Chapter Text
In his dreams, he hears a song being hummed by a voice so gentle. So sweet. So achingly familiar. And it sings him a lullaby that he can barely remember the words to.
He remembers a hand on his own and the dying warmth of its weak touch as the gentle pad of a thumb ran over his knuckles once. Then twice, then again and again the more tightly he held it.
“I’m scared,” he says, not that he is, but he was. He remembers being scared, and he does not dare break line or face. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to.
He feels so much like the child he was. The child that he is.
The song stops for a moment. When he looks at the woman on the bed, her face is a blur—a smudge of ink, a foggy day, a cloudy sky. Yet he does not miss the smile in her voice or the way it had kept the storm inside his heart at bay. “I know, sweet thing, I know.”
“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I’m supposed to be brave.”
“Oh, but even the bravest get scared.” He feels her fingers in his hair tucking stray locks behind the shell of his ear. “Only a fool refuses to be afraid.”
He leans into her palm when her hand moves to his cheek, fingers wiping away silent tears as they keep trailing from his eyes. Curiously, he asks, “Are you afraid?”
“Of course I am,” she whispers as her head tilts to the door, barricaded and sealed shut. He hears footsteps coming from the other side. “But not for me.”
Someone bangs at the doors, making the barricade rattle and shake with each pound against the wood. He remembers a flash of red and the feeling of hot sparks coursing through his limbs. He remembers the burning sting all over his body and the world tilting beneath his feet. He remembers her angry shrieks, how she wished the perpetrator dead, how she cried and crawled on the floor just to bring him close to her.
It was the first time the monster was loved. It had been the only time the monster was loved.
And then, he wakes up.
When Antonio awakens to the knocking on his door, he forgets where he is because, in here, his bed's canopy does not display the mural of the sky and the walls are a dark, velvety red instead of the tulle white and gold carvings his old room was decorated in. He did not like his old room at any point in time because he was never allowed to leave on his own and it was unbearably blinding when the curtains weren't drawn during the day. Still, the heaviness of his weighted blanket and his too-soft pillows convince him that he prefers the familiarity of same-old rather than being a stranger to his own bed.
A quick glance outside the window shows the moon high up in the sky, peeking behind clouds that blanket a night littered with stars. These stars are not as bright as he once knew them to be, and they did not carry the same tune he hums to himself whenever the night does not give him any solace. These stars that he watches flicker like gemstones against the light are wrong in many ways that he cannot explain even if he tried.
This room that is now his and these stars that paint his night sky are terribly foreign, leaving him yearning for a home that he never learned to truly love.
The second round of knocks brings him out of bed and onto his feet, fingers combing through his tangled hair and heels pushing into the soles of his shoes with the urgency that arises with duty. Tonight, he shall perform for the monstrosity that awaits the peace that comes with sleep to calm a heart fueled by wrath, as grandly instructed to him by the King. The woman on the other side of his door, however, had given him a different purpose, one that he had not expected.
By the third round of knocks, he has the handle of his instrument’s case within his grasp and is pushing his door open to be met with a cheeky smile. "Slept well, Paganini?"
He was able to sleep with ease because his body couldn't bear another night of him tossing and turning in the sheets until he passed out. But he has the mind to remain courteous, as disheveled as he is, so he chuckles, "I apologize. I seem to have taken great comfort in the castle's accommodations."
"Guilty pleasures. Not like we can do anything about them." The woman winks before she starts walking away from the doorway. "Come on, this is going to be a long night."
Wordlessly, Antonio steps out of his room and closes the door behind him before striding over to the woman and falling into step behind her. The halls that they pass through are the same dark red as his bedroom walls, but underneath the shadows and unlit lamps, they almost seem to be doused in the color of blood. He would have been unnerved if it weren't for the sight of the woman in front of him and the clicks of her heels against the marble, but her presence does less to settle the dread creeping up his throat and the unease in every beat of his heart.
He swallows hard. "Ms. Bourbon."
"Demi," she corrects, glancing over her shoulder to bare at him a tight-lipped smile. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me by my family name. My brother already does that for the both of us."
"Demi," Antonio tries again, letting the vowels roll off his tongue carefully. When he watches her look back up ahead and hears the light hum in her voice, he takes it as satisfaction and proceeds. "I do have some queries regarding the— uh— experiment, as you’ve put it."
" Experiment, " Demi snorts. "Didn’t mean to make all of this sound so sinister, but you could call it one. More or less. Never mind, ask away."
Antonio thinks over the number of questions he's thought of throughout the short time he'd been assigned this task, but deep down, he knows that he wants to ask if he would make it out alive and unscathed. He was trained to be polite, obedient, and unquestioningly loyal, and directing offense to a supposed heir went against all those principles. He did not want to know the consequences, and he wasn’t going to try to. So he asks instead, "How do you suppose my abilities will be of help towards the Prince’s condition?”
“Ah, well, us lot have always figured that you bards know how to set the mood,” Demi says. Antonio can hear the sheepishness in her voice. “You play a song and suddenly, everyone’s falling into step! That’s how your talents work, right?”
Not exactly, Antonio wants to say, but after watching the confidence in her stride amidst the haunting darkness of these halls, he can’t bring himself to doubt her. “You could say that, yes.”
“Good, good…” She trails off as her voice dies down though her steps remain at their pace and her posture does not slack. “About His Highness…”
Antonio brushes his thumb against his case’s handle and presses his lips together for a brief moment when he connects some of the pieces. He beats her to the explanation with a conclusion of his own. “You expect me to be able to provide a remedy.”
“Not expect, no,” Demi says quietly. “We’d hate to trouble you with our antics, so if it doesn’t work, we won’t push it.”
Antonio nods even as she stares straight ahead. His curiosity is bubbling in his head and coursing through his veins, clearing the way and leaving more room for all his questions. “Do you wish it would? Work, I mean.”
“Of course.” She looks over her shoulder once more, and he catches the sympathy in her soft gaze. The look in her eyes is almost sad, and it is almost strange to see it on a woman who has been nothing but upbeat and laid-back around him ever since he came. This gentle side of her feels like a secret, but a part of Antonio takes comfort in being entrusted with it. “Who would want to be a monster for the rest of their life?”
“You’re right, you’re right.” Antonio allows a portion of the tension in his shoulders to melt away, yet he feels the heavy feeling in his chest grow. “I cannot promise that I'll be of help, but I'll do what I can.”
The corners of her lips quirk into a small smile before she looks back up ahead. She lets out a breath that sounds like relief. "Means a lot. Thanks."
"It's no trouble," Antonio says, even as the anticipation festers horribly at the base of his throat. A part of him wishes he were telling the truth instead of deceiving the first genuine person he's met in weeks, but a little white lie never hurt anyone, and he's always been a good actor. "May I know how the Prince came to be?"
“I’ll tell you if you walk by my side instead of following me like a lost puppy. My neck is getting stiff.” Antonio strides over to her side and matches her pace from there. She hums again. “Better. Now, the Prince. What do you want to know about him exactly?”
“Well…” Antonio’s fingers fidget with the handle of his case as his gaze travels elsewhere. “Was he born a monster? Is he under a spell?"
"A curse," Demi corrects. "Irreversible, but not unbreakable."
Antonio looks over at Demi and finds the furrow of her brows along with the thinning of her lips. "How long has it been?"
"Thirteen years." Her tone has turned grave, but the green of her eyes still flickers with something Antonio would call perseverance. "We're hoping it won't be any more than that."
"Thirteen years," Antonio echoes with this unexpected melancholy before letting out a quiet sigh. "How unfortunate."
"It is, even more so when there was no instruction provided."
"No instruction? Doesn't that go against the caster's moral code?"
"It does, not that the bastard who did it cared enough to remember," Demi mutters though it is loud enough for Antonio to hear. "There’s no such thing as courtesy when you’re trying to ruin the throne’s inheritance."
Antonio’s head is swimming with questions that have yet to be asked, drowning apprehension with countless “how”s and “why”s that he doesn’t risk entertaining. There is still one thing he wants to make clear though, so he sets them back on track. “You said something about setting the mood?”
“Ah, right.” She shoves her hand into her skirt pocket to pull out a set of keys, jingling as she inspects each one. “We have a theory.”
He raises a brow. “A theory?”
“See, there are times that we’ve seen him normal.”
“Normal?”
“Normal. Like, human normal,” Demi explains. Her brows are furrowed again as she rummages through the keys. “Most of the time, he’s somewhere in between, but on good days, he’s more human than whatever he turns into.”
“On good days. I see.” Antonio thumbs the handle of his case again as he recalls the words of the King. Perform for the monstrosity. Calm a heart fueled by wrath. “You’re considering something therapeutic.”
“Exactly that, yeah.” Demi clicks her tongue before she gives up with the ring of keys. “Can’t find the right key. I told them not to use moondust.”
“Whatever for?”
“The keys are the same.” She tosses him the ring—which he almost stumbles over while catching—for him to find an identical set of keys, all the same in size and shape. “Let’s hope and pray the moon’s out tonight or else we’ll have to spend the rest of the night testing it out on the lock like idiots.”
At that, Antonio cuts off the laugh bubbling in his throat with a quiet cough. “What’s with the extra measure?”
“Believe it or not, there have been a few assassination attempts,” Demi says, “and who knows the ins and outs of the castle better than the staff? It’s strictly me and my team who can access the tower without supervision.”
“Why worry about the keys when it’s only in your possession then?”
“Pickpockets. There used to be a nasty number of them here. Although they never get away with it, we’d rather not risk it, so we enchanted the lock and the door, then made multiple copies.”
“Interesting.” He flips from one key to the next, finding no distinction between each one. “Certainly well thought of.”
Demi grins. “Wait till you see the tower.”
Antonio had always been indifferent to heights until now. From afar, he did think that the tower was tall, but as they crossed the castle grounds underneath the moonlight, the height of the tallest window was greater than he expected. Perhaps he shouldn’t have looked up once they reached the base of the tower because he can feel his stomach twist and turn the longer he imagines himself up there. When he remembers who else is up there, he can feel his heart trying to jump out of his throat.
“I’ve only ever heard rumors about the Prince,” Antonio admits as Demi unlocks the door and shoves the ring of keys back into the pocket of her skirt, “but is he that much of a danger that he needs to be locked away in a tower?”
“Oh no, not at all!” There is an air of nonchalance around Demi that doesn’t necessarily extinguish the doubt burning through his very being. The small voice inside his head keeps telling him to run back to his room or maybe escape this kingdom and venture somewhere else where he does not need to be confined by anything, but this unestablished sense of purpose and his faulty instinct keeps him rooted on the spot. Overall, his hesitance has him rocking back and forth on his heels. “His Highness may be a sore sight, but he’s a gentle soul at heart.”
“Is that why the Prince was put in a tower?” he asks as Demi pushes open the door to reveal a set of stairs spiraling upwards. Antonio steps in after her as she walks in. “So that he is difficult to approach when danger arises?”
“Yes…and no,” Demi answers as she sticks against the wall beside the door with her hand patting around the surface. “After the Queen had passed, the King had this watchtower repurposed for His Highness to be kept in. He chose this one because it was the tallest he could find.”
Antonio does not question the way she grumbles at something that is not on the wall. “Why else would he be put in a tower?”
“Well, you know how some people can get when they’re off the ground,” she tells him before her hand bumps into something. He hears the impact through a dull thud and watches her fingers wrap around an indistinct, invisible object that he figures is connected to the wall. “The height scared His Highness, so he imprisoned himself in his room and always stayed far from the windows. You wouldn’t have been able to get him to move even if you tried.”
“...Oh.” The realization hits him quickly enough, but once it does, he can’t help the pity that creeps into his grimace. “Isn’t that far too overboard?”
“Downright cruel is what it is.” The conviction in her voice is unabashed as if she is speaking of another sorry soul victim to her anger rather than the monarch she serves. “The King knew no compassion or sincerity. He was a fraud, and a lousy one at that.”
“Was.” Antonio had not meant to say that out loud, but it stood out to him. “Why the change of heart?”
For a brief moment, Demi pauses and lets her gaze lock onto his. Antonio couldn’t tell what look she had on her face, but just as he was about to put a finger on it, her gaze softens back into her cheekiness, and she shrugs her shoulders. “I’m letting him off the hook nowadays with the war all over.”
“Ah, right.” Suddenly, Antonio is reminded about why he is here, and for a moment, it quiets all the overlapping thoughts until all he is left with is static. Home has always sounded like a song that he can never forget the words to—words that he knows by heart and mind, words that are tied tight to meaning and memories. It is a painful song to hear and sing, but forgetting can be a fearful thing, and there are things that he would rather not let go of. He misses the pain of being home, he misses the sound it makes. But he is a gift created by hands that have molded him into perfection, and gifts are not meant to be returned. “I…suppose we should be grateful at the very least.”
“Right,” she nods before turning back to the wall where her hand is kept around midair. “So, ready to see the magic happen?”
Antonio chuckles. “If the magic keeps me from climbing up these stairs, then you could say I’m ready.”
Demi laughs before she shifts her grip downwards, the strain of the pull producing the click of a mechanism against metal and wood. Before Antonio could ask what it does, he feels the floor before him tremble and shake out of place, and he would have thought there was an earthquake if not for the way the doorway starts to disappear beneath the floor. It takes another second to realize that they are ascending, and the sudden realization makes him back away from the stairs.
Demi laughs. “Don’t stress, Paganini. The stairs are just for show.”
And true to her word, the stairs phase through her headfirst and then the rest of her body before the platform as if the stairs weren’t there in the first place. Experimentally, Antonio reaches out to the next turn of the steps on his side and watches as his hand comes through the stones and disappears behind them. “Fascinating.”
“Isn’t it? You can pass through them so long as you’re on the platform. If you’re looking to ride it back down, just stomp on it thrice,” Demi says before her eyes soften and the corners of her lips quirk into something fond. “Tracy is a brilliant girl. She’d be going places if she weren’t holed up in that workshop of hers.”
“Is she a part of this team of yours as well?”
“No one else knows about the lift other than us.” She flashes him a cheeky smile. “And now, you do as well, but I expect that you keep this secret between us only. I’m sure you understand why.”
“Of course,” Antonio swears. He doesn’t need to be told twice, and after that look he was given back downstairs, he wouldn’t want to test her patience. “You have my word.”
“Good.” Demi yawns, stretching her arms up into the air before letting them settle on her waist. “So, what are you thinking about right now, Paganini?”
Antonio offers a light shrug before looking down to examine the case of his instrument. “Nothing much.”
“Is that so?” Demi hums. In his peripheral, he can see how her gaze continues to latch onto him like a leech. “Are you confident in your abilities then? Think you can handle His Highness without any tips?”
Antonio spares her a second’s glance before swallowing the heart jumping into his throat. “You make it sound as if I’m about to enter a duel.”
“There’s no harm in admitting that you’re scared.”
“Scared?”
Demi shrugs back at him. “Just saying.”
The rest of the lift’s ascent is neither too slow nor too fast, but it goes at a pace that gives him enough time to consider her offer, wondering if it was just some silly bluff to get him to cave in or an actual warning that he should be taking note of. His unease returns as they start to near the very top of the tower, and it festers the longer he has to stand still and wait for the platform to stop in his tracks because he knows all too well that there is no turning back. There are many things that he has yet to know about the Prince, that much he can admit. He does not know what he looks like, he does not know what he might like, and he does not know anything about him apart from his irreversible curse.
What would he do if he were put in danger?
“Ah, we’re here.” As Demi says this, the platform shutters to a stop by a set of steps leading up to a finely polished wooden door. From where Antonio stood, he could see the gold carvings on the door and the handle. “His room is just up there. He’s been expecting you.”
Antonio turns back to Demi only to feel his heart almost drop into his stomach. “You won’t be joining us?”
“Oh no, I understand that His Highness has his boundaries. I do not wish to overstep, especially since his respective guest is capable of handling his own—”
“Alright, fine,” Antonio mutters, “you win. Now, what do I need to know?”
Demi grins with as much triumph as a person on a podium before clearing her throat and lowering her voice into a whisper. “Remember, you want to put the Prince at ease. Try to play something His Highness can fall asleep to. Play a lullaby. Heck, sing one even. You have the voice for it.”
“You…want me to try and lull him to sleep?”
“If you could, that would be great. He’s also had trouble sleeping for a while.”
“Ms. Bourbon—”
“Demi.”
“Demi,” Antonio begins with a furrow of his brows, “I need you to understand that sleep hypnosis is not within my skill set. I’m an entertainer, not a therapist.”
“Then just calm him down,” Demi says softly. “I don’t mean to put all this responsibility on you so suddenly, Paganini, but we’re doing everything we can right now to help His Highness. It won’t be a lost cause even if it doesn’t work out.”
“Alright, alright.” He sighs as his fingers go to fumble with the lock on the case. “I will try, but I can’t promise you anything. What else should I know?”
“He’ll be on his bed with the curtains of his canopy drawn, but I suggest you refrain from trying to take a peek. He gets antsy around people who he doesn’t know well.”
“Anything else?”
“Greet him, introduce yourself, then…” Demi pauses for a moment before offering a small smile. “You know what comes next.”
Antonio purses his lips together as his gaze returns to the door at the top of the steps and stares for a while when he cannot define the feeling that manifests within his chest. It is almost a sickly feeling, but it keeps his adrenaline rushing and his blood pumping through his veins without strain. Fear lingers at the tips of his trembling fingers, but anticipation courses through his limbs like wildfire, burning everything in its path and leaving each bit of him that had finished burning into mere ash and dust. He does not know what he will be finding behind that door, but at the same time, his mind wanders like it is a stranger to its own conscience.
He was never meant to feel so conflicted about meeting a monster or a prince, whichever he may find.
“You’ll be here once I’m finished,” Antonio says to Demi as he turns to her, “won’t you?”
Demi nods. “If you want, I can even stay right outside the door.”
“That’d be lovely,” Antonio chuckles, but this one is neither out of courtesy nor humor. He turns back around and takes in a deep breath before heading to the door. “Wish me luck?”
“Only cowards need luck, Paganini.”
“Then I will still be needing it.”
Despite there not being a candle or torch set aflame, the room remains well-lit under the shower of moonlight streaming from the windows, as few as they are. The fireplace at the farther right side of the room is long-dead and left with the remains of charred wood, yet there is a warmth that embraces and thaws the tension in his body as if this almost empty space was bustling with life. The bookcases full of hardbound covers and trinkets along with the wardrobe cabinets are built into the walls, arranged and made presentable by whatever magic was powerful enough to repurpose this whole room without having to tear the whole tower down. From the outside, this place looked as if it was going to fall to his feet at any second, but here, it almost looks as grand as his room if not for the lack of space.
If only he were a little more distracted, maybe he wouldn’t have seen the dark feathers scattered on the ground, leaving a trail toward the bed positioned at the center wall opposite the door. If his ears weren’t as sharp as they were, maybe he wouldn’t have heard the rustling behind the canopy's curtains or the quiet breaths that tremble with each exhale.
The air shifts, and suddenly, he’s gone cold. The words to his planned greeting get clogged up in his throat and he suddenly forgets how to breathe, so he holds his breath and sets his case down on the stand by the door. He flicks at the locks of his case with wordless precision before he slowly lifts the lid, careful not to make a sound even if he knows that the one on the bed is wide awake and watching him. Antonio can feel it—a sharp, cold stare piercing through the back of his head as he smooths his one hand over the spruce of the violin in the case while his other picks at the bow from its enclosure.
“Who are you?”
Antonio cannot help the way his fingers freeze around the neck and strings of his violin when the other’s voice reaches his ears. He did not expect the air in his pitch nor the whisper in his tone because monsters were never supposed to speak in this gentle timbre. There is a rasp in the Prince’s voice, but it is nothing to the deep gruffness of eldritch horrors and sinister demons when he sounds like his voice is more worn out than it is full and rumbling. The curiosity in his question is innocent and unassuming, while the hesitance in his tone somehow makes him sound more human than he is a monster.
He takes in a sharp breath before pulling his instrument out of the case and closing the lid shut. “I am but a humble bard looking to assist you, Your Highness.”
“So I was told,” the voice trails off as Antonio stiffly turns towards the rest of the room. From the corner of his eye, he could see something shifting beneath the curtains draped over the bed. “What shall I call you by?”
“Antonio,” he answers. Silence hangs in the air for a quick moment before he decides to break the tension by taking a step into the center of the room where an unconcealed window lets the light of the moon pool on the floor. “Is it fine if I play here?”
“...I don’t mind.” The sheets shift and a few seconds pass before the other speaks again. “Whenever you are ready then.”
Antonio nods before he faces the window itself, letting the light wash down upon the front of his body and hit the polished wood of his instrument. He tucks the rest between his chin and his shoulder while he adjusts his hand to the center of the neck, letting his calloused-tipped fingers find their place along the lines before raising his bow.
He doesn’t know any quiet songs, and he doesn’t remember ever composing one. He likes the race between notes and the strain in his fingers as they rushed to press and slide against stubborn strings. There is excitement where there is a challenge and thrill where there is a pushable limit, so inspiration effortlessly roots into the core of his heart and is nurtured by a mind composing unwritten melodies. Allegro Maestoso, and rarely anything less. He has always been the whipping wind, the brewing storm, the summer heat, the forest fire. He is always running and chasing something that was never within reach.
But as he breathes in deep and rests his bow against the strings, he pretends that he knows how to be gentle. The first, slow drag of his bow is the smell of spring air and the cool breeze that make blooming flowers sway along with a delicate rhythm. Then he thinks of drizzles—gray clouds curtaining the sky above and hiding the sun from view while the weather is dull enough to make you want to stay inside—and the soft pitter-patter of raindrops against the windows. And afterward, it is the indifference of autumn as leaves turn orange and brown before they twirl gracefully in their descent while the snow falls right after them, blanketing the earth in a glistening reflection of the clouds in the sky. It started with andante, then adagio, then lento.
When he breathes, he feels the vaguely familiar coil of coolness in his lungs and the way it spreads throughout the length of his arms all the way to his fingertips. It is nothing like the warmth of performance and the way it stifles his breaths and makes him feel more alive than he had ever been, but that does not mean that the cold is unwelcome. His airways are clear and the stream that carries the tune is serene, lulling him into this state of peace where the song guides the listener to rest.
His thoughts drift to the one behind the curtains.
The Prince is quiet, and Antonio figures for a moment that he must have fallen asleep, but he doesn’t risk breaking the enchantment in this makeshift piece and continues to let his fingers waltz across the strings. His mind, however, continues to roam where it isn’t supposed to go, except his thoughts are no longer a product of the fear of what lingers in the room with him and are instead replaced by the desire to know what he doesn’t.
Vaguely, he wonders what kind of child the Prince was to deserve a fate spent imprisoned in a tower under a curse that no one knows how to break. He wonders what it means to be feared and kept hidden by the public’s eye all because they are taught to fear the monstrosity that was human before it was a monster. These walls that keep him safe and caged have aged with time and misery, and Antonio can hear its song between the crevices of the stone and wood joined by the chorus of deafening static in the air. This warmth that surrounds the room is a tepid touch, and it tastes of cold tea so bitter that the aftertaste is a nuisance that can’t be washed down by anything else.
It is lonely here. Inexplicably lonely. And Antonio can’t help but think how unfair it is, how undeserving of a fate it was, how wrong it is of destiny to do such a thing—
He almost drops his bow once he realizes his tempo is on allegretto.
He strayed too far and he’s faster than he is supposed to be. He needs to end the song quickly, so he transitions to andante before jumping back down to adagio. The coolness leaves his limbs as his focus from the song wears off with every melody that goes slower and slower until he ends with an echo of a low note.
His heart is beating in pounding against his ears and he can’t help but take shaky breaths against the heavy feeling planted in the base of his chest. Cold sweat drips down his forehead yet his skin is ablaze and scorching to the touch when he brings the back of his hand to his cheek. He feels sickly and feverish, but now that he is brought back to this aspect of reality, apprehension resurfaces and crushes his insides. But it’s over, he should be fine. The Prince should be asleep and Demi can be the one to check on him in his stead.
He had not wanted any excuse to look at the one on the bed, but his subconscious is a nasty traitor, begging him to take a peek at what awaited him behind the curtains and see everything for himself because that is the least he deserves. Reason tells him that he shouldn’t bite off more than he can chew, but he becomes a stubborn thing when something calls to his interest—something that would satisfy his desire to know. He knows he isn’t supposed to look, and he knows he never planned to, but now he’s just brimming with the need to satisfy the impulse twitching at the tip of his fingers.
A peek shouldn’t hurt, he decides as he turns to look at the bed.
He gets taken aback once he is met with the sickly pale color of skin and the dull red of an eye. Their gazes are locked in an instant, but the stranger does not do so much as react while he remains kneeled on the edge of the bed with the canopy’s curtain held in his grasp. Antonio doesn’t realize he’s held in his breath again once his eyes travel every inch of the other’s face, noting the paperwhite, tousled hair concealing almost half of his face and the scar digging deep into his cheek not enough to mar but enough to leave a fracture within the skin. He keeps running his gaze over every nook and cranny of this man’s face as if it were a puzzle that he just can’t understand, but eventually, he notices the dampness of the other’s cheeks and the trail flowing down from his eyes.
Eventually, he finds out who this person is, and nothing has ever made his mouth go dry quicker than that specific moment.
“M-My apologies, Your Highness.” The stutter in his syllables is nothing compared to the angry beehive that makes his stomach churn or his jackhammer of a heart pounding away at his rib cage. He overstepped his boundaries, he shouldn’t have let his mind wander. He’s doomed. “I did not— I did not mean for this to happen.”
The seconds tick past as the Prince remains silent, his stare unfocused yet directed at Antonio, who takes an experimental step to the side to find that the Prince’s gaze has kept still. His mind is racing for a solution as he cautiously approaches the other, holding both his bow and his violin in one hand as he goes to kneel in front of the Prince.
“Your Highness?” Antonio calls quietly as he waves a hand across his face. To his dismay, he gets no response other than the slow blink of his eyes and the tears that continue to trail down his face. He does not know what he can do, and he knows that he should, but he can’t remember how amid the scattered mess within his head. In a desperate attempt, he tries to reach out for the Prince and shake him awake. “Your Highness, please—”
He feels a grip around his wrist before it could touch the Prince’s shoulder and finds these long, talon-tipped fingers wrapped around with a grip so tight he can’t help but let out a yelp. It must have been loud enough for Demi to hear because he could hear her call from the other side of the door, but his attention diverts from that just as quickly as he looks back at the Prince.
The sight of him makes him freeze.
Dark, grey feathers have protruded from the pores on his face, trailing along the bridge of his nose and the sides of his face as they ruffle and stand out. The Prince’s gaze has turned into this striking shade of bloodshot red that fills in each space and corner of his eyes that are left fully unconcealed with his hair hiding beneath the mass of larger feathers growing from the base of his head and the sides of his neck. Antonio could hear the heaviness of each breath and the rage quivering in the base of his throat, threatening to come out and lash out at him like a shark going in for the kill. The grip on his arm has tightened, and he can feel those talons dig deeper into his skin, though not enough to make him bleed.
Antonio wants to scream, but he can’t, not when the other’s face nears him and that voice returns raspier than it was just a while ago. The Prince— no, the monster tells him one thing and one thing only.
“Leave.”
The moment the door slams open was the same moment the grip on his arm disappears, and he takes it as his chance to run. He bolts off the floor with the remaining strength he has left in his system and past Demi who yells after him to come back before taking the lift down and running back towards the castle, not even sparing the tower one last glance.
Never again, he thinks through his heavy gasps for air as he sprints down the halls without giving a damn about who he’d wake up. But it is when he is finally holed up in his room with the door locked and barricaded does he realize that he left his violin set back up at the tower.