Chapter Text
Baz
At five years old I knew my mother was the queen, I knew my father was the king, and I knew I was Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, Prince of Wales, and I was heir to the throne my mother sat at. I also knew that while my childhood was a lonely one, it was still an enjoyable one. I may not have been able to ride my bike around the neighborhood or jump in mud muddles on gloomy days like the other children did, but my parents did their best to ensure that I was still able to enjoy my youth. That was of course, until the day of my mother’s murder. The whole country shook by the devastation of losing their queen, but my whole world collapsed. Gone were the days of smiling and laughter. The long palace corridors were haunted by a dreary silence. Everyone is too lost in their grief to function as a family. My father was lost for a long time, only able to just tolerate his newly appointed kingly duties. My aunt Fiona rejected the title completely.
While most kids got to go to school and experience the culture influencing Britain’s young minds, I was hidden away behind palace walls with private tutors. Most kids got to change out of their uniforms as the school day ended, were allowed to ride their bikes in the street or play a game of footie with their friends. The same cannot be said for me. My clothes were prim and proper, I had supervised exercise, and my father would never let me run around in the streets. No matter how much I longed to.
After my mother’s passing, my father became an overbearing, overprotective, killjoy. I can’t blame the man. I suppose your wife being assassinated in front of your five-year-old child is bound to have some serious mental repercussions. I try my best not to think about it, to push the memory to the deepest parts of me, unable to find the light of day. Don’t misunderstand me, I love my father, but the man will not let me breathe. It’s been 13 years of constant surveillance. There has been no shortage of guards around me for the duration of my childhood and teenage years. Everywhere I go there are guards. Black suits, sunglasses, and earpieces in place. No matter what I’m doing, or where I’m going, I have no less than ten servicemen trailing me. I thought when my father remarried and had more children the constant surveillance would ease up, but it only placed him more on edge. He was so thankful to have a whole family again, he refused to let anything rip it apart.
That brings me to the present day and why I’m currently sitting in my father’s study, begging for some shred of freedom. Sitting in front of him at his desk has always been a nerve-wracking feeling. The way he peers at you, hands clasped, chin resting on them, stare burning into your soul. He’ll read you to filth if you dare go against his wishes. The man gets upset with me for being stubborn, but to that, I say pot, kettle, father. Luckily my angelic stepmother is on what I have deemed ‘Team Gets Baz Out of this Overly-Surveillanced Hellscape’. Daphne is standing at Father’s side, squeezing his shoulder in comfort, doing her best to soften him up. Fiona sits in the chair next to me as I know this was a conversation I would need backup on. Fiona and Daphne are the only people who can get father to change his mind on something, and I’ll need them to be here if I want any chance I a normal university experience.
I’ve been pleading my case to him for the last hour and his face is unreadable as ever. It’s only because I’ve been mimicking his expression since I was a child, that I know behind his blank mask is worry. I don’t like arguing with my father, and as desperately as I don’t want to beg him for my freedom, I will. I would get down on my knees and beg for none of the guards to follow me as I traverse University.
Finally, he leans back in his chair and sighs, tired. “Basil, we’ve discussed this before. You know where I stand on the matter,” he says, rubbing a hand over his forehead like I’ve given him a headache. (I probably have). (He’s given me one too, though, so I don’t feel as guilty as I should).
I feel my heart drop into my stomach, he’s not going to relent, and the next four years of my life are going to be nothing but being watched like some kind of zoo animal. I don’t know if I can successfully hide the frown on my face, but I don’t want to look like a pouting child. Even if I am.
“For fucks sake, Malcolm,” Fiona says, kicking her shoes up on father’s desk. Fiona may be royalty, but I doubt the Monarchy has ever seen anyone as crass as her. She plays every bit the punk-rock aunt. She could not give less of a fuck what parliament or anyone else thought. My family can sometimes be called a mockery of the monarchy. A dead queen at 30, her sister who didn’t want the responsibility and transferred the throne to a Grimm, and to top it off a gay prince who refuses to apologize or hide. Some people call us a mockery, but the ones who matter call us a miracle (and just what England needed).
“Let the poor boy, breathe. At this rate, you’ll be cock-blocking him until he’s 35. How’s he ever supposed to bring home a strapping young man with no less than 50 of England’s stuffiest guards tailing him?”
My father coughs to cover his shock. I only catch the beginning of his mortification before I feel a flush covering my face. I let my head sink into my hands and groan, “You are not helping Fi.” I say, defeated.
My father has been supportive of me my whole life and it’s not the gay thing that bothers him, but rather the thought of me shagging in general. I share his discomfort.
Father shakes his head like he’s trying to dispel the thought. “We have discussed this multiple times and my answer remains the same. Basil needs to be protected while outside of these walls. The guards have been instructed to remain back and give Basil his space, but they will be there.”
I roll my eyes as I have done every time this subject has been brought up. Father says the guards will give me space, but by space, he means they will linger in a pack, five feet behind me all day every day for the rest of my life. How am I going to make friends or attend classes, or just exist without making a spectacle of myself? I will never be just Baz; I might as well have a neon sign above my head that points out that I’m Prince Basilton.
I stand up and begin to pace, I can’t have this conversation sitting down. “Father, I am just asking for reduced security and more space. I want to have a normal university experience. I want to go to parties or walk the pavilion, or I don’t know, actually, make friends without the MI6 breathing down my neck.” I run my hand through my hair, and I know I’ve just messed it up, a true sign of how desperate I’m getting.
“When those goons follow me, it sucks the life out of everyone in the room. They mean-mug anyone brave enough to actually approach me. I just want to be normal for once. I’m not asking for complete freedom here, I know I can’t disband them all together, but I need some leeway.”
He doesn’t look impressed. He didn’t look impressed the last 10 times we’ve had this conversation either, but I know this is my last chance. I leave for Uni in two days, and I want to go knowing that I can do so as a normal 18-year-old.
“Basil, you know as well as I do that you are not a normal kid. You don’t have the luxury of being normal.”
I sigh and plop back into my chair dramatically, crossing my arms over my chest. I want to be treated as an adult, but I know I’m behaving like a child who hasn’t got their way. That’s how I feel though. I want to be like Swithin and throw myself onto the floor and kick my legs and swing my arms in a full-blown tantrum. I want to cry until I get what I want. I refrain from pointing out that I never asked to be born into a royal family, nor had it ever been my choice whether I was a bloody prince.
Daphne frowns at me, and I know she’s been trying to get father to agree to this for almost as long as I have. “Malcolm, be reasonable. Think back to your university days. Would you want your youth stifled by an entourage of older men who will no doubt report back to your father?”
Bless this woman.
My father’s brow wrinkles and I can tell he’s not happy that he sees her point. “I was not a prince, nor heir to the throne when I was in university.” He supplies, stubborn as ever.
“No,” Daphne agrees. “You were a young man who wanted to experience life on his own for the first time. Just like your son. Just like Basil.”
I’m going to send her a fruit basket.
Daphne, Fiona, and I all stare at my father. I’m silently begging him, pleading with him. Please, I think desperately.
I can see the moment my father breaks. He sighs, loud and dramatic, (Where do you think I got it from?) “Alright Baz, we will reduce security. Reduce. That’s it. You will still have two guards on duty at all times, but they will keep a respectable distance. They won’t stand guard at your door, but they will be monitoring your building. I am trusting that everything will go well, but if I hear of one, and I do mean ONE incident, we go back to the original plan.”
I jump out of my seat in victory, “Thank you!” I run behind his desk and kiss Daphne on the cheek and hug my father. He stands to hug me back, and when he releases me, he has to look up because I’ve outgrown him by a few inches.
He frowns at me, but it’s not unkind. It’s melancholy. “It feels like yesterday you were just a mischievous little boy, and now you’re going to leave me.”
I have to swallow the lump in my throat, but I don’t miss Fiona’s sniffle from behind me, followed by a muffled “Fuck.”
She said she wouldn’t cry when I left for university, but she’s as truthful as she is polite. Which is to say she’s a filthy little liar.
“You still have me for two more days,” I say, trying to avoid the sad look on my father’s face… and any lingering guilt for asking him for more freedom. “And it’s not like I won’t come back.” I smile at him and go for cheek, “I will not be doing my laundry.”
He rolls his eyes, but his smile cuts through his sarcasm, “How I do miss that quiet little boy.”
This is it.
Freedom.
Two days later, I had just hugged my family goodbye. They all came with me to get me settled into my new flat. I wasn’t exactly opposed to student housing, but the idea of having my very own flat was too appealing to pass up. The news crews had shown up, as they always did when the Royal family was out and about and the young prince going off to Uni was too good to pass up. The camera’s caught me giving everyone hugs, which pissed Fiona off to no end because the witch was crying just as I predicted. God, I’m going to miss her. Daphne kissed me on the cheek, father squeezed my shoulder, and with one last hug to all my siblings I was officially on my own.
What an amazing feeling. I was alone for the first time in forever, and I was ecstatic.
Classes officially start in a week, so I have until then to settle into my new space and hopefully get familiar with the campus. I take a deep breath and look around, basking in the stillness around me. The flat procured for me, of course, is top-notch. It’s modern and sleek and all of my things were moved in before I arrived. It’s a modest, two-bedroom flat. It’s got an open floorplan and tall bay windows that give me a view of London’s skyline. The air is fresh and new to me, and I don't bother to hide the smile on my face. I’m a sucker for fresh beginnings.