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In his short time as the king’s personal guard, Costis has long since grown accustomed to Gen’s moods.
For all the mockery he pretends not to see, for all his grandstanding, there comes a point where Gen simply can’t take it anymore.
It’s not immediately obvious to the average person. Hell, Costis himself doubts he’d notice if Gen hadn’t gone out of his way to fabricate a tell. He runs his index finger down the length of his hook, and Costis prepares to speedwalk for his life.
“I am now retiring to my chambers.” Gen says in his usual kingly voice, but there’s a hint—just a hint—of uncertainty lurking under the surface. He takes off, leaving a group of stunned attendants in his wake. Costis trails after him, taking those precious few seconds before the attendants recover to get the best head start they can.
Gen has done his part, which is signaling to Costis that he needs to be small, and as per their negotiation, Costis will take care of the rest. He adopts a wide gait, patrolling from one end of the hall to the other in a zigzagging pattern. The attendants that try to come up beside him quickly find their heels stepped on and fall back, but not before casting a litany of withering glares in his direction.
When Gen makes it back to his apartments, Costis immediately moves to block the doorway with his body.
“No visitors.” Gen snarls. He doesn’t even respond to his attendants’ protests, instead bolting the door and pretending it’s quiet.
Costis watches him, his face impassive. A sympathetic glance is enough to set the king off. He simply stands at attention, face set like he’s watching for signs of danger and not tears.
Gen storms over to his armchair by the window and sits. He’s obscured from Costis’ view, sitting hunched over his knees so not even the tops of his curls are visible.
Costis can hear the attendants departing from the halls, can hear the guards shifting, leaning close enough that their gossiping and joking won’t be overheard by a disapproving ear. Costis shuts the second door. He doesn’t want to be hearing this for the hour.
Sometimes this is all the king wants. To be able to give into his younger self with the comfort of another body in the room. He requires nothing, asks for nothing, and is content to sit for a single hour. There are times when the world is too overwhelming, and like a child, he cries, begging to be comforted. It’s these times where Costis finds it most difficult to stay at his post.
“Costis.” Gen calls. His voice is soft, shaky.
Costis takes that as his invitation to approach the king’s armchair. Thankfully, it seems like today is a day where he has no such reservations. Costis gently leans in. He knows with his hulking shoulders that he can come across as rather intimidating, so he always makes a point to move down to Gen’s level. “Yes, my king?”
Gen sniffles loudly, big tears rolling down his cheeks. He blinks up at Costis, silently pleading with him.
“Yes, my king.” Costis says, as if Gen had issued a verbal request. He holds out his hand, open palm up.
Gen offers his left hand first. Costis carefully removes his ring, trying not to pull too much. It’s easy to stir Gen up when he’s in this state, and manhandling him wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“I will return this at the chime of the clock.” Costis promises. One hour. That’s as long as his king will allow.
Gen nods distantly. His eyes are fixed on the window, tracing the movements of the birds in the trees. When he’s in higher spirits, which isn’t often, he’ll name the birds he sees, fabricating little stories for each of them, but the possibility of that seems highly unlikely today.
Costis gently removes the hook and, with one item in each hand, takes them to Gen’s desk. He sets them side by side, handling them as if they’re precious artifacts—and to him, they are. In his hands he holds Gen’s trust, and what is more valuable than the trust of his king?
Once again, he approaches Gen slowly. It never hurts to be too careful when Gen is small. “Would you like to play?” Costis asks. In their most private conversations, Gen has admitted that he rather enjoyed playing, especially games such as hide and seek, but Costis has never seen it himself.
Gen shakes his head. A few late tears break free and roll down his face. He must be incredibly out of sorts for all the tears he’s shedding.
Costis’ voice goes soft. “Alright.” He slips his hands under Gen’s armpits, scooping him against his chest. He then sits, Gen in his lap, in Gen’s armchair facing the window.
Gen melts into his touch, curling into the warmth of Costis’ chest, his fist bunched with the fabric of Costis’ doublet.
“I know.” Although they’ve never discussed it, Costis reaches up and runs his fingers through Gen’s curls, noting how Gen finally allows the stiffness in his shoulders to come undone.
There is much they don’t discuss, either for fear of being overheard or Gen’s own bashfulness when it comes to his regression, and this is one of those things.
Gen has never asked to be held, and now that Costis has given him such a comfort freely, Costis doubts he ever will. That’s okay with him.
Costis shifts his hold, so that Gen can sit higher against his shoulder and watch the birds with him.
He doesn’t mind being needed.