Chapter Text
Every year, the Payne Kingdom hosts a banquet on the king’s birthday. Everyone who’s anyone is invited, including other monarchs from around the land. Edwin is required to attend every year, and he usually spends a few hours making painfully awkward conversation with strangers before escaping back to his rooms as quickly as he can, claiming a headache from the wine.
This year, now that he’s of age, will be the first year he’ll be required to actually participate fully. Being of age means being available to marry, and his parents fully expect him to find a suitable partner soon. Which means mingling with suitors, dancing, talking, putting on a façade of charm that he doesn’t have. Sussing out appropriate and not-unbearable matches among the numerous noblemen and women who would like nothing more than to marry a prince.
It will be a total nightmare.
He says as much to Charles as the two of them practice fencing together. Ever since Edwin found out he could claim his Royal Protector as his sparring partner without much complaint from his tutors, he’s practiced exclusively with Charles. Charles’ skill with a blade is less refined than his own—he’s used to deadly circumstances and fights meant to be ended, not to win points. Even so, they usually find themselves evenly matched.
“Come on, Edwin, it won’t be that bad. Remember last year when Lord Gustav lost his dinner all over the ballroom floor?” Charles laughs, falling out of his ready stance and pulling off his helmet. His curls, damp with sweat, bounce up from where the helmet matted them against his skull.
“Unfortunately, I do,” Edwin answers. He pulls off his own helmet and wipes the sweat from his face with the rag Charles hands him. It’s the height of summer, and though they’re indoors, the palace isn’t especially well-ventilated. “I cannot possibly see how getting so inebriated you vomit in front of the other guests can be pleasurable in any way.”
“That’s the nobility for you,” Charles says, putting away his fencing gear and pulling his normal armor back on. “Eat ‘til you're bursting, drink ‘til you can’t see straight, make a total fool of yourself, forget it all afterward until the next year rolls around.”
“Need I remind you that you, too, are nobility now? Or does the title ‘Lord Rowland’ not suit?” Edwin teases. It’s amusing how often Charles seems to forget his honestly quite elevated status in the palace.
“Augh, don’t call me that. It sounds weird when you say it,” Charles complains. He’s not really mad, though, Edwin knows. He sits down next to Edwin on the bench, eyes flicking quickly up and down Edwin’s body. Checking for injury. It would be a little unsettling, being watched so closely, but somehow when it’s Charles Edwin doesn’t mind. It makes him feel… safe.
“Besides,” Edwin continues, “your job is basically the same as it is every day. Lurk behind me and give threatening looks at anyone who seems like they might hurt me. Whereas I will be forced to entertain potential romantic partners all night.” He shudders.
“You’ll be beating the suitors off with a stick,” Charles says, grinning. “I’ll have to pull you out of a pile of them and carry you away to safety.”
“Ever the hero,” Edwin says dryly. He’s stopped sweating so much now, and quite fancies a bath—or perhaps a quick dip in the cool stream behind the palace. Perhaps Charles could even join him…
But no, the banquet is tonight, and he’ll get an earful from his parents if he disappears for an afternoon. He sighs and stands, offering a hand up to Charles as well, and leads him back to his rooms. Whereas Edwin is sure he looks a fright, face reddened and hair askew, Charles looks nothing more than dewy with sweat, in an effortless sort of way. With the sun coming through the arched windows behind him, he looks like he’s glowing.
Edwin bites his tongue and forces the thoughts from his head. They’re in no way appropriate, no matter how often his dreams have been featuring Charles. His duty is to find a partner of appropriate station and rule until he dies, hopefully at a ripe old age. That’s all there is to it.
As Edwin bathes in the tub in his rooms, Charles stationed on the other side of the paper dividing screen, they make idle chatter. Charles keeps trying to cheer Edwin up with things to look forward to at the banquet, and Edwin is equally as dour as Charles’ optimism is upbeat. When he’s clean, the chambermaid comes in to drain the bath while his valet helps him dress in his formal clothes. Edwin would like to think he could dress himself, but to be honest, they’re so stiff and complicated that he needs the help.
Charles briefly disappears while Edwin is getting dressed to change into his own formal uniform, still just as armored, but replacing well-worn, buttery-soft brown leather with rigid, shiny black leather. He looks a vision, menacing to any foes who would dare to cross him. Edwin tells him so when he returns.
“Stop it, you know I hate this thing,” Charles grouses, pulling at his collar. “Can’t bloody move in it, how do they think I’m supposed to fight?”
“Well, hopefully the most action the banquet sees is a drunken row between two minor lords,” Edwin says. He pulls at his own collar, adjusting it to allow himself a little more airflow. His face is feeling rather heated. “Shall we go? I don’t know that I can avoid responsibility for much longer.”
“The life of a prince is never dull,” Charles agrees sagely, following after Edwin. In the grand hall, the palace staff are a hive of activity. The tables are already set with the finest cutlery, the floor-length curtains have been drawn back to allow for a view of the setting sun over the distant river, and an absolute wealth of dishes are being brought up from the kitchens. “Bloody hell, that smells good,” Charles says, as the scent of roast duck drifts over to them.
“I’m sure I can squirrel away a plate for you,” Edwin says, already eyeing what he thinks Charles will like most. Charles is technically working tonight, not a guest of the banquet, and palace staff doesn’t eat with the nobility. It would be an absolute cruelty not to share. “Lord knows we have more than enough of it.”
“Cheers, mate,” Charles tells him, his face lighting up in that brilliant grin Edwin only rarely sees. “Hang on, what’s this,” he suddenly mutters, half to himself. “Wait here a tick,” he instructs Edwin, and jogs over to where a group of servants are rearranging tables. Charles gestures, his brow knit in disapproval—he must not like the layout. Edwin is sure it has something to do with lines of ambush or something similar—he has a better head for it than Edwin, easily able to pick out circumstances with the potential to be dangerous.
Edwin leaves him to it—as much as he proclaims to love large events such as this one, they seem to stress him out more than anything. Too many people, too many unknown variables, Edwin supposes. He walks over to where his mother and father are reviewing the guest list with the butler, Master Barnabas. He’s been the butler for the Payne family since before Edwin was born, and he’s incredibly competent. The king may manage the entire country, but Barnabas manages the entire palace. Edwin knows which job he would prefer.
“And the Finches, they’ve just sent word?” Mother asks.
“Queen Esther and her son Prince Monty will be in attendance, yes,” Barnabas answers. “I have accommodated them at the high table accordingly. It only required a few seating changes.”
The Finches haven’t attended a Payne function since Edwin was small. He’s not sure what has changed that would precipitate their attendance now.
“And that wretched Cat King?” Father asks. He refuses to call him anything but that derogatory nickname ever since relations between the two kingdoms turned capricious.
“Fickle as ever, Your Majesty. If he decides to show up, I have accommodated him here.” Barnabas points to a nearby seat, and only then appears to notice Edwin standing there. “Oh. Good evening, Your Highness.” He bows low.
“Good evening, Barnabas. Where would you like me?” he asks. Barnabas appreciates efficiency, and the easiest thing to do is submit to his exacting specifications. Barnabas leaves his parents with the guest list and leads him over to the high table—the seat just right of the very center. To his left will be his father, of course, but it’s a mystery who will be seated to his right. In past years, it’s been various cousins or particularly favored dukes.
Edwin takes his seat and watches Charles across the room, directing his desired table arrangement. Unable to illustrate his point, he eventually gives up and shifts the heavy oaken table himself, his arms flexing powerfully under his armor. Edwin can’t stop staring.
Just then, Charles glances over and grins at Edwin. Checking in, as he can’t seem to stop himself from doing every few minutes. Edwin belatedly smiles back, making sure his hands are very firmly not in his lap. The tablecloth is thick enough to hide any… reactions, he hopes.
Once Charles is satisfied with the new layout, he returns to Edwin’s side. “Everything alright?” he greets.
“Yes. I am simply… hot, in this outfit,” Edwin lies. Charles frowns and snags a goblet of water off a passing servant’s tray for him.
“Here. Wouldn’t want you overheating. It’s about to get a whole stuffier in here, too—I saw carriages pulling up outside just now.”
“Wonderful,” Edwin sighs, downing the entire thing just as his parents take their own seats. Charles moves to stand silently with his back to the wall, stationing himself behind Edwin’s chair with a view of the entire banquet hall. If Edwin could choose his own seating partner, he would put Charles to his left. He certainly deserves it more than whatever nobleman will be sitting there.
The butler announces the first guests’ arrival—the Queen of the Sunless Lands. Relations with her kingdom are good, and have been so for many decades. Edwin aspires to be as kind a ruler as her. After her comes her sister, the Lady Despair—not her real name, but so given because of the dreariness of her kingdom. Edwin quite prefers her other title, Lady of Mirrors, after the thousands of placid lakes that dot her landscapes and reflect the sky in perfect echoes.
Edwin tunes out several of the next guests, already bored by the endless procession. They’re all of the Payne kingdom anyway, familiar faces of nobility that Edwin has seen at Court his entire life.
“King Thomas of Kattland,” Barnabas announces, and Edwin’s attention snaps out of the daydream he was lost in. Entering the hall is a man dressed all in fur robes, his hair slicked back, his overall appearance quite similar to his nickname. He approaches the high table and bows inappropriately shallowly for a guest in another’s kingdom, king or not.
“King Edmund, Queen Esme,” he purrs. “Thank you for the invitation. When I heard this delightful young man,” he sidles over to stand in front of Edwin, taking his hand and kissing it, “was going to be in attendance, you can imagine I was quite… fascinated.” He stares up at Edwin through thick eyelashes, his eyes flashing gold in the candlelight.
Edwin is sure his face is aflame. This is entirely inappropriate, but he’s frozen. He can’t make himself draw his hand back. Then, as if by a sixth sense, he feels a presence at his back. Charles.
“Would you like to be seated, Your Majesty?” Charles asks, deadly quiet. The Cat King smiles, a mouth full of fangs.
“Can’t a king have a bit of fun first?” he asks, though he does mercifully drop Edwin’s hand. He winks as he sashays off, and Edwin swears he hears his chair creak under Charles’ tight grip. He himself is feeling quite taken aback as well. Capricious seems too generous a word—perhaps gauche.
“Don’t worry, Edwin, I’ll watch out for him,” Charles says under his breath, before returning to his post. Edwin gathers himself just in time for the final guests of the evening to appear—the Finches, Queen Esther and Prince Monty of the Witchlands.
The chair at Edwin’s left hasn’t been filled all evening. That can only mean one thing—either of the two will be seated next to him. They’re a complete unknown, having never visited the kingdom in Edwin’s memory. Relations with the ruler of the Witchlands are rocky, Queen Esther’s outwardly pleasant demeanour often belying a ruthless center.
Queen Esther is seated beside his mother, and Prince Monty drops down into the seat next to Edwin. “Hi,” he greets breathlessly, with a smile that shows all of his pearly white teeth. “I’m Monty. You must be Prince Edwin?” He holds out a hand to shake, and Edwin takes it. His hand is warm.
“Yes, though just Edwin will do.” Monty looks to be around his own age, only recently introduced to Court if that. His cheeks are still round with the remnants of childhood. “I haven’t seen you at one of these before.”
“Oh, yeah! Mom finally let me come,” he says brightly. “She’s been pretty protective. In fact, yours is the first kingdom I’ve ever been to besides the Witchlands.”
“I hope you are finding it to your liking,” Edwin replies, and they launch into a spirited conversation about Monty’s favorite sights so far. It turns out he too is fonder of books than the outdoors, his sheltered childhood resulting in an incredibly well-read child. He even professes some knowledge of reading the stars, an ancient form of fortune-telling that has long since been outlawed by King Edmund, along with all such arcane matters.
“I have some books about it I could lend you?” Monty offers.
“I suppose…” Edwin glances at his father, just in case the king is listening. “If it were strictly for historical purposes, of course, learning from the mistakes of the past… yes, I would very much like to read them.” He smiles tentatively at Monty.
The two of them make easy conversation all through dinner, until the plates are cleared away and the dancing begins. Edwin stays firmly in his chair, as he usually does when dancing occurs. Gracefulness in the fencing ring does not seem to extend to the ballroom, in his case.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mother looking intently at him; her eyes flick between him and Monty. She raises her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly toward the dancefloor. It’s a clear hint.
Edwin chooses to play ignorant and returns to watching the dancers twirling across the floor. He’s building such a good rapport with Monty so far; it would be a shame to ruin it by demonstrating his two left feet. Monty, though, keeps glancing over at him, biting his lip. “Would you…” he begins. “Would you like to dance with me?”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a dance partner,” Edwin demurs. “All of my instructors despaired at my poor balance and complete lack of timing.”
“That’s okay!” Monty eagerly reassures him. “I can lead, it’s not that hard once you get into it.” His dark eyes are so big and so hopeful. Edwin hates to disappoint him, especially after they’ve had such a lovely time talking.
Monty offers his elbow to Edwin and leads him to the center of the dance floor, placing one of Edwin’s hands on his hips and the other on his shoulder. He steps forward, telegraphing his movement so Edwin can follow, and slowly they begin to fall into rhythm, one-two-three, one-two-three.
“So I’ve been thinking,” Monty says, briefly breaking Edwin’s concentration. Edwin has to look back down at their feet until he can fall into step again. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you tonight. Maybe we could write to each other? It’s kind of lonely back at home, just my mom and me, really.”
“I think that is a delightful idea,” Edwin says, smiling. Life in the palace has always been rather lonely—well, at least until Charles came along. Edwin hasn’t felt the sting of loneliness in some time. But it’s rather wonderful to make a new friend.
“Great!” Monty replies, grinning. “To be honest, Mom had this whole idea of us courting or whatever when she brought me here—crazy, I know—although, I mean, unless you’re looking for that?” He stumbles over his words, but looks at Edwin with those hopeful dark eyes of his. He doesn’t think the idea is crazy at all.
It is what Edwin’s parents want—a boy his own age, of appropriate station, a potential union that could improve political relations between two contentious kingdoms. Even from the dance floor, he can catch glimpses of them out of the corner of his eye, the glint of approval evident on their faces.
But is it what Edwin wants? Without his permission, his eyes slide over to Charles, still leaning back against the wall. His expression is unreadable from here.
…It doesn’t matter what Charles thinks, though, Edwin tells himself firmly. Charles has no bearing on who Edwin chooses to court and eventually wed. His approval would be nice, yes, because Edwin has grown to value and trust his input on all matters—but it is not required.
“And is that what you want? For us to court?” Edwin asks carefully, forcing his gaze away from Charles and back to Monty.
“…Yes, I’d like that. I like you, Edwin,” Monty admits, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “This isn’t just because my mom said I should, I promise.”
“I—I’d like that as well, I think,” Edwin says. His heart is racing. “I must admit—I’m not very well versed in romantic matters. But I think… I think I’d like to try.”
Monty opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by King Thomas emerging out of the crowd and prowling toward them, hair mussed and smiling slyly. He doesn’t even bother to respectfully incline his head to Monty, all his attention on Edwin.
“Can I cut in?” he asks, and grabs Edwin’s hand. Monty is unceremoniously lost in the twirling crowd of dancers. “Care for a dance, Your Highness?”
“I’m not much one for dancing,” Edwin tries, but Thomas’ hold on him is firm. He’s a king, besides—Edwin couldn’t possibly turn him down if he’s this determined. He tugs Edwin to the center of the dancefloor, immediately sending him spinning dizzily. It’s all he can do to hang on in the whirl of motion.
“Don’t you want to live a little? I saw how stuffy you looked up there, poor little prince up high on a shelf,” he coos, his mouth unbearably close to Edwin’s ear. “They ought to let you come out to play more often.” He grins wickedly, and the hand on Edwin’s back creeps indecently lower.
“I—I beg your pardon,” Edwin stammers, tripping over his own feet. Thomas is as sure on his feet as ever, and effortlessly redirects Edwin’s motion to balance him.
“Ooh, I like it when you beg,” Thomas says, biting his lip. Their chests are pressed so closely together Edwin is sure Thomas can feel his heart racing, echoing in his own ribcage. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I can treat you nicely.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Edwin says stubbornly, face flushing red, “but isn’t this—indecent? We’ve only just met.”
Thomas’ breath fans against his neck when he leans in close. “You don’t have to do all that, baby, I’m a king. Who’s worried about the rules?”
Edwin is, for one. As they spin, he can see his mother and father watching, looks of faint disapproval on their faces. King Thomas surely isn’t their chosen candidate to court Edwin. In fact, Edwin’s unsure why the infamous Cat King is trying to court him at all. If court is even the right word—this is dangerously close to seduction.
“I really—I really do believe I should sit down,” he says faintly, the room spinning around him.
“Edwin?” All of the sudden, there are familiar hands on his waist, tugging him away from Thomas and away from the suffocating crowd. “You alright? You’re not overheated, are you?”
“Charles?” Edwin asks, leaning into him. He looks up to see Charles glaring at the king, who wears an innocent expression. “I’m quite alright. I suppose I was just dizzy.”
“Has he been getting frisky with you? I’ll knock his little whiskers off his face, yeah?” Charles offers.
“No, Charles, it’s alright. There’s no need for you to defend my honor,” Edwin soothes. “He was just—affectionate. I believe he is trying to court me as well.” He places a hand on Charles’ cuirass, placing himself back in between the two.
“Trying? Not doing a very good job, then, if it’s in question,” Thomas says, pouting. “Don’t tell me you’d prefer that pouty little Witchland tease.”
“You mean Prince Monty? In fact, I do. We have just decided we will be entering into a courtship together. If you must know,” Edwin informs him, holding his head high. He can see his mother and father hurrying over, drawn by the commotion. If a Royal Protector sees fit to involve themselves in a situation, matters are serious.
“You what? Edwin, hang on—” Charles says, but he’s talked over by Thomas’ laugh. It’s not a nice laugh.
“Oh, you can’t be serious! Edwin, honey.” The Cat King smiles sadly, condescending. He speaks his next pronouncement just as the king and queen arrive. The entire banquet hall has fallen to a hush. “You know he’s not even real nobility, right?”
Edwin gasps. So does everyone else.
“Oops. Was that a secret?” King Thomas says innocently, looking around. Queen Esther and Monty are conspicuously absent. “Sorry to break it to you, Edwin. Your first dance was with a commoner Esther plucked off the streets.”
“That… that cannot be true,” Edwin says numbly. All the conversation they had, their shared experiences growing up in palaces, sheltered childhoods, the books they promised to swap—all a lie.
“I seriously cannot be the only one who knew,” King Thomas says, looking around at everyone, all of whom clearly did not know. His father is saying something to Thomas, but Edwin can’t hear it past the rushing in his ears. He stumbles backwards, the crowd parting around him, and flees the hall. His feet lead him automatically to his rooms, the journey a blur around him.
He only realizes he has company when he sinks down onto his bed, and sees Charles there, shutting the door behind him. “I apologize for leaving so quickly. I know you hate it when you cannot easily follow,” Edwin says. “I simply had to get out.”
“It’s alright, mate, I get it.” Charles sits down beside him, holding out his arm in case Edwin wants to burrow into his side. Which Edwin does. “You doing okay?”
Edwin laughs bitterly. “Not really, no. That was a fucking disaster, pardon my French.”
Charles laughs too, sadly. “Kind of, yeah.”
“Utterly humiliating. First being paraded about like a—like a prized cut of meat, auctioned off to the highest bidder. As if it’s anyone’s business who I care about, who I fall in love with. And the dancing, and then—with Monty, I really thought—”
“I know, love,” Charles says softly, thumbing at the tears budding in the corner of Edwin’s eye. “That wasn’t right.”
“I really thought, for a moment, I could be happy. Foolish of me. I’ve known my whole life that my only duty is to my country—why would romantic affairs be any different?” Edwin can’t stop his anger from turning on himself. “So unbelievably naïve. Idiotic.”
“Hey, stop that,” Charles says. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for wanting to take back even a shred of the happiness they’ve stolen from you your whole life. You deserve better, Edwin.”
“What do I deserve, Charles?” Edwin says suddenly, pulling back and looking into Charles’ eyes. “Tell me.”
“You deserve to be happy,” Charles answers. “You deserve someone who knows you. Someone who can make you laugh. Someone you want to spend time with, someone to pick you up when you’re down.” He swallows, his dark eyes flickering down to Edwin’s lips. “Someone to protect your heart. Someone you want.” He's hardly breathing, ducking forward until their foreheads are almost touching.
Edwin swallows and takes a risk. “And if I want you?” His stomach swoops like he’s just jumped from the highest tower. He’s aware of every breath, every blink, Charles’ face so close to his like a masterful work of art begging to be studied.
“You already have me,” Charles breathes, and leans forward until their lips meet.
The kiss is everything Edwin’s been dreaming of. Charles’ lips are soft and warm, eager, opening up under Edwin’s touch like a flower blooming in the sunlight. One of his hands comes up to cup Edwin’s cheek, his thumb slowly brushing along Edwin’s cheekbone, leaving a trail of sensation in its wake.
Edwin makes a soft sound and leans in even further, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, capturing Charles’ bottom lip gently between his teeth. Charles makes a sound that Edwin will remember forever. All of the sudden, Edwin can’t stand any amount of space in between them. He shifts until his legs are bracketing Charles’, and pulls at the stiff leather armor separating Charles from him.
“Off, how do you get this off,” Edwin breathes, breaking the kiss. His hands fiddle uselessly with the elaborate buckles he has no idea how to manipulate. He makes a small, frustrated sound.
Charles leans back and lays his hands on Edwin’s, stilling them. “Hang on, Edwin, slow down,” Charles says, rubbing his thumbs over Edwin’s knuckles. “We don’t have to rush into anything.”
“Charles, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Edwin confesses, though he allows Charles to clasp their hands together and lower them. “It’s not because of tonight.”
Charles smiles, a small, surprised thing. “Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s—well, I’d love to hear more about that later for sure. But I just don’t want you to regret anything tomorrow.” He leans in for another kiss, this one more chaste than the previous. “Why don’t we start small, feel things out for now.”
Edwin’s desire to climb Charles like a tree is no less strong, but unfortunately, Charles is probably right. “Kissing is fine, then?” he settles on, stealing another for himself. He could spend all night kissing Charles.
“Kissing you is bloody brilliant, love,” Charles breathes. “I’ll kiss you whenever you like.”
Instead of an answer, Edwin kisses him again. And again.
And again.