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Every Saturday of the third week of the month, all the noble houses gathered at the Royal Palace to pledge their allegiance and attend the banquet. However, this gathering was special because the pearl drop of the dynasty, the Crown Princess, was seeking her first, and hopefully final, husband.
As usual, the castle bustled with activity during the preparation of Lord Percival’s powdered wig. His loyal butler, Justus, suppressed a wince upon seeing his Lord’s exaggerated beauty mark. It appeared to be drawn with... was that fireplace soot?
Regardless, Percy’s green eyes glittered at the sight of the lace collar he had imported from overseas for a ridiculous amount of money — an expense that had caused his aide to weep over the ledgers. While Justus was fairly certain that it would choke him within the hour, Percy persisted anyway.
“My Lord,” Justus began as he finished adjusting the puff around the magenta silks that adorned Percy’s body, “the exquisite heirloom you sought to gift Her Highness has been brought to the castle.”
Percy sucked in his breath with excitement and hopped off the platform, the heels of his diamond-buckled shoes echoing through the master bedroom. “Excellent!” he beamed, patting the arm of his butler. He couldn’t properly squeeze his shoulder because of how tall the black-haired butler was. Justus’s blue eyes followed the hand that was powdered a sickly pale, yet his expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking.
“You know what I was contemplating?” Percy asked, laced with his... usual less-than-stellar prank streak that got nowhere, beyond a few laughs from himself.
“I am all ears, my Lord,” Justus replied, a muscle twitching on his jaw.
Percy rose onto his tiptoes, “Wouldn’t the glass eye from my great-great-great-grandfather be a marvelous gift?” he giggled afterward.
Imagining that sticky heirloom would be enough to make anyone’s stomach churn, yet Justus’ face remained the same. “I do not doubt your judgment, my Lord,” he lied easily.
Even the idiot of the castle wouldn’t be dumb enough to gift a glass eye to the Crown Princess.
Right?
Percy took the purple velvet box and lumbered to the carriage for the journey to the Palace. Justus and the castle staff, relieved that they did not need to prepare dinner for the Lord, succumbed to the exhaustion of keeping up with the demands of the castle and crashed on whatever furniture they found.
As Justus was undoing his neckcloth, the Lord’s aide, Oskar, launched himself into the butler’s chambers without knocking.
Justus furrowed his brow and stopped undressing, turning his attention to the hyperventilating man whose hair was tied into a severe ponytail; a style that always gave Justus the urge to... tug it slightly, or maybe undo it, so his blond hair would stop hurting his scalp.
“What has become of you, Oskar?” Justus questioned.
“Did Lord Percival leave?” he asked, his amber eyes wide with terror.
“Indeed,” he replied and took a step closer to the threshold.
“Oh Gods!” Oskar wailed and turned on his heel, escaping the room entirely. Not necessarily concerned, but curious, Justus followed his hurried footsteps.
“What is going on?” he queried as they stepped down the marble halls that led to the stables.
“Percival!” Oskar said, his breath coming in ragged gasps already. “He switched the brooch! He switched the brooch with a glass eye! Oh Gods, they are going to execute him right then and there!”
Justus’ eyes widened upon realizing that... his sarcasm had not been detected. The idiot had taken it as a directive.
Oskar scrambled toward the stables to commandeer a steed.
He froze.
“Gah!” A growl escaped him. “Because of that giant carriage, the Lord took away all the horses!”
The information did not surprise Justus. He tilted his head, his eyes landing on the next best thing: a mule with a swayback, a potbelly, and a hatred for God’s green earth.
Bling.
Desperate times, Oskar thought, fixing his glasses. He looked at the gray beast and broke into a cold sweat. He could already see the image of Percival bellowing laughter in front of the noble houses, followed immediately by the image of Percival losing his head.
Justus would not necessarily mind if the Lord faced the consequences of this grave idiocy; it would certainly reduce the weekly laundry load. And it was not as if he could not transfer to another castle as the head butler; his work ethic was polished enough to make every soul breathing in the castle quiver with insecurity.
It was just that... he simply would not want Oskar to face the grievances of unemployment.
“It will have to do,” Oskar wheezed, throwing himself onto the saddle. His boots nearly scraped the dirt.
Justus swung a leg over the mule’s rump, squeezing himself onto the saddle behind Oskar.
“Giddy up,” Justus commanded.
Bling did not giddy. He trudged.
Justus’s knees were drawn up to his ears to keep his boots from dragging in the mud, forcing his thighs to clamp tightly around Oskar’s waist.
Thus began the slowest pursuit in history.
“Can you see it?” Oscar yelled, his voice vibrating as Bling took an uneven step.
“No,” Justus replied calmly against Oskar’s ear. “Do not follow the main path; it will be choked with carriages. Take the service road. We must cut through the hedges.”
Oskar leaned forward on the saddle, feeling the solid frame of Justus at his back. A slight fluster — possibly caused by the night’s breeze, or perhaps by the fact that he was currently sandwiched between a butler and a mule — crept up his neck. He ignored it.
They continued their journey toward the Royal Palace. While Bling was certainly not faster than the horses pulling the carriages, he was smaller. They scrambled up a muddy embankment, bypassing the gridlock of nobility entirely.
From their vantage point on the hill, Justus scanned the traffic below for Percival’s carriage.
The one with the egregious plumage, he thought.
“I see it! I see it!” Oskar announced, and he snapped the reins.
Bling, offended by the amateur handling, let out a sound like a rusting hinge and bucked.
“Stop.” Justus immediately clamped his hands over Oskar’s, wrestling the reins back. “You are going to make us both fall.”
“Sorry,” Oskar mumbled, ducking his head and feeling the slight graze of Justus’s chin against his scalp. “But... what do we do now?”
Justus steered the stubborn beast down the slope, hiding them behind the bushes that lined the main palace gates. “The Lord would refuse if we asked him to swap the brooch. We must swap it, discreetly.”
Oskar furrowed his brows. “Discreetly? How do you swap jewelry DISCREETLY?”
Justus’s white-gloved palm immediately snatched over Oskar’s lips. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “The boxes must be strapped to the rear rack. The Lord took the purple box. We are going to retrieve it before it goes inside.”
Oskar nodded slowly, and Justus pulled his palm away. “Solid plan,” he confirmed, though his voice wavered. “But how?”
“When the Royal Guards stop the carriage for inspection, one of us creates a diversion. The other secures the box. Understood?” Justus asked.
It was a nonsensical, barely believable plan that offered immediate dire consequences. Yet, Oskar sucked in a deep breath.
“I’ll create the scene,” Oskar whispered, adjusting his glasses. “I’ll fake a swoon. A plague. While you sneak in.”
A ghost of a smile touched Justus’s lips. Oskar had never seen it before.
Here they stood in front of the Royal Palace’s gates. Oskar clutched his stomach and groaned loudly, purely to steal the attention of the two guards. Since Oskar was wearing that green coat that clung to his lean frame, he figured he blended in with the other nobles. Not the nobles like Percival... the normal ones. The level-headed ones. The un-peacock ones. The list ran through Justus’s mind.
Justus crouched low, stalking across the pavement toward the loudest carriage in the queue. He moved with the stealth of a shadow, aided by the poor illumination of the streetlamps.
But...
The guards paid no mind to Oskar. They assumed it was another drunk ready to make their already overworked night hell.
They opened the carriage door, stamped Percival’s papers, and with the crack of a whip, the carriage rolled on. Realizing that his window of opportunity had closed before he could even reach the luggage rack, Justus abandoned his post and retreated to the bushes.
Oskar cracked one eye open to check his audience. Seeing nobody coming, he topped the drama and began to wail. Even then, it was to no avail. Justus gestured frantically for him to retreat, but Oskar was too committed to his craft to notice.
“Idiot,” Justus muttered, rubbing his palm over his face. He glanced around, desperate for inspiration.
He could punch Oskar; effective, but legally risky.
He opted for aggressive medical intervention.
He ripped his gloves off, unbuttoned his jacket, and ruffled his hair. He then, fully for dramatic effect, sprinted across the pavement.
“Help!” he yelled. “He is choking!”
“Huh?” Oskar blurted out.
Justus lunged at him from behind, into a rib-cracking grip.
“Hey, hey,” Oskar protested, feeling his lower ribs groan.
Justus jammed his fist just below the sternum. “Follow my lead,” he whispered into Oskar’s ear. Then, he lifted Oskar clean off his feet. Is this how you perform this maneuver? SURELY NOT!
RRRRRRRIP.
The seam of Oskar’s trousers, strained by the lift, surrendered completely. The night breeze greeted Oskar’s backside.
Oskar stopped struggling. He stared blankly ahead, his soul leaving his body.
Justus froze, holding him in mid-air.
Oh no.
The guard, who approached to investigate the commotion, lowered his halberd.
“Oh, poor man,” the guard murmured, staring openly at Oskar’s exposed smallclothes. “That is... unfortunate.”
“He is choking,” Justus whispered, though it lacked... conviction.
“He’s choking on shame,” the guard sighed, waving them through with a look of pity. “Go on. Get him inside before he freezes.”
Inside.
Not ‘the’ infirmary where they treated the royals.
The Servant’s Quarters. The one with the leeches.
Just as they shuffled inside, Oskar walking sideways like a crab to preserve his dignity, Justus pulled him into a shadowy alcove.
“We are going to blend in,” Justus whispered. “The Lord wouldn’t carry the boxes on his own. Before the servants inspect the boxes, we must grab the glass eye.”
“Your other plan didn’t work,” Oskar mumbled, his face burning. “Your plan involved exposing my smallclothes to the Royal Guard.”
“Well...” Justus murmured, refusing to make eye contact with Oskar’s waistline. “Success requires sacrifice. At least we are inside.”
“Yeah...” Oskar replied, looking around the corridor. “But... where are we? And where is the banquet? This looks like a dungeon.”
“We will follow the foot traffic of the panicked servants and the sound of violins,” Justus explained.
Oskar’s eyes drifted up to the butler. He looked like he had been in a tavern brawl. His cravat was askew, and his hair looked... tragic.
Oskar was holding his own trousers together with one hand and willpower, yet he couldn’t stand the sight of a messy butler.
He reached up with his free hand, deftly retying Justus’s neckcloth with a sharp tug. Then, he raked his fingers through the black hair.
Justus lowered his head like a giraffe, so Oskar didn’t have to strain on his tiptoes.
“Better?” Justus asked, a tone of amusement breaking through.
“Yeah,” Oskar mumbled, realizing his hand was lingering a second too long. Heat flared on his cheeks. “Let’s find the ballroom.”
A tidal wave of livery swept past them. They nodded to each other, slipped into the current, and silently trailed the staff.
Well, Justus trailed silently. Oskar shuffled sideways, clutching the back of his coat like a man trying to smuggle a ham under his jacket.
“If this goes south,” Justus whispered into Oskar’s ear as they ducked behind a pillar, “start swinging.”
The ballroom’s double doors were already thrown wide, and nobles were filing in like cattle dressed in silk. Oskar and Justus searched for their Lord first, yet he was nowhere to be found.
How could he be late? Justus thought, bewildered. His carriage entered the Palace twenty minutes ago. Then again, Percy had the attention span of a goldfish; he was likely distracted by a shiny tapestry in the foyer.
Maybe... we should just leave. Walk out the door, change our names, move to a sheep farm. I could write Oskar a glowing letter of recommendation for a nice, quiet monastery where pants are optional.
“So... do we go to the servants?” Oskar whispered.
“Yes,” Justus replied, clearing his throat. “Let us assess the target.”
Justus scanned the perimeter, looking for the stewards who would be inspecting the jewelry boxes before presenting them to the Princess.
It was then that he saw a servant with a silver instrument, handling a purple velvet box.
“There.” Justus pointed a finger.
Oskar instantly grabbed his wrist and yanked it down. “Do not point at people!” he hissed. “It is... rude.”
Justus stared at him. Really?
Oskar was currently committing treason while holding his own trousers together.
We are committing a felony, Justus thought.
Yet, ultimately, there was something oddly charming about it.
The servants were clustered away from the noble crowd, allowing them to slip past—Justus walking with purpose, Oskar shuffling with desperation. They moved across the grand hall.
On the other hand, even if they were stopped by guards, they could simply show their identification seals. Everyone knew Percival. Most of the Royal Guard were amazed that his head was still attached to his neck by anything other than luck and gravity. Serving him was widely considered a form of penance; the guards would likely just pity them.
They reached the table.
The velvet box Justus saw did not belong to Percy.
It was not the Glass Eye of Doom.
“No, no, no.”
Oskar’s eyes went wide when he saw Percy in his ridiculously shiny puffy sleeves, a grin wider than a dog’s, with two servants following him, presenting the purple boxes.
Justus took a deep breath.
“Kerfuffle.”
“Kerfuffle?” Oskar echoed.
Justus’s large hands shot out, fisting Oskar’s collar in a yank violent enough to knock the blond’s glasses off. He shoved him into the ballroom, throwing him all the way onto the main floor.
Oskar, frozen in shock, understood that he was only doing this to save their Lord, but Gods... it stung. Both his head hitting the marble floor, and Justus treating him like a piece of furniture.
It did not take long before gasps echoed through the room from the witnessing nobles. Guards rushed in to break them up. Justus dropped onto his knees, bracketing Oskar’s chest between his thighs, and cocked his fist back.
“Scream,” Justus mouthed before his fist connected with Oskar’s cheek. He did not put any power into it; it was all air and angles. Oskar shrieked and thrashed his head to gain maximum sympathy.
The commotion snapped the attention of Percival. “Stop! They are my people!” he yelled, rushing to the side of his brawling staff. Even Percival knew that hosting a wrestling match in front of the aristocracy was suicidal. At least the Royal Family had not arrived yet; they had only been announced.
The guards were confused, yet they did not rough Justus up immediately. He found the brief opening to connect his fist with Oskar’s other cheek. Even though Percival ordered them to stop, the guards had to subdue Justus now. Their hands clamped down on his arms, and they pried him away from Oskar’s body.
Not enough time, Justus realized. Oskar is still on the floor.
He needed chaos. Real chaos.
He acted calm and compliant at first, just to get the guards’ grip loose enough. The moment the bruising pressure eased, he lunged at the nearest banquet table. Nobles were already scrambling to the walls of the room to avoid touching that maniac of a commoner.
Justus kept wreaking havoc, shattering goblets, and making silverware fly, but he couldn’t really make out where Oskar was, or what he was doing.
The guards swiftly tackled him, shoving him away from the offended nobles. Percival scampered after them.
“Have you lost your mind?” he wailed, clutching his fist to his chest, his wig shaking askew.
When the guards dragged Justus into the corridor and released him, the butler took a deep breath and straightened his ruined attire. “Accept my deepest apologies, My Lord,” he lied. The only thing on his mind was... what happened to Oskar?
Percival sputtered some reprimands at Justus, which slid like water off a duck’s back. He couldn’t hear anything but the commotion behind the doors.
“Leave right now!” Percival shoved him lightly, which didn’t so much as make Justus flinch.
Even then, he couldn’t disobey his Lord, especially after demolishing the buffet. He gave a deep bow and walked his way back to the gates of the Palace.
Oskar appeared from the gloom, looking like a war refugee. He was disheveled, squinting without his glasses, and sporting a loose bandage that looked like a napkin taped to his forehead. He rushed back to the bushes where they had tied the Bling.
The pressure on his chest eased upon seeing Justus silently waiting for him. Mustering all the speed he could, he sprinted back. “Gods!” he exhaled a breath that was ninety percent panic.
“Did you swap it?” Justus demanded, cutting straight to the chase.
A hysterical laugh escaped Oskar. “What? Didn’t you?”
Justus’s eyes went wide.
The table flip. The soup tureen. The screaming. The indignity. He had destroyed a banquet for absolutely nothing.
He snapped.
He grabbed Oskar’s collar and shook him. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘DIDN’T YOU’?”
Oskar’s breath hitched. He knew the earlier violence, the punch that hadn’t even reddened his cheek, was for show. This wasn’t. This was Justus losing his composure.
His brows furrowed. “Let me go,” he hissed, pushing against the butler’s chest.
Justus didn’t. He shoved Oskar back against an oak tree. The bark bit into his back, eliciting a wince, but Justus pinned him there, seething.
“You are going to feel incredibly stupid in about five seconds,” Oskar wheezed, staring defiantly into Justus’s manic eyes.
“Percy is going to be shorter by a head by sunrise, you imbecile!” Justus yelled, his voice cracking.
Oskar took a deep breath. “I switched it.”
“What?”
“I switched the brooch while the nurse was applying the leeches,” Oskar said, patting his pocket. “I was joking. Now let me down.”
Back in the castle, after a silent ride during which neither man spoke, and dignity went to die, Justus stood before his mirror. He combed his hair aggressively, cursing the reflection that stared back at him.
The pained countenance, the look of betrayal on Oskar’s face when he had shoved him against the tree, replayed in Justus’s mind. He had to apologize.
He didn’t really need to. They could go back to the truce of adults, where they only spoke about chores and duties of the estate and bashed Percival to build camaraderie, yet it... didn’t feel right. Something was missing in that equation.
Justus finished dressing, putting extra care into his attire. All for the incoming groveling.
He walked through the estate, a black cloud following him. Usually, the attendants would straighten their backs like ramrods when he passed. Today, they scattered around like startled hens.
He knocked on Oskar’s door. Two confident raps. False confidence, though. He would usually knock thrice.
His clear voice filtered through from the other side. “Enter.”
The scene inside that study was... familiar. Stacks of scrolls, dust motes dancing in the air, and the smell of ink permeated the very walls. Oskar was furiously scribbling this quarter’s coverage, bent over the desk, looking like a startled owl with those glasses.
Justus took measured steps toward the desk. “I wanted to...”
What?
Apologize?
It was a life-and-death matter. Oskar shouldn’t have joked like that, he thought. On the other hand, swallowing his pride would earn him the right to serve Oskar the breakfast he needed.
“I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I shouldn’t have done that,” Justus said, making sure his smile wasn’t too strained.
Oskar’s pen stopped scratching. It was hysterical to think that Justus was apologizing to him. He adjusted the rim of his glasses to see if he was just hallucinating or if it was real.
Well.
There Justus stood, in his uniform, eyes looking directly at him.
“No...” he mumbled. “No need to apologize. I shouldn’t have joked like that...”
Justus’s eyes narrowed. This was a peculiar habit. Downplaying for the sake of ‘decorum.’ He remembered the incident where Oskar had gone out of his way to beg merchants not to blacklist Percival because he was an obnoxious peacock. When he came back to the castle, eyes all red and puffy, he would say ‘it is fine’ and refuse to talk.
He wondered what it would be like for Oskar to... let it out, just once. Without any restraint. Without any distraction or the pressure of rigid rules.
Justus walked behind the desk.
He stood right next to Oskar’s chair.
His fingers clamped around that tight ponytail, and he pulled the ribbon away, watching that blond hair cascade down Oskar’s shoulders like waves.
“Ow,” Oskar winced, feeling the pain in his scalp fade into relief.
Curiosity — a lie Justus told himself — passed through his mind. What would happen... if he just ruffled that hair?
Justus’s white-gloved fingers combed through that straight hair. Even through the cotton fabric, he could feel the volume between his fingers.
Oskar lifted his head to look at him. “Gods... What are you doing? It is going to get tangled.”
Not angry that I... messed with your hair?
Curious about where this single interaction would lead, a thought passed through Justus’s mind.
Would Oskar throw him out of the room?
Would he burn every bridge?
Curiosity was the bigger emotion.
Justus dipped his head and pressed his lips to Oskar’s.
The chair scraped against the stone floor as Oskar jumped to his feet.
“Are you out of your—”
He was going to protest. Of course.
But there was something about seeing the light dance in Justus’s irises.
It was a perpetual dance to convince Oskar that they were, in fact, together. Oskar was fully aware of what was happening, yet he struggled to find a label that didn’t feel... scandalous. He preferred friends. Boyfriend sounded like something a stable boy would whisper in the hayloft, and lover felt like something that would send them to the gallows.
Meanwhile, Justus was losing his patience. Every time he entered a room, Oskar would straighten up or avoid eye contact altogether, treating the butler like a stranger he had no desire to communicate with.
Somewhere in the master wing, a servant was reading Percival a bedtime story about a lonely dragon, followed by warm milk and honey.
Justus waited, clad in his pajamas, until every candle in the Lord’s chambers was snuffed out. He walked to the far end of the hallway, where the footmen were asleep, save for a few snoozing guards who wouldn’t notice a parade passing by, let alone a butler in the night.
He didn’t knock.
Oskar stirred, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes as the door creaked. “Justus?” he mumbled. “Has something untoward happened? Is the Lord ill?”
The only untoward thing, Justus thought bitterly, is that you think the only reason I would seek you out in the dark is to discuss the emergencies.
He knew Oskar. He knew he was the only one capable of breaking the trance.
Justus sat on the bed without asking. He reached out, grabbed the hair at Oskar’s nape, and pressed a demanding kiss to his lips.
“W-Wait—”
The protest was muffled. Oskar didn’t actually want to push him away; he just wanted to present himself in a... better way.
“Justus,” Oskar breathed. He looked flustered. “You have become... remarkably bold this past month. It is... improper.”
Justus’s lips pressed into a thin line. Did he not feel it? The way even the air changed when they were together?
“I see,” Justus muttered. “My apologies for the impropriety.”
He rose from the bed.
The nights were a rather strange beast. It wasn’t that either of them had nightmares, but there was a loss of warmth the moment they were apart. Every morning, Justus would tail Oskar around the castle, pouring him a steaming cup of tea or bringing heated stones so his hands wouldn’t cramp while he was scribbling away in that cold study.
Oskar didn’t want to lose that warmth. His fingers snagged the hem of the pajamas.
“W-Want to... sleep here, tonight?”