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The Prince is quiet today. Though she keeps herself busy with her sketching, Lenore watches from the corner of her eye, as curious as a cat studying a toy mouse — the moment it moves, she’ll pounce.
“Enough of that,” Alexander says, not even looking up from his paperwork. “I can feel you. You have a very heavy stare.”
The lady crinkles her nose. Even though he’s not looking, Alexander can somehow sense this expression, too. His crystalline gaze flickers up, for just a moment. Everything about him — his straight shoulders, the sharp lines of his jaw, the elegant sweep of his chestnut hair across his brow — speaks of elegance. He is the scion of a great and noble house; Prince Among Princes, the anointed ruler of Incerie. Granted, Incerie is a very small kingdom in a very large world — and the rulers of Botha and the Malvoran Empire snicker at the airs such a tiny duchy puts on. It doesn’t matter. Alexander is the ruler of his homeland, and takes his responsibilities very seriously.
The way he crooks his brow at her… that cool, piercing gaze… oh, he is a ruler, alright.
After a moment, he seems to decide there’s no point avoiding the topic. Lenore is curious, which means she’ll prod around the subject all day, like poking a pimple in the hope of it bursting. If he asked her to stop, she would. It just… it feels pathetic, treating this like a sensitive topic. Is he really so vain?
Maybe. Possibly. Probably.
“I had a very interesting conversation with my tailor this morning,” he clips out, before he can think better of it. Lenore glances up from her sketchbook. Her blue eyes are wide, face the picture of innocence.
“Oh?” She tilts her head, dark curls falling to the side. “Was he delirious, perhaps? I did wonder why you’re wearing such a garish waistcoat today.”
Alexander glances down at his current ensemble — an ill-fitting yellow and green monstrosity, as if a garden sprite vomited all over him. His face twists in a grimace.
“It was the only one—“ he starts — but then chokes off. He can’t say it. Sweet Cretus, it really is embarrassing.
Lenore tilts her head, waiting patiently. She’s always so damned patient… and perceptive. Alexander can tell she already knows.
“It was the only one that fit me,” he says through gritted teeth. “Last night, I… I popped a button during dinner.”
Well, she wasn’t expecting that. Lenore’s brows shoot up, her charcoal pencil dropping from her hand. She leans forward, elbows atop her sketchbook, expression rapt. “No! Not in front of the dowager!” When Alexander doesn’t say anything, merely winces, Lenore lets out a shrill gasp. “Glory and Grace! I thought you looked too confined, but it didn’t seem right to say anything. Did you— I mean— did anyone—“
“People noticed,” Alexander says briefly. “It landed in my uncle’s bowl of soup.”
“Oh… dear.” Lenore fails miserably at stifling a giggle.
Glas as he is to amuse her, this is a serious matter. Alexander is… compromised. He’s already under so much scrutiny, constantly working to live up to his position, and now… if people decide the Prince is getting fat…
Scowling, he rolls himself back from his desk. He deftly maneuvers his chair around it, wheels squeaking against the tiled floor. If they’re going to have this conversation, he wants to confront the culprit face-to-face. Lenore is sitting on the cushioned window-seat; at least they’ll be eye-level.
The lady architect’s gaze follows his movements with a hint of concern. Alexander doesn’t always need his chair — only on days when the pain is particularly bad. The nerve damage in his back is severe, but he goes through periods where he can get around normally, with the use of a gold-handled cane. During flare-ups, though — caused by stress, physical exertion, even sleeping in the wrong position at night — he requires the chair. It doesn’t change him at his core. He is still Alexander: steely, sensible, sharp-witted, unexpectedly gentle.
Alexander moves right up to her, and waits until she can meet his eye. Lenore’s expression is tentative, a little sheepish… but she cannot hide her amusement. It shines through her eyes, through the faint dimples in her cheeks. She has such an expressive face. Alexander is very fond of it.
“I will require an entirely new wardrobe,” he informs her. “The tailor took measurements… and weighed me.” He swallows hard, as though bracing himself. “I’ve gained nearly two stone.”
Lenore inhales sharply. Her eyes widen.
“Can you tell me,” Alexander presses, “why I’ve put on so much weight in the last few months, my lady?”
To her credit, she doesn’t flinch. “That would be a question for the Royal physician, I believe.”
“It would. Unfortunately, he’s busy. I’m asking you.” His fingers drum against the handle of his chair. He could do this all day. “Enlighten me, Lenore.”
They both know where the extra weight has come from. During dinner, Lenore always encourages extra portions. She watches Alexander eat with that rapt, earnest gaze… and it only makes the Prince hungry. He wants to eat more, just to please her.
So, he does. Pastries and snacks during the day; heavy meats and cheesy pasta dishes at night. She’s a bad influence. Sometimes, Lenore will order something — a dish of cream puffs, a tray of sandwiches — and after a few bites, she’ll tire of it. “Not hungry,” she’ll say, “but it’s a shame to let the food go to waste.”
Alexander takes the bait. Every time.
“You,” he says bluntly, “are a horrible influence. Look what you’ve done to me.”
Without shame, the Prince pats his protruding belly. Clothes can’t hide it anymore; his elegant waistcoats now strain to contain Alexander’s growing gut. His trousers look painfully tight. As his hips and thighs have filled out, it’s a struggle to even fit into his clothes.
The extra weight has not gone to Alexander’s face. His features are sharp and graceful as ever. But Lenore can’t help envisioning it. His cheeks filling out, growing round and plump… the softness of a double chin ruining his sharp-cut jaw…
“Stop staring at me!”
Oh, Cretus’s balls. Alexander cannot know the thoughts running through her head.
“I’m sorry,” Lenore says quickly. And then, with a hint of coyness… “I suppose your new appetite is serving you well.”
His glower darkens. Alexander leans forward, crowding her space. His hands are tight around the arms of his wheelchair. Those dark eyes capture her, pierce her armor; there is no escape.
“My appetite,” he half-growls, “is all because of you.”
“How can you blame me?” she gasps. “Really.”
“The pastries. The special orders during the day. The way you look at me, like— like—”
Lenore doesn’t say a word. Her own gaze pierced Alexander back… and reveals nothing.
“I think,” she says, very slowly, "you look healthy."
Alexander scoffs. “I look indulged.”
“You are the Prince. What’s wrong with that?”
“Because I don’t— people will—“ Alexander cuts himself off, swamping the words like a whole lemon. He doesn’t like being judged by the world; he’s already a prince who used a wheelchair, a prince who can’t trust his own body. Now… will he go down in history as Incerie’s fat prince?
Alexander shifts, grimacing as his belly moves with him. It’s an adjustment, Al this weight… but it feels very natural. He likes the new softness of his body, the plushness of his thighs. He enjoys not being able to see his ribs anymore. Being sluggish from a big meal feels better than feeling faint from not eating.
The truth is, Alexander has been enjoying himself. He would even enjoy the weight… if he wasn’t the Prince. Wasn’t constantly in the public eye… wondering what people will say.
“The thing about getting fat,” he says softly. “You don’t feel it. You just feel like… yourself. And suddenly, things are a tad more difficult. You slide into chairs which no longer fit right… you have to sit further back from the table, because your belly is in the way. Suddenly, you take up more space. When you eat, it feels like… all eyes are on you.” Alexander hesitates, then grimaces. “I do not want my table manners in the spotlight.”
(Especially since he can’t help belching after a big meal. The press would have a field day.)
This has been a whole new experience for him, Lenore realizes. When she arrived in Incerie — when she was first contracted as royal architect, and met the prince — he was so thin. Almost gaunt. It was clear he was a steady man, someone who valued self-control. He took care of his body, because it was already fallible. Perhaps thinness gave him some sense of control.
Since Lenore arrives, though, she hasn’t let him skip meals. She’s encouraged snacks, afternoon naps…
Her goal was never to corrupt Alexander, to instill bad habits. She just… wanted to see him healthy.
Now, he certainly looks it. Plus a little extra flesh… a bit heavier when he moves, a bit tighter in his sleek suits. What’s wrong with that?
“Lenore,” he says softly, cupping her cheek. Alexander’s touch is soft; his hands are steady, always so steady. “You will be the ruin of me.”
Lenore smiles, soft and knowing. “And what’s wrong with that?”