Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

His brother’s betrothal begins with a huge banquet.

Royals and nobles alike mingle in one of the castle halls, holding inconsequential conversations while sipping drinks that are as expensive as they are disgusting, treating the servers that walk by as living decorations, all the while trying to get a glimpse of the royal couple furthest into the room.

His brother’s fiancée had arrived with her father and brother earlier in the day. If Mitya thought his own parents cut an imposing image, it’s nothing compared to King Pierro. His half-masked face only turns toward Mitya for a brief moment, but it’s enough to freeze him in place, that one sharp eye seeming to stare through his very soul.

He doesn’t breathe again until that eye turns away. Immediately, Mitya’s mind begins to wander. His mother has put him under strict orders to not speak, to "preserve their family’s reputation", giving him all the more time for observing.

His eyes soon turn to King Pierro’s son.

Snezhnograd’s Crown Prince.

He must be at least a head taller than Mitya, standing with military posture, hands clasped behind his back and making his broad shoulders appear even wider. Features just a little too rough, which only adds to his intrigue. Like Mitya, he doesn’t speak much, but unlike Mitya, he follows the exchange between their parents and older siblings with careful attention.

As if sensing the gaze on him, he turns his head, and they make eye contact for one brief moment, and Mitya almost, almost breaks the rule imposed on him. Those deep purple eyes send a tingle down his spine, their focused look coupled with the Crown Prince’s severe expression making it feel like he’s been caught under a searchlight.

The other man breaks first, but the way his gaze had felt doesn’t leave Mitya’s mind anytime soon.

Unfortunately, the banquet that evening offers no such intrigue.

Mitya calls it quit two minutes in. Having greeted zero guests and barely been seen by anyone, he slips away down a corridor to find his favorite window seat, where he’s half concealed behind a royally red curtain and can scribble in his notebook without being disturbed.

Well… usually.

"What are you doing?"

Mitya jumps, almost losing his grip on both pen and notebook. He blinks quickly, trying to focus on his surroundings – the snowy landscape outside the window to his right, but more importantly, the dark figure on his left, looking in between the curtains at where Mitya is sitting.

"Oh my, I didn't see you there." Then he realizes who, exactly, he's looking at, and his eyes widen. He straightens, biting back a wince at the sting of pain in his back. "Prince Valeriy."

Valeriy inclines his head. On anyone else, Mitya would find the expression harsh, maybe even off-putting, and it does make Valeriy difficult to read, but it also slots so naturally over his carved features, that crooked nose, those sharp eyes, that it only comes across as natural.

"Prince Mitya," he returns. Then his eyes flit to the notebook splayed across Mitya's lap. "What are you doing?"

The lilt to his voice is curious. No trace of reproach. Nothing like how that question would’ve sounded coming from his mother or older brothers.

"Just brainstorming." Mitya tilts the pages to give Valeriy a better look, even though it’s hardly an appropriate activity for a banquet. "I think I have a formula to solve the conversion issues with the Kresnik Torch, but I'd need to test the most suitable conductor and, well... there aren't any labs in the castle."

Mitya frowns at his notes, adding a comma that he almost missed, and when he looks up, Valeriy is staring at him with an unreadable look.

"You're trying to solve Snezhnaya's energy crisis?"

"Well... I’m about halfway there, but like I said, it needs testing."

He's not trying to be humble, just realistic, and without access to a lab, he can't run experiments. There's no telling what issues might arise with his theories when put into practice.

Valeriy lifts his brows, barely a millimeter, and yet it’s the most expressive Mitya has seen him all day.

"And you're scribbling this down during a royal banquet?"

Mitya laughs.

"Well, it's not like my mother would want me in the great hall. Trust me, everyone’s happier this way."

The words come out a little too honest, and he curses himself. He'd let his mind drift too far during his research, enough to let his control slip, and now he sounds like a spoiled prince throwing himself a pity party over some childish argument with his parents, which he’s definitely blowing out of proportion...

"I don't see why," Valeriy says, and Mitya blinks, caught off guard. “With such a brilliant mind, anyone would be honored to have you by their side.”

The compliment goes straight to his cheeks, and Mitya feels flushed as he tries to wave it off, sleeves of his coat flapping around his hands.

“You haven’t seen nearly enough to know if I’m intelligent at all," he says, and then, before Valeriy can respond, switches the topic: “Speaking of the banquet. Shouldn’t you be in the hall, representing your family and all that?”

Though his posture remains impeccably, hands clasped behind his back, Valeriy averts his eyes.

“I ought to return soon, yes.”

Curiously, Mitya tilts his head. That was not the confident yes he’d expected.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I suppose," Valeriy pronounces haltingly, like each word is being pulled from his lungs against his will, “I’ve never much favored events like these.”

Everything about him so far has been perfectly polished, well-practiced greetings and introductions made in that royally official tone Mitya’s all too familiar with. That he dislikes banquets is a delightfully humanizing detail, and Mitya treasures the reveal like he would a fine gemstone.

“Were you also trying to sneak away?” he wonders, but Valeriy shakes his head.

“No. I saw you leave, and thought I might take the opportunity to meet you properly.”

“We already met this morning," Mitya points out, though he gets what Valeriy means. That conversation had been all formalities with no real substance, dominated by their parents and older siblings.

“Yes," Valeriy agrees, and he looks a little awkward, shifting between his feet, but whatever else is on his mind goes unspoken.

Mitya makes a split second decision.

“In that case, how about we don’t go back?”

The blank look he gets in return isn’t surprising, but that slight twinge of hesitance is, unless that’s just Mitya reading too much into it and seeing something that isn’t there.

“We both have duties…”

“Yeah, like talking to our noble guests, so they know just how noble you are," Mitya cuts in with a grin. “Socializing, right?”

“...yes.”

It half sounds like there should be a question mark at the end, and Valeriy is yet again staring at him with a strange look, like he can’t quite figure out what Mitya is getting at.

“We’re both nobles, and we’re both at this party.” Mitya gestures with his hand like it’s a foregone conclusion. “So, if you just stay here and talk to me, you’ll still be doing your duties, and neither of us has to go back into the crowd. It’s a win-win.”

Despite his fantastic argument, he expects rejection; as Crown Prince, Valeriy’s presence is much more important, and he’s probably conscientious enough to persevere through the occasion, no matter how little he enjoys it.

To Mitya’s surprise, the rejection doesn’t come.

“What do you propose?” Valeriy asks instead.

“Why do you sound so suspicious?” He smiles, to make sure it doesn’t sound too accusing. Valeriy just blinks back at him. “Well… how about I show you the gardens? All the paths are lined with heating torches, so it’s not too cold, even if everything’s covered in snow.”

It takes a moment. Then, Valeriy nods.

”Alright then!” Mitya beams, swinging his legs over the edge of his seat. ”Follow me.”

He jumps to his feet, and everything tilts. The floor is much further than it should be, unstable underneath him, and his brain takes a spin around his own skull. A hand grabs his shoulder, bracing him while he fights to stay upright.

As much as he wishes he could say this was a rare occurrence, it's not. Mitya is a little too used to the spots invading his vision, the sense of disconnect between his mind and body.

”Are you okay?” Valeriy sounds unreasonably concerned.

Through his swimming vision, Mitya tries to offer a smile, although he can’t get his eyes to focus. He distantly notes just how much he has to tilt his head up to make eye contact. Valeriy is incredibly tall.

”I’m so good," Mitya assures, only slightly undermined by his continued swaying, but the dizziness is already receding. ”Stood up too fast, is all.”

Valeriy doesn’t look convinced, but once Mitya is no longer teetering so precariously, he removes his hand, though his eyes remain sharp as Mitya takes a step forward, then another. When he doesn’t collapse, Valeriy follows.

”Is that really all it was?”

Mitya glances back, giving a slightly wry smile. He can’t decide if the expression on Valeriy’s face is more worried or suspicious.

“Yeah? But honestly, it’s on me. I skip my supplements way too often.”

“Supplements?”

“Oh, yeah. I might be a little anemic.”

The look he receives in response is way too knowing, but at least Valeriy doesn’t question it. He hasn’t technically lied. An understatement, perhaps. It makes no difference – Mitya can’t possibly make a worse impression on this man than he already has.

Despite growing up in such a freezing region, Mitya has always been prone to the cold, and even with the heat torches lining their path, he shivers, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

The gardens are beautiful, as promised. The trees and bushes resemble soft clouds, powdered with snow as they are, gently illuminated by the glowing torches. Above the path is a trellis ceiling. In the frosty quietude of the empty castle grounds, it feels like they’re walking through a fairytale.

“...and there’s a family of fluffahogs that live under the bushes over there.” Mitya, who has barely stopped talking since they set foot outside, indicates the area with a hand, and Valeriy follows with his eyes. “When they mate, the male moves into the female’s den, and the same family lives there until they can’t anymore, or until there’s a generation without females. This family has been here since before I was born.”

Valeriy hums. His expression is so carefully controlled, it’s difficult to tell whether or not he’s interested, but he hasn’t asked Mitya to shut up, so that has to count for something.

“I thought fluffahogs tend to avoid people?”

The simple question is enough to quell Mitya’s concerns, and he slows his pace as they walk by the fluffahog den.

“Yes," he agrees. “But back when I was a kid, I used to hide in this garden whenever I wanted to be alone, and I guess the fluffahogs got used to me, because they started showing themselves after a while. My brothers never believed me when I told them.”

When Mitya looks over, there's a small frown between Valeriy's brows. He doesn’t know what he said to warrant the reaction – is Valeriy also doubting it, like his brothers? It wouldn't be unusual. Despite being used to it, the suspicion stings.

“You seem very… different from your siblings," he eventually comments, each word measured, like he isn’t sure whether or not he’s overstepping.

Mitya isn't entirely sure what to make of it, so he shrugs.

“I mean, I’m more than a decade younger," he replies, although he doubts Valeriy understands the extent of it.

Not only is he much younger, but he’d been a sickly child, unable to do the same physical training as his brothers. With all that spare time, he’d turned to science and art, but instead of earning appreciation for his skills, those had only further separated him from his family.

Then, there’d been the business with coming out. More than half a life later, he still doesn’t know where his mother stands: she respects his identity, at least in all the visible ways, but he’s not sure she ever truly accepted him. There’s a difference, he thinks, between acceptance and respect. If his mother didn’t have to save face, she’d have given him neither.

His father hadn't been better, but he'd certainly cared less, for better or for worse. Sometimes Mitya misses him. At least when he was still around, his mother held her tongue more often.

Mitya shivers again, trying in vain to pull his coat closer. Although the air isn’t as frigid as beyond this garden path with its heated torches, his chest feels tight, each breath sharp against the confine of his lungs.

“You and I are the same age," he says, hoping to distract himself from that depressing trip down memory lane. “Did you know that?”

The frown on Valeriy’s face eases, and purple eyes land on Mitya.

“We are?”

Mitya grins.

“Yup! We're actually not even two months apart. I'm older, by the way.”

“Huh. I wouldn't have guessed.”

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. You just... have a youthful energy, I suppose."

Mitya tries to suppress his frown. It sounds suspiciously like a polite way of saying unfocused, or hyper, or any of the plentiful descriptors his mother likes to assign when she's complaining about him.

"Are you calling me childish?"

"What?" Valeriy seems genuinenly surprised by that interpretation. "No. It wasn't a negative."

"Oh!" Mitya beams at him, a complete and instantaneous switch. "In that case, thanks!"

As the path turns, and the fluffahog den disappears from view behind them, Mitya veers just a little closer to Valeriy, enough to bump their shoulders together.

“What about your family?” he asks, half wishing to burrow fully into Valeriy’s side, because the man radiates warmth, even through the layers separating them. “Are you and your sister close?”

“I suppose so, yes. It’ll be strange not to have her around once she marries.”

“Right.” Mitya had almost forgotten what Valeriy is here for, and the reminder nearly halts him in the middle of a step. Then he flashes another grin. “But hey, you can always come visit!”

Something in Valeriy’s face seems to relax, and he nods.

“Speaking of marriages," Mitya continues. He’s almost sure that he’s overstepping, but until Valeriy tells him to shut up, letting his mouth run is easier than trying to control the direction of his thoughts. “I’m surprised no one’s arranged one for you yet. As the one in line for the throne, wouldn’t you be the priority?”

“My father is still coming around to the idea of a Prince rather than a Princess," Valeriy answers, sounding entirely unbothered by the admission, even as Mitya loses his footing for a second.

He wonders if "me too" would be too casual of a response, if sharing his own position would be enough to convey that he can relate, or if it’d just sound like he’s trying to make it about himself.

In the end, all that leaves him is a very eloquent “oh”.

Valeriy’s eyes flash to him. Something guarded comes over his expression. It isn't exactly fear, or worry, but something close.

“Do you disapprove?”

“No, of course not!” Mitya almost slaps himself in the face in his rush to wave off the idea. “I’m in the same position. Well, not the same, because I’d be fine with either, but yeah.”

Valeriy lowers his hackles again, to Mitya's relief, humming in understanding.

”I see. In that case, how about you? How come you’re not married?” he asks. The mere suggestion would have made Mitya laugh, had he not sounded so terribly genuine.

As they reach the fountain in the garden’s center, they slow down, coming to a stop ahead of the stone structure. Mitya has no clue why it exists; in all the time he’s been alive, it’s never been warm enough for water to flow through. The angel statue at the very top looks perpetually lonely, never getting to fulfill its purpose.

There’s something symbolic about that, Mitya thinks. He’s too tired to put it into words.

”You’ve already seen why I’m not being married.”

But Valeriy frowns.

“Because… you’re too smart?”

“What? No.” Mitya stares at him, wondering who’s the odder one: Valeriy, for not noticing, or himself, too used to being sickly and unruly in the eyes of everyone who’s ever met him. As if to prove a point, he starts listing: “I’m born last, so I’ve got no title to inherit. You already saw me almost faint just from standing, and frankly, my health is shit. Plus, if I marry a woman, I’ll never have biological heirs, and if they set me up with a man, I might just refuse, anyway, so they can’t even appeal with keeping a bloodline going…”

Seeing the growing confusion in Valeriy’s eyes, Mitya trails off. Maybe that was a weird thing to bring up.

“Sorry, that was too much, wasn't it?" he tacks on sheepishly. If the warmth of his pockets wasn’t necessary to keep his fingers functioning, he’d be rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to unload.”

But after another moment of staring, Valeriy shrugs.

“I asked," he says simply. “Besides. You’re more honest than most who come to these functions. I appreciate that.” Before Mitya can decide what to make of that comment, he continues: “Pardon me if I’m overstepping, but why couldn’t you have heirs?”

Mitya kind of just stares at him. He'd have thought it was obvious.

“I mean," he starts, hesitant. ”Sure, I could. But pregnancy is a whole other can of worms that I’m honestly not willing to open. So…”

At first, Valeriy frowns, as though the notion of how heirs come to be is foreign to him.

“You wouldn’t be…” He pauses, and Mitya watches the puzzle piece slot into place in real time. “Oh. Are you…”

“Trans, yeah," he agrees, still staring at Valeriy half in disbelief. With how public his family is, rarely does Mitya meet anyone who doesn’t already know, and the reminder sends a sharp sting of fear through him, though he tries to suppress it – Valeriy has been nothing but kind and polite, and he literally just said he likes men. Mitya cocks his head, trying to ignore the anxiety. ”My transition was in every gossip tabloid for literal months.”

Valeriy opens his mouth. Closes it again. He blinks. Pink dusts his cheeks.

“Why would I read gossip tabloids?”

“I’m pretty sure it made the regular news, as well.”

“I… may not have paid as much attention as I should have, then.”

Mitya exhales slowly, feeling like he’s just stripped himself naked, though he can’t help but notice the abashed look on Valeriy’s face. The lack of disgust, or judgment, or whatever other negative reaction he’d been anticipating, calms his heart.

“You’d have been a teenager, so that makes sense.” Mitya smiles, then shakes his head as if to rid himself of the thought, getting back on topic. “Anyway. Marriage is essentially a trade, and I’m just not offering a whole lot.”

He's glad Valeriy doesn't dwell, letting him change the topic without much of a reaction, no matter how abrupt Mitya is with it.

“But you’re educated," Valeriy remarks, speaking slowly, giving each word much more consideration than expected. Their eyes meet. Valeriy quirks a pointed brow. “And for someone currently running away from a social event, you’re very good at talking.”

“There’s such a thing as talking too much, you know.” Mitya grins. “But yeah, I don't really have any problems with that.”

“Social competence is a valuable trade, isn’t it?”

It sounds like he’s trying to make him feel better about the marriage thing, which is very sweet, and definitely makes Mitya’s heart warm, even if he has to admit that he couldn’t possibly care less about his own suitability for marriage. If anything, the worse he is, the better – means his mother won't force him into one anytime soon.

“Well, yes," he admits, trying to burrow deeper into his coat as a particularly sharp wind brushes past. Valeriy takes a small step closer. His bulky frame easily covers the wind, and Mitya offers him a small but grateful smile. Valeriy’s cheeks redden, most likely from the cold. “But my attendance is too unreliable to make any social skills worth it.”

"Do you dislike these events, as well?"

"They're a little stiff," Mitya agrees. "But I meant more so because of how often I'm sick. I can't always attend, even if I want to."

"Oh."

Another frigid wind brushes past, and Mitya shivers. This time, he can’t resist pressing closer to Valeriy, seeking more warmth than he could reasonably find just pressing their shoulders together.

Then his chest clenches like someone is squeezing his ribcage, and he coughs once, sharply, but that seems to open the floodgates, and more hacking coughs follow, each ripping through his chest with a painful pressure. Maybe foregoing his scarf hadn’t been the best idea. The cold slides down his throat, into his lungs, like it's trying to freeze them. Breathing becomes more and more difficult with every cough, every sharp sting of air that seeps into his chest.

He fumbles for the inner pocket on his coat, numb fingertips struggling to grasp it, almost forgetting about Valeriy right next to him until the other man speaks.

“Are you alright? Can I do anything?”

Mitya fumbles with his inhaler, offering Valeriy a quick, brittle smile that does nothing to quell the concern on Valeriy’s face.

“Fine.”

But he’s wheezing, and quickly closes his lips around the inhaler. Meanwhile, Valeriy stays beside him, taking everything in with sharp eyes, scanning for anything that might require intervention.

The relief is close to instantaneous, like someone took the lid off his blocked lungs. His fingers tremble slightly as he lowers the inhaler, breath coming easier now.

He flashes another grin at Valeriy, who looks wound tight.

“It’s just the cold," he says. Then he chuckles, still a little breathless. “I wasn’t planning on giving you a live demonstration of all my issues, but hey. At least now you know what I meant by being a bad trade, heh.”

”We should head back inside," Valeriy suggests, sounding tense, even as the worry bleeds away now that Mitya’s got his breathing under control. He reaches out, hand hesitating in the air for a moment, before settling it on Mitya’s lower back, a warm, comforting presence. ”Dinner will be served soon.”

Mitya, who had been about to comment on the point of contact, perks up at the reminder. He lets himself be steered down the same path they’d come as he latches onto the distraction and starts rambling.

”Oh! Did you know that Miss Vodyanitsa will be performing? I’ve been looking forward to it all week! No offense to our siblings, but it will absolutely be the highlight of the evening, and did you know, it’s supposedly a song she hasn’t performed at the theater yet. At least that’s what I heard from Alyosha, one of the staff, and…”

Valeriy is seated directly opposite Mitya in the dining hall, at one of the tables closest to the back, along with Mitya’s middle brother and two very old ladies – a great aunt of Mitya’s, and presumably one of Valeriy’s relatives. The only table further back is the one where the betrothed couple and their parents sit.

Vodyanitsa’s voice is like magic in the air, carrying gracefully through the entire hall, and she sparkles under everyone’s attention. Still, even with such a captivating performance, Mitya can’t help but sneak glances at the Crown Prince.

Valeriy’s face remains stoic, near emotionless, but every now and then, their eyes meet. His expression doesn’t change much, but when Mitya offers a small smile, he takes a moment, then returns the gesture. Mitya’s heart stutters.

Once the performance ends and servers start appearing with food, setting out dishes, the two old ladies immediately dominate their table with conversation.

“Such a wonderful performance!” the one Mitya doesn’t recognize says. “It’s been decades since I first saw Miss Vodyanitsa perform, and she never disappoints.”

“Truly," his great-aunt agrees. Then she turns to Valeriy. “How did you find the performance, Your Highness?”

Valeriy’s eyes briefly meet Mitya’s across the table. His polite exterior doesn’t crack, but it’s ironic that a mere hour ago, he’d confided how he dislikes these events, and barely five minutes back in, he’s already being tested on it. At least he conceals his dislike well.

“Miss Vodyanitsa is a very talented singer.”

“I must say," the other lady chimes in. “I’m rather surprised by her song choice for this evening. Are you not?”

For a moment, Valeriy falters. It isn’t obvious on his face, but there’s the briefest flash of confusion in his gaze as it flickers to Mitya again.

"If I may," he chimes in, offering the women a charming smile when they turn to him instead. "It seems a bleak and lonely melody, does it not? But the more you listen, the more you realize that it's not as cold and nihilistic as it appears. When you really dig into it, there's a certain level where you're surprised by the emergence of hope."

”How insightful.” The woman contemplates for a moment, nodding. ”Yes. Yes, I do see what you mean.”

Valeriy offers him the subtlest of nods, and Mitya’s smile grows, even as he keeps his attention on the women. He seems glad for the break, and Mitya is just as happy to talk about Vodyanitsa and her singing, even if he has to bite his tongue to keep from rambling.

The hall is loud with chatter and the scraping of cutlery, clinking glasses. Once everyone has eaten, there will undoubtedly be a long line for everyone to congratulate the couple, and after the tables have been moved, dancing.

None of which appeals much to Mitya. The moment dinner is over, he makes his second escape of the day.

Under the guise of going to the bathroom, he sneaks down a hallway that isn’t supposed to be open for guests, but the guard just rolls his eyes at the escaping prince. A second set of footsteps echo after his own, and Mitya pauses midway down the corridor, waiting for the other person to catch up.

“Now," Mitya says out loud, without even looking behind himself, “the library’s always empty at times like these.” He glances over his shoulder, offering Valeriy a grin. “Wanna play hooky with me again?”

To his delight, Valeriy’s lips twitch, and it may not be a full blown smile, but Mitya revels in it.

“Spending time with you counts as socializing, does it not?” he retorts. “We’re both guests at this party.”

A pleased laugh slips through Mitya’s lips.

“Great! Follow me, then.” And he grabs Valeriy’s sleeve, urging the other man along as he sets off again, smile not dimming for even a moment. “But this time, I wanna hear about you, okay?”

Valeriy raises an eyebrow.

“About me?”

“Yes! I talked so much back in the gardens. I’m curious to know about you, as well.”

The library isn’t far, nor is it especially large. Tall ceilings, yes, with tall windows that normally let light spill in, but this late in the evening, there’s only stars and moonlight, and the distant whiteness of snow. Bookshelves line the walls, with a few desks in the middle of the room. Mitya steers them toward the windows, each one furnished with a two-seat couch in front, where you can sit and admire the view.

“Right," Valeriy says as he sits, making no mention of the way Mitya has been dragging him around, like a child who’s just made a new friend and is refusing to let go. He remains straight-backed and proper while seated, not giving in to the comforts of the cushion. “What do you want to know?”

Mitya curls up next to him, kicking his shoes off to fold his legs underneath himself. He offers another beaming grin, trying to put Valeriy at ease, thinking about the way his lips had gotten so close to a smile earlier and hoping to draw another one out before the night is over.

“Anything! Your duties, your hobbies, likes, dislikes…”

“Most of my training has been military," Valeriy offers, and Mitya nods encouragingly. “I was on active duty for a few years.”

“You carry yourself like a soldier," he comments. “Knowing that, it makes sense.”

Valeriy gives a curt nod.

“These days, most of my time is spent on leadership duties. Delegation and command are more valuable than skills in politics, or economics, and the like. My family doesn’t rule everything ourselves, as you may know.”

“Right. I’ve heard about your Cabinet of Harbingers.” Mitya tilts his head, considering. When Valeriy doesn’t seem forthcoming with more, he asks: “What about your free time?”

Assuming you have any, he doesn’t say out loud.

This reply takes longer, and though his expression doesn’t change, Valeriy looks across the room, eyes brushing over the library’s many bookshelves. He hums.

“I enjoy reading. Fishing, when possible, though I rarely have time to leave the city for such an excursion.”

“You don’t have any lakes nearby?”

“The sea isn’t too far, but it’s still two hours minimum if I want to catch something.”

“That’s a shame.” Mitya shifts, thigh brushing against Valeriy’s as he adjusts his position. It’s warm and solid. He half wishes to press closer, and has to distract with conversation again just to stop himself: “What do you like to read?”

“Military history. As for fiction, I prefer detective stories, mostly.” Then, to Mitya’s surprise, he turns the conversation back on him: “Is science and research one of your official duties?”

“Well… not exactly.” Mitya tilts his head, humming. “Sometimes, if we’ve got a problem related to energy, it usually ends up with me. For example, I designed the heating torches you saw earlier.”

The expression on Valeriy’s face lands somewhere between impressed and in disbelief.

“You made those?”

“Yup!” Mitya grins. He pokes Valeriy’s thigh with his foot, for no reason in particular. As expected, the muscle is very firm. “I was honestly expecting your only hobby to be working out.”

Valeriy hums, eyes flickering to Mitya’s foot, but making no move to push him away. “I suppose that’s also one, given I do it every day.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

Valeriy just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Maybe it isn’t.

He asks another question about what specific books Valeriy has read, and before either of them know it, they’ve spent nearly two hours tucked away in the library, and Mitya is now fully pressed against Valeriy’s side, having slowly inched closer over the course of their conversation. If the other man minds, he doesn’t say anything.

Valeriy is the first to realize that it’s nearing the end of the banquet. As they stand up to rejoin everyone in the grand hall, Mitya nearly topples again, but a warm hand steadies him.

He kind of wants to know what it would feel like to be tucked under Valeriy’s arm, for them to be fully pressed together – can already imagine the warmth, how safe that would feel – but that would definitely be too much.

Instead, he grins at Valeriy in thanks, and then leads them back to where the party is winding down.

It’s a little sad to see Valeriy leave that night, but Mitya comforts himself with the knowledge that in only one month’s time, their siblings are to be wed, so they’ll see each other then.

His mind keeps drifting back to Valeriy. To how the man had watched him when he rambled in the gardens, how stable he’d been by Mitya’s side, that deep, attractive voice of his…

Maybe he daydreams a little too much, but he’s got nothing better to do. He expects this next month to be spent dodging wedding preparations, maybe attend a fitting or two, so that he looks presentable during the ceremony, fulfilling the bare minimum to avoid staining his family’s image. He has plenty of time left to fantasize about being swept off his feet by a handsome prince with strong arms, sharp eyes, and a smile so rare, it’s like treasure.

Instead, he’s called into the throne room a week later to stand in front of his mother, the Queen, while she delivers the most outlandish news he’s ever heard.

She’s short, to the point, and yet Mitya feels like he’s been faced with a riddle in a foreign language, elaborate and complex and utterly incomprehensible.

“A proposal?” he echoes. For some reason, his thoughts have turned fuzzy, impossible to grab. “What are they proposing?”

“Marriage, Mitya," his mother says with a reproachful glare. He tries not to shrink under it, even as his heart skips a beat. “The Crown Prince has asked for your hand in marriage. Our acceptance letter went out this morning.”

All the air leaves Mitya’s lungs.

“Your what?”

“Our, Mitya," his mother corrects. “As of this morning, you are betrothed to the Crown Prince of Snezhnograd.”

Valeriy, his mind helpfully supplies. That prince is Valeriy.

It does little to quench any of the rising confusion.

“Did he say why?”

She glares at him, heaving a sigh with a shake of her head, though it looks to be from disappointment rather than an answer to his question. Mitya is familiar with the difference. Disappointment is nothing new to him, not from his parents.

“This is the most fortuitous match anyone could get," she states coldly – as if Mitya had made any argument otherwise. “You have absolutely no room to be criticizing any part of this arrangement. Consider yourself lucky to have received the offer at all.”

“I wasn’t…”

But Mitya cuts himself off, sighing quietly. It doesn’t matter what he says, not when she’s already decided that his question, rather than being born of genuine confusion, was a thinly veiled jab at… the proposal? Her decision to accept it? He can’t tell.

Mitya doesn’t try to guess. He never knows what she’s thinking.

“You must have caught his eye at the engagement banquet," she adds, eyeing Mitya like she can’t quite believe it herself. Then she sighs again. “You are very lucky, indeed. I expect you to remember that.”

“Yes, mother.”

“They have invited you to their palace in Snezhnograd. You leave tomorrow.”

Mitya doesn’t bother asking how long he’ll be there, or what the plan is after that, lest she thinks he’s trying to argue again.

“Yes, mother.”

It should be a wonderful thing. He should, by all means, be elated.

But he doesn’t understand why, after he explicitly listed all the reasons not to marry him, Valeriy would go and propose.

Mitya leaves the room with a cold weight at the bottom of his stomach.

There’s no public announcement – their siblings’ wedding is all the buzz right now, and it would be rude to overshadow that, especially when Valeriy and Mitya haven’t even discussed their own engagement. Mitya hasn’t even accepted it, not really. Not personally. He will have almost an entire month to get used to everything: to Shezhnograd, to the foreign palace. To Valeriy. To the idea of marriage.

He leaves for Snezhnograd alone, and spends a few hours staring out the carriage window, lost in thought.

Honestly speaking, he has no idea why this is happening, and the beginning of a migraine brews in his temples, a tension that threatens to tighten around his brain, and he can only pray that it won’t get worse.

The proposal came out of nowhere. There are no apparent benefits, from Valeriy’s perspective, and Mitya can’t help but wonder if there was a misunderstanding at some point. He can imagine worse things than getting to stare at the Crown Prince’s handsome face every day, obviously, but that’s the problem: It’s too good to be true. For how long will he remain so considerate, so attentive? How many times can Mitya stumble, or lose his breath, before Valeriy grows tired?

Mitya doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. The comfort of closeness, his undeniable attraction to the other, won’t mean anything if it’s going to be tainted by its transience, and even if Valeriy had somehow become infatuated with him from their one evening together, it cannot possibly last.

The Snezhnograd palace is an incredibly tall building, with spires reaching for the clear blue sky above, impressively imposing in its grandness. From the moment Mitya lays eyes on it, everything happens like in a dream. He is led through the doors, barely conscious of what’s happening.

When his escort, one of the royal maids, finally stops at the entrance to the throne room, Mitya blinks through the fog, forcing himself to focus. He squeezes his fist, nails digging into his palm. It does little to ground him.

The doors open, and the first thing he notices is the chandelier at the center of the room, squinting at the stab of pain it sends through his head. His headache swells in intensity, and all Mitya can do is avoid looking at any bright lights, to pretend it's not there. He has a lot of experience ignoring pain. It's not too difficult.

He longs to drag Valeriy aside and ask him what’s going on.

Unfortunately, there are pleasantries to get through.

King Pierro’s singular, icy eye is no less sharp this time around, and his gaze feels akin to being crushed beneath a boulder. Soldiers line the throne room behind him, but Mitya’s entire attention is taken up by the two people on the dais at the very front: the King and Crown Prince.

Valerity looks nothing like the man Mitya had dragged around the royal gardens during the banquet.

Well, he does, in a physical sense. He’s definitely the same person.

But his demeanour is so diametrically opposed, it’s difficult to connect this dutiful figure with the soft man that had steadied Mitya when he stumbled, or guided him with a hand on his back, or stared with such concern while his lungs tried to shrink out of his chest. Now, he stands as still as the soldiers lining the room, wearing a dark suit pinned with shining badges. His face reveals nothing.

Mitya crosses a hand over his chest, lowering his head. It’s a good thing he’s not expected to bow – after skipping breakfast this morning, he’d probably never get back up again.

Despite the anxiety, his voice is stable, relaxed. “Your Majesty.”

“At ease.” King Pierro’s voice is deep, gruff, but the command isn’t as harsh as Mitya had expected. When he looks up again, Pierro seems to be appraising him. “I hope your journey here was pleasant.”

“Very much, thank you.”

“Allow me to congratulate you on the engagement.”

It does not escape Mitya’s notice that the King doesn’t seem wholly happy, the barest hint of a frown flickering across his face, and he wonders what Valeriy might have said when he presented the idea – assuming it came from him in the first place. Surely not any of the things Mitya told him in the gardens.

“Thank you.”

The words taste slightly sour.

“I will admit," Pierro continues, “I was rather surprised when Valeriy mentioned you. Aside from being born a prince, I’m rather unfamiliar with what he could have found so appealing.”

“Father," Valeriy mumbles, as though in warning, but low enough to be easily ignored.

Mitya is just glad they’re speaking candidly, and finally getting to addressing his own insecurities.

“I couldn’t agree more!” he says with a lot more cheer than the statement calls for, which seems to surprise the King. “I actually gave him a list of reasons not to marry me, so he’s definitely informed."

Pierro arches an eyebrow. "And why would you do that?"

That is, admittedly, more difficult to explain. As much as Mitya tries to summon the memory of that evening, the King's heavy eye doesn't help, and in the end, he shrugs.

"It came up in conversation. It's only natural when we're at an engagement banquet, isn't it?" To dodge any further questions, he continues on: "Whatever Prince Valeriy found appealing about me, he found on his own. I couldn't say why. At the end of the day, I guess it comes down to how much either of us trusts your son’s judgment.”

Pierro stares at him.

So does Valeriy.

Maybe that was a harsh way of putting it, implying that the King might not trust his son, or that Valeriy might be of unsound judgment, but it’s the only take on the situation that Mitya has to offer.

“I see…” Pierro’s voice is hard to read, but there’s a new light in his eye, like he just found the answer to a difficult problem. “Regardless. News shall not be made official for another month, at the very least. You’ll have a lot of time to acquaint yourselves.”

Then he turns to someone behind the dais; a woman with her hands clasped in front of her apron. ”You’ve prepared the chamber for him, yes? Good.”

When the royal maid shows him his chambers, the first thing Mitya does is head into the adjoined bathroom and throw up.

As he flushes the toilet, he can hear the hushed voices of Valeriy and Danica, the maid, and he takes a minute to rinse his mouth before heading out to join them again, hoping they didn’t just hear him vomit, and that his headache isn’t visible on his face.

He’d barely taken in the space when he first passed through, but now he notes the huge bed dominating the center of the room, made with fine, dark blue sheets, but completely lacking personal touch. The same can be said for the rest – there’s a writing table, with pens and empty papers, a grandfather clock in one corner, but that’s the most decorative thing Mitya sees.

Danica inclining her head brings his attention back to the pair by the door.

“My room is right across the hall before turning down this corridor," she informs, hands clasped over her apron. “If there is anything you need, tell me.”

With that, she disappears, leaving Valeriy alone in the open doorway, looking like a guard with his proper posture, barely moving, all the while Mitya stares at him. He still hasn’t shown that relaxed side from the banquet, all soldier-like in his stiffness, eyes landing on Mitya without quite meeting his gaze.

Mitya wonders, for a brief moment, which iteration is real. Then he thinks about his own many masks, and it strikes him with surprising clarity: Valeriy must have been letting his guard down when they met. What he’s seen today is the Crown Prince as he looks to everyone else.

The idea is bizarre, and yet there is no part of him that doubts it to be true. Why he should be more relaxed with a stranger he only just met than in his own home, he cannot say.

“You can come in, you know," Mitya says before the silence can stretch into awkwardness. “We probably have a lot to talk about.”

Valeriy nods once, then turns to shut the door.

The large bed dominates the middle of the room, but beyond it, against the windowed wall, is a small circular table with an armchair on either side. Almost like it’s meant for him to invite people over.

It suits their current purpose, Mitya supposes, pulling out a chair while Valeriy takes the opposite one.

Face to face like this, Mitya is forced to confront his own feelings, and they’re confusing, to say the least. Marriage sounds like a far-fetched dream, and to a man like Valeriy, no less.

A small part of him is upset. At the suddenness of it, the unexpectedness, how the proposal had been accepted without his input. The daunting prospect of just how serious Valeriy’s position is, and what it would mean to be by his side.

Most of all, he doesn’t get what Valeriy wants from him.

"Hi," Mitya says, hoping he looks calmer than he feels. "Nice palace."

Valeriy gives the slightest twitch of his eyebrows.

"That's what you want to talk about?"

Mitya sighs. “No." He wishes he had a drink, if only to have something to occupy his hands with. They’re restless in his lap, picking at the fabric of his pants, then at his sleeves. "You proposed to me."

Valeriy is impossible to read. He sits like he’s ready to bolt upright at any moment, and although he displays no trace of anxiety, Mitya wonders if he’s not feeling any.

“I did.”

“Why?”

Maybe he’s being too blunt, ungrateful, like his parents would say, but he needs to know. Even if there’s no affection in Valeriy’s cool gaze, there must have been something that Mitya missed in their interactions, a reason, an explanation that he’s overlooking.

Duty is not enough. Expectation is not enough.

Valeriy’s role as Crown Prince dictates that he needs to marry. He does not need to marry Mitya.

“You are the first prince I’ve met to express an interest in marrying another man.”

The words hit sharper than expected. They’re impersonal. Detached. Nothing to do with Mitya, not really, merely a box being ticked off – compatible sexuality, check. That’s it.

“So you’re settling.” Mitya exhales. The tired realization makes all his earlier anxieties seem for naught. “You found the first available option, and that’s it. I could’ve been anyone.”

Valeriy purses his lips.

“We hardly know each other," he agrees, somewhat tersely. “But that’s how these things typically work. You know that as well as I do.”

“I don’t, though.” Even with his hands unable to keep still, his eyes remain fixed on Valeriy, and a small frown follows as he processes these words. Mitya gestures vaguely between them. “At least, not like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“At best, I might expect to marry a noble, and then be stowed away in some old wing of the castle, with no real duties, to be forgotten, but, you… Valeriy, you’re the future King of Snezhnograd.”

Valeriy blinks, as if he’d forgotten about that.

“Oh. And this… bothers you?”

“No… yes?” Mitya shakes his head, not entirely sure what he’s trying to say, unsure if bothered is the right way to put it. He sighs, deflating. “It’s just the complete opposite of what I was expecting. Not bad, just… a lot more.”

He can’t tell what Valeriy is thinking from the look on his face, but he seems to be considering, because it’s silent for several long moments. The only sound is the subdued ticking of a grandfather clock in one corner of the room.

“If it’s too much, I feel I ought to remind you that it’s in the nature of a question that you can say no.” Despite clearly being an attempt at comfort, he speaks each word like it’s heavy on his tongue. “My proposal is no different.”

“I know, and I haven’t said yes yet," Mitya replies. He’s not even sure what the proposal had looked like, nor how his mother’s response had been phrased. Sure, he has no plans on rescinding the acceptance letter his mother sent, but since Valeriy is being open about his motives, the least Mitya could do is return the same candor.

Purple-ringed eyes land on him, surprised, and not entirely understanding.

“But your letter…”

He trails off with a frown.

“Came from my mother," Mitya finishes, and he almost feels bad for delivering this news. Maybe he should have clarified earlier, but there hadn’t exactly been a good time, and besides, he wouldn’t have wanted to seem like he was rejecting it. “I wasn’t told until it had already been sent.”

Valeriy seems to steel himself, jaw tense as he draws a sharp breath, back straight, shoulders squared. If Mitya didn’t know better, he’d say he was preparing to head into battle.

“I see.” His eyes rest on the table between them, and it seems to take great effort getting words out. “Nothing has been made official yet. It’s not too late for you to change your mind.”

For some reason, the suggestion sits uncomfortably with Mitya.

“Who said anything about that?” he asks, and he’s fully aware that he’s sending mixed signals, probably only confusing Valeriy further, but to be fair, his own thoughts aren’t any clearer. “I’m just… confused, I suppose.”

“About my decision?"

“Well… yeah. I didn’t exactly paint myself in the best light when we met.”

The reminder has no effect on Valeriy.

“I appreciated how upfront you were," he says, like it’s nothing much. “There’s enough people trying to suck up around me.”

It’s warming to know someone in this world appreciates his honesty, but that’s hardly enough reason to propose, Mitya thinks.

“Okay, sure,” he concedes. “But I don’t want you to wake up a year from now and realize that you made the wrong choice because it seemed convenient at the time.”

The frown returns to Valeriy’s face.

“Perhaps I phrased this wrong.” Before Mitya can ask what he means by that, he leans forward in his seat, eyes locking with Mitya’s, intense in their focus. “I didn’t make this decision out of convenience. I enjoyed spending time with you at the banquet, and from everything I’ve seen, you’d make a good consort.”

The compliment registers, somewhere at the very far back of his brain. Mitya keeps staring, fully aware that, at the end of the day, that’s still a case of convenience, not feelings or actual interest, but it’s a more solid reason than before, and thus easier to believe – maybe not accept, not yet, but there's some logic there.

“You think I have the right qualifications to be the future King’s Consort?” he asks. The disbelief is thinly veiled, but he can hear it in his own voice. Valeriy most certainly picks up on it, but only shrugs again, as if it isn’t that big of a deal.

“Duties would primarily be diplomatic, and you’ve demonstrated more than adequate social skills.”

“That’s all you’re looking for? Really?”

There’s the briefest moment of hesitation before Valeriy shrugs, gaze averted, cheeks looking a bit pink.

“What else?”

“I thought the whole idea of a partnership is that there’d be two people to share the burden," he remarks, distinctly aware that despite his own upbringing, Valeriy is the only one between them with any readiness for a throne. “Won’t that put too much pressure on you?”

“If you’re concerned about me, don’t be.” Even though his lips remain still, Valeriy’s eyes are smiling. “I have prepared for this a long time. Merely having another person beside me is enough relief.”

It isn’t exactly a compliment, but picturing himself by Valeriy’s side makes his face warm.

“We still barely know each other," he says, unable to come up with any other arguments – acceptance is a different issue, but he supposes he’ll have time to come to terms with it later. The entire night, as he’s tossing and turning in bed, probably. "I mean, I've enjoyed talking to you too, and I'd love to know you better, but we don't really know each other."

“More than we would have, had we left the arrangement to our parents.”

Mitya eyes him – the severe expression has melted at some point, and though his posture never seems to relax, his face does. It’s a small thing, really, and Mitya might as well be making it up, but there seems to be less tension around his eyes and in his jaw.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks one final time, just to be sure.

Valeriy inclines his head. “Yes.”

“Even though we’ll be married?”

“Even though?” Valeriy echoes, a frown climbing onto his brows. “What do you mean? That’s the point of an engagement, is it not?”

“Well, I just mean, since we barely know each other…” Mitya trails off, face growing even hotter under Valeriy’s attentive gaze, and his genuine confusion over the question doesn’t help. He throws his hands up. “I don’t know! Working together is one thing, but being married…”

He trails off, hoping his blush isn’t too bad. Maybe he should listen to his mother and be grateful, because Valeriy is truly the whole package: Kind, polite, and possibly the hottest man he’s ever laid eyes on. Marrying him would be a blessing, but not if he becomes a regret, or worse, a hindrance.

”That was the intent of my proposal.” Valeriy doesn’t sound bothered. “If you would like to reconsider, you have time. I won’t be hurt if you change your answer.”

Mitya’s primary concern had been with Valeriy, not himself, but he supposes there’s no use hammering the same point again.

“You could also change your mind, you know?” he points out. “Like, what if I turn out to be a total asshole when you actually get to know me?”

The twitch to Valeriy’s lips is small, but his amusement is clear.

“Are you?”

“Of course I’m gonna say no, but if I was an asshole, I’d absolutely lie about it.”

“You haven’t been one so far," Valeriy points out, his voice surprisingly soft, and Mitya has to admit that a complete switch in personality might be far-fetched.

He does have other concerns in mind.

“What if we turn out to be totally incompatible? I mean, you clearly take your duties seriously. Ask pretty much anyone in my family, and they’ll probably say I’m really lazy.”

At that, Valeriy presses his lips together, looking decidedly displeased. Maybe Mitya should be happy that his arguments are finally getting through, but instead, all he feels is the slightest twinge of regret.

“Is that true, though?”

The question isn’t what Mitya had expected, and he pauses for one long moment, staring.

“What do you mean?”

“You were going to spend the banquet working on the energy issues,” Valeriy says. “I wouldn’t call that lazy.”

“Maybe, but that’s not what I should’ve been doing at the time.”

“You also weren’t feeling well.”

Those words hit with surprising force. He’d taken such care to conceal it, barely even admitting it to himself – how could Valeriy have known? Sure, he’d stumbled while standing up, and had an asthma attack in the gardens, but those wouldn’t explain why he was hiding in that window seat to begin with.

He laughs, awkward even to his own ears, trying to brush it off.

“That came afterwards, didn’t it?”

"Not really. I saw you leave the grand hall, if you remember." Mitya barely remembers it himself, if he's being honest, but Valeriy ploughs on: "That didn't look like you were running away for fun."

"Doesn't have to mean I was unwell, either."

Valeriy leans back in his seat, crossing his arms, but doesn’t entertain that idea. As though he sees right through the attempt at deflection.

“Even if you are lazy, I think I could learn to live with that.” His gaze is heavy, pinning Mitya in place. “I’m just not convinced that’s the case.”

Scratch everything up until now: Valeriy is clearly a lot more observant than Mitya has given him credit for. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s signed up for, after all.

His attentiveness shouldn’t be so attractive, and yet it is. Even if Mitya would rather throw himself into a snowstorm than admit any of this out loud, he can’t deny that the horrifying act of being perceived feels somewhat nice. At least coming from Valeriy.

“Alright.” Mitya exhales, meeting Valeriy’s eyes. He offers a small smile. “I guess we’re both happy with this for now, then?”

Valeriy almost seems startled by the abrupt switch in tone, but gives a stiff nod, and Mitya’s smile grows.

“Great! In that case, if you’re not too busy, how about a tour of the palace?”

He needs a distraction. Anything to take Valeriy's eyes off him, to think of something other than marriage, or engagement, or compatibility. His headache is still pounding behind one eye. Maybe he should lie down instead.

Throughout the day, pressure has been building in his head. Behind his left eye, specifically. His heartbeat seems to pulse straight through the eyeball, bringing with it a pounding pain, almost like it’s building up to explode. Mitya toughs it out, like he always does.

Earlier, Valeriy had shown him around, and after a while, things between them almost felt normal. Casual, as though they were friends out for a stroll rather than two princes. They'd kept conversation light – a lot of Mitya commenting on the artwork along the walls, or the interior design, while not so subtly prying for information about Valeriy himself. How it felt growing up in these halls. What his favorite parts of it are. Where he goes when he wants to be alone.

He’d spent some time in his room after, trying to get used to this new situation while staving off the impending migraine, until Valeriy came to get him for dinner.

And here they are now. It’s not an official event, but there are guests at the palace who are staying for dinner, something about a political meeting earlier in the day. Despite not attending, Valeriy and Mitya can hardly ignore the dozens or so people mingling around the dining hall in wait for food to be served, and it becomes more of a social event, although minor, where they both have to slip into their usual public personas.

Mitya drifts around Valeriy like a moon in orbit – or perhaps it is Valeriy who drifts around him, even as they greet different people. An elderly aristocrat, who used to sneak Mitya candies when he was younger, catches his attention. A genuine smile breaks out on his face; it's been so long since they last met.

Meanwhile, Valeriy is a few steps to his right, conversing with another guest. He’s got that strict, almost cold mask back on. Mitya is determined not to let his own mask falter, not on his very first day here, but the pain envelops his mind in fog, making it hard to think. Not even the pleasant conversation with an old acquaintance is enough to ignore that.

When the aristocrat eventually excuses himself, Mitya is left staring at the wall where the man just stood, trying to force himself to function enough to turn around, rejoin Valeriy, greet whoever he’s talking to.

His eyes drift to the prince in question.

When Valeriy looks over, noticing Mitya's absentminded staring, something in his expression shifts. He says something to his conversation partner, who nods before stepping away, leaving him to approach.

Their shoulders brush as Valeriy leans in, eyes veiled with faint concern as he looks him over.

“Are you okay?”

Mitya can’t hide the squinting, or wincing whenever the light hits his eye too harshly, but he attempts a smile.

”Fine.” But the chatter around the room presses against his ears, despite not being very loud.

Valeriy’s eyes remain fixed on him, his gaze scrutinizing, expression unchanging at the reply, giving nothing away.

“I’ll have dinner sent to your room instead.”

The tone of finality is surprising to Mitya, who blinks rapidly, before realizing what a bad idea that was, as pain shoots through his head and he winces.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he tries, but Valeriy’s hand is already on his back, right between his shoulder blades, gently guiding him forward and toward the room's exit. “I’m fine, I can manage…”

“You’ve been squinting this entire time. Is it your head?”

Mitya sighs, but doesn’t push back as he’s led out of the room, even if he does think he could’ve toughed it out for a while longer.

“It’s a teeny-weeny migraine. Like, it’s barely even a migraine, just the threat of one.”

Valeriy huffs, but otherwise remains silent as they walk through the halls to the royal wing. His hand never leaves Mitya’s back. The contact is firm, stabilizing in a way Mitya hadn’t expected from such a small gesture.

“Are you sure I’m not ruining your image, or something?” he mutters, not looking up from his own feet. Coordinating them takes more effort than usual. “Doesn’t your father expect you to be at dinner with all those important people?”

Valeriy seems unconcerned, keeping his face forward, hand remaining on Mitya’s back. Granted, King Pierro hadn't been in the room when they left, but this is his palace, and he'd definitely been at the meeting earlier. Surely he expects Valeriy to be there.

“He can manage without me.”

Unfortunately, Mitya soon realizes that he’s been lying to himself: the further they get from the dining hall, the more he relaxes, and the heavier his head becomes. As they turn down the hallway toward his chamber, even lifting his feet takes tremendous effort.

By the time they cross the threshold into his room, he’s ready to collapse. He sways on his feet; he’s not going to fall over, it isn’t nearly that bad, but Valeriy's hand returns immediately, steadying him.

“Get in bed.”

Mitya braces himself on the edge of the mattress, but doesn’t sit at once, just breaths through the piercing twinges that shoot through his skull.

“You can go back to dinner," he suggests in a quieter voice than normal, reaching up to undo the clasp on his cloak with trembling fingers. When he misses the mark twice, Valeriy steps in, gently pushing his hand away to do it himself.

“You should worry more about yourself," he says instead, matching Mitya’s volume. “Besides, I doubt I’m missing much.”

It’s as Valeriy is carefully unclasping the cloak from around Mitya’s shoulders that the idea occurs.

“I’m your excuse." At that, Valeriy pauses for the briefest moment, cheeks flushing, before he resumes, folding the cloak neatly before hanging it over the back of the desk chair. He doesn’t respond, so Mitya continues: “Oh my gods. Me being sick is actually great for you. You finally have a valid excuse to sneak away!”

Valeriy, in spite of his flushed cheeks, sends him a disapproving look.

“It’s not great," he states emphatically, crossing his arms. “I’d never wish for you to be sick, nor do I make a habit of ’sneaking away’, as you put it.”

“But I make a convenient excuse, don’t I?”

"I care more about your wellbeing than I do about attending a dinner, where, might I reiterate, I'm not needed."

"Is that why you didn't care about what I said in the gardens? Because it wasn't actually a downside at all, in your eyes?"

The question goes ignored, just as Valeriy ignores his own flushed cheeks. He moves swiftly onwards.

“What medicine do you take?" he asks. "I’ll have it sent for.”

“Medicine?" Mitya echoes, and the only reason he doesn't laugh or roll his eyes is because he fears it'd agitate the pain in his head. "None. I usually go with thoughts and prayers.”

Valeriy levels him with an unimpressed look, his voice halfway to a sigh. “Mitya.”

Mitya throws his hands up – well, one of them, since the other is still supporting his weight against the mattress – not quite glaring, because that would require him to open his eyes, but squinting vaguely in Valeriy’s direction.

“What? Regular medicine doesn’t do anything. It’s not worth taking anything unless it gets worse.”

He receives a sharp exhale in response.

”Alright. But you’re still not in bed.”

As much as Mitya wants to strike back with some sort of quip, those pillows are calling his name, and he can’t wait to give his eyes a rest. He sits on the edge of the mattress, squinting at Valeriy again.

“Could you close the curtains?”

He gives a nod – seems rather relieved to have something to do – while Mitya struggles with unlacing his boots, dropping them unceremoniously by the side of the bed. By the time Valeriy has shut the curtains and dimmed the lights in the room, leaving only a small lamp glowing on the nightstand, Mitya is reclined against the headboard. The pain isn’t gone, but at least now that he’s still, and it’s dark, and quiet, there’s nothing to send it flaring.

“Can I do anything else?”

Valeriy is a shadow in the dark, his features barely visible where he stands at the end of Mitya’s bed. Reading his face is impossible, and his voice doesn’t reveal much.

Torn between not being a burden and giving Valeriy an excuse to stay – he knows how the other feels about social events – it takes Mitya a moment to make up his mind.

“I should take my inhaler," he mumbles. “Before I fall asleep.”

Even in the dark of the room, he can tell how Valeriy snaps to attention.

“Where is it?”

Beneath the tension in his voice is concern, and a memory from their walk in the gardens flashes through Mitya’s mind. His lips turn up without meaning to.

“It’s not an emergency.” Valeriy visibly relaxes. Figuring that it’s best he knows, given the future they’re preparing for, Mitya goes on, explaining quietly: “I’ve got two. One that I take every morning and night, to manage it. The one you saw was for emergencies.”

Valeriy nods. “Where is it?”

“Should be in my trunk, near the top.”

They’d been delivered to his room at some point during the day, and the two trunks now stand against the wall, right behind the door. Mitya feels a little bad making Valeriy search through his things in the dark, even if the other doesn’t voice any complaints.

“If you wanna turn the light on, I can close my eyes.”

But Valeriy doesn’t acknowledge the comment, and all Mitya hears is some shuffling before the trunk gently clicks shut again. Valeriy returns to his bedside, inhaler in hand.

“Is this it?”

It’s difficult to tell in the dull light, but the casing looks red enough.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

Valeriy remains beside him, like a particularly observant guard dog, until Mitya has taken his puff and dropped it, somewhat haphazardly, onto the nightstand. He’ll figure out where to store it later. The table probably has a drawer.

“My room is at the end of this corridor.” Valeriy speaks in a low voice. “If you need anything, you can come find me at any time. I’m a light sleeper.”

Mitya absolutely will not be waking him up in the middle of the night, no matter the reason, but he thanks him anyway. It feels odd, having the Crown Prince pay such close attention to him, and his attentiveness has been a pleasant surprise, but he’s far from ready to take advantage of it yet.

“Would you like to have dinner brought here?” Valeriy asks, but Mitya shakes his head.

“I’ll probably just sleep. Thank you, though. You didn’t need to do any of this.”

”If we are to be married, I should know how to help you.”

Mitya does not have nearly enough mental awareness to deal with the feelings that comment stirs up, very glad for the darkness of the room. His head still throbs, but it’s less poignant. Sleep will definitely do him good.

Even after Valeriy leaves the room, it takes him a long time to fall asleep.

At some point during the night, Mitya slips out of bed and totters over to the corner. He opens the latch on the grandfather clock and makes quick work of disabling the mechanism, finally allowing silence to settle.

A few hours later, after Mitya has gotten some more sleep and is just beginning to stir, there’s a knock on the door. The noise sends his brain straight into wakefulness.

“Uh… come in!”

He stumbles out of bed, only to collapse backwards when it makes his brain spin. Half-leaned against the bed, Mitya tries to pat down his hair, realizing that he fell asleep in his clothes from yesterday, the dress shirt now rumpled. He’s still trying to gather himself when the door opens, and Valeriy steps inside.

Unlike Mitya, he must have been awake a while. As per usual, he’s dressed in all black, but unlike other occasions, he’s dressed down for once, in a soft-looking sweater and slacks that cling to muscular thighs. He could have stepped straight out of a romance novel.

“Good morning. Are you feeling better?”

Mitya gives up trying to tame his hair, deeming it acceptable enough, and flashes a grin.

“Never better! Sleep really helped. How about you?”

Valeriy pauses, as if surprised by having the question turned back on him, which is stupid. That’s how conversation works, and besides, Mitya wants to know.

“I’m perfectly fine.” His eyes drift sideways – and land on the clock in the corner, latch open, a few cogs laid out on the floor directly in front. He startles, and an apology is on the tip of Mitya’s tongue, but Valeriy beats him to it. “You… broke the clock?”

“What? No.” He waves his hands to shut down the idea, wondering if he’s offended Valeriy somehow. “I just dismantled it. The ticking was too loud.”

Valeriy stares another moment before turning to him, expression difficult to read.

“Father gifted that clock to my mother while they were courting.”

Mitya, who knows nothing about Valeriy’s mother aside from the fact that she isn’t around anymore, freezes. Guilt claws in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“She absolutely hated it.”

Mitya stops, all thoughts grinding to a halt. “Huh?”

“Yeah.” Valeriy glances at him with the barest hint of a smile, eyes much gentler than Mitya had been expecting. “Just like you, she couldn’t stand the ticking.”

“Then why did she keep it?” Mitya asks, giving the clock an appraising look. It’s finely carved, the wood dark and shiny, with silver accents. An expensive gift – but less so for a King, he supposes.

“She found it amusing how terrible my father was at courting. From what she told me, it was all one disaster after another.”

He pauses a second too long, and Mitya huffs.

“Come on, you can’t say that and then not tell me the full story!”

Valeriy’s eyes drift to the side, but there’s a small smile on his face, like he’s lost in memory. Dressed down like this, it might be the most relaxed Mitya has ever seen him.

“Well, there was the grandfather clock, for one. The first time they met was at a dinner party, where he was so stunned by her that he ended up tripping and spilling wine all over her. Another time, he tried to plan a romantic dinner with a menu of seafood, which happened to be the one thing my mother’s allergic to. Luckily, she found his fumbling endearing.”

Mitya’s grin grows wider as he listens. He struggles to connect his mental image of King Pierro with what Valeriy is telling him, but he supposes the king must have been much younger then. Less worn by the world.

“That’s adorable.” A pause. “Never tell the King I said that.”

Valeriy just smiles softly at him, even going so far as to cross a hand over his chest, like he’s taking a vow.

“You have my word.” He straightens again, a flicker of amusement lingering in his eyes even as he changes the topic: “Will you eat with us in the dining hall, or would you rather have breakfast sent up?”

“Oh, I’ll join you, just gimme five minutes to change!”

While Mitya swivels to his trunk for something to wear, Valeriy nods and turns to leave, but pauses with his hand on the doorhandle.

“There’s a morning council held afterwards. I… may have told my father you had an interest in science, and I believe he wants to ask you about something, if you’d be alright with attending.”

Mitya, ruffling through his clothes in search of something that’s both proper and comfortable, doesn’t put too much weight on the words.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.”

Valeriy remains a moment longer, as though waiting for more. Then he gives a curt nod.

“Alright. I will wait for you outside.”

They don't see King Pierro until after breakfast, when he comes to escort them to the throne room. Mitya suspects the escort is a false front, given it can’t take more than two minutes to cross the hallway from the dining room, made under the guise of speaking to him and Valeriy before the council.

“The energy situation has become grave,” Pierro informs as they join him, a step behind when he walks, following like obedient little ducklings. Mitya sticks as close to Valeriy’s side as is socially acceptable. “The lead researcher at the Energy Commission will be attending today.”

Mitya isn’t sure if he’s allowed to respond, glancing to Valeriy for guidance, who merely hums, face turned forward. He does take a small, barely noticeable step closer, enough so that their shoulders brush, and Mitya finds the gesture oddly comforting.

“He has been publishing research on behalf of an anonymous party," Pierro continues, effectively dousing any comfort he’d just gained. Mitya’s breath catches. “I have read each and every article, and he refuses to tell us who this anonymous contributor is, but the situation is becoming dire. Whoever they are, we need to find them.”

Mitya doesn’t have a chance to speak before they’re entering the grand hall.

There’s a dozen people, maybe fewer, in two rows before the throne, and every face turns as they step inside. Almost every single one is unfamiliar, except for one, a face he's only seen a handful of times in his life, but exchanged letters with for years, and at the sight of him, the last of Mitya's hopes are dashed. He's going to be so exposed today.

Mikhail, the lead researcher of the Royal Energy Commission, turns along with everyone else. Their eyes meet at once, and Mikhail’s go wide in recognition. Recognition flashes through them, then confusion, before a frown settles between his brows, and he opens his mouth.

“They already found you? Why am I here, then?”

Pierro levels Mitya with a look that makes him feel like a bug under a microscope, a gaze that sees straight through his skin, into his mind. No explanation is required; the King is more than capable of putting two and two together.

“You’re the anonymous contributor?”

Mitya is well aware that every person in the room is staring at him, including the King and Crown Prince. It’s a lot more attention than he’s used to.

“Had I known you were looking for me earlier, I would’ve said so, Your Majesty.”

He can’t tell what King Pierro is thinking. Not like Valeriy, who might seem unexpressive at times, but has his tells if you pay close enough attention. No, the King is a blank slate, nothing but a sharp, icy eye that burns straight through Mitya as it watches him.

“Hm," he eventually says, and turns forward again, leaving Mitya to heave a sigh of relief. “We will discuss in what capacity you’ll be available for research after this.”

He hadn't meant to keep it from anyone, not truly, but his own parents never cared what he got up to. Putting his own name on research would draw too much attention, and so Mitya, several years ago, had reached out to the Commission to suggest an improvement to an energy issue. Mikhail had been the one to respond, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Their eyes meet as the royal trio crosses the room, and Mikhail mouths an apology that Mitya is quick to wave off, smiling at the man for good measure. He’s done nothing wrong. Really, Mitya would have told everyone – well, at least Pierro and Valeriy – if only he’d had the time.

The rest of the morning council is boring. Mitya’s mind drifts. Luckily, it’s short, and by the time the attendees start filing out of the room, his eyes drift to Valeriy and the King.

As if sensing his attention, Pierro turns to him again. His eye is less terrifying this time around.

“Would you consider taking an official position at the Energy Commission?” he asks.

Mitya had expected the question. Accepting is easy, even if he almost feels wrong for doing so: duties should be unlikeable, shouldn’t they?

But he can’t complain. It’s the best deal he could’ve been given, and he says as much to Valeriy as the two of them leave the room.

"You're happy with this outcome?" Valeriy asks in a polite tone, but the politeness can't fully mask his curiosity, and Mitya pulls closer, too excited to stay still.

"Of course I am! I've basically been told that my duty is to have fun. Well," he amends, "do the thing I'm most interested in. It's barely even a duty at all!"

The smile on Valeriy's face is faint, but it is undeniably there. For him, it's practically akin to a beaming grin.

"In that case, congratulations."

“I told you that you’re intelligent, didn’t I?”

Mitya, who has his head buried in textbooks, takes a moment to realize that Valeriy is talking to him, and another to actually react. Looking up from a text, especially one he’d been so engrossed in, always leaves him in a daze. He stares across the table, at the armchair where Valeriy is sitting, book in hand. His words don’t immediately register.

“What?”

“And that anyone would be honored to have you by their side?” Valeriy continues, and that’s enough to make Mitya’s cheeks warm.

“Well, now you’re just flattering me,” he remarks, leaning back in his chair to stretch out his back after being curled up for so long. They’re in a smaller section of Snezhnograd’s Royal library, one accessible from within the palace. Aside from them, the room is empty.

“Yes.” His blatant admittance is startling. ”You make it very easy.”

”Are you always this direct?” Mitya questions, to avoid having to flounder through an actual response. It’s like Valeriy is purposely trying to charm him, except nothing on the man’s face suggests that to be the case: he’s not awkward, or fumbling, or even particularly affected by his own words. The compliments fall naturally, and that almost makes it worse, at least for Mitya’s heart.

“My father isn’t easy to impress,” Valeriy continues, ignoring the question while carefully closing his own book, laying it on the desk between them. “And you’ve already done it twice.”

“Wait, twice?” He blinks, searching his brain. “With the science, sure, but that’s only one time.”

“When you first arrived, too. You told him off for not trusting my judgment.”

Mitya gapes.

“That’s how it came across? I didn’t mean to scold the literal King!”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Yet again, Valeriy’s voice betrays no emotion, all breezy and casual. In the glow from the desklamp, and without his fancy overcoat on, he looks very soft as his eyes travel over the bookshelves around them. Then he stills. “I hope these first few days haven’t been too overwhelming?”

The concern is warming, and Mitya smiles.

“Don’t worry! I’m having a great time. And you're very good company. If you keep being so perfect, I might fall for you.”

He taps his foot to Valeriy’s shin beneath the table, making sure his voice sounds teasing enough not to be taken too seriously, to hide just how serious he actually is. The levity comes easily.

Instead, Valeriy clears his throat and averts his gaze.

“Speaking of,” he says, cheeks looking distinctly pink, and Mitya promptly freezes. Is this the moment Valeriy tells him that he’s changed his mind; he’s rescinding the proposal? “If you are not opposed, I would like to court you properly.”

With the overload of thoughts rushing through his head, it takes Mitya a moment to realize what he’s saying.

“Court me?”

Mitya manages to stop himself from adding something stupid, like "why would you want to do that", but in exchange, he probably looks like a fish out of water. His brain has gone utterly blank.

“Only if you want to,” Valeriy mumbles, as if that might be the issue. The uncertainty is rare on him, and not a good look, not when Mitya's feelings are so completely at odds with what he seems to be worrying about.

“Of course I do!” he exclaims, and then, leaving no time for a response: “I thought you were the one who wanted to keep it professional?”

Valeriy blinks.

“When did I say that?”

His words bring Mitya pause, and he tries to think back on the conversation. He frowns. Sure, Valeriy might not have said it in those words, but he definitely didn't talk about any feelings, or interest in Mitya, not beyond in an official capacity, his suitability for the role of King's Consort. It really sounded like it was all, or at least mostly, convenience.

“That’s not what you meant?”

“No?”

“Why do you sound like you’re asking me?”

“I thought…” Valeriy trails off, then shakes his head. “It’s no matter.” A pause. “Is that a yes?”

The hope is faint, brittle, but undeniable in his voice. Or maybe Mitya is hoping for too much. Or maybe...

"Mitya?"

Oh, right. A response. He remembers how words work, definitely.

“Yeah. Yes! Of course it is!”

Mitya couldn’t stop smiling if he tried, and there is the faintest trace of amusement on Valeriy's face as their eyes meet, but also softness in the way his gaze rests on Mitya, a tiny quirk to his lips; not even a crack in his typically stoic facade, but a complete shedding of the mask, in the same way he's removed that elegant overcoat, leaving bare his heart, unmasked.