Chapter Text
Mike had been pleasantly lost in his thoughts, idly slipping from memory to memory like a dragonfly on water when a bony elbow rudely jabbed him in the ribs.
Mike jolted, hand hastily gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to unsheath it and face any threat – the redheaded threat in question doing a pitiful job of hiding laughter behind thin-pressed lips.
Mike relaxed his hand, let it fall to his side and straightened his back in a more acceptable stance.
“To what I owe the pleasure?” his intended whisper turned hiss.
Max spared him no glance, eyes trained on the dining hall, moving rapidly from guests to servants to entrances and exits to ensure everything was in order. Same as Mike was tasked to, had he not lost himself in his reveries.
It was happening frightfully often for Mike to get stuck in his mind, trapped in honey-sweet open-eyed dreams he would gladly remain lost in forever rather than facing the cold bitterness of reality. Dwell endlessly in the realm of his mind, a place with no distances – not literal nor in the shape of protocol, court rules, decorum or rank. Just them, two young men, one far more beautiful than any dream Mike’s restless mind could conjure up and the other, far too hopeless in his devotion.
“You were staring,” Max replied, startling him once more.
Mike bit the inside of his cheek, almost drew blood. Get a hold of yourself, Wheeler. You know better than this.
“I was not.” He lied through clenched teeth.
“You were. You could at least blink every now and then, someone might believe you’ve finally lost that one last spark of intelligence you’ve been desperately clinging to and gone catatonic.”
Mike was about to reply in kind when Max spoke again, “You caught the Prince’s eye; he seemed worried over your state.”
The knight cursed his pale complexion, sure the warmth he felt on his cheeks was showing for the whole dining hall to see, catching eyes like a beacon. Mike lowered his head as much as he could to limit the damage while still maintaining a decent view of his surroundings, eyes scanning the room as he was assigned to.
He lowered his voice hoping it would be enough to cover the quiver woven in it. It wasn’t. “Was he looking at me?”
Rolling eyes make no sound, but Mike swore he could hear it when Max raised her forget-me-not eyes to the decorated ceiling. “You would have seen it, had you not been busy staring into the void like a moron, you lovesick, blushing maid.”
Mike couldn’t find in himself to reply, too preoccupied with keeping his gaze fixed on the torch-lit hall and resist temptation to steal a glance at Will, see if concern still lingered on his features. He hoped not, loathing the idea of anything but joy, love and serenity grazing Will’s handsome face.
Still, the most treacherous and lovesick part of him raised its ugly head at the prospect of Will being worried over him, a pleased shiver running through his spine. Had Will been staring long? His eyebrows knitted and his eyes soft? Had he pressed his lips thin? Left them slightly agape or worried his bottom lip with his teeth, wondering what thoughts Mike could have lost himself into, unaware that Mike had been thinking of him, only him, always him?
Perhaps Will had wondered if Mike was thinking of a few hours back, to the gardens; all the while Mike had been pointedly avoiding the afternoon in his aimless wandering through memories, admittedly thinking of anything but their time by the pond. No matter how sweetly it called to him, he wouldn't allow himself to dwell on what had happened until safe in the quiet of his sleeping quarters, just him and his thoughts. Just him and the memory of Will’s lips falling on his in proper kis–
Mike shook his head, black curls escaping the tied piece of cord and falling into his face as he attempted to discipline his mind.
Max, much to his dismay, was right. Who else would strike a deal to be turned into a frog just to be held and kissed by their beloved for a few precious instants? A fool, that’s who. A lovestruck fool.
Although shame still curled hot and vicious in his guts, Mike had come to accept his own antics, his willingness to collect all the crumbs of affection Will would spare him, even if it meant turning to theft.
Much like a magpie Mike was drawn to the shine of his best friend’s smile, the glimmer of his hazel eyes, the sparkle of his laughter; the way sunlight and moonlight alike shone on Will’s skin making Mike feel so greedy, so helpless to reach out and touch, to reach out and kiss, reach out and just – take.
He saw the blinding beauty of his Prince and felt like a thief. He saw the glaring of his soul and felt like the most wretched of criminals. But how could Mike witness such beauty, such light and kindness, such warmth and love and even mischief all wrapped up in the most perfect of vessels and not want it all for himself, selfishly steal Will away from the world to keep him forevermore? It would be like thieving away the sun just because one feared the dark and never wanted to be cold again.
That’s what love does to you, Mike thought, wishing he could rub at his tired heart like he would with any other sore muscle to soothe the pain, it makes you selfish.
He had collected every stolen look, every pretence of an accidental brush of hands. Every rose and red shade that had stained Will’s cheeks when Mike found the courage to take a step out of line in their friendship, to cross the border and push the fraying boundary a little further.
He'd memorised the way Will's lips shaped around his name – how they touched around the first syllable just to part around the second; how prettily they rounded when calling him Micheal out of mockery or irritation.
He had catalogued all those different little gestures that made Will Will – how his eyes would brighten and his head cock slightly to the right when something caught his attention, painstakingly committing every detail to memory so as to draw it later. How he would absentmindedly raise his hand to his lips to bite down on his paint or charcoal speckled fingernails when nervous, catching himself halfway through and sheepishly lowering his hand pretending nothing had happened. How he loved strawberries but refused to eat any until well into the summer, sure that the first few wouldn’t be as sweet.
How during balls Will always saved his first dance for his sister, patiently waiting if she was dancing with Jonathan already, or choosing to invite one of the little girls of the court, so giddy and puffed up in their voluminous chiffon dresses they reminded Mike of swirling, dancing cakes. He had attempted to do the same once, chivalrously bowing down to invite one ecstatic little girl, only to have her in tears when he had stepped on her foot – to Mike’s defence, her feet were rather small and hard to see beneath all those layers of delicate fabric. But at least he had received an exasperated but endeared smile from Will, the kind that pulled at the corner of his plush lips in mockery until they disappeared hidden behind Will’s hand.
Mike had been quite pleased with himself as he quietly tucked the smile away with the rest of his hoard: a collection of small shards of Will he had memorised and taken, all those trivial – to many, not to him though, never to him – details he had spirited away into the nest of his heart, his own personal loot to admire and cherish; a mosaic of the one Mike loved the most.
Despite the promise to keep that hungry part of himself secluded and only take what was given to him, Mike had grown impatient over time.
Small steps, he often had to remind himself: measured and thoughtful gestures to prove Will the depthlessness of his devotion. But mostly, small ways to prove Will that their relationship wouldn’t have to change at all, that they would remain the best of friends, playful teasing and companionable silence. That the only difference would be the freedom – freedom for Will to strip himself of the guilt that trailed behind him like a heavy cloak, enveloped him like a dark, smoky cloud; no more last-second averted eyes and nails digging in soft palms, no more holding back nor pretending. No more pathetic magical deceptions.
Freedom to forget about intangible enemies that kept them apart like rank, duty, politics, alliances, or worse, marriage – forces Mike had no weapons against but his words and the truth he held in his heart.
Freedom to stop dancing one around the other as they had been doing for years. Mike had never been a gifted dancer and he was growing tired of this restless reel that left him with empty hands and a heavy heart.
He ached to stop Will mid-twirl, press a hand to the small of his back and drive him into his chest, let Will see for himself just how perfectly they fit together – a realisation Mike had come to almost a decade ago. Let his own heart run free, beat savagely in its cage for Will to feel if he as much as brushed the tip of his fingers over Mike’s chest. Perhaps, Mike hoped, their hearts would start beating in unison – a tempo all of their own. A song for nobody but them to dance to.
He ached to seize Will’s shy hand in his and press it down to his wild, wild heart. Tell him here, this is my heart, except it’s not mine and never has been. It’s yours, please take it. It wants to go home.
He ached to cup Will’s flushed cheek – and of course it would be flushed if Mike drove them so close – stroke his thumb over the soft skin almost as if to sweep away the blush from it, something Mike would never do, Will’s rose-kissed cheeks never failing to twist his stomach in a tight knot, bring a soft smile to his face. A comforting reminder that he was not alone in this storm of feelings, this rain of longing.
Because Mike longed, desperately so.
He longed to stare into Will’s kaleidoscopic eyes, take a moment to record all the different shades – a pointless task, really, as he learned them all by heart, but one he would enjoy nonetheless; especially when Will would realise what Mike’s intention were and his pupils would widen in surprise, shock, anticipation, eating away at the hazel and mirroring Mike’s reflection back at him.
He longed to lower his head slowly, agonisingly so towards Will’s, giving his best friend time to back away from this, from them. In his fantasies, Mike would cradle Will’s face gently and follow the pull of gravity, brush their lips together, lock them in a long-awaited kiss. In his wildest fantasies, Will surged up on his tiptoes and met him halfway.
He longed to feel his Prince’s soft lips against his, to take his time in memorising with his mouth what his eyes already knew – that Will’s lips surely were as velvety as they seemed. That Will’s lower lip was slightly fuller than his upper one, just begging for Mike’s teeth to carefully sink in as Will himself would do when worried (and it would be so sweet, wouldn’t it? – to take a step back and take in Will’s red-bitten lips, knowing they’d be swollen for an entirely and much lovelier reason).
He longed to run a hand on Will’s back up his spine, all the way to the nape of his neck, bury it in the softness of his hair. Perhaps Will would do the same: one hand cupping Mike’s heated cheek and one digging in his black curls, keeping him in place. As though Mike could ever leave. As though Mike could ever want to.
He longed to let the dam around his heart crumble, all his love and devotion finally overflowing, pouring out of him in an endless stream, soaking Will up and seeping inside him, filling him to the brim with all the light Mike had held in for so long. All for Will, always for Will.
One night a few years ago, while patrolling the outer walls of the Castle, Mike had spotted the trailing end of a falling star and quickly had made his wish. It had been something grand, something worthy of the starlit night’s attention, his innermost desire: he had wished for a chance to prove his worth, a chance to tell Will that he was no Prince who could stroll into the throne room carrying gems and gold and the promise of land and demand Will’s hand in return, but that his heart was pure as a water-lily, that it was true and light. That it had been Will’s from the start.
Now, if Mike were to see a shooting star he would only wish for someone to hold him back before he marched up to the Royal dining table, ignoring the prying eyes of the court and the King’s outraged, reddening face as Mike sank on one knee right in front of Will, begging him Please, kiss me again. This time my eyes will be wide open.
Mike’s stomach clenched, his fists, too. He could see Max staring at him from the corner of his eye.
“You should just court him.”
Mike caught himself at the last second, barely stifling the bittersweet laugh bubbling in his chest. Decorum and discipline were expected of all guards and knights and being younger than most sentinels in the room was no excuse; no-one would appreciate Mike busting out laughing in the middle of dinner, no matter how ridiculous and far-fetched Max’s suggestion was.
“Surely. I bet good ol’ Jim would love for me to court his son.”
He couldn’t keep the bite out of his tone, the venom dripping from each sharp-edged word. Because it would be so beautiful, wouldn’t it? To walk with Will through the gardens at sundown, to bring him hand-picked flowers and handwritten poems, to sneak up his balcony at night and tap carefully at the window. To steal a kiss or two.
As if you haven’t done all of that, already, that hungry thing mocked him. And he had, even the bad handwritten poetry and letters – which lay crumpled beneath Mike’s mattress; the only one aware of their existence being Dustin, who had helped him in more than one occasion as Mike fumbled with juvenile metaphors before leaving the traineeship to pursue his passion for stories and words becoming a bard.
Mike dragged himself out of that stream of thoughts as a man escaping the forceful current of a river. A whole evening avoiding the events of the afternoon as though they were quicksand and now he was plunging into impossible fantasies of courtship, suggested by Max no less.
Mike wanted to laugh at himself, possibly bash his head against the stone pillar behind his back.
“I’m sure good ol’ Jim would love to have you executed at once for calling him that.”
Mike huffed, “The King’s been trying to take my head since I was seven and hid with Will in the kitchen pantry for a whole afternoon.”
“I’ve heard that story,” Max mused.
Of course she had, Mike thought. Queen Joyce loved to recall their childhood antics despite often complaining the untimely silver strands in her hair were all their fault.
“El was inconsolable, she thought Will had been kidnapped or left the Castle to pursue adventures without her. When we walked in the throne room she was so upset with me she flung me all the way across the hall. That’s how we discovered she had magic in her blood.”
Mike had never mentioned it, although he privately believed he should have been at least thanked for being the one to reveal El's powers.
Max let out a sigh, long and dreamy. “I would have loved to witness it.”
Mike rolled his eyes.
“I meant it, though.” Max continued, “You should formally start courting the Prince. All these lovesick stares and unsecret escapades shall get you both in trouble sooner than later, especially if –”
“Hush.” Mike cut her off, his hand closing on the hilt of his sword just to hold onto something solid and real – a lifeline, an anchor so those black, hateful thoughts always lurking beneath the surface of his mind couldn’t seize him and drag him under. Rank, duty, politics, alliances, marriage –
“There’s no need to remind me how old Will is, or what is expected of him. As if we didn’t all know why in the last two years the number of visiting neighbouring lords and their offsprings has almost doubled.”
Eyes starkly set in front of him, Mike jerked his head briefly, almost imperceptibly towards the Royal dining table at the centre back of the hall, where he knew his best friend was making polite conversation with another nameless prince whose seat had been casually reserved next to Will.
Knowing Will despised all of this as much as Mike did only enraged him further. Temptation to steal a horse from the stables and grab his best friend by the shoulders, look him straight into those bright, bright eyes, tell him they could get away from here, that they could ride to the edge of the world and just be free, be themselves, be together if only Will as much as nodded his consensus threatened to overcome Mike.
He could picture it so clearly in his mind it was almost painful to look at, like sunlight glittering on water so violently it blinded him – Will’s shoulders beneath his desperate grip, solid and real and Will’s eyes staring back at him, wide and earnest and so trusting Mike knew his heart would ache at the sight. The minutest shake of Will’s head, his eyes never leaving Mike’s and his lips falling slightly agape as Mike inched closer and closer has he had done this afternoon –
Mike inhaled sharply.
“Besides,” he told Max because he desperately needed a distraction, a way to straighten the course of his wandering thoughts before they strayed from the dark path they had taken to an even more dangerous and gilded one. “Besides, you should speak for yourself. Unless sneaking out to meet with the Princess and sleeping with her ribbon beneath your pillow is a duty I was unaware of …”
Mike turned his head just slightly to fully take in Max’s freckled face as it flamed up to match her hair. He snickered triumphantly as the knight bowed her head to hide her reddened cheeks.
“Thought so.” Smugness dripped off his tone.
Max had always been exceedingly competitive – Mike falling on the receiving end of her ruthlessness one too many times – but when last spring during the tourney to celebrate her birthday the King had announced El would not only gift the champion with a ribbon she had embroidered herself, but kiss them as well, Max had turned downright merciless, blunt weapons to avoid real harm be damned.
She had won, of course she had, and had reclaimed her prize kneeling gracefully in front of the Princess, the slight tremor shaking her whole frame visible only to a trained eye.
El had shown the applauding audience the ribbon, a token of her favour soon to be bestowed upon Max. It had been a pretty thing, a long string of deep-green fabric skillfully embroidered with violet yarn. Mike too far to properly make out all the details, but not far enough to miss the way Max’s eyes had widened when El had reached behind her head to untie the simple piece of cord keeping her red hair in a mussed ponytail and substituting it with her own green strip, tying it in a pretty bow, too.
Mike hadn’t been able to contain his smirk when El had leaned back and brushed Max’s rosing face with the tip of her fingers, briefly bending down to murmur something in the knight’s ear – Max’s breathing had faltered then, shoulders visibly itching and rose cheeks darkening.
The Princess had leaned down, gently grazed their lips together in a soft kiss, delicate and proper as the occasion demanded. Barely a brush.
The audience had roared its applause and a few knights, Mike and Lucas among the loudest, had whistled and cheered obnoxiously, earning a dirty look from the King. Unfazed, Mike had searched for Will’s equally amused face, meeting his eyes across the arena. They had exchanged a knowing look, both still clapping their hands as Max had risen to her feet and turned to the audience raising her sword in victory, a lopsided smile and a somewhat dazed expression on her freckled face.
Something dark and venomous had coiled in Mike’s stomach as he had taken in Max’s bewildered stare and El’s carefully bent head, the ghost of a smile still grazing her lips as she stole quick looks at Max’s back, eyes glimmering and cheeks the faintest shade of pink.
Some of that sour feeling must have bled into his features because when Mike had looked back at Will his best friend had cocked his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed together in a silent question. Are you alright?
Mike had scolded his expression, smile breaking easily as he spared another glare to the Princess and his fellow knight, raising his eyebrows and then winking at Will. Let it up to his Prince to interpret what that had meant, although Mike had been pleased enough with Will’s reaction, how he had rolled his eyes but attempted to hide a smile as blush crept over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
That black thing had coiled tighter when Mike’s eyes had fallen to Will’s lips – so soft and enticing even at such a distance. There ought to be a way, he had found himself thinking, there ought to be.
And there had been, not the most noble one perhaps, but a way nonetheless. But in the meantime Mike would have had to be content with his achievements of the day (all the new ways he could tease Max, Will’s pretty blush and how the vein on the King’s temple had pulsed dangerously fast when he had caught the whole exchange between his least favourite knight and his favourite son).
Beside him Max scoffed, her sword clinging against the metal of her armour. “Never you mind, Wheeler, at least I have not been kissing a bloody drawing goodnight for years!”
Mike gaped at her, refraining from gesticulating wildly as he did when facing the most ridiculous arguments, “Wha– what. Who told you I – I do not kiss it goodnight! How do you even –.”
A mischievous grin pulled at the corners of Max’s lips.
“It was Lucas, was it not?” Mike deadpanned. Max’s smile only widened in response.
Traitor, he thought grimly. Although their mutual friend had been the one to reveal to Mike of Max sleeping with El’s ribbon beneath her pillow; perhaps it was only fair he would share a secret of Mike’s. At least he was being fair to both parties. Or just a double-faced betrayer.
When Mike had asked for his help to retrieve some nails to fixate the painting Will had gifted him, Lucas had been more than willing to help. They had sneaked into the forge with the excuse of being sent to check on the upcoming order of weapons so Mike could pocket a handful of brand-new looking nails.
Without a hammer at hand they had had to use a smooth rock to hit them into the wooden panel on top of Mike’s bunk-bed – all the while Gareth complained about how he would be stabbed in his sleep since Mike was nailing the bottom of his bed. Mike had ignored him.
It hadn’t been the best of works, the painting hanging a little crooked and the nails not sunk in enough, Mike too worried of damaging Will’s work to secure it any better.
When they had all pledged as knights and moved from the squire sleeping quarters to their designed wing of the Castle – Lucas, Gareth and Mike still ending up sharing a room; which was still an improvement after six years spent sleeping in a creaky bunk-bed in the same large room as twenty other growing boys – Mike had found an actual tool to dig the nails out of the wood, each tug slow and methodical.
It was a poorly kept secret being as visible as it was, Mike had known it since deciding to nail the painting somewhere he could always see it, but he hadn’t cared. He wasn’t the only one as more than one squire kept perfumed letters or even small portraits hidden beneath their pillows and mattresses. He just happened to be more forward with it, less secretive because Mike had never been one for half-feelings.
“I’ve never kissed it, for that matter. It is paint! It could be poisonous …” It was a weak and pathetic argument. Max turned to raise a judgmental, fair eyebrow at him.
Mike huffed, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest like a petulant child.
But it was the truth, he’d never kissed the painting, limiting himself to only tenderly brush it with the tips of his fingers. Although he didn’t miss the squire dormitory at all, Mike often regretted not having a bunk-bed anymore, missing how Will’s painting would be the last thing he saw before falling asleep and the first thing to greet him when opening his eyes in the morning.
Now he had the painting nailed to the stone wall beside his cot – straighter this time – and he had yet to give up his habit of carefully tracing over the lines and the figures, recalling the roughness of the canvas and the dry bumps where too much paint had collected as easily as he knew the smooth leather of his swordhandle.
He particularly enjoyed tracing over Lucas' reared up white horse, following its lines and curves, or the horns on Dustin’s helmet. Sometimes he swirled his fingertip over Will’s magical vortex, half wondering if he ever felt inferior to his sister for not being born with the same power streaming through his blood – Mike hoped not. Will had never needed magic to warm and brighten every room he stepped in, nor to make Mike feel like he was enveloped in the tepid, glittering mist El’s powers surrounded him with whenever she transformed him.
Mike loved the painting, he had loved it since Will had gifted it to him so many years ago when Mike was yet to become a knight. It had seized his heart and his throat, thinking that was how Will saw him – the Paladin in shining armour of their childhood adventures.
“It’s us,” Will had told him, smiling sheepishly as Mike uncurled the folded canvas.
Words had failed him when he had taken in the whole painting, breath itching and eyes scanning eagerly, hungrily over every small detail.
“You see this?” Will’s arm had brushed against his, heat sparkling even through the linen of their shirts. He had stood motionless, hardly breathing as Will pointed at the red crowned heart over his shield, “Of course it is not my family crest but,” he had bitten his lower lip, Mike the inside of his cheek.
“But it felt right.” Will finished, brittle and shaky. And then, so soft Mike would have missed it hadn’t he been so attuned to Will’s every breath, “You’re the heart.”
Am I yours? The thought had come unbidden – a sudden flash of lightning on a clear day, it had struck Mike on the spot, current sizzling beneath his skin.
Will had offered no further explanation, meeting Mike’s wide stare with a twitch of his lips and glossy eyes.
It had been a long time ago, long before Mike could put a name to that feeling that had invaded him, filling every small crevice of his body with a tingling sensation – more fluttering than butterflies, more scalding than lightning. Still, even now that he knew perfectly well what it felt like to be in love with Will, he found himself tracing the black outline of the heart, pressing his finger down on the red.
Asking himself the same questions – Am I your heart? Like you’re mine?
He hoped so.
At times, when he felt particularly lovesick and was alone in his shared room, he would speak the question into the night; a single candle to illuminate the painting on the wall as he caressed Will’s figure, then his own and finally the red heart on the shield, courting the idea that maybe Will could feel it – the tender and loving brush of Mike’s finger on his own heart.
He wondered if Max felt the same, if she too rubbed El’s ribbon between her fingers, afraid to wear the fabric, but needing to recall the feeling of her lips. He wondered if Max, too used to play pretend as a child, dreaming of becoming a great warrior and fighting three-headed red dragons; if with time, those mythological monsters had become real threats for her as well, undefeatable forces like rank duty politics alliances marriage.
Mike took in a deep breath, turned to Max determined to tease her some more. His eyes slipped past her as though she was a thin veil.
He knew he was making a mistake the moment he allowed his gaze to fall on the dining table where the Royal Family sat with their most illustrious guests for the night – some visiting nobles from the far East of the Kingdom and their firstborn.
No-one would think anything of Mike looking over at the royal table. It was, after all, his duty, the whole reason he and Max and a few other armour-clad knights were standing lined up against the high walls of the hall, eyes – supposedly – scanning the room for any disturbance, ready to leap into action if any enemy succeeded to overcome all previous lines of defence.
It had happened only twice before since Mike had started his live-in training to become a knight.
The first time, Mike had still been a young squire when the news of an attack being stricken in the Royal quarters had spread like wildfire; all young trainees thrown out of their beds by the commotion.
It had taken Mike too many precious seconds to clear his mind of weariness and fatigue – arms still sore and hands still aching from a whole day of scrubbing armour and saddling horses – to gather what all that sudden chaos could be about. Outside their sleeping quarters, knights had been shouting orders to their subordinates, the clanking of metal against metal filling the nightair while men ran as one towards the Castle.
Mike had rubbed his eyes so hard colourful spots were dancing in front of him, heard a few agitated shreds of conversation being shouted just below the open window.
Attack … Castle! … Prince … wounded!
Tiredness had left him at once, colour draining from his already pale features as the words had sunk in. They had left him petrified on his unmade bed, unable to squeeze air through shrunken lungs and a tight throat.
Had someone stabbed him in that moment, Mike wouldn’t have bled – blood frozen cold in his veins as bone-crushing dread seeped in, his stomach plummeting to the floor in one thick puddle of tar-black terror.
He had sprung to his feet before even realising he’d done so, blindly reaching for the first sword at hand. A single searing-hot, bright word carved over and over on the otherwise black slab of his mind – Will, Will, Will.
Edward, the head of the boy’s dormitory, had burst through the doors with the head of the girl’s sleeping quarters – a freckled knight called Robin – and a few other older guards in tow just as Mike had raised his hand to open the doors himself. He had stared in Eddie’s bewildered eyes for half an heartbeat before dodging him and breaking off into a run, ignoring the shouting from his superiors, his name called again and again, while his legs carried him as far and as fast as they could to Will before – before –
Mike had gritted his teeth, relegated ill-shaped thoughts to the murkiest depths of his mind.
He had been halfway through the gardens, close, so close to the Castle, to Will, when strong arms had seized him from behind, swatted the sword from his hand and lifted him off the ground. Mike had kicked the air, winding his arms wildly in a fruitless attempt to free himself. But he had been but a squire at the time, untrained to fight and unfit to take down any enemy, let alone a skilled one like his captor.
He had screamed then, cursed Eddie and begged to be freed so that he could get to Will because – because Will was hurt. Will was hurt and Mike hadn't been there to protect him like he swore he would and perhaps it was already too late and –
Mike had only stopped his panicked, pitiful show when a bulky figure had obscured the moon and a strong hand had collided with his face, splitting Mike’s bottom lip right in the middle. Behind him, several people had gasped.
He’d slumped and Eddie’s arms had tightened around him, holding him upright.
“Enough, boy,” Roland, a swordmaster, had thundered. Fury had rolled off him in scorching waves. “What do you think you were doing? Explain yourself.”
Mike had taken a quivering breath and lifted his head to look at the elder knight in an undeniable display of mutiny – a gesture that would have granted him another well-deserved slap. His eyes had been filled with frightened, enraged tears he wouldn’t allow himself to shed, but when he had spoken his voice was firm.
“Sir, I must reach the Castle, Prince William, he’s –”
The only trace of surprise at the reason as to why Mike had put up such a fight had been the quick rise of the swordmaster's thick brows before he had schooled his expression into an angered scowl.
“Your loyalty and commitment towards your Prince are most admirable, Michael, those qualities honour you,” The words had sounded distorted to Mike, faulty like being called by the wrong name. He had stopped himself from grimacing, pressing his mouth together despite the throbbing pain thrumming through his lower lip.
“However, his majesty Prince William is unharmed and safe. The attack was directed at his brother, Crown Prince Jonathan, who is also unharmed –”
A loud ringing had resounded in Mike's ears, muffling the rest of the knight's words. Will. Unharmed. Safe.
Despite his best efforts, Mike's thoughts had been tainted by redness – terrifying flashes of his best friend laying on his chamber’s floor like a limp ragdoll; red all around him, all over him. On Mike’s hands as he tried to do something, anything. Will’s iridescent eyes staring at the ceiling muted and dull.
Relief had washed over him like spring rain, gentle and warm Mike had let the feeling soak him to the marrow, wash the blood away from his thoughts, melt the dread off his bones.
“Will,” he had breathed, barely above a whisper. Eddie had stiffened, arms tightening around Mike. It was exceedingly disrespectful to refer to a member of the Royal Family without their given title, never mind with such familiarity.
But Roland mustn’t have heard him, seeing how Mike had been still mostly upright and not sprawled on the ground and kicked like a dog – not that he would have cared, he’d willingly take a thousand lashes because Will was safe, safe, safe and little else did matter.
The elder knight had instructed Eddie to take Mike back to the dormitory, ignoring Mike’s protests and demands to see the Prince regardless (“He is well, boy, you’re not needed. Go back to sleep”). Mike had almost bit down on his offended lip, hardly stopping himself from spatting insults at Roland’s face because he was needed, he was Will’s best friend and he was – he was –
Lucas had appeared in front of him with a redhead girl Mike had only seen in passing, but who in time he would learn to love and hate the way only siblings can adore and despise each other. They had all escorted him back, almost dragged him as his limbs turned to lead and his head throbbed in time with his bloody lip.
He had seen Will only two days later, when the general panic over the attack had subdued enough for his best friend to sneak from the smothering attention of his servants and family, and the constant watch of the guards.
Mike had spent those two days on the training grounds stabbing through rough straw soldier-shaped targets with a poorly balanced sword. Despite being still a squire and not yet meant to train with weapons, Roland had granted him permission, likely as a reward for Mike’s loyalty and commitment.
He had felt the need to curl his lips in disgust anytime the words crossed his mind, which had been painfully often in those two long days of wait.
The words felt hollow, but had left a foul taste in the back of his throat, like breathing in poisoned air. They barely scraped the surface of what Mike felt for Will, barely a drop in the warm, boundless, gilded sea of their friendship. Now, almost a decade later, Mike could laugh about it, but to his barely fifteen years old self they had sounded most offensive.
Honour-bound, duty-bound, Mike had reflected, sounded better. More rightful.
It was undoubtedly an honour to serve his Price and their Kingdom and yes, although he had yet to pledge as a knight, he had known it was his duty and responsibility to protect his Prince, a task Mike had been more than willing to accept – except, even then, it hadn’t felt like a task, like an obligation.
It had always felt natural, as though Mike had been given this life with the sole purpose of spending it by Will’s side, of protecting him, laughing and crying with him; holding his hand and basking in the light Will seemed to irradiate as if sunlight rested beneath his skin.
Mike’s place had always been by Will’s side.
The enormity and weight of that simple realisation had hit harder than Roland’s hand. Mike’s heart had moved slightly to the left to accommodate something new. Although it had been nothing new, had it?
Love is a quiet thing. No matter how hard Mike had tried over the years, he could never track down the moment it had taken root in his stomach, growing and growing between his lungs until it had bloomed, delicate and impossibly beautiful, inside his chest where now it stood, glowing like a newborn star and pulsing like a second heart.
He had been left trembling and breathless, the sword shaking in his tight grasp. His chest had felt too tight to accommodate that untold feeling, the stretch of it bringing tears to Mike’s eyes.
A sudden swirl of darkness had enveloped him then, words like rank duty politics alliances marriage downing on him with the sharpness of an executioner’s axe. A single tear had escaped his eye, rolled down his cheek as Mike saw with frightening clarity what kind of future stretched ahead of him.
The sword had fallen from his hands clattering onto the ground when Will’s voice had reached him. Mike had swiftly dried his face with his shirtsleeve, turning around just in time to see his best friend run to him.
The light in his chest had swelled, shining desperately bright and warm and Mike had know, as he took Will in his arms, that whatever distance he would have to bear between them in the future, whatever role he would play in Will’s life, whatever enemies – his Kingdom's or his own – he would have to fight, it all would be worth it to keep his rightful place at Will’s side.
His best friend had looked at him with wet wide eyes, eyebrows knitting together the moment he had spotted the crack on Mike’s lip, the skin still healing.
Hadn’t they been so close, Will still in his arms – as he should be, something in the depths of Mike had purred, so sudden and unbidden it had startled him – he wouldn’t have heard his best friend’s whispered “Did you fight?”
Mike had shook his head and Will had reached out, slander painter fingers brushing his broken lip with the utmost care. Mike’s stomach had coiled onto himself, heart tossing and turning in its cage.
“Please, forgive me. I will be there next time.” It had felt like an oath, spoken soft but true against his Prince’s fingertips.
Will had held his breath, twin tears falling free and rolling down his cheeks as he choked on his words,“Oh, Mike.”
Mike had guided him into his chest again, resting his humid cheek on top of Will’s head, his best friend’s tear-streaked face pressed tight in the crook of his neck. A perfect fit.