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Philippe de Lorraine shot himself in the head and everything is different.
Eyes wide, mouth open in shock, a scream. He's unable to grasp what just happened and at first he thinks it's some kind of dream but no matter how hard he tries to, he can't wake up. He feels like all the air is pushed out of his lungs, like he's drowning, dying but yet he stays painfully aware of his surroundings, painfully alive. He rushes forward, kneeling down on the floor as he desperately holds on to the man he loves so much. As if that would somehow help, as if that would bring him back somehow. Everything is a blur, he doesn't remember how long he sits there. All he feels are his cold, shivering hands clutching desperately at his lover’s chest, once so warm but now turning cooler with every touch. Tears stream down his face as he feels himself shiver, tremble, ache. His heart feels as if it’s being torn from his body. He is on his knees as his wails resonate throughout the chilly, empty room. He calls his name. He cries.
“My love. Philippe. My love, wake up.” His hands fist around the fabric loosely draped over his dead body. “Please, I’m begging you. Come back.” Philippe’s voice cracks as his face cripples in agony. He crawls up, head spinning, to the Chevalier’s disfigured face. Red, oozing liquid pours from the wound. It isn’t long before Philippe feels himself smeared with it, careless of his own clothes, his own hair, his own face. He screams, hissing at the other people coming into the room. The gunshot is still ringing in his ears as he presses the love of his life against himself and pleads. Pleads for him to stay here with him. His cries are muffled as he buries his head in the blond mess of curls that still hold the lavender scent of his lover’s bath oils.
“Your Highness-”
“Fuck off!” Philippe’s scream is deadly. He does not dare break away from the Chevalier. He sobs, muffling them in his lover’s cold neck. He holds him, rocks back and forth. The Prince’s mind is a kaleidoscope of flashing images, drowning him. “No. He will not leave me. He will not.” Cold hands scrambled for the gun as he tries to hold his lover’s head safely on his lap that is now soaked in blood. But as he prepares to end his life along with Lorraine’s, the weapon is pulled away. He screams at the guard, clawing at his clothes, desperate to finish what he started. “Please! I cannot live any longer!”
He was too busy fighting for the gun when he noticed men dragging the body away. With widened eyes, streaming in tears, he lunged forward, pushing and fighting anyone that dares defy him. Philippe crawls back on his lover, pressing his ear to the steady chest. His arms wrap underneath the body, tears soaking the thin fabric of his white shirt.
Once, that heart was beating, drumming. He had heard it. He was not crazy. Once, it jolted at the sight of him. It was his. It pumped through the Chevalier’s body crimson blood, warming him and in turn warming the Prince on those cold French nights when a fireplace was not enough. He screamed at the thought that he would never feel the heat of his lover’s body again on those freezing winter evenings. Who would be there to advise him on his ensembles? Who would dress him for events and whisper in his ear how dashing he looked? Who would he love wholeheartedly, with every speck of his being, for the rest of his miserable life?
“My love. My sweet. My Chevalier. Please. Tell me this is a joke. Wake up. Hold me, Goddamn it!” Philippe cuffed his hands around his lover’s wrists and attempted to wrap them around himself. “Please! Hold me. I need you. I love only you. You’re my love, please! Wake up! I shall butcher half the court if that is what you wish, just please, wake up.” His wailings and blubbering did not help.
He felt himself being tugged away from the body but he fought all he could. His screeching must have alerted the entire palace. But he did not care. He did not care for his own being, let alone others. All he cared for was his Chevalier who was now laying on the icy floor.
“I love you! I love you so much! Say it back. You never got to say it back, Philippe! Please!” He managed to fight off everyone and cuff himself around the Chevalier once more.
He did not remember how long he cried for. Until his tears dried. Until his head ached. Until his lips cracked from dryness. Until he was limp and frail. He was worn out. The pain was too much for him to handle. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the pain he was feeling. It could have been night, day, maybe even the next morning. All he knew was that he could not let go of his Chevalier. The pain was worse than a dagger to his chest. Eventually, he was too worn out. The Prince drifted to a cold sleep on top of the body, sweeping in and out of consciousness as they managed to pull him from the body and drag him to bed.
When Liselotte came to visit, he was still asleep, curled in the white sheets that still had the Chevalier’s scent. His entire body trembles as he chokes on his own sobs. He is unable to talk to her. Philippe tries but no words come out, not even when she sits down beside him and holds him too tightly until exhaustion takes a hold of him and he falls back asleep, though it feels more like being unconscious.
He wakes up exhausted and confused. Confused why his eyes are swollen, confused why everything hurts, and then he remembers, the dreams flashing back like a horrible nightmare that would not end.
Philippe de Lorraine shot himself in the head and everything is different.
The news spread like wildfire, soon every noble at court knows what happens and he feels like they are all talking about him, whispering, blaming him so he refuses to leave his chambers from then on. Friends, or at the very least people who seem to care a little bit, try and talk to him but he tells them all to go away. He wants to be alone, he needs to be alone because the presence of people makes him feel like he's going insane. He feels like they all blame him, no matter if they liked the Chevalier or not. Ultimately, it is his fault alone that his bed was now cold and there was no Philippe there to hold him until all was well.
He killed him, he fully blames himself. He should have talked to him, should have taken him seriously especially when he came in, waving that gun around. But he was too slow, much too slow and he wonders what he did to deserve this.
Tears never end. They continue to stream down his cheeks, soaking everything. His face hurt from being crumpled for so long. His chest burned. He did not eat. He did not drink. How could he? Those brought a man life and right now, he felt no life inside him. His life died with the Chevalier.
It isn’t long before the agony turns to anger. To fury. He finds his sword and he limps. His body is weak but the burning passion fuels him.
Thomas. It’s his fault. His and Louis’ for making him pursue the man. He swings his sword at everyone in sight, not allowing anyone to come near him. He screams at anyone that tried.
“Thomas! You owe me a life, you fucking bastard!” It’s not long before he finds him. The playwright’s eyes go wide and the blood drains from his face. Blood that Philippe was thirsty for. He’d have his head on a pike for Lorraine. For taking away the one man he loved more than life itself. He’d toss the severed head at his lover’s grave. Revenge. “You! I will kill you with my own hands!” The Prince tossed aside the sword and lunged at him but he was held back by the men that had rushed towards him.
He fought, like a beast starving for blood. His screams once more awoke all in the palace. He clawed and struggled but ultimately, he was dragged away.
“He killed my Philippe! I will burn him! I will watch the fucker die! Get your hands off me, that bastard took away my Philippe. Give me back my Philippe! I need my Philippe.” His throat burned. Tears once more graced his pale cheeks. He was tossed back into bed and guards were placed at his doors, people in his rooms at all times after he attempted to take his own life again with the sword.
Philippe de Lorraine shot himself in the head and everything is different.
The next time Philippe leaves his chambers is for the funeral. He notices the stares the moment he enters the room but he ignores it even though he feels like their gazes are impaling him. The mass is a blur, he doesn't remember a thing. His heart is heavy, his eyes puffy. He was force-fed before leaving for the ceremonies but he still felt dizzy. There was no physical pain like the one he was currently feeling.
When he lays his eyes on the coffin, his body goes weak. Liselotte and another are there to hold him up but it does not aid the pain. The thought of his lover’s body in that wooden box… he choked back a sob, shaky breaths keeping him alive. The Chevalier hated tight spaces. He would’ve screamed if he were alive in there.
When it is his turn to pay respects, Liselotte looks at him, worried but Philippe finally is able to mutter to another human being.
“I will be alright.” His voice is coarse and as lifeless as his eyes. He steps forward towards the front and places a shaky hand on the coffin.
In there, with only wood between them, was his lover. The man he so fiercely had loved before. They had so much planned together, so much joy and adventure. He wanted to visit Saint Cloud again, to feed his lover the oranges grown on those trees. At the thoughts, he could no longer hold his body up. He kneels, his forehead pressed against the cold material that held his Chevalier inside.
“My love. My dear.” He whispers so not another soul hears. “I love you. I love you so much.” Tears welled in his eyes but he blinked them away. It was only them, now. Philippe and his Chevalier, in their own little world. There may have been people watching, but to the Prince, they were a blur. “Forgive me. I blame myself. If you were here, you would hold me, correct? You would tell me not to blame myself. My brother tried to convince me to move on. If you were here, you’d tell me not to listen to him. You’d tell me that he may be France’s King but I am yours. Your King. I will not listen. I will not love another until my death reunites us once more. I hope you’re comfortable. I will be counting the days until I see you once more. Life without you has lost its luster. Drinks don’t taste the same. Food is bland in my mouth. And I realize more than ever that you were the element, that brought depth to my experience. I’m sorry for my transgressions. I hope you rest easy, my love. I will never lose your ring. I made a vow to you, that I’d love you for the rest of your life. But now, I renew that vow. I will love you for the rest of mine. And beyond.”
“Philippe.” He heard Lisselotte’s whisper and as her hand slithered on his shoulder.
“I love you.” He muttered to his Chevalier once last time.
When his love is buried, he doesn't even have tears to cry anymore, he just stands there and watches. At this point he doesn't feel alive, he doesn't feel anything yet he feels too much at the same time. Grief. Mourning. It felt impossible. To have someone by your side one moment and then disappeared, the next. Gone. Forever. And Philippe was utterly helpless.
But when he gets back, he's suddenly overcome with anger, such horrible anger directed at himself and the world. At the Chevalier too. He didn't have to do this! Why did he have to leave him alone like this! There was no need, they could have talked about it! If only he would have listened. Why did the Chevalier have to be so melodramatic, why did he have to go through with it? Only to prove his point? That Lorraine loved him? He knew, hell, he always knew! From the moment their lips met the first time when they were but teenagers. The first night they spent together. He knew! But perhaps he should have told his lover more often that he felt the same. But sometimes the Chevalier made things especially complicated. Now he missed him more than he could miss his next breath. He used to like to tease him about being a coward and he knows that he isn't - wasn't - cowardly at all. But in all honesty, a little cowardice could have been useful now. So Philippe pours himself a glass of wine and drains it in one go, then he smashes the glass on the floor before chugging from the bottle which he smashes as well, until he has to look away because the spilled crimson liquid brings back memories. He leaves the shattered glass.
Philippe de Lorraine shot himself in the head and everything is different.
The nights are much colder now. Even if they had not shared a bed in so awfully long before it happened, because the thought of him being gone is so completely and utterly unbearable to him that he feels incapable of being warm ever again. The nights are much longer as well, they feel like an eternity and he doesn't sleep much these days either. Philippe has seen too much death in his life, too many innocent people's lives being cut short. He has seen the horrors of war, of poison but nothing could have possibly prepared him for seeing the life fade from those pale jade eyes he loves - loved - so much.
Every time he closes his eyes he sees it, he hears it, the sound of the gun and a body falling to the ground, followed by his own uncontrollable sobbing and guards, screaming, talking to him but he can't make out what they are saying. He remembers what Louis told him once. "There will be others."
And he remembers his reply as clear as day. "Not like him." Never like him. Not another soul, for the rest of his life, would touch him, love him, care for him as his Philippe did. Not another would hold him through the cold nights and kiss him awake every morning like his beautiful, perfect Chevalier. His angel. Literally, now. Tears would cradle him to sleep, night after night, and pain never left his body. He was ready to bear that pain for the rest of his life.
Philippe de Lorraine shot himself in the head and everything is different. Everything is different. Different. And he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. There is nothing he can do but wait for his own demise, to be once again reunited with the man he loved more than life itself.
But now, it was only sleep that took him away. Not death. Not yet. It was only the dreams of his faltered lover that kept him alive. He snuggled into the sheets that he would trickle with the same oil his Philippe liked to wear, and he would let the scent hold him, whoosh him away into a better world where he knew no pain like this. Only Lorraine. And they would be together, in Saint Clouds, their fingers once again intertwined and their lips pressed together once more.
“Good night, my love.” Philippe whispers to the sky as he strokes the other side of the empty bed. “Rest easy.”