.” 
Lance nodded along. He remembered the latter. He had arrived in Altea just before the harvest festival, and his sister and Allura had been swamped with visits throughout the kingdom to municipal workers and farmers. It was a tradition that went back nearly the whole of Altea’s history, and Allura had been thrilled to do the visits alongside her new wife. 
They had invited Lance to join them, but he hadn’t been ready for the public eye. Even now he felt unprepared for the ball and it was only two weeks away. 
Lubos helped Lance into the crimson silk pantaloons that the mannequin had worn, swearing that they were the latest Altean fashion and Lance need not worry, but Lance worried nonetheless. 
This was the first public event he would have in the palace, and he wouldn’t even have his sister by his side. He had packed a number of outfits for events, having brought his favorites with him, but it was apparent that even his own presentation was out of his control. 
Though, as he looked at the outfit’s progress in the mirror, it struck him that his suit’s base fabric was the exact same color of the dress he had seen Romelle in. 
“If I may,” Lance said, interrupting Lubos’s steady stream of boring anecdotes about past royal sewing projects, “what is the significance of the color? Duchess Romelle’s dress was the same shade.” 
Lubos chuckled and Lance blushed, certain he was about to be made fun of, but the old man simply smiled. 
“Altea is not a country ripe with legends, but this is one of the few,” he began, helping Lance into the long, silk jacket. 
“When celebrating the harvest, the entire ball will be bedecked in crimson. It is to symbolize the labor of the very first Alteans to break the ground in this valley— back breaking work. But when they tilled the soil, the very next day, or so legend has it, already something had begun to grow. They tried to cut it back but it only doubled in size, growing fuller and fuller until finally, the settlers gave up. They feared they would starve, as they had no farmland, but, as they were losing hope and thinking of moving on, the thicket that seemed to be their demise became their saving grace. Suddenly, it was teeming with beautiful, red berries, and the greens around them, though bitter, were hardy. They ate and ate, and their clothes stained red with the juice of the berries. So now, to celebrate the bounty of this valley which is our kingdom’s heart, we wear crimson, remembering those early farmers whose work, which had seemed futile, was rewarded by the earth.” 
Lance listened intently, looking in the mirror at the progress being made on his suit. He was trying to remember his readings on Altean celebrations. He’d never encountered the legend before, but couldn’t help but find it beautiful. He was about to say as much when captain Griffin’s reflection appeared alongside his own. 
“As lovely as this conversation is,” he interrupted, “we really must stay on task.” 
Lubos hopped up from his perch, returning to his work with a flurry. 
Under Griffin’s watchful eye, Lubos worked quickly and quietly, leaving Lance alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately, the closer his suit came to ready for the ball, the further Lance felt from prepared. 
He would spend the entire ball being dragged from one stranger to the next, and he would have to not only represent himself, but his sister Veronica and the royal family. He shuddered, fearing that this fitting was just the beginning of a week of preparations with Dayak. He was already exhausted from etiquette classes and history lessons with the stern councilwoman. What would she put him through were he forced to stand in for the royal family? He would rather return to Varadero than— 
Well he wouldn’t go that far. 
No, it was simply best that he stay as uninvolved in Altean politics as possible. He was here for a reprieve from the bustle and burden of princely duties. He refused to take them up again. At least not for a long while. 
He would try and deflect attention at the ball, letting the other council members take the brunt of the interaction with others. If Lance’s life had taught him anything, it was that what could go wrong would go wrong. The less he put himself out there, the fewer chances for things to go awry, as they were wont to do. 
“Now,” Lubos said, standing behind Lance and meeting his eyes in the mirror. “How tight around your waist are you comfortable with? You have a lovely figure and I think—” 
“Not too tight,” Lance said quickly. The old man raised an eyebrow. 
“Prince Lance,” Lubos said carefully, “you already have the face and figure to dazzle at this event. Every eye will be on you, and I would like to give you the best presentation I can and your silhouette is—” 
Lance watched as Lubos demonstrated his plan to tighten his doublet. It was fetching, and if the tailor had asked him a year ago, Lance would have been laced into a corset so tight he could hardly breathe. But now, he didn’t want anything that would draw extra attention to him. The suit was traditional Altean fashion, which was obviously what Dayak had wanted. He wouldn’t mar that in any way. 
“Thank you Lubos, but no,” Lance said. “I was sent to you for a traditional garment and- and I would like to keep it that way.” 
If Lubos was disappointed by this, he didn’t say so. He looked Lance in the eye, as if searching him for the truth. Lance stood firm, barely even breathing as Lubos seemed to examine him. Lance almost wanted to tell him to stop, or call the captain to separate them, but he didn’t, simply staying still under the old tailor’s scrutiny. Finally, Lubos moved away, grabbing another few pins and moving on to fit the jacket. He let it fall loosely over Lance’s chest, staring for a long minute before continuing with his work. 
Lance wondered what it was the old man had seen in him. 
He looked at himself in the mirror. 
He saw a prince, and over that prince’s shoulder, the critical eye of a guard. He met the captain’s eye in the mirror and would have sworn the other man smirked back at him. Lance clenched his jaw, looking away. 
He swallowed, sending his nerves to join the pool of anxiety and shame his stomach had become. 

Chapter Text

Lance was exhausted by the time his fitting ended. He was relieved to step away from the mirrors and the critical gazes of Lubos and Captain Griffin, and shrugged gratefully into his own clothes. When he was dressed, he rounded from behind the screen and found Captain Griffin waiting for him.

“I’ll escort you to dinner, Prince Lance,” he said with a quick bow. Lance barely withheld a sigh. 

“I’m tired,” he said plainly. “I’ll take dinner in my quarters. Give the others my condolences, but, seeing as it was Dayak who upset my day, she should certainly understand.” 

If the captain had anything to say on that, he wisely kept it to himself. He bowed, waving a hand towards the door and allowing Lance to sweep past him, quickly falling in line behind him.  

Lance walked quickly towards the royal wing, the captain taking the lead as they neared his quarters. He  was eager for some time alone, nearly forgetting that his room, which Captain Griffin was heading towards on instinct, was occupied. He flushed, remembering all at once the handsome stranger sharing his bed. 

Well, not sharing but— Lance coughed. Keith was in his bed, but there alone. And Lance was, likewise, sleeping by himself on the other side of the wing; as it should be. 

The last thing he needed was more gossip or rumors to contend with.  

Still, he couldn’t help but slow as they approached the room. Something in him wanted to keep Keith to himself, or at least protect him from the scrutiny of the captain.  

Keith was doing considerably better. His fever had broken, and he was awake for more hours of the day, but those hours had only revealed to Lance that the very same wary distrust that Keith had shown him that first time he woke up ran deep in the other man. The last thing Lance wanted to do was upset him by bringing the captain into the space he had only just carved for himself in the other boy’s mind.  

Keith trusted him, and Lance valued that more than any other thing this castle had brought him.  

He stopped at the end of the hall where his chambers were and turned to captain Griffin. 

“Thank you so much for your service today, captain,” Lance said sweetly. “But your services are no longer needed here. If you could, ask Shay for my usual tray, as well as a plate of whatever dinner is left.” 

Lance turned to leave, hoping that his polite dismissal would suffice— 

And was stopped by a strong hand closing around his elbow.  

Lance whirled around, trying to yank his arm from Griffin’s grasp and only pulling the captain into his space. 

“Captain Griffin—” Lance said sharply, looking up at the other man. His heart seized in his chest as he remembered more than one such occasion in his life— him looking helplessly at another person hell bent on controlling him. 

“It’s so short a walk,” Griffin said plainly. “It’s no hardship for me to show you the rest of the way.” 

“Captain—” 

“I insist.” 

Lance resisted the urge to glare, steeling himself and tugging his elbow from Griffin’s grip. He said nothing, turning and walking silently down the long hallway to his room. He stopped outside the doors, turning to Captain Griffin with a nod, before laying a hand on the doorknob. 

“Allow me,” the captain said, brushing past Lance and pushing the door open.  

“Captain,” Lance exclaimed, trying to push in front of him— 

But it was too late. Captain Griffin was in the room, and the sanctuary Lance had built for Keith and himself was shattered. 
Keith had been upright in bed reading, but Lance heard his book slam shut. He went pale, and his hand twitched towards his waist, where one of his weapons would have been had he been armed and in his own clothes. Instead, he was vulnerable, watching with hard eyes as Lance fumbled with another man at the door, a man he clearly hadn’t wanted in the room if his expression and body language were anything to go by. 

“So, this is the young prince’s charge,” the strange man said.  

“Captain Griffin, please—” 

“I meant no disrespect,” the guard said, though he strode arrogantly into the room, idly examining Lance’s scattered belongings. “But, as captain of the guard, I am responsible for the visiting prince’s safety— order of the queen. I must be aware of all his visitors and this was the only opportunity to see the secret man he’s been hiding here.” He sent a pointed glance towards Keith, who held eye contact with cool disdain. Griffin’s smirk tilted into a displeased sneer. “I should hope you understand, Mister…” he prompted, expecting an answer.  

Instead, he was fixed with cold violet eyes. 

“I would expect the person in charge of the prince’s safety to have more respect for the boy’s personal privacy. You barging in here is hardly appropriate for someone who is, at the end of it all, Lance’s subordinate." Keith lazily set his book aside, though his eyes were hard as they bored into Griffin. "I’m sure Coran or even your queen, who you so gracefully mentioned, would be interested to know that you struggle with the simplest of manners, not to mention orders.” 

The captain bristled, one hand falling to the hilt of his sword where it lay against his hip. Lance jumped forwards, putting himself between the captain and Keith. He lay a hand on the captain’s arm, half to stay his hand and half to placate him by drawing his attention from the other man.  

“Captain Griffin, your services are no longer—“ hard blue eyes fixed on Lance’s face and he barely withheld a flinch. “You- your services for the day have been sufficient, thank you. Please send a servant with the tray I requested.” With that, Lance walked to the door, gesturing out to the hall. He avoided looking at either of the two men whose tension clogged the air.  

Captain Griffin spared one last look at Keith on the bed, who returned the cold, furious stare, before turning and moving briskly toward the door. He gave Lance a cursory bow— though Lance could tell there was nothing but protocol behind it—  before exiting.  

Lance closed the door with a sigh, the length of his day hitting him all at once and leaving him exhausted. 
Nevertheless, he turned to Keith with a shy, apologetic smile. 

“My sincerest apologies,” Lance said quietly, making his way towards the bed. “I only really met him today, and did not want to upset him.” 

“You are afraid of him,” Keith said quietly. Lance’s eyes snapped from the floor to his face and he felt his cheeks grow hot.  

“No I’m not,” Lance said firmly, fists clenching at his side.  “I simply have too much at stake here to upset the order of things.” 

“The order of things being your subordination in a space where you are to be in charge.” 

“The order of things being me making no trouble while my sister is away. The last thing I want is to create disorder when she has so graciously sheltered me from—” Lance cut off abruptly, flushing hotly. He looked back at his feet. 

“Forgive me,” Keith said smoothly, reaching again for his book. “I shouldn’t have pried when you’ve just been upset.” 

“It’s nothing,” Lance said quickly, crossing the room to the warm jug of water on the bedside table. He gathered it and the dirty cups onto the tray from this morning and walked them to the desk near the door. 

“Lance,” Keith said. It took everything in Lance to not immediately turn towards him, responding on instinct to the cradle of his name in that rough voice. He took a shaky breath.  

“Lance,” Keith said again, more gently that time. “I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you." Lance bit his lip, hearing the sincerity of Keith's apology.  

"Look at me?” Keith pleaded. 

Lance slowly turned around, leaving his displeasure plain on his face. Even though Keith hadn’t moved, Lance felt pinned between Keith and the desk, violet eyes holding him in place. Keith gave him a slight smile, and there was no mocking behind it, simply a sincere pleasure at receiving the other boy’s attention.  

“I forgive you,” Lance said breathlessly, eyes tracing for the first time over the other boy. He was shirtless in bed, his bandages the only thing covering his muscled torso. Lance blushed, and would have sworn Keith’s lips turned in a smirk. Luckily, before he could dwell on it, there was a knock on the door. Lance opened it gratefully, letting in Florona and another of the castle servants. Each carried a tray laden with food and drink.  

Lance thanked them both, watching as they lit candles around the room and set the fire roaring before taking their leave. They left Lance and Keith basking in firelight; and Lance was grateful for the reddish glow, as it would help to disguise the unexplained reddening of his cheeks. Lance crossed to the bed, bringing Keith his tray. He accepted it easily, balancing it on his thighs and reaching for his silverware.  

The other boy had improved hugely over the last week or so. Though he was still weak, he was able to feed himself and, with help, take short walks around the room to calm his restlessness. Just this morning, Lance had expressed his own sympathy at Keith’s being trapped inside on such a beautiful day, especially with so few warm days left as winter approached.  

“Do you need any help?” Lance asked, rounding the bed. 

“I’m beyond needing you to taste my food for me like a servant,” Keith said with a smirk. Lance smiled shyly, seating himself on the bench at the end of the bed. 

“I suppose you find nothing about me intimidating,” Lance said wryly. Keith shook his head. 

“You’ve proved yourself far too sweet and timid a person to order me poisoned.” 

“Perhaps I’m biding my time. Waiting to see what value a rogue like you has to me.” 

“A rogue, eh?” Keith asked, his smirk turning rakish. Lance felt a bolt of heat run through his gut. He swallowed around his nerves, reaching for his own tray of food for something to do with his hands. 

“Indeed. A rogue who carries daggers and broadswords and rides a black horse, just like any old storybook.” 

“Did you read many such stories as a child, Lance?” 

Lance laughed, and the sound made something in Keith’s belly warm. 

“I still read them even now. I love a good tale of adventure.” His eyes fell on Keith, his long hair, the scar across his face, the way his eyes held something beyond a boy his age. “You look like you could tell me of many adventures.” 

Keith chuckled quietly, though there was no mirth in the sound. 

“Oh Lance,” he nearly sighed. “You have no idea, but I doubt they’re tales suitable for such delicate ears.” 

“I do not have delicate ears,” Lance said with a huff.  

“You’re a posh little thing, Lance. Hardly fit to be privy to some of the trouble I’ve gotten into.” 

“You’re trying to find excuses not to tell me,” Lance said. Keith looked at him then, raising an eyebrow and looking Lance over before returning his attention to his soup. 

“Perhaps.” 

They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Keith once again turned to Lance. 

“Your stories,” he started, drawing the other boy’s attention back to him. “What did they say of the rogues’ innocent rescuers? Were there many of them?” 

Lance chuckled. “Princesses mostly. Saved damsels turned partners in crime or wives.” Keith laughed as well. 

“Though you certainly are a good-hearted royal, I suppose you’re hardly a damsel.” 

“No,” Lance returned with a laugh.  

They finished their food and Lance gathered both trays, setting them outside the door before returning to stand by the bed. 

“I should leave for the night,” he said, looking down at his fingers as they picked at the embroidered duvet. Keith’s hand crept into view, mere centimetres from his own fingers, and Lance barely kept from shivering. Reluctantly, he pulled his own hands away, folding them in front of him to keep them from touching his burning cheeks. 

He smoothed his clothes, stepping back and to looking at Keith. 

“I- I should go; but I’ll be back in the morning with breakfast.” He rounded the bed and drew the curtains closed to keep the morning sun from waking Keith. When he turned around, Keith was watching him. His eyes traced him across the room as he walked to blow out the candle on the far side of the bed. 

He rounded back to the side nearest the door and bent to blow out the candle on that bedside table as well, cupping a hand around the flame— 

But was stopped by a hand gently landing atop his. 

“Leave it,” Keith said smoothly. His eyes seemed pinned to Lance's pursed lips. “I’ll read a little while longer.” 
Lance could only nod, barely keeping from burning his hand as he pulled it from beneath Keith’s. 

The way his skin tingled, one would think he’d burned himself regardless. 

“S-sleep well,” he said, a wave of nerves barely allowing the words to escape his lips.  

“Sleep well, Lance,” Keith said, smooth voice turning the words to honey in Lance's ears. 

Lance tried not to look like he was fleeing as he left the room, but he was. He dashed headlong for his sister’s room and collapsed onto the bed, unsure if his heart was pounding from his near-run through the halls, or his candlelit moment with the rogue in his room.

Chapter Text

Lance stayed up the rest of the night reading. Not because he couldn't find dreams, no. For the exact opposite reason: he closed his eyes and found himself falling easily into idle questions and fantasies about the rogue—er, Keith's—life. 
Where was the other boy from? Was he even a boy? He had to be at least Lance's age, if not older. That meant he had a history somewhere, but where? Someone had to be missing him by now. Would they come looking for him? 

'Though his behavior indicates that could be a problem of its own,' Lance remembered with a frown, rolling over again. ‘and if he is only my age, with that much to be afraid of—’ Lance shuddered. Even his spoiled life in Varadero hadn’t been safety, despite his privileges’ best attempts. Keith was… Lance shuddered again, something hot tingling between his ribs. 
He pushed his eyes back to his book, remaining there for a few pages and nearly distracting himself with the story’s fast-paced language and thorough descriptions. But as night fell dark and thick around the characters he was traveling with, his own thoughts fell to thick, dark hair. Lance had spent so much time so carefully tending the other young man back to health. He secretly welcomed it. The first month after Veronica had left with Allura to Arus had been difficult, to put it lightly. 

The first two weeks in the castle had been easy with his sister nearby. Veronica was Allura's beloved and, as a result, now helped to reign the peaceful mountain kingdom of Altea. Relations between Altea and Varadero had always been good, though not stellar. They first met in Allura's work to strengthen southern alliances. The mountain queen’s brief stop on a tour soon turned into an elaborate Altean courting. 

Lance had watched with jealous longing as Veronica had slowly fallen for Allura's thoughtful gifts and elaborate displays. It was unlike the private simplicity of courting on Varadero, which was a simple matter of choosing and being chosen in return. 

'I wonder what type of courting rituals there are where Keith is from?' Lance's mind asked, remembering how Veronica had blushed as she describe the trunk of beautiful robes and dresses Allura had sent to invite Veronica to accompany her to a summer ball. Altean courting was full of dancing. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Keith dancing. There was lots of dancing on Varadero, but not the stiff public dances of these larger kingdoms and their balls. They were competitive, fast paced. Meant for moving and moving alone. It was just celebration. It didn’t matter who you danced with: you were too breathless to talk. 

Altean partner dances were slow and close, meant for talking and touching. Lance had watched and blushed in awe as Allura and Veronica had swanned beautifully across the floor at their wedding. Chest to chest, nearly nose to nose, yet they moved beautifully, as if tied together, with nothing but each other’s eyes and the music to follow. 

Lance imagined himself like that, swirling across a dance-floor, his chest pressed against the warmth of another person, and his eyes looking forward and meeting his partner’s, the violet of his irises deep and mysterious. The whites of his eyes nearly yellow, a mysterious jaundice pinning Lance in place. 

Somewhere Lance knew he could, would follow those violet eyes anywhere. Isn’t that what dancing is? Letting your partner lead you? Following willingly, eagerly, from one step to the other as the music held you? As you and your partner traded control— 

‘Though, I don’t think I’d ever be able to control Keith,’ Lance thought idly. Then he frowned. Somewhere, that scared him to his very core. It reminded him of the all-too-knowing things that Keith said when they shared the dark. Then again, it thrilled him. And what had he meant earlier with his talk about books and rogues and ’innocent rescuers?’ 

Lance felt his face flush. ‘Is that what Keith thinks of me?’ He thought of Keith’s comment about Lance’s delicate ears, recalling his now sister-in-law’s similar comment not long ago. She’d been mortified that Veronica had shared some of the more intimate details of the Altean’s deliberate courting rituals. 

Lance looked back at his book, but his mind was on other words. Innocent, delicate, good-hearted… Lance couldn’t stop a slight smile. If those were the words the gruff young man managed to associate with him, then maybe everything hadn’t been ruined today. Maybe the other boy was beginning to trust him. Maybe he already did. 

‘Stop it,’ Lance chided himself, shaking his head to jolt his wandering mind back to the pages of the book. It wasn’t his place to think such things. Though he felt that he couldn’t help it at times. 

Lance coveted the other boy’s trust, even though he knew somewhere that might not be something he was ready, or even allowed, to ask for. Somehow, Lance didn’t think Keith would take lightly to his prying into his personal life. 
When he dozed off, Lance continued to dream strangers with violet eyes and rasping voices. 
  

*    *    * 

The density of the forest was almost enough to muffle the sound of the storm raging up above. 

He’d thought he would be safe after crossing the mountains, but he knew that, even now, he was being tracked. So they wound slowly and quietly through the mountain forest, his hands tight on his thoroughbred’s reins. With the snow blanketed over the trees, and the daytime sky already greying, he was eager to get back down this mountain, the frigid peak hadn’t been an original plan on his route, but— 

A howl sounded somewhere behind them. Redstar knickered restlessly, ears pointing sharply back at him. Keith felt a twinge in his heart as he longed for the company of his own wolf, but it was too long a journey and he wouldn’t have been inconspicuous traveling with his wolf alongside him. 

“Forwards, Red.” Keith ordered, the whisper nearly lost in the wind. But Redstar moved nonetheless. They entered an easy canter, weaving through the trees as the snow began to pick up. Keith was glad for it, as it would help to hide their tracks. 

“Over the mountain then west,” Keith murmured to himself, his native tongue a useless comfort in the privacy of his mask. It was the only one he had in the high, mountain cold. 

Another howl. Closer this time. He didn’t want them to follow him down the mountain, but feared that they’d go that far or worse just to keep him from— 

“’Tis a new day,” a gentle voice crooned. 

“Not For You!” his pursuer growled, sword gleaming in the sunset storm on the mountaintop. Keith reached for his sword, but his hand closed around nothing, He reached for his sheath, nearly drawing too late as the sword came down. He caught it on the sheath, panting into his mask as he tried with all his strength to hold the other man’s sword at a distance. 

“Give Up—” 

“Keith?” the voice called. It was closer know. 

He shook himself. He couldn’t let the voice get too close. He had to protect it. Had to protect everyone. Why else would he have run away? Things were dangerous now. 

“You’re safe,” the voice promised. “You’re safe here.” 

He shivered as they hurtled through the cold, running blindly down the mountainside, Redstar panting as Keith urged them onwards. He stopped as an arrow embedded itself in a tree up ahead. He hunched lower, begging for clear space and hating when he found it—a clearing, not against  trees but open air, a ravine. He pulled hard on the reigns, circling Redstar around towards their enemy and drawing his sword with a roar— 

“O-Oh my!” 

Keith awoke with a strangled snarl, eyes wide open. They looked around wildly, blinking in the low light. His chest heaved as he panted. He flexed his hand around his sword’s hilt, only to realize it wasn’t his sword at all—

“S-Sorry,” Keith panted. Releasing Lance’s wrist quickly. The prince was sprawled clumsily across the side of the bed, and rearranged himself awkwardly as he pulled away, managing to sit up. 

“It’s— “the boy gulped, pulling his wrist slowly to his chest and soothing it with his other hand. “It’s nothing.” 

“Did I hurt you?” Keith rasped, throat hoarse as if he’d been screaming. 

“Not at all,” Lance answered quickly, jumping up from where the other boy had tugged him onto the bed. “I- I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have tried to wake you. I’m sorry.” 

Keith let him bustle away, lowering himself back into his blankets and trying to calm his pounding heart. 

Lance slowly pulled the curtains open, glad for the task to help him do the same. It had been one thing to walk in and hear his charge’s distress. It was another to have Keith grab his outstretched arm as if by instinct and yank him halfway across the bed with a yell. Lance rubbed his wrist again, shivering at the strength that had been in Keith’s hand, even asleep. It was clear that while the young rogue hadn’t hurt Lance, he would be more than able to should he wish it. 

‘Whatever had haunted his dreams must have been even stronger than Keith…’ 
Lance shivered again, even as he stood in front of the window which now welcomed the morning sun. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Keith said, looking across the room towards Lance. 

“Nonsense,” Lance chirped, turning around to face Keith with a grin almost bright enough to fool the other boy. But the way Lance’s gloved hand gently cradled the wrist Keith had grabbed seemed to negate the cheeriness lacing his voice. 
Lance followed Keith’s gaze and quickly dropped his hands to his side. 

“You’re not a good liar, Lance,” Keith sighed, the sound all but a rumble in his chest. 

“No, I—” Lance started forward, but snapped his mouth shut, turning his gaze away from Keith’s violet stare, which had fallen on him sternly as he began to speak. Lance looked back at Keith, watching the stern young man carefully before looking back down at his hands. “I merely wondered what could scare you so badly. I thought… I thought you must have been dreaming of whatever hurt you. I was simply happy to have found you... and your temperamental wretch of a horse,” Lance confessed, finishing on a faint chuckle. 

He looked up, meeting Keith’s gaze and startling to find a soft, wondrous gaze on the other boy’s face. Lance’s face must have shown his own wonder, for Keith’s eyes hardened quickly and turned away. 

“Naïve little prince,” he cursed with an embarrassed huff, moving a restless hand to the back of his neck in an effort to cover the flush that was surely crawling along his nape. 

“Perhaps,” Lance said easily, laughing as he crossed back to the bedside. “Better that than the rogue made of mysteries.” 

There was a rumble from the bed that made Lance pause, unsure if Keith was muffling a chuckle or his frustration. Lance sat carefully on the edge of the bed, looking gently at Keith, who watched him with a curious expression. 

“I suppose it’s only natural for you to wonder after me. I’ve been in your care for so long, I suppose I should be happy that you remain fascinated by me despite all I can’t share with you.” ‘Better that than suspicion or fear,’ Keith’s mind finished cruelly. 

“Everyone has things they’d rather not share,” Lance said plainly, looking down at his gloved hands. He frowned, remembering just how long it had been since he’d had reason to pull out courting gloves. Lance shook himself, refusing to get down about the rest of his day. He looked at Keith, smile faltering as he noticed the critical edge to the other boy’s look. 

“Including you?” Keith said. 

“Yes,” Lance said primly, clasping his hands in his lap. “Including me. ‘Little prince’ or not, even my life is entitled to its secrets.” 

Lance looked at Keith, meeting those violet eyes through the curtain of dark hair that always seemed to cover Keith’s face, as if protecting him from scrutiny. As if on instinct, Lance reached forward, brushing the dark hairs back from Keith’s face for just a second before catching himself.   

Keith stiffened, eyes piercing Lance so sharply, that Lance couldn’t help but freeze in response. A shiver that ran through him. Keith felt the boy’s hand tremble against his face and grit his teeth. 

“Forgive me,” he ground out, looking away. “I’m not well this morning.” And as Keith heard howling winds deep in the cavern of his head, he knew he would have an awful, anxious day. The sooner this sweet prince got clear of here, the sooner he would be safe from Keith and his host of miseries, wont as they were to settle in— 

“Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”

To his own surprise, Keith found himself endlessly tempted by the offer. He’d felt himself respond to the prince’s voice even in his dream. As if the prince had come to represent the shelter of the castle itself. He warmed briefly at the idea; Lance’s voice riding the cold wind through his head: stay… stay with you… stay . He couldn’t help but feel longing settle in his chest at the offer, at the promise of the warmth that seemed to radiate off the prince who had become this secret shelter. 

Keith had needed safe harbor during the storm, and Prince Lance, with his eyes like calm water, had become it. Could he possibly ask the other boy for this too? It was all too tempting. He was afraid to look at the earnest young man, knowing that if he did, he would crouch indefinitely in Lance’s tempting safety. It was only temporary, and Keith didn’t know how much time he’d already lost behind plush palace walls. And if his nightmares— no, memories— were any predictor, he wouldn’t be safe from his pursuers even once he was better and clear from this place. 

Lance staying wouldn’t speed his recovery, and it certainly wouldn’t slow his enemies. 

Keith sighed, laying back against his pillows. He’d faced the wind alone before. He could do it again. 

Chapter Text

Keith swore he’d meant to say no. He was even sure he had, but then he couldn’t quite remember how he’d landed here, nearly asleep beside the young prince as he rambled about the strange new life he found himself living in Altea. 
Strangely, though Keith was still cold inside from his dream, he could feel himself calming under the young prince’s voice. 

“This seems to be a country with few legends, but lots of history. It’s odd. My mother always said there was a big difference,

as the legends where I’m from are beloved cultural points, while our history is an austere and odd one…” 

“Your homeland is Varadero,” he mumbled. Lance went quiet for a moment, and Keith’s eyes opened as he felt the other boy’s gaze on his face change. “Your ‘Coran’ told me,” Keith explained, letting his eyes fall closed again. Only this allowed him to miss the momentary flicker of annoyance in blue eyes and the quick yet sour purse of Lance’s lips. 

“The jewel of the southern seas,” Lance sing-songed after a moment, accent rolling through his words and easily over Keith’s ears. Lance’s free hand found a lock of Keith’s hair, twirling idly down the dark lock. He separated the coarse strands along his bare fingers, having hidden the fine white gloves some time ago as they were—Lance had blushed and turned away — “er- um, i-important for later,” the prince had mumbled when Keith mentioned them. 

Now the young prince sat jacket-less at the head of the bed, propped up against the pillows. He had maneuvered close enough that Keith’s head was by his thigh, restless fingers playing with the long black hair. 

Keith watched the dance of fingers past his eyes, moving his gaze up to study Lance and his strange faraway look.The prince sighed, hand passing once again through Keith’s hair. Part of him wanted to be annoyed at the touch, but part of him—Keith insisted it was his vanity—was happy for the attention, which had always kept him from letting his hair be cut for anything other than maintenance. He wore it long, just like his father had before his death, and like his mother now did. He smiled slightly, remembering how his mother had brushed and braided his father’s hair before grand council meetings and the like. 

His heart hurt as he thought about her. He’d been gone for weeks and he had no guarantee that his last message had even reached her. Then again, even if it had, he was hardly in a safe place to receive a courier, or even the shortest message. Nonetheless, his heart hurt. She would know what to do right now. Somehow, inexplicably, she would. 

Keith sighed, frowning unhappily. He’d escaped a nightmare to get trapped in his memories, and today he couldn’t seem to tell which was worse. 

Lance’s hand scratched through his hair again and Keith repressed a shiver, a jolt racing down his spine. 

“Do lots of men wear their hair long where you’re from?” Lance asked, combing his fingers from the crown of Keith’s head down through the ends at his shoulders. Keith’s hand clenched in the comforter and he took a sharp breath as homesickness rushed through him and his eyes stung with the threat of tears. He sighed, willing them away before letting himself answer. If he knew anything, he knew his mother would not be caught crying. 

He looked over at the prince, who was watching him warily. 

“It’s seen as more traditional, but yes, it’s still customary. Especially once one is past marrying age.” 

“And you are past marrying age?” 

“Very much so,” Keith said with a nod. “I’m twenty-six.” 

Lance snorted. “Only twenty-six? That’s no old maid. What makes you say ‘very much so’?” 

“Seven years now I’ve been unmarried. I have no designs to.” 

“Then you are a soldier!” Lance chirped. Keith sent him a glance. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Only soldiers live lonely on purpose these days. Because of the travel and the—” 

“Maybe I am a soldier. But the reason I’m not married is because there’s no one in my kingdom who suits me, and I would only marry outside my borders if the situation called for it.” 

Lance’s brow furrowed. Unlike his siblings, he’d never imagined leaving his homeland, so the thought of courting someone outside of Varadero had likewise never occurred to him, at least not until arriving in Altea. It was always a possibility in his mind as he went through his travels and training, learning rituals and manners of potential allies and known enemies alike. It had been political, a last lingering precaution of wartimes only recently ended. If he was to marry outside his kingdom, his spouse would come to him, chosen—or at least approved of—by their parents. Typically that only the case for people of status… 

‘He seems familiar with both wealth and a military life. Maybe Keith is a military official?’ Lance thought idly. 

“What would such a situation be?” Lance asked. 

“Nothing we need worry about, as I don’t plan to marry,” Keith sighed, though Lance swore there was almost a melancholy in his voice as he spoke. “An abundance of opportunity doesn’t guarantee success.”

“You had many suitors then?” Lance asked, hands slowing in the other boy’s hair. Keith said nothing. “Or perhaps you were the suitor? Did you pursue many? Does it matter for men where you’re from—" 

“Are you going to bother me so all day?” Keith snapped finally. “Why all the courting questions?” 

“I’m simply trying to make conversation,” Lance mumbled, pushing down his own mounting anxieties around the topic.

“That implies a breath for me to speak, not a barrage of questions.” 

“Oh, so that poignant silence had an end drawing near?” Lance scoffed. Keith’s eyes narrowed, though he chuckled wryly. Lance clenched his jaw, put off at the strangely mocking sound. Keith closed his eyes again. 

“Enough talk of courting. You’d have no interest in my tales anyways.” 

“You don’t know that,” Lance said, perking up. “Tell me one, then I’ll leave the matter be.” 

“A tale from my courting life?” Keith questioned, cracking open his eye to look up at Lance. 

“If you would,” Lance said plainly. Keith huffed, and fell silent for a minute, simply laying under Lance’s ministrations. 

“Then you’ll be sorely disappointed. I didn’t pursue anyone in my kingdom. I had other duties, and I focused my energy on fulfilling them. You may as well tell one of yours.” 

“Liar,” Lance said, poking his forehead and looking down at his face, which Lance was finding easier to read as the days had passed. “You have to have at least one good courting story. As you said, you’re twenty-six. And if you’re truly a military-man, you must interact with others in your trainings and travels—" 

“Your Coran would be thrilled to see you so spirited. I guess this was all you needed all along. A ward to look after.” 

“He’s not my Coran, he’s the castle’s. And why are you two talking about me behind my back?” Keith shrugged.

“Well, I don’t have anything else to ask him about. I don’t care for politics or gossip from the domestic corners.” 

“Oh, but the domestic corners have the best gossip. Much better than ours.” 

“A prince who gossips?” 

“No, a prince who listens,” Lance corrected, removing his hand from Keith’s hair to gesticulate as he talked. “Everyone must listen to those around them. Many think that in castles that means politics, but it means gossip. Gossip can become politics all too easily. And one must stay abreast of the movements of those around them” 

“Well, then I ask Coran about you to stay abreast of yours. I may as well begin to figure out who my strange caretaker is.” 

“Am I really so odd to you?” 

“If I must say, yes, you are. You seem too innocent and idealistic for someone in a political position. I can’t tell whether to fear or revere you; especially when I am so indebted.”   

“Forgive me for caring for your wellbeing!” Lance huffed. Keith laughed again, sweeping one hand in front of his torso as best he could and inclining his chin. 

“No, forgive me my prince,” he crooned, “I should have counted myself lucky to be under such valued care. I should have relished it further.” 

Lance knew it was childish but he let the laugh come. “You’re only teasing me because I’m right. You may be a soldier but you’d never be a spy. You can’t hide a lie at all.” 

“And you are an authority on my truths?” 

“I could be if you told me them.” 

“And trusting you brings me great honors of course,” Keith said sarcastically. Lance laughed. 

“Naturally,” he huffed with a smirk. “I’m a prince after all.” 

“In a castle he doesn’t command. What powers do you have here?” 

“You obviously know nothing of royalty. I have power enough to save you, don’t I?” Lance huffed, turning sharp blue eyes onto violet ones. Keith actually felt himself still under the gaze, and his heart pounded in his chest. He looked down at his hands. 

“I… I suppose I never properly thanked you for that, Prince Lance.” 

And though they were mumbled, the quiet words were clear. Lance looked over at Keith, unsure if he was more surprised by the young man’s suddenly soft tone or by the way an unavoidable earnestness was set deep in violet eyes. 

“I- I couldn’t have left you there.” The words hung in the air for a long minute. For Keith, the wind howled once more. He wondered what Lance’s mind was showing him.

“What were you even doing out on such a night?” Keith asked finally. “No guard would let their prince out of sight into such a storm.” 

“I ran off,” Lance said quietly. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have been let out. I’d just had an argument with a member of the grand council and my sister had just departed and everything around me was changing again and—” 

“And you ran away from the castle.” 

“Only for a little bit,” Lance said hurriedly. “I cut through the woods. I thought… I thought that maybe I could catch up with the royal caravan. Instead, I circled west on accident, towards the Lionhead Cliffs. And I ended up finding you. You and you horse were at the base of one of the cliffs.” 

“Cliffs?” Keith wondered aloud. Lance nodded. 

“Do you remember? I never asked about… about that night. I didn’t want to pry—” 

“Then don’t,” Keith said quickly, shivering despite himself as he again heard cold wind in the back of his mind. He meant for the words to be a command, but they left his mouth a plea. Lance went dutifully quiet. 

“A happier subject then,” Lance said finally, gently stroking Keith’s hair. “Have you enjoyed the books I brought for you? I noticed you with one last night. Shall I read to you?” 

And though he didn’t actually trust that this was the end of it, Keith settled against the bed, letting the prince’s voice wash over him. 

Keith awoke to the sound of frantic knocking. He blinked slowly awake, wincing against the bright light now scorching the room, and looking directly into Prince Lance’s sleeping face. The book from earlier lay between them, opened to a forgotten page. 

Another knock, and there was an unhappy noise from beside him. Keith’s eyes watched a little unhappy wrinkle form between Lance’s brows, and suppressed a laugh. 

“Prince Lance,” he said softly. The prince mumbled something useless, as his sleepy mouth barely moved. Keith looked to the door, unhappy that the knocking woke him and that it was about to wake the sleeping boy beside him. He said the prince’s name again, shaking him with a hand to the arm. 

The furrow between sleepy brows deepened, and Keith couldn’t help but wonder at the tired boy. He knew the other boy could have a nervous demeanor, but for him to be this tired... Keith suddenly felt guilty. He’d spent weeks in Lance’s care, apparently exhausting the boy, and only today had it even occurred to him to thank his rescuer. He looked again at the sleeping face before him, noting the slight bags under the prince’s eyes. He looked at the door, surprising himself with the subconscious wish that the knocking would go away, and leave the sleeping boy be. 

Instead, the next knock saw Lance jolting awake, spluttered words of first shock then horror leaving him as he looked first at Keith then at the daytime sky outside. 

“Late,” he squeaked, shrugging off Keith’s hand and scooting from the bed. The knock came again, and Lance shouted that he’d be right there. He rushed about the room, replacing his jacket and gloves quickly before bustling to the door. 
He looked back at Keith as if he were an afterthought. Lance sent him a wide grin. Keith wanted to be dazzled by it, but he could all to easily see the unease coiling tight between the other boy’s shoulders. 

“I’ll be back this evening. Rest well now,” he called. 

Then he disappeared, his absence leaving an entirely different feeling than usual in Keith’s chest. He found himself inexplicably worried for the other boy. Prince or not, he was a liability Keith could neither afford nor avoid. 

He picked up the book from where it had been left. He flicked through familiar pages, finding first where he’d left off alone, and then the chapter Lance had begun to read to him. 

Even as he returned his own attention to the page, the narration kept the prince’s timbre, even in the caverns of Keith’s mind. 

 * * * 

Lance hurried quickly behind Hunk, who stopped him outside of their destination to rearrange his hair. 

“Dozed off reading to him? Really Lance?” Hunk huffed. His friend certainly looked as if he’d just woken up. It was his thankfully unwrinkled jacket that seemed to salvage the look. 

“It’s true,” Lance said, fighting to keep from blushing. “And a much better use of my afternoon than whatever this courting sham will be—” 

“You just have to pick someone the council approves of to escort you to the ball.” 

“The council should have no bearing on who I take anywhere,” Lance spat, turning away from Hunk and squaring his shoulders towards the door. “I’m of age. I can decide these things for myself.” 

“The council simply wants to be sure you decide these things correctly, young prince,” a prim voice said. Lance turned smoothly to look at Luka, swanning gracefully down the hallway, her own guard following a few paces behind. He mustered a diplomatic smile as she came to rest beside him, looking down her nose at his outfit. She chuckled quietly to herself. “I see you’re on time, though barely. Pity your appearance had to suffer for it. Then again, if you look like you just came from bed, all your suitors will know just what to expect, hm?” He clenched his jaw against the anger that rose in him.

“Council or not, Luka, I’m a prince and your superior. Remember that,” Lance warned stiffly, though he could see from the mirth in her eyes that she was all too pleased with herself. 

“You’re no prince of mine,” she said coldly, before looking forwards with a pleased huff. “Doors!” 
Luka’s guard, a young woman named Ina, bustled forwards. Together, she and Hunk opened the double doors to the grand council room: a great study hall lined with mahogany bookshelves. According to Dayak, the whole history of Altea was on those shelves ‘watching over the decisions that mold Altea’s future.’ The center of the room had a long wooden table. The elder council members were arranged on one side, with younger members on the other. Lance went and took his usual seat beside Romelle, grateful for the buffer she provided against her cousin. 

Coran came in and took a seat at the head of the table, a space usually reserved for the queen, but, that he held in her absence. He looked around the room. Lance noticed an elder was missing, but neither Coran nor Dayak seemed perturbed by this. 

“Welcome council members,” Dayak announced, raising a hand to them all. “As you all know, it is nearly the end of the month. The crimson ball is nearly upon us, and Alteans from all over the kingdom will journey to our valley for this most celebrated event. It’s one of very few events hosted within the castle walls. As such, it is of the utmost importance that all representatives from life within the castle reflect only the greatness that comes with such an honor.” 
Lance withheld a frown as Dayak’s hard green eyes landed on him. He simply matched her gaze with one of his own, challenging her with his eyes to call him out. Dayak may have the grand council around her thumb, but he was still the queen’s brother-in-law and a prince in his own right. He had to start acting like it and insisting to be treated like it. Dayak’s glare only intensified as Lance met her stare. 

Dayak tugged her shawl tighter around her severe shoulders, and Lance swore the lace wrap would tear. Coran cleared his throat and her gaze flickered to the other man briefly before she let herself sit. She began to write quickly on her notepad, which supposedly would become the meeting’s minutes. 

“As Lady Dayak has said,” Coran started, drawing the room’s attention to him, “this is one of the kingdom’s most important events. As the unrest in Arus has taken the queen away from the castle, it is the role of this council to present a united front for the Altean government, which many of our families represent. Luka, Romelle, Prince Lance, as our youngest council members and only unattached council members, you have all received a number of invitations for the ball. Unfortunately, who you enter with is not a matter of dancing, but a matter of symbolism. The purpose of today’s meeting will be reviewing and choosing your escorts for the evening.” 

Lance nodded along, even though the prospect made him nervous. He truly had no intention to court in Altea, but, as Veronica’s only unmarried brother, he had to at least entertain the new political power he held here as well. He sighed, bracing himself for the awkward meetings to come. 

“I hope you young ones know what an honor it is to attend this traditional ball, especially in the positions that you will now be filling,” Dayak said primly, “for, with the queen’s absence, you all now have the opportunity to prove yourselves as the future leaders of this country; a promise to us and her allies. Some of these allies will be in attendance at the crimson ball, for the harvest bounty is quickly followed by a season of trade ” Dayak said, beginning to pace the room in her professorial way. She spoke for a long time, making sure to draw the importance of their dates to multiple aspects of Altean culture. It took Coran more than one attempt to bring her tirade to an end.

Finally, he looked at Luka, Lance, and Romelle. “If you three are all amenable, we will first start with suitors represented by image. If any of the paintings charm you, you can write accepting the sitter’s invite. If not, those who have appeared in person to ask your acquaintance will go next.” 

At that, Lance blanched. He felt utterly unprepared to meet even more high-ranking Alteans. The judgement of the council was already more than he could bear. Why should any of their aristocratic friends be any different. Lance looked down into his lap, looking at his hands in his ivory courting gloves. He tugged on the lace edges meeting the cuffs of his jacket. Unbidden, his mind went back to the last person he’d worn the courting gloves for, a young man his parents had chosen from a wealthy nearby isle. 

Everything had been so perfect. Lance had just turned twenty-one, and he had been almost certain he and Aaron would marry. He had felt it in the way the other boy would take his hand, sneaking deft fingers under the lace of Lance’s courting gloves to stroke his wrists with the soft fabric of his own. All his gestures had been so intimate like that, always paired with stunning green eyes finding Lance’s hungrily. 

When Aaron snuck them away from his chaperone one afternoon, and pressed all of that hunger against Lance’s own lips, who was he to do anything but follow? Aaron would soon be his husband after all, what did it matter if they stole kisses in shaded gardens, or stuffed their gloves in their pockets to press bare hands under each other’s clothes? And for the months that they courted, it was these sweet sure moments more than anything that Lance thought avowed Aaron’s love for him. 
Then they’d been caught by a patrolling guard. Neither had known until they’d been called to Aaron’s father’s office and berated. Lance thought Aaron would tell his father he loved him. Why else would they do such things? And so Lance had stood there, sure and confident in his royal attire, one hand already reaching for his love— 

Then he heard Aaron tell his father Lance had seduced him. 

Hadn’t they seduced each other? Or, if ever there were a seduction, it came in the promises Aaron had given Lance each time they did these things, insisting that there was nothing wrong. Obviously there were if he could stand beside him and turn away. Lance hadn’t known what to say then. So, he had said nothing. Not when he heard Aaron’s father call him a harlot, not when he was escorted from the premises by guards who made sure Lance knew they’d heard the lewd news, and not when found himself chased down along his path by a repentant Aaron. 

When he returned to his home, having to explain why the previously successful courtship had been dissolved, his mother’s shock had melted to pity, while his father had been aburst with fury. He had received Aaron’s father’s letter and refused to believe it. Now, he simply refused to look at Lance. 

Lance hadn’t needed to refuse anyone after that, for he’d had no one to refuse. His reputation had gone with Aaron’s guard’s loud mouth and his father’s cruel words. Neighboring isles showed fealty to Varadero, not its crown, and especially not the young prince. As the youngest boy in his large family, Lance was already set to be little other than a figurehead. His eldest brother was next in line as king, and after him, their second brother. Even if both abdicated (which neither would), the potential crown would be offered next to Therese. The most he could offer his family was marrying well for them, and even that now seemed uncertain.

Lance sighed, hating the stifling bureaucracy that suffused his life, yet knowing he was poorly suited for anything else. Were it not for his sisters he’d have never survived the scandal that had followed. The rumors had been awful, and though most in high society were supposedly above crass gossip, he soon found that many had no trouble spreading and sharing it, adding embellishments or even cornering him to ask the truth, as if they deserved it. His first love had betrayed him, and tainted his life with the constant reminder. 

Veronica had invited him to Altea, away from the cold judgment that Varadero had become. If he could repay her in any measure by simply making a good impression at this event, then he would ensure he didn’t disappoint. 
He cast Aaron from his mind; straightening his gloves and jacket as he followed the procession of council members from the meeting room to the next. 

Lance, Romelle, and Luka perused the paintings presented to them with careful attention. Luka chose to accept an invite on the spot, though Lance was sure that it was the name of the sitter that had caught her attention, not the painting, for Luka’s eyes roamed continually towards the painting of a young woman who had asked after Lance. 

Much to Lance’s combined shock and horror a number of invitations had arrived for him despite his presence in Altea being privileged knowledge. Although Lance shouldn’t have been surprised that powerful people talked among themselves. Still, Lance refused all of the painted invites, concluding that, as unsure as he felt, he couldn’t risk attending an event with someone he’d had no real interaction with. 

And, even though he knew it was naïve, he couldn’t help a flutter of hope that, even though he weren’t actively courting in Altea, he might just find someone worth reconsidering for. 

For the second half of the council’s arrangement ritual, Lance was left in a small study with the council member of his choice, and he chose Coran. 

“Now, you only have four in-person suitors. All of them are personally connected to the Altean government. I can tell you that one of the men here was sent to you by Veronica, though I will not reveal which. She has approved all of them already—” 

“Vera was in on this,” Lance huffed suddenly.  Coran looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Of course. She was ever so worried since she couldn’t be there with you for the ball itself. It’s no surprise that she wants a say in who actually is there with you.” 

Lance started to snap that he didn’t need his sister’s prying matchmaking—when he paused, remembering that, of his few friends in Altea, only she knew and understood the full extent of his disastrous courting history. He smiled to himself, nodding. 

“Alright,” he said, suddenly nervous. “Don’t—," his eyes flicked from Coran to the door, and the possibilities that suddenly waited behind it. He could salvage this. He could return home to Varadero, maybe even married. “Don’t tell me which one she picked. I’m going to pick by myself. But still, I… I’m glad she likes them. I hope I like them too…” He fell silent, perching on the loveseat by the window. He looked at Coran, who was perched by the door with his hands on the bronze doorknobs. 

Coran watched him patiently, awaiting Lance’s permission in the silence. It came as a silent a nod, and the doors opened under Coran’s hands, letting the first of many future possibilities into the room.