Chapter Text
With practiced preciseness, Jenkin flung open the tall windows of Crown Prince Leander's lavish bedchambers, allowing fresh air and sunlight to stream in. The valet—Prince Leander's long-serving (and long-suffering) servant—leaned his head out the window to water the flower displays with a garden hose that hooked from the ground floor all the way to the top.
Below, the familiar, playful cries of Lady Herringbone's horrible children caused him to grit his teeth. "Let's play 'Princey and Valet Sitting in a Tree' again!" squealed one, the younger one, he thought, while the older one eagerly agreed before they began climbing the handsome hawthorn in the middle of the royal garden. Hearing a toilet flush behind him, Jenkin carefully adjusted the spray nozzle, took aim, and jet-blasted them before the prince could hear. He fastened the windows back just as Leander emerged from the washrooms, closing them against the children's indignant shrieking.
"Terrorizing the nobility's offspring again, are you, Jenkin?" Leander grinned as he headed toward his mirror, the curls falling across his forehead making him look even more devastatingly debonair than usual. The valet maintained a facade of stoic professionalism, folding his hands behind him and suppressing the familiar flutter in his chest at the sight of his childhood friend.
"Simply maintaining the garden premises, Your Highness."
"Ah, good, good," Leander said in the way Jenkin recognized meant he wasn't listening. "I trust you slept well?" He extended his arms for assistance with his garments.
"Indeed, Your Highness," Jenkin replied. He caught a whiff of light, fresh lavender from the crisply laundered shirt that he smoothed flat over the prince's broad shoulders. It mingled alluringly with the prince's preferred cologne and a subtle hint of his sweat, since showers were meant for after Leander's morning workout. As he fastened the buttons across Leander's trim frame, Jenkin couldn't help but admire the sinewy muscles beneath the fabric, a result of Leander's dedicated exercise regimen.
"Excellent, excellent. I slept well enough, I suppose." The prince gave a shrug, his eyes distant for a moment before brightening again. "Now, about my upcoming birthday banquet clothes, I've given it a lot of thought, and..." Jenkin braced himself, knowing what was coming. He schooled his features into a mask of polite attentiveness, hiding his frustration as best he could. "...I've mulled it over, turned it this way and that in my head, as it were..." he waved his hands vaguely, as if to push away the nonsensical words streaming out of his mouth, "deeply considered both your insightful protestations as well as Mother's, and, well, I've decided to wear Viktor's emerald-green double-breasted frock coat," Leander announced, his voice tinged with the kind of determination one has been working up to in the midst of morning toilet use. "The one with the epaulets and gold buttons inlaid with diamonds that make them look like friendly faces."
"Your Highness," Jenkin hesitated as he weighed his words carefully, "as I said before, not only would it be considered quite gauche for a prince to wear something that once belonged to another royal as if it were a common person's hand-me-down, but that particular coat is five years out of fashion, if I may be so bold as to say." And it had certainly been quite gaudy to begin with.
Leander glanced over his shoulder as Jenkin tied his ascot in the mirror. "I'm aware, Jenkin. But it belonged to my brother, and I wish to honor him." He paused, swallowing hard. "Besides, it will show those stuffy nobles that I can fill my brother's role as their new crown prince."
Jenkin sighed inwardly, understanding the sentiment but wishing his dear friend would choose a less ostentatious way to assert himself. As he helped the prince continue his morning ministrations, Jenkin couldn't help but reflect that the loss of Prince Viktor had forced Leander to mature into a role he'd never been meant to fill, especially in the eyes of a court that had fawned fanatically over Leander's older brother.
"Viktor always did have a penchant for striking clothes," Leander continued while Jenkin expertly concealed a grimace. "I can still remember the day he first showed me that coat." Leander wandered back into the washroom and started vigorously brushing his teeth while speaking through a mouthful of toothpaste, always forgetting to brush before he was dressed. "How he twirled around the room like an emerald peacock, proud and confident. It didn't fit me back then, but he promised me I could wear it any time I wanted." He paused, eyes suddenly bright. "I just never thought it would be like this."
"I am...sure he is watching over you now, and is proud of you," Jenkin said as he brushed carefully over Leander's collar, removing toothpaste residue. He did feel for the prince quite deeply, even though it was unseemly to show such a thing. "But we don't know if the coat will fit even now."
"It will fit," Leander said defensively. "I've been able to wear his other clothes quite well."
"That's not...that's not what I meant, Your Highness," Jenkin said, the barest hint of stress catching his words. "I apologize if I worded myself poorly."
This sudden defensiveness was not out of nowhere, after all. Leander had been quite a rotund child. Before his older brother Viktor died, this had not been a problem with Queen Irida, who had barely paid her second son any mind, allowing him full run of the castle (and pantries.) After Viktor had fallen in battle, however, all her attention had shifted to him as the new crown prince, and appearance was everything. Gone were the days of idle play and eating himself sick on cream pastries. She had her son put on a strict diet and exercise program, often forcing Jenkin to obligate Leander’s workout schedule and nutritional regimen himself, which Jenkin, as fond as he was of Leander, did as gently as possible.
Only allowed the occasional indulgence on special occasions, Leander had just the bare amount of puppy fat left when he entered the army for his mandated two-year stint. By the time he came back home not even a year ago, he was a regular musclebound knockout, as cheerily adept and athletic as a professional rugby player, along with an unhealthy dose of melancholial shell shock.
"Yes, well," Leander said, "like I said, I would like very much to wear it. Seeing me in Viktor's old clothes will surely bring back fond memories for everyone." He paused, his handsome face contorting into an expression of vulnerability.
Jenkin swallowed a lump in his throat before replying. "If it means so much to you, Your Highness, then by all means, wear the coat. Forget what anyone else might think. Honor your brother as you see fit." Memories of the late Crown Prince Viktor flashed through Jenkin's thoughts—Viktor's easy confidence, his commanding presence, the way he inspired both loyalty and affection in all who knew him. The young Leander had always worshipped his older brother, bouncing after him with the boundless energy of a cheerful beach ball. Of course Leander would want to wear Viktor's coat on his birthday, and of course Jenkin would support him.
"Thank you, Jenkin," Leander clasped the hand still holding a toothbrush to his shoulder, and Jenkin smiled in spite of himself before carefully scraping off more errant drops of toothpaste. Mounted above the pair gleamed Viktor's war medals along with Leander's own, including a very prestigious medal of valor that would attach to Leander's military-style frock coat the day of the banquet. All princes were expected to serve in the army for two years during war, and all served the same way as any other called up for duty. Sadly, that meant not all of them made it home, as had happened with Viktor.
They stepped out of the prince's bedchambers and into the castle's opulent hallway where the scent of a lemony wood polish filled the air. Intricate tapestries from the royal family's centuries of rule adorned the walls while marble floors echoed their footsteps as they moved seamlessly through the corridor. Gilded mouldings lined the walls and priceless oil paintings of Osring's past rulers gazed sternly down at them. Jenkin noticed Leander squaring his shoulders as if bracing himself against the weight of his ancestors' judgment.
Rounding a corner, they came across Shang, the imposing head butler of Osring Castle, attending to his duties. The older muscular man was checking the work of a nervous pair of underservants by slowly dragging a white-gloved finger down the side of a banister, his stern expression unchanging as he then examined his glove, turned to the beleaguered servants, and gave them a nod of acquiescence. They let out a collective breath of relief, mustered up the proper greetings for Prince Leander with noticeably less anxiety than any servant ever did for Shang, and quickly made their exit.
"Good morning, Shang," Leander greeted him jovially.
"Your Highness," Shang replied somberly, bowing in return. "I trust you are well this morning?"
"Quite well, thank you," Leander answered, before flouncing ahead.
"Jenkin," Shang said, inclining his head in acknowledgment.
"Mr. Shang," Jenkin said, easing his way around his large frame before hurrying after his prince, feeling the butler's eyes boring into his back.
Despite Jenkin living most of his life in the castle and knowing that Shang had served the royal family for much longer than that, and always with the utmost decorum and loyalty, the butler had always unnerved him. Jenkin's mind wandered to the many rumors that circulated about Shang's past. Some said he was a spy, only present at the castle during his decades of service to pass along information to the enemy. Others said that he had once been an assassin, hired by a foreign nation to murder Prince Consort Briar, Viktor and Leander's late father, before their famously charismatic father had convinced him of the folly of this path. These tales were whispered in hushed tones amongst castle staff and the court alike, but no one could deny the air of mystery that surrounded the butler.
It wasn't only Shang's mysterious past that piqued curiosity, but also his uncanny knack for being aware of all happenings within the castle walls and appearing at just the right—or wrong—time. It was as if he had eyes and ears everywhere, leading Jenkin to wonder if there was anything Shang wasn't privy to. It was uncanny, and more than a little unsettling.
Jenkin quickened his pace until he very nearly matched Leander's.
***
The gymnasium, a sanctum of gleaming brass, stood as a testament to the era's affinity for physical prowess. As always, Leander marveled at the collection of exercise devices that adorned the walls and floor—rowing machines, club-like meels, and dumbbells of varying weights. The air smelled faintly of sweat and leather, a scent that numerous scrubbings by castle servants could never fully eradicate.
"Your Highness, shall we begin?" Jenkin asked, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"Indeed, let us proceed," Leander replied with a smile, having already changed into exercise clothing.
As Leander moved through the prescribed exercises, Jenkin kept a watchful eye on both the prince and his stopwatch, offering encouraging words and counting down the remaining seconds for each repetition. Internally, Jenkin reflected on how much Queen Irida's influence had shaped Leander's current life after a childhood of being ignored. Jenkin knew all too well the pressure that weighed upon Leander, a burden made heavier by the memory of his late brother, Viktor. And yet, for all the queen's exacting standards on her son's body, there was something about Leander that remained utterly captivating to Jenkin. He found himself entranced by the fluid grace of the prince's movements, the way his muscles tensed beneath glistening skin before uncoiling like springs before he shot into action, the beads of perspiration glistening on his brow. In these moments, it seemed to Jenkin that Leander was more than just the dashing figurehead propped up by a kingdom and generations of tradition—he was human, vulnerable, and achingly beautiful.
"Excellent, Your Highness," Jenkin praised as Leander completed a particularly challenging set on a rowing machine. "You are making great progress."
"Thank you, Jenkin," Leander panted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand before scowling at the chart behind him, checking the records from previous years. "Though it seems like I'll never get close to Viktor's skill."
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Your Highness," Jenkin said, his voice gentle as he carefully adjusted the wooden slats on a nearby treadmill. The newfangled things were always coming loose and tripping people up. "Comparing yourself to someone who isn't here anymore will only leave you feeling inadequate. You are your own person, with your own unique strengths and abilities."
Leander let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I know, Jenkin. It's just...Viktor was everything I aspire to be. The epitome of nobility and grace. I often wonder if I'll ever live up to his memory." His face pulled downward as he once again studied the chart. "Seems like I'll always be that fat little dough ball trotting in his shadow, eh, Jenkin?" He tried to make his voice lighthearted, but after pushing himself during the workout, he seemed on the verge of tears. Jenkin felt a pang for the young prince, whose shoulders should not have to bear the weight of a dead older brother's legacy along with the grief that came with it.
"My prince, your charisma and charm are completely one-of-a-kind," Jenkin said, more forcefully than he meant. Leander looked toward him in surprise. Heart hammering, Jenkin continued, despite knowing he shouldn't. "And if anyone fails to see that, it is their own fault, and they are missing out on witnessing someone extraordinary. Because I believe that you are extraordinary—truly extraordinary—just as you are." His breath caught in his throat then. He hoped against hope he hadn't said too much and given himself and his real feelings away. It hadn't even been everything he wanted to say. Jenkin wished he could tell Leander the full truth—that he was beautiful and kind, no matter his size. But for now, he could only offer the unwavering, stoic support befitting of a servant as Leander navigated the narrow path set out for him. Their stations kept them apart, but Jenkin had long ago decided his loyalty would remain unwavering.
Leander's gaze lingered on Jenkin, surprise and gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you, my friend," he said, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity. In that moment, for not the first time, there was a connection between them, an unspoken understanding that went beyond words. But then Jenkin broke their eye contact and cleared his throat, causing Leander to abruptly cough.
Jenkin gave a nervous laugh, his head lowered. "Yes, let us return to our duties," he replied softly, barely audible above the surrounding sounds. Both men resumed their tasks, but the charged energy between them lingered, suspended in the air like a fleeting moment of missed opportunity.
***
The final exertions of the morning workout routine concluded, and Jenkin carefully stowed the stopwatch in his waistcoat pocket, noting the sheen of perspiration on the prince's brow and the flush that colored his cheeks.
"Your Highness, you have performed admirably this morning," he said. "Shall we proceed to breakfast?"
"Of course, Jenkin," Leander replied, wiping his face with a towel before showering and changing back into his morning suit.
As they entered the dining hall, Leander took in the sight before him. An array of whole grains and lean proteins were artfully arranged on gleaming silver platters. Even so, despite being well aware that he lived in splendor, the prince still found himself longing for some chocolate chip pancakes or fried sugary toast once in a while. However, he offered a grateful smile to the attendants and asked, as always, for his compliments to be given to the chef.
Leander picked at his food, his naturally voracious appetite dulled by the strict diet his mother had imposed. He caught Jenkin's eye and the valet offered a small, reassuring smile that quickly schooled itself into an expression of formality as the dining hall doors swung open with a grand flourish, revealing Queen Irida in all her royal glory.
Her dress was just as ornate and costly as those of past queens, yet it had been tailored to reflect the current fashion trends. It hung straight from her shoulders and left no room for curves, creating a flattering and modish androgynous silhouette. She completed the look with a string of pearls and a sleek bobbed hairstyle.
"Leander," she said curtly, "I trust you are enjoying your breakfast?"
"Mother," he replied, standing out of respect and struggling to keep his voice steady, "your presence is always a pleasure."
"Indeed." Her gaze narrowed as she scrutinized the plates before him. "I see you are adhering to your diet. That is commendable. Remember, a strong and healthy heir is essential for our kingdom's future."
"Of course, Mother," Leander agreed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped them behind him. Internally, he couldn't help but feel the cold sting of her words—a constant reminder that he would always be second-best in her eyes, a poor substitute for his late brother. Leander seemed to shrink inward, and Jenkin had noticed years ago that the normally charismatic, assertive prince's head always lowered when the queen was present.
"And quit that slouching! I swear, that doctor who said you don't have scoliosis was a liar and a fraud."
"Yes, Mother." Leander immediately straightened.
"Ah, before I forget," Queen Irida announced, clapping her hands to get the attention of the rest of the servants as well as the chef's. "I regret to inform you that I won't be able to attend your birthday banquet next week, Leander."
The prince's surprise was evident as he looked up from his shoes, from which his eyes had naturally begun to gravitate towards once again. "Why not, Mother?"
"An urgent diplomatic matter has arisen in Kordevia," she explained tersely. "As the ruling monarch of Osring, it is my duty to attend to such matters personally. I'm sure you don't mind."
"Of course not," Leander nodded, a strange mixture of disappointment and relief vying in his chest. "Your duties must come first."
"Indeed," Irida agreed, her gaze sharp. "And don't forget, Leander—although I will not be there to oversee it, I expect you to maintain decorum and uphold our family's reputation during the festivities."
"Understood, Mother," he replied solemnly.
She gave him a prim smile before turning away on her heel. "Do keep an eye on him, won't you, Jenkin, dear?" The queen asked Jenkin with considerably more warmth than she gave to her own son, briefly cupping his jaw in a motherly fashion as she swooped by toward the door. "He can be quite a handful at times."
"I will do my utmost, Your Majesty," Jenkin said, bowing deeply toward her and feeling cold where her hand had touched him. With a nod, Queen Irida strode out of the room, leaving Leander to finish his breakfast in silence. Jenkin watched the other servants clear the table and tidy up the room, ensuring everything was in its proper place, a few of them throwing him jealous or suspicious glances.
Despite serving the prince for the better part of both their lives, he had but a few friends within the castle staff and faced constant prejudice from others within the castle. As the orphaned son of diplomats who had hailed from Blienau, a country with long-standing tensions with Osring and with which Osring was currently at war, he often felt the sting of their derision. The other servants mocked his accent and questioned his motivations, especially since the queen and her now-deceased husband had taken a shine to him and allowed him to stay on all those years ago.
Jenkin remembered when he'd first met Leander outside of official greetings, right after he'd endured a particularly violent spate of bullying. He'd hidden down a remote corridor, nursing black eyes and sobbing into his arms.
"Hello," the curious voice of a child had called to him, and Jenkin had looked up to see the round figure of the second-born prince, someone he'd never spoken to before. Leander's eyes had held a mix of emotions—compassion and something Jenkin would only understand later as a profound loneliness mingling with a glimmer of hope, probably the same expression Jenkin had worn himself while giving the prince a low bow, face still dripping the most embarrassing of fluids.
Leander had been the first person his age to show him kindness after he was orphaned, and afterward, he defended him against anyone who cast suspicion on Jenkin or mocked him out of simple prejudiced hate. The prince might have been, as he himself put it, a "dough ball" back then, but his station commanded respect, and in the rare instances that didn't work, or he wasn't recognized...well, he'd always been strong.
Shaking off these thoughts, Jenkin turned his attention back to his duties. He knew that he could not change the opinions of others, nor did he require their approval. His unwavering dedication to Prince Leander was what truly mattered.
"Jenkin," Leander called softly, drawing the valet from his reverie. "I know you are loyal to Osring, and to me," Leander said earnestly, having watched his interactions with the other servants and knowing what was likely on his mind. "Thank you for that, and for...well, for everything."
"Of course, Your Highness," Jenkin replied, a fondness not at all befitting of a servant creeping into his voice. "It is my honor and privilege to serve you."
***
Upon re-entering Leander's sumptuous chambers, as per usual, some of the rigid decorum that defined their interactions was set aside. It was as if a veil had been lifted, and the two old friends could speak without the weight of expectations or protocol bearing down upon them.
"Jenkin," Leander began, pacing back and forth, "you know as well as I that Mother will be departing for Kordevia next week."
"Indeed, Your Highness, as we just heard," Jenkin replied, suppressing a smile. "I have been well informed of her impending journey."
"Yes, well," Leander fluttered a hand absently, "as she said, I am expected to uphold the highest standards of decorum and etiquette as is befitting of the Crown Prince of Osring—particularly given the current state of relations between the nations."
"Of course, Your Highness," Jenkin said with a small bow. "It is only natural that you should wish to present yourself in the best possible light," he added, wondering where this was going.
"And of course I will! But, Jenkin," he paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "do you think it would be terribly inappropriate if we were to...add a few extra treats to the banquet menu?"
"Your Highness," Jenkin replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully, entirely a pretense meant to amuse the both of them. Inwardly, his most embarrassing self was jumping with glee. "While I understand your desire to celebrate this occasion with a touch of extravagance, I must remind you that Her Majesty expects us to maintain her rules."
"Ah, but surely she wouldn't begrudge me a few additional morsels on my own birthday?" Leander said with a grin, and this was true: the queen always allowed Leander a bit more indulgences on holidays, and it was something of a fun game for Jenkin to sneak him even more treats afterward. This time, they wouldn't even have to sneak.
"Indeed, Your Highness," Jenkin conceded, his lips quirking upward in a subtle smile. "In light of the circumstances, I believe we can make some small exceptions to the usual protocol."
"Oh, thank God." Leander whumped backward onto his bed, beaming in anticipation of a feast far too distant in the future for either of their liking.
Despite Leander's large frame having shrunk away, his prodigious appetite had persisted. He had even told Jenkin after a party the past year that his army training against enemy emissions had made him more adept at consuming large quantities of food without becoming ill. This was something Jenkin had happily (for he had always found such a strange pleasure in watching his prince overindulge,) witnessed on that odd holiday in which the queen allowed Leander something other than the boring salads, lean meats, and raw fruit “desserts” that encompassed his meals these days, and after Jenkin had brought the extra treats from the kitchen back to Leander's bedchambers. Even better for Jenkin than watching Leander enjoy himself on these occasions was the groaning, pitiful aftermath of an overly replete prince. It was a sight he secretly longed to witness more often, though he knew that such desires were unbecoming of a servant in his position.
Truthfully, Jenkin felt terrible for the excitement he felt over these rare instances—he didn’t want Leander harmed; truly, he didn’t—but he couldn’t deny how much he wanted to get his hands on that taut, grumbling belly and soothe the prince’s pain, offering him relief that could only ever exist in Jenkin's wildest fantasies.
"I shall make the necessary arrangements."
"Thank you, Jenkin." The dimples around Leander's smile deepened, his eyes sparkling with gratitude as he looked up at him from where he lay, guileless in their adoration. "You truly are a marvel." Jenkin cleared his throat and turned away as he felt his cheeks heat up, not for the first time wondering what he'd done to deserve to have anyone—not to mention a prince—look at him that way, even if it was only because he offered Leander treats as if he were a puppy. Still, it was intoxicating, and he had to constantly remind himself not to let his imagination run wild. Any other reason was out of the question.
Oblivious to Jenkin's inner anguish, Leander sat up cross-legged on his bed (still wearing his boots, to Jenkin's consternation,) and began chattering animatedly about the upcoming feast, his plans for the day, and the gossip he'd heard over the week, Jenkin nodding along absently, not particularly interested in castle gossip but happy that Leander was so exuberant about something. His arrival back home from war had created an oft-deadened emotion in his dearest friend, adoring expressions and dimples notwithstanding.
"Jenkin, you wouldn't believe what I overheard Sirs Kensington and Herringbone plotting yesterday," Leander continued excitedly with his story, starfishing his arms in his exuberance to emphasize his point. In doing so, however, his hand took a wild detour into a delicate lighting fixture hanging above his bed stand.
Wham! The fixture's descent was swift and brutal onto the polished hardwood floor, where it promptly exploded in a shower of glass and sparks, scattering across the room in a chaotic display.
Face suddenly switching from enthusiastic delight to the blank visage of a shell-shocked soldier, Leander instinctively threw himself forward, covering Jenkin's body with his own in a desperate attempt to shield him from perceived danger. Beneath him, Jenkin tensed, momentarily confused by Leander's actions but quick to shut off any emotional outcry from himself, recognizing this as the battle fatigue his prince had come home from war with not a year past.
As they lay there on the floor, their faces mere centimeters apart, Jenkin purposefully matched his breathing rate to Leander's as he watched his face. Once synced, he carefully slowed his breaths down, Leander unconsciously matching him until he blinked, shaking some of the frightening blankness from his face. Jenkin could still feel Leander's heart pounding through his clothes, and he reached up and placed a cautious hand on Leander's shoulder.
Because of Jenkin's status as a native of Blienau, he of course had not been allowed to go with Leander to the battlefields like other valets would have been. Jenkin had no personal bloodlust in his heart, especially not toward his own people, but whenever something of this sort happened, he wished he had been allowed. He would do anything, even sacrifice his own innocence, to shield his prince from whatever horrors occupied his mind and marred that once-bright spirit at times like this.
"Your Highness, are you quite alright?" Jenkin asked softly, concern etched upon his face as he gazed into Leander's eyes.
"Y-yes," stammered Leander, suddenly quite hot all over. "I'm sorry, Jenkin. I just...I heard the crash and thought...I thought..."
"Perfectly understandable, Your Highness," Jenkin replied soothingly, trying to offer comfort while maintaining his professional demeanor, which was becoming more difficult now that the initial shock was over and their closeness was realized. "A natural response to the situation," he added, even though it was most certainly not.
"Thank you," Leander muttered. Slowly, they extricated themselves from their tangled embrace, moving to stand apart from one another. "Well, then," Leander said, dusting off his clothes and looking away. "I suppose we ought to continue our conversation as if nothing has happened." He offered a shaky smile, hoping to lighten the mood.
"Of course, Your Highness," Jenkin replied, his voice steady despite the emotions warring inside him. As they spoke, Leander attempting to resume his story where it had stopped, Jenkin's mind wandered back to that fleeting moment of closeness, and he found himself stealing glances at Leander's lithe form.
"Is...is everything all right, Jenkin?" Leander asked, catching the valet's lingering gaze. "You seem a bit distracted."
"Apologies, Your Highness," Jenkin stammered, quickly averting his eyes. "I assure you, I am fully attentive to our conversation." He busied himself with straightening an already-straight stack of political texts, trying to regain his composure.
"Very well," Leander replied, giving him a thoughtful expression, his own thoughts filled with the memory of just how warm Jenkin had felt beneath him.