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He shows up out of the blue one day at a dinner party, wearing the name ‘King’ like a badge of honor, and spouting some of the most obvious lies she’s ever heard. He says he’s from some small town out west, yet he doesn’t seem to know any real details. He describes his hometown like someone would talk about some foreign city they once read about in a book, like a landscape portrait in black and white, the essentials are all there, but the personality isn’t.
He talks about a family with no substance, a school she’s sure he’s never been to, and a magnificent military career that surely didn’t exist before today. The transparency of his story is almost astounding.
Yet, somehow, the military higher-ups are eating up his story like they’ve been starved. They direct their line of questioning to swordplay and political maneuvers, completely ignoring the fact that this man showed up out of nowhere selling some bullshit story about a life that doesn’t belong to him.
It doesn’t help that all the generals’ daughters think he’s handsome and mysterious. They know he’s lying; everyone in the room knows he’s lying, but somehow no one is willing to call him out on it. It’s no great secret that people in this circle of society are liars by trade, but generally when someone is this young and this bad at deception, people surround them like hungry wolves.
This total unwavering acceptance apparently adds to his allure according to most of the girls dragged here by their fathers. They’ve taken to speculating about how he injured his eye, maybe in a daring sword fight, maybe in an undercover mission. Maybe it was removed to make reprogramming his brain easier.
There’s something beneath this. Something is happening just below the strange gilded veneer that everyone seems content to leave be. Which is not that strange in the upper ranks of the Amestrian military, though usually the thing being concealed is a document or piece of information rather than a person’s entire history. Everyone knows it, some people more than others with herself being mostly in the dark.
She keeps to herself mostly, watching, pretending to gossip along with the other girls who are also pretending to gossip. Sipping on a cocktail with entirely too much gin while she tracks the movement of the handsome twenty-something man who is far too young to be causing the current stir.
His movements are off, she comes to discover. Everyone here has been groomed for these sort of events, they know the correct way to angle their chin to display interest, the precise curve of the brow that shows polite disbelief. His body language is rigid, firm, with fists clenched at his side as if he’s ready to throw a punch at whoever deserves it.
Then for some reason, after speaking with a friend of a friend of her father’s, the man of the hour approaches her. He walks up to her rigidly and rather abruptly, looming over where she’s still seated. “Good evening, dear. I think I would like to take you out sometime.”
Which is absolutely the most ridiculously put-upon thing she’s ever heard from any man ever. “You think?” She says back, letting her voice lilt up at the end. “Well, I think I will busy that day, unfortunately.”
“You’re right,” He responds with a smile he must think is charming, “We will be busy all that day, and possibly all that night too.”
She finds herself standing before she can help it. No one is allowed to speak to her so disrespectfully, especially not some boy who practically fell out of the sky and can’t even tell a proper lie to explain where he came from. So, she does what her mother told her to, what her father helped her perfect in case of this exact thing, and she open palm slaps him across the face.
She doesn’t turn away, instead stares him down, watching the red bloom slowly on his left cheek. It’s absolutely infuriating that he doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, barely even moves with the momentum of her hand. Almost as if he saw it coming even though she intentionally hit his blindside. He’s looking at her with such an intense rage, such controlled wrath that it almost makes her roll her eyes.
Instead, she channels her own anger into a biting smile and doesn’t even speak before slowly walking past him to where her mother stands across the room. She’s never enjoyed having the last word, she has always preferred to let whatever idiotic thing they said linger in the air unhindered, letting it sit uninterrupted and drawn out in the silence. It’s another thing her father taught her, one of the reasons he got to where he is today.
The other girls flock toward her afterward, asking for the details even though they witnessed them all. She indulges, because it’s fun, but mostly because she wants to alienate that man from these people she maybe calls her friends.
He doesn’t approach her for the rest of the night, and she purposefully stops tracking his movements. It’s a shame he’s never going to make it in this society, she thinks after a bit. It might have been interesting to see him try, but without the finesse to make it work, he isn’t going anywhere.
-
The next time she sees him, she’s in her nightgown and he’s holding a bouquet of flowers that looks like it was picked out by a 6 year old.
It’s barely 9 a.m. on a Sunday and she’s nursing a decently terrible hangover from the night before. Her mom and dad are out on the veranda having their weekly brunch date which is one part adorable and one part embarrassing that they still do this every single week after 20 years. One brunch perk that gets extended to her is her father’s signature bloody mary with olives and crab and bacon that makes her feel somewhat like a person again as she pushes past her pounding headache.
She’s sprawled out in a patch of sunshine on the parlor floor when she hears a knocking at the front door.
She ignores it for a bit, before the realization sinks into her hungover brain that the staff comes in late on Sundays and her parents are outside. Meaning she’s the only one who hears it.
Which is just fucking great. She’s in no state of mind to deal with whoever the hell is banging on her door this early in the morning and she doesn’t have enough time to change out of pajamas without being extraordinarily rude. So, with her Bloody Mary in one hand, nightgown trailing behind her, she answers the door.
Her first instinct is to slam it shut again. There on her doorstep dressed to the nines with a gaudy, pastel themed bouquet, is the ‘King’ himself.
Before she can react, he’s holding out the flowers toward her, his arm almost fully extended as he says, “These are for you.”
She considers leaving him hanging, just turning around and going back inside, but there are pink tulips shoved into the bouquet which would look nice in the little vase in the west study, so she lets go of the door and reaches out. He holds on a bit too long, letting his arm extend further as she draws it close to her chest, before he finally lets go.
A moment passes where he just looks at her in silence. She’s resolute to not say anything since he’s the one who came to her home this early and interrupted her lounging. If he has something to say, he’ll get to it without prompting.
Eventually he clears his throat. “You look.. Nice.” She raises an eyebrow. She looks sleep deprived and hungover because that's what she is. “I came to ask if you would reconsider going out with me. I was.. rude the last time we spoke. I’ve come to apologize and to make it up to you if you give me the chance.”
She takes a second to look him over. His posture is stiff, almost like it was at the dinner party though instead of ready to fight, he looks ready to flee. With nothing to hold in front of him anymore, his hands are tensed at his sides, his body turned just barely to the side. It’s very odd. Nothing about his posture is comfortable and she wonders why he even came here when he so clearly didn’t want to in the first place.
He’s not bad looking though, and it was a very thoughtful gesture to bring apology flowers, although a little too early in the morning for her tastes. She has also significantly cooled off since their first interaction, and she may have admitted to her father that she somewhat over reacted. Besides, there's no harm in one date, which is why she responds, “Let’s get Cretian. There’s a nice restaurant with patio seating not too far from Central Command. What time would work for you?”
His single visible eye is wide. Strangely, his posture relaxes the slightest bit, his thumbs hooking into the pockets of his pants which completely ruins the lines of his outfit but is somehow the most charming thing he’s done yet.
“Seven.” He states. Then quickly amends, “I can pick you up here at seven. Tonight. Is that too soon?”
The abruptness makes her laugh just the slightest bit. She muffles it into the bouquet, he’s lucky he decided to fixate on her rather than the other military debutants, they would eat him alive. “Seven works for me. The restaurant is more casual than what you’re wearing now just for reference. And no reservations are needed.”
“Understood.” He says, nodding seriously. It almost makes her laugh again, but before she can, he bows. Straight up bows to her, a hand sweeping over his chest and everything, before straightening back up. “Alright. Seven. I’ll see you at seven.” He manages before turning on his heel and power walking down the walkway.
She’s left a little stunned, a little lost, and weirdly charmed. She watches as he walks the length of the walkway, not even stopping to look back at her like in a romance novel. Oh well, she thinks as she closes the door. If she does date this strange man, she’s not sure anything will be by the book.
After closing the door, she heads into the kitchen to fish a vase out of a cupboard and fills it partially with purified water. She considers the tulips, and decides that the west study is well stocked enough before carefully placing the whole bouquet in the vase. It’s kind of a mess, but the colors match well she supposes. The pastel pinks, yellows, and blues look like something that should be presented at a baby shower rather than an apology and a date, but, well, it's charming.
And she keeps coming back to that doesn't she? He’s charming but in a weird way. A way she isn’t used to may want to learn more about. Everything he’s done in the past three minutes has been so wildly different from how he acted the night they met, yet somehow still makes sense. Maybe this is how all cloud-people act where he’s from and she just doesn’t have the context to catch up
She puts the vase on the vanity and admires how the colors of the flowers clash with the beige and indigo of her room.
-
Their first date is wonderful.
It’s raining by seven which means the patio is shut down and it’s too busy inside to get a table, so instead they huddle under an umbrella he thought to bring and walk a block South to a little Mom and Pop diner per her recommendation. Her shoes and the hem of her dress are soaked through, but his shoes, hem, and whole right side are wet from where he tipped the umbrella to cover her. They order a big basket of garlic fries, he gets a vanilla milkshake, and they both get cheeseburgers.
It takes her about thirty seconds to learn that he is awful at starting conversations, though is alright continuing them. He’ll talk about military stuff, but he gets rigid and almost stern. The other men she has dated were always quick to boast about rank and accomplishments, whether overtly or subtly, but he almost refuses to. Unlike the night she first met him, he seems subdued and almost strangely rehearsed.
Instead, she changes the topic to the hand-made painting of the poodle with a pirate hat on the wall behind them, and the stiffness eases slightly from his shoulders. He talks less, but it seems like he’s the one actually saying the words he wants and not checking boxes from a list. And besides, she doesn’t mind carrying the conversation, not when she can tell he’s actually listening to what she’s saying and responding thoughtfully when he does speak.
He’s polite enough, he speaks kindly if not abruptly, but he doesn’t seem to emote much. It’s not off-putting, her mom is the same way, though she would like to know if she’s pushing too far or broaching an off-limit topic since it seems like he wouldn’t say anything even if she was. Reticent people are closed off in different ways, and she wants to get this one right.
So she goes with her gut. The whole night she’s been dying to dunk one of their shared fries into his shake and so she grabs one and hovers it over the drink. “May I?”
He pauses for a split second which is the only reason she knows he doesn’t know what she’s asking for. “By all means.” He says. So she does.
He watches as she does it, always watching she’s realized, watching her expression, her mouth as she takes a huge bite and says “It’s actually delicious,” when he pulls a face at her antics. Well, his expression didn’t change much, but enough that she can tell even this early on that he is not impressed.
Then, out of nowhere, he dunks a fry too. He pops it in his mouth and immediately scrunches up his nose in what might be disgust if she’s gauging the minutiae of his expression right. He clears his throat and says, “It’s good.”
She can’t help but laugh. He hated it then. “Really? Didn't seem that way."
He looks at her. "The flavors aren’t bad separately, but the combination is too much." He says out of nowhere.
"Ohh too rich. Just like me," She says, halfway as a joke. There's no response from the other side, which isn't unexpected. "Flavor rich! A lot of salty, a lot of sweet. All sorts of different textures. I like the flavor because it's interesting and complex, but both parts are good on their own."
He nods. Then takes a sip of his own water and says, "Flavor poor, like me.”
It startles a laugh out of her, the ugly shrieky kind she usually doesn’t do in public, the kind that feels like it was pulled out of her chest, before stifling it behind her hand. He just actively made a joke. A self-deprecating joke which isn’t the best, but a joke all the same.
-
So, the first date is great. As is the second and the third. And every date after that.
They go out for food, and for drinks, and they stop by an impromptu puppet show at the local park which turns into getting roasted cashews and dipping their feet into the man-made pond along the way.
He’s easy to be around which is surprising and comforting and safe. He doesn’t seem to follow the same way of living the other military born and bred folk do, though when she thinks about it shouldn’t be so shocking. Why would a man who fell from the sky follow the rules of their upper-class military society?
At first, he makes her laugh without knowing why, just a by-product of being the strange man that he is, until he learns her sense of humor and starts doing it on purpose. It surprises her at first and she forgets to laugh, too enamored by his effort and dedication. The second time, it catches her off guard and she laughs so hard she cries.
She’s learning him too in the same way, at first just by proximity, and then with a purpose. He won’t admit that he dislikes any food served to him, though when given the choice he orders milder flavors, maybe even a little sweet. Cultural references fly right over his head which never leaves him lost or embarrassed, just quiet. He withdraws into himself and turns stern, which maybe is being lost in a way. It occurs often actually, something happens that he doesn’t know or understand and he goes completely silent.
In those moments, she’s learned to talk through it. To casually explain the reference, or joke, or event as if she would explain the difference between dessert wines to anyone else. She isn’t sure if it’s the right thing to do or even wanted, until one day she does it on reflex. It’s over something dumb, an advertisement in the paper, but in response, he takes her hand and squeezes gently before pulling away.
This all happens at a cafe and he’s never touched her in public before. He hardly touches her when they’re alone. She has formed this mental image of the place where he came from, a city in the clouds where it’s beautiful and cold and they only serve bland nutritious food and no one is physically affectionate ever. They’re at a cafe and she’s getting a little teary eyed because her boyfriend (is he? They haven’t talked about it yet) held her hand.
She knows better than to reach back out for him. She knows when to push (in private) and when not to (anywhere else). Instead she smiles at him so wide that her eyes nearly squint shut and she can see the slightest hint of pink at the tips of his ears.
They never really stop dating from there.
-
There are certain milestones to their relationship.
About a month of regularly going on dates she introduces him as her boyfriend to her parents. He and her mother get along so well in that they sit there and are silent and then come out the other end happier for it. Her father is just glad she’s found someone who can match him in strategy games and talk military talk when they feel like it.
He gets roped into twice-monthly family dinner which she thinks is excessive, especially for one month into a relationship, but King doesn’t seem to mind.
There isn’t anyone for her to be introduced to.
-
Five months in, she throws a birthday party for him after an excessive amount of wheedling to figure out when his birthday even is.
He gave her a date, the same date that’s listed in his military paperwork, but it doesn’t seem right. Though, there isn’t another day to go off of, and she isn’t going to let her man go without at least a small birthday celebration. His first birthday celebration if she had to hazard a guess.
She packs up a picnic and makes them hike up to their favorite overlook that manages to hit every horizon. His present this year is a fancy bottle of scotch and a couple of crystal glasses in which she heavy-pours them each a drink. He takes it from her and just holds it for a second. A few moments pass where King just looks from the glass, to her, to the view and back again. He tilts the glass toward her for a ‘cheers’, and smiles wider than she’s ever seen when the glasses clink together.
She thinks she guessed right.
-
A little more than a year in, she officially moves in with him.
It’s been unofficial for longer than that. She had a drawer at his place, which expanded to two drawers, which morphed into the whole right side of the closet, until one day she realized she hadn’t slept at her parents house in almost a month. How she called it ‘her parents house’ even in her own mind.
She panics a bit. It’s a big step, one she didn’t even consciously realize taking, though as it turns out, King had. When she tells him all this, halfway to an apology for invading his space he just says, “I helped you move in months ago. The closet wasn’t always half empty, I adjusted it to be that way. Why is this a concern now?”
She's stunned for a second until she remembers that unobtrusive acts of service are her man's biggest love language. It gets her to laugh, "I guess it's not. I love you so much."
She says it more than he does, as in she says it often whereas he never has. Though it's without bitterness, she knows who he is, which is why she's already moving out of the room when she hears a curt, "And, I love you." from behind her.
This isn't necessarily an appropriate time for her to burst into tears, but apparently she can't help it because she does. She turns back toward a startled King and wraps her arms right around his middle. "I love you," She says again.
"I love you too." He responds. It's good to hear. She knew it already, but words matter.
-
Two years into dating, he takes off his eyepatch and then leaves it off. He doesn’t turn away, or scrub his face and then put it back on. He sits down next to her on the bed they share with both eyes open focused on a book. Like nothing out of the ordinary is happening.
She knows this dance. The one where he reveals a bit of his heart of hearts to her and she takes it in stride because reacting right now will send him straight out the door. It’s not an accident. He didn’t just forget to put on the eyepatch, he’s reaching out in what seems like such a small gesture, but means so much to her.
She scoots a little closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder. King has never been good at initiating physical contact, but he’s always been receptive to it. He shifts to tuck her further into his side and she knows that he knows too.
It takes ten full minutes of very patiently not looking before King sighs and turns toward her fully.
There’s a snake. Maybe. Or a dragon? Some creature eating its own tail. On her man’s eyeball. Definitely not the sunken socket she was expecting, but honestly why bother. Why try to make sense of this man whose likelihood of falling from the sky just increased exponentially?
“That’s not a tattoo.” She infers.
He full-on rolls his eyes, both of them. The snake moves like a cornea would. “No.”
She squints. “Is it a snake or a dragon?”
Unexpectedly, he laughs. His version of a laugh, more a series of brief inhales and exhales than anything. “It’s a winged serpent.”
“So it’s a dragon.” She pauses and thinks. “Right? If you give a snake wings, then it’s a dragon.”
He laughs again with more substance, to the point that it crinkles both eyes. “I can honestly say I’ve never thought about it, but I believe you make a solid point.” Then he loops his free arm around her shoulders and pulls her in close.
After that, he never wears his eyepatch to bed.
-
Two years, six months, and three days in he proposes.
They’ve talked about getting married for months now, the new set of expectations it would put on them both, how his skyrocketing political status would be foisted onto her as well, whether they want kids or not, if it’s a wise idea to purchase a house with the current market.
Then one day, (two years, six months, and three days in), he sat her down one day with his ‘work face’ on. “I am unable to have biological children. Also, I will be Fuhrer within the next 15 years.”
How like him to say it that way, as straightforward as possible with no other details. She takes a second to process both pieces of information, though just one second isn’t nearly enough, then thinks of the best way to phrase her line of inquiry. “When did you find out these things? And how? If I’m allowed to know I suppose.”
He pauses and his work face slips a bit. “I had an examination this morning with a private doctor,” She raises an eyebrow without meaning to. “Yes, non-military. They informed me I am infertile. I learned the timeline for becoming Furher yesterday from a different source,” He pauses. “I have been aware this would happen for some time. Just not when.”
“Until Yesterday,” She clarifies.
“Yes.”
The timeline is too perfect. “And would the appointment today happen to be a direct cause of learning that new information?”
He pointedly does not shift in his chair. “Yes.”
“Okay.” She ponders a bit and can’t really come up with a connection. It’s not like the position of Furher is an inherited thing. Besides, if him being Furher somehow tied into him having children, presumably he would have looked into that long ago. “I appreciate you being upfront with me, though I think I’m missing the correlation between the two.”
This time he does shift in his chair. Enough to pull something out of his front right jacket pocket and promptly fold it into his hands out of view. “I wanted you to have all the facts before you answer me.” Then he holds out a small velvet box with a simple yet elegant engagement ring.
This shouldn’t be such a shock. They’ve talked about it, but she was expecting... Well. not this, not on some random Tuesday in the living room, though in hindsight it’s so like him. So methodical and to the point, so prompt, that she can’t help but smile. The mechanism doesn’t matter, she supposes, as long as she gets to spend the rest of her life with this weird cloud man.
Though he isn’t saying anything further, just looking at her expectantly, which makes her laugh. “I can’t give you an answer if you haven’t asked me a question, my dear.”
“I was trying to give you time to think it over, but if you insist.” Then he gets up out of his chair and sinks to one knee in front of her. “Will you marry me?”
The thing is, she thought about it when he gave her the facts, or rather made up her mind as the information came. To her, the fact that her husband is infertile is a non-issue. They can always adopt if they really want children, but it’s not like she ever aspired to become a mom. It may take her a bit longer to figure out how to be the Furher’s wife, though he did give her over a decade of fair warning.
Her mind was made up a long time ago. She sinks down to the floor between and throws her arms around his middle. “Yes. I love you. I want to grow old with you.”
He must set the box down because suddenly he’s hugging her back just as firmly. He doesn't respond verbally, which isn't unexpected. Instead he almost crushes her in a hug and buries his face into her hair.
They stay like that for a while, just holding each other on the floor of the living room. She thinks through where they've been and how they'll progress. It won't be easy. Not just because of their high profile lifestyle, that's a given. They'll have to work through all the normal married issues with the additional burden of being Furher, and the more worrying subject of just who her fiancé (her fiancé!) truly is. In this moment, she is fiercely and determinedly ready for it all. There's nothing in this world, be it cloud people or government officials, that will stop her from going to bat for this man.
She knows he feels the same.