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Untitled. I
“My liege?”
He looked up to a pair of bronze eyes looking at the stars. Not once he felt he could bore himself with that scene. With his head on their lap, he felt at ease.
The other hummed in response, eyes still locking into the sky.
“Could it be that my prince was astounded by the Heavens that he doesn’t want to look at me?”, he asked in smiles. The prince laughed, “I will see your face tomorrow morning. I have to wait for another moon to rise to see them.”
“As you wish, my liege.”
And they sat in silence as the bronze eyes find every constellation.
“Do you like the stars that much, my prince?” he said while the prince took his hair in his fingers, playing with every strand.
“I was looking for Jupiter, today. Last time I was stargazing it was a full moon. Why should I look at the stars and Jupiter that day when the moon shines brightly?” the prince explained, fingers still playing with the hair of the man on his lap.
The man on the lap sighed, “Jupiter, huh? I wish you could read it to me.”
“I would gladly read every word.”
The man took the prince’s hand and kiss it on the palm.
“Have you been painting again? Your hands seem coarse,” the prince asked the man. The man giggled and hugged the prince by the waist, burying his face into his clothes.
“Your portrait, my liege. Do you want it to remain unfinished?” he asked.
The prince smiled, “Do you find it hard that I was not there? Is my face that hard to remember?” the man released himself and open his eyes, the prince still is looking at the sky.
“No painter would want their art to be imperfect. Not when the painting is about you, my liege. It’s a keepsake for myself for when you are being the people of the palace,” he sighed.
“I am no crown prince. The third in line has no hectic life. Though, teaching children how to read has become my every day.
However, it is pleasing to know that the portrait is for you to keep. I have enough of myself in the palace.”
The man continues to look at the prince’s face. He could not talk. Not because the prince has authority above him, it’s just that the prince has never been this talkative.
He is only there to listen and respond.
“In Jupiter,” the prince started.
“The author, Hanseong the Eminent, wrote that he would keep a green carnation in his pockets whenever he is away from his husband.”
“King Robert?” the painter asked.
“We litterateurs call him Bobby like how his peers called him.”
The painter nodded in acknowledgement.
“Hanseong’s astonishment when he saw the flower while he was on a trip brought his husband into his mind instantly. The flower that was bred by selection and was carefully taken care of reminded him of his husband too well.
Since that day, whenever he is away, he would bring the flower in his pocket. To be with him even if they are countries away.”
“You seem to love his words. You could be just like him,” the painter added.
“I am nowhere near.”
A gust of night wind slowly sprawls its way to their clothes and faces, leaving them in silence for a while.
“Do you have a flower that you keep, my liege?”
The prince smiled, “I do, but I would look like a garden.”
“I just wish that I can paint the flowers on my skin, so that they never wilted.”
“If only paint is eternity.” The prince sighed; a sign of dissatisfaction lies within his breath.
The painter grumbled and sit up straight, putting his head on the prince’s shoulder. “If paint is eternity, I would be glad to be the one who paint it for you, my liege.”
“Is that so?” the prince asked.
The painter nodded.
He took the prince’s exposed arm and traced his pearly skin. He stopped by his shoulder and kissed it softly.
“What are these flowers that are in your garden, my liege?”
The prince chuckled and rubbed his shoulder.
“The first one is white daisy, that’s the colour of my mother. Her love was pure and filled with innocence that I always remembered,
The second one is pink cherry blossom, for friends I made during my days up North. Their laughs and smiles are soft, as I always remembered.”
He traced his own arms down to his elbow and forearm.
“A red rose to commemorate to those I loved passionately, but only withered and burnt. As I always remembered.”
The painter asked, “Is it wise to paint misery, my liege? Is it worth the eternal paint for you to be sad, my liege?”
The prince kissed the man by his cheeks and met his eyes. “It is worth to be reminded of sadness when true happiness is yet to come,” he picked the painter’s hand and wrapped it around his wrist
“For when I was in sorrow, I believe that jollity can come any time.”
“And here you are, the fourth flower. With sunlight yellow hair that I can never see, you came to me as my new beginning. And by my wrist is daffodils, the last flower I want ‘love’ to be.”
“You are new to me and so am I to you. And this love that we have can only ends with a bliss.”