Chapter Text
The Simons family are not well-known in England – or anywhere else, for that matter. They have no large social media presence, and no known links to anyone remotely famous. In fact, they would almost appear to not exist on most records, which is how they like it.
However, the Eaton family are a different story. Everyone knows who the Eatons are. Their names are written in countless history books, taught to schoolchildren across the country, mercilessly followed by hundreds of thousands, even millions of people all over the globe, even if some of the family choose to keep their faces out of the public eye as much as possible.
Because the Eaton family are the royal family, scrutinised daily, and that is why Thomas Eaton, the oldest grandchild of Robert and Camille Eaton, is not allowed to be a streamer.
Tom Simons, however, is allowed to do that on three conditions.
One, he will never show his face. While there are minimal photos of him for people to access and criticise and share, there are official, palace-approved press shoots that he has to take part in, and there have been close calls with accidental selfies getting leaked that nobody is keen to repeat. So, no facecams. Tom Simons is a faceless streamer – always has been, and, even if he doesn’t like it, always will be.
Two, he uses a voice changer. Not much, nothing too drastic, but it keeps people from connecting the voice occasionally heard on television in speeches and announcements to the rapidly growing streamer who makes comments about women and screams at people while role-playing Minecraft.
The screaming isn’t much of an issue, actually. The palace is more than big enough to provide a room far away from any meeting rooms – especially after that one time with the Russian Ambassador that he’s not allowed to talk about under pain of death – that it doesn’t disturb anyone. Even at half-past one in the morning, shouts of ‘Will, why did you do this to me?’ or ‘Tubbo, look out!’ go unnoticed, which suits everyone perfectly.
Which leads on to the third and final condition, the one that he hates the most, the one that he tries to renegotiate most nights.
No revealing who he is. Not to anyone – not to the people he talks to every so often in streams, not to the people he stays up all night with just talking to and laughing with and forming a second family.
Not even to his best friend, no matter how much it hurts.
Ranboo is in the UK, Twitter screams at him as he stares blearily at his phone on Saturday morning. Of course, Tommy knows this. He’d already talked to him the night before, Tubbo and Ranboo in the extension of Tubbo’s house, smiling at the camera, and him staring at the Discord window on his computer, fingers itching to press the camera button, the one he is absolutely forbidden from even thinking about.
It had felt stupid. Ranboo, who hasn’t shown his face either, was perfectly happy to leave his facemask and gloves forgotten in his bag when it was just the three of them, while Tommy was stuck with his face uncovered but no-one to see it.
They didn’t mind, they’d assured him – after all, it was his choice on when he wanted to face reveal, to them or in public or anytime, it was his choice.
Except it wasn’t his choice.
Tommy shakes off the lingering irritation and turns back to the tweets lining his screen. Some small content creator was trying to cancel him, George and Dream had hinted at George being in Florida – although they both remained firmly in their own corners of the world – nothing new.
He scrolls through the trending tags for a couple of minutes, liking various pieces of fanart (the ones that haven’t theorised about what he looks like, as he’d asked them not to) and smiling at the immediate reaction from some of the artists when they see it.
But, sooner or later (he’d rather it was later) there’s a knock on his door, and his moment of peace is over.
‘Thomas?’
‘Tom, Tommy, not Thomas,’ he mutters, but not loud enough for them to hear, instead replying ‘Yeah?’
‘I have your schedule?’
He frowns. Schedules are rarely needed, only for occasions with lots of people or things to remember or important appointments. The only thing he’s aware of is a ballroom class at two, because the incident at the last gala (the one where he’d stepped on the queen’s foot and everyone had noticed) was not one to be repeated. He has plans for a stream later at six with Tubbo and Ranboo, just a Jackbox or you laugh you lose, but that’s unlikely to feature in the official schedules.
‘My schedule?’
The figure behind his door – one of the maids who he will actually greet like a civilised human, once he’s willed himself to get out of bed – anticipates this. ‘Yes. Something last minute came up and there’s a meeting later where your presence is requested.’
Requested, he learnt before he was five, means required, but in a polite way. ‘I’m coming, just one second.’
He opens the door, still hurriedly pulling on a dressing gown, to see one of the younger maids, bearing an envelope and a slightly nervous expression. Even though he can’t, and definitely wouldn’t execute them – which was outlawed years ago, because basic human rights, come on – they always seem to expect them to snap at them for waking him up or taking him to functions that drag on for hours, as if it’s their fault.
Tommy takes a deep breath and fixes a smile on his face, nothing too menacing or precocious, but saying I’m-not-going-to-fire-you-and-ruin-your-life and opens the envelope.
Meeting, it says, with the Charity Board, five until seven. Light food provided.
And then an extra note, written in a cursive script by his mother. Please don’t miss this, it says. It’s important you know how to behave in these when you’re older.
Everything, all his life, has been for when he’s older. And he gets it, he does. Some day he will become king, and he does need to learn the proper etiquette and whatever (he zones out whenever his grandfather, grandmother, parents, anyone who wants to, begins talking about his future), because the focus will be on him, and he will have to run a country.
But he’s also seventeen, and this last-minute change in his plans means that he has a call to make.
‘Tubbo?’ Tommy says into the voice call, having thanked the maid and ignored the look of relief on her face before gently closing his door – gently, never slamming, because that’s bad manners – and pulled up Discord on his phone.
‘You alright?’ his friend replies, voice holding traces of sleep and tiredness. ‘You don’t normally call this early.’ Tommy can hear Ranboo in the background, sounding even more tired, and asking ‘is that Tommy?’, American accent more obvious with his exhaustion.
Tommy bites his lip. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry. Can I push the stream back an hour? I’m so sorry, my mum just, uh, she said she booked a table at a restaurant with some friends for tonight and she can’t reschedule.’
He hates lying to his friends.
‘Sure thing,’ Tubbo replies, willing to help as always. ‘Did we post anything on Twitter?’
He thinks for a second. ‘I’m pretty sure we didn’t. Thanks so much. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ That’s Ranboo. ‘And, Tommy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You sure you’re alright? You just sound kind of stressed. It’s just a stream, we can always reschedule.’
He sighs. ‘I’m fine. Just not what I wanted to deal with at,’ he checks his phone, ‘half past eight in the morning. Oh god, it’s earlier than I thought, did I wake you up? God, I’m so sorry.’
Tubbo laughs. ‘Seriously, Big Man. It’s fine.’
‘Thanks.’
Another knock sounds at his door. ‘Tom?’ It’s his mother.
‘Sorry, got to go, see you guys later. Thanks and sorry again.’ He hangs up before either of them can reply, just as she opens the door.
‘Morning,’ she says, way too awake and ready to face the day, as she puts it, for before nine on a Saturday.
‘Hi,’ he mumbles.
She smiles. ‘You got my note?’
He waves it half-heartedly. ‘Yep. Five till seven, charity board. Fun.’
A sigh. ‘Listen, I know it’s not great, but they are good people, and who knows? Sometimes those meetings get quite interesting.’
He’s not sure he believes her, but it’s pointless to argue. ‘Alright. I need to get dressed.’
She frowns, but only shakes her head slightly and leaves the room.
Tommy gives himself two minutes, a whole hundred and twenty seconds of being frustrated at the situation, before he forces himself to push it from his mind and get ready.
At least there’s one benefit to living in a lonely palace with tourists constantly outside.
They have great breakfasts.
Ten minutes later and he’s running down the corridors (slowing when he passes anyone who could report him for it) towards the kitchens. If they have guests, there’s more of a grand affair in a formal room, and his grandparents usually have theirs in a private parlour, but he prefers going straight to the source of the food to pick and choose what to eat.
The cooks aren’t surprised to see him, have even set aside a couple of sausages and rashers of bacon for him to start with. Most of them smile as he enters, not out of respect necessarily, but because he’s been there so often they’ve seen him grow up while staying by their counters and ovens. One of them remarks on his outfit – the red-and-white t-shirt that has become somewhat his trademark on Twitter since he mentioned he wears it a lot one stream, paired with a pair of jeans he picked up from his floor – and he rolls his eyes when they say he’ll have to change it for later.
Of course the cooks know. In fact, they’re normally the ones he goes to if he needs to find anything out, because they always know who’s going to be where for when and for how long. They’ve saved him enough times too, with gossip they’ve picked up that he can use for conversation material at more boring functions.
And they make great food, he thinks as he starts eating. It would be a strange sight to many, a prince in a corner of a kitchen, eating and chatting with the people responsible for feeding him and the rest of the royal family, but he doesn’t particularly care. It works for him, and he hasn’t been told off for it – yet – so he’ll keep on doing it.
It’s times like these, when the air is thick with the smell of whatever will be for lunch later (most of breakfast will have been prepared long before, with how many people they’re cooking for) that he thinks that maybe it’s not that bad. Sure, he would love to meet up with his friends in person, and experience a normal life, one not filled with lectures on how to hold a fork properly and the ever-present dread that someone will bring up politics, but there are upsides.
The food, for one. He could never get tired of that.
His family, too. All his extended cousins and aunts and uncles, who bring light and laughter to the palace, even if they look at him slightly pityingly, slightly jealously. His parents, who, after all, despite their stupid rules, overruled his grandparents, the literal king and queen of England, to let him stream.
And, when his schedule is just too packed for him to stand, he has his own mental map of the palace, with its infinite hiding places where he can have some time to himself, consequences forgotten. He’s even taken to hiding a couple of books in some of them, and the cooks normally don’t tell anyone if he sneaks in to grab some food before disappearing for hours.
It’s a Saturday, too, so his morning is free. He won’t call Tubbo (especially considering he’s probably sleeping again now), but Phil should be awake, and Wilbur as well. Techno never sleeps either, so he’s not surprised to see them all in a call, nobody streaming.
Sometimes he wonders how much the fans understand about his life away from the screens. Not the whole thing about him being royalty, of course, but the way he interacts with the others outside streaming. Some people think it’s all a bit, others take it a little too far in the other direction (although he never objects when they say him and Wilbur are brothers, because they definitely are, even if not by blood).
It’s not a bit. It never was, they are all one hundred percent his family. He’s stayed up with Wilbur countless times talking about his worries about streaming, and whether he’ll ever be taken seriously for being a seventeen-year-old Minecraft streamer. And while they’ve never directly talked about why he doesn’t show his face, even off stream, whenever he’s mentioned it casually he’s known that they’re all happy to talk to him about it – or not, if he doesn’t want to.
He messages Phil as he says goodbye to everyone in the kitchen and makes his way back upstairs, asking if they’re happy if he joins the call. They always are, but he likes to check each time.
‘Morning, guys,’ he says as soon as he’s started his computer and loaded up Discord.
Techno says nothing, just a sound of acknowledgment, and Wilbur seems too focused on whatever he’s doing to do more than grin at the camera.
‘Hey, mate,’ Phil replies, smiling. His and Wilbur’s cameras are on, Techno’s is off. Technically, Techno has done a face reveal, but sometimes he prefers to keep his face hidden. Most likely, at this time and considering the time difference, he’s so sleep-deprived that he doesn’t want any of them to see it on his face.
It’s happened before, too many times for Tommy to count.
‘Good morning so far?’ he asks.
‘Not bad, I managed to – ’ Phil begins, before being interrupted by Wilbur swearing loudly and banging his hand on the table.
‘That stupid child, I swear!’
Phil grins knowingly, Tommy is left confused.
‘What child? Will, if this is just you rubbing in my age again, I’ll… I’ll, I’ll start stabbing something. Can’t we just leave it as a joke?’
‘Not you,’ Wilbur mumbles distractedly. ‘Geoguessr.’
‘Ah.’ No further explanation is needed.
There’s silence in the call for a few seconds as Tommy mentally goes over what was just said.
‘Wait, Will? You’re getting beaten by a child?’
All things considered (except the first half hour of his morning, which he doesn’t count), it’s been a pretty good day. He’d played on Hypixel with Techno for an hour or so, Kristen had come in at one point to say hello after coming back from America, and Wilbur had finally beaten that child at geography. Honestly, Tommy doesn’t care about the last one, but it had stopped the intermittent swear words for a little while.
His good mood comes to an end, however, after lunch. That in itself is a lonely affair, his father having been stuck in meetings all morning, and his mother leaving halfway through to deal with an ‘emergency’. He’d almost given up, about to call Tubbo and Ranboo, but a reminder had popped up on his phone.
Ballroom dancing, it says. Two o’clock.
Almost immediately, he gets a text from his mum.
Don’t forget ballroom at two. I know you don’t like it, but we really can’t have last month again. Sorry.
He grits his teeth, but types back, It’s fine. Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, Enjoy your emergency.
She doesn’t reply.
Curse whoever decided that ballroom dancing was a good idea, he thinks, as the instructor goes over the correct way to bow for what feels like the fiftieth time. It’s been half an hour and he still hasn’t started on the actual dancing.
‘Not too low, but not too high,’ the instructor says, demonstrating as he does so.
Tommy tries to take it in, he really does, but he’s honestly so tired and bored, and quite frankly, he also just doesn’t care.
‘Are you even listening?’ The instructor’s tone turns exasperated and slightly cross, and Tommy tries to look as if he’s paying attention.
He stands up a bit straighter – another thing he’s constantly told off about – and nods. ‘Yes, sorry.’
‘Your go then.’
He sighs, and attempts a bow. It doesn’t feel that bad, he doesn’t think he goes too low or too high (although that’s quite hard to judge) but the instructor winces.
‘We’ll go over that next lesson. For now, let’s work on our waltz.’
Maybe this is just a cleverly-disguised way of torturing him somehow.
An hour of painful dancing (or failures of dancing, if the look on the instructor’s face is anything to go by) and yet another change of clothes later, he’s sitting in an empty board room for the meeting. The cooks hadn’t been surprised to see him twenty minutes before to grab a snack, and one of them had even given him a small pack of sweets. ‘Your risk,’ they’d whispered, ‘but there if you want them.’
He’d smiled and put them in his pocket.
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside. Tommy sighs, closes his eyes briefly to savour the last few moments of peace before forcing a well-trained smile onto his face.
Tommy, or even Tom Simons, is gone. And Prince Thomas Eaton of England, oldest grandchild of the king and queen of England, is ready for this meeting.