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Once upon a time there was a beautiful young man who lived in a village by the castle. He was tall and elegant and well-dressed when he could afford to be, which wasn't often because he had lost both parents to fever at a very young age. He was taken in by another family who, alas, treated him very poorly—
"Hey! We do not!"
—and often forced the young man to perform hard labor while they lounged about in indolence. They gave him a room—
"Yeah, my room."
—but it was only a small, drafty garret atop the house. The young man spent many hours sitting in the window—
"In my room."
—gazing across the village and fields at the walls of the castle, dreaming about the time when he could escape his life of toil and drudgery—
"By thinking of ways to get out of doing the dishes when it's your turn."
—but for many years, it was not to be. Although the young man was poor, he was quite lovely, and it was very easy to be lost while gazing into his soulful eyes set in a face as delicate as a porcelain doll's—
"Seriously? Seriously?"
Ryan lowered the letter and scowled at Spencer, who had fallen off the bed laughing and was now lying on the floor. "What?" Ryan snapped. "Just because you don't have a poetic bone in your body..."
"Dude," Spencer said, gasping for breath. "That's not poetry. Those are the ravings of a madman."
Ryan huffed and folded the letter. "I think it's nice."
Spencer raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You think it would be nice to have Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is gazing into your soulful eyes?"
"Maybe," Ryan said. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I think you're jealous because you never get letters from admirers."
In truth he had no desire to do any sort of gazing with Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is, but he wasn't going to complain if people wanted to send him love letters, especially not people who occasionally dined at the castle and were acquainted with the royal family. Ryan looked out the window—the room he shared with Spencer was small and drafty, but so was the rest of the house—and noticed that the blue flags were flying over the gleaming white walls of the castle. That meant the prince was in residence.
Spencer shrugged, unconcerned. "I don't want to get letters from crazy people. But at least he got the part about how you always stare at the castle right."
Ryan turned away from the window so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. "I don't stare."
"You do too."
"I do not." Ryan felt his face growing hot. "Just because it's the only thing we can see from this stupid place doesn't mean I'm staring."
Spencer rolled his eyes. "Sure, whatever." He turned over and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll leave you to your love letters and your drafty prison. I've got chores to do."
Ryan felt a pang of guilt as Spencer left the room. He'd lived with the Smith family for so long he barely remembered his own parents, and Spencer's parents had never been anything but kind to him. If it weren't for them, he would have ended up starving and alone, wandering barefoot across the kingdom until he wasted away, or was eaten by wolves. (Spencer's sisters were very bloodthirsty, so Ryan was never sure which stories Mrs. Smith had altered to suit their tastes and which actually ended in bloodshed and death.)
Wandering and wasting away until a nobleman plucked him out of the wilderness and nursed him back to health all sounded very tragic and romantic in epic poetry, but Ryan kind of preferred the life he had: sharing a room with Spencer, playing pranks on the twins, dodging chores, toying with admirers, helping Mrs. Smith with the sewing, daydreaming about going to the castle to meet the prince.
Ryan settled down by the window with a quill and ink to write a reply to Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is. (Ryan did know the man's name, he just thought Spencer's nickname was funnier.) But he ended up staring across the village rooftops and golden fields again, watching the blue flags dance in the autumn breeze and listening to the sound of Spencer chopping firewood somewhere below.
-
They learned about the royal masquerade ball a few days later.
Ryan had always imagined that news of a royal masquerade ball would be spread by engraved invitations sent out to select households, or couriers visiting each person the royal family deemed suitable, or perhaps secret messages written on scented cards and sealed in fine envelopes.
What really happened was this:
The twins burst in through the kitchen door just before dinner, shrieking at the top of their lungs. To Ryan it sounded like the screams of banshees escaping from the depths of hell, but Mrs. Smith smiled brightly and said, "Oh, that's wonderful! There's going to be a ball!"
"And the whole village is invited!" the twins screamed in unison.
That was how the Smith family, including Ryan, received their invitation to the royal masquerade ball. It was somewhat lacking in style, Ryan thought, but he could hardly fault the prince for being so kind and benevolent and magnanimous and generous and—
"Dreamy?" Spencer said.
Ryan blinked at him. "What?"
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"Your 'don't bother me, I'm thinking of adjectives to describe Prince Jon' look," Spencer said. "It looks kind of like this." Spencer made a face that bore a startling resemblance to a fish that had been hit over the head with a rock.
Ryan tried to decide if he could get away with snickering while still being offended. "I don't look like that," he said. "And I wasn't thinking about the prince at all."
"Uh-huh," Spencer said, unconvinced. "It's not like the prince is actually going to hang out with the peasants at the ball. They're just inviting the whole village so when it's the middle of winter and we're all freezing and hungry, they can say, 'Hey, don't you remember how kind and generous we were back in the autumn? We let you party at the castle! We don't have to help now!'"
Ryan felt strangely, suddenly angry. "It's not like that," he said, too loudly. He dropped his voice when Mrs. Smith glanced over at them. "They have balls all the time at the castle. They didn't have to invite everybody."
Spencer shrugged. "Whatever. It sounds stupid to me."
Mrs. Smith set a bowl of potatoes on the table and smiled kindly at Ryan. "I think it sounds splendid," she said. Mrs. Smith loved parties. "Maybe you'll get a chance to meet the prince after all, Ryan."
Ryan felt a wave of horror wash over him. He didn't know which was more embarrassing: the fact that Mrs. Smith knew about his hopeless crush on Prince Jon, or the fact that she was apparently rooting for him. He was considering burying his face in the potatoes in shame when she went on:
"Have you any idea what you're going to wear? A masquerade will be so exciting!"
The wave of horror turned into a full-fledged tempest of pure, blind panic. Ryan grabbed Spencer's arm, ignoring Spencer's squawk of pain, and hissed, "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god."
"Dude," Spencer said. "I can't feel my fingers."
"But Spencer," Ryan said. He was distantly aware of Mrs. Smith laughing, but he barely heard it over the sound of his own inevitable humiliation. "I don't have anything to wear."
Spencer said, "If you don't let go of me, I'm going to punch you."
Ryan let go, but the excitement he'd felt at the prospect of going to a masquerade ball at the castle was gone now. There would be all kinds of people at the ball, beautiful ladies handsome lords from the wealthiest, oldest families in the area. Ryan couldn't compete with that. He knew Mrs. Smith would help him if he asked, but they gave him so much already; he couldn't ask for frivolous new clothes for one night. There was no way Prince Jon would even notice Ryan.
Ryan sighed and slumped in his chair.
"Hey." Spencer gave him an odd look, and Ryan braced himself for another round of mockery. But Spencer only said, "Don't worry about it. If Prince Jon is too much of an idiot to talk to you, you can just get drunk behind the stables with the rest of us."
Ryan couldn't curse with Mrs. Smith standing right there, but he mouthed fuck you at Spencer and felt immeasurably better when Spencer laughed out loud in response.
-
"It's no use," Ryan announced dramatically. It was the evening of the ball and all of the clothing Ryan owned—plus most of what Spencer owned and a few things that rightfully belonged to Mrs. Smith and the twins—was spread over their room. "I can't go."
Spencer stopped halfway through putting on his best jacket. It wasn't a very good jacket; the elbows were patched and it was tight across the shoulders. But Spencer didn't seem to care, and his parents and sisters didn't either. They were all excited about the ball, and Ryan could hear the twins giggling downstairs as they put on their dresses and fixed their hair.
Ryan realized Spencer was still staring at him. "I don't have anything to wear," Ryan said.
Spencer slipped the jacket on the rest of the way and spread his arms wide. "You have lots to wear."
"I'm not going dressed as an evil vigilante lumberjack," Ryan said. He wasn't one hundred percent certain that's what Spencer's masquerade costume was supposed to be, but he didn't care. He didn't have anything that would stand out at the ball, so there was no point in him going at all.
"Just put something on," Spencer said. "We're going to be late."
Ryan sat down on the edge of his bed. "I'm not going."
"Why the hell not?" Spencer asked incredulously.
"Because it's stupid," Ryan said. He knew it was unfair, but he added, "You said it was stupid. It's not like the pr—the royal family even cares if we're there."
"But you... I thought you..."
Ryan couldn't remember if he'd ever seen Spencer genuinely at a loss for words before. "I don't want to go," Ryan said. "I changed my mind."
Spencer said in a small voice, "I thought you were really looking forward to it."
"Well, you thought wrong," Ryan said. It was a bald-faced lie and he fully expected Spencer to call him on it, because Spencer always knew when he was lying.
But Spencer only said, "Oh. I guess I—are you sure?"
Ryan nodded. "Yes."
Spencer looked at him for a long moment, but when Ryan met his eyes he looked away quickly. "Fine," Spencer said, his voice suddenly loud and sharp. "It'll be more fun without you there mooning all over the prince and acting like an idiot anyway."
He turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. Ryan stood up and took three steps across the room before he stopped himself. It wasn't his fault Spencer was in a bad mood. It was just a stupid masquerade ball anyway.
So Ryan turned around and threw himself onto his bed. He heard Spencer talking to his parents downstairs, the girls laughing about something. He imagined they were talking about him and felt his face grow hot. Spencer would be rolling his eyes and the twins would be giggling and Mrs. Smith would be nodding knowingly and saying, "Oh, he's just having one of his moods," and they would head out the door and forget all about him.
When he heard the front door shut and the sound of the wagon rattle away, Ryan knew he was right. He got up to look out the window. Spencer was sitting on the back of the wagon, and he looked up right as Ryan glanced down. Ryan backed away from the window quickly.
"Wow," said a voice behind him. "You're a fucking idiot."
Ryan spun around.
There was a person sitting on his bed, right on the spot he'd just vacated. He was a man about Ryan's age. He was wearing indecently tight trousers and red glasses and no shirt, and his dark hair was sticking up every which way in a spiky mess.
And he had wings.
Bright blue, sparkly wings that scattered a sheen of glittery dust all over the room when he jumped to his feet.
"I mean, dude," the winged man said, "I've had some dumb ones before, but you really take the cake."
Ryan was stuck between being offended by the inexplicable insults and terrified of the strange glittery man in his bedroom, so the reply he came up with sounded something like, "Urnk?"
The man bounced in place—no, he flapped in place, lifting himself a few inches off the floor and spreading even more glitter around—and went on, "You're letting your fear of rejection keep you from what might be your one and only chance at true love?" The guy shook his head sadly. "Pathetic."
"I'm not—" Ryan closed his mouth. Opened it again. "But I'm not..."
The man with the wings put his hands on his hips and gave Ryan a knowing look.
Ryan sighed. Wasn't that exactly what he was doing? He was afraid Prince Jon wouldn't so much as glance his way, or he would laugh if Ryan tried to talk to him, or make fun of Ryan to all his royal friends, or worse—Ryan had an active imagination and he could come up with quite a few worses, some of them involving horses and improbable leather contraptions—and it was easier to not take the chance.
But, as painful as that realization was, it was not his foremost problem.
"Who the fuck are you? How did you get in?" Ryan demanded. "And why the hell are you glittering all over my room?" He matched the man's hands-on-hips pose with one of his own. He wished Spencer were still home; Spencer would be better at intimidating a strange winged man.
The man lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers, shedding more glitter from his fingertips. "Magic," he said. "That's the answer to two of those questions."
"Who are you?"
The man jauntily jutted one hip and tossed his head. "I'm your motherfucking fairy godmother. I'm here to make your wish come true."
Ryan said, "I didn't make a wish."
"Yes you did."
"No I didn't."
"Yes," the fairy said firmly, "you did. Trust me on this one. I know a shitload more about wishes than you ever will." He was fluttering again, bobbing between the ceiling and floor and turning somersaults in the air. It made Ryan dizzy to watch.
"But..." Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head quickly, as though he could dislodge the glittery fairy from his room. "But how can you be my fairy godmother? You're not a woman. I don't think. Are you?"
The fairy landed flat-footed on the floor and raised his eyebrows. He was probably trying to look skeptical, Ryan thought, but mostly he looked ridiculous. "If you have trouble figuring out who has girl parts and who doesn't, it's no wonder you suck so much at romance."
Ryan bristled. "I don't suck, I'm just very particular about who I—I, um."
The fairy's eyebrows were getting more and more skeptical, and he looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Ryan scowled. "That doesn't answer my question."
The fairy shrugged: more glitter dusted Ryan's bed. At this rate he was never going to be able to get it all out and Spencer would mock him forever. "I don't know, dude," the fairy said. "Your parents wanted you to have a fairy godmother to look after you, but apparently they weren't too choosy when they cast the spell. So poof, here I am."
Ryan felt a sharp twist in his chest at the mention of his parents wanting somebody to look out for him. He couldn't ask the fairy to poof away again, not if his parents sent him, but that didn't mean he wanted help. "But you're still wrong," Ryan pointed out. "I never made a wish."
The fairy looked up at the ceiling and flapped his wings in annoyance. "Why do I always get stuck with the stubborn ones?"
"If you think I'm stubborn, you're lucky you're not Spencer's fairy godmother," Ryan said.
The fairy's eyes widened behind his red-rimmed glasses. "Spencer? Is that the name of your one true love?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and fluttered his wings.
Ryan stared at him. "What? No!"
"Oh." The fairy frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," Ryan said. "Spencer's not—Spencer's my friend."
"What kind of friend?" The fairy leered. "The naked fondling kind?"
"No! No way!" Ryan hated the way his voice went high and squeaky. "There is no nakedness." Except for when they were changing. Or bathing. Or swimming in the creek in the summer. But those didn't count, Ryan was sure of it. "No. You're a terrible fairy godmother."
The fairy shrugged. "Yeah, well, you're a terrible fairy godson, so I think we're even. If it's not this Spencer dude, who is your one true love? You gotta give me something to work with."
Ryan sat on the edge of Spencer's bed and looked down at the floor. "I don't have one," he mumbled.
"What's that?" the fairy said, cupping his ear like a deaf old man. "You have to speak up!"
"I don't have a one true love," Ryan repeated, more loudly. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I don't believe in tying myself to one person forever in an outdated ritual of ownership based on the heartless, commodity-driven trade of family names and fortunes. It's wrong to settle for one possibility just because of a stupid tradition that denies our fundamental natural urges to experiment with many different experiences throughout our lives."
"Ah," the fairy said, nodding. "You're in love with the prince."
Ryan sighed. "Yeah. He's so nice."
"And hot," the fairy said. "Funny nose, but it works with his face."
"Yeah." Ryan sighed again. He might or might not have written a poem or two dedicated to Prince Jon's funny nose. "But it's no use. I'm just a peasant. Princes don't talk to peasants."
"Dude." The fairy clapped his hands and fluttered up to the ceiling so fast he smacked the rafters loudly, then dropped and landed on the floor with a loud thump. Blue glitter drifted down to the floorboards. "What the hell do you think I'm here for? Princes are easy, Ryan." The fairy bounced on the balls of his feet and grinned and rubbed his hands together in excitement, and suddenly he looked a lot less like a terrifying winged fey and more like a kid who wanted to get all his friends into trouble. "Princes are awesome. I love princes. We can work with princes. I was just afraid you were going to name a virtuous woodcutter's son and then we'd be out of luck."
"Wouldn't it be a lot easier to get a virtuous woodcutter's son to fall in love with me than a prince?"
The fairy shook his head. "You haven't met very many virtuous woodcutters' sons, have you?"
Ryan had to admit that was true. The only woodcutters' sons he'd met were bullies who thought it was fun to tie up skinny orphan boys from the village and pretend to feed them into the saw at the mill. Ryan was glad they'd all ended up with black eyes and broken noses, but it had been rather humiliating when Spencer had to rescue him.
"You can really make Prince Jon notice me?" Ryan asked, eyeing the fairy with renewed interest.
The fairy spread his arms wide, scattering glitter everywhere. "Haven't you been listening?"
"I have been," Ryan said defensively. "You haven't told me your name. Or should I just call you My Motherfucking Fairy Godmother? That's kind of a mouthful."
"It's nothing compared to some of the lines of poetry you've written."
"Hey! What are you doing reading my poetry?"
The fairy ignored him and went on, "Because, I mean, dude, formaldehyde won't even be invented for five hundred years. Do you really need to try to cram it into iambic pentameter?"
"It scans," Ryan muttered.
"Sure it does, Shakespeare," the fairy said indulgently. "But just in case you're too tongue-tied and awestruck by my magnificent powers to manage My Motherfucking Fairy Godmother every time you need my attention, you can call me by my name."
"Which is?" Ryan prompted. He tried to remember all the fairy names he'd learned in the old stories and written down in his journals. "Ealhdun? Aelfdune? Hreidmar? Oberon? Aelfric?"
"Brendon," the fairy said, giving Ryan an amused look. "Remind me to make sure the prince names all of your future offspring, okay?"
"Offspring?" Ryan repeated in a choked voice.
But Brendon was going on again. "So what do you need?" He made a thoughtful face and started ticking off items on his fingers. "Riches and jewels? A kingdom of your own? A victorious and heroic personal history? An, ah, shall we say, an impressive endowment?" He glanced down at Ryan and winked. "Never mind. I can see you don't need help in that area."
Ryan couldn't decide if he wanted to cross his legs or subtly spread them apart, so he ended up doing some kind of weird foot-shuffle and catching his toe on the edge of Spencer's blanket. "Shut up," he said, his face hot again. "That's not proper."
"Just because none of your admirers have composed an ode to your assets doesn't mean it's not proper," Brendon said. His thoughtful expression shifted into one that was considerably more alarming. "Why haven't they, by the way?"
Ryan feigned ignorance. "Why haven't they what?"
Brendon waved his hand airily; there was even glitter on the ceiling now. At least it was a nice color: pretty blue like a summer sky, or Spencer's eyes. "You know," Brendon said. "More poetry." He struck an exaggerated pose like an actor on stage and recited in a booming voice:
"There once was a boy who was thick,
But possessed of a very large dick.
Every maid in town
Would take off her gown
But run when the lad showed his stick!"
Brendon dropped his hands to his side and beamed. "Like that. Why don't your admirers write poetry like that?"
Ryan gaped at him. "I," he began weakly. "I don't..."
Brendon's smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter surprise. "Oh," he said. "Oh. Oh my god, Ryan. I've never had a virgin fairy godson before!" He jumped up and down and clapped his hands like a kid on Christmas morning. "I take back everything I said before. You're my favorite fairy godson of all time. We need to get started right away. Should we start with your kingdom?"
Ryan struggled to recover himself. "I don't need a kingdom," he said quickly. He could use the help of a fairy godmother, he was willing to admit that, but he had too much pride to be dishonest about it. "Nothing like that."
Brendon nodded sagaciously. "I see. You want your one true love to see you for who you really are." His eyes were twinkling and the corners of his lips twitching.
"Yes," Ryan said decisively.
"But I can still help you," Brendon said. Ryan wondered if he was imagining the slight plea in his voice. "I'm totally helpful. I've got magic. Just tell me what you need."
"I need a costume to wear to the masquerade ball."
Brendon looked vaguely disappointed. "A costume?"
"A fantastic costume," Ryan said. "The best costume ever. A costume that will make everybody turn and stare and the prince won't be able to take his eyes off me."
Brendon's expression turned thoughtful, then scheming, then downright cheerful. "Right," he said. He jumped up and flapped his wings so he stayed there, bobbing just above the floor. "We've got work to do."
-
An hour later Brendon was collapsed face down on Ryan's bed, and Ryan was peering critically at himself in the full-length mirror Brendon had magically transformed out of a chair.
"I don't know," Ryan said, turning slowly from side to side. "Do you think the feathers are too much?"
Brendon beat his wings feebly and said, "Mmmph."
"Yeah, you're right." Ryan nodded and tugged on a pair of elbow-length fingerless gloves. "They look good with the lace."
Brendon groaned and rolled over onto his side. "Do you always take this long to get dressed?"
"Usually Spencer is here making me go faster," Ryan said absently.
"Oh, right. Spencer." Brendon sat up and started bouncing on the bed. "Are you sure you don't need me to conjure anything else? I love conjuring."
"No thank you," Ryan said politely. Brendon had already conjured more of a wardrobe than Ryan would be able to wear in a year, and Ryan suspected he was getting a bit annoyed every time Ryan said, "No, wait, can you make it blue?" Ryan adjusted the tilt of his hat, considered his reflection, and adjusted it again. "Do I look rakish?"
Brendon tilted his head to one side. "If I say yes will it get us out of here sooner?"
"Aren't you supposed to be helping me? I mean, like, giving me advice and stuff?" Ryan had only the vaguest idea what a fairy godmother was supposed to do.
Brendon stood up, bent his knees, and jumped backward in a neat tuck that ended with his standing up on Ryan's bed. He started to jump on the bed, making the frame creak and glitter fly everywhere. "You want advice? What kind of advice? Because I gotta admit, I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to wooing princes. There was that time with that one prince who really, really wanted a unicorn, like, more than anything, and he was very appreciative, if you know what I mean, but that's really more a human thing, you know?" Brendon stopped bouncing suddenly and planted his feet on the bed. "I could give you blowjob tips."
Ryan started to choke on his tongue but smoothly turned it into a cough instead. "Tips?" he managed.
"I hope you already know to keep your teeth to yourself, but it really is easier said than done, so it never hurts to remind you," Brendon said. "And if the dude's into it you can do this thing where you massage, you know, so you're using both your hands and your mouth."
"Hands?" Ryan repeated.
"Or just a finger or two, if he's into that," Brendon said. He had a dreamy expression on his face. "It's totally awesome if he's a hair-puller, but you gotta be sure you know the difference between a 'oh god, don't stop' hair pull and a 'oh god, that's delicate merchandise' hair pull, especially when you're new at this."
"Hair?" Ryan said weakly. He shifted uncomfortably. His trousers, already too tight, were starting to feel a little tighter.
"You want a demonstration?" Brendon said brightly. He brought two fingers up to his mouth and ran his tongue along them slowly, still smiling.
Ryan face was so hot he felt lightheaded. "What?"
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Brendon said, in the same tone of voice Mrs. Smith had used that day she'd sat Ryan and Spencer down and told them where babies came from. "Enthusiasm can make up for a lack of skill a lot of the time—"
"No," Ryan said quickly. "No demonstration."
Brendon dropped his hand and sighed. "Pure as the driven snow. It's kind of cute, you know. And just because the opportunity has never presented itself—"
"The opportunity has presented itself plenty of times," Ryan said. He began fussing angrily with his cravat.
"Yeah?" Brendon dropped to sit cross-legged on the bed—Ryan couldn't even see the blanket anymore underneath all the glitter—and rested his chin on his hands. "When?"
"Mr. What's-His-Face wanted me to run away with him to Cathay last November," Ryan said. He played with the cuffs of his shirt and adjusted his collar again. He was running out of things to fix on his costume, but he wasn't quite ready to go yet. "Does my hair look okay?"
"Why didn't you go?"
Ryan said, "Spencer got really sick last winter. I wasn't going to leave." Mr. What's-His-Face had said some really awful things about the Smith family when Ryan told him he wasn't going, and Ryan had punched him in the face. Then he'd run home and waited through the most horrible week of his life wondering if Spencer would ever wake up from his fever and make fun of Ryan for spraining his fingers punching somebody.
"Is that so," Brendon said, blinking at Ryan behind his glasses. Ryan had the distinct impression Brendon was mocking him, but he couldn't quite figure out how. "Just Mr. What's-His-Face, then?"
"Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is writes poems about me," Ryan said. He laughed a little and added, "They're not very good poems, but they're definitely better when Spencer reads them in funny voices."
"Right, sure," Brendon said, nodding. "Do any of your admirers have normal names?"
"Of course they do," Ryan said. "We just use the nicknames so Mrs. Smith doesn't know who we're talking about."
"'We' means you and Spencer, right?"
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Duh, who else? How am I going to get to the castle, anyway?" Through the window he could see the castle all lit up with torchlight, and even though it was too far he imagined he could hear the music and laughter of the ball.
"Duh, I can fly," Brendon said. "Hey, while we're talking about names, remind me: what's the name of your one true love again?"
Ryan stared at Brendon. "He's the prince," he said slowly. "Prince Jon. Are you sure you've done this fairy godmother thing before?"
Brendon jumped to his feet. "Just checking. Ready to fly?" He stretched his wings out and grinned.
Ryan's mouth dropped open. "Fly?"
"C'mon, I'm an awesome flyer," Brendon said. He held his arms open wide and danced in place a little. "I can show you a whole new world. And I've never dropped anybody—well, there was that once, but he bit me so that doesn't count. We'll be at the castle in no time."
Ryan shook his head vehemently. "Uh-uh. No way. No flying. You're—you're a fairy."
Brendon looked at him and said slowly, "Yes, Ryan. I know that. That's why I can fly."
"But you're small."
"Hey!" Brendon made a face and crossed his arms over his chest. "You don't have to be an asshole about it. Not everybody's lucky enough to have a battering ram in his pants." His insulted look faded quickly, replaced by the thoughtful, impish expression that was becoming all too familiar to Ryan. He put one hand on his hip and opened his mouth: "There once was—"
Ryan clapped his hands over his ears. "La la la," he sang, but he wasn't loud enough. "La la la!"
"There once was a master of warriors,
Who kept a weapon in his drawers.
Like a catapult rock
Was his mighty hard cock
As it smashed down all enemy doors!"
Brendon cracked up laughing as soon as he was done, doubling over and gasping for breath. Ryan struggled to keep a straight face, but his lips were twitching and he felt laughter bubbling up in his chest.
"You're insane," he said, biting his lip. "Are all fairy godmothers insane, or are you special?"
Brendon recovered himself and wiped his eyes dramatically. "I'm special because you're special, Ryan. But if we don't get a move on, the ball will be over before you ever get to the castle. Hold on tight."
Brendon jumped forward and threw his arms around Ryan. Ryan felt the wind from Brendon's wings all around his face, and his feet lifted off the ground.
"No!" Ryan shouted, struggling and shoving at Brendon's arms. He squeezed his eyes shut. "No flying! Put me down! Put me down right now!"
"Are you sure?" Brendon's voice was very close to his ear.
"Right fucking now, Brendon," Ryan snapped.
"Okay."
The floor was considerably farther away than Ryan had expected.
After he stopped seeing stars, he glared up at Brendon from where he was sprawled on the floor, still hovering above him, beating his wings slowly and smiling wickedly. Ryan stood up with as much dignity as he could muster and straightened his costume. "I'm not going to fly," Ryan said. He waved his hand imperiously. "Go conjure me a horse or something."
"You're no fun," Brendon said. But he sketched a rough salute and dove out the bedroom window, singing to himself as he went.
Ryan listened with growing trepidation to the commotion in the yard below, and after checking himself one last time in the mirror, he made his way down the steps and outside.
"What do you think?"
Ryan stood in the doorway, gaping at what he saw. Brendon had conjured considerably more than a horse. There was an entire carriage sitting in front of the house. It was golden and shimmering and there were four shiny horses prancing before it.
"Wow," Ryan said. "That's really—why is it shaped like that?"
Brendon looked a little cagey. "Shaped like what?"
The carriage was round, but it wasn't exactly round. It looked kind of like two huge globes had been mashed together.
"It looks like a giant butt," Ryan said.
Brendon threw his hands in the air. "It's not my fault! Jeez, you're so fucking picky. Transformations are tricky business and I have to work with what I've got here. That huge buttfaced pumpkin in the garden was all I could find on short notice."
Ryan knew exactly which pumpkin Brendon was talking about. He and Spencer had great plans for it when it came time to carve jack-o-lanterns. "You turned a pumpkin into a carriage?" he asked, impressed.
Brendon waved airily. "Magic. Child's play. Bippedy-boppedy-boo. You know."
"Where did the horses come from? Cucumbers?"
Brendon glanced away shiftily. "Not exactly. So, hey," he went on quickly, "you're already late for the ball, Mr. Ross. Get your butt in this giant butt so we can take you to your destiny."
With a flourish and a shower of glitter, the carriage door banged open and steps unfolded to the ground. Smiling and shaking his head in amazement—giant butt pumpkin or not, a magical carriage was pretty fucking cool—Ryan climbed up the steps and settled into the plush seat. Then he leaned forward and called out the window, "Hey, wait, so who's driving this thing?"
The carriage rocked a little as somebody settled on the driver's seat. "I am," Brendon replied. "Don't worry. I'm an awesome driver!"
Ryan started to reply, but all he managed was a terrified yelp as the carriage leapt forward. He crashed back into the seat, clinging for dear life.
-
The masquerade ball was in full swing by the time the magical carriage rattled across the drawbridge into the castle. Ryan clung to the seat for a moment even after it stopped, terrified that it would start racing along again, but he finally let go when the door opened and Brendon stuck his head in.
"We're here," Brendon said, grinning. "You ready?"
Ryan wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and swallowed. "Yes. Yes, I'm ready."
"Come on, kid," Brendon said, holding out his hand to help Ryan down. There were other people around, castle guards and partygoers, but nobody seemed to notice the glittery blue fairy in their midst. "Now, there are some things you have to remember," Brendon said. He took Ryan's other hand and faced him, looking Ryan up and down. "Be yourself, don't drink too much, try not to act too eager but don't play it too coy either, use lots of spit on your fingers if you're feeling adventurous, and make sure you're out of here by three, because that's when all this magic shit goes away."
"Three?" Ryan asked, looking at Brendon sharply. "Isn't midnight traditional?"
Brendon wrinkled his nose. "What kind of lame-ass party ends at midnight?"
"Oh," Ryan said. He swallowed again and tried to ignore how nervous he was. "Good point. Yeah."
Brendon smiled again, and it was soft, almost gentle. "Go get 'em, tiger." He stood on his tiptoes and kissed Ryan's forehead. "Your one true love is waiting."
Then Brendon was jumping back up onto the carriage seat and the carriage was rolling away.
Ryan took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked up the steps into the grand ballroom.
The ballroom was packed with people who all seemed to be drinking and laughing and dancing and having a good time. Ryan froze in the doorway for a second, his heart racing, but somebody jostled him from behind and he pushed his way into the crowd. He saw a lot of people he knew, but most of them looked at him with wide-eyed curiosity rather than greeting him. After a few minutes Ryan realized that many of the villagers didn't recognize him at all: his costume was better than he had thought. It was definitely a lot better than some of the costumes he saw. He wished he could find Spencer so they could make fun of the woman with the dead mongoose on her hat.
Ryan didn't see the prince or any member of the royal family anywhere. He did see Mr. What's-His-Face, but the man looked right over him without a flicker of recognition, and Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is did the same a few minutes later.
Annoyed, Ryan tried mingling for a while and turned down a few invitations to dance, and he was growing bored and tired of the crowd when he heard a familiar laugh nearby. He turned and stood on his toes so he could see over the dancers. Ryan saw Spencer throwing his head back and laughing, and he started shoving his way closer, happy to have found somebody he actually wanted to talk to.
Before he got there, Ryan stopped short in the middle of the room. Spencer was talking to a pretty blonde girl Ryan didn't know, and they were both smiling and laughing and their cheeks were flushed and their hands touching and—and it looked like Spencer was having a grand old time at the ball without Ryan. For a second it seemed like Spencer was looking right at him, but the blonde girl said something and Spencer looked away before Ryan could be sure.
Ryan frowned and tugged at the lacy edges of his gloves. Spencer had been sure he would hate the party. Ryan was annoyed that Spencer had apparently been so wrong, but whatever, it's not like Ryan cared. If Spencer wanted to waste his time talking to stupid girls with curly hair, that was his problem.
Ryan turned around and fought his way out of the crowd again. There was a staircase at one side, and at the top of the staircase there was a long corridor lined with pillars. Between just about every pillar there were couples engaged in various activities that involved a lot of clutching and gasping. Ryan walked past quickly and then he was on the wall of the castle, overlooking the village and the countryside.
He leaned over the edge and looked down, trying to spot his magical carriage amongst all the others, but he couldn't find it. Ryan sighed. He felt kind of bad that Brendon had gone through so much work conjuring up a costume and a carriage and everything and all Ryan had done so far was turn down dance invitations and run away from the party. But he didn't want to go back inside.
"Hey, excuse me. Do you have a light?"
Ryan spun around, startled. "No, sorry, I—" The rest of his answer caught in his throat.
It was the prince. The prince was standing right there, right beside Ryan on the wall of the castle. He was holding a pipe and frowning at it as though it had disappointed him in some way. His fine white shirt was half-unbuttoned and his hair was mussed up and his crown was knocked askew and he was inexplicably barefoot, but it was definitely the prince.
He was a lot shorter than Ryan had expected.
"Um," Ryan said. He couldn't seem to make his tongue work.
"No?" The prince shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's kind of dumb. It's not like anybody goes around carrying a candle in their pants."
In Ryan's mind, a voice that sounded an awful lot like his fairy godmother started to recite, There once was a boy with a candle—* But he shook his head quickly to silence it. "Sorry," he said, sincerely. He totally would have brought a candle in his pants if he had known Prince Jon would need it. Then he had an idea and said, "Oh, if you wait just a second..."
Ryan darted back inside and down the corridor. He reached up to the first sconce he came to, plucked the candle out of its holder, and carried it back outside. Shyly, he offered it to the prince.
Prince Jon said, "Dude, you're awesome. I should've thought of that."
"It's nothing," Ryan said quickly, ducking his head.
Prince Jon chewed on the end of his pipe and looked at Ryan speculatively. "I'm Jon," he said, offering Ryan his hand.
Ryan laughed. He certainly didn't mean to and he felt so mortified he wanted to jump off the castle wall, but he really, really couldn't help it. "I know, your highness," he said in a strangled voice.
Prince Jon grinned and looked down and scuffed his bare toe against the stone. "Yeah, I guess most everybody does. I always forget when I'm gone from here for a while. It's kind of a nice traveling in other kingdoms. I like places where nobody knows who I am. Then I'm back here and it's 'your highness this' and 'your highness that' and 'Let's invite the whole village to a ball' and... It's kind of crazy, you know?"
Ryan didn't have the slightest idea what it was like to be a prince, but he nodded anyway. He hoped he looked suitably sympathetic and he said, "It's a nice ball, your highness."
Prince Jon shrugged. "It's all right. I think my parents just don't want to feel guilty in a few months when it's cold and all the peasants are starving and they don't want to do anything to help." A moment later, Prince Jon's eyes widened and he looked stricken. "I didn't mean—I mean, I don't know if you're—Are you from the village? Because they'll definitely try to help. If it's really bad. I'll make them, I swear, I totally will."
Ryan kind of wished Spencer were there so he could point and say, "Ha! I told you he was as kind and generous as I thought!" But he settled for saying, "Yes, I'm from the village, your highness."
"You can call me Jon," the prince said. "I like it better. And you should tell me your name, so I don't have to keep thinking of you as The Guy With The Feathers On His Hat."
Ryan reached up automatically to touch his hat. He was glad it was too dark for the prince to see him blush; the only light nearby was the candle Prince Jon was still holding in one hand. "I'm Ryan," he said, and he stopped himself before adding "your highness."
The prince held the candle to the end of his pipe and puffed a few times. "Nice to meet you, Ryan," he said. He exhaled a stream of smoke and offered the pipe to Ryan. When he smiled the corners of his eyes crinkled.
-
'The thing about Spencer is," Ryan said, waving the pipe for emphasis, "the thing is, he's just so... so, the thing is..." He dropped his hand to his side. "I forget the thing."
"I hate it when that happens," Jon agreed sadly. "All those things. Being things."
"Yeah," Ryan sighed.
They were lying flat on their backs on the castle wall, but Ryan barely felt the cold stone beneath him anymore. He felt pleasantly warm and comfortable, like he could float away, right off the castle wall, if he wasn't careful. The prince was lying beside Ryan and their shoulders were pressed together. They had been passing the pipe back and forth for some time—Ryan had no idea how long, but nobody had come outside to bother them. There was still music inside, though, so he figured the ball was still going on.
"I like that star," Jon said. He pointed straight up. "It's a nice star. I wonder if it has a name?"
Ryan didn't know what star Jon was pointing at, but he said, "Spencer would know. Or he would make something up and I would believe it for years and years and years."
Jon laughed; he had a nice laugh. "Spencer," he said. He had a slight lisp and the name sounded funny on his tongue. "You should bring Spencer next time. I know more about him than I do about you."
Ryan frowned at the sky. He didn't think he had been talking that much, but he couldn't really remember what he had said, and before he could try to remember his mind caught up with the rest of Jon's words. "Next time? Are you having another ball?" he asked. He rolled his head to one side to look at the prince, whose nose was just inches away. "Wow, you're really close. Your nose is even funnier up close."
Jon blinked at him in the darkness. "Nah," he said after a moment. He sounded sleepy and maybe a little bit sad. "I don't really like balls. People are always trying to impress me or be my best friend or get married. They don't even know me but, hey, I'm the prince, that's gotta be everything they need to know, right?"
"Oh," Ryan said.
He looked away and tried to ignore the tight, guilty feeling in his chest. He felt suddenly angry that people would try to hang out with Jon just because he was the prince and not because he was friendly and told lots of good jokes and played the lute and would rather spend a night sharing his pipe with a peasant than dancing with wealthy nobles in the ballroom—and Ryan was even angrier because he knew perfectly well that when the night began he had been one of those people.
"Sorry," Ryan whispered.
Jon didn't say anything: he was fast asleep.
Ryan laughed quietly. Now that he was here, shoulder to shoulder with the prince, alone in the dark, Ryan didn't have any desire to kiss him or hold his hand or recite an ode. He touched Jon's shoulder softly and said, "Good night, your highness."
Jon wrinkled his nose in his sleep.
Ryan stood up and walked back inside. He realized halfway down the corridor that he'd left his shoes outside with the prince—Jon's argument about why feet should be free had made a lot of sense at the time, although Ryan couldn't remember it now—but Ryan still felt like he was drifting rather than walking and he didn't care.
There weren't as many people in the hallway anymore, and as he walked down to the ballroom he saw that most of the people had gone. The musicians were still playing, though, and couples were swaying slowly to the music. Ryan didn't see anybody he knew. Through his sleepy, lazy haze he felt a pang of disappointment.
"That hat makes you look like a vulture died on your head."
Ryan felt a smile break out over his face. He turned around and stuck his tongue out. "Shut up," he said. "At least I don't look like an evil vigilante lumberjack."
Spencer laughed. He didn't look much like an evil vigilante lumberjack anymore either: his jacket was gone and the top few buttons of his shirt were open, and his hair was messy and dark with sweat all around his face. "Where did you get that costume, anyway? I know you don't own anything like that."
Ryan hesitated. "Magic," he said. When Spencer raised an eyebrow, he only shrugged. "I'm surprised you recognized me. Nobody else did."
Spencer tilted his head slightly to one side. "I saw you the second you came in. Why didn't you come over?"
"You were having fun," Ryan said, not meeting Spencer's eyes.
"Right," Spencer said. He looked at Ryan oddly.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Ryan waited for Spencer to ask him how he'd spent the night and dreaded it, because he didn't know how to explain that he'd hung out with Prince Jon but had decided he definitely wasn't in love with the man after all, but even more because then he would have to ask how Spencer had spent the night and that would mean hearing about dancing and the pretty blonde girl and all the fun Spencer had had without Ryan.
"Hey," Spencer said suddenly. He reached out and brushed his fingers over Ryan's jaw. Ryan flinched away and Spencer smiled wryly. He held up his hand; his fingers were dusted with Brendon's blue glitter. "You're sparkling," he said.
Ryan's breath caught. "Magic," he said again. He stepped backwards quickly and looked around at the candles and musicians and swaying dancers and everything that wasn't Spencer. "So are you, um, what are you doing?" The blonde girl wasn't anywhere in sight, nor were any of Spencer's other friends.
Spencer dropped his hand to his side. "I was just about to leave," he said. "Everybody's gone or passed out by now. Mom and Dad and the twins left hours ago. Where have you been all this time?"
"Oh," Ryan said. He waved his hand vaguely. "Around. Upstairs. Me too. I mean, about to leave. Come on." He reached out to grab Spencer's elbow, then dropped it again quickly. "I have a carriage."
Spencer's eyebrows shot up. "You do not."
"I do too," Ryan retorted, grinning.
"Do not. Where did you get a carriage?"
"Magic."
Spencer rolled his eyes, but he followed Ryan out of the ballroom and down the wide steps. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Ryan stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "What are you talking about?"
Spencer crossed his arms. He looked annoyed. "If one of your dozens of brainless admirers let you use a carriage, you can just say it, you know. You don't have to act like it's some big secret."
"Nobody lent it to me," Ryan said, frowning. "It's mine. Well, sort of, not really. For tonight, anyway. I told you, it's magic." Before Spencer could answer, Ryan pointed. "Look, there it is."
The carriage was rolling up to the steps, but there was nobody driving it. Ryan was a little disappointed; he wanted to introduce Spencer to Brendon. The carriage stopped, the door swung open and the steps unfolded with a clatter.
"See?" Ryan said. "Magic."
Spencer stared at the carriage. "It looks like a giant—"
"I know," Ryan said quickly. "I think my fairy godmother did that on purpose. He has a weird sense of humor."
"You have a fairy godmother?" Spencer said. "Your fairy godmother is a he?"
Ryan shrugged. "I don't get it either," he admitted. "But he's pretty cool and he can do all kinds of magic, so who cares? Come on. Let's go home." He climbed into the carriage and slid across the seat, making room for Spencer.
Spencer leaned in through the doorway and looked around skeptically, then stepped in and sat down beside Ryan. The carriage seemed a lot smaller than it had earlier with both of them on the seat: they were pressed close together with their shoulders and knees touching. The inside of the carriage was dimly lit, although Ryan couldn't see where the light was coming from. More magic, he thought, pleased. The door shut on its own and the carriage started to move. The ride was a lot smoother when Brendon wasn't driving, and Ryan found himself lulled by the motion. He yawned and leaned heavily against Spencer's shoulder and closed his eyes.
"I didn't see you dancing with anyone," Spencer said suddenly. "Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is was looking for you."
Ryan snorted. "He saw me. He just didn't realize it." He opened his eyes and looked down to where his and Spencer's knees were touching. "Besides," Ryan added, "he wasn't really looking for me. He was looking for the tragic, romantic orphan with the soulful eyes."
A quiet moment passed before Spencer said, "I thought you liked it when they talked about you like that."
Ryan shrugged awkwardly. "Not really. I don't know. I was just thinking about something the prince said."
He felt Spencer stiffen beside him. "The prince?" Spencer said.
"I talked to him for a little bit," Ryan said. He felt guilty admitting it but he didn't know why. "Outside, on the castle wall."
Spencer didn't say anything.
"He's nice," Ryan went on. "I mean, that's all, we just talked. He shared his pipe with me, and he's nice. Not like I expected, though." Some part of him felt like he ought to stop talking now, but the part of him that wanted to explain was stronger. "We just talked, that's all," he said again. "Everybody thinks they know the prince and loves him because he's the prince, but he's just a regular guy."
"A regular guy with a crown and a kingdom and an army and—"
"Yeah, yeah." Ryan waved his hand. "But that's what I mean. That's all anybody sees, all the stuff. And Lord Whoever-The-Fuck-He-Is and all the others aren't any better. There's nothing behind it. It's all stupid poems and dumb plans."
Spencer said, "You would bitch about not having a better quality of adoring admirers."
Ryan slouched down in the carriage seat and closed his eyes again. The effect of Jon's pipe was wearing off and he felt suddenly tired and heavy and worn down, like he'd lost his chance at floating away in a dream, if he'd ever had it at all. "They don't really care about me," he muttered. "They don't even know me. Nobody does."
Neither of them spoke as the carriage rattled along the road for a few minutes.
Then Spencer said quietly, "Nobody?"
Ryan opened his eyes. Spencer was looking at him, his expression unreadable. "Spencer?"
Spencer leaned forward, closing the distance between them quickly, and kissed Ryan.
Ryan was too stunned to do anything but gasp in response, and Spencer was moving back again too quickly, ducking his head and looking away and saying, "Sorry, I, sorry, I didn't mean... Sorry." A blush crept over his face and his hair fell over his eyes.
Ryan opened his mouth and closed it a few times. Finally he managed to say, "Why?"
Spencer glanced up. He was biting his lip and he looked scared—why was he scared? that was all wrong—and he said, "Because I've got lousy taste, obviously. Everybody else is in love with you already. Why should I be any different? I shouldn't have—"
"No," Ryan said. He put a hand on Spencer's chest to stop him, aware of how warm Spencer felt beneath his fingers, how fast his heart was hammering. Ryan licked his lips. "I mean, why are you sorry?"
He didn't wait for Spencer to answer. Ryan kissed Spencer again, pressing himself close and wrapping his hand around the back of Spencer's neck. He licked at Spencer's mouth insistently until Spencer parted his lips with a sigh that sounded like the beginning of his name, but Ryan didn't stop, didn't move away. He hooked one leg over Spencer's and let out a pleased moan when he felt Spencer's hand on his back, warm and strong and tugging him even closer. Ryan twined his fingers in Spencer's hair and tried to move into a better position, a better angle, parting from the kiss just long enough to say, "Spence, let me—"
The carriage shuddered to a stop. Ryan froze in place, half-straddling Spencer's legs, and looked around. "Are we home?"
"Ryan," Spencer said breathlessly. "The carriage—it's shrinking."
"What?"
But Spencer was right: the carriage walls were closing in around them. Ryan reached for the door and fumbled with the handle, but the carriage was shifting and changing shape so quickly, and the door felt cool and slippery to the touch, impossible to grasp. A loud, wet, tearing sound surrounded them. Ryan watched in horror as huge cracks appeared in the walls of the carriage.
"Oh," he said. "It's—"
The carriage collapsed, dumping them both onto the ground in the middle of the road. Ryan untangled himself from Spencer and sat up awkwardly. He rubbed his head and brought his hand away from his hair in horror. He was covered with something slimy and gross. Spencer was sitting beside him, looking surprised and bewildered. There was orange goop in his hair and pumpkin seeds stuck to his skin. And there were four chickens pecking at the pumpkin mess a few feet away.
"Oh," Ryan said. "It must be three o'clock."
"Um," Spencer said. He reached up to pick a pumpkin seed off his nose. "Was it supposed to do that?"
"Sorry," Ryan said. "I should have warned you."
"You should have," Spencer said solemnly. For a second Ryan thought he was angry, but then Spencer shook his head and a huge smile broke over his face. "Next time we go for a ride in a magic carriage, you definitely have to warn me before it turns into a pumpkin."
"Not just any pumpkin," Ryan said, grinning back at him. "There's a reason the carriage was shaped like that."
Spencer threw his head back and laughed. A second later Ryan joined him, and they were leaning together and laughing and gasping for breath in the middle of the road for a good while before either of them recovered enough to speak.
"Are those..." Spencer took a steadying breath and pointed with a shaky hand. "Are those our chickens?"
"I think they were the horses," Ryan said. "My fairy godmother said he had to make do with what he could find."
That set them both off again, and a few minutes later they were still sitting in the middle of the road, leaning against each other and watching the chickens peck at the pumpkin seeds. The pumpkin innards were drying on Ryan's skin and it felt pretty disgusting, so he reluctantly moved away from Spencer and stood up. He reached down to help Spencer up too. "I guess we should get home," he said.
Spencer said, "Ryan."
Ryan turned away quickly and chased a couple of the chickens across the road until he caught two of them. When he finally looked at Spencer again, Spencer had a fat chicken under each arm and a puzzled, hurt expression on his face.
Ryan felt something in his chest tighten, something that was guilty and hopeful and excited and scared. He stepped close to Spencer without even thinking about it and leaned in to give him a slow, lingering kiss, hesitant at first, then growing more eager, more insistent. He didn't want to stop and Spencer wasn't doing anything to stop him, and Ryan forgot what they were supposed to be doing until the chickens started pecking at each other.
Spencer was smiling shyly when they broke apart.
"We should continue this in a place that has less pumpkin guts and more beds," Ryan said.
Spencer's smile turned considerably more wicked. "And no chickens."
They started walking down the road, both of them with a disgruntled chicken under each arm.
"I'm sorry about all the glitter," Ryan said after a few minutes.
"Glitter?"
Ryan sighed. "You'll see."
-
Prince Jon woke with the mother of all headaches. He groaned as he sat up. It was just before dawn, and he'd apparently slept outside on the castle wall.
"Rough night?"
Jon started. There was a man sitting on the wall above him, swinging his feet and looking down at Jon with a bemused expression on his face.
"I like your costume," Jon said. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "The wings are cool."
The man grinned. "You think so?"
"Very," Jon said, nodding. He looked around, trying to recall why exactly he was sleeping on the castle wall. His pipe was on the cold stone beside him, and next to it there was a pair of shoes that didn't belong to him.
"Do you know whose shoes those are?" the man with the blue wings asked. He was watching Jon curiously.
"Some guy from the village," Jon said. "Ryan. Nice kid. Kind of weird how he was completely in love with his adopted brother or something, but whatever." Jon was a member of the royal family; it's not like he could judge. He shrugged. He would find Ryan and give him back his shoes later, after the sun was up.
"Awesome." The man rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Mission accomplished. I am a fucking genius, I swear." He pushed off of the wall and—
Jon blinked. "Um."
The man gave him an innocent look. "Yes?"
"Your wings. They're not a costume, are they?"
The man was floating about a foot above the castle wall. "Nope."
"You can fly?"
"Your powers of observation are amazing, Jon."
Jon narrowed his eyes. "You didn't call me 'your highness.'"
"You don't like to be called 'your highness.'"
Jon thought about that for a few seconds, then he asked, "How fast can you fly?"
The man smiled mischievously and extended a hand toward Jon. "Want to find out?"
Jon didn't have to think about that at all. He held out his hand and let the man pull him to his feet. "Hell yes," he said, grinning.
The End