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It was the beginning of the year 1664, one night in the middle of february, in the castle of Villers-Cotterêts, court of Orléans. Young men and women were ignoring the outside cold to feast; on food, on games, on each others' bodies.
Like many, Philippe de Lorraine, twenty years old, was one of those enjoying the delights of court's idleness. However, unlike most, the young man was impatiently waiting for a new conflict to erupt.
Inbetween games and seductive gazes, carresses and hands sliding up skirts, he was wondering when he would get back to war.
He was being fed grapes by this lovely, plump young lady after he'd let her beat him at a game of brelan, when he reminisced the exhilaration felt on the battlefield, thinking of a particularly satisfying blow delivered just a few months prior.
Earlier that day, as the sun was setting, he'd joined Mademoiselle de Monaco to kiss her passionately, under the envious gazes of ladies and lads alike, not shy of letting his hands wander in scandalous places, that in this court, nobody really found scandalous at all, rather eager to see where that would go instead, relishing the way this feeling was the closest he could get to the satisfaction of a successful hunt. Oggled from left and right, wanted like he never had been before, he may have seemed more like a prey than a predator, and yet.
He liked this court, undeniably so. When finally had come the time to settle for a bit, just a few months ago, he had been excited to properly integrate that fastuous life he had caught so many glimpses of and heard so much about from Louis, his older brother.
Unlike the latter, though, it was harder for Philippe to forget that his position as a courtier was far more precarious than his military one—Philippe may have been a foreign prince, a mark of prestige for the ministers he was accompanying, may have been granted preseance over dukes and peers, but unlike his older brother, unlike his younger brothers even, Philippe de Lorraine was nothing. He owned nothing. He belonged nowhere. War and court were both distractions from that reality, from the fight between his parents, from the fact that all his father could offer to him as inheritance was debt— his position in the family being that of a replacement for Louis, in case the eldest son passed away, while the younger ones whose potential wasn't so bright had been granted more security.
In court, in family, in war, he was nothing but potential. Of the three, though, only in war did it seem like that potential could go anywhere.
He had just pulled out to spill his semen on a young woman's thigh, in the middle of the salon, in the middle of others busy doing the same, or just playing and laughing and drinking, as he reflected on that. A sign that he should definitely have another drink.
"You're not staying, your Highness?" the young woman—probably a marquise, but he'd forgotten of where—asked as he quickly wiped himself. She was biting her lip, still a bit short of breath, reajusting her skirts.
"I'll be back," he replied with his most charming smile and most suave voice, tucking himself in then getting up from the couch. He didn't really plan to abide by his words, but chances are she was barely listening anyway.
The salon was loud, between the laughter, the endless chatter, the clinking of glass and cuttelry and the rolling of dices against wood. The visual was just as crowded, between faces, fabric, jewelry, paintings and ornaments, melting into each other as Philippe was making his way to the large decorated table, now remarkably messy, that he knew he could easily grab a wine bottle from.
He bumped into a man busy sucking on another man's neck, then into a young woman who reacted like she'd been touched by an angel. By the time he made it to the table, he'd seen several naked chests and caught glimpses of at least a few pricks.
He loved this, even more than he'd expected to, but at least as much as he'd hoped, when he had chosen to join the court of Orléans, rather than follow his brother at the king's. Not that it was that proper compared to this one, from what he'd heard. However, by definition, one man there in particular was at the center of everyone's interest, and no matter how seductive and charming Philippe could be, he would never be a match for the Sun made man.
Once by the table, Philippe spotted the skinny duchess of Orléans sitting in front of a big plate that she had, unsurprisingly, not touched, sulking uncharacteristically.
After an inelegant (but oh so wild and seductive!) gulp of wine from the bottle, Philippe snickered at her.
"Not enjoying your night, your Highness? Missing your comte de Guiche, perhaps?"
Henriette-Anne glared at him. "I don't recall addressing you, Lorraine."
"Aw, the princess is in a pretty bad mood," he grinned. It was a bit of a deplorable sight, when she was usually the beating heart of the party. "In need of a listening ear, perhaps?"
The duchess had been getting on his nerves, lately, a bit too entitled to his own liking.
Her glare intensified. "You only care for gossip. Go away," she waved off.
Philippe sighed. Oh, well, he'd likely learn from somebody else anyway. Blowing her a spiteful kiss, which she seemed to hate, he swayed away, scanning the room for his next adventure.
A while later, after fondling a couple more thighs and receiving a few more hickeys, the longing for war and the dread of nothingness started creeping back up his mind, and Philippe figured he might be in need of something else—at least someone to fill him in on whatever was going on with the duchess. After all, gossip and rumors were the court's most powerful guns.
He navigated the salon like it was a swamp, held back by demanding hands like they were creepy vines, occasionally exchanging a few words with friends drowning in the murky waters of lavish pleasure. When it became too suffocating, Philippe ended up stepping outside, on the balcony, craving fresh air.
He was rewarded with the deep chill of a late winter night, rather welcome for his overheating body, and the potential to get answers to all of his questions.
Leaning against the thick railing of the balcony, curled upon himself to fight the cold, stood the master of the house, the duke of Orléans, the very Monsieur, brother of the king, in all the frilliness of his night gown.
Philippe grinned wide.
"Your Highness, my dear cousin!" he exclaimed, walking up to the duke's slightly shivering form.
The latter turned his head, giving Philippe his most exasperated stare and most flushed cheeks. "Drop this crap, Lorraine."
And yet, Philippe was not nearly ready to stop this charade.
Ever since that—ultimately aborted—treaty that almost made Philippe a prince of France, he never backed from an opportunity to gloat and playfully call Monsieur his cousin. At the time, they were already friends, but that hadn't stopped Monsieur from openly ranting against the idea of their family extending so far as to include the entire Lorraine clan.
Although the house of Orleans' infamy had been one major factor in leading Philippe to join it instead of the king's (though ultimately they were only one court), Monsieur himself had been a non-negligible factor.
Up until rather recently, he was, to Philippe, little more than the king's strange little brother, who spent more time hopping around in frilly dresses while cracking silly jokes, or following men around with a blush on his face, than doing whatever a royal prince was expected to do. However careless and funny Monsieur could be, Philippe mostly saw the prince as someone thoroughly uninterested in anything that was on his own mind: war, books, and girls.
What had slowly constructed the legend that Philippe had grown interested in was, of course, first the endless gossip about the utterly debauched sodomite of a prince that Monsieur had become, and a bit more recently, the portrait made of him by one of Philippe's distant cousins, Armand de Gramont.
Armand, comte de Guiche, was an infuriating fellow, and Philippe kept going back and forth between liking him and despising him to no end. He was dashing and fearless, he was tall and virile, things that Philippe admired and aspired to. He was fun to talk to as well, witty, impudent, at times vulgar in delightful ways. He was also absurdly handsome and loved for it, always getting all the attention, and he was remarkably heinous and impolite, all things that Philippe could hardly stand.
This handsome cousin had also been, for a long time, Monsieur's lover—and a famous one at that.
It was a brief time they all shared a battlefield—one Philippe was getting noticed at, but not yet allowed to fully shine in. He'd known Armand to be around as well, was hearing all about his exploits, and of course, the king and his brother were there, too, the latter just visiting.
He was walking by the camp, and Armand was walking behind him, calling for him. Monsieur, perhaps sulking, wasn't reacting to his calls, until Armand reached out, grabbing a handful of Monsieur's mane of black curls, pulling him towards him while saying something along the lines of, "Now you're going to listen to me."
Monsieur, red in the face, complied. Armand dragged him back to his tent.
Philippe, ever the unimpressed one, gaped for a few seconds, barely registering what had happened. Around him, discomfort, disgust, contempt was painted on almost all faces, but barely anyone seemed surprised.
"Eh, that's hardly uncommon with the king's brother. He's, you know…"
Philippe remained wordless, struggling to identify what he was feeling.
"Oh, toying with him is hilarious," had later said Armand directly to Philippe's face, during calmer times in Paris, grinning in satisfaction. "I like a shy maiden as much as the next man, but there's something really… exhilarating, about being able to just push him around and mess with him, even in public, and watch how much he loves it, you know? There's nothing like doing whatever you want to one of the most powerful men of France."
Armand's smile was wicked when he talked about Monsieur. His demeanor reeked confidence, as he was lounging back on his chair, legs spread, one extended on the foot rest, as if the topic was draining any class and poise from him, instead bringing out debasement and vulgarity.
Philippe found that thrilling to watch.
"And if only you saw how eager he gets to suck me off," Armand had then continued.
He hadn't been shy in details, telling him about how Monsieur liked being treated. While not necessarily picturing himself doing the same, Philippe had still felt this odd feeling pooling deep in his gut and chest while listening to him, entranced by Armand's shameless displays of dominance.
Philippe expected—hoped to see more of that when he joined the house of Orléans—to be granted the apparently common privilege of seeing Armand dragging the prince of France around, mistreating him, mocking him, demeaning him in ways that the latter seemed to enjoy so thoroughly.
Well, instead, he was granted the spectacle of an absolute circus of a disastrous love life, Armand having grown tired of him in the meantime and now chasing the duchess, Monsieur's very own wife. Parties and debauchery intertwined with scenes worthy of a theatre play, Monsieur chasing Armand around with a broom while the latter escaped from a window, the duchess trying everything in her power to piss her husband off to no end, including games of seduction with the king, while Monsieur surrounded himself with an increasingly large menagerie of minions, not any less willing to make his wife's life a living nightmare.
They still seemed to enjoy the same parties, however. They just did so while hating each other.
It wasn't too bad, Philippe often mused. He sure delighted in the endless gossip that followed. He wasn't a part of Monsieur's ample circles of lovers, more like a satellite, a friend, a happy spectator to the whole mess, so far more than satisfied that he was able to study such an odd character up close. It titillated Philippe's attraction for disorder.
Something else that profoundly titillated him was that Monsieur had, so far, never asked him to join his bed—the man was famous for being quite shameless about it, having no qualms about inviting men to his chambers. Maybe it was for the best—Philippe wasn't sure he wanted to.
And yet. He had never seen someone looking at him like Monsieur did.
He never missed an occasion to size him up, the flame in his dark irises unfaltering. Whenever they talked or interacted, Monsieur's cheeks turned a deep shade of red, matching his lips, which were tried by the nervous worry of his teeth.
Monsieur wanted him badly, Philippe was sure of that, and yet he never did anything about it. Philippe was more than eager to see how long that would last.
"Come on," he grinned, joining Monsieur against the railing, escaping his own musings. "I'm just jestering. What are you doing outside?"
"Cooling off," Monsieur replied, turning his flustered face away from Philippe, gazing into the night.
"Had a fight with her Highness, your wife, perhaps?"
Monsieur quirked an eyebrow at him. "Why don't you ask her, since you two are such good friends," he sneered.
"She told me off," Philippe shrugged, slightly nudging the prince as he did. He didn't miss the way Monsieur flinched.
After a beat, he replied, "She caught me fucking one of her latest conquests." He was smiling cruelly as he said that. Philippe chuckled.
"That sounds like a win to me, what is there to cool off from?"
"I thought she'd spent the day with Armand in secret. Turns out, I just learned she spent it with the king, in public," Monsieur spat.
"Ah. More of that again, huh?"
Monsieur turned slightly towards Philippe.
"More of that, yes."
Philippe observed Monsieur's bitter expression, his traits softened by the shade of the night. They were a bit too far away from the windows for the light to fully reach them, only gently grazing the prince's jaw.
Neither married, nor as much in the public scrutiny, and much less brother of the king, Philippe didn't fully get all the intricacies of Monsieur's struggles with the current situation. From his understanding, Monsieur didn't like his wife anyway, so was it really that terrible that she was fucking his brother instead? Along with many other men, and women? Sure, rumors were the court's sharpest weapons, and Philippe was more familiar with the battlefield than with the inner-workings of the life in Paris, but wasn't Monsieur pretty much untouchable?
—Or rather, could his reputation really get any worse, at this point?
"Is it still worth your ire, your Highness? This little war has been going on for a while, now."
Philippe caved in to an impulse that wasn't new, but that he'd never acted upon before: raising a hand, he ruffled Monsieur's hair.
The latter jumped at the touch, batting Philippe's hand away as he backed off. When their gaze met, Monsieur's face was completely red.
"Wh—what? Why did you do that?!" he squeaked.
Philippe felt emboldened; "Brotherly rivalry isn't good, my little prince, I was just advising against—"
In no time, Monsieur's fist had tightened around the collar of Philippe's shirt. His body language was that of an angered prince who had all the power to rightfully punish Philippe for his impertinence. His face betrayed another feeling entirely.
"Watch what you're joking about, Lorraine" he groaned ferociously.
Philippe had both hands raised in a peace-offering, but mourned the threat of a fight when Monsieur let go of him. He was awfully tempted to tease him further.
By the time he'd make up his mind, Monsieur had turned away, back to leaning against the banister.
"I just wish I could get out of this whole thing for a while," he muttered. "Maybe it is pointless to get so angry, and I'm probably a big fool to still fall for it."
"Isn't there a new war on the horizon? I heard about the Ottoman troops getting closer…" Philippe mused, desperate for his words to be true.
"Eh, it's not like I would get to go anyway," Monsieur shrugged.
Philippe came back closer. He had heard about Monsieur being promising on the battlefield. He'd also heard about the king not being too keen on letting him hone his skills.
"Bummer," he said. "I dream of facing them. I've heard a lot about their techniques, and I want to see them for myself," he continued, smiling, longing.
"Yeah. I'd like it too," Monsieur replied, somewhat absent-mindedly. "I've heard their tactics are far different from ours. Some of our marshals have a penchant for over-confidence, believing in our tactical superiority. I can't help but think that facing such a vastly different approach can be stimulating. Force us to adapt, overcome," he said, and Philippe didn't miss the smile in his voice.
"So you're more of a tactician than a head-on soldier," Philippe noted.
Monsieur grinned. "I'm multi-talented. I'd happily use my own sword as well."
"Ah, what a shame you don't get to go, then," Philippe said, intrigued, hoping to one day see for himself what the prince was like on the battlefield. "These men—I want to see what their skills are made of, meet these famed sabers of theirs. I know that isn't part of warfare exactly, but I've heard so much about their close combat abilities, I'd almost be tempted to jump to my feet so I can face these soldiers one to one," he added.
"Hmm, I've heard of some of your prowesses. I'd love to see that," Monsieur said. Their gaze met, and he seemed entertained.
"Oh, I'm sure you would," Philippe smirked, "—want to see me wielding my sword, drawing my gun, your Highness?"
Monsieur raised one eyebrow, his smile mirorring Philippe's. "That, I think I have seen already."
He'd rested his cheek on his hand, his gaze reflecting the sparks of the stars, mischievous. Philippe could see hunger in the depths of his dark irises. Still no open invitation, though.
"Did you like it?" he tried.
He didn't know what he'd do, if Monsieur did ask for it. He felt undeniable thrill at the idea of turning him down, the same way Armand had brashly ended their relationship.
That being said, in the eventuality that he did agree to it…
He moved from staring into the prince's eyes down to his narrow, plush lips.
"And if only you saw how eager he gets to suck me off," Armand's words echoed in his mind. He pictured it; the prince on his knees, wrapping those very lips around him, the way they would stretch.
Swallowing, Philippe let his eyes wander lower, taking in the bit of skin he saw beneath the open collar of the prince's night gown, the curve of his hips, of his ass, slightly arched from the way he was leaning forward. He wondered how his thighs would feel to the touch.
Maybe he wouldn't mind.
"You seemed skilled enough," Monsieur simply replied, interrupting Philippe's train of thought, his eyes darting back up. He was being stared at, the prince likely not having missed the blatant oggling. His face was flushed and gaze heavy lidded, thick, black eyelashes obscuring most of his eyes.
Unlike Armand, unlike himself, or many other handsome young men Monsieur kept around, Philippe rarely heard anyone marvel at the prince's charms, typically dismissed implicitly through the criticism of his effeminacy. As if that was contradictory to him being any sort of attractive. Philippe had never given that much thought, until now. To him, too, it made sense that the prince's appeal was his wealth and status, and that whatever he looked like, or behaved like, mattered very little.
He wondered what the others liked—whether what they enjoyed messing with, humiliating, fucking, pleasuring, was this very wealth and status, or this little man in front of him, barely able to conceal his awe and desire, with his soft gaze and pretty lips, looking so small amidst his huge mass of curls that Philippe felt once again compelled to touch.
"…All the ladies sure rave a lot about it," he added when Philippe still wasn't saying anything.
"They talk about me, huh?"
"You know they do," Monsieur snickered.
"What do they say?"
Philippe leaned on the banister as well, now at proper eye level with the prince.
"…That you're gorgeous, for starters. That they can't get enough of seeing you. That you're dangerously charming. I think they're a bit scared of you."
"Are they, now," Philippe tried to contain his swelling pride and satisfaction.
"They say you're very… talented. That you know how to use your assets." The prince's throat sounded a bit dry.
Wouldn't you wish to experience that, Philippe thought, and was so tempted to ask. At the same time, he now wanted nothing more than for Monsieur to make the first move—still unsure what he'd say, but craving it nonetheless.
"I've heard you were quite talented yourself," he said instead.
"Probably as part of a joke, I assume," Monsieur immediately replied, though seeming rather unphazed.
Philippe found that kind of sad He was also just a bit moved by how the prince seemed barely affected by that.
"No, not quite. Many of these gentlemen fondly recall how… enthusiastic and dedicated you can get. Quite unmatched, from what they say."
Monsieur smirked. He still didn't offer, though.
"That's nice to hear."
There was a silence after that. Philippe was fairly sure that the prince wanted nothing more than for him to say that he'd like to experience it. Likewise, Philippe was feeling almost jittery, waiting for Monsieur to beg him for sex.
"It's pretty rare that people say nice things behind one's back, around here," Monsieur added with a bit of melancholy in his voice.
"From what little I've seen so far, it does seem to be. Luckily I'm not around very often," Philippe replied, somewhat aware that the distance between him and the prince had narrowed.
"I think that's a bummer," Monsieur said quietly.
"Hm?"
"I think I agree with most of what the ladies are saying," Monsieur continued, his voice even quieter.
Philippe's face was a mere inch away from Monsieur's. Still no invitation.
That didn't stop their lips from meeting.
It was very gentle, barely any movement to it, only the comforting warmth of Monsieur's breath, of his body, against Philippe's, the softness of his lips. Philippe was certain he could hear his heart pounding, too.
It felt nice; great, even. It felt exactly how it should, like things fell into place.
It lasted for a while, both imperceptibly chasing it whenever the other moved, until finally Philippe pulled away.
When the prince opened his eyes, he was looking at Philippe like he was seeing God. Philippe smirked, pride overflowing from his swollen heart.
"I'm gonna get a drink, I think I need to cool my head some more," he stated, grinning, when Monsieur was still wordless.
"You're a bastard, Lorraine," he replied, a smirk edging between pained and playful on his face, watching as Philippe casually walked back, nearing the door.
"Nope, an actual prince of blue blood!" he replied, grinning. Monsieur rolled his eyes. "You should come too, we're having a lot of fun in here." If the prince wanted an invitation, that was as much as what Philippe was willing to give that night.
The prince's gaze lingered on Philippe, then on the windows, the dim, warm light coming from them just reaching his face. Philippe thought he really wouldn't mind seeing it again up close, brighter. Nor would he mind feeling those lips and that body against his again.
"Sure, whatever. I'll come in a second," Monsieur said, waving him off before turning back to the night.
Philippe smiled.
Whether for the fortune and status, or for the man himself, he figured that maybe, if offered to enjoy Monsieur's close company, he could actually be tempted to say yes.