The Words I Held Back

by IskoSabonEnjoyer

Summary:

As if possessed by a minor form of madness, John straightens his back and bows to Simon’s shadow. His heart skips a beat when the shadow bows as well and reaches an arm out as if inviting Johnny to dance with him. Inside, the band starts to play a new piece. This time, it’s something gentler and softer. The notes are imbued with a mixture of longing, admiration, and wonderment. He steps closer so that his shadow’s close enough to Simon to take the shadow’s hand.

or; Sir John MacTavish is Prince Simon Riley's knight and protector, and has to deal with all these overflowing feelings while playing best friend and confidante to the prince as he searches for a suitable marriage candidate.

Notes:

*arrives late to the COD fandom with cake* Sup.

I never thought I'd actually get to do this, lmao. This is my first fic for this fandom and ship and you can thank my ADHD playing Enchanted on loop for producing this fic as I ignore my responsibilities as a college student. Still trying to get a feel for these characters so apologies if anything seems OOC. Grammar mistakes are all mine since English is one of my native languages.

Anyway, with that out of the way, enjoy! Art by me :3

Chapter 1: There I Was Again Tonight

John MacTavish has seen his fair share of combat – cannon fire, sieges, beheadings, dismemberment, you name it – yet nothing could have prepared him for the mass of nobles unloading from their carriages in preparation for the prince’s upcoming ball. A mass of perfumed coats and gowns step down the red carpet leading to the castle’s great hall where the dinner banquet will be held, and finally, the long-awaited dance. In all honesty, he’d rather face some soldier frothing at the mouth while wielding a rusty sword instead of going through all the hoops these nobles call etiquette and interaction. He’s a social man, that he’s not afraid to admit, but nobles are a whole new kind of animal. Sharing a pint with someone from a tavern is much more different compared to eating a fancy dinner while frantically looking for social cues a commoner like him might miss. It’s a nice evening, one that signifies the inevitable approach of summer as the heat starts to soar again. He’s lucky his mohawk’s newly shaved so that he’s not sweating so hard. In the distance, bells ring.

Off to the side, he sees a fellow guard, Sir Garrick (Gaz if one wants to keep their head) chatting up a blushing maiden wearing a long, poofy gown John could only describe as something that looks like the icing of a muffin. Gaz’s warm, deep brown skin is bright and glowing under the kiss of sunlight as he winks and makes small, fleeting touches on the woman’s forearm which the woman receives with blushes and coquettish gestures. Leave it to him to make a girl blush in a matter of minutes. Feeling festive, John leaves his post and stalks over to Gaz.

“You ken Price will kill ye if he catches you fucking around instead a’ bein’ on guard, aye?” Gaz jumps while the lady freezes like a caught thief. John plasters a shit-eating grin on his face when he meets Gaz’s withering glare. To commoners, the knight’s glare might be a tad intimidating, but not to John who’s known him for years ever since joining the Queensguard. He’s seen Gaz drunk, seen him pining after a girl, seen him getting emotional over newborn goats. This glare is nothing. Perks of being one of his closest friends.

“You really know how to kill a mood, don’t you, Johnny?” Gaz resignedly says. The woman comes to her senses and flees, joining her fellow nobles on the red carpet towards the Verdant Keep’s great hall.

“Payback for last time,” John easily replies with a smile. “And don’t call me Johnny.” He’d been chatting up one hell of a bloke last week, tall, suntanned, and blonde, determined to bed him, when Gaz broke through the doors of the inn’s room, wild and drunk as John had been, before fainting on the floor. John carried him out of the inn until he realized Gaz didn’t even stink of booze. It was all an act (It was the fastest way to get your attention, Johnny!).

“Bastard.” Gaz gently elbows John which barely fazes him, given that they’re both in gleaming armor. John simply laughs.

“You love me.”

The duo returns to their posts, admiring the gleaming carriages coming in through the keep’s gates. The sun has set low enough on the horizon that the castle walls are casting shadows all over the grounds. In the distance, there is merriment in the streets as commoners partake in the celebrations. Multicolored lanterns are lit, casting fantastic shapes and colors against walls and houses. Banners and pennants hang jovially over streets, swaying in the gentle breeze. Even the usual smell of horseshit in the more poorly-maintained districts seems suppressed. Soon enough, once the sun has fully set over the vast Northern Sea, once the great hall has been filled to bursting with all these perfumed nobles in their extravagant gowns and glamorous, form-fitting suits, the dinner will commence, and after that, the grand ball. John doesn’t want to think about what happens during and after that.

“Something on your mind, Tav?” Gaz asks when the silence becomes too much to bear. “Hardly heard you yap all morning in the barracks. Thought the world was ending when I didn’t hear you muttering about how tough the meat in the stew’s been.”

“It was tough,” John replies, chuckling. “But, um, I’m fine, Gaz. It’s prob’ly just hard adjusting around all these nobles. Posh fuckers, the lot of ‘em.” Gaz chuckles like he knows something John doesn’t and leans forward on his issued sword, now planted firmly on the stone ground. For all John knows about Gaz, the same is true vice versa. Gaz has seen John at his highest and his lowest; Gaz has seen him drunk one morning which resulted in Price dismissing him for the day to clean the latrines and the stables. One of the worst mornings of his life, and he’s a godsdamned soldier.

“You sure it’s all those nobles you have a problem with?” Gaz inquires, subtly raising an eyebrow and smirking at John, “Or is it just one noble in particular?” John’s mind immediately conjures up images of sandy blonde hair, honey-brown eyes, and a rare, lopsided smile. Laughter in the dark and the smell of fruit tea. His heart skips a beat. John then scowls at Gaz, who simply receives said look with the same shit-eating grin John had on his face earlier.

Gaz takes on a teasing tone of voice like he’s a schoolboy and not part of an elite guard designed to protect the most important political figures in all of the kingdom of Greenreach. “Ah, so it is him, am I right, Tavvy?” Gaz makes kissy faces and John not-so-gently shoves him over, cackling. In return, Gaz smacks his gauntlet over John’s head. To some nobles and visitors, it may seem like something violent is about to erupt, but to the chagrin of the rest of the Queensguard, their captain, and many of the keep’s servants, this is, unfortunately, something of a daily occurrence. More children than soldiers, Price would say sometimes, shaking his head, his voice betraying a hint of amusement against his otherwise usually stoic and fatherly countenance.

Before the fight could turn into a full-on tussle right in front of the hundreds of visitors and nobles waiting to get a glimpse of the Queen’s reclusive second son, a man calls out to them as he approaches the two across the grounds.

“Speak of the devil.” Gaz’s face has mostly returned to a dispassionate look yet his eyes are glowing with mirth.

‘I’m gonna fucking kill you,’ John mouths to him and makes a cutting motion with his thumb across his neck. Gaz simply rolls his eyes. Fucker.

A silent shadow falls over them, signifying the arrival of the man of the hour. Before John MacTavish stands Prince Simon of the House of Riley, second in line to the Greenreach throne. John drinks him in, all bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun like a god coming down to earth. His usually short, spiky blonde hair is slicked back. His eyebrow is quirked at John and the corners of his mouth seem to be suppressing a faint smile.

“Working hard, gentlemen?” he asks in his low growl of a voice. He seems social today. There’s even a joking tone to his voice, a tone he’d usually reserve for more private moments. Simon’s got his arms behind his back, standing straight, looking every bit of the regal prince he is. John’s heart skips a beat as he subtly stares at him. He finally finds it in himself to speak, thankfully fast enough before he’s caught looking too long like a creep.

“Of course, Your Highness.” John relishes the way Simon’s eyebrows faintly quirk in irritation. He’s always detested titles.

“Expect nothing less than the best from your Queensguard.” The banter comes easy between them. It’s fun and thrilling, like schoolchildren passing notes in class hoping not to get noticed by their headmaster or headmistress. In the corner of his eye, John can see Gaz rolling his eyes good-naturedly with a faint ‘give me a break’ being whispered.

“Is that what they call it these days?” Simon fires back, letting his metaphorical mask slip a bit. “In that case, I hope you wouldn’t mind, Sir Garrick, if I’d monopolize your companion’s attention if only for a while?”

“By all means, Your Highness,” Gaz smiles.

“My thanks, Sir Garrick.” Simon turns to John. “Walk with me?” he says, and the knight follows.

It’s a common sight in the keep to see the two of them together as if they were fused at the hip. One would rarely see the prince without his loyal knight by his side and vice versa. If John were to tell his younger self, all fiery temper and rough edges, that he would go on to find a home, a family, in the prince’s court – hell, be practically the prince’s best friend and confidante – his younger self would’ve laughed at him before giving him a nasty right hook.

As they walk away from the crowd, John watches as Simon’s stance slowly starts to relax. His shoulders unclench and he walks with a slight, relaxed slouch until they find themselves in the walled garden just beside the great hall, away from prying eyes. The noise of the festivities is muffled by the trees and shrubbery. The two of them lean over the edge of the garden walls, watching the waves pound hundreds of feet below with the cool sea breeze wafting onto their faces. He's happy summer's finally coming after such a dreary spring that made the tan of his skin fade back to his naturally pale complexion. John can faintly smell the sandalwood of Simon’s cologne. John is the first to break their comfortable silence.

“Any reason why ye brought me out here, Si?” John says. “Something the matter?”
The prince is silent. John doesn’t talk, letting the man form his own responses. He watches as Simon’s mask cracks a bit, letting him see the slight anxiety in the prince’s expression.

“Nothing, Johnny, just this party,” Simon says. Johnny nods, giving him the go-ahead to continue. “Mum’s been pressuring me to get married.”

It’s no secret that the Queen Marguerite has been relentless in urging her son to settle down. What with the heir to the throne, Simon’s brother Thomas, now settled down with House Gray’s noble daughter Elizabeth, it’s completely expected that the good queen would focus her sights on her remaining unwed child. Unfortunately, the prince has never been fond of attention, even as a child, more likely to hide in the library or practice in the yard by himself with his swords and knives instead of prowling the court like his more outgoing brother.

“It’s not like I’m next in line,” the prince says, running his hand through his styled hair, mussing it up a bit. Johnny resists the urge to smooth it back into place. “Dawn till dusk it’s the same damned conversation. ‘When shall you choose a consort, Simon? As the prince, you have a certain set of responsibilities, Simon,’ as if I’m the heir and not my elder brother!”

Johnny turns to Simon, the knight’s cream-colored armor glinting in the sunlight. “What I’d give to have a mother like ye, eh?” he says. Simon raises his eyebrows as if to ask him if he’s being serious. “Naw, I meant like, I understand what ye’re going through, I do! I wouldnae want ta be presumptive or anything but…the Queen, as far as I see it, she worries fer you, Si. Even if Tommy’s the heir to the throne, you’re still one of the most powerful people in the kingdom. Way I see it, the woman just wants ye to be happy and secure, is all.” In all honesty, John would rather have a mother like the queen rather than the one he’s had. Memories of glares and sharp whispers fill his mind before he has the chance to sweep it under the rug. No use thinking about what could’ve been. Simon needs his help right now.

The prince sighs, slumping forward. “I understand her, despite it all. It’s just that…I don’t want anyone going through all this trouble. Don’t want people forcing me to do all this shit like I’m some animal on display.” A pained expression crosses his face. John puts a comforting hand on Simon’s shoulder, trying to let him know that the knight is always there for the prince. He hopes he understands. He knows the prince must be crawling out of his skin, with all those people staring at the scars crisscrossing his face like that, courtesy of his father, may he burn in the fires of Hell.

“You’re not alone in this, Si.” Johnny relishes the way Simon’s eyes brighten. His thumb rubs soothing circles over the prince’s alabaster sleeves. The fabric is smooth and rich, just the way Simon likes it. “A prince has duties and obligations to the realm, aye, such is your lot in life, but you’re no’ alone. You’ve got your allies, you’ve got your mother by your side even if it doesn’t seem that way right now, and most of all you’ve got me, a’right? I’m your knight; you ken I wilnae let any harm come to ye as long as I breathe, aye?” Even John himself is surprised at the honesty of his words. An emotion John does not dare name tints his voice like wine stains on a rug. His eyes never leave Simon’s form. “You’re stuck with me, ‘m afraid.”

Simon lets out a low chuckle at that. “Thanks, Johnny.” And like that, it’s as if a weight has somewhat lifted off the prince’s shoulders. Johnny’s always happy that Simon trusts him this much to come to him for counsel. The second in line to the throne laying down all his pains in front of a lowly knight. He cherishes the trust Simon has in him, lets him fuel himself during grueling days to do his best.

“Aye, a’course,” Johnny replies. A bugle sounding in the distance breaks through the isolation of the gardens.

“I s’pose I’m needed elsewhere,” the prince says, straightening his posture. It always amazes John how easy it seems for Simon to transform from Simon Riley to Prince Simon at the drop of a hat. None of the vulnerability he had earlier shows on his face. He walks for the exit and then turns back to John. “Shall we?”

The walk back to the great hall is short, with one of the garden exits connected directly to the side of the keep, allowing Simon to bypass the numerous nobles waiting to gather around him like vultures to a carcass. The great hall is a massive structure, about three stories high and as wide as the enormous Basilica of Our Lady of the Bramblecrown. The pair of them nearly jump out of their skin when a stern, motherly voice calls out to them in the dark of the building’s many hallways, only lit by candlelight. John’s hand nearly flies to the hilt of his longsword until he recognizes that voice.

“And here I was thinking you’ve fled your own banquet,” says Queen Marguerite, flanked by her advisors Lady Katherine Laswell and her lady wife Lolade Laswell. They address the prince with gentle bows and soft greetings. The queen's pose is regal and matronly, her hands gently clasped in front of her with her hair braided into a crown. The queen turns her piercing, gray eyes to John. “I thank you for escorting my wayward son back safely, Sir MacTavish,” she says and gestures for them to follow her towards the throne room of the great hall, her gown of deep blue and gold billowing behind her. John doesn’t miss the way Simon’s shoulders minutely tense as they fall in step with the queen.

“Just had a lovely walk through the gardens, Your Grace,” the knight says good-naturedly. “Your Highness the Prince here just needed a wee bit of a breather before the festivities commence, I’m sure you’d understand.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the queen says, the ghost of a genuine smile crossing her face this time. They exit the hallway into the throne room and are immediately met by glittering lights and a cacophony of music and chatter echoing through the polished stone walls of the room. Crystalline chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Garlands and shrubbery dangle from marble overhangs held up by pillars carved into the figures of long-passed kings and queens. John feels ready to crawl out of his skin, and he knows the prince feels the same. He stays at his spot by the door while the prince and the queen proceed to the thrones, the seats themselves flanked by lions with their paws raised as if poised to strike. Thomas, the heir, stands from his seat as his mother and brother approach. The room falls silent as the queen steps forward, all eyes turning to the royal family. John sees Simon look back at him with something uncertain in his eyes. John gives him a small smile and a nod as if to say ‘you can do this’. It assuages the prince, somewhat, though that unsure expression never truly leaves his face.

“Welcome, one and all,” the queen’s voice says, echoing through the space of the room. It’s a low and stern voice that simply demands the audience’s attention. Before Queen Marguerite’s disastrous marriage to her wastrel of a husband the king and her subsequent war against him for his throne, she was a barrister, a career that required the best of a person’s charisma, knowledge, and voice. John wonders if this is what it’s like to be part of her jury.

“Tonight is a night where we gather not simply because of a decade filled with prosperity and unity, but also to honor the life of my beloved son.”
A regal smile graces her and Simon’s features. “It is with great honor and joy that I present to the court my son, Prince Simon of the House of Riley, second in line to the throne. This night marks the start of a new era for my beloved son, a time for him to seek a partner or a companion who will stand by his side for the good of Greenreach.” She turns to Simon, who also steps forward, expression stoic, back straight, and not a hair out of place. For all the friction that has happened between them as of late, there’s a look of fondness shared between them; the queen’s eyes shine with pride.

Queen Marguerite turns to face the crowd once more. “My youngest son, Simon,” she continues, “is a man of great integrity, courage, and strength, qualities of which I hold in the highest regard. His strength in fighting for me during the war and his unwavering loyalty to his duty to the kingdom are deserving of the highest of praise. But tonight, Prince Simon stands before all of you in the hopes of forming a bond that will solidify his future and position as prince.”

The crowd erupts in applause. Though John is proud of the recognition Simon truly deserves, his stomach turns at the way some of the lords and ladies seem to eye the prince as if he were some sort of key to the kingdom. The queen taps her scepter into the floor to quiet the crowd down as she continues speaking.

“I invite you all to join us as we welcome the prince and celebrate this joyous occasion.” The royal band begins to play a soft, mellow piece as lords and ladies, clad in gowns and suits of blue, pink, and violet make their way to the center of the throne room. “Let this be a memorable evening full of happiness and, perhaps, the promise of something new beginning to bloom. Lords and ladies, may all of you find the joy and warmth you seek this night.” The music swells as the first dance of the night begins with the queen’s blessing. Simon steps forward as the nobles begin hurrying to the hall’s middle.

“The night is yours, cub,” the queen whispers to him as she returns to observe the festivities from her ornate, golden throne. The prince’s shiny leather shoes lead him down the dais towards the throng of people flitting about the floor. With the prince’s arrival, it’s as if the dance comes alive with a surge of energy as the queen’s son starts partaking in the celebrations. John watches the prince deftly navigate the crowd and take the offered hand of a maiden with a flowing, purple gown and white gloves. The ball is a swirl of colors, with swishing gowns and flapping coats as the band plays a jaunty tune to start the night off. Despite the prince’s reservations, the knight can see that Simon’s enjoying the night somewhat, and there’s a twinge in his heart when he sees a smile gracing the blond’s face.

Once John is sure the prince is safe and not in any danger whatsoever as he trades partners for a lord, he decides to take his leave, assigning another knight to his post as he exits the throne room into the adjacent garden where he and Simon once stood. The ball continues through the throne room windows, the light casting an abstract kaleidoscope of white, blue, and purple on the opposite garden wall as shadows of nobles dance the night away. The moonlight overhead makes his armor gleam. He loosens his shoulders which have unconsciously gone stiff over the course of the speech and the start of the dance. He walks along the length of the garden, the clanking of his armor’s greaves and sabatons barely heard over the noise and raucous laughter coming from inside. Mayhaps tonight’s a good night to sneak into the royal wine cellars and sneak out a glass of their magnificent whiskey into his flask. No one would mind, surely. Hell, Simon prefers simple beer over it. Despite his royal blood, there’s really no accounting for taste, it would seem.

Midway through the hall though, John pauses in his tracks. His eyes are fixed on a familiar silhouette against the curtain. He’d know that freakishly tall, straight-backed figure in his sleep.

As if possessed by a minor form of madness, John straightens his back and bows to Simon’s shadow. His heart skips a beat when the shadow bows as well and reaches an arm out as if inviting Johnny to dance with him. Inside, the band starts to play a new piece. This time, it’s something gentler and softer. The notes are imbued with a mixture of longing, admiration, and wonderment. He steps closer so that his shadow’s close enough to Simon to take the shadow’s hand. Eyes half-lidded, Johnny lets out a shaky sigh and allows himself to dream. He imagines the prince’s warmth through his gloves, gently grasping his palm as the music plays. It’s gentle and ethereal. Magical.

John twirls his shadow with Simon’s in time with the music as it grows from soft to dreamy and shimmering, mirroring his movement. If only, John thinks to himself. He wishes things weren’t the way they are. He sways gently with the moon as his only companion, moving with the flow of the music like water. As he loses himself in the moment, he allows himself a moment of indulgence. He remembers whispered jokes, terrible as they may be, in dimly lit libraries. He remembers private smiles in the kitchens. A lingering touch before they begin sparring in the courtyard. Each memory, more vivid than the last, only serves to make John exhale a longing sigh. He imagines himself in the ball, right now, with the warmth of Simon’s palms seeping into his side as he leans forward into the man’s space, resting his forehead at the junction of the prince’s neck and shoulders. Everything falls away until it’s only Johnny and Simon in his head.

The music grows faster, more frantic and sweeping, like unspoken words and longing looks until it peaks with a crashing chorus that speaks of amazement and tenderness. Johnny spins with Simon’s shadow again, twirling and stepping as the band’s playing slows to a crawl right back into its tender start. Johnny’s shadow stands before Simon’s silhouette, hand in shadowy hand, as the cold night breeze jolts him back to the present, breaking the spell.

The music stops, and applause soon follows. Johnny looks down at his empty hands, bereft of Simon, and feels the weight of reality all start to crush him, one part of him urging him to stay true to his duty while another is berating him for dreaming of impossible things. Doesn’t he know yearning for something so beyond his station will only lead to heartache?

With a heart charged so sorely, John plasters on the mask of the jovial, chivalrous knight as he makes his way back to the throne room. Simon’s surrounded by a flock of nobles at his heel, laughing at the joke of a lord or lady or some other. Despite the ache deep within his heart, he’s glad Simon might find a semblance of happiness this night. If there’s anyone who deserves happiness in this castle, it’s him. And if anyone notices that John’s smile is a little too tight, a little too broken around the edges, well, no one says a thing. He sits at the corner of the room, content to watch the prince dance amongst his suitors from afar. He thinks he can live with this. He thinks he can live with knowing the prince might belong to another by the end of the night. As long as he gets to remain by his side. As long as he gets to see him safe and happy.

When John retires to his quarters that night – right next to the prince’s room, if fate wasn’t cruel enough – the knight allows himself to dream of blond hair and brown eyes, lopsided smiles, and the smell of freshly brewed tea.

Notes:

Hope y'all liked that, I so enjoyed writing that dancing-with-the-prince's-shadow scene. I'm gonna try to update this fic maybe weekly or once every other week (on Saturdays regardless) depending on if I can finish the accompanying artwork on time, now that midyear classes are done, though I make NO PROMISES; I do promise I'll see this fic through (ADHD hyperfixation don't fucking fail me now-)

See you guys next Saturday or the next-next Saturday.

Isko (he/him)

Chapter 2: Who Do You Love

Summary:

The aftermath of the ball finds the prince struggling to find the balance between duty and love. Luckily, his loyal knight is right beside him.

Notes:

Started making it, had a breakdown, bone apple tea. Whew, this chapter just did NOT want to be written (dialogue you will always be my worstie), apologies if some parts of it may seem rushed, I kept rewriting certain sections until they fit. I'll prolly fix them with an edit sometime. No art for this chapter, sorry, had to juggle my rabies vaccine, my new editing job, and some college tasks this week, such joy /s.

Sir John MacTavish is the youngest knight ever to be inducted into the Queensguard, and he’s damn proud of it. After running away from home to join the army at the tender age of 16, the boy quickly rose through the ranks, taking part in border wars against opportunistic invaders or quelling rebellions back home. By the time he reached 20, he was quite sure he’d spilled enough blood that it could float a trawler out to sea. He’s made a name for himself, someone worth being, someone far from the useless child and the loud, unwanted son he’s always seen himself as. The boy they call Johnny was quickly swapped for the knight they call Sir John. Then at 25, he was wrenched from the jaws of the battlefield, called to be a Queensguard, and made a protector of the realm’s most powerful figures. From muddy soldiers’ barracks to a cushy room adjacent to the prince’s in the most fortified castle in the kingdom.

All things considered, he’s happy where he is. Sure, the comforts of the Verdant Keep have kept him from seeing combat, but training troops in the keep’s many yards is enough to slake his temper and bloodlust. He’s quite content with his station in life, thank you very much, which is why he absolutely cannot ruin what he has with the prince by spilling his messy feelings all over him. The man’s already stressed enough as it is, no need to exacerbate his condition by dumping every single feeling and thought he’s had on the prince. The man’s blond hair would turn white if it hadn’t already.

Said prince is currently lounging on his bed wearing a loose-fitting tunic and simple blue pants, topped off with a homely brown belt. Open on his lap is a book most likely pilfered from the castle’s library. He looks good like this. Soft and relaxed. The weight of responsibility has briefly lifted off the prince’s shoulders, making the tense lines of his shoulders more rounded and lazy. Johnny does his best not to pounce upon the prince then and there.

“Wha’ are ye doin’ here,” Johnny says in place of a greeting, beginning the tedious process of unbuckling his armor after a long afternoon training recruits down the castle grounds. Gods be good to him if this is the future of the kingdom’s knights, men who’re more likely to borrow their courage from a tankard of ale rather than a sense of duty. Simon looks up at him with a lazy smile, lips softly parted. Hell’s bells, this man will be the death of him.

“Hiding,” the prince replies simply before returning to his book. Oh, so he’s playing that game, is he? He cannot be serious. He’s no bairn; he’s a grown man, hell, a goddamn prince! Does he want to make Johnny work for the answer?

“Hiding from who, Si?” Johnny looks around, unclasping his breastplate as he does so.

“My mum, of course.” The prince shoots Johnny a look as if to say ‘duh’. Why is it that sometimes conversing with Si is like pulling teeth out? It’s infuriating.

“I’m guessing Your Grace the Queen isnae too happy wi’ ye turning up empty-handed after the gala?” Much to John’s surprise, he was completely braced for the news that morning when he came down to the castle kitchens to pick up his breakfast, only for Madam Agnes, the head cook, to come down gossiping, telling the staff that the Prince remains undecided on a marriage candidate. Always more interested in his blades than people , said one of the butlers, a Sir Winston Something-or-other, and, while yes it is true, he needn’t say such things in such a derogatory manner. The prince is perfectly fine as he is, thank you very much. By the time the kitchen devolved into gossiping about who’s the best candidate for the prince, Johnny fled the room with his meal before going out to the yard to train some greenhorns. Maybe bashing a few heads in or setting a building on fire will clear his clouded mind.

“Yep,” the prince replies, popping the p. “Been turning the castle upside down lookin’ for me. Don’t tell her I’m here, yeah?”

Johnny shudders. He’s seen the queen on the warpath only once yet he never wants to experience such a thing again. Thank the Gods he wasn’t on the receiving end of her sharp tongue and piercing gaze. How it gets sharper the more angry she gets, he doesn’t know, and he has no plan to find out soon. Si, of course, being the queen’s son, has most likely built up a resistance to it, to the point that the queen’s glare (which could kill a whale several times over, if Johnny were to be completely honest, not that he’d tell) is nothing more than an inconvenience he needs to wait out.

Looking at Simon, who is acting so indifferent, Johnny sighs, fully removes his armor, and decides to sit on the bed beside the prince, who’s looking ever so engrossed in his book. Johnny squints and tilts his head to try and get a peek at the title before Si beats him to it.

“It’s the Raven Prince,” he says.

“Re-reading your favorite, aren’t ya, Si? Don’t ye have any other books you’d like ta read? Ye ken there’s quite the selection of gripping tales in the castle library.” Simon huffs but otherwise does not respond, turning a page as he does so.

The book is old and weathered. Well-loved. The pages are yellow from age, sweat, and other stains, and yet, to Simon, that book must smell like home to him. He watches Simon’s face filled with concentration, transfixed, admiring the way the noon light softens his sandy blond hair as if they were spun from gold itself. His brown eyes turn from the color of deep whiskey into a vibrant honey. For all that the prince does to appear so imposingly, more than 6 feet tall and broad as a brick house, he almost looks soft like this. If Johnny had enough time to himself, he’d immortalize such a moment in his sketchbook, which he makes sure shall remain hidden from prying eyes, even the prince’s, no matter how much he asks.

“Why didn’t you choose a candidate, Simon?” he asks out of the blue, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

“None caught my eye.” The prince flips to the next page. Johnny looks at him as if to ask if the man’s being serious right now. The nerve of this prince. He might appear to be the heir’s more surly, intimidating, and marginally larger brother but Johnny sees through the facade. He’s reckless and nonchalant. More likely to flee a difficult conversation than face it head-on. Hell, he prefers tea and beer over coffee and whiskey. Such things would thoroughly deconstruct one’s assumptions about the prince.

The prince sighs when faced with the knight’s gaze. “I…I just could not, alright?” he says, voice sounding defeated and unsure. Johnny immediately regrets pressing him, but the best he can do right now is offer a sympathetic ear. Yes, Simon might be the prince, but he was his best friend first. “I wasn’t ready to make a decision, so when the night came to a close…I panicked. Left the ball without even announcing a candidate. Left Mum in quite a mood during breakfast.”

“Maybe I can help ye?”

The prince snorts. “How, exactly?”

“I’ll help ye, ye know, figure all this out, help ye see which candidate’s best for you,” Johnny says, shrugging. Simon raises a single, perfect eyebrow at him then rolls his eyes.

“Fine.”

“Well, what are things you’d love tae see in a person?”

Simon hums, brow slightly furrowed in thought. “I want someone loyal.”

“Fat chance,” the knight snorts; he cackles when he sees the prince’s unimpressed look. “Look, these nobles, they all have it oot for themselves. You’d be better off marryin’ a dog if loyalty’s what ye’re after.” The prince hums in response. It’s a pensive hum, much more different and higher in tone than his dismissive hum.

“Someone willing to put up with me, I guess,” Simon says at last. His tone is wistful, tinged with melancholy and John immediately feels the urge to hug him. He doesn’t, though, for fear that the already skittish prince will flee from him. Last time he tried pushing too much, he didn’t see hide nor hair of Simon for well over a week, only resolving issues between them through a rough spar in the courtyard due to a coincidental meeting.

“Y’ken you’re not someone we have to deal with, aye?” Johnny’s voice is soft. He clears his throat and tries to prod more, albeit gently, with the lessons from last time learned. “A-and what of their appearance? D’you prefer blondes or brunettes, tall or short, come oan, gie me something tae work here.”

“Appearance comes second to character,” Simon snorts, “but…I would be remiss if I didn’t say I prefer brunettes more.” Now they’re getting somewhere. Johnny rucks his mind for any potential candidate who is patient and brown of hair, someone he could see is willing to stick with Simon through thick and thin. There’s Lord Sanderson, maybe. An experienced warrior who fought for the queen during her uprising against her husband, honorably discharged due to injuries received during the war that resulted in his muteness. Yes, both of them could potentially bond over their wartime experiences fighting against the King. However, there is also Lady Larissa Newell as a potential candidate. Johnny met her briefly during one of her visits to the court and he knows she was part of the ball the night before; a free-spirited woman with matching brown curls to boot. Fiery. Simon might enjoy trading barbs and banter with her, someone to help him navigate the intricacies of court politics. Her skills as a fencer would also be a source of enjoyment for Simon with his penchant for sparring.

“Blue eyes too,” the prince says, interrupting Johnny’s train of thoughts. Well, that crosses out Lord Sanderson with his green eyes. Lady Newell it is, then.

“Then the Lady Larissa Newell would be a fine choice for a candidate, wouldn’t ye think? I was thinking Lord Sanderson, but he has green eyes, so that’s a nay I’d wager.”

“No, I don’t think either of them would do.”

“Then who, Simon?” Johnny replies, irritation starting to coat his tongue. “I cannae help you with yer problem if you don’t tell me shite.”

The prince must also be getting sick of this because he squints his eyes shut and sighs before turning to Johnny, looking him right in the eye, and then speaks. “The ma– the person I’d love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with has to be someone who’s both honorable and brave. Someone who has a big heart – bigger than anyone I’ve seen – and cares for the people around him even if it’s to their detriment. Someone steadfast and inspires loyalty and trust. Someone who can be my rock and guiding light.”

Johnny’s eyes widen at the sudden flow of words coming from his friend. Obviously, this is something the prince has been thinking about for some time. The knight feels warmth from Simon’s little speech. Warmth from the spark of hope that’s been ignited in his chest, once a small ember, slowly growing into a bonfire if not controlled. Could it be? Those things Simon had mentioned earlier feel so terrifyingly familiar. No. He can’t risk this. Not now, and, maybe, not ever.

“What about you, Johnny?” the prince asks, unaware of the chaos starting to roil within the knight. Johnny runs a hand through his mohawk.

“Wha’ d’you mean?”

“If you were prince,” he says slowly, “who’d you pick as a candidate for marriage? Who do you love?”

Who does Johnny love? Well now, isn’t that just quite the burning question?

Johnny opens his mouth to speak but stops when they both hear something. Footsteps echo from the hallway outside, forcing the two of them to quiet themselves first until they hear it disappear. Whether it’s the castle guard or the staff looking for the prince, they’re not too sure, but it appears Simon’s not taking any chances.

“Think it’s best I take my business somewhere else, yes?” mutters Simon as he shuts his book and the peace of the moment fizzles out like steam.

“I’ll come with,” Johnny says right behind him. “I would be quite the shitty knight if I didnae protect my charge now, wouldn’t I?”

“Good help is so hard to find these days,” the prince replies, mock-serious, the only thing betraying his tone being the glint in his eyes. It’s familiar and mischievous. “They’d sooner leave you to the dogs than do their duty, how disappointing.”

Johnny rolls his eyes and gently punches the prince. “Aye, aye. Now come with me, Your Royal Highness.” Simon makes a face at that title as Johnny opens the door to check the hallway for intruders. “Looks like the coast is clear.”

The two of them move through the keep’s winding hallways, familiar passageways that they’d know by the back of their hand. Johnny remembers days spent with the prince discovering hidden passages and corridors in the massive castle with Simon at his side, drunk from wine and the hubris of youthfulness. Back then, it felt like the two of them could take on the world.

Johnny leads them to one of the rooms and pulls on a book. It comes forward with a click and then returns to its place as the bookcase starts to move, motes of dust flying off into the noon light once disturbed by movement. For all the faults of Simon’s father, the king, such as his warmongering and drunkenness, his paranoia that resulted in the construction of many hallways is not one of them, allowing the pair to move through the castle unseen.

“Paranoid bastard did something good in his life for once,” Simon mutters.

A cool air wafts in front of them, starkly different from the relative warmth of the chamber. The knight takes a torch from one of the holders and lights it up, coating the hallway with a warm orange light. He offers his hand up to Simon who takes it without a second thought, no doubt happy his knight is helping him evade his mother’s wrath. Johnny tries not to focus on how warm the prince’s hand is and what it would feel like to press his lips on them. Both prince and knight descend the staircase leading further in, a mix of excitement and apprehension mingling together in Johnny’s gut. His mind keeps repeating the mantra that drives him to commit to his duty: keep Simon safe, keep Simon safe . The hallway is dank and musty from disuse, but hopefully, it won’t crumble beneath their feet. Hopefully.

The corridor winds and bends like a labyrinth, prompting Simon to start grousing about whether or not they’re lost.

“Wonder how long it’ll take the servants to notice the smell if we die here?” asks Simon. Gods, despite all their years together, Johnny will never get used to this man’s fascination with the macabre and morbid. Aye, perhaps living with a father like the king will do that to a person’s sanity.

“Just fucking follow my lead, your Royal Highness,” Johnny replies, dragging the title out to let Simon know he’s not amused.

“I should put you to the sword for daring to call me that.” Despite the dim light, Johnny knows Simon’s grinning at him all devilishly.

“Ah, ye love me too much fae that,” the knight replies, letting his northerner’s accent bleed through his words. The prince hums in response.

The end of the corridor finally is in sight. Johnny gives a push, but the door doesn’t budge. He slides the torch into a nearby holder and puts all his might into the door, which barely moves. There’s a cracking sound outside. Strange. He turns to Simon, a silent plea for help.

Simon raises his eyebrow. “You’re asking the prince for help?”

“Aye, I am,” he shoots back, playfully scowling, “built like a fucking ox you are, the state a’ you. Gie me a hand here.”

Simon rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything else, coming forward and putting his shoulder into the door.

“On three,” Simon says. “One, two, three!”

Simultaneously their shoulders connect with the door. If it had only been one of them putting their best efforts against the door, their shoulder would’ve been broken, and they didn’t quite fancy a trip to the healer’s laboratory just yet. Lady Lolade Laswell may be all matronly and whip-smart, but Johnny would rather face the queen’s wrath than the healer’s disappointed face. The door finally gives way, and whatever’s been put up behind it collapses with a low rumble.

Bright light shines into the corridor, forcing them to squint. A strong gust of wind is blasted immediately into Johnny’s face as he steps forward. Thankfully, it is solid ground. The cries of seagulls and shouts of men from fishing boats are carried up by the wind towards where the pair of them stand. It’s a little terrace in one of the more isolated sections of the Verdant Keep. The little stone platform is facing south towards Bluerush Bay, with the rest of the city and its walls behind it. It’s beautiful. Again, if only Johnny brought his sketchbook, but alas he’ll have to return at a later date to immortalize such a sight.

“Hey Johnny.” He feels more than sees the prince settle in place beside him. He knows that tone of voice.

“Gods, what d’ye have to tell me now?”

“Whaddya call a cow with no legs?”

“Fuck’s sakes, jist get on wi’ it!”

“Ground beef.” The prince grins like a cat that just successfully ate the family bird. John groans.

“Come oan, that was fucking terrible!”

“If it was, you wouldn’t be suffering my presence now, wouldn’t you?”

He’s right, though, the fucker. But John won’t admit to it, so instead, he settles for not-so-gently elbowing the prince in the stomach, who simply takes it in stride with a grin. They settle back on the stone railings.

“I could stay here forever,” Simon says in a wistful voice. Johnny turns to find the prince with his eyes closed and head turned up to the sky, sunlight streaming down to paint the pale line of his neck. Johnny’s pale, but not as pale as Simon, who could very well be mistaken for someone literally glowing.

“If only.” John’s sight never leaves the prince even as the words leave his lips. Simon turns to him with a smile. If only the blond could look this content and happy forever. Never mind all the responsibilities, all the baggage, all the bullshit. Just the two of them right here, forever. The knight leans closer to the prince, so close he can practically smell the perfume the servants have doused on him. It’s sweet and mild, like Simon’s favorite tea. The prince is also looking at him with a half-lidded gaze, eyes ablaze in the sunlight. This is it , Johnny thinks. Both of them move to close the gap until the spell is broken when, one by one, the bells on the city walls begin to sound, signaling the arrival of midday, with the sun high above them. They quickly separate, and John tries to will his slowly forming blush out of existence, feeling the heat of it creeping up his neck.

“I-I suppose I should return to face my mother,” the prince says, breaking the silence.

“S’pose ye should,” John replies, clearing his throat and hoping his voice doesn’t sound raspy. “Such as it is, I’m afraid. Our duties rarely allow for moments of prolonged companionship these days.”

Simon makes for the exit but stops and turns again to John.

“Do…” he says, “do you think there’s a place for love and duty both?”

“I’m afraid I dinnae ken the answer to that Simon.” At the sight of Simon’s crestfallen look, he quickly adds, “But remember our deal we made? I’ll always be by your side, Si. No matter what. I’ve got yer back, a’right?”

That saddened look quickly vanishes from his face, replaced with something almost akin to bashfulness and something else the knight doesn’t dare name. “Yes.” He turns back for the exit. “Well, I must truly get going, farewell, for now, Johnny.”

Johnny says nothing as he watches Simon’s receding back, feeling like he’s watching his heart go with the prince.

Notes:

They are so fucking stupid, I love them.

Chapter 3: These Are The Words I Held Back

Summary:

A flashback detailing Johnny's early years up until he meets Prince Simon, and then some.

Notes:

Titular chapter, lezzgo! Now for something a lil different - flashbacks! Hope y'all like it
Kinda beta read; again English is one of my two languages so if anything's clunky blame me being bilingual and mixing shit up lmfao. If some scenes may seem clunky its cuz i rushed through the last 5 pages cuz work kinda took my time away but eh :’D
Anw i’ve spoken yapanese for too long now, enjoy!

NOTE: Edited Aug. 16, 2024 (so the last section flows better ^^)

Johnny is 16 when he decides to make a life-changing decision. It’s something he’s been thinking of for a while now, ever since his cousin Jamie came by for dinner during a lull in whatever war it is he’s been fighting.

“I’m goin’ tae join the army,” he says to his mother over breakfast. His younger brother and two even younger sisters are outside playing, their wooden plates formerly filled with bland oats now in the sink. He allows himself a moment to enjoy their shouts of joy, playing in the brook running behind their house. For a moment, his mother doesn’t respond; she simply shovels another spoonful of oats into her mouth, eyes fixed on the table as if she was mesmerized by a particularly interesting section of wood. He thinks she didn’t hear him. He opens his mouth to speak and his mother interrupts.

“Good,” she says, eyes gray and severe as they train on him, “one less mouth tae feed.” The boy says nothing, feeling what’s left of his heart shatter in his chest. She didn’t even try to object. He bravely holds back tears pooling at the edge of his eyes. He won’t let his mother see him cry one last time.

She never really loved him, did she?

Always the loudest son, the excitable little boy who knocks over the mugs on the table, the bairn who’s more trouble than his worth, who once set the barn’s thatched roof on fire because he got too careless with some candles. Annoying. A spitting image of his father, now laid six winters into the cold, hard ground of the North, rotten from the pox. Fine, he’ll take himself off her hands, if that’s what she so desires.

Johnny is 16 when he packs up everything he owns. He leaves a note on the bed for his younger brother, urging him to take care of his sisters. On another note, the boy apologizes to his mother for being such a burden, that she’ll never have to hear from him again. He tries to slip the note under the door to his mother’s room but stops. He listens to the quiet settling over the house like a burial shroud. He listens for the breathing of his siblings, unaware that they’ll never see their eldest brother again. He crumples the note addressed to his mother, bites back a sob, and moves for the door.

Johnny is 16 when he steps over the threshold of the MacTavish farmhouse for the last time and slips off into the night.

---

John is 20, and he’s sure he has more blood on his hands than anyone else in his barracks. The nightmares have returned in full force, furies in his head that claw at his sanity into his waking moments. It clings to him like tar, a darkness that persistently settles in his lungs despite every exhale he makes. Fighting such a war tends to make monsters of them all, even if it’s for their rightful queen.

John is 20 and he hears the voice of his mother, cold and clear like the waters of a loch, spitting cruel insults at him. He hears the sounds of the damned, of all the lives he took, all those people crying for their mothers as they lay bleeding out on some blasted heath as crows circle overhead waiting to feast on what remains. One wouldn’t get to where John is without spilling a little blood.

When John sits upright with his mouth open in a silent scream, he doesn’t remember the dream which fades before him like a mirage, yet his body remains tense all the same. He exits the tent serving as their regiment’s barracks to the barrel of water they keep for multiple purposes. He dips his hands in, grounds himself in the cool touch of the water running over his fingertips, and splashes his face. There we go. Nice and fresh. His body’s still taut tighter than a bowstring, so he decides to forgo what remains of his sleep altogether and brew a cuppa.

The campfire’s lit, with two figures huddled around it, a kettle already hanging over the flames. It’s dark and bitter. It feels like home. Not the farmhouse he left years ago, but this home he made for himself.

“Mind joining us, Tavvy?” Gaz says while raising his own cup of coffee.

“Sure, why not? Wilnae be gettin’ sleep anytime soon.” John sits down and takes a cup offered by the other figure, their Captain, Price. First name John, but they all call him Price anyway. Saves the trouble of getting confused. He reminds John of his father. Stoic, sturdy, yet dependable. An oak tree. A formidable warrior to boot, heading up the 141st Infantry.

“Nightmares acting up again, lad?” asks the captain. John chuckles and nods. It’s quiet for a moment before the man speaks.

“When shit like this gets too hard to handle, I think of my wife and kids waiting for me back home,” the captain says, staring into the fire as if it holds all the world’s secrets in its dancing flames. “What ‘bout you two? Got someone waiting for yous?”

Gaz leans forward, the fire reflecting in his eyes. “None for me, sadly,” he says with a boyish smile. “No bird waiting for me at home. Maybe when leave comes this winter, I’ll find someone.” John’s heart aches for Gaz. He’s one of the best men he’s ever known, someone he’s come to practically call a brother. At that, John wonders how his siblings are doing, if they’re faring well or any of the sort. He’s wrenched from his thoughts by a cough and sees the two looking at him, brows raised in question. He’s torn between choosing honesty and deception. He chooses honesty.

“Ain’t got a husband waitin’ fer me at hame too,” he says, almost tripping over his words. His gaze flicks to the two of them, waiting for any sort of reaction. It must’ve been a single moment, yet it felt like an eternity, looking back. He steels himself, expecting ridicule.

“Tell you what, Tav,” Gaz says, “you come with me during leave, I’ll help you find your husband, how’s that sound?” There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no hostility, none of the things he’d expect if he told his mother this at home. He looks at Gaz and finds his eyes staring warmly at him. Price too.

“A-aye,” John rasps out before taking a long swig of his coffee. He smiles. “I’d like that.”

John is 20, he finds himself relaxing out of that fight-or-flight instinct his body’s been experiencing since he left home. It feels like entering a new life.

John is 20, and as he laughs with these two figures by the fire, he’s pretty sure he’s found himself another home.

---

Sir John is 25 when he’s knighted, whisked away from the jaws of the battlefield, and finds himself in a carriage heading for the Verdant Keep. He’s not alone, though. Price and Gaz are coming with him, and all three of them are to be inducted into the Queensguard for their actions in the war. It seems the 141’s actions are finally paying off.

Sir John is 25 and the said war had finished with a victorious Queen Marguerite ascending the throne, rescuing her hostage sons Thomas and Simon from the clutches of their father who fought to the bitter end before jumping to his death from the tallest tower of the keep. Good riddance.

It’s jarring, seeing how the landscape outside the carriage changes from the war-torn landscape – well on the way to recovery, might he add – to lush forests and, finally, the bustling city of Greenreach, capital city of its eponymous kingdom. The buildings are cramped and tall, casting shade on narrow streets even in the afternoon light. There are more people. What’s strange is that the smell never changed, always that scent of horseshit clinging to him like burrs on his pants.

John is 25 when he first meets the prince and those brown eyes he’s come to call home. The carriage drops them off in the courtyard and are greeted by the Royal Family. Queen Marguerite stands flanked by her sons, still clad in her armor; it’s graced with a rich, royal blue cape and has a distinct lion motif on its breastplate. Thomas, the heir, greets them with a smile despite the bruises and wounds marring his face, courtesy of the king. Simon, the youngest, is skittish like a spooked deer. Though taller than his mother and brother, the man is slouching as if to make himself seem smaller. Like a ghost. He knows that far-off, wide-eyed look on the prince’s face. Seen them in too many soldiers to count. How old is he, anyway? Couldn’t be any more than a few years older than him; he’d even bet his meager wages that the prince is his age, but his ordeal has made him look far older than he is.

They’re all assigned their roles in the Queensguard; Price himself is the queen’s protector, Gaz to Thomas, and Sir John to Simon. Strangely enough, he doesn’t see the prince for a week or more after he arrived at the Verdant Keep, that is until he spies a pair of warm, brown eyes staring at him across the courtyard, hidden in the shadows. He invites the prince who surprisingly approaches when he calls to him.

“Let’s see how good ye are with a blade, shall we?” he asks, smirking at the prince as if to challenge him. He could use some friendly competition around here. The prince walks towards him with a purpose. There he is.

Simon, it turns out, has great taste in swords, a simple longsword to Sir John’s trusty claymore, two lines of steel gleaming brightly in the sun. The knight enters a stance that is quickly copied by the prince. He has great form, at least. Like a lion ready to pounce. Not like those nobles who own a blade simply for the sake of owning one. The knight charges forward. En garde.

Sir John is 25 when he crosses blades with the prince for the first time. It’s far from the last. He sees the prince’s walls start to crumble, a devious expression crossing Simon’s face whenever he makes a particularly clever feint and parry. To others, the smile on his face might look a bit crazed, but to Johnny, it’s a wonderful sight.

Sir John is 25 when he hears the prince laugh for the first time since he’s met him, and he’s sure he’s found his best friend.

---

Johnny is 28 when he realizes his feelings for the prince run deeper than simple platonic affection. He remembers the moment clearly as if it were frozen in amber.

The library of the Verdant Keep is the largest Johnny’s ever been in. It’s a three-story library that contains books from myriad topics such as astronomy, physics, and even fictional works ranging back centuries before the kingdom was little more than a fishing village on the banks of the Bluerush. The latter genre is Simon’s favorite, ever so often opting to sneak out of courtly meetings in favor of reading whatever adventures lay behind the yellowed pages of the castle’s books.

In the library is where he finds Simon, as usual, head bent over one of the tables with only a single candle flickering its light over the pages. Outside, the evening sky is clear and bright, illuminating the prince in a mixture of purple from the moonlight and yellow from the candle’s flame, one side making him seem so mysterious while the other makes him look so cozy and homely. He’s beautiful.

Thomas’ betrothal to Lady Elizabeth had been commemorated with quite the celebration. A week-long feast in the kingdom’s streets following a bountiful autumn harvest as burned fields slowly began to bloom new life once more. The castle courtyard had been radiant and thrumming with life all evening, but Johnny soon found himself wondering where his princely shadow went.

Johnny steps on a creaky plank on the floor on purpose, alerting Simon of his visitor. When the prince looks at Johnny, he feels his heart skip a beat as the full force of Simon’s attention is focused on him, this mountain of a man standing to his full height with a stagger, indicating some level of drunkenness present. Johnny doesn’t judge; he’s imbibed quite a bit too as the night progressed. Si’s eyes look so striking in candlelight. The prince has an indignant expression from having his reading time disrupted, but it quickly softens the moment he registers Johnny’s silhouette.

“Johnny.”

“Si.” The prince quickly returns to his seat as the knight approaches. Si is reading his collection of fairytales it would seem. He considers teasing the prince over his preference for children’s stories over more mature pursuits but holds his tongue. The prince has heard it all before from him and other people; he doesn’t need to listen to it now. Moreover, John doesn’t want the prince to suddenly distrust him, especially when he looks so much softer and younger like this.

“The Raven Prince, eh?” Si nods and moves on the bench to create a space where Johnny can sit beside him. The old, weathered book smells like vanilla and wood. Simon smells like an expensive perfume. Oddly enough, it’s not as overwhelming as most nobles’ perfume does. It’s mild. It smells like sandalwood and flowers, sweet and leathery. It smells like home to Johnny. On the page, the Raven Prince finally returns to his betrothed, the Lord of the Lake, after three long years to make good on promises made.

“Your brother’s celebrations got ye in a romantic mood, aye?” he says, tone lightly teasing but not enough to wound.

Si hums. By now, Johnny’s cataloged all of the prince’s different hums to know that this is an affirmative hum.

“Day after Tommy got hitched, Mum’s suddenly been on my case,” Simon sighs. “Been hiding ‘ere so she won’t pester me. ‘Simon, mayhaps you should start looking for a consort, Simon, you have a responsibility to the court, Simon, your brother has found someone to share such burdens with, will you not do the same?’ an’ all that bullshit.”

“Guess waging war against yer father made her a tad too o’erprotective on ye,” Johnny says. He’s seen the lengths Marguerite will go to protect what’s left of her family. Seen how cold and cruel she can get against those who seek to wrong the House of Riley. He’s also seen how it’s affected Simon. Nights spent on the balcony with a friendly drink in hand as Simon vents about how his mother’s crushing him with her attentions.

“She won’t come looking for me here.” Simon’s head turns to the library windows. “She’s too busy spending time with my brother and his shiny, new bride, so at least that saves me any heartache for now.” He flips to the next page. “It’s fucking irritating, what she’s doing to me. I’m not next in line, I’m the fucking spare. Sometimes I want to walk up to her and yell at her…fuck. D-don’t tell ‘er I said that, yeah?”

Johnny snickers but nods anyway.

They both sit there in silence, content to simply exist in each other’s spaces. The faint noises of the celebration outside the stained-glass windows of the library mingle with the turning of the page and the flicker of the candle. It’s all so terribly domestic. Briefly, Johnny wonders how it’d feel if he leaned in closer towards the prince, resting his side against him and feeling Si’s warmth, but decides against it. He steels his body to prevent any movement. Si must notice his tense stance.

“Are you alright, Johnny?” And damn if that nickname doesn’t affect him. His father used to call him that. An epithet borne out of affection that slowly turned into a name that signified anger and annoyance when his mother came to use it after his father’s death. He hated being called Johnny, but right now, with his name rolling off Si’s tongue like a prayer, he finds he doesn’t mind. In fact, he welcomes it.

“Just thinking,” he says.

“What of?”

“Marriage too, I guess,” he says. “Yer brother gettin’ hitched reminded me o’ some things… My folks ne’er really had a happy one by the end of it. Maw was sae high-strung aw the time I was sure her hair’d be pure white by the time it’s done, and Da, well, let’s say the red pox isnae the nicest way tae go, let’s put it at that.” The words spill out of his mouth like water from a broken dam. Everything he’s held back. Everything he had to bury deep within himself if he wanted to survive now all brought to the surface. He trusts Simon to hold his broken pieces together for him.

Si is a steady and silent rock beside him, moving to press against his side to comfort Johnny. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Which then makes Johnny realize he’s been talking to someone who’s had a much rougher go at childhood than he did. Johnny tries to apologize, but Simon waves it off.

“Pain is pain,” he says.

All is silent again before Si finally breaks it.

“You…you ever think you’d still get married, if given the chance?”

Johnny snorts. “Sure,” he says, bitterness clinging to his tone like a rust to a cloth. “If I find someone willin’ tae deal wi’ all this,” Johnny gestures to himself, “I’ll smith ‘im his ring myself.” He leans forward on the desk, letting the tiredness seep into his bones. “Wha’ ‘bout you? See yersel’ gettin’ hitched?”

“I have the same sentiments,” Simon says simply. Johnny turns to look at him.

“Could’a sworn ye were a romantic the way yer face’s buried in that book,” he smirks.

The prince gently shoves him. “Piss off.” Johnny chuckles.

“How ‘bout this,” Si begins, “what d’ya say we make a deal?”

“Depends on the deal,” Johnny says with a snort, “I’m no’ looking to make a repeat a’ the armory incident last year.”

“No, not like that.” Johnny could get drunk on the sound of Si’s soft laughs alone.

The prince closes the book and turns to him. “What if,” he begins with a soft, almost nervous voice, “when we’re of age and we haven’t been betrothed to anyone else yet, what do you think of us marrying each other? When the time comes?” A blush starts to form stubbornly on Johnny’s cheeks; he hopes the room’s dark enough to hide it. He opens his mouth to speak but Simon cuts him off.

“I-I mean,” he says, stumbling over his words, “I think it’s a good idea.” The prince’s hands start fidgeting over the book’s cover. “I don’t think there’s no better candidate than you, Johnny. W-we’re best friends, we’ve known each other for a while, we work well together, innit? I just– never mind, I must…the alcohol must be getting to me, my apo–”

“Nae!” Johnny interrupts in a loud voice and then wincing, continuing in a softer tone. “I mean sure, why not? I’m no’ even sure I’d even find someone willin’ tae put up with me the way ye do; I could do worse.” He ends his rambling with a chuckle, the blush returning full force on his face. He’s sure Si’s blushing too.

“Yeah?”

“A-aye,” he says. The conversation peters out soon after when Johnny is called back to his post. He feels Simon’s gaze burning behind him. The next day when he sees Si for their daily sparring session, it’s as if all memory of the previous night was all but forgotten. Si makes no mention of it, and neither does Johnny. He’s not sure if the prince remembers and simply wishes to put it all behind him, or if the drunkenness has blotted it out of his mind like smoke to the stars in the sky. He doesn’t want to find out the answer to that.

Johnny is 28 when he realizes he loves the prince, and that this grumbly, freakishly tall, well-built man has burrowed his way past the walls surrounding the knight’s heart and decided to never leave. He’s family the way Gaz and Price are, but the thought of telling Simon, who he knows wouldn’t hurt him, fills him with dread. What if he loses him? This family he’s come to love? What if everything he’s built all comes crashing down on him? He’d be abandoning his duty and everything he’s worked for. It’s not worth it.

Johnny is 28 when he resolves to never tell him.

---

Johnny is 30 when he realizes he’s going to have to make a choice. Love or duty. Can he handle choosing one and risk losing the other? The knight himself stands rooted to the spot as the prince paces back and forth across the empty room once the meeting has concluded (but was it really a meeting or rather a way for Queen Marguerite to back the prince into the proverbial corner and politely inform Simon that another gala shall be held in his honor and that this time, the prince shall choose a consort?) .

“I can’t believe she would fucking do this to me!” he roars, looking ever the part of Marguerite the Lion’s cub. His usually neat hair is falling over his forehead in clumps, sweat mixing with the pomade slicking it back. His mouth is pulled back in a sneer. Johnny doesn’t know what to say besides empty platitudes they both know won’t do jack shit.

“Such is the heavy burden of the crown, Simon,” he says anyway. Simon shoots him a look to which the knight replies with a shrug. He’s just as stumped as he is. The prince runs his hands through his hair again, pulls at it, and groans into his hands. It’s a low growl that speaks of stress and fear. Johnny wants to go and hug the prince.

“This is fucking torturous!” Si says, all fight exiting his body and leaving only bone-deep exhaustion as he collapses on himself on the table, sighing deeply. “My mother wants to protect me, that much I know,” he says, voice muffled with his head held in his hands, “but I would appreciate if she left me the option to choose; ‘s the least she could do for me. My father’s not here to terrorize us anymore, there’s no need for her to have such a-a godsdamned stick up her arse, fuck!”

Johnny goes to Simon and starts rubbing his hand in soothing circles around the prince’s back, feeling the fabric underneath his palms. Whatever Johnny’s been ruminating can be set aside. Simon needs him, and loathe is he to abandon his prince. His friend.

Simon breathes deeply for a moment before continuing to speak. “I just wish I didn’t feel like I have to choose between one thing and the other. I feel like some prize to be paraded around to be sold to the highest bidder.”

“I ken, I ken,” John says soothingly, “there’s a difficult line tae toe between what ye want an’ what has tae be done. You’re the prince, whether we like it or not. You have a responsibility to the kingdom’s stability and prosperity, yer brother e’en more so.”

“At least Tommy married someone he loves.”

“Aye, aye, that too. Maybe ye could grow to love whoever’s presented to ya?”

Simon unwraps his arms around his head and turns to look at Johnny, his voice filled with frustration. “W-what if I already want someone else? Someone I know makes me happy, even if the realm won’t benefit from such a union?”

What?

“...you’ve found someone already?” He knows it’s only a moment in time before Simon will find someone. Hell, he’s prepared himself for this eventuality. And yet…the mere mention of the possibility that Simon, warm and kind Simon Riley, is potentially enamored with someone else? Johnny tries to not let his heart shatter right there in his chest. There’s no possibility of a knight like him, born from nothing and with no noble blood whatsoever. Sure he’s part of the Queensguard, one of the most elite collections of knights in existence, but at the end of the day, he owns no land nor kingdom of his own. All he has is the family and life he’s built together, and he’ll be damned if he lets it shatter right before his eyes.

Simon nods. “I think I have.”

No, no, no, everything wasn’t supposed to fall apart so soon! “Then if you’re mind’s set on it, I guess ye’ll have to contend with the consequences,” Johnny replies, throat tight. He hopes Simon doesn’t notice the way his heart’s breaking right in front of him. “It’s difficult but sometimes the right decision isnae always somethin’ easy.”

“What if there was another way?”

What?

“I dinnae ken what ye mean…”

“What if,” Simon says, trying to push the words out of his mouth, growing more and more frustrated, “what if– what if I leave this all behind? Start anew somewhere no one knows neither my name nor face? Somewhere I’m freed of all these constraints, with someone I’ve come to know and love?” Simon? Abandoning his duty? The statement uttered so casually in the silence of the empty room is practically a slap in Johnny’s face. This has to be a joke, right? This cannot fucking be .

“I’m afraid tha’s too extreme, Your Royal Highness; you and your consort, whoever they may be, both a’ ye have a–”

“What, you gonna preach to me about doin’ my duty again?” replies the prince, a frown forming on his face. “You speak of the importance of duty, yet when have I ever done anything that wasn’t what people expect of me, the prince? You, the knight, though duty-bound, can afford to make mistakes, have flaws, have a semblance of freedom, but I? This is a fucking gilded cage, John! It’s suffocating me, and you’re content just to stand there and watch me drown!”

Watch him drown? Hasn’t Johnny stayed by the prince’s side through thick and thin, provided him counsel, been the prince’s rock through all his fears that kept him up well into the wee hours of the morning? What is Simon asking of him? His duty is all that he has left, the only thing he can cling, assured in the fact that he’ll always be by the prince’s side as long as he permits. And now, even that is not enough for Johnny to keep him.

“My duty, to you as your protector and to the realm as its knight, means more to me than any of my own desires!” Johnny yells. “This is all I ken how tae be, Simon!” The fight unfolds in front of them like a disaster about to happen. He knows Simon’s not in the greatest of headspaces right now, but frankly? Johnny can’t seem to care, the feeling of his heart broken into shards in his chest too painful to bear, let alone focus and be rational. He knows he’ll regret it all once the fight is done, but the rage and grief pours out of him uncontrollably.

“You’re not listening to me! You’d sooner stay bound to your duty than and drown than cling to happiness and live!”

“I wilnae risk it, Si! I’ll no’ risk all this. I wish things were different, Si, truly, I do, but such is the path fate has set oot fer us both. I’ll stand by yer side fer as long as I’ll live, but I dinnae sanction the abandonment o’ yer responsibilities.”

The prince is silent, and then his face shutters. Regret wells up in Johnny like a flood, but he’s too late to speak.

“Have it your way then.” The prince rises from his seat and moves towards the door in quick, lengthy strides. He turns back to look at Johnny. His eyes are filled with desperation and sadness. Johnny never wants to see such a thing on the prince’s face ever again, and he feels a stab of self-loathing at the knowledge that he did this to him.

“You’re welcome to cling to your responsibilities, Sir; you can watch me drown while you’re at it.”

The prince storms out of the room, bursting through the mahogany doors before slamming them shut, his footsteps echoing down the hall. John stands alone in the room, heart heavy with words unsaid and Simon’s parting shot echoing through his mind. When Johnny goes to bed later that night, his mind is filled with images of Simon’s pained, scorned face staring back at him.

He doesn’t know how he let it come to this.

Notes:

Whew, what a ride. Anw, see yall next week; things are getting busier rn so I might update either a day later or even a full week, who the fuck knows. Cheers!

Chapter 4: Please Don’t Be in Love with Someone Else

Summary:

The fallout and the aftermath of things.

Notes:

hey yall im back, i'm not dead! pardon me for disappearing, the ao3 author curse got me. but anw here, i'll just post this chapter even if i have to review for a quiz on rashomon tomorrow and the fact i have to start revising my short story for my ya lit class and s.e asia is in the middle of a heatwave rn...oh joy /s.

Let it be said that John MacTavish never believed in fairytales, even if, loath as he is to admit it, he wished life acted like one sometimes.

The morning a few days after the fight finds Johnny irritable. Simon’s been avoiding him for some time. It throws his deep-seated habits into disarray. Accidentally making a cup of tea when he hates the very taste of it. Turning around to say good night at the door only to find no one there. Simply put, it’s not the best of times for him right now.

Not only that, but he woke up late, rushed to the mess hall for breakfast only to find that not only did the castle cook prepare his least favorite food, but what was left of it was already scarce in the communal cauldron. Johnny had to contend with the horrid taste of slimy onions and thin, clear broth while also going about his morning feeling unsatisfied with breakfast.

His mood sours further when he hears the kitchen staff gossiping about Simon’s upcoming gala, which, to his surprise, is to be held tonight. Bitterness coats his chest like tar. Simon didn’t even tell him.

His stomach clamors all the way to the training yard come noontime. The trainees must notice his stormy eyes, unstyled mohawk, and his unusually prickly disposition because, as he makes his way down to the castle’s courtyard, terrified trainees part before him as if he were the King himself.

“Johnston, fucking keep up!” he yells at a lagging recruit as he makes all of them run laps around the courtyard, kicking up dust in their wake. Today, the greenhorns seem to be underperforming, which makes the storm thrumming underneath Johnny’s skin ache into something fierce. He wants to fucking hit something, wants to take some alchemist’s fire and chuck it into the armory filled with gunpowder. Let it all burn down.

A recruit face-plants into the dirt. Johnny dusts the poor boy off and makes them run a few extra laps, glaring at them the whole while. It doesn’t help that the sun is so damned bright today, making him sweat under his armor, which is already weighed down by a cape and his sword. Deep breaths. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Rinse and fucking repeat. It appears the years have done nothing to dull Johnny’s infamous temper.

Once training is done, Johnny continues with his day. He goes to the armory, takes his claymore, and goes to town on a poor wooden dummy. The sword swings at the wood, which hits with a hollow thwack, landing at the junction by the dummy’s neck and shoulder. Had this been a real person, they would’ve been bleeding out on the field in seconds.

He trains and trains and trains. He lets the ache of his muscles distract him from the fact that he could very well lose Simon soon and that he did nothing to prevent it. The sword hits the dummy again and again. By the time his little temper tantrum is done, the effigy is nothing more than a pile of wood, destroyed to bits at the hands of Johnny’s blade.

And yet it still doesn’t feel enough; it still doesn’t feel like the anger in his veins is even remotely close to dissipating.

When he goes to store his sword safely again, the sun has made its way across the sky, and it’s already well past noon, so the humidity is starting to be replaced by the breeze coming in from the sea and sweeping into the castle walls.

His arms are aching something fierce. Good. Something to distract him from the way his chest seems to be imploding on him. He decides to go to the healer’s wing and look for the Laswells.

Lolade Laswell’s laboratory is a massive room on the east side of the Verdant Keep. As the court physician, she has amassed tons of equipment, with innumerable chemical concoctions at her disposal. Bottles filled with reagents and a myriad of other stuff line the fully stocked shelves that wrap around the room.

At the center is the woman herself, working hard as she mixes up another batch of elixirs on her desk. Her tightly coiled hair, usually worn in rows that reach down to her shoulders, is tied into a high bun today to prevent any chemicals from getting on her person as all her machinery whirs gently beside her, rotating and puffing out steam occasionally.

Without turning to John, she speaks. “Injured yourself again, lad?” Her voice is warm yet exasperated, no doubt because Johnny won’t listen to her advice to take it down a notch and calm down from training. He’s been in the woman’s laboratory more times than he could think, sat on the bench in the corner while the woman administered her medicine to the man, only for Johnny to be found back up and training in the courtyard the next day as if he hadn’t overexerted himself. Yeah, he’d want to throttle himself too.

He chuckles sheepishly in lieu of answering her question. Lolade turns to him with a mildly annoyed expression, one eyebrow raised. Johnny averts his gaze.

Lolade sighs and motions for the bench, heading to one of the shelves and taking out a bottle filled with that familiar green liquid Johnny knows will revitalize him. The woman might as well be performing sorcery the way she handles her chemicals and turns them into something renewing.

Johnny himself isn’t too bad at chemistry as well, having had a hand at developing his own kinds of bombs in his spare time, but this sort of chemistry is something he has a hard time wrapping his head around. He has always been a man of destruction, he thinks to himself. The way he fought during the war like a rabid animal, the way he overworked himself, and even now, the way he’s slowly beginning to demolish the goodwill he had formed between himself and the prince. His heart aches at the thought, so he pushes it aside for now.

The healer sets the potion in front of Johnny to drink as the knight strips out of his armor, leaving him feeling vulnerable in his ratty old tunic and brown pants. “You know, even though we don’t really know each other much, you know, aside from your impromptu visits to my lab and happenstance, I can confidently say you bear a lot of similarity to my Kate,” she says.

“Is your wife also stubborn an’ prone to overworkin’?” he replies dryly.

Lolade chuckles. “Yes, you and my dear wife both exhibit these fatal flaws,” she says with a voice just as dry and sits down beside Johnny on the bench, “but that’s not all there is to you both.”

“Psh. Don’t feel like it right now.”

“Hey now, none of that.” There’s a mock-serious expression on Lolade’s face, but the glint in her eyes betrays her intentions. “You two may have habits that drive me almost to insanity at times, but like Kate, you’re noble, John. You’ve got a big heart with lots of love to give.”

Johnny musters a tired smile. Lolade reaches forward and clasps the knight’s palm, deep umber skin against Johnny’s paleness. Her hands are soft in comparison to the calluses that have built up in Johnny’s over the years.

“Hard workers, too, the both of you. You and Kate, you both strive for greatness and always love doing the right thing, even if sometimes what you think is the right thing will be to your detriment.”

He clenches his jaw as his eyes suddenly start to burn. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t fucking cry. A mantra to keep himself from falling apart, even though everything he’s kept inside ever since he ran away from home at 16 is about to burst out of his chest in a gory mess.

“You’re allowed to do things for yourself, you know that, right? You’re allowed to put yourself first.”

“I-I can’t–” Johnny chokes out.

“Can’t?” Lolade replies with a raised brow, “Or won’t?”

The first tear finally streaks down Johnny’s cheek, then another, and then another, until slowly the dam breaks, and he finds himself quietly sobbing on the bench in front of the healer. Johnny feels warmth envelop him when he sees that Lolade has wrapped the knight up in a hug, her palms twin sources of warmth on his back, behind his lungs. He melts into the touch and hugs back tightly.

When his sobs finally die down, the woman speaks again. “I cannot presume to tell you how to live your life, Sir John,” she says, “but let me tell you something I told my Kate when she was courting me, alright?”

Johnny nods.

“First, you have to know my relationship with my lady wife wasn’t always what you’ve observed.” Lolade sighs, grabbing the elixir off the table and handing it to Johnny, who uncaps it and starts sipping, wincing from the taste.

“Our families didn’t initially approve of the relationship. My Kate came from a long line of nobles dating back to the founding of the kingdom. I, on the other hand, found my fortune with my alchemy.”

She reaches out a hand and wipes a tear track on Johnny’s cheek.

“She came to me one night, wide-eyed and shaking, telling me her father was to have her engaged with another lady, one who had ‘good breeding,’ so they said. She told me she was afraid of how her father would react but that she also didn’t want to be married to someone she barely knew.

“So I took her head into my hands, looked into her eyes, and said, ‘You listen to your heart, Katie, not your father. You can honor your responsibilities without sacrificing your happiness. It’s no either-or. Doesn’t have to be. You can forge yourself a path that honors both.”

“And then what happened next?” Johnny asks.

“Well,” Lolade says, fingers fidgeting on the silver band around her ring finger, “what do you think?”

The sound of the door opening effectively ends the conversation. In the doorway stands Katherine Laswell herself, tall and proud in silver robes that match the ring on her finger. The woman walks toward them with a regal gait. Johnny stands up and bows to her.

“There’s no need for formalities,” Kate says with a smile, waving the gesture off. She turns to Lolade. “Tell me, Lola, how close is our dear knight to losing use of his arm?”

“With the way he overworks himself? I give it a year, maybe even less,” she snickers behind her hand. Their eyes shine with mirth.

John huffs. “I’m still here, y’know?”

The two women giggle. Johnny rolls his eyes. At least someone in this damned castle gets to have their happily-ever-after. Memories of the night he danced alone to Simon’s shadow cast against the garden wall come to the forefront of his mind, causing his chest to squeeze. If only life was like the fairytales in the prince’s book. His heart aches further when he sees how the two women look at each other, like there’s no one else left in the room but them.

“Anyway, I’m sure I’ve bothered you enough already,” he says, patting his thighs as he stands up. “I best get going; training’ won’t finish itself and all that.” He makes for the door, but Kate calls out to him before he could flee.

“Sir John.” He turns back to look at the pair.

“You and the prince have a good thing going,” she says with a piercing blue gaze. “Don’t let circumstances get in the way of what you have, alright? Take it from me.” She turns to Lola with a soft look. Johnny stands speechless. He nods and exits the building. He’s not fleeing…just performing a tactical retreat, so to speak. He’s a soldier at heart, after all. They can take the knight all he wants out the battlefield and all that.

He finds one of the castle’s many balconies and allows himself to finally breathe. It’s hard to imagine that his entire world’s been tilted on its axis in the span of a single month. That first ball Simon had was at the end of the Month of Blooms; it’s the Month of Merriment now, the heart of the summer months, and, despite the name, it’s got Johnny feeling like a noose is rapidly tightening around his neck. He’s being torn right down the middle. Duty on one end and love on the other. Choose one; lose the other. Or is it as clear-cut as it seems?

Loss is something Johnny doesn’t want to dwell on. The wounds of his childhood still ache deep within his chest, the pain sometimes growing sharper on nights when he finds himself bereft of sleep. Family is the most important thing to Johnny; the loss of his mother and siblings in one fell swoop left him adrift like a ship without its moorings until he stumbled upon Gaz and Price years after his fateful decision. They became his family. His home.

For years it was only the three of them on the battlefield, trading jokes and stories around the campfire, unsure whether the next battle would be their last. Then they became Queensguards, and Simon, a solid and quiet presence, joined their little family. He wouldn’t have known the Prince had it not been for the three of them being assigned as the royal family’s de facto protectors. Times they spent together in merriment were a balm to his wounded heart, a part of himself he only lets show scarcely. These are memories that he holds near and dear to his heart. An island of warmth when all he knew in life was the cold sting of rejection and loneliness.

Losing his family is about the worst thing that could happen to him. He cannot bear to lose Simon. As much as it hurts to see it confirmed that Simon loves another, he’d still be content if the prince remained in his life. If such a thing meant that he’d cling harder to his responsibilities as the prince’s knight and sworn protector, so be it. Though, with the way things are going, he’s not even sure his efforts will be enough to keep the prince by his side.

Nonetheless, he’s willing to love him from a distance. It would definitely hurt less than the thought of never seeing the prince smile at him again or listen to his horrible, damned jokes. He just hopes that, after all this is done, Simon will still be willing to be seen with him.

Before he finds himself wallowing too much in his maudlin thoughts, he takes a deep breath, looks one last time over Greenreach, and starts heading back inside to his quarters. Dusk is setting over the city as lights and pennants are set up in the plazas and streets. The world is awash in a mix of oranges and purples. Twilight hour.

When he rounds a corner, he definitely doesn’t expect to ram into a very solid presence. He yells out a swear when his face plants on the man’s (admittedly) well-sculpted chest, staggers backwards, then lifts his head to glare at whoever decided to cross his path while he’s in the middle of such a shitty mood.

Well, shit.

He doesn’t expect to look up and see Simon staring back at him, eyes wide like a kid caught stealing from the pantry. The mountain of a man is stock-still, as if petrified by the gorgons they’ve read about in the library all those years ago.

As his eyes roam the man, still rooted to the spot, he sees Simon’s not doing any better than Johnny, apparently. The prince’s hair, usually a brilliant gold most days, is almost muted in color, as if someone drained out its vibrance, leaving it a poor copy of its former glory. Bags gather beneath the prince’s eyes like he’d been bruised. Even the man’s clothing is unkempt; the usual white and gold outfit Simon usually wears is now disheveled and un-ironed.

Johnny feels the urge to hug the man but stills himself even if his body screams for him to wrap his arms tightly around the prince. If he were to speak frankly, the feeling is akin to essentially severing a limb. He’s not sure whether his touch would be welcomed right now.

“Your Royal Highness,” Johnny finally says, breaking the silence. He winces when he remembers too late how the prince hated being called as such. In front of him, Simon seems to show no hint of displeasure. “Q-quite the coincidence, runnin’ into you, aye?” He’s sure his voice is awkward and unsure, his smile probably too wide.

“Sir John,” the prince replies. Johnny tries not to feel the heaviness sitting in his chest at how distant the prince sounds, like he wants nothing to do with him. This can’t be the end, right?

“Simon,” he says, forgoing the title, hoping his words will reach Simon the way he wants it to, “w-what have ye been up to today?” Johnny cringes at how stilted his words are. Is this how it’s coming to? From lingering glances, soft touches in the library, and sweaty sparring sessions beneath the noonday sun to this? Words barely choked out in a dusty hallway? Surely this is not how their friendship dies, right?

“Just preparing.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Johnny resists the urge to fiddle with the end of his tunic. Now’s not the time to be a coward. Be brave, damn it. Talk! He’s never had a hard time talking with other people, yet why does his silver tongue leave him bereft now?

Johnny opens his mouth, forcing the words out. “Listen, Simon—”

“Johnny, I—” the prince says at the same time. Johnny closes his mouth with a click.

“...y-you go first, Simon,” he says.

Simon lets out a breath and begins to speak. “About last time,” he says. Johnny feels pinned in place the way the prince’s eyes zero in on him. In another life, he thinks to himself, Simon would’ve made one hell of an archer. Like a ghost, perhaps.

“I-I apologize for the way I left things that time.” Simon looks so earnest when he says it. But why is he apologizing? It’s Johnny who should be begging at his feet, hoping to regain a semblance of what they once had. It’s not the prince’s fault Johnny’s feelings got in the way. “I was mad,” Simon continues, “a-and you were an easy target for me to yell at. For that, I offer my most sincere apologies. You didn’t deserve such treatment, least of all from me.”

“Why are you apologizing to me? Shouldn’t it be the other way ‘round? And talk normally, fuck’s sake, I’m no common servant, please.”

Simon shakes his head. “I—”

“No,” Johnny says at the same time. “I’m sorry, Simon. I provoked you when I should’ve listened to you.” Johnny bravely tries to meet Simon’s piercing gaze. He steels his arms at his sides. “I should’ve been a better friend. I should’ve—”

“You were…are a better friend, Johnny. The best I could’ve asked for.”

“You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings.” John searches Simon’s eyes, looking for the telltale glint that shows if he’s lying or not. He finds none.

“I’m not lying,” he says resolutely. “It’s me who should apologize. I’m afraid I’ve asked too much of you.”

“You could never ask too much of me, my prince.” Simon’s eyes soften at the way Johnny softly utters his title. The knight thinks maybe this isn’t so unsalvageable after all. He can fix this. He’ll be damned if he loses another person he holds dear again.

“So,” Simon says, shifting nervously in place, “do you forgive me? C-can we put this behind us?”

“Of course, Si,” he replies, a significant weight lifting off his chest. “And you?”

Simon shoots him a small, genuine smile. There he is. “Yes.”

“Will I see you? At the gala? Tonight?” The prince’s eyes look a bit more hopeful. Brighter than it’d been since he last saw him.

“I wasn’t sure I’d still be welcome,” Johnny replies, his hand coming up to rub his nape. A nervous tic he’d never really unlearned.

“You are still most welcome,” Simon replies. “Would you come?”

“Only if you permit me.” Johnny’s voice is soft, and he’s not sure he’s doing a good job concealing the affection in his tone. He finds that he doesn’t care.

“I do.” Simon’s voice is firm, kingly even. Had he been the heir, Johnny’s sure he’d make a fine ruler, unlike his father. “I-I’d rather hoped you’d come, seeing as I left you some clothes in your room. Don’t want my best knight showing up in just his armor, right?”

“A-aye.”

A noise from a nearby hallway quickly alerts Simon, who quickly stiffens.

“Listen,” he says to Johnny, “if my mother comes across you perchance, please tell her you saw me running the other way?”

Johnny nods, and the prince flees his presence.

His room’s mostly the same when he returns, save for the freshly pressed clothes resting on the center of his bed. He runs his hands over the fabric, feeling the silken cloth beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s in blue and gold, the color of the Riley house sigil. It feels decadent and is probably worth more than he’s ever earned in all his years of existence. It’s like a sacrilege even laying a hand on such a cloth.

Knowing he’s alone, he presses his nose against the cloth. It smells of Simon. The weight on his shoulders seems to lessen as he savors the smells of Simon’s tea, sandalwood, and even the soap used to wash it.

He unfurls it gently, the same way he would a flag to try and see if it would fit him, when the gentle scratch of paper falling against the hardwood floor alerts him. The parchment is folded and yellowed with age. It’s musty and old yet evokes hints of vanilla and sweetness, like running across fields of blue.

It’s familiar. How did that get here? He can’t have just left this here, can he? Or…did someone sneak this in? Only a few people have the keys to his quarters, though. Fewer still have bothered to enter. Simon…could it be?

He unfolds the page. Before him is an excerpt of a story he’s practically memorized. It’s the part where the Raven Prince returns to his king. His eyebrows crinkle in confusion. How did that get here?

Then, a thought, like a spark going off.

Johnny shakes his head. No, of course not. But how else would the page find its way into his clothes? There’s Simon’s large, blocky script at the bottom of the page, brutish and direct, unlike the looping letters of the storybook.

I remember.

He furrows his brows, checking to see if he’s reading it correctly or if he’s finally lost it. They make sense, and they don’t make sense. He tries to orient himself. Think logically. Okay, so the handwriting is Simon’s; that’s definite. And he says he remembers.

Remember. Remember what? There he is again. Johnny remembers Simon backlit by the candle and festival lights in the dark of the library, deep brown eyes glittering like pools of honey with every burst of a firework in the endless night sky. The way Simon’s eyes lock onto his, electric blue crashing into whiskey-brown, like it’s a promise never to be told. Like it’s the brush of lips in the alley dark wondering if it even happened in the first place.

What do you think of us marrying each other?

The one thing he never spoke aloud, as if the very act of speaking would will it into existence and throw everything John’s held so dear into disarray. He thought he was the only one. He thought he was right to assign delusion to every word sweetened like honey, every ghost of a breath as hot as a brand, every tender gaze.

But there it is. It throws everything into perspective, like an overturned room slowly righting itself. The lingering touches at the end of every sparring session, calloused hand to calloused hand. The warm looks that make Johnny feel like he’s downed a bottle of whiskey, settling warm in his stomach like an embrace.

Oh.

Simon loves him back.

He’s not imagining this, is he? He wants this too. Gods, fuck, Simon wants him too, and he doesn’t know what to do with that thought save for yelling it out the window.
The cracks in the facade appear, first hairline-thin, then growing and growing until the dam breaks, and Soap splits. His breath hitches in his throat. His chest feels tight. He holds still for a split second, afraid of what comes after the letting-go of things.

Elation thrums through his veins like lights flooding through a dark, empty hallway. Unlike the breakdown at Lolade’s lab, he’s in the safety of his room, so he clutches his face, mouth pulled back as he lets out a silent groan, letting himself fall apart knowing there’s no one to see. He’s not stopping them this time. He thinks of all the wasted time. Why couldn’t he have gotten his head out of his ass earlier? Why was he acting like such a stubborn ass? Everything he’s held back, everything he’s buried six feet below the ground, it all comes back to him with the force of an explosion.

The sobs are relentless, coming one after the other, harder, faster, until it feels like he’s choking. He lets the walls crumble to dust and doesn’t give a fuck.

Finally dusting himself off and picking himself up, he gingerly takes the paper in hand, as if any rough movement would cause it to disintegrate, and sets it onto his desk. What seemed like an impossible dream now appears so close he could almost grasp it.

He imagines them years from now. Older. Crow's feet now mark the edges of their eyes. The two of them are hidden under covers with candlelight, reading a book like they’re just kids again. Waking up well before dawn, holding each other tight, they might as well bruise each other. Sneaking a kiss while Simon’s distracted. Sketching his figure in the gardens.

His eyes fly to the clothes unfurled on the bed, looking through the mirror, then to the clock ticking above.

Past sunset, the feast shall begin, and at the end of the feast, the ball. Johnny needs to hurry. Simon took the best years of Johnny’s life, and he doesn’t give a damn. He’s going to give the man even more of it if he asks, serving it on a platter before him. Simon needs him, and he’s not going to fail his duty to the man he loves.

Johnny’s teetering at the edge of a cliff. He closes his eyes and decides to take the dive. He’s done letting things slip through his fingers.