Archive of Our Own

It's quite the pretty party; Chaos thinks so at least. Of course, one couldn't expect any less from the Illyrian government.

Beautiful, pearlescent lights hang from the ceiling of the castle's large, tall ballroom, cascading the sea of masked, well-dressed guests in a soft, warm glow. The skirts of large, debonair dresses in all colors and fabrics look like flowers from above. Tulle, velvet, and satin flow like the sea over the ballroom's floor- Truly, Chaos has never seen such a lavish display of riches in his life.

He can't help but smile as he watches handsome young men and women mill about the grounds. This is the sort of party a man like him would never be invited to, but a man like him never found any use for invitations anyway.

It's a masquerade ball, so he's come dressed to impress; the very least he could do for his technical bending of the laws.

Chaos wears a jet black mask that's got two horns just above the eyebrows. A little flourish and orange embellishment sits under his eyes, his lips are painted a deep red. His skin is quite visibly blue, but there's not much of it shown. He wears a black tuxedo and a carmine vest that matches his lips, a black tie, and black slacks to match. His hands are covered in satin, black gloves and his neck is nearly all obscured by his white button-up.

He ruffles a hand through his soft, grey hair and lets out a low whistle. This isn't his scene and, hell, he feels like he's suffocating under all the layers he wears, but he doesn't regret the choice to come in the slightest.

He *can't* regret sneaking in, not when his ears catch an elegant man's timbre tone, echoing from the top of the staircase at the head of the ballroom.

"Introducing. . ." The room falls silent in anticipation. "King Daryl of Illyria!"

Chaos' heart swells like a lovesick schoolgirl; the applause around him is deafening and he can't blame any person in the room for reacting so amorously. The only difference between him and the sea of masked dancers is that they applaud for the title and he applauds for the man.

Daryl appears at the top of the stairs wearing an outfit nothing short of ethereal. He's dressed in a snug, tight-fitting purple three piece suit: the blazer and slacks are a deep violet, but the vest is lavender. His tie is white like his button and his shoes are buffed to a fine, ebony sheen. Strawberry blonde hair falls around his cheeks, framing his face delicately. He has a few freckles on his face- Chaos can't see it from his distance, but he knows where each one sits on his lightly rosy cheeks. His smooth skin is only obscured by a white masquerade mask nearly shaped like a bunny's.

His hands are gloved in white, opposite to Chaos, and he wears a large, satin cloak around his neck. It's the same lavender purple, but it's got a beautiful gold trim and golden tassles hanging around Daryl's collarbone. The cloak flows behind him, leaving a lilac trail further up the stairs.

Absolutely tantalizing.

Chaos claps along with the crowd, giving in just this once under the magnitude of the gorgeous man descending onto the ballroom floor before him.

The applause dies down after a moment around him, but he can't help but keep clapping; handsome, enthralling, divine, enchanting, charming, *wanting*.

Daryl's across the room looking like a delicate gift, wrapped up in paper to just tempt the eyes and Chaos is sat far from him, eyes unable to move. It's unfair, really, that the man's noble title means he'll have dances lined up all night; hands on waists, lips against ears, and none of it with Chaos.

Still, like how a wolf watches a rabbit, he eyes the elegant man as he is swept up into a lively conversation with a pretty young girl and then swept up into a livelier foxtrot.

It's upsetting that she's pretty. She wears a little white mask with faux feathers, but even with that, Chaos can tell she's supposedly quite the deal. Her dress is white and flows away from her hips in circular tilts, her hair is a soft rose color that runs to her hips. She has a rose pinned to the front of her dress and she about looks bridal with how her ensemble is of the crisp, linen color.

Bridal.

No, no, it's more upsetting that she looks like a suitor in her large, overdone get-up. She looks like the perfect wife, dancing with the perfect husband and together, they do make quite the pair. She holds him somewhat eagerly and he doesn't discourage, hands swaying against her waist liltingly. He holds her like she's breakable, like she's special somehow, for what?

For being attractive?

For being the first to dance with a king?

For being. . . a woman?

Chaos frowns and takes a tentative step or two further into the room, pushing into the crowd of observers without a care. As he draws nearer to Daryl and this lucky woman, he can see that she leans in and tosses a giggle into the crook of his neck. She looks radiant as a goddess, moving her hands ever tighter against Daryl's back, hugging him to her chest, sick with want. He chuckles back and though Chaos only sees his lips moving, he knows what the laugh sounds like and it reverberates in his chest like a sickeningly sweet echo, over the orchestral piece that fills the air.

He leans his head down just so, more to her level, before whispering something to her, something that seems to cause her a great deal of joy. Oh, Chaos knows the feeling; a bold promise from Daryl is more enticing than a drug, more addictive than booze. He knows the feeling and knowing it makes him angry because it's a *good* feeling and a feeling she should know nothing about. It's a feeling that ought to be reserved for him alone.

With a masked, scowling face, Chaos doesn't attempt to hide the jealousy. It's pointless, it dominates his figure and posture, his eyes and his lips. He's writhing with the hope that this girl falls over, whoever she is, and is trampled by other dancers as she struggles to stand. He hopes she takes a drink of cider and chokes her little dainty throat on it before ever thinking of stepping between Chaos and his love again.

The music dies down slowly and, as it does, that familiar, timbre voice rings out again, only, to announce another member of the Illyrian nobility. "Introducing. . . King Leo of Illyria!"

They always announce that Kiske fucker last at these sort of events, like he's better than Daryl or-- well, Chaos doesn't admittedly know Leo save for what his man has told him, so a good judgement is not quite possible to be made.

It pisses Chaos off to no end how adding 'third' before 'king' seems to diminish how tirelessly Daryl works for this country; he's not seen as equal to Leo and nowhere close to Ky and his family, so he's often pushed to the outskirts, forgotten.

Only now, having seen that leech of a woman with her hands on him, Chaos begins to thank the stars that the system is built that way. When his handsome face is on the outskirts, he can't be drawn away.

As the brawny king, Leo, in a mustard-colored abomination of a suitcoat, lumbers forward to walk down the stairs as Daryl did, there comes again the deafening roar of applause.

Chaos' eyes dart to the man and his lion-like mask and he can't help but roll his eyes. *This* man is treated better than Daryl in terms of status, this towering, muscular oaf.

However, as the clapping swells, Chaos makes a second observation: the eyes of the ball-goers are no longer purely on Daryl and his new lady love. Instead, they focus on King Leo and his wide, strong frame.

Daryl stands just off to the side of the commotion, still holding the woman with a tender look on his face. She seems to soak it all in like a sponge- disgusting. Without even thinking, Chaos' legs carry him through the crowd and cheers and cooing, over to where Daryl has started walking off with this young lady.

There's not a thought in his mind, but there's a burning anger and that counts for something. Anger that at this event he's not even supposed to be at, his Daryl is swept up into this random noble. Anger that she's clearly eating it out of the palm of his hand.

He reaches the two of them with a swift moment, gently tapping Daryl's shoulder with a gloved hand. They both turn around in unison; Daryl's lips are painted with a delicious gloss.

"Your Majesty," Chaos bows his head with mock bravado, "I was hoping to steal your next dance."

The moment Daryl sees him and hears his raspy voice, recognition strikes and his eyes, from behind his mask, widen with a twinkle. His lip quirks up to the side and his hands slip from the homewrecker's hips. Chaos is, admittedly, quite pleased with the reaction he's fed.

"Is that right?" He murmurs nonchalantly, but there's nothing composed about how his eyes fall to Chaos' red lips. "As a matter of a fact. . ."

The woman's eyes widen behind her mask too, though not with the same emotion as Daryl. Her eyebrows crinkle with frustration. "A-ah, so-"

"Ms. Valentine, could we continue this conversation another time?" Daryl turns to her and regards her with a look of genuine apology. "I would like to at least get one more dance before I retire."

"I totally understand! I. . . will too, I think. I-I'm very honored to have met you, Sir King!" She bows her head and giggles with a bubbly, adorable inflection. The nickname she racks on at the end is Chaos' breaking point.

"Should I have called you that too, Sir King? I wasn't aware you had preferred titles." Chaos asks, innocently enough to the standard listener, but a man sharp as Daryl can surely detect the venom directed at the woman.

"I- that's-" Daryl stammers, momentarily losing his smug aura, "you should really call me *Daryl*."

The woman bows hurriedly once more before darting off, scampering like the rat she has to know she is. Good riddance.

As she makes her escape, Daryl holds a gloved hand out to Chaos and, when he takes it, pulls him in towards his chest.

"Nice lady," Chaos scoffs, noticably irritable. He wants Daryl to know. He also wants Daryl to feel how his hands travel over his shoulders, down to his back, down even farther yet.

The blonde sighs, not particularly for one reason or another. "Honestly, there was no need for you to scare her off like that, now was there? She's the hopeless romantic type- just innocently looking for love."

"I don't want any of them looking at you," Chaos whispers, voice cold and intense against the shell of Daryl's ear, "so don't go where I can't follow you."

"You shouldn't even be here." Daryl states, "What if you're seen?"

"Don't be like that," Chaos rolls his eyes, "not now."

"This is a bigger deal than you're making it, dear." Daryl whispers the last word just so and Chaos shivers. "We're at a social mixer, see? As a prominent man in this country, I have appearances to keep up, so I'm mixing. It's as simple as that."

Chaos cocks an eyebrow and smirks. "So it's like that?"

"Nothing more," Daryl drawls, voice demure.

"Then, how's this: take me to that bedroom of yours and we can mix *real* well."

Daryl gasps, but his cheeks burn from under his mask. He takes Chaos' hand and gives his knuckles a reprimanding slap. "That's a bit crude for a ballroom."

"But you liked it, didn'cha? I can see that look in your eyes, *Sir King*."

"Let's dance," Daryl decides quickly, his amusement unable to be contained. He draws ever closer to Chaos, practically pulling himself against his chest, wrapping his limber arms around his waist.

Chaos doesn't do a damn thing to stop him from rubbing his hip bones with his fingers, nor from leading him back into the crowd of aristocracy with the fervour of a man drunk on lust and pride. He likes how comfortable it is to slide his arms across Daryl's shoulders, down past his cloak, embracing his neck and upper back. He likes how Daryl shudders into his touch, how the man's feet slide across the floor, moving them both with an easy swipe of the heels.

The music begins to build up once more; the floor slowly grows less crowded as attendees who no longer want to dance evacuate to the tall tables with booze and fruit displays atop them. That second king is somewhere in the crowd, but he doesn't matter. Neither does the young woman in the bridal dress, not even when she takes the hands of a tall, unassuming man with dark skin and long, black hair done in locs that run naturally down past his shoulders.

When Daryl holds Chaos, the rest of the world is a blur of fading warmth.

"What if I'm seen?" Chaos whispers against Daryl's ear; the blonde guides his hips with the delicacy of a well-mannered gentleman.

"You should have thought about that before breaking and entering, or perhaps before finding me dressed like *that*." Daryl turns his head, pushing Chaos' lips to meet his. They don't touch- they just barely ghost over one another, plunging Chaos into another endless pool of desire.

"Issat good?"

"The *best*." Daryl admonishes, which does horrible things to Chaos' heart. The King leads him into a small spin; his cloak wraps around the both of their interlocked forms. "Just don't drawn much attention to yourself."

"Like dancing with you doesn't put a spotlight on me."

Daryl pulls away for a moment, moving Chaos further back with a flick of the arm. Once they're only holding hands and visibly mourning the heat of their previous embrace, Daryl lifts his hand and tugs at Chaos', twirling him around with a damn impressive show of strength. The moment their bodies collide once more, Daryl catches his lover by the waist and dip him *low* against the floor, his strawberry blonde hair falling all into his eyes as he looks down upon him.

"Do me a favor and worry less about the onlookers for a moment?" Daryl lifts him back onto his feet. "Let's pretend it's *just us*, shall we?"

"What onlookers?" Chaos plays along with a grin; it's a risk to push that sort of worry away, but if Daryl asks it, who is he to refuse? Besides, there's a certain level of satisfaction that he would get from seeing the both of them in the morning papers, holding one another on the front cover while reporters speculate just *who* this masked lover is.

"Good answer," Daryl nods his head encouragingly. His hands rise up from Chaos' hip to the small of his back and even further upwards. They're no longer just two men when they're like this- they're a single entity of love, flourish, and deep-seated want. Chaos can't tell where he stoos and where his lover starts. Their warm blood runs together from both directions into the same pool of love.

Chaos' hand rubs against Daryl's shoulder narrowly and he can't help but notice how swiftly the fabric of his coat seems to slip down his arm. It's as if his clothes are sewn just a smidge too loose, unable to be detected without touching him directly.

"Careful, Your Majesty," Chaos finds himself murmuring into Daryl's neck as the latter guides them both into a beautiful pivot, "this pretty outfit you got seems easy to slip out of."

"Do you think so?" Daryl chuckles, voice low- a rumble against Chaos' chest.

"Can I test my theory?"

Daryl takes Chaos into a long, elegant swirl, his firm hands taking his waist and slowly whisking him off the ground, up into the air several inches. As his vision is torn from his beautiful king's face, he quickly makes note that the two of them are the only ones to dance this particular orchestral piece; the rest of the floor has been abandoned in the intent of giving them more space with one another.

It's bad, of course.

Bad, but so, *so* good.

All eyes are on King Daryl of Illyria and this well-masked, handsome stranger that he dips and weaves across the slick, hardwood of the ballroom. All eyes are watching these two and their intense chemistry at work, watching them exchange inaudible quips back and forth for just the two of them.

All eyes in the room surely must realize that Daryl is *his* and his alone.

"Of course, my darling," Daryl murmurs from just below him, slowly lowering him back onto the ground with a small huff. His man is so very strong.

"Now?" Chaos is anything but patient; he moves his hands from Daryl's back to his chest, one on his coat's breast pocket and the other around his little tie. "Because we've got quite the audience around us, Daryl."

"I thought I asked you not to look at them?"

"Ask me again and jog my memory?"

His arm slides up Chaos' abdomen and holds his upper torso, turning away from him so that they both face away from each other. Chaos mimics the position and puts his arm under Daryl's chest, leveling him an intense look. They swivel in a perfect circle, chests rising with passion.

"Focus on me, Chaos." Daryl says, less of an ask and more of a command. It's something Chaos doesn't mind obliging; it's addictive to hear those words from Daryl's glossy lips.

"I like it when you take the lead."

They both pull away at the same time, spiraling just out of reach before falling back into each other's arms.

Daryl bites his lip. "Are we still talking about dancing?"

"Do *you* think I'm still talking about dancing right now, Daryl?" Chaos asks lowly, unable to hide the way his eyes linger about his form.

"I'm no mind reader, my darling." Daryl leans into his neck, his breath ghosting the mostly-covered skin on Chaos' neck. "And besides, you know I like it when you use your words."

"You can have every word from my mouth if you just kiss-- mmfphh-" Before his words even fully emerge from his rouge lips, Daryl takes his cheek roughly and dips him backwards, kissing him with the intent of a man clearly unbothered about his social appearance. He kisses Chaos like they're the only two in the room, like the cheers and screams of surprise and delight that echo across the walls don't exist.

Their masks clash against each other as Chaos returns the gesture; he falls completely limp in Daryl's strong hold. There's something surprising about how his king's lips taste tonight- they're bittersweet like a warm mug of coffee and addictive like whiskey. He's just like that, a roaring mess of different flavors and feeling that you can't help but want to experience, one by one or all at once.

There's the flash of a camera, the whistle of an enamoured onlooker, the applause of most every attendee in the background. The sound of uproar seems to pull Daryl from his loving haze, because he releases Chaos almost immediately, his blue eyes filling with unshod tears.

He looks around at the circle that his own guests have formed around them and then looks to Chaos with a similar curiosity before mouthing a rushed *I'm sorry* to nobody in particular.

Chaos watches as he takes his cloak and bolts away, pushing through the crowd in an eagerness to leave.

The guests look from Daryl to Chaos with a sharp interest, like a pack of dogs honing in on a hunk of raw meat.

Another camera somewhere in the room flashes. Chaos nearly trips over himself as he runs in the opposite direction of his lover, dodging any further photos.

-

When Daryl needs to think, he likes to be on his own. Often times, he finds solace in his office or his room or, in the absolute worst of times, in one of the single-user restrooms littered around the castle.

However, at this moment, he doesn't just need to think, he needs to run and hide. He needs to run from the way Chaos' shampoo is still strongly scented to his satin pillows, from the way he can remember leaning over Chaos atop his desk, from the way Chaos has helped him get ready in the morning for work by doing his hair and shaving. Those things, those *horrible*, *amazing*, *enticing* things, are woven so deep into the fabric of Daryl's life that he isn't sure he *can* run if he wants to.

Chaos is part of his routine. Chaos owns part of his heart and soul.

But of course, he's not so stupid as to not acknowledge that the man he's somehow fallen for, kissed senseless, and bedded is someone who is dangerously powerful and wanted dead, not alive, in most, if not all countries. He knows how Chaos appears in the media and, to an extent, he knows that most of his alleged crimes have truly been his.

But, Daryl also knows another thing about the man, something nobody else in the world could possibly know too: Chaos is a changing man and he is, by the day, becoming more and more of a human than he ever could have been considered before. He's easily influenced by Daryl to do most of the right things these days (stealing a packet of jam from a local breakfast joint non-withstanding) and the progress is as inspiring as it is heartwarming.

That being said, nobody in that room knows how Chaos has changed since meeting Daryl. Nobody knows that he's good somewhere under all that bad, that he's misguided and lost and only needs a nudge in the right direction.

They probably don't even know that the man in the mask Daryl danced with *was* Chaos, truthfully. But there's this pain-in-the-ass little chirping in the back of Daryl's head that makes him wonder 'what if they saw him clearly?' and 'what if he was recognized?'.

Hell, Chaos had even warned Daryl that this was a possibility, but the man was so drawn up in his own love and affection that he didn't stop to consider the situation in the slightest. Chaos fell into his arms and, like a pathetic man, Daryl caved in, unable to stop himself from loving him.

*Chaos* made the reasonable call.

*Daryl* fucked it all up.

He knows that some photographer took a photo of the two of them; he'd not anticipated that they really would be the only two dancers for the song and that, if things escalated, they would be the pretty mystery of the evening. Yet, somehow, life seems not to really care for Daryl, so he's made another miscalculation with terrible results.

If the photos are released anywhere--

But it won't matter because at least a thousand saw the kiss firsthand--

They'll be wondering who the man in the mask is--

If they find out he's *Happy Chaos*, the black-listed terrorist with a list of committed misdemeanors long enough to wrap around the world twice over, Daryl will be ruined. No, the country will be undermined. Because when a leader makes an impulsive decision, it isn't just himself that suffers for it. It's everyone he works with, everyone who's given him love and support too; his actions reflect on Ky and Leo just as they do him.

Daryl doesn't know when he starts to cry, just that he *does* and the tears well up at the bottom of his mask. He slips it from his head with a fury that's only directed at him; why did he kiss Chaos? Why was Chaos even there? Why didn't he send his lover home sooner, knowing full and well this could be a scenario?

No, no, he tells himself sternly, don't you dare pin the blame on Chaos. You're the one who crossed a line, you're the one who got careless.

He's sitting outside tonight, leaning against the railing of a balcony with his head in his hands, frustrated tears streaking away his pretty makeup, the makeup Chaos would have loved to see. The sky is completely empty- fitting. The garden below him is also empty- of course it is.

There's nobody out here but Daryl, the pathetic third King of Illyria who can't control his own emotions long enough to at least *seem* professional.

So, naturally, he cries quite a lot.

He cries for his own selfishness; he cries for how much he adores being loved; he cries for how blinding fondness can be; he cries about his sheer fucking *stupidity*.

He didn't take it seriously when Chaos pointed out the dangers. He only focused on the flirt, never mind those around him.

In-between sobs, Daryl almost misses the feeling of someone putting their hand on his shoulder. *Almost*.

With a muffled cry, he turns around and swats at his observer's knuckles. "Please, I don't want to talk-"

But the man that looks back into his eyes and pulls his reddening hand away with a shocked frown isn't a member of the paparazzi. He's not an onlooker, not a dancer, not a reporter.

"Ky," Daryl frowns, "My apologies, I shouldn't have done that."

Ky Kiske looks quite nice tonight, dressed in a dapper white suit with a navy blue tie and black button-up. His hair is done quite well, soft tufts of blonde sculpted to the left methodically in a handsome manner. A faint blush covers his pale cheeks. His lips have a light dusting of gloss and glitter. His eyes are nearly gleaming under the cover of moonlight; they pierce through Daryl and make him feel as though his thoughts are being read. God, he hates when his compatriot does this routine.

"No, you shouldn't." Ky levels him a look of sheer pity, hands crossed in a way that's quintessentially authoritative, but not intimidating. "Daryl, I didn't come here to pester you. I came here to talk like civilized men."

"I gathered," Daryl waves a hand in the air, another cheeky tear running down his face.

"About just now, in the ballroom."

"Spit it out, Ky, if you have something you want to say." Daryl grumbles.

Ky has a rather poor habit of allowing his own emotions to overextend into the situations of wholly unrelated parties. His religion serves as his moral compass, which isn't so bad, but he insists that everyone else follow suit, which isn't Daryl's cup of tea.

"That wasn't quite. . . normal, there, was it?" Ky slowly, quietly mentions as if he's afraid to say it.

Ah, of course.

Daryl wants to punch himself or maybe jump from the balcony- he was kissing a *man* in the ballroom which isn't a problem for him, but for the Christian attendees, such as the First King. . . Daryl isn't a Christian and doesn't claim to be, but he does understand to a certain degree that their religion mostly condemns relationships of the homosexual variety.

And yet, as if those views didn't exist, Daryl kissed a man in the middle of the floor. Chaos or not, Ky wouldn't know. All he'd know is that the guy was a *guy*, which makes Daryl a dirty sinner in his righteous book.

The third king's heart breaks. He tries his best to impress his fellow monarchs frequently and to think that all of that hard work, all those late nights, all those devoted all-nighters could be thrown down the gutter because of something Daryl has no control over, something as simple as sexuality!

"Honestly, Ky, could you try for *one fucking second* to put away that bias of yours and see that some of us can't and won't fall in love with a woman? You're lucky, you're *normal*, but-"

Ky's blue eyes widen and his hands rise to either side of his head. "What?"

"I'm. . . I'm *gay*, Ky. I'm sorry it doesn't fit your beliefs-"

"What are you saying?" Ky huffs, "That isn't what this is about- no, no, *no*! Daryl, that doesn't bother me in the slightest. My wife is bisexual herself and I really try to be open-minded."

"Wait, it's not. . ?" Daryl gawks.

"Absolutely not! I came to find you to ask who that man was! From the way the two of you danced, I could tell that there was something between you, but yet, I don't think I've ever met him. I didn't realize you were gay until you told me just now."

"You never bothered to ask me."

"And that's on me, I acknowledge that." Ky bites his lip. "But I am asking you now. I care about you and. . . I want you to trust me the way that I trust you."

"He's nobody- we met tonight, that's all." Daryl lies quickly.

Ky's face seizes with sadness. "Oh *Daryl*. . . I had hoped you'd trust me more than that."

"What is it now?"

"Why are you so terrified to tell me the truth? I hope you know I won't hurt you if you do."

Damn Ky and damn his ability to read people so well.

"I don't want to talk about it." Daryl waves a hand dismissively.

"Why's that? Consider my situation- I know all about secret romances."

"Ky, it's not the same!"

"Howso?" Ky bites his lip, "My wife and I were only able to go public about our relationship recently. Whatever reason you two have, it must be something similar?"

Daryl squints. "No, it's not! Your wife is nothing like *him*!"

"Well, whoever he is, my Dizzy wasn't liked the the mass media at first, but I loved her enough to not let their opinions and crass headlines get to me. Now, after some time, she's seen for the person that she truly is, not some stereotype or assumption of a gear or a lower-class person and I'm certain that with due time, if you *were* to come forward-"

"The difference is that Dizzy is fucking innocent! She didn't *actually* do anything wrong, she was the victim!"

"And your man isn't. . ?"

Daryl turns to look at Ky, an unreadable expression littering his facial features. "What would you do if. . . Ky, *please* forget it."

"I didn't mean to judge you or anything, I'm sure-"

"I would hardly blame you if you did. I'm a damn *king* after all!"

Ky puts his hands on his hips. "Our positions can't help who we love, Daryl. It's our heart that makes the choice."

"So what? You suggest that I just open up and tell everyone that I'm with a fucking criminal?"

"If you told me his name, maybe-"

"Happy Chaos," Daryl's eye contact with his blonde friend doesn't waver, not even as he observes how he reacts to the name. Not even when Ky's eyes widen and his nails dig into his arms. "Is *that* what you wanted to hear? Are you satisfied now that you've completely disarmed me?"

Ky doesn't meet his gaze. His eyes drop to the floor and his lip twitches slightly; he looks troubled, in shock, in disbelief. "You. . . Chaos. . ?"

He's upset.

He's the exact fucking thing Daryl said he would be- *knew* he would be! No sane King dicks around with a wanted criminal and no sane King would accept that his fellow does! He's ruined and Ky was never considerate, just manipulative and forceful.

"*Yes*." Daryl's tone grows colder and colder with every syllable. His eyes begin to sting with tears he hopes Ky can't see.

"Why would you-"

Daryl lets out a small, angry laugh. "See? There you are, asking the questions you swore you wouldn't, having the reaction you promised against. You just can't help yourself! Your life is perfect and it all works out for you, so heaven forbid someone else feels something or falls for someone that doesn't line up with how you've lived your life! They're a total disgrace, right?"

"*Daryl*," Ky uses a sharp tone, an *angry* tone with him. He calls his name like he's a misbehaving child, nothing more.

"Our positions can't help who we love? Please, your logic is full of shit, all of it!" A single tear slides down Daryl's cheek and he chokes back a thousand more; he's fuming and ashamed and all shades of cowardly. "I know I should have known better, I *know* I should have. I've tried to follow your example but I suppose my heart must be broken, the way it continuously renders me useless! You say these stupid monikers all the time to make me feel better, but you only say them as a comfort or a luxury- once you know my situation, you no longer truly mean it because how can you? You can't endorse this behavior, can you?

"And tonight," Daryl's vision blurs with anguish and unspoken feelings, "*tonight*, I indulge myself with a singular selfishness! Tonight, at a masquerade ball with swarms of women throwing themselves at me, at the charming, single, rich facade I wear, there's a singular face who does not see any of this, but still chooses to follow me! Christ, just from walking down the stairs, I've received enough reasonable marriage proposals to be able to have a new spouse every month! I'm expected to take it and be kind and gentle, of course I am, but I can't because as I'm watching them, I know full and damn well why they're all there on their knees and it isn't because of me. It's because of my position- positions do choose love because we need to consider them before doing any goddamn thing!

"So sue me, Kiske, for meeting a man who genuinely sees me beyond just riches and good looks and falling for him! I never said he was perfect, but you need him to be because he's *mine* and everything I love has to look good on camera for the public! So I didn't tell you shit because while he's not near as godly as you think you are, he's getting better and he's growing so much," his throat feels tense and he can't help but wail his lamentations out this last time; he'll never speak to Ky again, "and it's not like you'd know because you know him from a time ago when he was broken! Doesn't matter that together, we've put the pieces back and fastened them with gold to make a prettier piece of pottery- no, it only matters that at some point, the vase was broken!

"I never asked him to show up here. He came of his own accord because he *loves* me and he wanted to see me! He got this whole costume and everything just so we could hide! He's willing to hide forever *for me*. So, while young ladies piled up, one after another, forgive me but I couldn't help but think about him! And when he announced himself to me, I about lost it! I told myself I would let myself be his for a dance, just as a buffer between insufferable marriage proposals, but in his arms, do you know that I'm actually a person? I'm not a tool or a well-dressed mannequin- Chaos sees me, Ky, and not even *you* or *Leo* care enough to do that. Of course I kissed him- how *couldn't* I kiss him?- but now, as reward for my failures as a King, I am allowed to wait for the photo to be in the papers and then wait for the press to arrive so I can resign without being *assassinated* for my crimes by either of you or--"

As Daryl's makeup runs down his cheeks and his voice wavers with fear and misery, as he breaks down and quivers like a lone leaf in the wind, Ky does the unexpected:

Two arms wrap around Daryl's back, holding his sides with kindness and tender care. He feels Ky's chest fall against his with the embrace, the man's chin resting on his broad shoulder.

His cold breath strikes his neck as Ky firmly whispers, "You've done nothing wrong."

Daryl gasps, his arms shaking at his side. "How can you say that?" Then, in a softer, tearful tone, he mutters the sentence again, still in disbelief. "*How can you say that. . ?*"

"I can say it because I mean it, Daryl." Ky says, simple and plain, "All you've done is find love- even if it's not what either of us would have expected."

"Why aren't you angry?" Daryl bawls, nose tucked against Ky's shoulder to cover his tears. His voice is pathetic and confused now, no longer upset. "You ought to be fucking furious!"

"Would you rather me be?"

"N-no, I. . . I just don't get you."

Ky holds him tighter in his arms, sending him a tight, brotherly embrace. "That's fine. I just want to get *you*, whatever that means. My God tells us to give second chances, so. . . if you'd allow me, I might actually like to meet him."

"You want to *meet* Chaos? Again?" Daryl's lip quivers. "Because of me?"

"It doesn't have to be right away if you or he won't be comfortable with it, but *yes*, perhaps a dinner?"

Daryl can't help but chuckle at that idea; his Chaos sitting nicely at a table, dressed like royalty, carrying out civil conversation with Ky and Leo. It's nice, *domestic*.

"I might be able to convince him," he swallows a couple rogue tears and blinks his eyes harshly, "if we offered lobster."

"Lobster?"

"It's his favorite food."

"I see!" Daryl can't see Ky but he just knows he smiles. "It will be nice to get to know your Chaos, I think. He seems more human when you speak about him."

"He *is* human and he's really doing better! Cocky as hell, but not egotistical or menacing."

"I would hope for good behavior from a Prince Consort To Be."

"You would allow that?"

"You're the one with the love, not me. Who am I to tell you who to court or marry one day?" Ky pulls away, his hands resting on Daryl's shoulders comfortingly. "But I am here to support you and. . . Well, I suppose I'll support Chaos too, unfamiliar as those words feel in the moment."

"You're willing to change all of this so quickly."

"I wouldn't be if it weren't for you, Daryl. I'm looking out for you and protecting your happiness."

Daryl smiles, this time being the one to take Ky in for a warm hug. He sniffles away another crystalline teardrop. "Is it really-"

"*Daryl*, do you love him?"

"I do."

"Then it's alright, hm? Not normal, but my situation hardly is either, so that's not a demerit." Ky doesn't seem bothered by the sobs that strike the cloth of his shoulder pad; instead, he's focused on how Daryl is feeling.

"I can't believe you. . ." Daryl laughs, still chasing the shock away from his mind with fervor. "You're a good man, Ky."

"I'm relieved to hear you say that. Will you pass my invitation along to Chaos, then?"

"Let's. . . not tell Leo, though. I'll tell Dizzy or Sin- not Leo. He'll be harder to convince." Daryl pleads.

"That will take time, so we can go at your pace. But, I hope you do realize that he will support you at some point as well because he also cares for you."

"I see that."

"As long as you know." Ky pats his back delicately. "If you need more fresh air or would like to dodge the rest of the masquerade, please feel free to retire. I'll do my very best to cover for your absence."

How thoughtful- Ky going out of his way to make sure Daryl is feeling mentally well.

"I'll do that, thanks." Daryl bows his head curlty, respectfully, "I appreciate you. . . speaking with me."

"I'm always available to listen, Daryl."

"I know you are. I just wish I'd known sooner."

-

When Daryl stumbles through the door of his bedroom, full of exhaustion, weakness, and fear all at once, he's surprised to see that his bedside lamp is on.

Even more surprising is that beside it, on the bed itself, Chaos is sitting lazily- at least, until he hears the door click. Then, he bolts upright, eyes wide with relief.

"Chaos, I didn't expect you-" Daryl starts, but he's cut off quite well into his sentence.

From the bed, Chaos all but flies to his feet, running over to the doorframe to pull Daryl into a tight, possessive embrace. The force of his arms tackling his waist nearly cause the blonde to fall backwards, but the door behind him slams shut and holds him steady against its wooden panels.

"Daryl, *Daryl*," Chaos pants, sounding distraught and genuinely. . . afraid. He's never heard his lover's voice so high or felt his touch waver with fear before- it's absolutely terrifying. "I shouldn't have gone, I'm so sorry for what I've done. I honestly didn't think you'd even want to see me because-"

A stream of tears strike Daryl's covered collarbone. "Chaos, are you crying?"

"It was my idea, a horrible idea, but I went with you anyway and the camera- *babe*, I don't even know what to say, just that I feel like shit!"

Daryl's concerned expression slowly eases into a polite smile. "Dear, I hardly blame you for what happened here tonight. If anyone is to blame, it really should be me. You told me our situation and for some reason. . . I apologize that I kissed you like that in front of a crowd, that I put you in danger and in risk, and that I just ran from the problem I made without even telling you where I was headed. I. . ."

Chaos' hands tangle up into Daryl's hair; he cards through it softly. "Don't blame yourself either. You didn't do anything wrong, you know."

"You're too good to me," Daryl can't help but smile as a tear slides down his lip. Somehow, Chaos has been waiting for him here for an hour, waiting to apologize for a crime he never committed. Waiting to hold him and make him feel safe.

"I'm treatin' you like the king you are, nothing off about that. And I truly am sorry-"

"No," Daryl puts a finger to Chaos' lip with a soft *ssh*, "it's not your doing, so please stop apologizing. We're. . . in a societal position to life in secrecy; neither of us brought it on or made it worse. We're trying to live our lives, okay?"

"Are you telling me that or are you trying to speak to yourself?" Chaos gently whispers. "You're a good man, o Third King, through and through."

"I'm tired of hiding this and feeling like it's my fault and I just-" Daryl throws his hands up in the air. "Everyone else gets to dance with their loved ones at a gala, but for us, we have to hide everything we do!"

"I know, I know,"

"Hell, I just want to kiss you and hold you, but I can't! I know this isn't fair to you and for that, I will always be sorry."

"When you feel most ready," Chaos whispers, "we can go public, alright? I won't force anything until then; these are your boundaries."

"Okay," Daryl lets out a small breath once, calming and lethargic, "okay. What if we started with a small step?"

"What kind of small step?" Chaos' head tilts to the side, his grey hair bouncing against his cheek.

"I was. . . thinking of hosting a dinner."