Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was uncommon for you to fall in love.

Many times, specifically over morning breakfasts, your mother would gripe about your lack of lustre for romance. This extended into literature; you hated the romantic poets, and all the fairy tales they procured.

None of that fluff could persuade you into believing, let alone care for or pursue, the dream that she herself sought: true love.

You did fall in love—just not with men. Not typically. They were either too haughty, too humorless, too ugly, or in the worst case, all three plus more.

But you still loved many things.

For example?

Well... for example...

Ah, reading. Er, writing. And most specifically, your typewriter.

See, you knew, from a tender age, that love was less like it a romance novel and more like a horror novella—

Short, brutal... gory.

A kiss was as close as a sane person could come to cannibalism. Sex was a gross reminder of the fact we are clothed animals needing for flesh.

You concluded this after experiencing a few short-lived, rancid romantic affairs in your adolescence. Well, actually... just one.

That short-lived affair left you feeling, well, how can I put it?—like love is the most overrated thing in life.

Thus, you lost interest in it. Thus, you damned the romantic poets for selling you false ideas, for rendering you disillusioned with their idealism.

But your mother still believed in true love.

And she believed that it would find you: her last little bird in the nest.

ㅤ⚜

Mother clasped her hands in delight at the breakfast table, fawning over your new job position as a transcribe to the charmingly handsome blue-eyed Prince Gojo Satoru.

Your response to her delight was an upper lip curled in abject disgust.

“Mother, I am not wooing the prince—first reason being that he’s the prince, second being that he is really, actually, quite uncouth and—if I daresay... rude.” you finished with a perk of your brow.

You sipped at your orange juice all too smugly, and then your mother burst out.

“Nonsense. He’s a universal gentleman! His beauty is appreciated from here, all the way to France.” she proclaimed emphatically. “F’goodness sake, in an age of pruny old men, he’s the living Adonis!”

“I’ll admit he’s good-looking. But still, he’s rude; that cancels out all his other qualities.”

Mother waved a hand at you and rolled her eyes, “Handsome men are always rude because they know they can afford to be. I think you will be a bride by next spring. Oh, how happy I am! My littlest girl will be the best wed of all my children.”

You lowered your glass, prolonging your stare of disdain at your mother—who was glowing, ignorant to your expression.

“Have you ever considered for a moment your own daughter’s happiness?” grunted your father, appearing at the archway into the kitchen, waddling in.

“Not at all!” replied your mother sarcastically, spearing a small scone with a butter knife and ungraciously smearing butter into the slit. “I’ve only cared about her entire livelihood and future for my whole life!”

“My love, you’re being dramatic again.” he said, rudely.

Mother burst, “Dramatic! Maybe you should try give birth five times and see how you feel!”

“Eh, eh.” your father let out a gruff laugh. “Well, I never wanted five of them. One was more than enough.”

Lanky and yet slow as a clunky machine, your father made his way to the chair next to your mother and scooted it outwards to sit. Then, he grumbled as all old men do when they sit down, like the weight of being the favoured one in society is just so heavy a burden to bear. Must be hard, you thought, living in a world that licks between the cracks of your hairy ass.

“So then, do you think it will happen?” he directed at you.

“Absolutely. I’ll kill him by next spring.” you replied, stabbing into a scone, spreading strawberry jam into it, and jamming it into your mouth.

He let out a wheezing chuckle, “Ah, sounds good. Then we might be free from the Gojo reign at last.”

“I’ll ready the dagger.”

“—and ram it through his heart, make him yearn for a fine girl like you.” your mother smiled, and you momentarily closed your eyes in pain at her insufferableness.

“Now, now; don’t eat too much, you’ve got to stay in shape.” your mother stole your scone clean out your hand just as you prepared to take another bite, leaving you to linger after her with a truly miserable glare.

She binned the scone and then proceeded to get to her feet and tug out your chair from the table, shooshing you out like a rat out of the kitchen.

“Be early, not on-time; it will show your eagerness to be with him. Now, out with you. Out, out!”

She shooed you like this all the way to the front door of your manor, shoving at your back with a greater force than you would expect a small woman like her to have.

After tossing your coat over your shoulders, your mother proceeded to wring the heavy mahogany door open and practically kick your ass out the door into the much too cruel world of morning.

“Now remember; have manners, be graceful—” she began to list,

“—no yawning, no sighing.” you completed, misery lengthening your face. “Got it.”

“My girl, you won’t become a man’s obsession with a face like that. F’god’s sake, smile.”

So you tried to smile; one twitch at a time, twisting and contorting your muscles until what appeared on your lips could hardly be classified as a smile, rather, something like a dog baring its teeth.

You did not humor her. She slammed the door shut in your face.

When you turned your head to the right, you saw a slither of lacey white as your neighbour shut the blinds—privvy eyes acting as if they went unnoticed.

But you noticed.

You always noticed people’s eyes.

And they could never escape the vortex of yours.

ㅤ⚜

The carriage ride to the palace was long and bumpy.

Your breasts tremored, body swayed, but one thing about you remained fixed; your hands. You hardly moved them at all, never restlessly fiddled or wrung your hands like many people did.

No, you remained still; very still. Almost like a painting.

And that quality is the reason why you appear in so many paintings across the country; because you were the muse of many artists throughout your youth. With an arresting beauty, and natural stillness, many talented hands requested to paint you in various costumes and poses. Your mother always pushed you to be compliant in this flurry of requests, because they paid her handsomely to draw the portrait of her little girl.

But enough was enough at some point; by the middle of your adolescence, you threw a tantrum and, after breaking all tools of the young artist who proclaimed love for you and destroying his every painting of yourself, you then refused to be anybody’s muse ever again.

Now, emerging into your twenties with a bold and firm foot in the world, you hoped to re-establish yourself as a writer.

So that you did; but claiming fame brought with public scrutiny.

Because your father, and his forefathers, were already well-established writers. That is, you were not respected in the eyes of ‘real’ writers and ‘honest’ critics, for you were born into a privileged lineage that pushed you up into ranks which others earned through hard work.

Was that true?

Well... shut up. Just shut up, you.

Anyways, regardless of what the envious writers and snobbish critics said about your ‘dry’ prose, the prince reached out to you—like a tendril of opportunity.

At first, your eyes went starry. On your first carriage ride to the palace you were conjuring up wonderful dreams of your future. Beautifully rich, beautifully talented, and beautifully unstressed by men and their evil phalluses.

This was to be your highest paying job yet, but it was not the money that tickled you; having on your record that you were a notable scribe of the prince would surely shut up the loudmouths that scrutinized your work.

Now it was a month since then, many visits later revealed that the prince was a hopeless romantic idiot and you... well, you were unfortunately... his greatest desire.

He didn’t hide it very well. Maybe in the beginning he did, but by now he had grown a little more... crazed. You were just glad that he kept his hands to himself. At the very least, he denied himself to act upon such animalistic impulses. The most he did was ghost around where you sat and wrote, peering down at you with unashamed curiosity.

He stared. He always stared.

And much like the effect you had on others, you could never escape the vortex of his eyes.

Wheel hit stone. You swayed hard in the carriage.

Woodlands turned to flat plains turned to rows of cypress trees, and eventually you met the iron-wrought gates bearing the Gojo crest, inscribed in pure gold.

Your chest rose and fell as you heaved out a prepatory sigh, before being escorted into the castle.

ㅤ⚜

“I am here.” you announced after bobbing a brisk curtsy.

“So you are.” he turned, flashing you a smirk.

That smirk is the same one he’s been wearing since he met you, and now you’re convinced that he has no other expression to clothe his face with.

After having been escorted through the grandiose palace to the east wing, you met the prince in the study, in which all writing sessions happened.

You took your seat by the window and soon began, but of course not without answering his first set of unnecessary questions;

“Are you well?”

“Quite.” you replied curtly.

“I’m well myself.” he answered as if you had asked.

“Excellent.”

“And your family?”

“Very well, thank you.” you gritted.

“Good, good... I’m glad.”

He stiffened, nervously smoothed out his black waistcoat, inspired a deep breath into his broad chest, blinked at you a few times, then tucked his hands behind his back and began to stare.

You noticed. You pretended not to, but you always noticed.

Blue eyes followed your every move as prince Satoru curiously watched you prepare yourself; unsleeving your hand of its white gloves, setting them aside, heaving your typewriter from its baggage—with great difficulty, too, because it was as very heavy and your arms were far from well-toned.

Satoru saw you struggle.

“Allow me to help,” he began, swiftly maneuvering over to you.

“No!” you rejected, rather loudly, causing him to cease abruptly and look at you in surprise. You then nervously fixed your tone, “No, prince Satoru, do not worry yourself; I can lift it.”

What you really meant to say was; this is my typewriter and only my grubby fingers are allowed to touch it.

He could sense your possessiveness over the object and chuckled a little to himself as you finished heaving—with a small grunt he found oddly cute—the typewriter onto the table by the window.

He’d designated that spot for you to write after noticing, within the first week of your employment in his study, that you had a habit of taking breaks from typing to gaze out the window in thought.

He noticed. He always noticed.

You wiped your hands down the pleats of your skirt, rather anxiously so, and then you waited.

Suddenly, his brow perked up, and his lip curled. “What are you waiting for?”

“You order for me to be seated, sire.” you drawled.

His lip curled further, face assuming something rather snarky, “Only dogs wait to be told to sit. Are you a dog?” he challenged.

“No, sire.” you replied firmly, sick of him testing you before the session has even begun.

Satoru narrowed his crystal eyes at you, almost pitifully.

You knew that he derived pleasure from mocking other’s obedience to authority, because he was a damned rebel himself—always ignoring the elder’s orders and doing as he wanted, even if it caused a ruckus.

But you were annoyed by his failure to understand that you had been raised to fear disobeying the crown, even if it was in the quietest of gestures, like sitting before being told to.

There was a long silence, one he began, one he continued, and one he ended.

“Sit down.” he commanded exasperatedly.

What a jerk, you thought.

But your response to him was just a humiliated smile.

You seated yourself into the ornate desk chair without a sigh and interlaced your shaky fingers, resting them before the typewriter’s edge.

When you took your seat upon the pillowy chair, he began again, after a moment of hesitation.

“Alright then.” he nearly whispered, penetrating gaze unwavering on you, “Let’s continue from where we left of last time.” he instructed.

He seated himself as well, but unlike you, he could afford to be flamboyantly lazy and ungraceful; he plopped upon the parcel-gilt recamier with all the elegance of a toad.

“—oof!” he exclaimed.

And then, the toad began to speak;

“... now, dear reader, our beloved and slightly mad character A began to fret, for he knew not what to make of his feelings—was it love swelling in the pits of his bosom?—er, make that ribcage, not bosom—or was it a cruel ghost puppetteering his body? Surely, surely, he who had not loved any other but that girl in the painting, was not in love!” he rambled poetically, acting out and straining his voice at points for emphasis.

Your fingers had began moving swiftly across the keys, hammering down on them to create what the prince felt was music to his ears—tiktiktik, taktaktak.

Satoru draped himself over the pin-striped recamier like a lazy child, arms dangling off the back and eyes fixed on his favorite artwork in the room; you.

Clacking away at keys, hyperfocused, with eyes like heaven narrowed at the typewriter.

When you finished transcribing that bulk, he waited a moment. Actually, he waited such a long moment that you thought he had spontaneously died, so you finally glanced over at where he sat.

Lo, behold; the toad had not died, but instead was staring at you intensely.

A shiver went down your back. Your thighs tensed together.

What was he doing? It seemed like he was trying to figure something out, but you didn’t know what.

Only after he’d lengthened the silence into an acute awkwardness, did he then continue speaking.

“It couldn’t be. Ah, so our beloved and slightly love-sick character A fretted severely now, his life of delectable licentiousness soon to be upturned, re-realizing his old dreams and desires. His madness ensued; self-destruction became imminent. And that, all at the soft hands of a woman.”

—tiktiktik, taktaktak.

Satoru watched your hands and fingers move as you typed. He watched them move, ponderingly.

The air in the study came to a still again. No noise roused except sweet birdsong from the gardens, and the ocassional rustle of the prince repositioning himself on the recamier.

He fiddled with the golden tassle end of a pillow, seemingly lost in thought.

“Sire?”

“Do you like it?” he asked randomly, “My story, I mean. Is it interesting to you?”

You blubbered at first, not ready for his question. “I—well, my prince,”

His heart leaped at your use of a possessive pronoun. What could it mean? Were you trying to be endearing? Perhaps, perhaps...

“Go on,” he purred, “Be my most brutal critic, Miss Darling.”

Oh, and there he went, calling you by that name again like he did last time. The tease. Had he no shame? Calling you by cute names like that, like he was your husband, was so uncouth.

Satoru rested his cheek on his forearm; one hand delicately poised on the gilded edge of the recamier.

So beautiful, messy yet tidy in the way he dressed; he fussed a lot with his puffy sleeves, had a habit of nibbling at them or playing with them—yes, this man was of age and still he held onto these childhood habits. Long legs clad deliciously in just a pinch-tight black trousers—it’s those long legs that many women swooned about, that intimidated men of regular stature. You? Well, you suppose his long legs were quite attractive, yes. But he was too cocky about his height, especially showing off around you by straightening to his full length—just in case you cared.

He looked at you like you were the painter, and he was the muse falling madly in love—instead of how it really was, which was absolutely the other way around.

“I’m waiting.” he encouraged, growing a little more impatient with each passing moment of your silence.

You swallowed unsurely before answering, “I think it will be popular.”

Then the boy let out a noise, a funny noise of displeasure—like a goose honking—which almost made you laugh, but you held back.

“That’s not what I wanted to hear...” he muttered, “Answer me again, but differently this time.”

“Um, alright.” you complied, completely confused, “Women will love it,”

He curled his lips at you, seemingly still dissatisfied so you hastily added, “I think the protagonist is very endearing.”

“A-ha!” he caught.

You started in your seat, brows raising high up your forehead and smile ripping across your face without warning, because the prince had abruptly jumped up on his two feet and stood—yes, with his shoes—on the recamier.

He was like an actor trying to portray a pirate who had just found treasure through his spyglass.

The prince stood like this, and said:

“So you do like it!” he smirked triumphantly, dimples sweet on his cheeks.

“Sire, are you really twenty-seven? Because right now, with you acting like this, I can hardly believe it.” you teased.

His smirk only grew, like he was enthralled that you were infected by his playful spirit.

In that moment, god knows how or why, you felt like two childhood best friends playing around.

You had resolved to never forgive his arrogance or shameless licentiousness, to punish him for flirting with you and eyeing you out since day one of your employment as his scribe; but right then, you just couldn’t.

He was too cute.

Rudely so.

He leaped off the recamier and landed on his two feet with a clak. Then, he made his way over to you, all hyper as a puppy.

The chair in front of you was torn outwards, and then he plopped onto it.

Pale fingers interlocked each other under the flushed tip of the handsome prince’s nose.

“Now, tell me what else do you like about it? Tell me, tell me.” he begged.

“I—um, I don’t know.” you stuttered, watching his movements. “I suppose it’s, quite... quite... uh.”

Schlunk. Schlunk. Schlunk—that was the sound of the feet of the chair scraping across wooden floors as he scooted the chair around the circumference of the window table closer to you.

“Yes? Go on.”

Blue eyes sparkled at you. Satoru hounded you until you said something—anything—about his story.

“I—I really think we ought to get back to writing, or you will never finish this book at all.” you suggested.

He glowed at you, cheeks a subtle pink.

“Right, right... you mean to say, rather, that you want to see the ending so badly that you can’t hardly contain yourself?—well then! If that’s the case... I’ll continue. If only for you.”

You sighed, heart beating abnormally fast, as you reposed your wrists and hands, reading your fingers atop the keys of the typewriter.

ㅤ⚜

The library was teeming with books, stacks piling up and some spread across the desk or coffee table or floor, proving how much time the prince had spent cooped up reading. Reams of typewritten pages also decorated the study, some crumbled and laying rejected while the others made it to the revered holy stack.

You massaged your wrists, then raised your eyes to where the prince stood.

Tall, lean; Prince Satoru lazed against the edge of the window, casting a thoughtful look outwards to the gardens—they were in full bloom, pink and red roses whisper conspiratorily to one another about the prince and the poet, making up stories about the two of you.

“I have decided,” began Satoru, voice sounding a little more tired than earlier when he was bursting with energy, “I will not name the characters until the story is completed. Partially, because I just have no idea what names suit them.” he explained, fiddling his fingers.

He always clenched his hand like that; like he was trying to knead something within his fist.

You listened to him continue, “... and partially, because I feel it would take from me the lazy pleasure that I feel from leaving things unfinished.” he completed, smirking smugly to himself, then finally drawing his gaze away from the rosebushes and to you.

But he quickly looked away again, stealing his pretty attention away from you.

You wrinkled at him, “I always name my characters. It’s the first thing I do. Otherwise, they feel empty and soulless.” you said. “The least you could do for character A is name him—he’s suffering terribly.”

He looked at you again, eyes finding you with ease—like he’d been planning to recapture you in his pupils from the moment he’d torn his eyes away.

“And character B?” he lowered his voice. Your stomach tensed. He sounded sultry... oh god, enticingly so.

He dared closer to you as he continued, “what do you think of character B? Is she not suffering, too?”

“Not to the same degree he is.” you argued, “Your Highness is really putting him through it.”

Satoru’s heart panged. His eyes glittered at you.

And then, he drew yet nearer.

And nearer, and nearer, he came to you slowly, one step at a time, long legs striding with grace—a stark contrast to the lazy clutz act he usually puts on. For he was in fact, not clumsy, but exactly precise and calculated in his movements; he only ever pretended to be clumsy.

The prince’s hand brushed sensually over the top of your typewriter. Your hands were laid lightly on the keys.

“Do you feel pity him?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Your entire body tremored—prince Satoru noted how you squirmed, how your breath became more uneven.

When he leaned down, your heartbeat quickened. “Do you feel pity for the torment he’s going through?”

You blubbered.

Oh god, he was so close. You could smell his sweet breath, his soft cotton, his hair.

Those lips, they looked rosier than usual—and he nearly smiled when he caught you looking at them.

Those eyes, they were like glistening chandeliers. He fluttered his lashes at you, and then suddenly the study room felt much more like a bedroom.

Your head spun; this eye contact and proximity was dizzying. His lips looked so kissable. Satoru continued to pierce you with his gaze, not letting you escape the vortex.

Then, a noise resounded and completely distracted the prince.

A great noise, like a whale or something—ah.

It was your stomach gurgling.

He smiled. Your face burned.

“Ah. Never mind.” Satoru dismissed. “Let’s take a tea break.”

He eased off, slowly increasing the distance between you and him which only now did you realize had nearly closed completely—just how close was he to stealing a kiss? To grazing his fingertips over your hand?

For a moment there, it felt like he was going to do something, but then he didn’t.

ㅤ⚜

The gardens were quaint; soft, green, a heaven of roses. In the distance, there was a statue fountain of a nymph preening her hair. Moss creeped up her feet, as if in worship.

You could easily laze around all day and stare out at this scenic view of the palace’s most cherished gardens; it was so refreshing.

A cool breeze swept across the prince’s skin, as he sat slouched, legs widening. Condensation drops rolled down the pitcher of cool lemonade.

He’d watched you, with a pleased smirk, as you cleared the topmost tier of a dessert tray.

“Someone was hungry.” he teased.

“Very.” you replied.

The pleasant sweetness of a macaron clung to the tip of your tongue. A breezy silence came over the garden. Everything was still, only the birds flirted quietly in the distance.

The two of you continued to bask in the quietness for a long while, before Satoru punctured the silence.

“So then, Werther’s suicide—we did not finish our discussion last time you were here.”

“Right. Yes. That.”

He shifted himself in his chair, assuming a very unconventional sitting position.

“Do you need more time to gather your thoughts on it?”

“No,” you lied, “I form my opinions quickly.”

“How un-deep... er, what word am I looking for?”

“Shallow.”

“That’s it.”

You glowered at him, so he sipped awkwardly at his lemonade and darted his eyes away.

Knowing he must have said something mean, he quickly attempted to fix it.

“See? Now this is why I hired you; such a smart girl.” he complimented.

You winked your shoulders at him, “I prefer lethally intelligent woman, but thank you, I suppose.” you sassed.

He grinned.

Cool lemonade kissed his lips. A macaron found yours.

Then the two of you teased each other once again.

“I swear if wit could kill, I’d be dead by now.”

“Oh, if only it could!”

He giggled.

The prince giggled—like a boy.

You had to remindd yourself that he was still annoying.

But your heart swelled without permission.

ㅤ⚜

Old, old trees made kaleidoscope shadows upon the grass with their leaves.

The birds continued to flirt in the distance. Two pigeons fluttered upon the fountain’s edge to sit—not to pay respect to the stone nymph’s beauty, but to flap their wings at each other.

You and the prince watched them from this distance; the one chased, the other ran.

At last, they flew away together.

Satoru bit his lip, chewed on it for a while, and did that thing with his hand again—kneading, nervously.

You sat there like you were posing for a painting, oblivious for once to his staring because you were trying to script out the rest of your own little stories—you’d been stashing ideas away all day, just waiting to get home and write them, even though you knew you would probably just fall asleep instead, leaving your brilliant visions to decay yet again.

The prince cleared his throat, more to remind you of his presence than anything.

He cast a glance at your fingers, poised upon the table one layered over the other.

Then he noticed, like he has many times before, how naked your fingers were.

“You’re not married.” he noted.

“I am not.” you confirmed.

He blinked at you, and shifted around, “Has anyone made an offer to you?”

“Not yet.”

The prince smirked.

“Yet...” He repeated, teasingly.

Leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes glimmering like aquamarines at you, the prince’s face grew curious.

“What?” you questioned innocently.

“You said ‘not yet’—that means you intend to marry.” he deciphered.

You shrugged, “Maybe.” you tried to throw him off. “It depends.”

You deepened his interest with this. He leaned in even closer, now reaching halfway across the table—not one for being subtle, is he?

“On what does it depend?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, I would only marry if I were really in love.” you explained.

“Ah. Then, what kind of lover do you want?” he attempted to dig deeper.

“I don’t know.” you blocked him again.

A bout of silence passed, the lingering of conversation suspended in it.

The tiered silver platter sat short and sweet at the center of the white iron table, brimming with danishes, scones, macarons...

Satoru took one of them and began to nibble at it.

“A gentleman.” you finally answered.

He stopped nibbling at the edge of the macaron, “I see. And, ahem, how do you feel about poets?”

You pushed air through your nose, damned to smile.

“They’re the worst.”

His lips pulled into a smile, too, heart racing a little.

“And why’s that?” he explored, lowering the macaron.

Blue eyes marvelled at you, as he sat there awaiting your reply.

You’d begun fiddling with the pleats of your skirt. He seemed completely calm.

“Because all they do is dream.”

“What’s so wrong about that!”

“They spread a disease across the hearts of young women. You might know it; it’s called disillusionment.”

Satoru grumbled, falling back into his chair and falling apart, like your words had just completely dismantled him.

“I disagree. The best lovers are poets.” he argued.

“Ha-ha, no! When a man is a poet, he’s just a—” you bit your tongue.

The prince cocked his head, attention snapped by your near slip-up.

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. We’ve gone off-topic. About Werther...” you detracted.

“Werther can wait.” interrupted the prince. He abandoned the macaron he had nibbled at and began to rise from his seat. Your eyes followed him. “Let’s get back to writing. I have a new idea of how to further torment character A.”

“You’re cruel!” you scolded.

He smiled down at you, white hair caught perfectly in the light, rustled by the breeze.

“So are you.”

ㅤ⚜

Night-time neared. The breath of the golden hour had nearly vanished.

In the study, reams of paper had piled up even more as Satoru tormented character A for many pages more. And what else?—he laughed and smiled while he did so, as if deriving pleasure from being cruel to this poor, innocent fictional man.

But eventually, the prince became distracted, like he always did at the end of the day.

Because of you.

Because everything that had transpired throughout the day between you and him, was now whispering up his spine.

He sighed into the recamier, sinking so low into it that he disappeared from view of the window where you sat with your typewriter.

You yawned, you sighed, and you waited like a dog to go home, but alas; the prince kept you longer and longer, like a captive in his castle. Mind addled with his poetry and ever-changing prose, you just wanted your home and your bed.

You propped your face upon one palm and listened to prince Satoru ramble on about... well, anything and everything.

He sporadically shifted between topics, desperately trying to capture your interest and failing each time, because you were simply too tired to follow his train of thought anymore.

He swung his legs off the edge of the seat, kicking them back and forth.

“He said, ‘she has taken possession of my whole being’—isn’t that just so beautiful? I love how dearly he regards his Lotte. Never have I felt so akin to a fictional man...”

He nearly whispered the last part to himself.

You yawned bigger, you sighed louder, eyelids growing heavier. With the prince’s murmuring voice, and the serene stillness of the palace at golden hour, you nearly fell asleep.

“And the symbolism of the ribbon—”

“Fair prince,” you interrupted him mid-sentence.

“Yes?” he arrested immediately at your voice, legs stilling.

The prince bit his lip, waiting idly for you to speak. You couldn’t see him, he was concealed behind the recamier’s edge, nor could you see his honestly cute expression.

“If I don’t leave soon, I won’t make it home before dark.” you reasoned.

He wilted, “Oh...” he cast a sad look to one of the windows, noting the shifting sun, “it’s that time again already?” he mumbled glumly, propping himself on his elbows.

You saw a head of messy white hair and a pair of sleepy blue eyes pop up from behind the recamier. He rubbed at his eye, then sniffled. It seemed like something was on his mind.

“Right. I’ll have the carriage readied for you.”

ㅤ⚜

You walked in stride together out of the castle.

“You worked really hard today—sorry for wasting so much of your time with my ramblings... I, er, got carried away.”

“Not at all, prince Satoru, I like it when you ramble.” you huffed.

“You like it...?” he muttered inaudibly to himself with a smile.

Now you walked ahead of him, heels of your boot crunching gravel, leaving him to stare open-mouthed after you. He ruffled his hair, smiled a little to himself, then hurried after your shadow.

Oh, it was no use. He couldn’t hide that he yearned for closeness.

And he made it very obvious when he helped you into the carriage, leading you up the footstep by the hand.

He was gentle, sensitive; holding your hand lightly even though he wanted to squeeze it.

You could brush it off as polite chivalry, yes. Many men have kindly lead you by the hand into carriages. So you were prepared to think nothing of it... until...

“Thank you for—” you cut off at feeling a sudden softness at your hand.

Something warm and plush met your skin—the prince’s lips.

Blue eyes bore up at you. His back bent low. Breath on skin. He kissed your hand, slowly, while staring right up into your eyes.

“—see you tomorrow.” he whispered, lips grazing the back of your palm.

“Right.” you breathed, eyes blown open wide.

The sunlight was a brilliant gold, brightening his face and making him appear so especially handsome right then. His young face, rouge cheeks, heavenly eyes and snowy hair were like something of legend. To behold this kind of man was a rarity—a rarity that was all yours. And he let it be only yours in that moment.

His hand left yours too soon. Skin missing warmth, soul missing soul.

And then the prince stood there and watched as the carriage took you away, missing you immediately.

ㅤ⚜

You caressed your fingertips over the back of your palm as you contemplated for the entire carriage ride home.

Swaying softly with the carriage’s rickety movements, you felt utterly confused by your own emotions.

No, you could not make sense of what just happened, nor how it made you feel. You were trying to solve the entire day’s experiences like a riddle in your mind, piecing together his actions and linking them to presumed intentions.

Was he just a flirt? Was he just being playful? Surely, surely.

You felt the print of his lips on the back of your palm, fresh and alive, and smiled a little to yourself.

ㅤ⚜

“Mom! Dad!” you called from the entryway, stomping down your boots and unlacing them.

“Daughter!” your mother called in a cheery tone, “Come into the kitchen, I have news! I have news!”

Dinner was cooking, home smelled especially homely, for some reason. It was warm, soft, honeyish. The foyer chandelier sat crooked as it’s always been for nearly a decade, since you knocked it with a broomstick as a child in an attempt to shake a ragdoll out of it (you’d been playing Fairy Flight School a little too hardcore).

Upon the coat rack you hung your coat, then two white gloves found themselves forgotten elsewhere in the foyer.

You sighed tiredly but still felt invigorated. Was it the prince’s kiss making you feel this way?

Maybe you were wrong about him. Maybe he wasn’t all that bad—perhaps your pride and prejudice had gotten the better of you.

He made you laugh, after all. Insults aside, you suppose. That’s more than a great deal of men have been able to do for you.

Scurrying into the kitchen, you found your mother bustling about, fussing over pots and pans simmering with—mm, hearty stew.

She welcomed you home with all her heart, pulling you into an aggressively affectionate hug as she always did that ended with you having pinched-raw cheeks.

You seated yourself lazily at the table, hard dining chairs not nearly as comfortable as the pillowy one you had spent the day writing in for him.

“How was today?”

“It was... good.” you blushed.

“Daresay you almost miss him?—oh, I’m just teasing!” she laughed.

You groaned, “Mooom! Give me the news already.”

“Alright, I’ll begin with the bad news,” she sighed, bringing her hands to her plump hips where the apron sat upon, “Father is working late tonight, so he won’t be joining us for dinner.”

You frowned. “Well, that’s not news at all.”

“He’s a wanted man.” she sighed yet heavier.

“In more places than one...” you muttered, recalling unpleasant childhood memories. It was always like this. You were always left waiting for him to come home. And when he did, he’d walk past you. In time, you learned to forgive him on the idea that maybe he was just too tired to greet his little girl with enthusiasm. But it still nagged you.

“NOW FOR THE GOOD NEWS!” your mother barely contained herself, and you jumped in your seat at how her voice swelled to an operatic pitch now. “Your dear sister is coming to town—she’ll be staying for Christmas.”

“What!” you stood up again, face glowing with a bright smile. “Oh! When is she arriving!?”

“Tomorrow, two o’clock. I’ll be picking her up at the train station while you are at the palace.” she explained, beaming very smugly.

You expressed, exchanging happiness with your mother who seemed quite pleased.

Finally, you’d have someone to bitch about the prince to.

ㅤ⚜

The table was set. The blessing of a mother’s home-cooked meal made up for the plain cutlery and plates and the hard chairs.

You wondered briefly how the prince ate. His plates must have been lined with gold. The food must have been exotic. He was probably dining with a wealth of stimulating company, laughing and joking—a jester in his own court. Gleaming chandeliers and fairy princesses and noble women clinging at his side.

But the picture you had painted in your head was very, very different to his reality.

ㅤ⚜

Far away, in that palace you had left just a short two hours ago, sat the prince in his grand and lonely dining hall.

Gilded silverware and gloomy chandeliers, a picturesque view of the garden framed by the tall top-rounded windows.

He pecked sparcely at his food, like a bird.

Not a living sound met his ears. In fact, the silence was so strong, that he could only hear the gentle flickering of a candle flame.

And he sat alone, pale face illuminated by this warm light revealing a look of glumness.

Prince Satoru leaned his cheek on one palm, played with his food for a little while longer, before giving up entirely on the meal and deciding to instead roam the palace to try and find peace with his other hunger.

Blue eyes like brilliant saphires blinked about the halls. They were cold. White lashes shivered. The puff of his eyelids thickened with sleepiness.

Two feet dragged slowly down corridors, until he stopped at last.

And he stared.

There, hung on the wall in a golden gilded frame, was a portrait of a young girl.

He blinked slowly at the painting that he had seen many times throughout his childhood, when he would loudly bound down the empty halls.

Satoru continued blinking at the painting, an uncomfortable feeling swarming his chest. He felt frantic. Like he was about to go crazy. Because god, he kept remembering your laugh, your eyes, your smile—and he tried and tried to deny the evidence nagging in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t.

Now, dear reader, our beloved and slightly mad Prince Satoru began to fret, for he knew not what to make of his feelings—was it love swelling in the pits of his ribcage? Or was it a cruel ghost puppetteering his body? Surely, surely, he who had not loved any other but that girl in the painting, was not in love.

“Not like in the books, at least.” he muttered, quietly talking to himself. “Ohhh, how should I punish myself for feeling this way for you?” he sang low, heart throbbing full of visions of you.

You’re a mess Prince Satoru. You’re a royal mess.