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Will’s heard people say that scowling ages the face. That it causes wrinkles and makes one less attractive.
If that’s true, then tonight is going to age Will by thirty years, at least.
For most of his young life, this palace has existed solely as an abstract shape. An imposing silhouette, jutting obnoxiously from the skyline. It feels wrong, seeing it up close like this. Indecent, like the building is nude without miles upon miles of villages and farmland protecting its modesty.
The castle’s entrance is at the top of a marble staircase, pale stones gleaming angelically in the twilight. It strikes Will as some ostentatious, painfully unsubtle metaphor. An ascension that the poor common man must take in order to be on the same level as the castle’s residents. But what can Will do? He sighs deeply through his nose, gathers up his skirts from underfoot, and climbs.
It’s not an elegant ascent. The entrance isn’t densely populated— every new arrival is terribly impatient to join the festivities as quickly as possible— but he still catches more than a few sneers from scattered bachelorettes and hangers-on. Will ignores them. It’s not his fault, anyway. No, the blame lies wholly with this damned infernal outfit.
Will thought his father must have finally lost his mind when he brought the ensemble home, presenting it all proudly like he hadn’t just pissed away a month’s wages on some useless gown and an impractical pair of shoes. The bodice is barely big enough to breathe in, its garish blue fabric too thin to block even the gentlest breeze. The skirts feel like they weigh a hundred pounds, a dozen or more layers of fabric falling all around his legs and making him trip whenever he dares to concentrate on something other than placing one foot in front of the other.
And speaking of his feet, his father had insisted on buying him the most uncomfortable pair of shoes Will’s ever had the displeasure of wearing. They’re tall. Why on earth would anyone want a shoe to be tall? He can’t maintain his balance in them, he keeps wobbling on his way up the stairs. For a moment, he considers kicking them off into the fastidiously maintained bushes outside and being done with them. No one would be able to see his feet under so many skirts, anyway. But the severe faces of the guards near the front doors keep him from daring to disturb the topiary.
He gives one of them a curt nod, flaring out his skirts in a clumsy approximation of a curtsy, and enters the castle. Past the main entrance, he makes his way to the social epicenter of the evening— a cavernous ballroom, obscenely vast and gilded in flourishes of gold and crystal wherever Will looks. Every surface flickers and sparkles in the light of an enormous chandelier, dangling high overhead. A spark of fear lights in Will, looking up at it. It seems precarious, from this angle, like the barest shift of the atmosphere would send it careening to the center of the ballroom floor. He lowers his gaze, observes the partygoers. Gauging which ones are most likely to be crushed.
Will gravitates toward the edges of the crowd, orbiting their perimeter like some strange, sad moon. The ballroom is choked with bodies. Women, mostly. Young maidens of all colors and creeds, their hair piled high in shining arrangements that seem to defy all laws of science. Will had balked at his own costume, but it seems that every woman in attendance wears a gown ten times finer, shoes twice as high, with jewels hanging like nooses around their throats or shackled to their fingers. Some of them dance, or pluck flutes of alcohol from passing servants, or titter among themselves. The majority of them, though, are searching for their prize. Will sees dozens of heads poking around prairie dogs, leaning over one another’s shoulders, seeking, seeking.
He seeks with them, though he likes to think he’s a bit less overt about it. Alright, he thinks. They’ve got us all waiting here, dressed like clowns and teetering half a foot off the floor. Now where’s that damned prince? They’ve gone to all this trouble to organize this event, the least the man could do is show his face.
It’s not unheard of, what the royal family is doing. In fact, it’s a rather popular strategy to employ when one’s monarchy is falling out of favor. And Hannibal Lecter VII has fallen so far from his people’s favor that Will doubts he can even see it any longer, so it’s no great surprise that the king should want to marry his son off to a common woman.
But the ball is more important than the wedding, really. Every family in the kingdom, invited into the royal family’s home with open arms, treated to a long night of finery— what more could a struggling citizen want? The marriage itself only seals the deal, ensures that the next king and queen will be viewed as dear to their people. Pushes off an uprising for a handful of generations. It’s all just a distraction, but Will can admit that it’s a clever one.
It certainly distracted Will’s father enough, at any rate. He’d clutched onto the idea with a fervor that edged on manic, much to Will’s discomfort. Spent their savings on these useless clothes, washed Will in a bath with flowers, combed his hair— all the while insisting again and again that Will’s marriage to the prince would be the key to their future happiness.
“We’d never have to work again,” he’d told Will as he laced him into his gown. “All you have to do is get this boy to like you, and you’ll be one of the richest people in the kingdom. We both will.”
Will frowns to himself. Crosses his arms. Even the memory of it disgusts him. He’d rather starve to death than whore himself out to the royal family, thank you very much.
Luckily, he’s currently in contest with every other maiden in the entire kingdom. There’s at least ten women more fit to be a princess than Will within his own line of sight, there’s no chance in hell that the prince will so much as glance his way. He’ll spend the evening with aching feet, smile and nod politely at anyone who approaches, then go home and tell his father that he did his best but the prince simply wasn’t interested. They’ll be able to sell his gown and shoes— albeit for a fraction of what his father paid for them— and continue on as if this never even happened. All he has to do is get through the night.
He observes the party from a distance, for a while. Present but decidedly not participating. Watching couples dance, members of the court talking in conspiratory tones, servants in sleek black suits circulating the crowd like blood through a body. It’s a bit dizzying to behold, especially when his nerves are playing against each other like the grinding gears of some long-neglected machine. Will sways a little on his feet. The myriad of competing soaps and perfumes— all generously applied in the hopes of making an impression— only makes him more lightheaded with every breath he takes. His dress is oppressively tight, stopping his chest from expanding properly when he inhales. The overabundance of light flooding the ballroom swirls with his vision, the crowd heating the space and making a light sweat bloom against his hairline.
All at once, surviving the night starts to seem like an impossible task. Will huffs, peeking around the ballroom one more time. The prince hasn’t even entered since before Will arrived, if the crowd’s impatience is any indicator. Why should Will have to stay?
He spies a small balcony door, then, tucked in a largely-ignored corner of the room. Yes. Fresh air. That’s what he needs. Just five minutes of fresh night air, and he’ll find his footing again.
Will stumbles his way to the balcony, nearly falling more than once on his way. A young woman with thick, red hair brushes shoulders with him, tells him that he should watch where he’s going. He doesn’t pay her any mind. Just thrusts himself into the welcoming embrace of open air.
He nearly collapses when the door closes behind him, bracing his hands against the railing and ducking his head low as he pulls in deliberately deep, even breaths. He counts the seconds, drinks in the silence. Eventually, the earth stops its swaying, and Will’s shoulders sag a little in relief.
“I take it you’re having a less than enjoyable evening.”
Will jumps, his posture going board straight as he looks over his shoulder. He finds a young man, leaning against the stone exterior of the castle wall just beside the balcony door. He’s partially obscured in the growing shadows, Will must have missed him through the haze of his nerves. Too wrapped up in his own panic to properly take in his surroundings.
Will swallows, pushes the loose hair from his face. “What gave it away?” he asks sarcastically.
The stranger steps closer, the light from inside pouncing forth to catch his features. He has high cheekbones, dark eyes, light brown hair gelled back from his face. He’s handsome, and Will gets the sense that he knows it.
“You’re pale,” the man observes, and reaches out with a gentle hand. Tingles bubble over wills skin when the stranger runs fingers through his hair, tucks an errant lock behind his ear. He brushes his fingertips over Will’s jaw, and then the touch gone, along with Will’s breath.
Will forces a breathy laugh, tries to smile. “I’m just not very good with parties,” he confesses, and jerks his head in the direction of the door. “Don’t know how any of them can stand it in there.”
The man smiles back, and Will’s heart flutters a little. “Try doing it every day.”
Will tips his head to the side, at that, giving the man another once-over. His attire is simple, dark, the hard lines of his black coat accentuating his tall frame and broad shoulders.
“Are you a servant, or something?”
He sighs, a bit ruefully. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to attend, whenever the king holds events like these.”
Will offers the servant a sympathetic grimace, shifting to face him head-on as he leans against the railing. “I’m surprised you haven’t gone insane,” he jokes bitterly.
The servant narrows his eyes, his sharp face filled with mischief. “What makes you so sure that I haven’t?”
Will snorts, grinning easily.
“I generally entertain myself by fantasizing,” he explains. As he joins Will against the railing, he leans even further into Will’s space. He speaks low, his voice warm and smooth over Will’s senses. “Envisioning a guest choking on a bite of lamb at one of the king’s dinner parties, a lady of the court catching her hair on fire as she passes a wall sconce in the throne room.”
“That god-awful chandelier falling and crushing one of the dancers inside,” Will offers, and the servant licks his lips, his eyes fixed on Will’s face.
“That would be quite the display,” he agrees.
Will nods. “And it can crush the prince right along with ‘em,” he adds petulantly.
The servant lifts a fine brow at that. “So much venom toward a man you’ve never even met?”
He huffs, gnaws on his lip a little “No,” he confesses a moment later. “...It isn’t even about him, really. It’s not his fault that I’m here.”
“And whose fault is it?”
“My father’s.” Will gathers up a handful of his skirt, swishing it idly as he speaks, observing how the color shifts in changing light. “He seems to think that I can be his ticket to financial comfort, so he forced me to make an appearance.”
The servant hums, dubious. “Surely you have some interest in becoming a princess yourself,” he argues. “If only for your own financial benefit.”
Another snort, more derisive. “I’d rather be poor with a man who loves me than be fabulously wealthy with a man I can’t bear to be around.”
When Will glances up from beneath his lashes, the servant is smiling at him, warm with admiration.
“I agree,” he says. “I can think of no greater hell than sharing a bed with someone I found uninteresting.”
Will sighs, looking to the stars overhead. “I wonder if our peasant princess will have a spouse who listens when she talks.”
“You’re afraid that the prince wont take you seriously, when you speak?”
Will feels a blush starting blooming on his face, he turns his face away bashfully. “I can’t imagine that he would,” Will confesses softly. His fingers curl tight around the railing, teeth worrying at his lips once more. “That’s not really what they’re looking for, you know. They just want an ornament that they can put on a shelf and forget about. To pop out an heir or two, and smile when her husband gives speeches. Even if the prince likes the look of me well enough— can you imagine what it would be like to live like that? Just sitting off to the side, everyone looking at you but nobody listening to you?” He shudders, trails off. A chill comes over him, suddenly, and he hunches his shoulders defensively.
“And if you’re wrong?”
Will frowns at the servant, brows drawn tight together.
“If your prince does find you of interest, I mean. What if he can offer you a decent conversation? What if— dare I say— you might even tolerate one another?”
Will allows himself to get lost, just for a moment, in the twin flames of the other man’s eyes. In spite of himself, he laughs. “Well, I guess I’d have to call that Happily Ever After.”
The servant eyes him for a moment longer. Committing him to memory, perhaps. Will is not opposed to the sensation. He glances toward the door, peering at the gold light inside. Best to get it over with and try to find the prince now, he thinks. And as if he’d been reading Will’s mind, the servant blurts
“Would you like to dance?”
Will balks, barks out a dry laugh. “Don’t you have work to be doing?”
He offers a loose little shrug, as if his duties have been rendered entirely unimportant.
Will scoffs. “You wouldn’t want to dance with me, anyway. I’m pretty lacking in grace when I’m not essentially on stilts.”
The servant chuckles. His hand wraps itself around Will’s wrist, holding it fast in a warm grip. Will’s heart stutters. The servant likely feels it, too, his thumb pressed gently against his pulse point.
“I can think of no finer partner,” the man insists. His voice drops to a whisper, one that makes goosebumps rise on Will’s arms. “Please,” he entreats. “I’ve suffered through hundreds of these endless evenings, I’m doomed to endure hundreds more. Offer me something more pleasant to envision, the next time the monotony threatens to drive me mad.”
He leans in, and Will tips his head to the side. The servant takes the offered opportunity, this next words sighing hot and sweet into Will’s ear.
“Let my next fantasy be of you, held in my arms.”
Will bites his lip, desperate to hold back all the foolish words that beg to rush forth. He’s defenseless, helpless. No one has ever spoken to him like this. No one has ever looked at him like this. Now that he’s had a taste of it, he can’t imagine going another moment without it.
Oh, God, don’t let this be love.
“...Alright,” Will sighs. The stranger smiles at him, all soft lips and sharp teeth, before leading him into the ballroom once more.
As soon as they step inside, Will is struck by a tremendous wall of sensations. A cloud of humid, perfumed air envelopes him, so jarring after their intermission on the balcony. The sound of music and incessant chatter grates on his mind, makes his jaw clench tight enough to ache beneath his ears.
A hand twines with his own, squeezes softly. It fixes Will solidly to the ground. Will looks to the side to find that the servant’s focus hasn’t strayed for a single moment, his attention fixed solely on Will as he strides his way to the dance floor. It makes something take root in Will’s chest, as much as he’s begging it not to. Something sweet and sharp, like this strange man’s smile.
The servant lifts their joined hands, presses a kiss to Will’s knuckles. It’s customary, he knows this. Any man would do it before leading in a dance. That doesn’t change the fluttering Will feels within when lips brush his skin.
His other hand finds purchase on Will’s waist, and Will grips the servant’s shoulder with a nervous smile. “Don’t be afraid,” he soothes, and the words are more effective than they have any right being. “Just focus on me. I’ll guide you.”
Will takes a deep breath, shrugs out his shoulders, looks the man in the eye. The song begins, and together, they start to move.
It’s… not as bad as Will had been anticipating. They move as one, for the most part. Will’s body seems surprisingly ready to follow wherever the other man leads. Music swells around them, strings and winds that sound impossibly delicate. Too fine for him to hear, like some rich silk from a far off land. Will longs to be carried away by it, to let the lovely melody send the servant and himself adrift. He finds that he doesn’t care to come back, either. As they dance, Will forgets about the prince, and his father, and the aching of his feet. It all just fades away.
That said, Will’s legs are less keen to let their host be swept away on such a fantasy. He steps on his partner’s toes more than once, stumbles often. Once, he steps forward when he was meant to step back, and manages to headbutt the other man in the midst of their waltz. Before an ounce of embarrassment can well up in him, though, the servant starts chuckling.
Will laughs, too, giddy with relief. It builds until he’s throwing his head back with it, hair spilling down his spine as his cheeks turn rosy and his chest floods with cheery warmth. His partner watches him, something almost painfully soft in his face, and pulls him closer.
Will tries to shake his head, to politely step away. “I think I’ve done enough damage tonight,” he says, but the other man isn’t having it.
“Finish this song, at least. It would be rude to walk away now.”
He opens his mouth, but he can’t make himself decline. The servant draws nearer, gathers him up in his arms.
“It’s alright, darling,” the stranger says, nearly whispering. “You don’t need to be nervous.”
He takes Will’s hand in his own once more, lifts it high above his head. Will takes the cue, blushing even deeper than before. He spins, and the volume of his skirts suddenly makes its purpose known as a swirl of fabric flares out and surrounds him. He wavers a little as he comes to a stop, but his partner places a guiding hand on the small of Will’s back to steady him.
“Not with me.”
Will stares up at his partner, his heart in his throat. The man looks unreal, under all these lights, his golden skin shining in the light like another gilded decoration. All this finery, but Will has never, in all his life, seen something so beautiful.
It occurs to him that, if he does by some stroke of luck manage to impress the prince tonight, it’s unlikely that he’ll have such feelings for the man. Even if, as the handsome servant had said, Will and his future husband tolerated one another... would that compare? Could even the most amicable marriage ever match up to this spark that he feels, here and now?
As it stands, his first kiss could be at his wedding, observed by an entire kingdom and tasting of bitter obligation. The idea is simply too much to bear.
Will takes the servant’s face in his hands, drags him in. The meeting of their lips is a clumsy, nervous thing. Still, Will sighs in bliss at the sensation that rises to greet him— soft heat pressing to his mouth, rough skin beneath his palms, a fierce thrum within his chest. The servant is frozen for a moment, arrested by the shock of such a sudden capture, but then he melts against Will’s lips. A low, pleased sound leaves him, the other man’s hands settle at the small of Will’s back. He guides Will’s body closer, just so. Just enough to make Will’s entire body shudder with the newfound thrill.
Will breaks the kiss, hands still cupping the other man’s cheeks. He takes in a few shuddering breaths, the servant parts his lips as if to speak—
Whatever he may have said gets drowned by an absolute torrent of noise, so thunderous that it makes Will flinch and stare owlishly at his surroundings.
For the first time since meeting this stranger, Will takes in the crowd. He pales when he finds dozens, hundreds of eyes, all fixed directly on him. He’s stunned into paralysis, only recognizing the cacophony around him when he notices the movement of every guest’s hands. Applause. The entire kingdom is... applauding him. Lost, he looks to his partner.
The other man simply offers him a dazzling smile, all but preening under the adoration of the crowd.
Will blinks rapidly, trying to steady his breaths. Dumbly, he says “They’re staring at me.”
The stranger grins even more warmly, that same soft look still swimming in his dark eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it,” he replies over the public’s uproar.
Will looks to the crowd once more, a sinking feeling overcoming him as he takes in their expressions. Joy, entertainment, curiosity. A healthy offering of bitterness from most maidens in attendance.
His heart drops.
His blood turns molten with shame, his skin flushing hot from his ears down his shoulders. He turns toward the so-called ‘servant’, still soaking up the fanfare. Will grits his teeth, anger and embarrassment boiling away in him until his body seems to bubble with it. He can’t help it, he bursts.
The prince’s smug grin gets wiped from his mouth when Will slaps him hard across the face, a few strands of his carefully styled hair falling into his eyes. The force of the strike causes the prince to stumble a little, reeling as he regains his bearings. By the time he recovers, Will is already fleeing.
Tears well in his eyes as he gathers up his skirts in white-knuckled fists, running to the best of his ability in his humiliating shoes. A collective gasp follows him out of the ballroom, the curious masses stalling the prince in his pursuit. Will pushes past stranger after stranger, knocking into them as he escapes the castle.
He fights his way to the front entrance, drinking in painful gasps of fresh night air as he attempts to sprint down the stairs. Evidently the world has conspired against him, though, because halfway down the steps, Will stumbles in the damned insufferable shoes.
His elbow makes painful contact with the marble steps, the dull throb of it reverberating over his entire arm. He rolls the rest of the way down, landing in an ungainly heap at the foot of the castle stairs. Sniffling, he dares to look up. A group of nosy lookers-on had followed him, all desperate to watch the flight of this violent maiden among them. Most of them stare at him with simple shock, a few with pity. He spies a few smiles, strangers snickering behind their hands.
Will grits his teeth, stubbornly gathering himself up. He refuses to let the tears fall as he kicks off his one remaining shoe, the other left on the steps. He’s more comfortable making his way home barefoot, anyway. He squares his shoulders, turns on his heel, tries to walk away with even a fraction of his dignity intact.
Its only when he turns away that he allows his tears to fall.
-
“You came home early last night.”
Will barely looks at his father, stabbing his spoon repeatedly into his porridge with a grim expression.
“Wasn’t even midnight yet. You went straight to your bedroom when you came in, so I didn’t really get a chance to ask-”
“Not much to tell,” Will replies bluntly.
His father sighs, watches him from across the breakfast table. “Well, did you at least try to talk to the prince?”
Will huffs dryly. “Oh, I talked to him.”
The older man looks to the ceiling, as if searching the heavens for his patience. “God, boy. Please tell me you didn’t make a fool of yourself in front of him.”
Will scowls, stabs his spoon hard into the porridge and leaves it there. He hunches his shoulders high around his ears. “I didn’t do anything,” he bites. “I’m just not princess material, okay? We both know that.”
His father leans back in his chair, rubs wearily at his face. “That boy was supposed to be our ticket out of here, Willy.”
“It was always a long shot,” he argues. “I was competing with every girl in the kingdom, Dad.”
Nothing. No response. Just his father, with his face in his hands. Will’s hands curl into indignant fists. This isn’t fair, he didn’t ask for any of this to happen.
“I wish you hadn’t made me go,” he mutters bitterly. “I wish…”
He thinks of the prince, standing on the balcony with him. The feeling of his words against his neck. The lightning strike that shot through him when they kissed. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, as if staving off a chill.
“I wish I’d never met him.”
It’s possible that his father’s next words would have been cruel. Likely, even. He’ll never know, though, because his words summon a brisk knocking at their front door.
Will stays where he is, glowering at his uneaten breakfast, as his father goes to answer it. A minute or so later, the older man calls out to him.
“Willy? Come to the door, boy, now!”
Will sighs. He’s really not in the mood for any sort of social call, but he trudges his way to the door.
Standing there, looking much more the part than he had last night, is the prince. He’s wearing stunning white robes, a circlet resting atop his head. An unambiguous picture of royalty.
“Hello again,” the prince purrs, and Will’s heart stutters without his permission at the sound of the other man’s voice.
“What do you want?” he spits. He’s not in the mood to be humiliated again.
“Willy,” his father warns, but both men ignore him.
“I wanted to see you again,” the prince explains, as if it should be obvious. “You made such a… striking impression last night, after all.”
Will narrows his eyes, flashing a sarcastic smile. “And how is that impression feeling, your highness?”
The prince smiles back, eyes flickering with a playful heat.
“Swollen.”
Will breathes out a laugh, tilting his head to observe the slightly swollen portion of the other man’s cheek in the morning sunlight. He grins. A real one, this time. “Good.”
His father interrupts again, and when Will looks up at him the man has gone pale as snow. “Your highness, I’m so sorry, Willy’s not normally-”
“I’d like to speak with your son privately,” the prince announces, smoothly cutting Will’s father off. He looks down at Will, lifting a brow. “If that’s alright with you, of course.”
Will sighs, crossing his arms defensively. “...Alright,” he says, and without another word he starts for his bedroom. The prince follows, and Will tries to ignore how he thrills at the man trailing after him.
The prince shuts the door behind them, hiding the two of them away in the cramped, barren space. If he has comments to make about Will’s room, he’s wise enough to keep them to himself.
“Why are you really here?” Will asks.
“A few reasons,” the prince replies breezily. “Among them, to return these.” He opens the bag resting at his hip, then, and presents Will with the awful tall shoes from the night before. “I thought you may like to have them back.”
Will flushes with embarrassment, remembering how he’d left them strewn over the front steps. He snatches them from the prince’s hands, tosses them almost carelessly onto the bed. The prince observes them lying there, for a moment. He looks almost amused by Will’s behavior. It makes something hot flare in Will’s stomach, somehow sickening and pleasant at once.
“I neglected to introduce myself, last night,” the prince says, and offers a hand in greeting. “Hannibal Lecter VIII. It’s a pleasure.”
Will makes a point out of of rejecting the hand, scowling up at him. “You tricked me.”
Hannibal narrows his eyes, cocking his head to the side a little. “I never told you that I was a servant,” he notes, and Will snarls.
“You certainly weren’t interested in correcting me, either.”
There’s not a trace of guilt in the prince’s face. “I wanted to get to know you. Authentically, without the veil of propriety standing between us. Can you honestly say that our conversation would have been the same, if I’d introduced myself as royalty from the beginning?”
Will huffs. There’s truth to what the other man is saying, as little as he wants to admit it. And he can hardly fault Hannibal for seizing the opportunity. When was the last time he got to have an honest conversation with someone his own age, after all? Never, maybe. Will knows the feeling.
“I still didn’t appreciate being lied to,” he mutters.
This finally seems to break through the prince’s playful exterior. He lowers his gaze, almost bashfully. “It won’t happen again,” Hannibal replies. “You have my word.”
Will softens, just a little, at the other man’s body language. He nods, once, and the prince allows himself to look shyly pleased. Will chases the smile from his own face at the sight. Hannibal looks like a schoolboy, being told that he wouldn’t be punished for his misbehavior. It shouldn’t make him feel so unbearably fond, but it does.
“I wish you hadn’t left so soon, last night,” Hannibal says.
Will snorts. “I’m sure I caused quite the stir. The gossip must have been spirited, to say the least.”
The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks upward. “Oh yes. How could they resist? The crown prince disappears from view, returns with a strange, enchanting young stranger. He has eyes for this man alone-”
“-And that stranger proceeds to step on his feet a dozen times, and physically strike him before fleeing from the castle,” Will finishes.
Hannibal steps closer, a fresh flicker of heat in his gaze. “Oh, but you should have seen them together,” he insists. “The fire between them was said to singe passersby, you know. And the prince spent the entire night brooding, after his mysterious dance partner made his escape.”
Will chews his lip, glancing up at Hannibal from beneath his lashes. “Did he?”
Hannibal nods. He reaches out, curls a lock of Will’s hair around his index finger as he speaks. “Positively sulking, they say. There was no hope of any other maiden holding his attention. He’d already been captured, body and soul.”
Will feels his face bloom with heat, his heart fluttering against his ribs like a caged bird. “I-” he breathes out an airy laugh. “I’m not so sure that the prince’s people— much less his family— will be as keen on having someone who behaves so foolishly as their princess.”
“On the contrary,” Hannibal replies. “My sister maintains that seeing you slap my face was the highlight of her entire year. She asked me to thank you for it, even. She was immensely entertained.”
Will can’t help it, his mouth twists into a grin. “Well, if you’re always like this, then I can imagine the appeal,” he teases, and Hannibal flashes his teeth.
His touch leaves Will’s hair, catches him beneath the chin. “And the purpose of these marriages has never been to find a paragon of poise and elegance,” he adds, running the pad of his thumb along Will’s jaw. “What they truly want is a princess of the people. Someone genuine, someone… fiery. Someone who refuses to be ignored.”
Will stares into Hannibal’s eyes, leans into his touch. “That’s what they want, is it?”
Hannibal bows his head in false humility, huffing out a low laugh. Will tracks the movement of the other man’s tongue as he licks his teeth.
“Marry me, Will.”
His thumb drifts upward, traces the swell of Will’s lower lip. “Be my queen. I swear to you that you’ll never want for anything again.”
The moment he finishes speaking, Will takes Hannibal by the front of his robes, dragging him close with tightly curled fists. Hannibal goes readily into his kiss, less restrained than the one they’d shared at the ball. Will is impassioned, hungry. Hannibal rocks a little unsteadily on his feet when Will releases him, wide-eyed and pink in the face.
Yes. This is love.
“Not anything?” Will repeats, cocking a brow in playful challenge. “Not even a decent conversation?”
Hannibal smiles. Victory is a good look on him, Will decides. “I shall do my very best,” he promises. “I’d hate to ever bore you.”
Will tries hard to look discerning, to leave Hannibal in suspense. His joy is ruining the facade.
“Well,” Will sighs. “Then I suppose we’ve arrived at Happily Every After, haven’t we?”
And Hannibal takes him into his arms, pulling his newly betrothed into another lingering kiss.