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It most likely went back to that one specific night. One that would appear like most others, if not slightly more agitated than usual.
It certainly met all the criteria to be exactly what anyone would expect from a perfect party in Saint-Cloud: indeed, there was a bit of a tacit checklist. Some would encompass all the following points as "debauchery", but true connoisseurs, and many there were, would probably list them as such:
Good food, good wine, indecent quantities of it. Great music, great flow, an almost endless continuity in the dances, people coming and going to make sure the dance floor was never empty. Laughter, lots of it, jokes, stories, gossip, of course. Games—so, so many games, and money, even more of that, filling one pocket then the next, overflowing from the tables in obnoxious amounts, and not just gold; riches in general, jewels, prized possessions, whatever could heighten the thrill of gambling. Professional entertainers to make sure everything kept running, kept being fun. Promiscuity, that goes without saying, with anyone, everywhere, all strings loosened, with only one goal in mind for everyone: pleasure.
And then, the extra spice: screaming matches.
That one was more recent, but most would be lying if they said they didn't enjoy it.
That's why most would also be lying if they said they didn't find a single redeeming quality to the Chevalier de Lorraine's punctual appearance in these parties. He was rarely the one screaming, but oh, was he good at making others.
It is the late summer in 1663, he had been there for only a couple of months so far, and the marquis de Carnot had already neared a fatal apoplexia at least four times. The party had been going on for hours, was pretty much at its climax, but Carnot couldn't enjoy it, half naked outside trying to catch up with the Chevalier, who barely knew him yet has publicly humiliated him yet again. Bishop Daniel de Cosnac was there, howling like a madman, along with other of Madame's precious followers, because of course, that's what it's about. Most have not seen nor heard, they just knew that Cosnac's cries were a signal to gather and charge the enemy. Where did the orgy end and where did the battle begin, hard to say—much harder to tell the war cries from the onlookers' hysterical laughters apart.
Some estimated it was part of the show. Some came for that explicitly, for how refreshing it was to go from the court's typical underhanded warfare to such open display of adversity. From de Guiche's charades just a few years ago to the now theatrical chases of entire crowds through the hallways of the palace (much to the personel's horror each time, running to protect all the vases from potential falls), the escalation kept delivering, and boredom was nowhere to be found.
"Lorraine!!" Carnot bellowed behind him, pathetically holding his unfastened breeches up as he was abruptly stopped by the railing of the front porch that the Chevalier had just jumped deftly to land in the grass of the gardens, snickering.
"Careful about your pants, Carnot, the strings seem a bit loose," he snarked, barely out of breath.
"You think you’re so funny, you little shit!"
"What the fuck is going on this time?!"
Cue to Philippe, duke of Orleans, bursting out the front doors, voice more thunderous than ever. Even the Chevalier flinched a little, though his grin didn't falter.
Philippe d'Orléans was one to loathe, if not hate the aforementioned, and currently ongoing screaming matches. He was more often than not a participant, no thanks to his raging feud with his own wife, Madame, Henriette d'Angleterre. He, however, didn't do it for the sports, didn't do it for the fun, and sure despised that it had become nothing short of an attraction for the party-goers. Now, sure, it was hard to resist fighting his infuriating enemies, and he could never stay mad very long at his childhood friend and unexpected ally, Lorraine. There was definitely a part of him, one prone to anger and just as lively and energetic as his carefree, fun-loving side, who relished these conflicts. Ultimately, though, he knew that this constant state of antagonism around his house was only the reflection of how little respect and credit he was afforded, and that was nothing to decently enjoy or rejoice.
"Monsieur!" Cosnac shrilled, the little rat swivelling his way to his master. "You cannot decently let this scoundrel back in, not after the affront he posed to Carnot! The impudence!"
The duke's furious stare landed on the Chevalier.
"What did you say, this time?!"
"Eh, I don't really remember," the Chevalier shrugged, "you know Carnot is very susceptible, anything could set him off—"
He was trailing off when Cosnac and Carnot howled in unison, prompting Philippe d'Orléans to scream "Stop yelling!" and for Madame herself to make her entrance. Soon enough, the entire house of Orleans would be gathered on the small porch. The Chevalier's grin stretched further when the duchess' eyes met his. She was fuming.
"Madame!" Cosnac vibrated, "the Chevalier really stepped out of line!"
"When does he not?" She gritted through her teeth. Monsieur was awfully tempted to tell her off, appalled by the irony of her remark.
"You need to take this issue in your own hands I'm afraid," Cosnac groaned by her ear, "Monsieur is totally useless in the matter, as always."
"I'm right here, almoner," Monsieur grunted, "now everyone go back inside and stop this circus immediately!"
"Not when this vile individual is still allowed to run free! Were it not prohibited, I'd have your head, you filthy bastard!" Carnot roared, de Varde not too far behind smiling like a devil, enthralled by the scene.
"Not with that limp little sword of yours, you won't," the Chevalier chortled. His poorly contained laughter was echoed by Antoine d'Effiat, then dozens of other guests all tightly gathered by the doors and watching the scene like it was a play.
Even Monsieur struggled to keep a straight face, helplessly delighted at Carnot being ridiculed, so he masked it by ordering: "Enough! Everyone back inside!"
"Not him!" Madame yelled back, pointing a trembling, vindictive finger at the Chevalier. "You know it’s about far more than petty insults, my dear husband," she scowled.
"Oh yes?" Monsieur asked her, contempt oozing out of him. "What is it about, then?"
Well, it was most certainly about a mountain of mutual resentment, of accumulated frustration, Madame constantly humiliating Monsieur with her superior reputation, her spirit, with her liasion with the King, with de Guiche, certainly plenty of other people too, and Monsieur cordially handing it back to her by openly indulging in more and more of his vices and not having one kind word to say about her. As sad as it seemed, the house of Orleans really was a circus.
"Obviously it’s about Carnot being a pathetic little bitch constantly bending over backwards to stay in Madame's good graces when we all remember how he publicly insulted her intelligence in front of the king... not to mention, failed to satisfy her in bed," the Chevalier interrupted, simply unable to control himself, likely having had one glass too many, like everyone around, and clearly far too exhilarated by Carnot's antics to stop.
The latter nearly exploded in rage, Cosnac mimicking him, and Madame's self control was barely enough to contain hers.
Monsieur, however, jumped on the railing. "Enough, Lorraine!!"
It was as much an attempt to show that he still had some semblance of authority, as it was to mask how entertained he was by his enemies' agitation.
When Carnot's allies who were still clothed enough rushed down the stairs, the Chevalier dashed out to the gardens, a dozen or so men in his pursuit. Without hesitation, Monsieur jumped down and ran after him as well. Noticing him, the Chevalier picked up the pace while laughing hysterically.
"Stop right there, goddamnit!" Monsieur yelled. After a moment of running further and further away, past the gardens and into the meadow, more and more of the chasers had to relent, too tired and full of food to keep going.
The air was still warm, yet a fresher wind carried the chase, and Monsieur let himself be galvanized by the thrill of it, by the feeling of blood pumping through his veins, catching up to Lorraine with a newfound stamina.
The latter shrieked playfully and kept going as Monsieur was right behind him, still ordering him to stop, when little by little he broke into laughter as well.
It was almost too late when Lorraine realized he was heading straight towards the stream, so he abruptly slowed down, Monsieur nearly crashing into him.
"Ough—" Lorraine gasped, trying to balance himself but failing to. He crashed on the grass, rolling to the side, giggling uncontrollably, as Monsieur had fallen face first next to him, laying flat on the grass.
"Oh— haha, oh God," he laughed, high on the thrill.
"Lorraine," Monsieur groaned, lifting himself up on his elbows, wiping his face from the dirt and grass, "how are you so—" he couldn't finish his sentence, his friend's laughter too contagious, and his words dissovled into giggles. "Fuck, you piss me off!" He added, weakly punching Lorraine's arm, the latter still laughing.
"Don't tell me you didn’t enjoy seeing Cosnac like that—or Carnot!"
"Who cares about Carnot!"
"Cosnac, though?"
Monsieur grinned. "That's why you piss me off!" He ripped a tuft of grass from the earth to throw it at his friend.
"I thought it was really funny," Lorraine said.
"Me too, for Christ's sake!" Monsieur huffed, exasperated and helplessly smiling.
"Why chase me, then?" Lorraine replied, daringly nudging Monsieur's arm, mimicking his previous gesture, only lighter.
"And let it seem like I can just let you say whatever about whomever you want? My reputation is bad enough as it is," Monsieur groaned, rolling over to be on his back. Lorraine snickered at that, and Monsieur slapped his arm again. "No thanks to you, by the way! You show up thrice a year and every time you cause a ruckus!"
"It’s not my fault everyone in court's a jackass."
"You're a jackass!"
"They're making me!" It almost sounded like Lorraine genuinely meant it, yet he had the most infuriating shit-eating grin on his face.
"What is it you’re doing on your army training, that you come back stupider every time?" Monsieur sighed, trying his best to seem at least a bit serious. It wasn't very effective.
"I guess it’s making me a bit belligerent," Lorraine smiled. It was easy to guess that his little prowesses, that Monsieur often read about in the Gazette, were only emboldening him further and further, fattening his already bloated self-esteem. Not that he could really blame him.
"Cosnac says that whenever you’re around, Madame and I grow less likely to ever reconciliate."
"As if you needed me for that."
"Yeah, definitely not. She's a big enough bitch on her own."
Lorraine snorted. "Monsieur, using such language!"
Monsieur pulled his tongue out at him—the same way he did when they were kids, taunting each other relentlessly.
"Hah!" Lorraine laughed, then swiftly got to his feet.
"What are you doing?" Monsieur asked, when the Chevalier dropped his justaucorps on the ground and started unfastening his breeches.
"That run got me all hot and sweaty, and the stream is right there," he grinned. Unimpressed, Monsieur raised an eyebrow.
"You know it’s forbidden to bathe in the streams."
"Oh, no! What shall I do," he brashly replied, getting rid of his thighs to walk down the water bank, wearing only his shirt, under Monsieur's tired gaze.
"Have some respect for the duke of Orleans, will you? For once?" Monsieur smiled lazily, crawling to sit by the stream as Lorraine shivered, entering the cool water slowly at first, before throwing himself in it all at once and splashing his surroundings, Monsieur included.
He then emerged just as fast, yelping, then smiled at his friend. "You mean like you show respect to the king?"
Monsieur rolled his eyes. So maybe he was said not to act with much propriety towards the king—well, his brother didn't seem to mind. Furthermore, Monsieur didn't see how being treated like a human being by at least one person could really hurt.
"I have so much to learn about court manners," Lorraine continued, "I'm just following your guidance."
"Then you should better observe how I treat my enemies, because that was lousy and inelegant," Monsieur grinned, dipping one hand in the water to pointlessly splash it at Lorraine. He didn’t expect the water to be so cold.
Lorraine showed his teeth, a dramatic, apologetic expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I am but a brutish soldier."
"Yes, you’re very bad," Monsieur agitated his finger, fake-chastising him. "Bad Chevalier, bad!" He then added, giggling.
"How can I repent?" Lorraine asked, comfortably floating about.
"Behave better, maybe? Avoid me getting cold sweats whenever I hear that you're coming back? I know you do know proper court manners."
Lorraine looked up, holding what he could see of Monsieur's gaze for a while. It was obscured, while his was bathed in the moonlight. What shone in Monsieur's was only its reflection in the water.
"Come on. It’s a bit thrilling, isn't it?"
"Don't try and insinuate that we need you to have fun, I entertain my own court very well!" Monsieur said, half-indignant.
"I know, that's why I always come back."
Monsieur tried hiding his smile. Stupid flatterer, this Chevalier was. He had just as easy a time being liked as he did being hated; and it seemed he enjoyed both equally. Monsieur had always found similarities between him and that damned Guiche, but the more it went, the more likeable Philippe de Lorraine was in comparison, his outrageous stunts more rooted in a love for chaos than in sheer contempt for others. Unlike Guiche, he was also an actual friend, which Philippe d'Orléans had grown deeply attached to.
"Alright, it is a bit thrilling to know you're coming back."
Lorraine raised an eyebrow. Monsieur wanted to add something, but the hint of a triumphant smile pulling at the corners of his friend's mouth prevented him from doing so. The man was about to turn twenty, but he felt more like a stupid teenager than he ever did before.
Not that Monsieur was much better. His petty feud with Madame continuously dragged him to new lows of immaturity, as reluctant as he was to admit it.
He flinched when Lorraine's cold, wet hand wrapped around his wrist.
"Why don't you join me in the water? I'm sure you could use the cooling off," he offered, feeling playful still.
"No way, it’s far too cold. You should get out, you’re going to get sick. Aren't you leaving for a campaign soon?"
Lorraine's face lit up. "I am! Can't wait to get away from Cosnac, he's pissing me off," he said, swimming around for a bit longer.
"He's really infuriating," Monsieur conceded, dipping his fingers in the water again, his thoughts drifting somewhere between how nice it was to slow down and chat with someone like Lorraine, who cared so little about appearances, who, armed with the privilege of being a childhood friend, treated him casually like he casually treated the king, and the fact that this very friend was only here punctually, and was about to leave again soon. Sure, it’s not like Lorraine was all he had—he wasn't just stuck with Cosnac or Madame. He had other allies, other friends.
There was just something about that one.
"Can't you get rid of him?" Lorraine naively asked.
Monsieur pondered for a moment.
"I'm not that whimsical," he shrugged. "And you know, he's not that bad. I like him... sometimes."
"When he doesn't tell you that you're useless to your face?" The Chevalier taunted.
"Who doesn't?" Monsieur snickered, somewhat bitterly.
Part of him wished he could take that back; the kind of friend Lorraine had been so far was a sparring partner, when they were kids in Palais-Royal, bored as their older brothers were attending classes and they were left to their own devices, and now more recently a drinking buddy, someone to play and gamble against and to laugh the worries away with, rather than sharing them.
"I don't."
"Eh, you kind of do."
"I may occasionally imply things, but not that you're useless," he grinned.
"I didn't say it was a problem," Monsieur said casually. "I'm used to it, really."
Lorraine looked at him with skepticism in his eyes.
"Well," he started after a beat. "I think it's very unbecoming of an almoner to chastise his master like that. I don't like it."
"Right."
"What if I asked you to fire him? Coming back to his rodently manners feels like a nuisance."
Monsieur burst out in laughter—a long, stomach-cramping one, that begged Lorraine to follow.
"That—that is so rich," Monsieur cried inbetween giggles. "'I'm sorry, almoner, the Chevalier de Lorraine doesn't like seeing you these four weeks a year he shows up, I'm afraid I will have to let you go," he painfully uttered, tears running on his cheeks, still laughing hysterically.
"Exactly!"
"Oh my God, how can you be so ridiculous!" Monsieur said, drying his eyes.
"Come on, for me?" The Chevalier asked, eyes pleading, now leaning on the bank close to Monsieur.
"That's not how I take requests," Monsieur replied, nudging Lorraine's elbow with the tip of his shoe. "...nor orders," he grinned.
The Chevalier paused. Then, grabbing Monsieur's leg, "Get rid of Cosnac. I don't like him," he said, direct, his voice an octave lower.
Monsieur flinched inwardly. Whatever he felt wasn't something he had ever felt for his brash, silly friend; this weird kid, then weird teenager, who never seemed completely there, who was always either too provocative, too defiant, or too far in his own head, musing about philosophers and other uninteresting shenanigans. He couldn't deny how good looking he'd turned, how absurdly charming his smile could be, and he had no trouble understanding why so many men and women were so easily swooned whenever Philippe de Lorraine made an appearance at his parties. Yet, so far, in his eyes, he had remained that weird kid, that brash prince, that strange friend.
Whatever feeling bloomed in his chest for an instant, he ignored with a chuckle.
"No."
"Aaaww, oh well, I tried," Lorraine sighed in mock-defeat.
Monsieur laughed. "Maybe if you actually stick around, I'll start considering your comfort a bit more seriously."
"Oh? You want me around more often, is that what you're saying?" Lorraine asked, leaning closer again to Monsieur.
His gaze—that feeling again. Maybe it was his wet hair, wet skin, maybe it was the gentle hue of the moonlight, or whatever heightened feelings lingering after the chase, but it felt like the atmosphere surrounding his friend had abruptly changed.
Deciding that Lorraine had no business knowing that something was going on, Monsieur looked away.
"I mean, like I said, it’s fun when you're around too."
Lorraine smiled widely.
"And I can use more friends," Monsieur hurriedly added.
"Yes, you could also use Cosnac being out of your—"
"Goddamn, Lorraine!"
They both laughed.
"Well that's good to know. From what I've heard, I may indeed start spending more time in court soon, so..."
The Chevalier didn't give Monsieur much time to process that information, as after another shiver, he hauled himself out of the water.
Time may or may not have stopped for Philippe d'Orléans at that instant.
Maybe because he had never really cared to pay attention before, despite having most definitely caught sight of Lorraine enjoying physical relationships with other people, but whatever appeared before him cut his breath short. Maybe, again, it was the moonlight, the heightened feelings, the way his wet, transparent shirt clung to his skin, not leaving much to the imagination.
Monsieur's heart sped up, faster than when they'd been running, blood rushing to his cheeks, and for a moment, it felt like the most handsome stranger in the world walked before him, his brain unable to even process who it was, to even put words or thoughts together, other than the sheer admiration he suddenly felt.
When Lorraine sighed loudly, Monsieur could vaguely form thoughts again, mainly, "why, why now, what's happening," but trying to answer any of that was admitting that something was really going on.
Not that any part of his body could really deny that, at this point.
Am I really that easy, was his next question to himself.
He forced his eyes back on the water, unable to afford looking at Lorraine as he was shedding his drenched shirt. In normal circumstances, he would most likely oggle unabashedly.
But Lorraine?
Really?
Philippe de Lorraine?
His face felt scorching hot and his chest ready to burst.
He tried centering himself by focusing on the gentle sound of water flowing, but it kept being disturbed by the rustling of fabric, until Lorraine's voice made him jolt again:
"So yeah."
"Hm?" Monsieur asked, not turning to look at his friend.
"If I indeed start sticking around, may I hope for Cosnac to start worrying about his job?"
"...You're awfully fixated on Cosnac," Monsieur muttered.
At once, Lorraine appeared next to him, standing tall and leaning over so their eyes had no choice but to meet; Monsieur shifted, trying to avoid him, but was instead compelled to look up, exposing his deeply flushed face to the moonlight.
Lorraine blinked at him, visibly surprised.
Monsieur looked down, then away, then after a moment, back at him. "What?"
"I really don't like Cosnac," Lorraine said.
"Yes, yes, I know," Monsieur said, embarrassed by the way his voice sounded barely stable, and Lord did the shadows do something to the lines of Lorraine's face; or maybe it was his sudden proximity again—thankfully he'd put his waistcoat on and the justaucorps held in his hand was likely about to follow. "I heard you the previous thirty times."
"Is something wrong, Monsieur? Your arse getting cold, maybe?"
"My arse is fine!" Monsieur immediately replied.
It was a secret to nobody that if anything, the problem was opposite. He certainly didn't want to get up just yet, his mind too busy racing aimlessly at the brutal discovery that his heart wasn't safe from anybody, not even this God forsaken Chevalier de Lorraine.
"Hmmm." The latter finished getting dressed. He motioned to grab his wet shirt still laying on the ground and wrung it above the water, before using it to wipe his hair dry.
Monsieur used that time as an opportunity to contemplate the situation, something that he was usually terrible at, but slowly came to learn that maybe it was at times necessary. However, any attempt at reasoning about Lorraine being a potential option—or more realistically, a disastrous one—kept melting away, replaced by pure heat and the beating of his heart. It was hard to even tear his gaze away from him, so much so that at some point, Monsieur had to cover his face and rub his eyes in an attempt to snap out of it.
"Should I apologize?" Lorraine asked, sitting down by his side.
"…to Carnot? Or Madame?"
"To you, Monsieur," he replied, nudging Monsieur's shoulder with his own, not failing to make him flinch.
"Why to me?"
"…for making your life difficult?"
Monsieur was about to look up and expose his flaming cheeks to the fresh air when the Chevalier's arm wrapped around his shoulders and he froze. "For making it so hard for your Highness, you know? As if Madame didn't do that enough."
Monsieur had no qualms cursing Lorraine in his mind.
"You're fine," he muttered. He was awfully tempted to shove Lorraine's arm away, which he would have done, were he not stuck in place. "I don't mind having a few allies."
"So you're saying I should keep doing things like that whenever I'm around?"
Monsieur finally looked up to meet with Lorraine's infuriating grin and wiggly eyebrows. No wonder everyone wanted to slap the guy; not that it stopped Monsieur's cheeks from flaming up again.
"No."
Lorraine's smile downturned.
"Just enough to piss them off is good, though," Monsieur grinned in turn, then mirrored by Lorraine—and fuck, when did that smile start looking like that, or when did it start making Monsieur feel like that?!
Then—then Lorraine's hand was on his cheek.
"I won’t lie, Monsieur, as your friend and ally, I am concerned. You're so warm and red in the face, are you sure you don't need to cool down?"
A mischievous smile was peeking behind Lorraine's air of fake concern, and Monsieur didn't miss the way his grip tightened on his shoulder, most likely ready to throw him into the water as a final joke for the night.
"Lorraine—" Monsieur started, doing everything he could to anchor himself in the ground."I really appreciate your concern, but I assure you I'm fine." He then firmly grabbed the Chevalier's shoulder in return.
"The water is at perfect temperature, though—"
"I am fairly sure it's freezing," Monsieur said, baring his teeth.
"I happen to have tried it and—"
Lorraine couldn't finish his sentence that Monsieur, using up all his strength at once, shoved him back into the stream fully clothed. From his face to his screech to the beautiful eruption of water drops shining in the moonlight, everything about the scene was delightfully exhilarating and felt like a rightful revenge.
"Ha-hah!" Monsieur exclaimed as he jumped to his feet in one swift, erratic move.
"Fuck!" Lorraine yelled from below, trying to wipe the water out of his eyes.
"And that is to show that Monsieur doesn't just let chaos go unpunished in his house!"
Lorraine's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. "So you're making an example?! There's nobody around!"
"I don't care!"
"You little scoundrel!!" Lorraine threw himself at the water bank and crawled back out, his drenched clothing hindering his motion but not as much as Monsieur would have expected. He darted away with a yelp, running as fast as he could and giggling uncontrollably as Lorraine launched himself after him.
What a crazy, unfathomable thing for the prince of France, for the duke of Orleans, to be called a scoundrel and chased through the meadow by a foreign prince emerging from the waters, a scene far more befitting of the kids they used to be—and the way his heart was racing, far more appropriate for the teenager he was not so long ago.
He was much faster than Lorraine, yet he always felt so close, probably because he was screaming so loud, threatening to catch him, a sardonic laughter intermingling with his words; until Monsieur's heel sank in the ground where it was softer and he almost toppled over. He had no choice but to discard his shoe, then the next, and he was even faster now freed of his gigantic stilts.
"Get back here!" Lorraine yelled, and Monsieur was so, so tempted to, to turn around and let Lorraine crash into him, like Monsieur did earlier, let Lorraine tackle him to the ground and get retribution. He'd hold his wrists down and laugh, curse him most likely, his face and hair still dripping wet, his gaze so deep and smile so mesmerizing—
Monsieur knew he could keep running, yet he felt short of breath and found it harder and harder to find his footing, struggling to maintain the distance, helplessly drawn back to the water monster running behind. The lights of Saint-Cloud appeared in the distance, but he was slowing down, and he could hear Lorraine's wet steps catching up. His heart felt trapped between the thrill of wanting to be caught, and the fear of it. What would happen, exactly, if he did?
He quickly glanced back, away from the lights and into the night, right at Lorraine—at Philippe, who had shed his heavy justaucorps again. He was smiling, frowning at the same time, that kind of vindictive elation he bore so often. His hair was flying around him, spraying a halo of sparkly drops above his head. Beneath his open waistcoat, his muscles flexed under his wet skin as he strained to keep up the effort, to keep running—to chase until he reached his target.
Before he knew it, the world flipped on its head and all Monsieur could see was the stars; he was laying in the grass, out of breath, chest ready to burst, waiting for Lorraine to reach him, which he did, shortly after. His touch was wet, icy cold and scorching hot at the same time, and when Lorraine was all that was left in Monsieur's field of view, he felt like he simply couldn't breathe anymore.
Instead of leaning down, Lorraine snickered, appreciative of his victory. Monsieur could only look up in admiration, silent.
"Punish me all you want, Monsieur—I won't go down easily," Lorraine grinned. "I'm tenacious," he then added, and a few droplets fell on Monsieur's face, wetting his cheek.
Monsieur was at a loss for words, which didn't go unnoticed. Whatever he felt like saying, he was deeply certain he shouldn't. Just like he so deeply wanted Lorraine to stay there, to lean forward, and do so much more.
"Are you—"
He didn't let Lorraine finish and instead mustered all his strength to push him to the side.
"You won't be tenacious for long if you get sick," he said quietly, breath still short and uneven. "We should get you dried up."
"Booo, you're no fun," Lorraine chuckled as Monsieur shakily got to his feet and pulled him up.
"You know I'm plenty fun," Monsieur mumbled, walking away towards the gardens. He was quickly joined by Lorraine who, once again, impudently wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"You're right, your Highness is a lot of fun. Proof being, you're allowing me back in your palace, is that right? How gracious~"
Lorraine was so close, acting all silly in his ear, and Monsieur couldn't fake seriousness for much longer. If his friend wasn't so worryingly soaked, he'd make the walk back as slow as he could, push back the moment he'd have to face all these people who despised him again.
"You're right—too gracious. Picture us showing up and me saying, 'I punished the impudent! By pushing him into the water! And now, he can come back!' Talk about instilling a fear of consequences…" Monsieur sighed dramatically.
He jolted when Lorraine rested his wet head on his shoulder. "Or, you will make a perfect example of my impunity, because your allies deserve all the grace," he grinned, "unlike your enemies, such as Cosnac, who should seriously start fearing for—"
"Oh my God!" Monsieur barked a laugh, "you really won't shut up about Cosnac! He did nothing wrong, this time!"
Lorraine, who was clearly doing it on purpose, was giggling almost hysterically, and the tenderness that filled Monsieur watching him made his head swim.
They exchanged some more banter, Monsieur only half paying attention to what Lorraine was saying, too distracted by his smile, or his own burning cheeks, to really follow. Time had slowed down, and he just relished the closeness.
"We should really hurry," Lorraine said after a while, contemplating the huge wet stain on Monsieur's shoulder. "In the end, you're almost just as soaked, and you may get sick as well," he said, a chuckle still remaining in his voice.
Monsieur blinked a couple of times. Judging by his lightheadedness and how warm his face felt, it was maybe a bit too late for that, he mused. The pest had taken him down.
He nodded. "If I indeed do get sick, I'm blaming Cosnac," he grinned, earning a loud chortle from Lorraine. His body felt warm.
God. He really was that easy.