Chapter Text
A little more cerulean here… Now just a touch more white to blend it out… Neal pulled his brush away from the canvas and surveyed the piece. He smiled softly to himself. It was perfect. He took a deep breath and looked out the small window of his tiny attic bedroom. He felt a knot in his stomach looking at the castle. He thought his painting was perfect, he just hoped it would be good enough for the king and queen.
The royal family was hosting a grand event that evening. Weeks ago they had called for artists throughout the kingdom to submit their finest work, the greatest entries would be prominently featured on the castle walls, and the artist whose work was most liked would be granted a job as the royal family’s personal artist. They would be commissioned for portraits, frescos, and any other art the family desired, potentially even offered room and board on the castle grounds. Neal had no delusions that he would actually win , he wasn’t talented enough for that. But he hoped he was good enough to at least have his art displayed at the event. He just wanted other people to see it, even for just a brief time.
Neal stood from his easel and set to work carefully and meticulously cleaning his brushes. He always took such meticulous care of his paint supplies. They were beyond precious to him - painting was the one thing that brought him joy and made his life with his step-father and step-brother bearable. The supplies had been expensive, and difficult to come by. If he broke a brush or spilled paint, it could be months before he was able to replace what he had lost. Neal heard the tell-tale creak of stairs behind him and felt a chill run up his spine. He dropped his brushes and rushed to throw a sheet over the canvas, hoping to keep it from view and thereby protect it from the intruder, but he was too slow. Matthew, his step-brother, caught the sheet mid-air and ripped it from Neal’s grasp.
“What’s this, Caffrey?”
Neal sighed at the use of his last name, Matthew’s favorite way to remind him that he didn’t belong - he wasn’t part of the family . “It’s nothing, Matthew.” Neal silently pleaded with him to go away and not cause him any trouble today.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Well it is. Please give me the sheet. I’ll come downstairs in a moment.”
Matthew tilted his head as he walked closer to the painting, taking in all the details and the brushwork. Neal swallowed thickly, the knot in his stomach growing larger the longer Matthew looked at his art. “It’s not bad,” he finally admitted.
Neal let out a breath of relief. He had expected Matthew to tease him, or to do something cruel like take the painting from him. That was usually how their conversations went. “You really think so?” He asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Matthew nodded. “Yeah. It’s good work, Caffrey.” He turned to look at Neal, and something in his expression made his blood run cold. “It’s a shame, really. I think you might have had a chance at winning, if you could go.”
Neal hesitated a moment. “I… I can go, father said-”
“He’s not your father, Caffrey. And yeah he did say that, didn’t he? Well he changed his mind. And you don’t have anything to enter anyway, I mean, you can’t show up empty-handed, can you?”
Neal swallowed, his eyes flashing between Matthew and his painting, the knot in his stomach growing larger. “What do you mean?”
Matthew smirked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and in one quick motion he drew his arm across the canvas, leaving a large gaping rip through the middle of it. He twirled his dagger between his fingers, the sunlight glinting off the blade, then tucked it neatly back into his waistband.
“ NO! ” Neal screamed, his arm outstretched towards the canvas, but it was too late - the damage was done. Neal dropped to his knees feeling utterly defeated. He had worked on that painting for weeks, he had been so proud of it. And Matthew had destroyed it in mere seconds. Neal couldn’t help the tears from falling down his cheeks but he desperately tried not to sniffle - he didn’t want to give Matthew the satisfaction of knowing how much he had gotten to him.
Matthew laughed. “Really, Caffrey, it’s just a measly painting. You’ll make another.” He started to leave but stopped himself and turned around. He swiped his thumb over his chin thoughtfully. “You know, for good measure…” With that he reached out and pushed the easel over, knocking it prone. It hit the ground with a loud crack and splintered, bits of wood flying out in every direction. A large piece skittered across the floor and came to rest against Neal’s leg. “Come downstairs when you’re done crying. It’s breakfast time.”
Neal clenched his jaw as he listened to Matthew’s footsteps departing. He let himself grieve for a few more moments before he gathered himself and stood up. He looked over his easel to survey the damage. One of the legs had a large crack running up it, but he might be able to secure it with some rope… But no, the bottom crossbar where the canvas sat was broken completely off and split in two. There was no way for him to salvage it. He wouldn’t be able to afford a new easel for at least a year, if not more, but there was always another way. It wouldn’t be as easy, but he would find a way to keep painting.
He took a shuddering breath and finally picked up his canvas. He gently ran his fingers along the gash, wincing like he was in physical pain, as if Matthew’s knife had cut clean through him as well. He might be able to fix it, the cut was clean for the most part, not jagged, which would make it easier to line up, repair, and paint over. But it would take time to do it right. Two days, at minimum. It certainly wouldn’t be ready for the event at the castle that evening.
Neal sighed and steeled himself, pushing down the grief and anger inside him. Matthew had said that his step-father had changed his mind about letting him go to the castle, but surely he was just trying to get under his skin. Maybe one of his other pieces of art was decent enough to submit. At the very least, he still wanted to attend the event to see the art from around the kingdom. He needed to get downstairs to make breakfast if he didn’t want that chance ripped from him as well. He would be on his best behavior and do whatever it took to stay in Matthew and James’ good graces.
***
Neal felt James’ eyes on him as he served plates to him and Matthew. It killed him, having to be nice to Matthew and serve him breakfast after the morning’s events, but truthfully this was his life. Matthew’s cruelty towards him was an everyday occurrence, the only thing new about it was the ways in which he would decide to torment Neal. James and Matthew made it very clear neither of them liked Neal or wanted him there, but after his mother passed away he had nowhere else to go. They were stuck with him and resented him for it, and they made sure he never forgot that fact.
Despite his circumstances and far from ideal living conditions, Neal refused to let their treatment of him turn him cold. Every morning, he greeted them with kindness and warmth. Every day he cooked their meals for them, did their laundry, and kept their home clean and tidy. He worked as hard tirelessly to make his presence as little of a burden as possible, hoping it might make them hate him just a little less. It was an exercise in futility - no matter how much Neal did, their treatment of him remained the same.
Neal bit his lip, waiting patiently for Matthew and James to finish their breakfast. He wanted his step-father in the best possible mood today, and that meant anticipating his and Matthew’s needs. His breath hitched when Matthew shoved his plate away, half eaten, and gave Neal a wink before he disappeared back up the stairs. Neal swallowed nervously, desperately wanting to follow him, but he didn’t want to risk upsetting James by leaving the table before he was finished.
Crashing sounds started echoing above them that made Neal wince and his stomach clench. Matthew was up to something, and the anxiety it was causing made him feel nauseous, but he didn’t dare move from his spot. James took his time, watching Neal out of his periphery. Finally he put his fork down and met Neal’s eyes. The younger man stared back, feeling nervous and vulnerable. He opened his mouth to speak, but a particularly loud crash made him flinch and he closed it again. James stared at him, almost like he was daring him to say something.
A few moments later, the sounds subsided, and Matthew reappeared in the dining room - splashes of paint covering him. Neal felt like he was going to throw up, his heart pounded in his chest. That was his paint, his paint was on Matthew’s clothes, which meant that he had been in his room, doing something with his art supplies, and- Matthew winked at him and sat back down, a smear of paint rubbing off on the fabric of the chair.
James finally spoke. “Matthew tells me you want to go to the castle tonight.”
Neal bit his lip, feeling like this was a trap but unsure of the way out of it. “...Yes sir,” he said.
James hummed thoughtfully. “You can go…” Neal sucked in a breath. “If you clean your room, first.”
He frowned and glanced at Matthew, who was grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “...My room is clean, sir.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Is it?” He looked over at Matthew then back at Neal. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You should check on that. It looks like you might have had a spill or two.” Neal felt himself pale. His paints… How was he ever going to replace them? If he still had the primaries at least, maybe he could work with that for the time being. “I don’t want to see a speck of paint anywhere in this house. Including on that chair. You get that done… Then you can go.”
Neal met Matthew’s eyes and clenched his jaw. He felt a whirlwind of emotions bubbling up inside him. Anger, hatred, confusion, sadness. Neal did so much for them, to try to make up for being a burden on them, he couldn’t understand why they had to make him so miserable and hurt him so badly. Neal felt his emotions threatening to get the better of him and quickly closed his eyes, willing them down, calming himself. He let out a slow and shaky before he looked back at James. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good. Clean these plates up.”
“Yes sir.” Neal stood and gathered the dishes. He took them into the kitchen and washed them, making sure to get them clean despite everything in him screaming at him to get upstairs and check on the damage. It was like he could feel the paint drying as he stood scouring the dishware, every second that he took would make it that much harder to clean up whatever mess Matthew had left for him.
When he finally finished cleaning and made his way up the stairs, Matthew and James had left, likely headed to town before the festival at the castle that evening. Neal tried desperately to remain calm as he surveyed the damage - it was so much worse than he could have imagined. The easel was now broken completely in two, his other paintings had been ripped from the walls, some were even slashed from the wooden frame stretching the canvas, and his precious paint covered everything. All his clothing had been pulled from the wardrobe, including the waistcoat he had planned to wear to the castle that evening. Splashes of brilliant colors adorned the fabric, the walls, even his bed and furniture. His beloved works of art now had huge splotches of paint covering them.
Neal felt himself begin to tremble, then his knees gave out beneath him and he crumpled to the floor, his face buried in his hands. His paintings and artwork were destroyed, his precious paint splattered over everything he owned, his clothing ruined. It was too much. Neal shook with the effort of trying to keep his emotions contained, but his eyes fell on the painting he had finished that morning, with the gash running through it, now covered in bright splashes of yellow and red. His eyes stung as the tears finally cascaded down his face. He hugged himself tightly, the sobs teating through his body, cries forcing their way out of his lungs. He would never be able to repair the damage Matthew had caused. He would have to throw everything away and start from scratch. All of his paint, his canvas, his easel, even his clothing, all of it had been destroyed. He had nothing. The one thing that had brought him a modicum of joy violently wrenched from him.
Neal let himself sit on the floor and cry until there were no tears left. His eyes burned as they dried, he sniffled and wiped at his eyes and cheeks, trying to pull himself together.
“Chin up, kid. It’ll be okay.”
Neal whirled around with a start. A short balding man with glasses was leaning casually against his bedroom wall with his arms crossed. When, and how, did he get there? “Who are you?” Neal asked.
“The best thing that ever happened to you.”
“What? How did you even get up here?”
“I have my ways.” The stranger uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall. He walked up to Neal and held out his hand. “I’m your fairy godfather. But you can call me Mozzie.”
Neal stared at the stranger’s outstretched hand, blinking slowly. “You’re my… what ?”
“Like I said, just call me Mozzie.” He dropped his hand and walked around the room. “I’m not gonna lie, this will be a tricky one. I think we can manage though.”
“Manage what? What are you talking about?”
“Do you want to go to the castle tonight or not?”
“Of course I do, but I-... I can’t. All my clothes have paint on them, and all my art was destroyed. My step-father said I have to clean this all up before I can go, and there’s n-”
“Do you want to go or don’t you?” Mozzie asked, cutting him off.
Neal swallowed and nodded. “I do.”
“Okay, then stop talking.”
Neal frowned and shut his mouth. He watched as the mysterious man walked around his room. He held one hand up to his chin, his other hand supporting his elbow. The man had rings on every finger and wore the strangest clothing Neal had ever seen.
“Okay, I think I got it. Click your heels together and say ‘there’s no place like home.’”
“What?”
“Sorry, wrong story.”
Neal shook his head, trying to comprehend what was happening to him. Mozzie cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. “And… abracadabra!” He waved his fingers around. Neal looked at him like he’d grown a second head. But suddenly, before his eyes, the paint started gathering itself back together . He watched in amazement as his clothes began picking themselves up and floating back to the wardrobe, the paint pooled and poured itself back into its jars, and his canvases stitched back together. After a few moments, it was like nothing in his room had ever been touched by Matthew’s hands.
Neal was in shock. He watched with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open. “...How… How did…?”
“Fairy godparent, try to keep up.”
Neal stepped up to his painting, the one he had finished that morning, now returned to its place on the easel. The splashes of pink and yellow were nowhere to be seen, and the large gash had vanished, like it was never there. Neal turned the canvas around, inspecting the back for a seam. He ran his fingers over the smooth, flawless canvas in awe. “You fixed it.” He felt tears welling up in his eyes again and he sniffled, trying to choke it down. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, we’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t go to the castle looking like that . You need style, class… You need a makeover.”
Neal frowned and looked down at himself. “Well, no, I was going to wear… I have a waistcoat, and a clean shirt…”
“Okay let’s see it.”
Neal went to the wardrobe and pulled out the nicest clothes he had. It wasn’t much. He had a basic white shirt with a frill on the wrist, and a decent pair of black trousers. The waistcoat was sleeveless, a faded dark grey that likely once was black. It was missing a button, and lightly frayed in places, and it was extraordinarily plain. He finished the outfit with a pair of boots that were worn incredibly thin.
Mozzie stared at him. “This? This is what you’re planning on wearing to the castle ?”
“It’s the nicest thing I have,” Neal said meekly.
Mozzie sighed. “Okay. Put it on.”
Neal complied, changing into the clothing. He took great care when doing up the buttons of the waistcoat, not wanting to lose any more of them. When he finished dressing he spread his arms and looked up at the man. “How do I look?”
“Terrible,” said Mozzie.
Neal frowned. “What?”
“Stay still.” Mozzie twirled his index finger in the air and Neal’s clothing started tingling against his skin. He looked down and watched as his boots shifted from dull and frayed to lustrous and smooth. The hole in his trousers stitched back together and Neal could feel the fabric changing from thin and cheap to something much thicker and stronger. The frills on his sleeves grew longer. The waistcoat shifted to a beautiful, brilliant shade of blue, with silver accents and a silver damask pattern covering the velvet fabric. The missing button replaced itself. His head also began tingling and Neal realized something was happening to his hair as well.
Once the process was complete, Mozzie looked at him expectantly. “Well? Go take a look!”
Neal smiled and rushed to the mirror in the corner. He looked… He looked regal . His hair was cut and neatly styled, and his outfit looked like that of nobility, not a commoner like himself. He barely recognized the reflection staring back at him. “This is… Incredible. Thank you, ” he said, his voice wavering with emotion.
Mozzie smiled and waved a hand at him. “Oh it’s nothing.”
“Why? Why me?”
The man’s expression softened and he looked down. “You’re one of the good ones. You deserve it.”
Neal swallowed thickly and looked at his reflection again. He ran his hands over the waistcoat, reveling in the feeling of the fine fabric beneath his fingers. He brought one hand up to touch his hair gently.
“Stop that, you’ll mess it up!” Mozzie complained and Neal pouted at him. Mozzie narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Actually… I think it’s missing something.” He snapped his fingers and Neal felt a weight on his waist and lower back. He turned back to the mirror and felt a flush creep up his neck. Attached to his waistcoat there was now a skirt, open in the front but transitioning to long and billowing in the back, with a short train. It was a satin fabric the same color as his waistcoat, that sparkled with hundreds of pinpoint flashes. Neal took hold of the fabric and held it up, his thumb rubbing over it. It was textured, not smooth, and Neal realized the glittering effect was due to the small glass beads covering the surface. Underneath the beads, the fabric bore the same damask pattern as the waistcoat, though much more subtle. The pattern was the same color, but made of a slightly raised velvet, only standing out upon close inspection.
“I can’t wear this.”
“There’s a ball tonight, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but-”
The man twirled his hand at him. “Now you have a gown.” Mozzie had a mischievous grin on his face, like he was particularly proud of himself.
“I cannot wear this!”
“You can and you will.” He walked closer and tugged on the waist of the skirt slightly, straightening it out. “Besides… The prince will love it.”
Neal flushed and stepped back. He turned to look in the mirror again. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look incredible. Trust me.” Neal sighed and looked down at the skirt. “Look, if you really want to take it off, it’s easy enough to remove.” Mozzie demonstrated, undoing the two small buttons on the front that were tucked under his waistcoat, and pulled the skirt away. “See?”
Neal looked in the mirror, then looked back to the skirt. “...Okay,” he agreed softly.
Mozzie fastened the skirt back in place. “Easy access for later.”
Neal pushed him away, flustered. “Okay! That’s enough! I’m going now.”
“Oh, right. The last thing you need.”
“There’s more ?” How could there possibly be more for the man to give him? He had already done so much, far too much for Neal to ever repay in a hundred lifetimes.
“Your transport. Come!” Mozzie turned and walked down the stairs. Neal carefully removed his painting from the easel - not only whole but in better condition than it had been that morning. He removed it from the wooden frame gently and rolled it up with care, placing it into a wooden tube, then he followed the man down the stairs. When he stepped out the door he stopped still, his mouth open. There was a carriage outside. Not a plain carriage either. A fancy carriage, ornately carved, with a velvet lined interior. A beautiful grey and white horse stood in front, with strange markings that reminded Neal of some other kind of animal he couldn’t put his finger on.
“... We don’t have a horse,” he said bluntly, at a loss for what else to say.
“I know.” Mozzie smiled and stroked the horse’s nose fondly. “This is Estelle. She’ll get you where you need to go.”
Neal felt his eyes beginning to water again and he sniffled then cleared his throat. “I don’t understand. All of this, for me? Why?”
“Like I said, you’re one of the good ones.” He gave Estelle another pat then opened up the door of the carriage, beckoning Neal inside. “Your carriage awaits.”
Neal took a deep breath and stepped in, pulling the skirt around him. He held onto the tube containing his painting like it was a lifeline. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No thanks necessary, just enjoy yourself.” He started to close the door, then stopped and pulled it back open. “Oh! One more thing. You only have until midnight, and then all of this-” he gestured vaguely around him “goes poof .”
“Why midnight?”
“I don’t know, man, I don’t make the rules.” He shut the door and clapped his hands twice. Estelle started walking, leading the carriage away and to the castle.
Neal felt the carriage lurch into motion and he leaned back against the tufted velvet. He tried to wrap his head around the last couple of hours. None of what had just happened felt real. It was like a dream. He held his painting close to his chest and peeked out the window, watching as they got closer to the castle. His stomach was in knots. He was actually going to the castle. He would submit his painting and possibly even get to meet the royal family. He swallowed thickly.
I hope it’s good enough, he thought to himself as the carriage carried him onward.