Chapter Text
The rain was a cold, endless whisper against Wilbur’s cloak, soaking the velvet to dead weight on his shoulders. He rode alone, as he had demanded — no guards, no advisers, no witnesses. Only the furious drum of his horse’s hooves through the mud, and the unrelenting darkness ahead.
The rebel camp lay just beyond the river, all too familiar, torches flickering in the mist like the eyes of beasts, and somewhere beyond those torches, Wilbur knew, was Tommy.
He grits his teeth against the memory. Tommy, with his reckless laugh and calloused hands.
Tommy, who had once sworn to die for him, and who had then torn the kingdom apart instead.
The horse whines uneasily as Wilbur pulls it to a halt beneath the twisted black branches of an old oak. He dismountes, boots sinking into the mud. The world smelled of wet earth, smoke, and betrayal.
He adjusts the hood low over his brow, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t fear that tightened his gut.
It was something far worse.
It was hope.
He won’t come, Wilbur thought bitterly.
He’s a liar. A traitor.
He won’t come, but then footsteps, soft against the riverbank. A shadow peeling away from the mist. Wilbur’s hand tightens on the sword’s hilt.
The figure stops a few paces away, torchlight catching the edge of a too-familiar face. Even after three years, Wilbur would have known him blindfolded.
The same tousled blond hair, heavier now with rain. The same angular features, yet still soft. The same crooked smile — no, not a smile. A grim slash of a mouth.
Tommy.
Wilbur’s heart kicks against his ribs. He forces his voice steady, “You’re late.”
Tommy cocks his head, rain dripping from his curls, “And you’re alone,” He points out, voice low and rough. “Didn’t think you still trusted me that much, Your Higness.”
“I don’t.” Wilbur let the words cut sharp between them, ignoring the way the way he’s addressed, stings. He steps forward, every muscle in his body coiled tight, “I should have had you executed when I had the chance.”
Tommy laughs, a short, bitter sound. “Should have, yeah,” He agrees. “Everyone said it. Everyone begged you.”
He moved closer, uncaring of the blade at Wilbur’s hip. “But you didn’t, did you?” He says, voice sinking to something softer, crueler. “You couldn’t.”
Wilbur’s breath caught. His hand twitched on the sword.
He hated him.
He hated him.
And Prime help him, he wanted to bury his hands in that soaked hair and drag him close, and—
Wilbur steps back sharply, dragging air into his lungs.
“Why are you here, Tommy?” He demands. “Why now? To finish what you started?”
Tommy’s expression twists. “I didn’t start anything. You did. You crowned yourself king the moment you chose them over me.”
Wilbur’s chest aches, deep and agonizing. “You betrayed the crown. You betrayed me,” He chokes out.
Tommy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I loved you!” He snaps. The words tore out like a wound ripped open. “I loved you, and you threw me away like a dog at the first whisper of rebellion!”
For a moment, they stood there, breathing hard, the rain slipping between them like a veil. Neither moved. Neither blinked.
Wilbur’s voice, when it came, was a hoarse whisper, “I had no choice.”
Tommy laughs again, softer now, almost pitying. “There’s always a choice, Wilbur. You just didn’t choose me.”
Silence crushes them. The river churned beside them, dark and fast.
Wilbur felt something crack inside him, something he had held together for years with nothing but stubbornness and the lie of duty. He closed the gap between them, chest brushing Tommy’s. The air around them was a knife’s edge.
“You left me,” Wilbur whispers, voice breaking.
“You made me,” Tommy shot back, just as broken.
Their faces were inches apart. Wilbur could see the rain clinging to Tommy’s lashes, the tremble in his jaw. He could feel the heat of him, even through the chill.
Prime, he wanted— Without thinking, Wilbur grabs the front of Tommy’s coat and yanks him forward. Their mouths crash together, not a kiss but a battle— teeth and rain and anger.
Tommy makes a sound, low and wrecked, and shoves him back against the tree with a thud that rattles Wilbur’s bones.
Wilbur kisses him like he was trying to drown the fire between them, hands fisting in soaked fabric. Tommy kisses him like he was trying to tear something precious out of himself. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t gentle.
It was years of pain and love and betrayal boiled down into a moment that tasted like blood and rain. When they finally ripped apart, gasping, Wilbur stumbles back, staring at Tommy with wild eyes.
Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Wilbur like he hated him. Like he loved him.
Maybe both. Maybe worse.
“You’re still mine,” Tommy says, voice raw.
And Wilbur, trembling, could only whisper, “I never stopped being.”
The rain hammers down harder, blurring the edges of the world into a smear of grey. Wilbur presses the back of his hand to his mouth like he could wipe the taste of Tommy away— like he wanted to.
He didn’t.
He never did.
Tommy watches him, chest heaving, rain pouring down the planes of his face like he was something carved from heartbreak and anger. “You came all this way,” Tommy starts, voice brittle with disbelief, “just to remind me what I can’t have?”
Wilbur flinches as if he were struck. “I came to end this,” He spat, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
Tommy laughs again, a sound so broken it barely made it into the air. “You’re a terrible liar, Wilbur.” He steps closer, “You always were.”
The distance between them was a thread pulled taut. Wilbur could feel the way Tommy’s anger buzzes against his skin — a violent, desperate hum. He turns away sharply, dragging a hand through his dripping hair. “This rebellion will kill you,” Wilbur utters, voice low. “If you think I’ll let you tear my kingdom apart, you’re a fool.”
“Your kingdom?” Tommy’s voice turns sharp. “The kingdom that bled my family dry? The kingdom that turned its back on everyone who wasn’t born with a silver spoon shoved up their—”
Wilbur spun back, cutting him off with a snarl. “You think you’re saving them? With what, fire and blood? You’re no savior, Tommy. You’re just a murderer who can’t bear that I didn’t choose you.”
The slap, if you could call it that, wasn’t a real hit. It was more like Tommy grabbing Wilbur by the front of his cloak and shoving him back a step, fury flashing white-hot in his eyes. “You think this is about you?” Tommy hissed.
“I don’t know what it’s about anymore!” Wilbur bursts out. His voice cracked at the edges, worn raw. “I don’t know who you are anymore!”
Tommy stares at him like he wanted to tear him apart, or fall to his knees and beg for something neither of them knew how to give.
Slowly, Tommy let go of Wilbur’s cloak. He stumbles away from him, breathing raggedly. “I’m still the boy who would have died for you,” Tommy states, voice barely a murmur now, “But I’m also the man you left to rot.”
The words slice deep, deeper than any sword ever could. Wilbur clenches his fists at his sides, fighting the sudden, brutal urge to reach for him again.
Don’t, some broken part of him whispers.
Don’t.
But the hunger was there, gnawing and furious. The part of him that would always belong to Tommy. He hated how Tommy could still unravel him with a single look. He hated how, even now, even after everything—
he still wanted to believe it wasn’t too late.
“Tommy,” Wilbur speaks, and the name felt like a prayer and a curse in his mouth, “Come back with me.”
Tommy’s eyes flicker, hope, fear, and fury chasing each other across his face. “You think it’s that simple?”
“No,” Wilbur shakes his head. “I know it isn’t, but I’m still asking.”
Silence fell between them once more, heavy and searing. The river roared beside them, swollen and wild.
Finally, Tommy shakes his head. “I can’t,” He expresses, “Not while you’re still wearing that crown. Not while you’re still choosing them over the people you swore to protect.”
Wilbur closed his eyes briefly against the sting of it. He had told himself he was doing the right thing. That the crown was bigger than his heart, but standing here, soaked and shivering and broken open by the boy, the man, he had once loved more than anything…
it didn’t feel right at all.
It just felt hollow.
“Tommy,” He tries again, softer this time. “I never stopped loving you.”
He opens his eyes in time to see Tommy recoil like he’d been struck. For a heartbeat, Tommy looks like he might step forward— might reach for him — might surrender.
Wilbur almost begged, but then Tommy smiles, and it was the saddest thing Wilbur had ever seen.
“You love me,” Tommy voices quietly, almost afraid to speak the words into existence, “But you love the crown more.”
Wilbur swallows hard. He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t.
Tommy nods, like he had expected it, like he had already mourned it a thousand times. He pulls back, putting a chasm between them.
“You’ll always choose them,” Tommy relates. His voice was so gentle it hurt worse than any scream, “And I’ll always choose you. That’s the difference between us.”
Wilbur’s throat burns. His hands tremble. He didn’t know how to bridge the gap.
He didn’t know if he should.
“You’re not the only one bleeding, Tommy,” He replies, voice wrecked.
Tommy gave a small, broken laugh. “Then maybe next time you’ll bleed for me.” He turns and starts to walk away, his silhouette fading into the mist and the rain, torchlight painting him in gold and shadow.
Wilbur, however, remained frozen, heart pounding against the ruins of everything he had ever wanted. He could call after him.
He could run. He could throw down the sword, the crown, the kingdom, and choose him.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He stayed where he was, the rain pounding him into the earth like a nail.
Tommy didn’t look back.
Wilbur stayed stuck long after Tommy’s shadow disappeared into the mist. Only the rain moved, battering the world around him, washing the heat from his skin until he was nothing but a shivering husk.
His horse nickered softly nearby, shifting uneasily. It sounded so far away.
Everything did.
Slowly, with a stiffness he hadn’t known he possessed, Wilbur forces his body to move.
One step.
Another.
Each one felt like tearing a piece of himself free. He reaches his horse and rests his forehead against the wet leather of the saddle, breathing shallowly. His hands shook as he gripped the reins.
He felt as if he were coming apart thread by thread, unraveling into the mud.
You’ll always choose them.
And I’ll always choose you.
The words echo in his skull, cruel and relentless. Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut, but it was useless. Behind his eyelids, all he could see was Tommy.
The slope of his shoulders. The stubborn line of his jaw. The way his mouth had tasted— desperate, furious, familiar.
Prime, he remembered everything.
He remembered the way Tommy used to kiss him: hands greedy, clutching at Wilbur like he was something precious and breakable.
He remembered the low, helpless sounds Tommy made when Wilbur bit down on his throat, marking him where no one else could see.
He remembered falling asleep tangled together under thin, stolen blankets, the slow rise and fall of Tommy’s chest under his palm, the warmth of him against the cold.
He remembered trust.
He remembered safety.
He remembered being loved. Not for the crown, not for the title, but for the boy underneath, and, unfortunately, he remembered losing it all.
Wilbur opens his eyes with a gasp, the weight of memory a blade between his ribs. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t feel like this. He had a kingdom to hold together. A war to win. A throne to sit upon, alone. Grimly, he hauls himself into the saddle. The horse shifts under him, sensing his unrest.
Wilbur yanks the reins hard and turns back toward the palace— toward the gold and marble prison he had built for himself. The rain blurred the road into a shifting smear of grey, but he knew the way by heart.
He didn’t need to see. He just needed to keep moving.
Away from Tommy.
Away from the part of himself that still desperately wanted to turn back.
——
The ride back was a blur.
He barely recalls crossing the river again, barely remembered the guards at the gate flashing wide, startled eyes at the sight of him dripping and alone.
He ignored them. He ignored everyone.
Wilbur stormed through the halls of the palace like a wraith, his wet boots tracking mud across the pristine marble floors. Servants scrambled to get out of his way.
No one dared speak.
No one dared ask.
They knew the look in his eyes. It was the look of a king with blood on his hands, even if it was only his own.
Wilbur didn’t stop until he reached his chambers. He slams the heavy door shut behind him and sags against it, breathing raggedly. For a long moment, he just stands there, rainwater pooling around his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.
The room was painfully familiar. High ceilings, rich velvet drapes, gilded mirrors.
Cold.
Empty.
Lifeless.
Without thinking, Wilbur crosses to the hearth and rips off his cloak, letting it fall to the floor with a sodden thump. His tunic clung to him, soaked through. His hands moved automatically, tugging at the fastenings, peeling the wet fabric away from his skin.
It wasn’t until he was standing half-naked in front of the fire that he realizes he was shaking. Not from the cold.
From something far worse.
His fingers brushed the scar along his ribs— a thin, pale line.
A gift from Tommy, from a sparring match long ago when they were still young, still reckless, still theirs. Tommy had wept when he realized he had hurt him.
Wilbur had laughed, cupping Tommy’s face in his bloodied hands and kissing the tears from his cheeks.
“I’d bleed for you,” Tommy had whispered that night, hands trembling against Wilbur’s jaw, lips pressed to the bandaged wound, “Gladly.”
Wilbur pushes the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, trying to block out the memory.
It didn’t work.
Of course it didn’t.
The past was stitched into his very skin— scars and kisses and whispered promises that had all come undone. He drops onto the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight.
His hair drips onto his bare shoulders, cold and heavy. He stares down at his hands— at the calluses, the faint scars, the ring of state on his finger that felt more like a shackle than a crown.
He imagines, just for a moment, what it would be like to tear it off. To walk out into the night and follow the river to wherever Tommy had gone.
To find him.
To fall at his feet. To beg forgiveness, even if it wasn’t deserved.
To choose him.
The thought nearly broke him, but Wilbur was a king, and kings did not run after traitors. Kings did not tear themselves in two for love.
No matter how much it costs.
He let himself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the canopy above him. The rain lashed against the windows, the fire crackled weakly.
The world spun on.
Wilbur shuts his eyes and lets the memories have him. Tommy’s mouth on his throat, Tommy’s hand on his chest, Tommy’s voice, rough and low against his ear—
“You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
He drifts into a restless sleep, haunted by the ghost of the boy he had once loved, and the man he had made into his enemy.
Outside, the storm raged on, and somewhere beyond the palace walls, Tommy waited, a knife poised at the heart of Wilbur’s kingdom, and the only thing he had ever truly loved.