Work Text:
The last leaves of a long-dead autumn rattle in lifeless trees, the frigid wind shaking everything it swirls past as a half dozen men on horses make their way toward the resonating light of a kingdom in the distance. A king, his company, and his son, riding lengths away from him, the air between them the coldest of all. The king is first to break the silence, but no one is any warmer for it.
"The spring approaches, Jean. Have you given thought to the obligations it brings with it?"
Prince Jean cannot count the number of times he's been asked a question like this by his father, mostly because he attempts to ignore it in every instance. He sighs, responding with as much tact as he can muster.
"To choosing a woman to marry, you mean? I haven't had the time, or the concern to spare, truly."
Since the weather began to cool months before, there had been talk between his parents of his coming of age in the spring - and of finding him a suitable wife when the time came. As they ride through the trail between the borderlands and the castle, Jean thinks about just how quickly that time is approaching.
His father - his king - scoffs quietly, not bothering to turn his face to Jean to toss an accusation over his shoulder. "You give your time and concern too freely to those that do not warrant it, more like. The peasant boy who works in the court comes to mind."
He knows who his father is referring to. Marco, son of a now-crippled blacksmith, and Jean's childhood playmate, though they've since grown into much more than close friends. Not that the king truly knows the scope of what they've become to each other. It is telling that he doesn't even know Marco's name.
"Who I spend my time with is no affair of yours, father." Jean huffs, and his father replies with a bitter laugh.
"As the ruler of this nation, and your father, it is very much my affair to ensure that you marry well and carry on our lineage - free of distractions - daunting a task as that may be."
"You say that as if to suggest that I can't find someone to share affections with." Jean smirks, and he can tell his father hears it in his voice at the way he stiffens.
"I think you can only find the wrong sort of someone."
Jean looks straight ahead, not bothering to argue the point. "Your opinion is law, as they say." They ride in silence for a few minutes more, before the king clears his throat again.
"Young Historia is a lovely woman; she would make you a fine wife."
Jean can't stifle a laugh. "Princess Historia is no more interested in men than I am interested in women." The king jolts at his words, as if struck by the force of the truth Jean had never really bothered to hide.
"I didn't ask what either of you were interested in - that's not my concern."
"Right," Jean spits. "What would you have me do, then? Live my life as unhappy as you are with my mother?"
To his surprise, his father turns, though just enough to make his point. "I would have you take a wife - a future queen - without so much regard to such frivolity as your interests. I would have you do what is expected of you."
"I would've thought you'd know by now that the expected isn't my strong suit." The laugh he follows it with is dark, hollow. The king does not return it.
"You do not have a strong suit, that I'm aware of," he growls. His voice is cold, but Jean is used to it, used to a lack of warmth that rivals the northern winter. "And if that doesn't change, you're going to make this country a deplorable king."
Jean doesn't respond right away, only grips the reins of his horse and tugs it to a stop, glaring ahead at his father's back. "They've already got one of those. They should be used to it by now."
The horse he rides is startled, by what Jean isn't sure. It rears back and stomps forcefully, sending clumps of wet earth flying in every direction, including the tails of the king's robes. Jean doesn't stay to see him angered. He turns his horse in the other direction and sends it running, directionless - anywhere it might carry him - away from his father and the future he doesn't want.
--
Jean's chambers are in the south tower of the castle, but he does not climb the stairs to them that evening. He settles in the barren room of tower's base instead, watching the light outside dwindle as the day finally ends. A familiar voice calls quietly from just beyond the window's edge as he lights the first candles of the evening.
"Prince Jean?"
"Marco!" Jean grins and offers a hand out the window, helping Marco climb through. Marco dusts off the dirt that lands on the edges of his shirt and settles against the wall, looking back at Jean with a cautious smile.
"You never came 'round this evening - I thought perhaps I'd upset you somehow."
"No, never." Jean is quick to raise a hand to Marco's face, thumb stroking over his cheek. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."
"You owe me no apologies, my lord." Marco sinks down to sit with his back to the wall, legs stretched in front of him. "Are you... is everything alright?"
Jean flops down beside him, digging fingers into his temples with a sigh. "My father is probably arranging a marriage for me as we speak. Or he will be, once he finishes wiping the muck from his robes." He laughs, but Marco does not.
"I... didn't know you were to be married."
"I'm not," Jean says flatly. He turns his back to Marco for a moment, then settles his head into his lap. Marco raises an arm to let him lie back, and Jean sighs as he does."All my parents are concerned about now that I'm of age is seeing me properly married. My father is even desperate enough to suggest a marriage to the princess, Historia."
"But she--"
"I know that. Everyone knows that - my father, most of all. Like I said, he's grown desperate now that I've shown him that I'm not interested in any woman he might present me with. He's more skilled at hiding and denying my preferences than I've ever tried to be."
Marco swallows, hands still for a moment and voice quiet. "What are your preferences?"
Jean smiles up at him, pulling gently at the loose collar of his shirt. "I have only one." He doesn't have to tug very hard; Marco leans down without much persuading, and kisses him sweet and slow. When he sits back up, the fondness with which he looks back at Jean makes the prince's heart flutter in his chest.
"A preference for a pauper is not likely to be well received by the royal court, my lord."
"Which is why I won't be staying."
"Won't be - I... do not understand." Marco stares down at him, confused.
"I'm leaving. Escaping. My father will never allow me to rule this land with my own thoughts, any more than he will allow me to love who I choose to. My sovereignty would be a lie, just like any marriage he and my mother would arrange for me. So I'm leaving, tonight." He looks out the window at the last, fading hints of daylight as they settle behind the horizon, and then whispers. "Come with me."
"Me? A-are you sure?" Marco stutters his response, genuinely taken aback. Jean pushes up into his arms, still half leaned backward across Marco's lap.
"Who else would I ask, but you? Have you let go of your mind in the hours since I saw you last?" He leans up to bump his nose against Marco's, and they both laugh.
"I am never fully about my wits with you, prince."
Jean spins on his hands, until his legs overlap Marco's. "Then I hope you can be convinced to come away with me tonight." Hands sliding up Marco's legs, Jean brushes fingertips against the freckled skin just under the edge of clothing, and Marco gives a hitched, ragged breath as he nods.
"I would hope that you know by now that where you lead, I will follow."
"Then follow me into a new life," Jean asks dramatically, waving a hand like an overzealous storyteller and almost laughing as he does it. "I grow tired of this one, living without you beside me at night." His tone is light, but his words are sincere. Marco lets him sit squarely in his lap, holding him steady as he settles there.
"I have nothing to bring with me, prince. Nothing to offer."
"You are offering enough, Marco." He loops legs around Marco's waist and kisses him until Marco seems to believe his words, and they slip out of the castle together as the stars begin to twinkle in the sky.
--
The edge of his father's kingdom is a few hours away on foot, but the chilly air of evening keeps them alert and anxious to find shelter on the other side of its confines. When they pull each other over the brick wall borders, Jean stops, turning Marco to face him fully.
"I'll ask one favor of you, before we go any further," he says quietly, fingers wrapped around Marco's and beginning to ache in the frigid air. Marco nods without pause.
"Anything, my lord."
"Don't call me that anymore," Jean says simply. "I am not your lord; I am not your prince or anyone else's now. I am simply yours." He pulls Marco's cold hands to his lips and holds them there for a moment, until the chill in his skin begins to disappear. Marco nods again, slower this time, and with a timid smile.
"As you would have it, my... my love." Their fingers intertwined, they forge ahead, unsure of where they're headed, other than that it will be somewhere where they might be together.
Under the midnight moon, they take refuge in a tiny village inn, far enough from the castle to avoid his father's dogs until well after the sun rises. They light a single candle, and tear eagerly at buttons and clasps until its light is the only thing covering their skin. It is the first of a lifetime of nights together, hiding from the world, while finding it in each other's arms. It is a modest life, never much more to their newly assumed names than the wax of their candles, but it is all they've wanted.
It is all they need.