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In all his thirteen years, Tommy had never dreamed he would be here.
Heartsvale wasn't by any means a poor kingdom. Far from it; for as long as he could remember, for as long as the Vale had recorded history, it had been blessed by a dragon. And not just any dragon—the Blood God. Under his protection, the humans had thrived, raising their crown city Flowerfall amongst the twisting pines and wide oaks of the mountain valley. The palace gleamed with marble-white facades and silver-painted ornamentation along every buttress framing delicate stained glass windows, well-insulated against the chill winters and precisely designed to cool the interiors at the height of lazy summer heat.
There was a moat; it wasn't incredibly substantial, but there was one. A singular wall enclosed the seat of government and the home of the Royal Family, set apart from the rest of the city.
But not once had they ever been challenged directly.
And it was still a Prime damn miracle Tommy had ever been allowed to see inside the wall.
"Tommy~!"
Tommy startled out of his thoughts at the familiar voice. The new epaulettes on his dress jacket and the delicate chains attached to his swordbelt jingled faintly, a reminder of the ceremony he'd just finished.
A wide pearly smile greeted him, almost outshining the joy and excitement that gleamed in warm brown eyes. Chocolate bangs curled low over a brow graced with silver and an array of precious gemstones. If Tommy had thought his outfit for the ceremony had outsold and been rather gaudy, then it had absolutely nothing on the fine brocade and silver thread that clothed the tall as fuck man hurrying toward him.
Still, the clothes might as well have been rags in comparison to the brilliant cobalt, teal, and black feathers haloing his form.
Crown Prince Wilbur, the Sapphire of Heartsvale, practically skipped across the marbled halls, arms and wings both spread wide as if to completely engulf Tommy.
"Toms!" he crowed jubilantly. "Holy fuck, my man, how's it feel to finally make it official?!"
Tommy half-forced a laugh at Wilbur's antics. "Unbelievable," he answered—a grain of honesty in amongst the swirl of things he'd been wrestling with since before the ceremony even started.
Then Wilbur's arms closed around him, shining feathers tucked to shield him from the world, and they were spinning in place as fast as the prince could move. Tommy yelped, struggling to free his arms and kicking his feet futilely against the deceptively strong grip, but couldn't completely suppress a grin into the thick fabric pressed against his face.
"Oi, dickhead, put me down!"
Wilbur did—unceremoniously, without warning. The boy tottered back, windmilling his arms to steady himself. Wilbur's laughter rang against the high ceilings, undeterred by Tommy's scowl.
"Aaaw, Tommy," he cooed. Tommy's heart jumped with the little twittering whistle that laced the word, still unused to the avian's freely-given affection—unused to the royal language that he'd seen fit to share with Tommy. "Little Tommy! Look at you."
And as much as he hadn't been sure about all this, well—how the fuck could Tommy deny Wilbur anything when he looked so Prime damned happy? When Tommy of all people was responsible for that?
So he clicked his heels together and tossed out the most crisp salute he had ever saluted, a smile stretching his cheeks until they ached. "The one and only, big man. Squire Thomas Innes, Your Highness, at your service!"
Wilbur, predictably, spluttered and shoved Tommy lightly at the shoulder. "Shut it, you fucking gremlin, what did I say about titles?"
Tommy cackled and threw up a rude gesture. The crown prince squawked at the indignity, a terrifying light of retribution burning in his eyes.
Screw the rest of the party—it was time to go.
Grinning like a maniac, he bolted.
"Oh, TOMMY!" Wilbur sang. "Tommy, c'mere! I just wanna talk!"
Tommy didn't slow, skidding around a tiled corner and putting on a burst of speed on the carpet runner. "You gotta catch me first, bitch!" he yelled over his shoulder.
Of course, Prime loved to make an example of boastful little squires. He should've known better than to taunt someone with over half a foot and six years on him, by now.
He should've known better than to taunt an avian.
Little details like that had never stopped one Thomas Innes, however. (Even when he damn well knew he'd never once outraced Wilbur in all their years knowing each other.)
The way the chase ended went like this:
Tommy threw himself at the servant's door below the ballroom's grand staircase that (mostly) hid his escape from view. His hand slammed into the latch artfully blended into the wall ornamentation. He hadn't noticed the lack of footsteps behind him, however, nor the whisper of air across finely tuned primary feathers.
So he had no clue how close the threat was when a blur of royal heir tackled him clear through the—thankfully empty—doorway.
The pair crashed and tumbled a short ways into the narrow hall, a clatter of metal and curses and squashed yelps. Wilbur deliberately was trying to suffocate him with his wings, Tommy was sure; he retaliated by yanking the circlet off Wilbur's head and kicking him in the gut. The stubborn idiot didn't give up, though, flipping them over so Wilbur loomed above the squire.
"Get off me, asshole!"
"Fuck you, you little shit!"
"No you!"
A loud cough from the entryway froze them both still. Tommy craned his neck to see around Wilbur and found a familiar shape blocking out the light from the ballroom.
"Really, Wilbur?" Techno drawled, brow arched with unimpressed amusement. "Y'know you just flew past about twenty members of court, right?"
Wilbur, of course, was entirely unfazed by that admonishment. Fucking royal bastard. "I'll have you know Tommy started it—"
"HEY! I—"
"That's no excuse. Tommy always starts it."
"What the hell—!" Tommy paused, sucked the inside of his cheek, then deflated. "Okay maybe you're right—but 'e fuckin' deserved it!"
Techno heaved a sigh, pinching his nose. "An' this is why I make Phil deal with you menaces." He cleared his throat again, waving dismissively at them. "Anyway, at least take yer shenanigans away from the adults, alright? Do us all a favor."
And with that, he stepped back and closed the door behind them.
With most of their energy having been derailed by the Blood God's intervention, the pair helped each other off the ground (Tommy reluctantly handing back Wilbur's circlet) and turned to continue down the passage. They settled into a more regular sort of banter, playful shoves and gentle ribbing that didn't echo against the stone and wood so much as bounced lazily from side to side. Tommy didn't question wherever Wilbur decided to lead them, content to stick close as always.
They ended up passing through the kitchens and then into the gardens. The sunset light filtered softly through the gracefully curving limbs of towering maple and elegantly trimmed fir, dappling their figures in soft petals of warmth.
As they moved deeper into the maze of plant life, Tommy watched Wilbur walk ahead of him with a fond smile. The squire hardly registered whatever he was rambling on about, too transfigured by the way the splotches of sunshine and shadow patterned his feathers in a breathtaking kaleidoscope that never stopped shifting with each emphatic twist and flick of his wings.
Yet again, Tommy found himself marvelling at the surrealism of the moment. Here he was—little more than a nobody, at best, swept from the back alleys and dark corners of a city drenched in the favor of a dragon by a chance encounter with none other than the heir himself. Somehow, Wilbur had been determined to shower him in more love and affection than Tommy could ever ask for over his entire lifetime in just a few years of knowing each other.
"Toms?"
Tommy blinked. "Hm? Yeah, Wil?"
Wilbur cocked his head at him. It never failed to fascinate him how birdlike the motion was for the prince and the king moreso than any other person could even attempt to imitate. "You alright?"
Even to Tommy, the smile he pulled over his face felt like a plaster cast. "'Course, big man! Why wouldn't I be?"
His wings shuffled and resettled with a concerned twitch. "You're quiet."
"Pssh, naw man—you're just loud as fuck."
"Tommy."
The whistling chords of his name called him out, cut through all the bullshit he tried to give the heir. Tommy winced; despite not being one of two avians in the world, he was far more familiar with that tone than nearly anyone else besides probably the queen.
Wilbur's brow softened. He stepped close, wings lifting to partly mantle around them as he straightened Tommy's rumpled lapel. "What's bothering you? You can talk to me, y'know. 'Bout anything."
Tommy inhaled deeply, then let the air out in a long, shaky breath. He couldn't bring himself to look at Wilbur, his friend, his liege—hell, the closest thing Tommy had to family in this cruel world. Instead he twisted his gloved fingers together and stared down at the literal months' pay worth of silver embroidery crisscrossing Wilbur's jacket.
Long-fingered hands pressed down on his shoulders with the weight of snowflakes melting on his tongue. "Is this about being my squire?"
The words jolted down his spine like the first time Techno had dropped a heavily-enchanted emerald into his hand (he'd practically chucked it across the room from the ridiculous levels of sheer power shocking his skin). "What? No no—fuck no, 'f course not, why—"
"You were staring at the memorial statue."
His teeth clicked shut, lips twisted into a sour spiral. Protesting any further would do no good; Wilbur had already sussed him out, and trying to deny it any further would only make him more persistent, not less.
Finally, Tommy sighed in defeat and pulled away from the prince. They'd paused in a distant section of the gardens, all but empty at this time of day and especially so considering the knighting ceremony earlier. He found a nearby stone bench and dropped ungracefully onto it, scrubbing his hands through his hair. (It was already mussed from their scrapping earlier; who cared if he messed it up more at this point?)
"I just…" He let his hands drop to hang between his knees, eyes fixed on the gravel beneath his polished boots. "Of all people…why me?"
Wilbur chuckled dryly. "What—is that all?"
Tommy scowled, glaring up at the prince. "Shut it, dickhead."
His wings ruffled with apology before smoothing over once more. "Sorry, sorry, it's just… You know I love you, right Toms?"
"Uuuuugh." He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. The normalcy of the banter soothed his anxieties like Wilbur's fingers combing through his hair while they napped in the spring sunshine. "You only tell me every other fucking second."
"And I mean it," Wilbur assured. He sat down beside Tommy, one wing tucked behind the squire's back as his arm looped over Tommy's shoulder. When Tommy still didn't open the door to pour out his heart, he leaned into him. "C'mon, sunshine. Nothing you tell me is ever gonna change that."
The quiet settled in like a blanket of snow over the city, muffling and morale-sapping. Swallows and jays swooped and dove past the flowering amethyst hydrangeas and irises across the way, twittering and trilling at each other. Distantly, he could pick out the happy bubbling of a fountain hidden around the next bend.
Tommy's jacket suddenly felt too suffocating, too confining, hugging him in iron cuffs to which only Wilbur held the key.
"Why me?"
His uncertainty appeared to cut the prince deeper than he outwardly let on. Wilbur's hand subtly squeezed his shoulder, a faint shift in his posture the only other clue to his true thoughts.
"Why not you?"
"Because…" He tugged idly at his gloves, gradually loosening them without fully committing to pulling them off. "I mean—you've got the Blood God for an uncle. Your—the king is known as the Angel of Death." Tipping his head back against Wilbur's arm, he said, exasperated, "Hell, he was the Crow, once upon a time. Surely you don't need a… You don't—"
"Need what?" Wilbur challenged, a backbone of steel thin but firm as his favored rapier. "A little brother? A wonderful, crazy, daft, ridiculous gremlin?"
"A nobody, Wilbur," Tommy insisted. "I'm—I don't have anyone. I picked my name, I scraped and fought for every fucking thing I've ever had. Before you met me I wasn't… I'd probably still be thieving and scrounging and doing whatever the hell any motherfucker with coin to spare would pay me to do to get by."
He sat up, pulling away from the prince, and gestured to the rich though still comparatively plain outfit he wore. "But—here I am! In the fucking palace, chatting with the gods damn crown prince like 'e's just another bloke." A dark chuckle fell from his lips. "Never in my wildest dreams could I've guessed the dumbass bastard I saved from the guards was the fucking heir to Heartsvale, and you—you just—"
Words faltered, then. How could he possibly impress on Wilbur, someone who'd been born into a kind of freedom and privilege most only read stories about, the agonizing conflict writhing in Tommy's chest right now? One that had been festering for months and months, ever since he put the idea of becoming a knight in the wide-eyed boy's heart?
"Tom."
Tommy winced at the ice creeping underneath his name from Wilbur's mouth. He couldn't bear to look at him, to read the disappointment and disgust and probably more sure to highlight familiar ocher irises.
To his surprise, gentle fingers slipped beneath his chin. The pressure was smooth, careful, like dangling a crystal glass from his palm at a state dinner.
"Toms—look at me. …Please."
A little crooning warble dragged his gaze from the ground.
Wilbur…
He'd—Tommy had never seen him look like this. Maybe something similar to it, one time, directed at the monarchs in a quiet moment of vulnerability and trust that brushed over his skin like the sleek feathers currently blocking out the sky around them. It was everything that ever haunted his dreams in the early hours of waking before slipping through his fingers like wisps of fog and dewdrops in the dawn sunlight.
There was one nameable thing about it, however. Wilbur's pupils were significantly wider than they should have been even in the ethereal twilight falling around them. Tommy was quite familiar with that look, the one that Wilbur liked to describe as "getting beat over the fucking head by my bird brain."
His name on Wilbur's tongue now was more bird call than human language. "Tommy. My sunshine, my fledgling, you have always been family. You might not have our name, and I would never force or ask you to take it if you aren't ready for everything that comes with a crown, but I picked you to be mine. Not anyone else."
Tommy's eyes suddenly stung; probably the bright sunlight. Was there a snake climbing his spine and hugging his neck? He swallowed down the boulder in his throat. "B-but… But you could have anyone— And I've… I'm not skilled, or smart, or witty— Surely Sam—"
Tommy yelped as his face was suddenly pressed to Wilbur's chest, his arms and wings both wrapped tight around the boy in a mirror to the prince's earlier greeting. He froze, even his breath deserting him as Wilbur nearly crushed him with the force of his hug.
"Yes, you are," he whispered. His voice was tight with the strain of fighting his instincts, sounding almost…almost a little like he might be holding back tears, too?
That wasn't right. That wasn't right on Wilbur, and Tommy—
"And even if you weren't I wouldn't care, because you're Tommy. My Toms, my sunshine," he cooed, some of the bird brain slipping onto his tongue again. "But you are all that and more. You're so full of life, Tommy. From the day I met you I knew you were going to do amazing things—"
He pulled back, then; just a little, just enough to peer down at Tommy with such gooey warmth that he felt a bit like a marshmallow over a campfire. "—and you have! Dad wouldn't promote someone if he didn't think they were ready, and you came with glowing recommendations from Sam. You should be so, so proud of yourself, Tommy. You've accomplished so much in just a few short years and blown people twice your age out of the water.
"I'm so proud to be your brother, and a name or whatever else you think makes you unworthy of that title is nothing compared to my love for you. Got it?"
Dumfounded, Tommy could only stare up at Wilbur for countless too-long heartbeats. No one…no one had ever gone so far out of their way as to say anything like that to him before. Each day on the streets had been a forging of steel in hammered insults and angered shouts, bruises and sore muscles and a growling stomach. He'd be lucky if he found another threadbare blanket or a worn cloak to hoard for the cold winters, pressed against the residual warmth from the chimneys and smithies of Flowerfall's outskirts.
Wilbur might call him his sunshine—but really it was the other way around.
It wasn't like Wilbur hadn't ever expressed feelings like this to him before, either. From the moment they met the prince had been overflowing with vigor, endlessly teasing and bantering with Tommy like they were equals. He treasured the quiet moments with Wilbur just as much, basking in the cozy comfort of a blanket nest or the caressing summer breeze as they gazed side-by-side up at the stars.
And now, here he was: assigned to be the prince's personal squire, his confidant, his aide, his protector. One day that would be even moreso true, serving at the right hand of the future king as his knight-attendant.
That was still a number of years away, of course. Wilbur wouldn't be crowned until he was twenty-five at the earliest, and Sam had already told Tommy he would have no knights under eighteen in his employ.
As he stared up into deep pools of ombre worry and loving shadow, however, Tommy did know one thing so certain it burned into his soul like dragonfire.
No matter what, Thomas Innes would do everything in his limited power to protect his home…up to and including giving his life for Wilbur's.
Drawing in a stuttering breath, Tommy finally nodded. "O-okay… Okay, Wil."
Wilbur let out a little oof as the squire shoved himself back into his embrace. He chuckled breathlessly and returned the gesture, warbling contentedly while Tommy clung as though he might disperse into mist at any moment.
That little nagging doubt that had been itching at the back of his mind had finally been satisfied—at least for now. It might resurface later; Tommy might fight with these fears and insecurities for most of his life. But when they continued their companionable walk through the garden and Wilbur plucked a small bouquet of violets, gerbera, and daffodils for him; when Wilbur threw his head back and laughed so it echoed clear to the walls; when he looked at Tommy with such fondness that never wavered, the conviction of just how much he was loved radiated from his heart and sank into his bones.
As long as Wilbur's love remained unshaken, Tommy could withstand any storm the world threw at them.