Work Text:
Louis was eleven the first time it happened. A boy not much older than him—either twelve or thirteen—who wouldn't take no for an answer. He doesn't remember it well, but he remembers the fact that it hurt and that he was mean.
Then he was fifteen (nearly sixteen!), and it was another boy (or, well, a man nearly twenty years older than him if you want to get technical), and he had a fortune and a title a half-mile long. His hand always rested too low on his back, and he always held him too hard, like he would escape at any time.
Then he was seventeen and doing it to gain favour and power in court—tighter clothes, a breathier voice, being touchy and asking where their bedchambers are. They were all always older, more powerful nobles who quickly bowed to Louis' requests. Louis was young, small and effeminate. To them, he was basically just a younger woman.
It wasn't just the gifts, promotions and/or sponsors he was doing it for. A lot of it was a desperate bid for attention: "dropping his papers" in front of older men; his trousers being just tight enough they accentuated his curves, but he could still squeeze into them; him restricting his diet to not gain any extra weight (he did grow up in a famine; his metabolism is fucked.)
The gifts, promotions and/or sponsors gave him the opportunity to get closer to the king and to make a change. The attention gave him stability and a purpose. For a bit at least.
As a young child, his parents were too wrapped up in the famine to look at him—spending all day altering crop rotations and writing to the king. Sure, that wasn't their fault exactly, but it still hurt.
He taught himself how to fake sick at first: convincing enough his parents would coddle him a bit and actually look at him, but not so extreme they'd take him to a healer. Then he began to try to get a rise out of them as he got older and was told that he was old enough to care for himself. The yelling and the slapping were better than no attention at all.
When he got involved in the Court of Astor, he then used his looks as bait. It made sense to him. Sure, maybe he'd grown a reputation for being a bit of a loud, dramatic whore who played with people's hearts, but that meant people actually knew him!
Then he was twenty-one.
Rowan Astor, the ex-ex prince (as he dubbed himself), was a political tragedy waiting to happen. He'd already attempted to kill poor, old King Astor once (hence the banishment, hence the title ex-ex prince). A problem child—refusing to get a wife and opting to sleep around, spending most days and nights drunk and/or high beyond belief, yelling and screaming for no good reason and being just so dramatic.
King Astor wanted him dead. Gossip in court said he'd reward whoever parts Rowan from his head, and Louis needed that reward.
He was a secretary. Four hundred and fifty-three and three-quarters days since his last promotion.
How was he meant to help the people of the country without power? His royal highness had discarded Louis after Sir Bartok had proposed to Princess Maya.
Sir Bartok—Jason—was an ass. Following rules to the exact letter, teasing Louis for his short stature, teasing Louis in general, being prudish, and treating King Astor like some kind of god. He'd met Louis at a ball that was too loud and had too many people that they weren't allowed to leave. Jason was too nervous to speak, so they'd sneaked away to watch the darkening, late-evening, early-summer skies.
Princess Maya seemed sweet. Regal, polite and refined. Louis had spoken to her briefly at a handful of balls, and he never saw any reason to doubt or distrust her.
Louis was only good for so much, and marrying a princess is beyond the cutest clerks! All he had was his words and looks, and when nobody listens to you bloviate, that leaves only one option.
All it was meant to be was a quick stab. Rowan was asleep under him, and all angels have to fall at some point, but he faltered, and he showed fear.
Then, he was twenty-one, too deep to escape. An incredibly drunk Rowan tugged at his ascot, occasionally responding to Louis' talk with an uhuh or a yeah, whatever.
That time he said no. He wasn't going to let anyone else pull him around.
That time, Rowan asked him if he wanted to make himself of use.
That time, he made himself of use.
Now, he's twenty-three. He'd always hoped he'd be king one day, but Jason was a better king than him—less impulsive, less dramatic.
Jason was his world, his husband, his king, his favourite. As expected of kings, Jason got busy rapidly—bills, laws, letters, and disapproval of two kings rather than one king and one queen. Louis was a king, yes, but not like Jason. Jason was better with it.
He was busy, so, so, so busy.
Louis began dressing in tighter clothes, then began flirting with Jason more openly—more sexually—then he tried to start arguments, but Jason either didn't get it or was intentionally ignoring him.
He didn't want to be nine and trying to break his legs just so people would look at him; he didn't want to be eleven and trying to seduce everyone he knew again because he missed that boy; he didn't want to be twenty-one again, helping kill a king.
And so, he bathed, shaved and dressed himself up rather nicely. Jason was meant to be free today, and he shouldn't have to beg for his husband's attention.
When Jason sees him, he blinks slowly, then laughs. He sits next to Louis on the bed—their bed—and takes his hand. "You look pretty. Any particular occasion?" He rubs his thumb across the back of Louis' soft hand, staring intently at the one ring he now wears. A gold band with a small diamond in the middle on his ring finger—their wedding ring.
The diamond shines in the early evening, making Jason smile.
Louis can't help but roll his eyes at Jason's question, leaning into him. "Does there have to be an occasion? You're always so busy."
He can feel the storm beginning in his mind. Does Jason not find him attractive anymore? What, does he just not like him?
Sure, he's busy, but he's hardly been making any time for him! When was the last time he told him he loved him? When was the last time he—
The itch starts in his skin. It's not an actual itch, but it's easier to explain it's one rather than explaining it's the physical manifestation of the storm in his brain.
He takes his hand from Jason's grip and begins to scratch his arm. He scratches his arm like he's trying to tear skin from bone. He scratches until his arm is red raw.
Jason's brows furrow, and his lips curve into a frown. He takes Louis' hand and brings it up to his mouth, planting a kiss on it. "What happened?"
Louis can feel his body tense. What happened? Maybe the fact that he's been practically ignoring him the past two weeks! He grits his teeth, biting back a snarky remark that he'll regret.
He's always ended relationships this way: ignored, bitter, emotional and scared. He loves Jason—really loves Jason—but it always ends like this. He sees everything as bad for just a second because he's mad and/or feels neglected, and then everything's ruined. Maybe because he starts yelling, maybe because he gives the silent treatment, or maybe because he gets too clingy.
Jason uses the hand that's not holding Louis' to cup his face, brushing his thumb across his cheek. "If something's wrong, I won't know unless you tell me, Louis."
Louis huffs, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it and how to say it without crying or yelling. He uses his spare hand to play with his hair, a nervous tic of his. "You don't even look at me anymore." His voice comes out louder than he wants it to and more dramatic-sounding, because that's what he is. He's dramatic and unreasonable.
"You're always busy meeting with nobles, or—or writing back to people, and I know you're busy, but—this is the only way I can get you to look at me!" He can't form the right words, so he stammers, stutters and then groans. He closes his spare hand into a fist and yanks at his hair. Jason takes that hand and kisses it too.
"Louis…" Jason says, voice soft. "I didn't know you felt like this." His frown deepens slightly, now feeling like the worst husband in the history of the world. Well, that's a bit dramatic, but he still feels awful.
He pulls Louis closer to him, planting a kiss on the top of his head. "I don't have anything to attend to today, hoping everything goes well so we can spend today together. And I can, uhh, try and see if I can spend more time with you. You need to tell me when you feel ignored."
Louis' throat tightens, and, before he realises what he's doing, a tear falls down his face. He's been married to Jason for two years now, and even despite that, the kindness still confuses him sometimes. He'd never known love to be soft, intimate and gentle; he'd known it to be hard, sexual and rough.
Noticing how his shoulders shake and the tears that now fall, Jason kisses Louis again and wipes away the tears. "Hey, don't—don't cry, pretty boy." He smiles, and Louis laughs.
"I love you." Louis' voice comes out quieter than usual. He doesn't want to scare Jason off, but one day—and he knowsit'll happen, because it always does—one day, he'll have an actual outburst and he'll yell, and he'll definitely scare Jason off if he doesn't before that.
"Good." Jason replies. He watches how Louis' face falls and realises that probably wasn't the right response. "I love you too. I don't say that enough, do I?"
Louis shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips.
Jason nods. "Well, I love you, Louis. I'd be a fool not to. I promise." He thinks for a moment, then adds on: "You don't need to do anything to get me to look at you; just say the word and I'll be there. I love you for you."
Louis huffs, amused. His head rests on Jason's shoulder. "Good." He replies, teasing. "I love you too. A lot."
Jason can't help but grin, and Louis smiles back, both their cheeks flushing pink. Louis leans up and locks his lips with Jason's. Jason puts his hands in Louis' hair—gently—his fingers lacing between strands of black hair.
For the first time in two years, Louis doesn't flinch away from the touch.