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Prince Alfred was just sixteen when he realized that one day his father would die. He had also, maybe a little grudgingly accepted that—one day—he would be the King of the Spades Kingdom. And that thought had sometimes terrified him.
He was sixteen when Arthur had come to the castle, eighteen and beautiful, to take his breath away. He was sixteen when he had spent a year pretending that he wasn’t completely in love with someone, for the first and probably last time in his life. He had wished, privately, that Arthur had charmed him, had him under some sort of spell—accepting his responsibilities might have been that much easier. But Arthur, at that time, and even now, was probably the most genuine thing in the entire court. Alfred was maybe a little naïve at the time, but he had known that this, this whatever was something special.
He was seventeen when his father had called him a man for the first time instead of a boy. He remembered feeling like a boy anyway, lovesick and desperate and still wanting the impossibility of Arthur Kirkland.
He was seventeen when he had read the letter—the one that would take Arthur away from him forever. He was seventeen when he realized that Arthur wasn’t his in the first place.
He was seventeen when he decided to remedy that. He had felt the electricity in every kiss, every touch, and he had known that it was right, whatever it was. Arthur wasn’t his first, but he was the only one that ever mattered.
He was seventeen when Arthur left anyway.
He was eighteen when Arthur returned from Australia, bloody and crying, and he was eighteen when he rode off to a war that he wasn’t sure he was ready to fight.
He was nineteen when that war was over, and he was nineteen when he was finally able to call Arthur his own, and he had the shiny engagement ring to prove it.
He was nineteen when his father had died, just three years after Alfred realized that the King wasn’t invincible. He was nineteen when the idea of becoming king was inevitable and still terrifying.
He was nineteen when he realized that, as long as he was with Arthur, being king might be okay.
He was twenty when they put the crown on his head. It had been heavy, it still was heavy, and the weight of all that responsibility felt like it could snap his neck. The only thing that had reassured him was the look on Arthur’s face, and the knowledge that they would do it, together.
Alfred was twenty-four when Peter was born, and he was twenty-five when he realized that life in the palace would always be crazy.
He was twenty-seven when he realized that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
And, at thirty, he liked to sit in his study, pretending to be busier than he really was, so he can think about all the things that had already happened to shape his life into this one.
He was thirty when he left his study in the middle of the day, and walked down the hall to the Queen’s study. He entered without knocking—Arthur had to be used to him bursting in by then.
He was thirty when he picked Arthur up out of his chair and into a kiss; still as passionate as the very first kiss they shared, and said, “I love you.”
He was thirty when Arthur smiled and said it right back.
And he was thirty when he knew for a fact that his life, for all the strange twists and turns it took, was perfect, exactly the way it was.
He was thirty when he asked Peter, six years old and missing his two front teeth, why he was smiling, and the boy would say, “I’m just happy.”
Alfred was thirty when he couldn’t possibly agree more.