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Chapter Text

Rumor has it that the future king of Spades has been born. 

It's all the maids in the palace can talk about. Apparently a young noblewoman living nearby the coast has given birth to a blonde, blue-eyed baby with the King’s symbol on his chest. 

Of course the rumor has yet to be confirmed. Arthur was probably not meant to have heard it at all. He’s in the middle of doing something naughty when he hears it, after all. He’d secretly sneaked into the pantry to steal a cookie before dinner and knowing that it was best to dispose of the evidence immediately, he had crawled underneath one of the carts to quickly eat it. 

As he’s munching on his treat, two kitchen maids enter and that’s when he hears it; “I hear they found the new king of Spades,” One of the girls whispers to the other. “Born with a little Spade on his chest!” 

Arthur stops mid-chew and glances at his wrist, where a Spade symbol lies covered by the fabric of his glove. At four years old, he does not yet fully understand the gravity of the symbol on his skin - all he knows is that he lives in a palace because of it. It’s also why people address him with funny names, such as Your Royal Highness and Prince. 

He listens to them gossip some more, although he does not really understand what they are talking about. By the time he has finished his cookie, the maids have left and Arthur plans his escape. It’s best to run and be quick, lest someone notice him, but before he can do so, a new person enters the pantry. 

Arthur hopes it isn’t his governess and holds his breath, just in case. His governess reminds him of the hounds that are kept at the doghouse outside; she can sniff him out, he is sure of it. 

When the curtain covering his cart is suddenly yanked outside, Arthur proudly does not yelp, but he does startle. Fortunately it is not his governess that has found him, but his favorite scullery maid. 

“I thought I smelled a cookie thief.” Rosie says with raised eyebrows and Arthur tucks his chin in with an innocent smile, at which she softens. “Come along then. I will give you some honeyed milk to help wash your stolen treasure down.”

She holds out her arms and Arthur quickly clambers out of his hiding spot, lifting his own arms so that she can pick him up and carry him towards one of the counters. Once she sits him down on top of one, she reaches out to brush away the crumbs sticking to the corner of his mouth. He giggles when she tickles his nose. 

“I know a secret.” He tells her, while she fetches him a mug of honeyed milk. 

“Do you now?” 

“Yes.” He nods, pleased that he knows something of importance. “Rumor has it that the future king of Spades has been born.” 

Rosie smiles fondly and hands him the mug, which he immediately sets on emptying. “Really? That sure sounds like good news. You must be excited.”

Arthur finishes his milk with a little hiccup and frowns at himself. He drank too fast again. His governess keeps telling him a prince should eat and drink slower. Rosie grabs the end of her apron to dab his mouth clean with. 

“Why?” He asks, clueless. 

Rosie does not answer him immediately, hesitating perhaps, and Arthur wonders why. Then she gently picks him up to lower him to the ground once more and pets his head. 

“I am sure miss Edwards is looking for you. Back to your room, little prince, and no detours!” 

She leans down and holds out her pinky, which Arthur grabs with his own. Behind his back, he crosses two fingers, and thinks he might take a detour through the rose garden. The fairies should be out. 

“I promise!” 

His governess is called Miss Edwards, which Arthur thinks is a little strange. Edwards does not sound like a girl’s name, but his governess is definitely a girl. She once told him that Edwards is her surname, but when Arthur asked what her first name was, she told him it was Miss. 

Arthur thinks she is lying. 

When he asks her about the rumor he has heard the day before, she sits him down and tells him about the symbol on his own wrist, before telling him that he is lucky, because if the rumor is true, he will one day rule over Spades with a king his own age. 

Now Arthur knows she is lying. If the future king of Spades has just been born, he is still a baby. And babies are very small and boring. They don’t talk, read or play. In fact, Arthur thinks babies might not do anything but eat, cry and sleep. Arthur is definitely not a baby - he is four! - so they cannot be of the same age. 

He knows better than to talk back to his governess though. 

A week later, the rumor is confirmed. 

Everyone in the palace titters around excitedly and while their obvious joy makes Arthur a little nervous, he likes that everyone is smiling. At dinner he is told that the future king of Spades is named Alfred F. Jones and that he is the first born son of Lord and Lady Jones, who live near the coast, west of the palace. 

Right now, Alfred F. Jones is one month old, which means he is for years and three months younger than Arthur is. 

It is strange, though. Arthur is older, so should he not be the king? The kings in his storybooks are always older than their queens. He says as much to Yao when the older boy tucks him into bed that night. 

“The queens in your storybooks are always girls, too.” Yao replies. “Just because that is how it is in your books, does not mean that is also how it is in life.”

Arthur frowns and looks down at the rarely bared Spade symbol on the inside of his wrist. It is as natural to him as a birthmark, a freckle, but there is nothing normal about it, he has been told. It’s a symbol that means he will one day be queen - even if he is not a girl. 

The symbols are never wrong, says the king of Spades. Fate chooses who will be born with the symbols and fate is always right. So obviously a queen can also be a boy because Arthur is a boy. 

“Can a girl be a king?” He asks curiously. “I would like to read a story about a girl king and a queen boy.” 

Yao smiles and promises him that he’ll go look for one.

Arthur likes Yao. After Arthur, he is the youngest person in the palace. At fourteen he is still much older than Arthur, but he is young enough that he sometimes wants to play with Arthur or read him stories. Yao says Arthur is like a little brother to him, and Arthur has never had an actual brother, but he still likes it when Yao says so. 

He wonders if Alfred F. Jones will be like a little brother to him as well. He would quite like to have a little brother, he thinks. Arthur would be an amazing older brother: he would read him stories, teach him how to build blanket forts and impress him with his magic. 

“Is Alfred going to live here?” He asks after Yao closes the book they have been reading. 

“No, not until he is eighteen.”

“Why not? I live here already.”

“Because Alfred has a family.” Yao answers, his voice a little softer than usual. “You do not.”

Arthur pouts - how can such a thing be true? Everyone has a family, that is what the fairies have told him. Arthur just does not know where his family is. 

“You live here and you have a family.” He says instead, because he knows Yao does not like it when he talks about the fairies. Yao cannot see them, after all, nor can his governess or any of the maids, cooks and soldiers. 

He thinks the queen can see them, but she only tells him to be wary of them and to not follow them outside. Arthur does not know why she warns him - it’s not as if he can follow them. That would mean leaving the palace grounds and he is sternly forbidden from doing so. 

“I do.” Yao confirms. “My famly lives in Hearts and as your future Jack, I have to live in Spades. Alfred lives in Spades, so he can stay with his family for now.”

After Yao leaves, and before Arthur falls asleep, Arthur wonders if his own family lives in Hearts, too.

Six months later Arthur finally meets Alfred F. Jones. 

It’s a little overwhelming. There are lots of people and every one of them is talking excitedly. They are all dressed in their best outfits, too. Arthur’s own outfit feels stiff and his trousers itch a little, but he has been told by the maids that he looks very handsome and mature, so he is willing to put up with the discomfort for now. 

They gather in the eastern State Room, where sunlight filters in through high windows. Arthur is strategically hiding behind Yao, who is standing behind the king and queen, who are standing in front of Lord and Lady Jones. In Lady Jones’ arm is a tiny bundle which holds the room’s attention. 

Arthur thinks Lady Jones is very pretty. She wears a beautiful blue dress and has her hair braided around her head. Her eyes remind Arthur of the ocean depicted on the tapestry in the western State Room. 

Lord Jones looks a little scary, though. He is very tall with short hair, of which the color reminds Arthur of wet sand. He wears thin glasses that make him seem very stern. 

“Arthur,” The queen suddenly says, and Arthur’s grip on Yao’s breeches tightens. He peeks around Yao’s legs to see the queen beckoning him with a soft smile. “Come here, sweetling.” 

He pouts when Yao pries his fingers loose, but instead of simply pushing Arthur forward, he holds his hand and tugs him forward. 

“Come on, Arthur.” Yao whispers. “You want to meet Alfred, don’t you?”

He thought he did, but the baby is given so much attention, that Arthur becomes a little nervous. He knows he will be scolded if he disobeys however, so he lets Yao usher him towards Lady Jones and the baby. 

Once Yao lets go of him, Arthur briefly toys with the idea of diving behind Yao’s legs again, but then Lady Jones kneels down in front of him. She smiles brightly at him, which soothes Arthur’s nerves somewhat, and he shyly shuffles closer. 

“Hello, Your Royal Highness.” She says softly. “I would like you to meet Alfred.” 

Arthur purses his lips and leans forward on his tiptoes, to peer into the bundle of fabric in her arms. In it is what he’s been told is a baby, but he thinks it looks more like a hairless monkey. It’s very small and a little wrinkly. He leans away again, turning around to dubiously look at Yao, his governess and the king and queen. The queen nods at him and he turns back towards the baby.

“He’s a little ugly.” He says, with all the honesty a four year old possesses.

Behind him, Yao snorts and his governess sighs. The queen makes a fond noise and thus Arthur knows he’s not in trouble. The woman in front of him chuckles. “It’s because he’s so small. You probably looked a lot like him when you were born.”

“How do you know?” Arthur asks.

Only a few weeks ago, Arthur asked his governess why he did not have a mother and father like Alfred did. His governess had grimaced, but hadn’t answered him. That night the queen tucked him into bed and answered his question. 

She told him that sometimes, parents couldn’t look after their children, no matter how much they wanted to. And so, sometimes, parents left their children in an orphanage. At roughly one year old, Arthur was left in an orphanage in Clubs, with only his name embroidered into the blanket wrapped around him.

In short: no one here could possibly know what he looked like as a newborn baby. He hopes he did not look as wrinkly as the baby in front of him, though.

“Because we are all born as small babies.” The woman says teasingly, and Arthur feels his face heat up a little.

Resolutely, he looks down at the baby again, trying to figure out what makes this baby so special. If all babies look the same, then how are they so sure that this particular baby is the new king of Spades?

“Where is his Spade?”

The woman readjusts the baby in her arms and reaches out with her newly freed hand to tug away the fabric covering the baby’s chest. Arthur leans forward on his tiptoes again, and sees the small symbol of a spade etched into the baby’s little chest.

As if on cue, the baby’s eyes open. Arthur is met with the most vivid blue color he has ever seen and his own eyes widen slightly. He’s always loved the color blue. He likes navy blue most, because it reminds him of his favorite stuffed toy and the roses in the garden underneath his balcony. The blue of Alfred’s eyes is much lighter and reminds him of the sky outside; light, cloudless and clear. Arthur supposes he can like multiple shades of blue.

The baby looks around for a moment and then starts to smile widely, displaying a distinct absence of teeth and Arthur frowns again.

“He has no teeth.” He points out, wondering if something could be done about it.

Lady Jones laughs again, and Arthur feels his cheeks warm up some more. “Not yet, no. He will have them soon.”

Strange!

The baby makes a sudden, loud noise and Arthur startles a little, feeling the tips of his ears burn when he hears people softly laugh. Then the baby starts drooling, and Arthur sort of wants to recoil and run away, before he gets any of the drool on him. 

But then Alfred reaches out for him with one tiny hand. He opens his hand wide, and wriggles his five, tiny fingers. For some reason Arthur feels compelled to reach for him as well. 

He offers him a finger, and freezes when the tiny hand immediately closes around it. Lady Jones smiles encouragingly and Arthur quickly straightens and shakes his finger.

“Nice to meet you, Alfred F. Jones.” He says, because his governess has recently started teaching him about etiquette and Arthur likes to impress her. “I am Arthur…”

He falters. 

He has no extra letter, nor a last name. He wonders if he should ask for one, but then again, he has never had to introduce himself before. People always seem to know who he is. 

Alfred, unbothered, chortles happily and Arthur nods in response. Then he tries to pull his finger back. The baby refuses to let go, however, and he drools a bit more before squeezing.

And it hurts.

“Please let go.” He says with a light frown, because his finger is slowly starting to feel numb. 

The baby makes another happy sound, and more drool drizzles out of his mouth. Then he squeezes even tighter, and Arthur yelps – it hurts.

“Let go!” He exclaims, and he feels something familiarly hot leave his finger. 

The baby abruptly lets go and immediately starts wailing. Arthur has only a second to witness the baby's palm, now red and swollen and with thin, darkened lines branching out from the center. It reminds him of a tree. 

Lady Jones gasps and almost stumbles in her haste to climb back to her feet and away from Arthur and Lord Jones hastily leans down to help her up.

“Arthur!” His governess scolds and Arthur immediately turns around to run back to Yao, to hide behind his legs again, holding his hand close to his chest. His finger is throbbing and it hurts to bend it. Electricity sparks briefly as he squeezes it in his other hand, but Arthur fails to notice.

“He was hurting me!” He immediately defends,  feeling upset with how everyone was looking at him – as if he did something bad. He knows he should be careful with his magic, but he can't always help himself. His sight went blurry with tears. “He wouldn’t let go and he was hurting me!”

“He’s a baby, Arthur.” His governess says, as if he was supposed to understand what that meant. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”

Neither did I, Arthur thinks, but the baby is still wailing really loudly and it hurts his ears. He starts sniffling, doing his best not to cry, because big boys don’t cry, only babies cry.

Lady Jones shushes her baby and, after inspecting her baby’s hand, smiles at Arthur sympathetically. Arthur keeps his face hidden behind Yao’s legs.

“It’s all right,” She says, with a bit of a chuckle. “He’s a little strong for his age. Just as you are.”

That sparks a new round of coos and smiles and compliments, and Arthur thinks it’s very unfair. He promptly decides that he doesn’t want a little brother after all; why would he want a little brother that hurts him and then gets away with it, too?

No, Arthur doesn’t think he likes this future king of Spades very much.

Chapter Text

Growing up as the orphaned heir to one of Spades’ thrones meant that Arthur knows the whereabouts of every abandoned room and every secret tunnel. There are many, most of which he discovered only due to the help of his supernatural companions. 

And yet, despite the enormity of the Spades palace, it remains aggravatingly difficult to find a moment’s peace when one needs it most. Currently it might even be near impossible, considering the nearing anniversary of the ruling monarch’s coronation. 

Upcoming festivities have the staff in a tizzy. Amidst the bustling of maids, servants and arriving guests, Arthur had not managed to escape his governess’ clutches. Miss Edwards seems to have many ears and eyes - at least more than Arthur has been able to charm thus far. 

He knows the maids adore him enough to be vague about his whereabouts when asked, and he’s managed to intimidate some page boys into doing the same… but he knows he is toast once one of the clerics spots him. They are a tough bunch to charm, what with their blatant anti-magic beliefs and Arthur being, well, made up of magic. 

And so, instead of chasing leprechauns or playing with fairies, Arthur spends his day being told what to do and how to do it. Much like any other day. 

“Stop fidgeting.” Yao whispers as he discreetly yanks at his elbow. 

Arthur scowls and pulls his arm free. He can’t help it. It’s an uncharacteristically warm day for Spades and they have been standing outside for what feels like hours. He’s never been able to deal with the heat very well, and unlike most other children, Arthur is not allowed to prance about in a short-sleeved shirt.

Etiquette demands him to be covered; to cover his mark, at least until he has been coronated. Which is ridiculous, because what if the mark had manifested on his cheek? Would he have to wear a mask all day? 

Has there ever been someone with a royal mark on their face? 

Arthur makes a mental note to check the libraries later.

“And stand up straight.”

“Yes, mom.” Arthur mutters. By the roll of Yao’s eyes, he knows his future Jack has heard him. 

The Ace of Spades, a kind man who often sneaks Arthur trinkets upon returning from diplomatic visits to other nations, clears his throat. Arthur reluctantly drops his scowl and stands up straighter, but not before getting in one last, somewhat painful scratch on his lower arm. 

The outfit his governess made him wear for the welcoming ceremony is not only annoyingly warm, but also ridiculously crawly. Perhaps the only good thing about the ensemble are the gloves, because at least now no one can see the irritated sparks randomly leaving his fingertips. 

The reason for having to wear them is less comforting, however. It’s why he’s a little nervous for the arrival of the guests occupying the carriages grinding to a halt in front of them. He hasn’t seen the Jones family in years. 

Six years to be exact. 

All that Arthur remembers from back then is Lady Jones’ shocked gasp, baby Alfred’s shrill crying and the disappointed glare from his governess when Arthur accidentally injured his future king. Despite the queen’s firm reassurance that accidents happen and that none of it was Arthur’s fault, Arthur firmly believes that the Jones family thinks otherwise and that it is why they have not come back to the palace ever since. 

Briefly, Arthur looks down at the silk encasing his hands. The fabric crumples a little from where he has folded his fingers against his palms. There is a buzzing sensation against his own palm, one he does not know how to disperse. 

He takes a deep breath and looks up to watch the Jones family leaving their carriage. Lord and Lady Jones look the same, if not a little older, as far as Arthur is able to remember. Lady Jones’ hair still glows as bright as the sunlight shining down on it and Lord Jones still appears tall and imposing. 

The smaller figures behind them do not look familiar at all, however. One of them has to be Alfred and one of them has to be Alfred’s younger brother, and dread fills Arthur when he realizes he is unable to tell them apart. 

Fortunately he does not have to wonder long; he has been told Matthew is shy, whilst Alfred is rambunctious. And so when one child reaches for his mother’s hand whilst the other openly gapes at the palace with a wide and toothy smile, Arthur deduces the latter boy must be his future king. 

All Arthur really remembers about Alfred are his sky blue eyes and his crying. Granted, the boy had been a new-born baby back then and Arthur only four years old. Six years have passed since: now Alfred is older than Arthur had been when they first met. 

Unfair. 

At least his eyes were still as blue as the sky. 

Yao clears his throat and Arthur realizes he has been silently staring at Alfred. With the initial introductions and greeting having come and gone, the party is waiting on the young prince, and Arthur feels his face heat up with embarrassment. 

“M-milord, milady,” he quickly stammers out, resisting the urge to fidget when said adults curtsy and bow to him. “Thank you for gracing us with your presence.”

“The honor is ours, Your Royal Highness.” Lord Jones says and Arthur wonders if he finds it strange to be so cordial with a child. 

“Prince Alfred,” Arthur then says, perhaps a bit too suddenly. Alfred, who had been looking at the horses, all but startles and looks his way. “I am most pleased to see you again.” 

He expects Alfred to respond with something equally boring. Surely, Alfred too had a governess that drilled etiquette into his system. 

And so one can imagine his surprise when Alfred all but bounces over towards him. 

“Hey! I’m so happy to be here!” Alfred exclaims with all the excitement of a six-year old. “This place is so pretty, you’re soooo lucky to live here. Anyway! I don’t remember you, so nice to meet you again? Haha!”

Arthur is unsure what to respond to the verbal waterfall leaving the prince in front of him. Lady Jones merely shakes her head with a fond smile. 

“Do you have horses, too? We have horses at home! Did you know we live by the sea? You should come visit us sometime too! I'll show you our horses!”

Arthur knows he has to be cordial and reply sometime sooner than later, but then Alfred reaches out to grab his hand and violently shake it. The young prince’s grip is strong and although Arthur knows, he’s taken by surprise still. It hurts a little and Arthur feels a stronger-than-usual spark leaving his fingertips in response. 

It’s not strong enough to properly harm Alfred, even if his own fingers feel a little burned, but Arthur knows by the widening of his blue eyes that he felt it. It’s enough to frighten Arthur, who remembers little of their first meeting but the accident. 

He does not want a repat, so he rips his hand free and in doing so, catches a glance of the tree-like lesion scarring the inside of Alfred’s out-stretched hand. Before he knows it, he exclaims; “Don’t touch me!”

Alfred hastily takes a step back and Arthur must have sounded meaner than he had meant to do, because the blue of six-year old Alfred’s eyes water with tears immediately. 

So much for a good second first impression. 

Spades is known for many things, such as its powerful navy, its magnificent blue roses and its rather depressing weather. The loud pounding of rain against the windows is nothing foreign and Arthur has always found comfort in how the aggressive thudding manages to drown out his own thoughts. 

It is easy to focus on the pitter-patter of raindrops on marble floors or glass windows; easier than it is to untangle the whirlpool of emotions inside of him. 

He is shaken from his trance when a mouse squeaks and scurries away, chased from its previous hiding place by a giggling fairy. Arthur knows they would not do the poor creature any real harm and so instead of interfering he pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees. 

The dusty arm-chair he is sitting on creaks and groans. It is an old thing, proven also by the tears from where mice have bitten and burrowed into its cushions. It beats sitting on the floor though. 

A gust of wind blows the curtains that had been covering the window further into the room. Another fairy squeaks as raindrops land on the floor around them, and they quickly flutter away to find cover under Arthur’s arm-chair.

Arthur would normally smile at them, but this time he manages only a sniffle. His eyes are puffy still and his cheeks itch due to the dried-up tear streaks lingering upon them. He raises his hand to rub at them furiously, only to wince when he is reminded of his still-healing shoulder. 

Whatever deity decided Arthur and Alfred to be paired up as king and queen had not been thinking straight - that, or they must have a sick sense of humor. Matching an overly enthusiastic child with the strength of several grown men to a young mage with no control over his element has only resulted in tears and injuries so far. 

The fairy that had been playing with his hair floats down to his shoulder and covers it with one of their tiny, glowing hands. Arthur feels a warm and soothing sensation, and he relaxes a little as he feels their magic speeding up the healing. 

It’s not your fault, they say sweetly. Accidents happen. 

Arthur does not ask what accident it is referring to: Arthur frying Alfred’s favorite toy or Alfred dislocating Arthur’s shoulder in response. 

If you ask Arthur, he would blame Alfred for the ordeal. The brat has done nothing but follow him around every time Arthur is granted a singular moment of peace, bothering him incessantly by asking inane questions. And if he had no questions to ask, he had demands. Arthur had to play with him, had to bring him places, had to get him stuff, and so on. 

Arthur, who has never been with another child for longer than a few hours, simply did not know how to cope. 

He knows it is expected of him to befriend his future king, but all Alfred does is annoy him, and Arthur just wants to be left alone. He spends his entire day being hedged and reprimanded by his teachers. Spare time is rare for him - he does not have the luxury to chase and kick balls in the courtyard like Alfred does. 

And so one thing led to another and Arthur lashed out, yanked Alfred’s toy bear from his hands to make a point. Only he had been a little too irritated and he had accidentally struck it with lightning, setting it on fire. Alfred, understandably so, had panicked and tried to free Mr. Buttons, pulling so hard that he had dislocated Arthur’s shoulder in the process. 

He is just a child, Arthur, you should know better.

Arthur had not had the courage to tell Miss Edwards that he was also just a child. 

Sensing his increasing turmoil, the fairy on his shoulder starts to sing a soothing, high-pitched song. He does not understand it as it is sung in a language foreign to him, but it offers him something to focus on, which he does. 

Allowing his eyes to droop a little, Arthur watches the window once more, wondering which droplet of water will descend the fastest. 

Despite knowing better, Arthur tries to will his chosen champion to quicken. He’s not sure why he keeps trying. Water is not his forte, nor will it ever be. The ability to manipulate water is reserved only for mages with Spades’ blood in their veins - and not even Spades’ best magical advisors can alter the composition of Arthur’s genes. 

It is something the borderline hurtful itch in his fingertips reminds him of daily. It is something Alfred reminds him of too, with his incessant questioning: why does Arthur not control water? Why does he not control the element of Hearts, Diamonds or Clubs? Why does he have weird magic? 

Arthur does not know either.

The anniversary of the king’s and queen’s coronation is celebrated with a lot of fanfare. 

The rulers have been on their respective thrones for twenty-five years now. The celebration is paired with lots of fancy outfits, rules and posturing. A great variety of small, specialty foods are paraded around by stiff-looking staff. Guests donning colorful dresses and sleek suits are gliding across the newly polished ballroom floor. Those who are not, are instead socializing or admiring the parts of the palace that have been opened up to them. 

Representatives from all four monarchies are present to pay their respects and well-wishes to Spades’ rulers. Not every couple is complete: Kings are missing their Queens and Jacks or vice versa. Only Clubs’ is present in their entirety, most likely to reaffirm their truce once more. It's a truce that’s only been cemented when they handed over little Arthur to Spades in a gesture of good-will. 

For that reason, they always approach Arthur to talk with him, asking him how he is doing and settling in. He is not sure if it's because of an ill-formed connection they feel due to him having been found in a Clubs orphanage and thus being a Clubs citizen (on papers, at least), or because they feel Arthur owes them something (which is what Yao sometimes mutters, when he whisks Arthur away from the large and imposing Clubs monarchs). 

He's yet to meet the princes and princesses of the other nations. He's been told that the future Jack of Hearts is originally from Diamonds; and that the future Queen and Jack of Diamonds are siblings. 

He knows the future King of Diamonds is Arthur's age, whilst the future Queen of Diamonds is still a baby. He knows the future Jack of Clubs is related to the future King of Hearts - and that his own future Jack is related to Hearts' future queen. 

It is all very complicated and yet not - monarchs are often related to each other in some way.

Except for Arthur, of course.

According to Yao, even Alfred has familial ties to both the future King of Diamonds and Hearts, the ones that go centuries back and that are only traceable due to their surnames being recorded in history books. 

Not wanting to dwell on his lack of a surname, Arthur grabs the opportunity to roam around mostly unsupervised, once the obligatory niceties have passed and the monarchs huddle together to talk shop.

As always, he is accosted by a noble or diplomat every now and then - adults who have known him since birth and always feel the need to tell him so; either by complimenting him on his upbringing, judging him on his progress; or tricking him into dancing with their daughters and sons. 

Rescue comes when the Jones family makes an appearance. Arthur is a little annoyed at how easily Alfred is able to charm the crowd, even at six years old. He greets his admirers with a wide smile and answers every question earnestly and enthusiastically. The crowd around him coos and laughs when Alfred accidentally cracks one of the marble tiles beneath his feet when he enacts something. 

By the time Lady Jones excuses them and engages in a playful yet tooth-achingly sweet dance with her oldest son, the weird feeling in Arthur’s chest becomes too much to bear, and he makes an escape towards the gardens. 

Dusk is nearing, judging by the darkening skies above him. There is rain in the air, but Arthur does not hesitate to disappear into the fields of blue roses. Miss Edwards will fetch him soon enough to send him to bed, but Arthur should be able to postpone it by at least an hour. 

It’s not long before he stumbles upon a gaggle of fairies, the glowing creatures chasing each other around the prickly stems of the roses around them. 

“You guys are so lucky.” Arthur tells them in greeting, smiling softly when they chirp at him in return. “You can just play all day.”

He strolls along with them, letting them lead him through the garden in odd patterns and shapes as he tells them about the festivities taking place inside. There is no one around them; no one but a handful of guards anyway. They’re tasked to keep him safe only and thus do not pay any attention to the murmurs he seemingly directs to thin air.

The fairies eagerly engage with him and it is nearly enough to improve Arthur’s mood, but then Alfred appears seemingly out of nowhere, as he has done often the last week. He tugs at Arthur’s sleeve with a pout, seemingly a little upset, though Arthur hasn’t the faintest as to why that should be - he has not even done or said anything to him yet. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Alfred accuses and Arthur rolls his eyes at him - how often does Arthur have to tell him not to bother him? “I wanted to dance with you.”

“Dance?” Arthur scoffs, perhaps a little unkindly. “Forgive me for not wanting to have any of my toes broken. You can’t dance.”

Alfred’s cheeks puff out, his round face getting even rounder. “Who were you even talking to? There’s no one here.” Alfred’s eyes narrow a little as he looks around. Arthur is about to wave him away, but the young prince continues. “Do you have imaginary friends? That’s for babies!

“They are not imaginary!” Arthur rebuffs, a little insulted - he’s never been told the fairies are imaginary. Before he knew to keep quiet about them, people usually just looked at him uncomfortably. “You can just not see them!”

“Because they’re not real! You’re ten,” Alfred says in a way that implies Arthur is ancient. “And you’re still talking to imaginary friends! You’re such a weirdo!”

The accusation is paired with obnoxious, childish laughter, and Arthur feels his already short temper grow even shorter. 

“You are the weirdo here!” He exclaims, snobbishly, crossing his arms and looking down at the young prince. “You don’t even know how to dance without standing on your mommy’s feet! All you do is stomp around like a goblin! You’re rude and clumsy and you break everything you touch! I won’t be surprised if you’ll go down in history as Spades’ stupidest king!”

“Shut up, you mal- malefi- stupid mage!”

He’s not entirely sure why he’s suddenly so angry at the young prince, but the hollow feeling he felt in his chest earlier becomes sharp and poisonous when he realizes what Alfred had meant to say.

Maleficus. Doer of wrong, wicked, accursed. Dangerous, freak. 

Arthur snarls and allows a spark of lightning to escape his gloved fingertips. The bolt of electrical discharge laps at Alfred’s feet and the younger child yelps in panic, and just because he can, Arthur keeps at it until Alfred’s all but fled the courtyard in tears. 

He knows he’s gone too far the moment Alfred is out of sight and the courtyard is enveloped in silence. The fairies are glowing dimmer, their wings a little droopy as they regard Arthur with disappointment. 

That was not nice, Arthur.

Arthur feels himself shrink figuratively. He had not meant for it to be nice, but now he feels like a total troll. Everyone keeps telling him Alfred is only six years old, that he does not know better. And even though it’s unfair, because at six years old Arthur certainly had been expected to know better, some part of Arthur also knows their differences are not Alfred’s fault. 

He ignores the fairies and their attempts to comfort him, instead heading to his chambers and diving into his bed fully-clothed. He tugs at the curtains hanging from the canopy, closing them around him. Darkness envelops him, and even though the air grows a little stifling, Arthur is finally able to release the shaky breath he’s been holding all day.

Chapter Text

Whenever a child is born with a royal symbol, it would usually not take long for the current monarch of said symbol to find out. A meeting would be arranged to introduce the current and future monarchs to each other. 

Then the future monarchs would slowly be integrated into the life they will one day enjoy. This process went slower for some than for others, depending on where the lucky child was born. 

Sometimes Alfred wishes he had been born in Hearts or Diamonds. It’s not that he does not like living in Spades, but if he had been born in another country, then he would have already been moved into the Spades palace. To get accustomed, like the future Jack of Spades, Yao, who is actually from Hearts but who spends eleven out of twelve months in Spades. 

But Alfred, who lives about a day’s travel from the palace, is allowed to stay with his family until he is eighteen years of age. 

He’s not exactly known for his patience. The idea of having to wait another six years before finally moving into the Spades palace is a long and dreadful one. He’s ready, all right? He wants to learn and grow into his role as early as possible, so that he can be the best king Spades has ever seen! 

When he mentions this to his parents, they smile and fondly pet his hair, as if he said something silly. His mom says that she does not want to be parted from him just yet and that she needs more time with him. 

The young part inside of Alfred agrees with her. He does love her and his father very much. But at the same time he sees how differently they act with him, compared with his younger brother. 

Because Matthew is normal, unlike him. Matthew does not accidentally break precious heirlooms on the daily. Matthew is not regarded with poorly hidden anxiety whenever he has a tantrum. Matthew’s hugs are well received by their relatives, as opposed to the careful acceptances of Alfred’s hugs. 

Strangely enough it is only Matthew who does not regard him with wariness or care; Matthew plays with him as if he were a normal boy, even if it ends with bruises. It is Matthew who claims blame whenever Alfred gets scolded for playing too rough, Matthew who sneaks up to Alfred’s room to hide with him under the blankets whenever Alfred is sad. 

Apart from Matthew, Alfred knows only a handful of people who treat him with the same nonchalance and calm: the current monarchs of Spades and… Arthur, his future queen. 

Alfred thinks it will be a breath of fresh air to live in a place where not everyone is afraid of him.

A few weeks before his twelfth birthday, Alfred is asked to sit with his mother and father. 

He is a little antsy, because as far as he knows, he has not broken anything that day nor has he accidentally hurt anyone. He’s actually been really gentle this week - even with the dogs! 

When his mother tearfully tells him that he will spend his summers at the Spades palace from now on, alone and without his parents or brother, Alfred experiences mixed feelings. There is relief: relief that he isn’t being scolded. There is also confusion, because why would this suddenly be decided now? 

Last but not least: there is excitement. He’ll spend more time at the palace, actual time! Not just for attending special occasions. There will be so much to discover and he’ll be able to train with the Ace too!

Then, at last, there is apprehension. He has never been at the Spades palace for longer than a week and he has certainly never been without his parents for longer than two days at most. 

A whole summer away from them and in a new place is… a scary thought, he admits. 

“We will visit, my dear. Once a month, at least! Summer will have passed before you know it.”

This reassurance is not particularly reassuring, but Alfred knows his duty, knows that putting on a brave face is what he’s meant to do. 

“Perhaps now you and your future queen might finally become friends.” His father grunts, earning a humored expression from his wife and a snort from Alfred. 

He’s unsure if he should be happy or apprehensive about spending the summer with Arthur in the palace. Arthur might not treat him with the same fear as most children his age, but he also does not treat him with any kindness. 

And it’s weird, because he’s known the other prince for basically his entire life, but he feels as if he’s only ever really talked to Arthur a handful of times. Not for lack of trying, though. Alfred tries to seek him out whenever he visits, but Arthur almost always disappears; locking himself inside to study, train or read.

That, and every moment they do share, almost always ends in conflict.

“Whoopie-do.” Alfred deadpans, though his expression quickly turns apologetic when both his parents give him a scolding look. “I will do my best, father.”

A carriage comes and picks him up for the daylong journey to the Spades capitol and it brings Yao with it. The familiar face is of some comfort to Alfred, who hasn’t been able to sleep well the entire week. 

The future Jack smiles kindly when Alfred politely greets him, clasping a hand around his shoulder and squeezing it while maintaining the expression of someone who knows how he must feel. And Alfred supposes he does; after all, Yao had to leave his family behind to move to Spades.

Most of the pleasantries that follow are between his parents, his governess, Yao and the Spades soldiers he has brought with him. Alfred uses what little time he has left to play with Matthew, being careful not to accidentally scuff his clothing. 

Before the sun sets they are on the road. Alfred is put in a carriage with Yao and his governess, though they are more engaged with one another than they are with Alfred. Yao does throw him an occasional glance every now and then, or asks him a question relevant to the conversation he is having with their third party member, but Alfred is too distracted to really join them. 

Strangely enough, his mind is on what his father told him.

That perhaps, he could use this summer to improve his rather rocky relationship with Arthur. 

Despite almost all of their interactions having ended in a fight, either verbal or physical, Arthur has never seemed afraid of him. And why should he, when he wields such powerful magic himself? 

If anything, it is Alfred who should be afraid of him, considering how often Arthur has utilized his lightning to settle their squabbles. And realistically, he knows he should be afraid of it; the magic Arthur possesses is… strange. 

And like Alfred’s strength, it is not yet completely under the prince’s control. 

Even his father tells him that he should be careful when interacting with the future Queen of Spades. Alfred’s not too big on religion, but his father is, and so Alfred’s been brought up with the usual chants and prayers: that magic only exists to serve mankind and that magic is regarded as a gift from the Gods. 

And that those who turn this gift against mankind, will be branded maleficus; wrongdoer, a cursed one who should find no rest in this world or the ones beyond. 

Alfred does not believe Arthur will turn his magic on others; especially not him. It’s why he is not afraid of the mage’s temper - okay, maybe he is a little , but not really. Arthur would never truly hurt him, because he was Arthur’s future king. 

And kings and queens got along with one another, right? It says so in every book he reads. 

Not even the scar on his palm can convince him otherwise. If anything, it is a reminder that Arthur is one of the few people who is not scared of him and his strength. Because if Alfred messes up, if Alfred loses control of his own power, then Arthur is strong enough to deal with it himself. 

That’s why they would make a good pair, he thinks. They’re matched, power-wise. And he’s sure that they’ll get along at some point… once Arthur stops being such a mean turd. 

Opening his palm, Alfred looks down at the feathery scar that mars its surface. He does not remember how it got there. He was, after all, far too young when it happened to retain any kind of memory of it. But he’s been told Arthur accidentally zapped him when his baby self gripped Arthur’s finger too hard. 

Bygones are bygones though. And it’s a pretty bad-ass scar if he does say so himself. It reminds him of the treelike symbols he sometimes sees on trinkets carried by merchants who travel the oceans. 

He wonders if Arthur could recreate them on other surfaces. How cool would it be if, in a few years time, Arthur could burn such a symbol into Alfred’s future ceremonial armor for example?! 

Thoughts taking a different turn, Alfred happily imagines his life in a few years. He’ll be crowned king of Spades when he turns twenty-one years old, as was tradition. Arthur will be twenty-five, then. Alfred will totally be a big and strong king, and Arthur would be a fearsome and respectable mage queen. 

They’re going to be the best rulers Spades has ever had! 

“I am glad to have you here for summer.”

“And I am happy to be here.”

Even to Alfred, the rehearsed greeting sounds painful. 

He and Arthur stand in front of each other, both casting their eyes sideways as they awkwardly greet one another. At least Alfred hasn’t been forced to take Arthur’s hand and kiss it, though he wouldn’t put it past his governess to consider it. 

When Arthur is then distracted by greeting Yao, he sneaks a quick peek. 

Alfred last saw Arthur when Alfred was eleven years old and when Arthur was fifteen years old. Back then, he had noticed Arthur had gotten a little taller and a little less stable on his feet. His voice had also sometimes squeaked, seemingly without Arthur wanting it to. 

It had been a great source of entertainment for the young future king, much to his future queen’s anger and embarrassment. 

Now Arthur is sixteen years old, and he looks very different once again. He again looks taller, though not as much as last time and he seems a little broader, too. What is unsettling however, is that Arthur’s hair is a little longer than usual and that there seems to be a little hair on his face too.

Alfred doesn’t really like it - it doesn’t suit him! Honestly, it reminds him of the future King of Diamonds, whom he met one year ago at the Spades’ ball. 

He makes sure to tell him so, just in case Arthur does not know how ridiculous he looks, and they end their rendez-vous with a shouting match. 

Which is, if nothing else, at least a familiar way to start his summer at the palace.  

Given Alfred’s penchant for trouble, it is no surprise that he eventually finds himself lost in one of the many hallways of the palace. This time, he puts the blame solely on the architect of the damned building. What palace requires over five hundred rooms in the first place? 

He doubts that there is a single person in the palace who utilizes every room once a week, let alone once a month. But he supposes it is more about posturing and less about an actual need for space - that, and he is not really sure just exactly how many servants live in the palace. 

The vastness of the palace is exciting and Alfred is keen on exploring, but it is getting a little late and he is getting a little hungry. The few foot guards he comes across look a little scary, standing at the entrances of doors with a neutral expression and staring straight ahead of them. They almost seem like statues and Alfred does not really want to interact with them, much less admit to them that he is lost and needs help. 

Help does come in the form of a green-eyed, tired looking mage, right when Alfred is getting close to being on the brink of tears. 

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, cutting right to the chase, his impressive brow furrowed as he looks at Alfred. 

Alfred sniffles, reigning back his upcoming panic, because he sure as hell will not give Arthur more fuel to believe that Alfred is a baby. He postpones his answer by a few seconds by looking around; Arthur came down from a tower. An astronomy tower?

“I’m lost.” He admits, knowing he can’t bullshit his way out of this one. “Where are we?”

Arthur smirks and Alfred hates that he’s feeling a little embarrassed. 

“The eastern lookout tower.” Arthur answers, nodding his head towards the stairs he just came from. “Which is quite a ways from your quarters. Been snooping around, have you?”

“Uh, duh . This place is huge and I have nothing else to do.” Alfred replies truthfully. “I tracked my steps but then there was a three-way split and I forgot where I came from.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, though he does not seem as annoyed as Alfred expected him to be. He does look tired and it occurs to Alfred that he has not seen Arthur all day yet. When he had asked Yao at lunch, he’d only been told that Arthur was attending classes all day. 

“I’ll take you back to your quarters.”

Grateful for the offer, Alfred quickly falls into step next to the other prince. Despite their difference in length, he does not need to walk unnaturally fast to keep up with Arthur and he notices it is because Arthur is walking slower than usual - so of course, Alfred starts walking a little faster.

“So… what rooms can you name in the palace?” Alfred asks, hoping to start an innocent conversation for once. 

Arthur is quiet for a while, probably thinking, and before Alfred thinks of asking him again in case he hadn’t heard, he responds. 

“There’s the throne room, the ballrooms, the state rooms…” the older prince starts, absentmindedly counting them with his fingers as he speaks. “And of course the bed chambers of the royal family, the guests and the staff. Then there are the cabinets, the guardrooms, the vestibule, several studies, kitchens…”

Alfred is already bored with the topic. “Okay, okay, I get it.” He interrupts, smiling playfully when Arthur frowns at him. “Sheesh, and I thought my house had a lot of rooms.”

“Your house, however impressive, is still only a mansion compared to the palace.” Arthur says, somewhat snobbily. Alfred pouts, noticing the jab for what it was meant to be.

“Whatever. It feels a lot more like home than this place. Most of the rooms and hallways here are just walls, floors and ceilings. Nothing special.” 

He does not notice the somewhat hurt expression on Arthur’s face as he is too busy staring ahead of himself. 

The more he thinks about home, the more he grows homesick. The palace might be grand, but compared to his home, it really does feel like it consists just of walls and stones. There is little personality in most common areas; no cracks in walls that originate from a funny accident; no barely visible stains on carpets caused by children running amok. 

He wonders what Arthur’s quarters look like. The other prince grew up here - surely his own quarters are much more similar to Alfred’s own back at home. They must contain memories, tidbits of his life scattered over his desk or hung upon his walls. 

“Home is a made up word by people.” Arthur murmurs quietly. “It isn’t a place, but a memory or a feeling. Of course other places would not feel the same.”

For some reason, the older prince sounds a little sad. It’s a tone he has never heard Arthur use before and it unsettles him even more than his change in appearance did. Because Arthur is not a person who is sad. 

Arthur is uptight, Arthur has a stick up his arse. He’s powerful, unpredictable and he has a sharp tongue. But he is never sad, because why would he be sad? He lives in the Spades palace; he has everything he could ever want right there! 

Not wanting to explore this new and strange conversation any further, Alfred hurriedly switches topics. 

“Do you ever get lost?” 

Arthur seems taken aback by his question, and Alfred is pleased to see the solemn look wiped from his face.

“I used to.” The other prince answers. “But I always found my way back quick enough.”

The way he said it implies it is a big mystery and almost instantly Alfred is reminded of one of his favorite subjects to annoy Arthur with. And really, he knows he shouldn’t… but he’s also an impulsive twelve-year old who probably feels a little too comfortable with a mage that can turn him into a pile of ash. 

“Let me guess, a fairy would lead you back to your room?” 

As predicted, Arthur’s hackles rise. He can see the corners of Arthur’s mouth drop dangerously low, his eyebrows furrowing together as he casts a sideway glare to the younger prince. 

“They did, actually. That, and show me many hidden corners and forgotten rooms I can hide in.” 

“Hide in? From what?” 

“The likes of you. My, I have utilized those rooms a lot this summer, and it hasn’t even been two months yet.”

And thus begins another argument. 

Alfred is not really sure how or why they keep doing it; they trade insults in a disturbingly easy manner, and words fall from Alfred’s mouth that he would not dream of repeating to anyone else. Something about Arthur’s responses, about Arthur’s own insults and the way Arthur looks down at him just… makes him want to punch something and yell and cry. 

It comes to a high in a corner of the palace Alfred is more familiar with, but instead of being the better person and walking away, Alfred remains standing, locked in their umpteenth shouting match of the summer. 

“Shut up!” Arthur eventually shouts, green eyes ablaze with his own fury. “Your voice is annoying and gives me a headache, shut up!” 

The mage raises his hands to cover his ears, and it spurs Alfred on to just keep on talking in a slightly higher volume. Then Arthur squints his eyes, and something on top of his shoulder glows brightly for a second as Arthur sneers something inaudible.

All of a sudden he feels a pulling sensation at his lips. His mouth shuts involuntarily. A muffled noise escapes him and he raises a hand to touch his own lips. They’re pressed tightly together, but he doesn’t know why, because he is trying to open his mouth. 

Panic shoots through his chest like a hot, sharp arrow, lodging itself deep into his lungs. He wants to heave a breath, but he can’t, not through his mouth anyway. All that leaves him is another muffled noise and a snort as he forces a harsh breath through his nose, while also trying to pry his pursed lips apart with his own fingers.

But they won’t budge.

Alfred doesn’t understand. Arthur controls lightning, thunder, storms. How has he managed to glue his lips together?! 

His sight gets a little blurry, and he stares at Arthur desperately, wordlessly pleading at him to undo whatever trick he just pulled. Only the mage appears as perplexed as him, standing there as if he were frozen in time, wide eyes fixed on Alfred’s face. 

“What have you done?” Arthur hisses to something Alfred cannot see and more panic builds up in his throat. The blurriness in his eyes increases and by now, he feels hot tears streaming down his face. 

Another choked sound leaves him and Arthur jostles his own shoulder before rushing over to him.

“Shush!” He scolds, prying Alfred’s hands away from his own mouth. Alfred feels a slight stinging sensation near his own lips and realizes he must have been scratching at himself. “Calm down! You’re not dying, you can breathe through your nose, stop acting like a baby!”

The panicked noises coming from Alfred’s closed mouth only increase in volume and frequency, and he cries harder, until his face goes red. He’s struggling with breathing, feels his nose clogging up with the snot that comes with crying. 

“Arthur, Alfred?”

Arthur flinches back from Alfred, as if he’d been slapped, dread washing over his features as the future Jack of Spades appears. 

“What are you two getting up to, now? You two make so much noise - ”

Not knowing what to do, Alfred immediately rushes over to Yao, nearly colliding with him. He tries to tell him what happens, then tries to nonverbally show it to him when he realizes his lips still won’t open. 

“What?” Yao asks, with a frown. For a moment, it seems as if he wants to scold Alfred for being immature, but then he realizes what is wrong, when Alfred starts to claw at his own mouth again. He gapes, and then looks at Arthur. “What did you do?!”

“Nothing!” Arthur shrieks immediately, looking panicked himself. “I didn’t do anything! I told him to shut up but - and then they smirked and - I didn’t do it!”

Yao either immediately pieces the puzzle together or he ignores the implication of Arthur’s words; Alfred distantly wonders who ‘they’ are, but he’s too focused on not passing out to properly decipher Arthur’s words.

“Arthur, you know better than this!”

“I didn’t ask them - I didn’t do it on purpose!”

Alfred doesn’t want them to bicker, doesn’t want to bear witness to the way Arthur’s lips are wobbling now, too - the sight is unfamiliar and foreign and it doesn’t fit. He snorts again as he forces more oxygen through his nose and he grabs Yao’s sleeves, desperately pulling. 

“Calm down, Alfred, we’ll have you fixed in no time.” Yao quickly says, soothingly, as he redirects his focus on the young prince next to him. 

Alfred does not see much of Arthur that summer after the silencing incident. They attend obligatory meals and meetings together, but Arthur makes himself scarce the moment they end, much to Alfred’s annoyance.

As time drags on, Alfred finds himself distracted whenever he trains with the Ace or whenever he is taught lessons by his many teachers.

For the first time in years, Arthur looks as if he is apprehensive of him. Alfred doesn’t know why - Alfred did not do anything to him, did he? He hasn’t hurt him, hasn’t broken any of his bones. 

It’s in the carriage ride back that Alfred suddenly realizes that Arthur must have been punished for that one night; for accidentally gluing his lips closed. 

And the more he thinks about it, the stranger he starts to feel.

They had started out well that night. Perhaps not as best friends, but their conversation had been normal… right up until Alfred noticed Arthur started to appear sad. In an attempt to stop him from looking sad, Alfred had teased him, and it had led to a fight. 

Doesn’t that mean Alfred should have been the one to have been scolded? Sure, Arthur said mean things, but it was Alfred who started and who wouldn’t shut up even when Arthur asked him to be quiet. 

He doesn’t have the courage to ask Yao about Arthur’s sadness, but he does resolve to try and be kinder to him next time

Chapter Text

Arthur has never been very fond of summer.

Though the summers in Spades are not as sweltering as those in Diamonds, they are humid, which is something equally terrible. Not only does Arthur have to deal with feeling sticky most of the day, he also has trouble breathing more often than not, what with the air being as suffocating as it is. 

The good thing about summer is that he is allowed more leisure time than during any other season, though. There are less diplomatic events and his teachers take more days for themselves, leaving Arthur able to hide away in cooler areas of the palace. 

If he’s lucky, he is even allowed to spend a few weeks in their estate up north near the border to Clubs with his governess and Yao. Not this year though - nor the year before. And the reason for that is sitting opposite of him. 

Alfred casually makes small-talk with the king in between bites, smiling deceptively sheepishly whenever Yao reminds him of proper dinner etiquette. The king is horrendously charmed by his young protege, bursting out in laughter every now and then - and even the queen is mildly amused by his antics. 

Arthur can’t stand it. He wonders if he would have been met with the same adoration, if he’d act as… inappropriate like his future king does. 

What is perhaps even worse is that Alfred seems to thrive in the current wet and warm climate, unlike Arthur. Despite the sweat Arthur can see gathering on his forehead or below his armpits, his mood is as chipper as ever. His skin does not turn red under the sun like Arthur’s does, but rather a tanned shade, which only complements his golden hair. 

The younger boy is in the midst of regaling some fantastical story about swinging a charging bull around as a little child, when Arthur finally allows himself a scoff of annoyance. It goes unnoticed by anyone but Yao and Alfred. The future Jack of Spades gives him a somewhat understanding, yet warning glare, and Alfred tosses him a boyish yet mocking grin. 

Arthur pretends to accidentally drop his fork on the floor, and while the servant behind him rushes to replace it for him, he lowers his hands under the table and inconspicuously sends a thrill of electricity towards Alfred’s legs. 

The reply was a pulled, yet well aimed kick to his shin. Arthur only just manages to refrain from wincing and upending the table, but does not manage to stop the ugly glare he knows he then gives the other prince. 

“Don’t frown like that Arthur, or your face will get stuck.” Alfred quips, that same grin still tugging at his lips. 

“If I recall correctly, it is your face that has managed to get stuck twice now.”

Arthur regrets his words the moment they tumble from his lips, and he does not need to avert his eyes to see the disapproving faces of their company. Even though Arthur had nothing to do with either incidents, he receives the blame for it anyway - and honestly, how talented do they think Arthur is, to master a non-elemental spell? 

Alfred’s grin turns into a frown surprisingly quick and just as Arthur is about to snootily lift his spoon to his lips, Alfred bumps his knee into the table. It causes the table to shake, but more importantly, it causes Arthur to startle. His spoonful of soup spills onto his lap. 

“You - you boor!” Arthur immediately accuses, knowing Alfred only pretended for it to be accidental. 

“Now Arthur, accidents happen.” The queen tries to soothe, waving over a servant to help wipe Arthur down. 

The servant doesn’t get to complete his newly given task, because before he can, Arthur snaps his fingers to send a burst of lightning into Alfred’s plate, causing it to spit out all its contents. Wet salad and cheese shower Alfred’s face, much to Arthur’s satisfaction.

“Arthur!” Someone scolds immediately. 

When Alfred stands up and reaches for his glass, Arthur mirrors him immediately. Before either of them can throw their glass’ contents into one another’s face, the Jack slams his hands on the table and successfully captures their attention.

“Perhaps both princes should retire to their chambers.” He says, obviously wanting to prevent further humiliation in front of their servants. “Yao, please escort the young princes.”

“But I - ” Alfred begins, obviously not willing to back down without a fight and obviously not aware that there is a difference between the Jack suggesting something and him suggesting something. 

“Alfred may stay.” Arthur quickly intervenes, not feeling hungry anyway. “I will retire. My day was long and I am quite tired. So if I may be excused?”

The king’s attention is already elsewhere, and the queen only sends Arthur a sympathetic look. The Jack nods approvingly and Yao jumps up to walk Arthur to his chambers, all while reprimanding him.

(“Alfred is only thirteen years old, Arthur. You are almost an adult, you should know better. Stop allowing him to provoke you. Stop being so hot-headed. Stop using your magic for such unbefitting things.”) 

Arthur doubts Alfred is getting a stern scolding during dessert.

Even though his chambermaids had carefully kept his curtains and doors closed during the day, it had not helped keep his chambers cool. Arthur had already forgone propriety by ditching his sleeping wear, but even that seemed to do little against the stifling temperature. 

After a couple of hours of tossing and turning, Arthur decides he’s had enough. Simply lying in bed and waiting for sleep does not work with his penchant for brooding, so he might as well try and cool himself off with a walk. 

He puts on something light, something that would definitely not be approved by his governess, however appropriate he still appears. He doesn’t think it should be such a big deal - the majority of the people he could happen upon during night have known him since he was a toddler. They’ve seen him in countless of so-called inappropriate moments. 

The hallways are lit by gentle, soft candlelight and the few people he passes simply nod or bow in respect. For a moment, he is tempted to head towards the library; but the guarantee of the same fairies he stumbled upon yesterday still being there, is small. 

Before the disastrous dinner the night before, Arthur had spent his remaining free time with his nose in forgotten books. They were books that have never been included in his lesson plans: his teachers speak almost only of Suits and its grand history, but speak nothing of other continents.

It’s not a secret that there are more lands beyond what the eye can see, across the oceans. The names of these places however, are unmentioned in his history and geography classes. And when asked, they are simply referred to as foreign lands. 

Arthur knows they’re not as foreign as they make them to be. The continent across from Spades is one that Suits has been on semi-hostile terms with for centuries. Only traders are allowed to travel back and forth, and only with a royal permit. 

He wonders what life is like on those lands. Do they have the same ruling system as they have in the countries of Suits? Are there people there with marks that define them as leaders? And if not, how are they governed? 

The fairy that had been on his shoulder while he read, did not answer any of his questions either. All they could talk about were riddles. One of them had left Arthur particularly affronted. 

Ice runs in your veins. 

It was said a while after Arthur had complained about his teachers and Arthur figured it meant that Arthur was cold of heart. He’d promptly shut his book and left the library, shaking the fairy off his shoulder. 

Figuring he might as well take advantage of the slight cool the night offers, Arthur ventures towards the main, enclosed courtyard. The little temperature change hits him like a warm welcome, and even Arthur cringes at the irony of his own thought. 

Several people wander around outside, giving plants a much needed watering and taking horses and donkeys out for some light exercise. He does not see his favorite horse, a gentle mare called Bunny, among them and thus promptly decides to head over to the stables and let her out for a bit, too. 

It is there that he stumbles into a strange encounter. 

The stables are all but devoid of life, save for one slightly amused guard, the horses and… Alfred, for some reason. 

The younger boy is standing on the tips of his toes, peering over the door to the stable that houses Betsy, one of the Spades’ more feisty mares. The thoroughbred is owned by the Ace of Spades and is known for liking only its rider - tolerating every other human being on a good day. 

“I’d step back if you’d like to keep your fingers.” Arthur says in lieu of announcing himself, as well as warning Alfred about Betsy’s hair-nipping habits. 

Alfred startles and stumbles back, quickly righting himself before he takes a fall. Betsy, who had approached the door only seconds earlier, huffs and turns around again, her plan foiled. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Can’t sleep.” Alfred responds bluntly, looking surprisingly bashful. It’s a look Arthur isn’t very familiar with. 

“Sleeping is difficult in these stables, yes.”

“ Har-har. ” Alfred says with a roll of his eyes. “I just went out for a walk and found my way here. The horses don’t seem to like me very much though.”

Arthur has to bite his tongue for the words that want to leave him. 

“Betsy doesn’t like anyone. Try Bunny, instead.” He’s surprised by his own recommendation and when Alfred tilts his head with confusion, he walks over to the stable containing his horse. “She’s friendlier.”

Alfred follows, watching Arthur with curiosity as the older boy leans against the stable door and beckons for Bunny to approach them. The horse does so at a leisurely pace, brushing her muzzle against Arthur’s outstretched hand once in reach. When she discovers there is no sugar cube or other treat waiting for her, she turns her head and tries Alfred instead.

Arthur expects Alfred to simply reach out and pet the horse, but perhaps Arthur’s warning about Betsy was still at the forefront of his mind. He hesitates and Arthur rolls his eyes, before reaching down and grabbing Alfred’s hand to pull it up and towards Bunny's nose. 

Unaware of how Alfred freezes as Arthur manhandles him closer to the horse, he waits until Bunny pushes her wet nose against Alfred’s palm, before releasing him. A small smile blossoms on the younger prince’s face and he slowly bends his fingers, carefully petting the mare. 

Arthur suddenly wonders if Alfred always has to think about how much force to put behind any of his gestures. 

“So, you can’t sleep either?”

“Obviously.” Arthur replies, and by Alfred’s grimace he realizes he most likely sounded a little short. “It is much too warm in my chambers. I find it difficult to sleep.”

“Yeah.” Alfred nods, before biting on his cheek. He appears a little bummed out, perhaps expectant.

“...And you?”

“I, eh. I don’t know.” Alfred admits, always honest despite their strained relationship. “I guess I’m just not tired. And it’s… It’s not my room, y’know? By the time I’m finally used to the bed, I go home again.”

Arthur resists huffing; the beds in the Spades palace are of top quality. Incredibly soft yet sturdy, large enough to roll around in and with pillows that get fluffed daily. But of course Alfred would prefer the comfort of his home. 

“At home, when I can’t sleep,” Alfred continues, pulling his hand back when Bunny shakes her head. “I normally go to my brother’s room and lie in bed with him. Not to be creepy but… the sound of another living being helps me fall asleep, you know?”

“...No. I wouldn’t know.” Arthur says, stepping to the side so that he can grab a lead and halter from the installed rack next to the door. “There is not exactly anyone here I could crawl in bed with when I’m having nightmares.”

Alfred says nothing, and for a moment, Arthur wonders if he’s charging up for another offensive comment. Trying not to instigate anything he’d regret, Arthur simply motions for him to step aside so that he could enter the stable. Alfred watches him, again with curiosity, and Arthur relaxes a little. 

“The beds here are much fancier than the ones I got at home.” Alfred says instead, changing the subject. “Who needs to walk up the stairs to get to their own bed? Granted, they’re little stairs but still… I love the curtains, though.”

“The stepladder is to make sure the cold of the ground does not seep into the bed in winter.” Arthur says. “And the curtains are to keep the warmth from escaping.”

“And here I thought they’re for hide-and-seek.” Alfred snorts, but when he sees Arthur does not share his amusement, he quickly quiets down again. “Hey, uh, so. I wanted to talk to you. Tomorrow, I thought, but now that we are both here I might as well - anyway.”

Arthur turns towards him with raised, expectant eyebrows. Bunny patiently stands next to him, despite her halter and lead already being fastened. Alfred’s cheeks seem to redden a little and Arthur watches with fascination as the younger boy rubs the back of his neck.

“I, uh, I guess I wanted to. Apologize.” The word comes out a little strained but Arthur is far too surprised to care. “For earlier. I shouldn’t have bumped the table like that, it was mean.” 

“Uh,”

“And I kind of did set myself up for your comment. Which, in hindsight, was pretty funny, though please don’t freeze my face again. But uh, yeah. Sorry.”

Arthur is, for lack of better wording, stunned.

He doesn’t think he has ever heard Alfred say the word sorry before. He’s unsure what he’s supposed to do right now, so he grasps at the etiquette he’s been taught all his life.

“Thank you. I apologize as well.” 

What exactly he apologizes for, he’s not sure, though he knows he should at the least not have blown up Alfred’s food bowl in his face. He chances a hint of a smile, and Alfred responds in kind, though with a much bigger one. 

“All right, uh, I’m going to go now. Have fun?” Alfred says quickly, rambling a little, as if he wants to get out of the situation as quickly as possible. Arthur shares the sentiment. “And, if uh, when you can’t sleep and you want to… uh.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, wondering why Alfred’s face seems to turn even redder. 

“...Never mind. Good night!”

It’s afternoon when Arthur is called to one of the State Rooms to be introduced to their future Ace. The current Ace is an aging man who probably plans to retire once his current king does, and so he’s taken one of his nephews as an apprentice.

Arthur wonders why his presence is required, though perhaps it is simply for veneer. A queen does not need to interact much with an ace, as far as he knows. After all, an Ace’s duties relate to those of the king and Jack. It’s mostly military stuff. 

However, Arthur has managed to get little sleep due to the heavy heat that persists even at night, and so he is not in the mood for an argument. He simply nods and redresses, eager to get out of his sweat-soaked morning outfit. 

He chooses one of his more official outfits, one Arthur cannot deny he likes to wear. They make him feel important, as if he’s someone that others look up to. He knows that many people probably already do so purely because of his mark, but now, Arthur feels the part too. 

He walks into the State Room after Yao, noticing Alfred is already there. Alfred smiles at him, happily, but Arthur quickly averts his eyes. Their odd reconciliation the night before has kept him up almost the entire night, and he’s still not sure if it was a genuine attempt at a friendlier relationship or simply another prank.

“Arthur, dear.” The queen says pleasantly, and Arthur forces a polite smile in return. “You look well.”

The bags under his eyes have been carefully hidden with some make-up. Arthur gracefully bows his head, while wishing he felt well, too. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

As he takes his position, moving to stand somewhat diagonally behind the queen, he catches a glimpse of Alfred looking vaguely disappointed, and Arthur feels his insides twist nervously. 

He’s not sure why.

“Your Highnesses,” a guard at the entry of the State Room says. “Ace Eugènio of Spades, and his apprentice, João Carriedo.”

Arthur could have known; the Carriedo family line has always produced many military exemplars. Aces, commanders, generals, the Carriedo’s spread out over all four continents. And it seems like the latest batch of carefully crafted Carriedo boys have been especially successful, if João’s resemblance to Francis’ future Ace says anything. 

Knowing the mandatory introductions by heart, Arthur tunes out a little, his eyes subtly sliding over the apprentice’s features. The young man bears some resemblance to his uncle, but his hair is lighter and long enough to be pulled back in a plait, with some escaped curls framing his face. 

A small mole rests high on his right cheek, but it’s outshone by the young man’s striking green eyes - which were looking straight at Arthur. 

Feeling heat rise to his cheeks at being caught staring so blatantly, Arthur discreetly averts his eyes to look at the queen, ignoring the way João’s lips quirk up ever so lightly. 

He manages to maintain a somewhat professional persona throughout the rest of the introductions, keeping his eyes firmly on the monarchs and their Ace. He sees Alfred twitch every now and then, most likely with boredom, but he refuses to check; he knows Alfred will look at him then, too. 

Not a moment too soon, the official introductions come to an end. The king and queen invite their guests to join them for lunch, and naturally, the Ace and his apprentice accept. One by one, people filter out of the State Room to head towards the Great Chamber. 

Arthur lingers for a while, pretending to be distracted by fixing the cuffs of his jacket. He notices that Alfred seems to hesitate for a second, but then Yao engages him into casual conversation, prompting him to leave. 

As he anticipated, the apprentice lingers too, bowing his head respectfully when Alfred and Yao pass him. Arthur knows that etiquette demands the apprentice to not leave before the last monarch has, and so Arthur tries not to be too self-conscious of his own gait as he approaches the doors. 

“Your Royal Highness,” João says the moment Arthur is in his vicinity. He bows to him, and as he does so, he tilts his head ever so slightly sideways. Because of this, Arthur can see the somewhat bold, yet good-natured smile he is given. “I apologize for my impudence.”

He refers to their locking of eyes earlier, Arthur realizes.

An unfamiliar heat creeps up his neck again, but Arthur does his best to appear as cool as ever. Strangely enough, this only makes João smile more, and Arthur is fascinated by how it reaches the other man’s eyes. 

Curiously enough, the smile does not invoke any suspicion or annoyance in him, as it does when Alfred sends him one of his trademark grins. But then João does not seem teasing - perhaps a little coy, yes, but not provocative. He’s not making fun of Arthur’s earlier indiscretion. 

“There is no need to apologize.” Arthur responds, thinking he sounds rather gracious considering how nervous he is feeling. 

“I am glad. May I escort you to lunch?”

And then, lo and behold, he offers his arm .

Arthur knows this is nothing improper - after all, João will be his (or rather Alfred’s) Ace in the future. Dukes, barons, viscounts and even other monarchs offer their arms to the queen of Spades all the time. 

And yet the only time Arthur has ever been offered a hand, has been when he would exit a carriage or get down from a horse. It was always practical, nothing genuinely courteous really. 

He’s never been escorted anywhere by arm. If he is being brutally honest with himself, he is hardly ever physical with another human being.

Perhaps the most physical contact he receives on a regular basis is a pat on the head by some of the older servants he grew up with, or the accidental touches of his chambermaids when they help him with an outfit that is difficult to put on himself. 

For a split second, he’s unsure of what to do.

Then João smiles at him again, his head tilting forward ever so encouragingly. Arthur swallows down whatever conflict he is feeling and takes the arm with his own.

The heat from João's proximity is not as overbearing as he had thought it would have been, considering the current climate. No, instead it feels comfortable, like a flash of sunlight on one's skin during a cold winter day spent in front of a window.

João straightens the moment Arthur's hand delicately wraps around his lower arm, and Arthur cannot help but secretly marvel at how firm João feels. There is a bit of a press as they start walking and Arthur realizes they are probably closer to one another than strictly necessary.

João appears the chatty kind, though conversation feels anything but forced. Instead the other man comments on how beautiful the palace is and how glad he is that he will soon be stationed here. 

He asks if there are perhaps any quiet spots where he can read or play music in his free time, and Arthur jumps at the chance to tell him that there are, and why, he can show them to him the next time he visits. 

João smiles again and squeezes his arm a little, and Arthur feels something tight, yet unknown, deep inside of his chest loosen a little.

They reach their destination far too quickly for Arthur’s liking, and they part, having to take seats at opposite ends of the large table. 

For the first time in that summer, Arthur does not eat as quickly as possible, so that he can leave as quickly as possible. Instead, he trades words and smiles with the Ace's apprentice whenever appropriate, and feels strangely excited the entire time.

Chapter Text

It is well into July when Alfred finally departs for the Spades palace. 

This year Alfred had the opportunity to spend his fourteenth birthday at home. He does not know why exactly, only that his mother had excitedly prepared for a grand celebration with all of his favorite foods and drinks. And while none of the Spades monarchs had attended due to other obligations, all of his closest friends had been there, as well as the future King of Hearts, who is a distant cousin of Alfred’s. 

It should have been lots of fun - but Alfred hadn’t felt like, what his mother lovingly called, a birthday boy at all. If it had been up to him, he would have gone to the palace in June, as originally planned. 

The thought took him by surprise. Normally he spends every birthday at the palace longing for home, despite not disliking the grand birthday celebration held at the palace. Eventually he attributed his sullenness to puberty; something everyone else always seems to do so as well anyway. 

And so he had done the unthinkable; he had slipped out during his own party. He did not want to spend his fourteenth celebration with people who did not even know him anymore - they have gone far past the age of playing and pretending. What did they even have in common these days, but a childhood? 

Avoiding the places he knew people would look, Alfred had instead dived into the courtyard and subsequently ran into the future King of Hearts. 

It was there and then that Alfred realized there might have been more to his recent gloom than simply puberty. 

Ludwig, the prince of Hearts, is only one year older than Alfred. And despite it not having seemed so at first, they appeared to have much more in common than they thought once they got talking. 

Like Alfred, Ludwig struggled with his superior strength and often felt trapped inside his own body. Like Alfred, Ludwig always seemed to feel… too. Too big, too much, too large, too strong. For himself, for his home and its delicate walls and windows. 

For the first time ever, Alfred admitted out loud how much he hated having to be so careful all of damn the time. How he hated the way his mom freezes whenever he reaches out to hug her, or how the servants regard him with apprehension whenever he enters a room, as if his mere presence will cause precious vases to shatter. 

And he hates how often they remind him to be careful, please.  

Alfred knows he has to be careful. And he tries to be, but despite his best efforts and despite the changes in his diet and fitness, he just keeps growing and keeps getting stronger. It all culminates in him starting to hate himself, because he knows yet he cannot change what is happening. 

Nor can he change how he feels. 

He wants to scream and cry and curse at whatever higher power granted him this, what everyone so mockingly calls, a gift. But at his age, he is too old to get away with acting like a child - and he is not yet old enough to get away with acting like a king and telling everyone around him to shut up. 

Despite wording it less extensively, Ludwig wholeheartedly seemed to agree with him. He shares his worries and concerns, looking awkward as he did so - but much like Alfred, he seemed relieved. That he wasn’t the only one struggling with this. 

Surprisingly enough, though, Ludwig did seem to have a silver lining: his fellow princes, the future Queen and Jack of Hearts. He spoke of them fondly; spoke of how they bonded over their shared struggles, of how life at the Hearts palace became bearable thanks to their presence. 

When asked if Alfred also confided his thoughts in his future Queen and Jack, Alfred had gone silent. 

Yao’s much older than him after all; Alfred has not yet really built up any relationship beyond a professional one with him. 

And Arthur…

Ludwig seemed to understand. 

When the party died down and Alfred had gone to bed, his mind was still on his future queen. He thought of how he’d have preferred Arthur’s company over any of his birthday guests - Arthur’s bickering, his sneering, his holier-than-thou attitude: it spoke volumes of how Arthur thought of Alfred. 

Arthur is not afraid of him, of his clumsiness or superior strength. Arthur has no problems with insulting him, or pushing him aside, or even striking him with little lightning bolts. Arthur does not think Alfred is all that tough - not in his presence, no. 

In a way, thinking about his future queen calms Alfred. 

He’s almost excited to see him. 

“So uh, how are you?” 

The question obviously throws Arthur off. He looks up from his plate, settling Alfred with a questioning, somewhat suspicious look. So far the interaction seems to go unnoticed by the rest of the company, as they are still locked into a discussion about Spades-Diamonds politics. 

Alfred tries to smile reassuringly, he does , but it probably looks really forced. 

He’s made a promise to himself to really try this summer. He wants to be able to speak of Arthur the way Ludwig speaks of Kiku. He wants to be friendlier with Arthur, for them to be able to confide in each other as will be expected of them in the future.

But Arthur isn’t making it easy. 

Alfred’s hardly even seen him ever since arriving at the palace. And when they are in the same room, he says little; which would be normal during their classes, but Alfred had hoped to at least be able to engage in a conversation over shared dinners. 

Perhaps Arthur has been ignoring him in an attempt to keep it civil. They do have a tendency of arguing the moment they speak to each other, after all.

Still: Alfred made a promise to himself. 

“I’m well.” Arthur says, hesitantly. He does not immediately go back to his meal, seemingly unsure if he should elaborate or if he should wait for Alfred to say something else. 

Alfred helps him out and continues; “How has your summer been so far?”

This time, Arthur’s reply comes faster, though he does do a comical sweep around the table to see if he’s being pranked or something. Everyone else is still engaged in their own conversations, though Alfred does see Yao giving them the occasional side-eye: as if preparing to jump in and separate them. 

“Uneventful.” Arthur answers, politely apprehensive. “There are less classes in summer, so I spend more of my time reading and practicing my magic.” 

Alfred nods along; he also has less classes in summer, though he does spend more time training his sword fighting and horse riding. This summer, he is also starting with more political studies under the guidance of Yao. 

Arthur watches him curiously, waiting for more, but when Alfred does not say anything else, he clears his throat.

“And… you?” Arthur asks, tentatively. “Did you enjoy celebrating your birthday at home?”

Alfred feels a grimace appearing on his face, but he quickly turns it into a halfhearted grin and shrug, lest Arthur thinks it’s meant for him and gets offended. “It was nice. I finally met Ludwig. He’s all right.”

“That is good.” Arthur answers, and despite the awkwardness of their conversation, Alfred is starting to relax a little. So far they haven’t fought about anything yet. That’s progress, right? “He will also be attending the winter gala in Diamonds this year. As well as Kiku, I think.”

“It will be nice to meet them there.” 

“Indeed.”

The conversation dies down there. Arthur returns to his meal, and Alfred really does not know what else to ask. Should he inquire more about Arthur’s books or magic? No, the latter seems like a recipe for disaster. Or maybe he could ask about Bunny, Arthur’s horse? 

Or maybe he should just shut up and take the win. 

He takes the coward’s way out and chooses the latter, returning to his own meal. And though he occasionally can see Arthur looking at him from the corners of his eyes, he resists looking back, acting like everything is super normal. 

Surprisingly enough, Arthur seems to be in a better mood this summer. He does not necessarily seem happier, but he feels… less irritable and easier to approach. When Alfred can find him, that is. 

He doubts it’s his own willingness to try and be civil, especially considering that Alfred still does not see very much of Arthur. And so he deduces that something must have happened in the months he has been at home. 

Logically speaking, Alfred knows he should be happy that they are not arguing all the time. Emotionally speaking, he is getting kind of annoyed at how little he sees Arthur. He wants to try and be friends with Arthur - but the older prince has to be present for that to happen. 

He rarely finds Arthur outside of their classrooms or dinners; and when he does, Arthur is either practicing his magic or accompanied by João, their future Ace. He supposes their apparent friendship is not strange, considering they are close to each other in age. 

Still, Alfred decides to mention it to João during their next training session. 

“You and Arthur sure seem friendly.” He suggests politely, after João has almost managed to disarm him for a third time.

For some reason, the comment seems to startle the future Ace. Alfred wonders why - it is only good for João to have a good bond with both Arthur and Alfred, considering their future collaboration. Despite that, he does see a good opportunity to grab the upper hand. 

The metal of his sword clashes against João’s, producing a sharp and shrill sound. Knowing João has been caught off guard, Alfred puts just a little bit more of his weight behind the push. The idea of finally winning a match against the future Ace excites him and it’s probably why he gets careless.

In a freakish display of dexterity, João sidesteps his advance and kicks out a foot. It sends Alfred tumbling to the ground. 

“I am not sure what you mean, your Highness.” João says, offering his hand to the young prince as Alfred recovers. Alfred pouts, but accepts the help anyway, hoisting himself to his feet. “Good job, by the way. You need to work on a firmer stance, but your timing was impeccable.”

“I could just barrel into you and be done with it, you know.” Alfred grunts, though he smiles to show he means no harm. João laughs and pats him on the shoulder, before taking a few steps back and picking up Alfred’s sword for him to grab. 

“Now, what was this about His Royal Highness?” João asks, a frown on his face betraying his hesitance. Alfred doesn’t really understand why, but he doesn’t mind repeating himself. 

He simply shrugs, taking the sword from João’s hands and shaking off the sting that came with face-planting on the ground. 

“I just see you and him together pretty often. He seems to like your company. I’ve even seen him smile around you, like, an actual smile. I wasn’t even aware his face could do that.”

“Well, as his and your future Ace, I should hope that my presence is at least tolerable.” João explains with a chuckle, obviously relaxing now that Alfred has explained himself. 

“Being tolerable is quite a feat when it comes to his Zappiness.” Alfred says, with a bit of a snort. “If I so much as look at him wrongly, he’ll burn my hair off.”

João chuckles again and Alfred cannot help but grin. At least with João, his occasional unprofessionalism is not met with stern glares and scolding. Whenever Alfred utters one semi-negative word about Arthur in Yao’s presence, he can count on extra etiquette classes. 

And João is a good teacher, too. He has a certain kind of laid-backness that makes it easy for anyone to get along with him. At the same time, however, he is composed and direct. His instructions are clear, focusing on Alfred’s strengths and weaknesses and teaching him how to exploit both. 

More importantly: as long as Alfred does not fight dirty, João has no problem maneuvering around Alfred’s occasional lack of self-control. He does not mind occasionally ending up on the ground, winded, because Alfred pushed him too harshly. 

It’s why Alfred prefers to train with him over anyone else - and it would be good anyway, to build a strong bond with his own future Ace. 

“You two are more alike than you think, your Highness.” João suggests. “Perhaps all you two need to do to become friends, is to get to know each other.”

Alfred scoffs. Apart from already trying to do so, it is also pretty clear that Arthur and Alfred are nothing alike. They do not have anything in common but their prospective roles, and everyone with a working set of eyes can tell. 

And it is only because of their prospective roles that Alfred is trying his hand at forging a camaraderie with Arthur at all. 

He does not know why, but his train of thought suddenly makes him a little annoyed. What does João know? He’s only been at the palace for a small year. Alfred has known Arthur all of his life. Alfred is going to rule this country with Arthur - João will merely stand at their sides. 

“I’ve known him for all my life.” Alfred says, unaware of how short he suddenly sounds. “I don’t really need to get to know him any more.”

João seems taken aback by his response, though it only shows through his thoughtful silence. 

“Ready for round four?” Alfred quickly says, wanting to be done with the subject. His future Ace recovers, smiles at him and agrees. 

Halfway through August, his family comes over for a visit. 

The welcoming ceremony that follows their arrival is short-lived due to the humid heat, and everyone seems relieved when the king and queen of Spades offer to reconvene for dinner later that day. 

Instead of joining his family back to their chambers, however, Alfred steals Matthew away. Their parents had been politely chatting with Arthur, who looked entirely too uncomfortable about it. Alfred figured it served him right for ignoring Alfred the past few days. 

He leads Matthew to the stables to introduce him to his own, new horse; Tony. The Friesian horse had been gifted to him by a diplomat from Hearts earlier that summer, and although it’s still young, Alfred can already tell it will be a magnificent creature. 

Tony does have a bit of an attitude though, but when Tony does not push at his younger brother with his massive head, Alfred does not feel very betrayed. Even though the horse always does it with Alfred, and always neighs unduly loud if Alfred trips. 

As they pet Tony and feed him treats, Alfred tells Matthew of the past few weeks. He tells stories of his classes and sparring sessions with João, describes some easier political studies he’s done with Yao. 

He also tells him of Arthur’s changing behavior and of his growing chumminess with João. He complains about how he’s hardly seen Arthur this summer; as if Arthur had decided upon avoiding and ignoring him completely. 

Once Alfred finishes his rant about the differences between Arthur’s genuine smile and his fake smile, or as he so eloquently put it, Arthur’s ‘João-smile’ and his ‘Alfred-smile’, he notices that his younger brother is holding in a laugh. 

“Al, are you jealous?” Matthew asks once given the chance. 

“Jealous?” Alfred repeats, incredulously. Where did Matthew get that idea from? Alfred is not jealous, why would he be? All he wants is for Arthur to not ignore him - they are going to be ruling over this country at some point, after all. “Of what? Arthur’s an asshole!”

Someone behind them clears their throat.

Dread washes over Alfred as he whirls around and finds Arthur, standing at the entrance of the stables. Upon their eyes meeting, Arthur nods curtly, his expression cold. He does not say anything as he walks over to Bunny’s stable, entering it to presumably prepare her for an afternoon ride.

Matthew and Alfred keep silent too, though Matthew mouths the words ‘good job’ at him and sends him a well-aimed, brotherly kick to the shins as well. They busy themselves with awkwardly petting Tony, trying their hardest not to look up as Arthur exits the stables with his mare in tow. 

Alfred slumps against Tony a little, allowing the horse to snuffle at his hair. He hasn’t meant for Arthur to hear that, obviously. 

“Great. Now he’s not only going to ignore me more, but he’s also angry at me again.”

Matthew breathes out harshly, the sound akin to when one would blow a raspberry. “Come on, Al. You’ve never been friends with him. Have you two ever even done something fun together?”

The question leaves him nonplussed: has he? He cannot bring a single occasion to mind. Everything they have ever done together, has been because of their obligations. Dinners, galas, classes. 

“If you want him to be friendly with you too - or smile at you too, I guess - maybe you should try and find out what he likes to do in his free time, see if you two can do it together.”

Alfred has never really pictured Arthur as someone who did something fun in their free time. Somehow, he’s always thought Arthur was either reading in his room, practicing magic in some abandoned tower or attending classes. 

But obviously Arthur likes to ride on horseback, too. He’s often seen him loitering in the gardens as well. And he must do something fun with João when they hang out. 

Okay, so maybe he should ask Arthur what he likes to do. Or maybe he could ask Yao. 

Tony shoves at Alfred’s shoulder and Alfred’s intensely glad for the distraction it offers. He definitely does not spend the rest of the day thinking about how it would be if Arthur would smile at him in the same way that he smiles at João.

One of the benefits of being a prince in a palace, is that whenever Alfred wakes up at night craving a midnight snack, he’s perfectly allowed to leave his chambers and venture down into the kitchens to find himself one. 

It’s another warm and humid night when Alfred wakes up, parched and a little hungry. He first tries to settle these annoyances by drinking the water that’s been left in his room, but even after that and a quick visit to the loo, Alfred still feels his stomach rumble.

His fault for not asking for seconds probably. He’s a growing boy after all.

After he quickly dons something more appropriate than his nightwear, Alfred slips out of his chambers and makes his way down towards the kitchens. He could take a look in the pantry or dry larder, though he knows the maids would not be happy with it. 

Perhaps the buttery would be a better idea, there could still be some leftovers from last night’s dinner… At the very least there should be some bread and cheese, he thinks.

He’s still brooding over which option would garner the best outcome when he gets distracted: he hears conversation drift out of the kitchens. This in itself is not an unusual thing. At this hour Alfred suspects some of the staff will already be awake to make preparations for the morning, kitchen staff included.

Alfred is still unable to contain his curiosity and so he peeks his head around the corner. The kitchen is sparsely staffed, with only a handful of scullery and kitchen maids working. They are mostly quiet and on their own - but somewhere more to the back, Alfred spots Arthur, with a kitchen maid on his side. 

It’s odd to see. The kitchen maid is smiling warmly at Arthur, helping him with something Alfred cannot determine from this distance. She seems to be familiar with him on a personal level; even bumping her hip into his when Arthur visibly frowns at something. 

“Your Royal Highness!” One of the scullery maids exclaims, blowing his cover. Both Arthur and the kitchen maid look up; Arthur looks a bit like a kid who’s got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “May I help you with anything?”

“Uh,” Alfred hesitates.

Should he excuse himself and just grab a midnight snack from the buttery? Or should he come in, now that he’s discovered anyway? He has to admit that he’s really curious as to what Arthur is doing. 

And he doesn’t look particularly angry to see Alfred, just surprised.

“Just visiting.” Alfred quietly says, so that the scullery maid leaves him alone. He quickly wanders over to the other prince, smiling nervously when the kitchen maid at Arthur’s side offers him a warm smile. 

“Prince Alfred.” She says, and now that he’s closer, Alfred can see she is a little older than he previously thought she had been. “What’s gotten you out of bed at this hour?”

“Midnight munchies.” Alfred admits, smiling shyly when she laughs. He looks over to Arthur, who… who looks a little embarrassed, actually. Alfred could swear he looks redder than normal. “What are you doing down here?”

“Nothing.” Arthur quickly blurts. “In fact, I was just leaving - ”

“Oh, nonsense!” The kitchen maid interrupts, keeping Arthur in place with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You were doing very well, Arthur.”

She calls him Arthur ? 

“We were making scones.” She then says, sending Alfred a meaningful wink - what she means with it, however, he does not know. 

“Scones?” Alfred repeats, thinking of the sweet treat usually served during breakfast. He could go for a scone right now - and more importantly, he thinks of Matthew, and of how he’d say that making one together with Arthur could be a good ‘bonding’ moment for them. “That sounds good. Can I help?”

“I think that is a wonderful idea!” The maid says, clapping her hands. “I am sure the two of you can figure this out, all the ingredients are here already. I’ll go help prepare breakfast, but you two give me a shout when you need something, okay?”

Arthur seems unsure, but Alfred enthusiastically nods and so Arthur relents with a bit of a sigh. “Sure, Rosie. Thank you.”

“Don’t forget to wash your hands, sir.”

Alfred resists the urge to salute and pushes himself off the counter to do so. Rosie leaves and walks over to one of the other maids in the kitchen. When Alfred returns, he leans over the counter to look down at the ingredients Rose has left out. 

“Uh, so, I never made any scones.” He admits, trying not to feel unnerved by Arthur’s awkwardness. “But I made cookies before! And muffins! How hard can scones be?”

Arthur grabs the flour from the pile of ingredients. “You tell me. I have never made any cookies, either.” 

“Really? Not even with your - ” Mom . Alfred catches himself right before he says it, but Arthur’s warning glare tells him that Arthur knew what he wanted to say, anyway. “Uh. So, uh, you and that kitchen maid seem close.”

“Rosie has worked in the kitchen since I was small.” Arthur says, and though he sounds short, Alfred is glad he’s accepting the change in subject. 

“So you grew up with her?” Alfred asks, connecting the dots. He’s noticed more staff calling Arthur by his name, though only ever when there weren’t a lot of people around. Carefully, he adds: “She never baked scones with you before?”

Arthur is quiet at first. He meticulously measures the flour and pours it into a bowl, followed by a pinch of salt. Then he swaps the flour for butter; and though Alfred hates having to be silent, he forces himself to do so, waiting for Arthur to answer. 

“Here,” Arthur eventually says, handing him the plate of butter. “Use that strength of yours for something good and knead the butter into a soft crumble.”

Alfred rolls his eyes but accepts the plate anyway. As he gets to work, Arthur seems to stare off into the distance, distracted by something, but Alfred doesn’t comment on it. 

“I never felt compelled to bake or cook anything before.” Arthur eventually says, hesitant once again. As if he doesn’t really want to tell Alfred this. Alfred supposes he can understand, given their history. 

“Until now?”

“I promised someone I’d give it a shot.” Arthur admits and Alfred bites his lip to keep from chuckling when he realizes Arthur feels petulant about admitting it. 

“Well, who knows.” He says, passing the butter back to Arthur once it’s sufficiently crumbled. “Maybe it’ll turn out to be a new hobby. It might be fun!”

“I suppose.” Arthur says, adding milk to the mixture and stirring. Alfred watches him quietly for a while, waiting for the mixture to be taken out of the bowl. And Arthur does seem to want to do so, but he also seems to change his mind right before he turns the mixture onto the floured surface. “Er, perhaps you better do this part.”

Alfred doesn’t mind doing so, and he takes the bowl from Arthur readily enough, but he can’t help but ask; “Why?”

“Just do it.” 

Arthur is quiet, watching Alfred flatten the dough on the surface and patting it. He’s quick enough to realize that he needs to pull his patting, because he does not want the dough to be squashed, and it’s making him a little nervous, knowing Arthur is watching him. 

“Careful with the dough.” Arthur then says, and Alfred realizes that he’s been kneading too hard whilst lost in thought. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He mutters, a little annoyed by the tone Arthur had taken when he scolded him. “Don’t worry, at least I can’t set it alight.”

He must have hit the nail on its head with that one - and honestly, Alfred hadn’t even considered the idea that Arthur did not want to knead the dough because he was afraid of accidentally setting it alight.

“Excuse me.” Arthur bristles, obviously taken offense. “I assure you I can control my magic better than you do your brutish strength.”

Arthur seems huffy, and for some reason, it triggers something mean inside of Alfred. Here he is, trying to be nice and civil, doing his best to build up some kind of friendly bond with Arthur… and all the other prince does is be standoffish - not to mention ignore him, most of the time! 

“Dude.” Alfred says, and perhaps he raises his voice a little. “Get off your high horse, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m not your little brother, Alfred.” Arthur says, his voice quiet but the irritation dripping with a crystal clarity. “So don’t talk to me like I am.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure. You wouldn’t be such a stick in the mud if you’d grown up with a sibling.” 

The moment the words leave Alfred, he knows he’s gone too far. He’s broken the one rule he’s implemented into his own brain ever since spending his summers at the palace - do not ever mention the absence of Arthur’s family and certainly don’t ever nag him about it. 

And perhaps he breaks the rule so frequently because he stresses over it so much to not do it, but it’s been done. Instinctively, Alfred tenses, waiting for lightning to lick at his hands or feet or for his face to freeze. 

But nothing happens. Arthur simply glares, and under his breath, mutters; “I dislike you immensely.”

Alfred drops the dough he had still been holding in his hands, a little shocked by the frank words coming from Arthur’s mouth. Though not shocking enough to prevent a “well, if it were up to me, I never would have met you!” from escaping his own mouth. 

Behind him, he hears Rosie call over to them, asking them if they are all right and need some help. Obviously the maids have heard their exchange, and while it would embarrass Alfred later, right now he just felt his eyes burn. 

What is even worse, is the way Arthur’s eyes squint, a disturbing wetness covering over their green color. And suddenly, Alfred feels a little uneasy. They’ve lasted the entire summer without fighting - why now? What even started this, really? 

Before he can do or say anything else, Arthur storms off.

And despite feeling bad about the mess they made, Alfred does the same. 

Alfred sees very little of Arthur during the remainder of his stay. He sometimes sees him at a meal, though he is seated far away from him every time. When he’s not present, Yao merely explains that Arthur is not feeling very well, which is obviously a lie.

The longest he sees Arthur after the kitchen incident, is when Alfred prepares to return home. Etiquette demands that Arthur, amongst others, wish Alfred safe travels home. And he does do so, in a monotone and rehearsed manner. 

Alfred tries not to think of how, moments before, he saw Arthur smile at João as the future Ace arrived to also bid Alfred farewell. Nor of the way João had sympathetically smiled at Alfred - as if he knew what had transpired between the two princes. 

He also tries not to think about the tickles of lightning that warningly lapped at Alfred’s fingertips when he, as is protocol, shook Arthur’s hand. And he definitely tries not to think of the challenging glare Arthur sent him once they both rose from their curtsy; or the way Alfred keeps envisioning it on his way home. 

He tries not to think of Arthur at all.

Chapter Text

“Let us repeat the Chant of Creation.”

The bishop's deep voice fills the cathedral, vibrating through the cavernous space. It reverberates off the gilded walls and soars through the vaults, bending through colorful beams cast by the stained-glass windows. Each word seems to linger in the air, heavy and cold, until it crashes back down upon the congregation. 

The bishop stands isolated at the high altar, a stone’s throw from his audience. He’s distant and elevated, his expression masked by shadow, yet his voice cuts through the dimness, bearing down on all those present.

“Only Their grace dispels the darkness within us. The path of righteousness is full of hardship, but the Gods smile upon its travelers.”

Rows of the devout occupy the pews, their heads bent low, some with lips muttering along, others with tightly closed eyes, as if to shut out everything but the bishop's words. In the rear of the cathedral the common folk stand hunched together, straining to catch the distant proclamations.

“First, there was no word. All that existed was silence. Then Their voice rang out. Their first Word became all that might be and from it They created The Quart Major.”

Arthur hears the familiar words, has heard them so many times. They blend into the background, a kind of intrusive melody. His eyes drift upward, towards the clerestory windows, their intricate designs weaving through colors and shapes that tell old stories. The painted saints and mythical creatures stare back at him, unmoving and unseeing. 

“They said to them, in Our image We forge you. To you, We give dominion. By your will, may all things be done.”

He is afforded the small rebellion of tuning out much of the sermon. Seated in the presbytery, Arthur is hidden from the congregation’s view, a privilege of his station as the prince of Spades. Beside him, the queen and the Jack sit with their heads bowed and eyes closed. 

Attending these sermons is one of the many things the queen insists on him doing now that he is older. She takes him along with her whilst she goes about her business more frequently now, and for the most part, Arthur enjoys the outings - the fieldwork is certainly a good way for him to prepare for the future. 

But these sermons have always unsettled Arthur. He feels the disquiet in his bones, a latent unease that stirs whenever he thinks of unseen forces governing his life. How could belief in such a Higher Power bring comfort, when that same power has supposedly marked his very existence as questionable?

“These truths you will hear. Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him.”

Ah, his favorite part. 

The hair on his neck prickles and though he doesn’t need to look, he knows that the bishop’s gaze has turned his way, as if drawn to Arthur’s magical inheritance. There’s a hint of accusation there. His powers, though part of him, mark him as ‘other .’

The people, too, mirror this sentiment. In the streets, whispers follow him and the queen, faces quickly looking away but never quite concealing their unease. It’s an irony he finds almost amusing: their suspicion today will turn to adulation once he claims the throne. 

"Foul and corrupt are they who have taken Their gift and turned it against Their Children. They shall be named Maleficar; and find no rest in this world or the one beyond. Forced upon their bloodlines will be the cruelty of misfortunes, taking the shape of ice, lightning, and void."

What a bunch of drivel.

The bishop’s words resonate with judgment and doom, spoken as if they are unquestionable truths. To accept this rhetoric would mean accepting himself as inherently flawed, a sinner by nature of his birthright. How could any supposed God think it just to condemn a child for gifts he never asked for, let alone punish him with sins inherited like a cursed legacy?

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked. They who do not falter. In their blood, the Rules are written. Now let Them take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done Their Work for this day.”

Arthur watches, half-amused, as the congregation finally stirs from their pious reverie. He imagines the scandal if, one day as queen, he decided to cease attending these bigoted sermons entirely. Or perhaps decided to rewrite the very Chant of Creation itself. 

As everyone filters out of the cathedral, Arthur asbent-mindedly wonders what his future king would make of such thoughts. 

A flash of lightning slices across the sky, momentarily illuminating the darkened Spades capital. Smaller, delicate tendrils of lightning splinter from the main strike, stretching out as if reaching for the stars before fading into the blackness. 

Moments later, thunder crashes, a hollow, booming sound that echoes through the empty streets. No rain follows; the storm arrived too suddenly, the clouds unprepared to gather and release their weight.

Arthur stands on his balcony, hands gripping the cold stone railing as he watches the storm’s erratic dance. To him, there is something soothing to the feathery figures of lightning, something artistic and mysterious. He’s never been able to recreate one of said figures twice, even though he tries.

Another violent explosion reverberates through the night sky. Somewhere, children probably run to their parents, whilst others hide behind their covers. He imagines stray cats and dogs running for shelter, in preparation for the rain that would probably not come. 

A bitter smile tugs at his lips. He hopes that the priests are cowering in their beds with fear. 

Arthur knows he might be overreacting a little. 

If he were to calm down, he would be capable of reigning in this particular show of magic, but he does not want to calm down. He’s perfectly content to let the monarchs of Spades know just how irritated he is by their new, joint decision. 

Even if that means acting up in a way he knows he will be scolded for later. He doubts that if he had the power to simply make it rain, he would be reprimanded. Spades is so filled with water magic that it almost always seems to rain, anyway. 

Behind him, he hears a door open and close. Arthur knows of only one person that is brave enough to approach him now. 

“What's wrong?" João greets quietly. 

The question digs into Arthur, and he feels his face twist, torn between frustration and anger. He’s been trying, genuinely trying, to improve things with Alfred, to bridge the chasm between them. Over the summer, he attempted bonding with the younger prince, yet it always feels strained, the conversations forced, and the underlying tensions impossible to ignore.

“My entire life,” he mutters, voice thick with frustration, “has been lived according to a rulebook. Even now, at nineteen, I’m expected to blindly obey.”

João reaches out to him and Arthur instinctively recoils, feeling lightning dance along his fingertips. João doesn’t pull back; instead he patiently extends his hand again, gently uncurling Arthur’s clenched fists. 

Even though he must feel the electricity sparking from his hands, João continues, his thumbs gently rubbing circles onto the dorsal side of his gloved hands. 

"Calm down, querido."

Arthur’s breathing slows and the thunder begins to soften. When Arthur meets João’s gaze, he finds neither judgment nor worry, only a patient warmth. João’s still dressed in his armor, a reminder that he’d come straight here after being released from duty, foregoing any rest.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur mutters, a little embarrassed by his show and his lack of restraint. 

“There is nothing to apologize for.” João reassures, before gently tugging Arthur back into his chambers. He lets go of Arthur only to close the balcony door, shielding them from the outside world. 

Arthur walks over to his bed, sitting down on it with a bit of a pout. João patiently waits for him to elaborate on what is making him feel agitated, but Arthur has to take a few deep breaths before he can do so. Lest he childishly starts crying or thundering again. 

“It’s Alfred,” he admits finally. “The king and queen… they’re disappointed by how things stand between us.”

João hums knowingly. The summer had been a tense one, Alfred spending most of it with the king, learning the intricacies of court, while Arthur’s time was more often with the queen and João. 

He had tried to make peace with Alfred, he really did. They’d mostly kept things polite. But the summer’s end brought familiar fights. Especially the Spades summer ball had gone spectacularly: Alfred had managed to pick a fight with the future king of Clubs and when Arthur tried to intervene, Alfred had redirected his annoyances to him, which caused the future king of Diamonds to intervene on Arthur’s behalf.

It’d been a mess, really. 

“And now they want me to spend the coming winters at the Jones estate.”

João’s face flickers with a frown before softening. “I know you do not wish to hear it, but perhaps it’s not such a terrible idea,” he offers, pulling a chair closer to sit opposite Arthur.

Arthur is surprised João would say so; even though he knows João would also like it if he were to get better along with Alfred. The future Ace himself gets on just fine with his future king, after all. 

“Every time we’re forced together, it ends badly.” Arthur says, clearly voicing his dissent. “And their solution is to simply force us to spend more time with each other? In what world would that be a good idea?” 

“A world in which you and him will one day rule this country together.” 

Arthur glares at him, not really appreciating the cheeky reply he gets. Alfred is everything Arthur struggles to be: warm, naturally likable, embraced by the court. Arthur’s mind constantly rebels against the structures of power, questioning the worth of religious and traditional obligations. 

He worries this relentless questioning might one day make him a worse queen. There’s been rumors that the current king and queen plan to retire once Alfred turns 21 years old. And that’s only a little more than five years from now. 

“I’m going to lead this country into ruin, aren’t I?” Arthur exclaims, perhaps a little more dramatically than necessary, and he stands up to pace the room. 

It garners a chuckle from his future Ace, who quickly stands up as well in order to catch Arthur before he can escape to the balcony once more. 

“You are going to be a great leader, my queen.” João reassures, bringing over Arthur’s hands to his face, so that he can press his lips against their gloved knuckles. “You and Alfred will learn to get along, in time. You two just need to get to know each other better - and in your own ways.”

“I am not your queen yet.” Arthur instead says, deflecting.

“You will be. And you already are, to me.” João says with a wink.

Arthur’s mind drifts to the upcoming winter and the months he’ll be without João. He’ll be far from the one person who grounds him, whose presence helps him feel less alone. The thought is a lead weight in his chest. How on earth is Arthur supposed to survive for three whole months without the man in front of him?

His frustration and sorrow must show on his face, because João’s smiling demeanor is quickly replaced with a worried one. “Winter will have come and gone in no time.”

Arthur knows - he knows . The years go by quicker than one can imagine, and it might not be so bad to have a change of scenery. Arthur has never stayed elsewhere for longer than a week, so it is bound to be interesting. 

But… he knows he will be lonely. 

Arthur steps closer to João and leans up, gently pressing his lips against the other man’s. Despite months of stolen hugs, of slow and deliberate kisses, Arthur will never not feel a nervous thrill racing through his veins whenever he initiates physical contact with João. 

Months ago, Arthur would have never dared to do something this bold. And it had taken him weeks to stop freezing or flinching whenever João came close. Yet now, it is getting easier; a force of habit, maybe.

João is warm against him, even if his armor is not. His lips gently massage Arthur’s own; a hand finds its way to Arthur’s waist. Its twin reaches up to cup the back of Arthur’s neck, ever so gently tilting him sideways for a better angle. He lets himself be consumed by the warmth blossoming in his chest, by the fire racing down his spine. 

Then, a slow, unintentional rock of João’s hips against Arthur’s own. It has his mind reeling; causes his skin to buzz so intensely that it borders on painful. He breaks the kiss, gasping in air as João lowers his mouth to Arthur’s jaw, sliding down to kiss at the skin beneath his ear. 

Blood rushes from his head, making him feel dizzy. He knows what this feeling is - Arthur is old enough to be familiar with the feeling of his own hand. And yet, with another person, it is so very different. 

It’s too much. 

“Too much?”João asks, obviously sensing the way Arthur’s body suddenly locked up. Arthur wants to say no, wants to pull him back and keep going, but he knows he will only end up with a panic attack.

He nods, and João carefully disentangles himself, giving Arthur space without letting him go entirely. 

They have not yet gone further than this. João never seems to mind, always seems willing to tone it down and pepper Arthur with innocent kisses. Always reassures him that they can take it as slow as Arthur wants; there is no rush, no hurry, no obligation. 

“Come lie down with me.” João suggests, lightly tugging at him. “And tell me about your day.”

Arthur does so, unaware of the fact that the thunderstorm has passed entirely.

Traveling to the Jones estate by carriage had claimed most of Arthur’s day.

He had departed at an ungodly hour, his departure cloaked in the pale mist of dawn, and managed to arrive with the sun still high, casting its warm glow over the Jones manor and its grounds. 

Arthur has to admit: while it lacks the grandeur of the Spades palace, the estate is captivating in its own way. He surmises it is large enough to hold at least ten bedrooms. It’s also surrounded by well-tended gardens, filled with blooming blue roses. They’re not too far from the village, but the surrounding hills and foliage make it feel private nonetheless.

It also feels a lot more… homely, than the palace does. The servants seem more at ease, smiling more comfortably as they curtsy and bow. Dogs are scattered around the front courtyard, sniffing around and playing with stable boys when they pass by. 

The welcoming ceremony is held in a quaint parlor, its air tinged with a mild awkwardness. 

Lady Jones is sweet, really, and is obviously trying to do her best to impress Arthur. If she’s put off by Arthur’s stiffness, she doesn’t show it. Perhaps she understands why Arthur seems wooden: he’s never stayed at any place other than the palace for more than a week, after all. 

 Her husband, Lord Jones, appears much more standoff-ish. His gaze is appraising as he observes Arthur with silent scrutiny. Arthur knows he’s a deeply religious man and can only hope it won’t cause tension. If possible, Arthur would rather avoid him for the entire winter, rather than cause any kind of dispute. 

And then there are the young Jones heirs, Alfred and Matthew. 

Alfred looks about as happy as Arthur feels. Arthur thinks he must feel Arthur’s presence as an intrusion. It isn’t enough that Alfred spends summers at the palace; now palace life is invading his home in winter, too. 

When Arthur greets him, he finds himself foolishly hoping for a comforting moment of mutual understanding, something to dispel the looming fear of loneliness. Instead, Alfred’s response is clipped, his brow faintly furrowed. It does nothing to soothe Arthur’s nerves.

Matthew, on the other hand, surprises him with sincere kindness. Once the formalities conclude, he steps forward and offers to guide Arthur to his room. As they walk, he points out various parts of the manor, offering little details. He’s calm, but not as shy as Arthur remembers him to be. 

“My room and Alfred’s room are just down the hall.” The youngest Jones says, nodding over to the still open door of Arthur’s bedroom. “Oh, and at the end of the hall, down the spiral stairs, you’ll find the library. I heard you like to read.”

“I do. Thank you.” Arthur replies, and he mentally decides to go exploring a little after dinner.

A nearby window catches his attention, its thick panes open to let in the fresh air. Stepping over, he gazes at the view, discreetly taking in the scent, hoping for the tang of salt in the air. But there’s nothing, just the usual crispness of autumn, and he frowns slightly.

Matthew seems to notice. “Is the view not to your liking?” He asks, concerned, as if he thought it would actually be a problem for Arthur. 

Arthur quickly shakes his head, not wanting to appear ungrateful. “The view is magnificent,” he reassures, though he feels mildly embarrassed. “It’s just… the Jack told me that you could smell the sea from here.”

“Oh!” Matthew says, gentle frown quickly transforming into a smile. “When the wind is right, you will.”

That makes sense, he supposes. 

“Have you ever been to the sea?” Matthew asks and Arthur shakes his head, turning back to the window. He’s only seen the sea from a distance, but he’s always imagined he’d enjoy it. “If you’d like, I could ask Alfred to take you down there sometime.”

The offer surprises him, and while it’s thoughtful, it feels odd. Arthur doubts Alfred would agree, given how they can barely manage civility in the palace. Besides, he could always arrange to go with the palace guards, who’ve accompanied him as usual.

But then he remembers why he’s here.

Perhaps his guards have even been instructed to keep a close watch on him, ensuring he spends as much time with Alfred as possible. Yao would have left nothing to chance. A forced friendship, no doubt, but he supposes it’s what everyone wants.

“Perhaps.” Arthur answers eventually. “I suppose I have all the time in the world to visit.”

Of course, it isn’t entirely true. Even here, he’ll be kept busy with lessons, some of which he’s told he’ll be sharing with Alfred. His magical arts tutor will also visit once a month, a reminder that palace life still clings to him, even here.

Someone clears his throat behind them, and Arthur turns to find Alfred leaning against the frame of the door to his bedroom. He appears a little apprehensive, as if unsure of what to say or do, brow furrowing a little when his eyes find Matthew. 

“I, uh, came to say we should probably head down for dinner.” He says, in lieu of explaining his presence. 

“I was just showing Arthur to his room.” Matthew says, nodding. “Maybe you could give him a full tour of the place tomorrow.” 

To Arthur’s surprise, Alfred doesn’t immediately brush off the suggestion. Instead, the two brothers exchange a silent glance, as if they’ve rehearsed this exchange beforehand. Finally, Alfred shifts uncomfortably, pushing himself away from the doorframe.

“Yeah, sure.” He says, with a bit of a forced smile. “If Arthur - if you’d like that, I mean.”

Arthur wonders if he heard correctly. The smile on Alfred’s face softens at his stunned silence, and for a moment, he almost looks shy, his gaze dropping, as if he’s reluctant to meet Arthur’s eyes directly.

“And if you wanna go down to the beach, we can do that too, I guess.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond. Matthew’s expectant gaze makes him feel as if he’s walked into something orchestrated between the two brothers. He suspects Alfred received a similar lecture about their strained relationship, just as Arthur had back at the palace, and that this is Alfred’s way of making peace, or at least, making an attempt.

“That sounds lovely.” Arthur says, though he knows his voice does not carry the same sentiment as his words.

Surprisingly enough his winter with the Jones family is not all that horrible. 

Life at the Jones manor is not much different from life at the palace. His lessons continue, rules still govern his every action, yet there is a refreshing simplicity to the daily rhythms of the manor. For one, he does not have to go to any obligatory sermons, as he is instead allowed to privately meditate in the family’s chapel. 

The estate is pleasantly unpretentious. The servants seem more at ease, exchanging friendly remarks with each other and their lords and ladies alike. The Jones family doesn’t change into a new outfit for every minor event, nor is there an air of strict formality. Arthur has even found himself becoming a regular guest for tea with the manor’s librarian, who patiently indulges his bookish curiosities.

Still something feels off. 

The more Arthur starts to feel at ease, the more Alfred seems to do the opposite. Alfred seems… careful, for a lack of a better explanation. Perhaps even agitated? The few times Arthur sees Alfred let his guard down are when he’s out with the stable boys or training with the knights, moments where he seems to breathe more freely.

It nags at Arthur. 

He has never seen Alfred like this and it makes him oddly uncomfortable. Arthur would rather Alfred be his usual, boisterous self so that things can return to normal. Even when interacting with Arthur, Alfred seems guarded, as if someone’s constantly listening in. 

One night as Arthur heads to his room to retire, he passes by Alfred’s door and notices it’s ajar. 

Inside, Alfred lies upside-down on his bed. He tosses a small ball up and down, catching it with repetitive ease. The scene is absurdly relaxed - until Alfred spots him. Startled, he loses control of the ball and it lands squarely on his face with a soft thud. 

Back at the palace, Arthur would have laughed outright at such a display, but now, he hesitates, feeling that laughing might somehow be… inappropriate.

“What’s up?” Alfred asks, casually, fingers rubbing over his nose. 

Arthur hesitates. He’d been caught peeking into Alfred’s room, a scenario that would have been met with cutting words if reversed. But Alfred just waits, unfazed, like Arthur’s intrusion was the most natural thing in the world.

Without thinking, he blurts; “When are we going to the beach?”

It’s been over a month, and they still haven’t gone. Arthur’s question surprises even him, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind when met with Alfred’s quizzical expression. Alfred’s brows raise slightly, as though he hadn’t expected Arthur to actually want to go - or perhaps to want to go with him. But quickly, Alfred sits up.

“Whenever you want.” He answers. “We could go right now.”

His answer catches Arthur off-guard. It’s late, with darkness draped over the manor grounds. He doubts either Alfred’s parents or his own guards would approve of a nighttime outing. 

“Right now?” he repeats, skeptically. “It’s late.”

“So? We can sneak out.” Alfred’s eyes gleam mischievously. His grin is boyish, familiar, more like the Alfred he knows from summers at the palace. “I do it all the time.”

“You do?” Arthur replies, though there’s more sarcasm than disbelief in his voice.

“Yeah.” Alfred hops off the bed, striding over to the doorway. “It’s easier to be alone if you’re sneaking out. Come on, let’s go.”

Before Arthur can argue, Alfred’s already slipping out past him. When he sees that Arthur is not immediately following, he beckons him urgently, before trailing down the hallway. 

Part of Arthur whispers that sneaking out with Alfred is a reckless idea, that the lack of supervision might only add fuel to what is bound to become an argument at the end of the night. 

But a stronger part feels the thrill of the excitement, the allure of doing something forbidden. All his ‘unsanctioned adventures’ back at the palace were well within the walls, always restricted.

And so, against his better judgment, Arthur follows.

They quietly maneuver through hallways until they reach a narrow hallway leading to the servants’ quarters. Alfred grabs two cloaks from a nearby rack, handing one to Arthur with a grin before slipping his own on and beckoning him forward. Arthur moves to follow, his steps tentative, half-expecting someone to spot them at any moment. But Alfred navigates the halls with ease, and soon they’re outside, slipping past the estate grounds and heading towards the hills.

Alfred’s gait does not slow, not until they’ve ventured past the hills behind the Jones grounds. The foliage lessens more and more, giving way for a surface filled with sand, pebbles and rocks. Spiky, dense tufts of a grass-like plant increasingly appear, surrounding the occasional cluster of cottonwood trees.

Arthur hears it before he sees it: the soft murmur of waves lapping against the shore. He halts for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the salty air. 

He finds Alfred by the shoreline, and although it’s dark, the moonlight reflects strongly off the water, giving Arthur plenty of light to see. 

The waves rise and fall with gentle persistence, leaving scattered seashells and bits of kelp along the sand. Arthur cannot help but slip off a glove and he crouches, pressing his fingers into the sand. It’s cold, damp, and smooth, and when he lets a faint spark fly from his fingertips, the sand absorbs it without protest.

How magical. 

“Neat, right?” Alfred says, disrupting the quiet and peaceful moment. The suddenness of his voice does not disturb Arthur, however. “Damn cold, though.”

“I find these temperatures much more agreeable than those in summer.” Arthur replies, absentmindedly. He has always been better with the cold. 

“Cold in and out, huh?” Alfred snorts, but his amusement quickly turns to panic when Arthur settles him with a look. “Oh shit, sorry. That was mean. I didn’t mean that.” 

The calm of the sea must influence Arthur’s mood, because he simply rises back to his full height and smirks. “I did set myself up for that one.”

Relief flashes across Alfred’s face, and he stifles a grin, perhaps forcing himself not to say anything else that might ruin the mood. Arthur turns back to the water and takes a few more steps forward, until the water laps at the tips of his shoes. 

“So,” Alfred suddenly says, his voice increasing in volume, meaning that the other prince is approaching. “Are you liking it here so far? At the manor, I mean. It must suck to suddenly be forced to leave your home like that. I can relate, haha.”

Arthur pauses, considering his words carefully.

“It’s been… nice,” he admits. For a moment, he thinks of adding that the palace doesn’t feel much like home to him, but he doubts Alfred would understand.

They stand next to one another quietly for a while, simply looking out at sea. Arthur wonders how far one would have to sail to reach another shore. Alfred, meanwhile, wanders a few steps away, picking up a smooth, heavy rock from the sand.

“I come here a lot,” Alfred says, straightening. “At night it’s always deserted here. No one watching, no one judging. It’s nice to just be, you know?”

Arthur is struck by the sentiment; he hadn’t expected it from Alfred, especially not in his own home. Isn’t a home supposed to be a place of comfort?

“I do know.” He says eventually, spurred on by the somewhat friendly moment they’re sharing. He’s never shared conversations like this with Alfred, has never had the privacy to do so, perhaps. 

Alfred nods and looks down at the rock in his hands. He turns it over a bit, inspecting its crevices and surface. 

“Out here, I don’t have to… hold back. I don’t worry about breaking anything,” he pauses, the rock cracking slightly under his grip, “or hurting anyone.”

Arthur thinks of their fights, the times things had turned physical, the bruises and even the broken bones. He’s never thought of Alfred as dangerous, more annoying than malicious, but perhaps his outbursts were like Arthur’s: sometimes uncontrollable, sometimes a reflection of something deeper.

He looks at his bare hand and experimentally allows a few sparks to dance from his fingertips. Alfred doesn’t flinch, doesn’t frown.

“I wear these because it makes other people feel safe.” Arthur suddenly says, waving his gloved hand around. He’s not sure why he’s admitting this. “So I don’t scare people with my… me.”

“I’m not scared,” Alfred says, his voice sincere. When Arthur narrows his eyes skeptically, Alfred laughs and shows his scarred palm. “Really! If this is the worst you’ve got, I think I can handle it. Besides, there’s no one here to scold us.” He gestures to the sky, grinning. “Go on, do your worst.”

“You want me to set you alight?”

“No, you ass. I want you to let go. Sky’s quiet tonight. Light it up.” Alfred says, nodding his head over to the ocean. “Here, I’ll go first.”

Alfred steps back, rears his arm, and hurls the rock into the dark sea. Arthur watches as it disappears, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Whew. Sure hope it doesn’t hit some poor dolphin in the head.” Alfred says, with a hint of mirth.

Before he can stop himself, Arthur raises his hand, letting an arc of lightning shoot from his fingertips, illuminating the sky. The electric discharge that fires up his spine and exits through his fingers feels scaldingly hot. Arthur watches with wide eyes as a branch of lightning explodes into the sky, trailing down to end somewhere in the horizon. 

For once, there’s no one telling him to be careful, no one cautioning him against using his magic so freely. No one screams, no one whispers, no one flinches, no one gently but firmly tells him to calm down, querido . 

He casts another bolt, then another, his laughter breaking free as the sky lights up with electric branches, beautiful and wild. It’s exhilarating, seeing the extent of his abilities, and it almost makes Arthur want to cry. 

Then he notices that Alfred is quiet and he quickly turns to look, wondering if he had scared the younger prince away, but instead he’s met with wide-eyed wonder. Alfred’s face is lit by the lightning, his grin wide and unrestrained, cheering Arthur on with delighted awe. Arthur grins back, and for the first time, something tense and painful within him eases.

On their way back, they playfully shove at each other while trading barbs, and once Arthur is back in his room, he realizes Alfred has not shied away from Arthur’s bare hands all night.

Chapter Text

Between Alfred’s fifteenth and sixteenth birthdays, he’d shot up like a beanpole. 

It was a miserable phase, like most developments one goes through during puberty. His joints ached, his voice cracked at random volumes that made him wince in embarrassment and he couldn’t seem to get enough to eat. 

There had been more refits with the tailor than he cared to remember, and the winter months brought red, itchy patches across his face that were impossible to ignore.

At least all the massive amounts of food he was consuming contributed to a hardening of his muscles, making him less gangly by the day. Arthur had even shown him how to shave properly, so he no longer had to deal with the fuzzy patches that looked more like tufts of sheep wool than actual stubble. 

Now if only his voice would stop squeaking…

“Ha!” 

Alfred quickly clears his throat when he lets out a high-pitched squeal instead of a joyful exclamation. He hopes João didn’t notice, what with him stumbling back and his sword clattering to the ground. 

“Best out of three?” Alfred proposes, trying to salvage his pride.

João chuckles as he picks up his sword again. “You’ve been training in my absence, haven’t you?”

Alfred has - his father had hired a knight from Hearts to train with him the past year and Alfred had spent many hours in the Jones’ courtyard with said knight to perfect his skills with a sword and shield. 

“I think it’s because I’m taller now,” he teases, knowing the slight height difference between them, just a pinky’s length at most, isn’t lost on either of them. Finally, he can look João in the eye without tilting his head up.

“The only thing I see growing is your already sizable ego.” João retaliates and Alfred gasps in mock offense. “Now, resume your position.”

Alfred barely has time to steady himself before João is upon him, this time faster and sharper. Either João’s been holding back, or Alfred’s more worn out than he thought. He barely manages to raise his sword in time to block an overhead swing, the force of it rattling his arms as he fails to fully absorb the blow and he struggles to hold his ground. 

But he won’t let João win that easily. Digging his feet into the dirt, he shoves João back and lunges, attempting a riposte that João narrowly avoids - something Alfred expected. He manages to force João into the sun’s glare, momentarily blinding him. Taking the opening, Alfred feints a strike to João’s arm, only to change course and land a tap against his thigh. Just as he’s about to savor his victory, he feels the firm press of João’s sword against his neck.

“Wha-”

“Pay attention, my prince.” João scolds, albeit his voice carries no ill intent. “My leg would have been injured, but I would have taken your head.”

Undeterred, Alfred resets his stance, his muscles aching but his resolve strong. They’re tied two-for-two now, and he’s determined to secure the win. 

They go at each other again, the back-and-forth growing more intense, until, for some reason, João suddenly falters. Seizing his chance, Alfred throws his shoulder into the match, sending João sprawling flat onto his ass. For a moment, João blinks up at him, clearly surprised, then nods in approval.

Alfred grins, but startles when a slow clapping noise appears behind him. Turning around, he finds Arthur leaning against the fence, watching with an amused expression. His presence must have been what startled João, he muses. 

“I thought you were supposed to train him, João.” Arthur says with a smirk. “Not let him win.”

“He didn’t let me win!” Alfred quickly retorts, a little offended on his own behalf. “Tell him, João.”

“You know, I don’t quite remember.” João says with a thoughtful look, as though trying to recall, and Alfred fights the childish urge to stick out his tongue. What’s Arthur even doing here? Just to make fun of him?

Well, two can play that game.

“If you need proof of my skill,” Alfred challenges, crossing his arms, “why don’t you spar with me?”

To his surprise, Arthur’s expression shifts to a contemplative one. Alfred had expected a snort, maybe a sarcastic quip, but instead, Arthur’s gaze sharpens with that familiar glint of stubbornness, as though he’s genuinely considering the offer.

“Why not?” Arthur says, agilely swinging himself over the wooden fence to join them. “It’s been a while since I’ve held a sword.”

João seems taken aback, coughing slightly as he looks between them. “Are you sure that’s wise, A- Your Highness?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur says, retrieving a wooden practice sword and weighing it in his hand. “I’ve had my share of lessons, too.”

“You have?” Alfred asks, intrigued. “Why?”

Arthur holds the wooden sword in a firm yet relaxed grip. He spins and twirls it in the air with a seemingly effortless precision, before tossing it once and catching it again easily. “To learn how to defend myself, of course.”

“Don’t you have your…” Alfred raises his hands, mimicking the motion of lightning shooting from his fingers until Arthur rolls his eyes. “For that?” 

“I do, which is why I don’t practice with a sword nearly as often. But that doesn’t mean I need to be incompetent.” Arthur acknowledges, before rolling his shoulders and settling into position. Alfred notices the beads of sweat on his brow, the damp patches on his shirt. Arthur has always struggled in the heat, and his long sleeves and gloves can’t be helping. “Shall we?”

Iinstead of simply charging at him, Arthur begins to circle him, studying him intently. Alfred mirrors him, impressed by Arthur’s form. He’s swift and poised, each movement careful, controlled.

Still, Alfred doubts he will have trouble with winning. He mimics Arthur, twirls his own wooden sword a bit to hopefully distract his opponent.

Suddenly, Arthur lunges. Alfred parries with ease, jabbing back with a bit more force than he intended, but Arthur takes the hit without a wince, retaliating with a quick swing. Alfred has to admit he’d underestimated his future queen; Arthur moves with surprising agility, using his smaller frame to duck and sidestep with seemingly little to no effort. 

Alfred has to jump back awkwardly to avoid getting hit and he nearly stumbles. With a keen sense of timing Alfred had not expected, Arthur twists and taps his sword against Alfred’s side. 

A surprised laugh escapes Alfred. Arthur grins back, and they continue their careful dance, trading blows and probing for an opening in the other’s defenses. Alfred had never thought of Arthur as a fighter, always assuming he’d lean on magic rather than physical skill. Seeing Arthur’s abilities first hand makes him feel unexpectedly proud. 

Finally, Alfred spots an opportunity. Arthur either got cocky or overestimated himself, but he leaves his chest open. With a swift jab, Alfred lunges forward. The blow lands a bit harder than he’d planned, judging by the wheeze that escapes Arthur as he stumbles back.

“Oh, shit,” Alfred exclaims, stepping forward. “Sorry! Are you okay?”

“Don’t insult me,” Arthur replies, sounding more winded than angry. He straightens almost immediately and resumes the fight without hesitation, forcing Alfred back on the defensive lest he gets hit in the face. 

Alfred’s arms ache, his grip starting to slip, and he notices Arthur’s own fatigue: his face is flushed, and his swings have lost some of their bite. He moves in to capitalize on his opponent’s fatigue, but before he can do so, Arthur ducks underneath his arm and slams his side into Alfred’s, throwing him off balance. 

Alfred raises his sword to counter, but Arthur’s free hand presses against his shoulder, and a sudden jolt of electricity races through him. He’s sure he yelps as he trips backward, landing flat on his back.

Surprisingly enough, the only thing hurt is his pride (and perhaps his backside too, considering his tumble down). Arthur must have been holding back - because Alfred is familiar with the feeling of Arthur letting loose, and this was tame by comparison.

Still, the fall leaves him breathless. 

Arthur leans over him, his wooden sword resting against Alfred’s chest as he grins victoriously. There’s a familiar spark in his green eyes, the same glint that Alfred had seen last winter on the beach when Arthur blasted a boulder to pieces with his lightning, one crackling bolt after another.

Alfred considers that night to be one of his best memories so far. 

“Do you yield?”

“You - ” Alfred says, before he starts to laugh. “You asshole! Yeah, I yield.”

Arthur offers him a hand, but Alfred playfully swats it away as he climbs to his feet.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Arthur teases, though he steps back to give Alfred room to steady himself.

As Alfred picks up his sword, he sees Arthur return to João’s side. But for some reason, the smug expression has disappeared from Arthur’s face, having been replaced by something closed-off. Perhaps even disappointed? João looks perturbed, talking with a tight expression. 

Are they arguing?

“Hey, Arthur!” Alfred quickly calls, walking over and nudging Arthur’s shoulder with his own. He doesn’t like the sudden change of atmosphere and if it’s João causing it, Alfred has no qualms with interrupting. “Congrats on getting me on my ass.”

Arthur nods, though the response is hesitant. “I shouldn’t have used magic. Sorry.”

So that was why João seemed uncomfortable? Pfft. Asshole. 

“Are you kidding?” Alfred grins. “Your magic is part of you. Use it! Besides, I can handle it, you know that.” He adds a secretive wink, pleased when Arthur’s lips twitch into a reluctant smile.

Arthur leaves shortly after, wishing them well with their training. And even though João seems back to normal, Alfred notices his own heart's not in it anymore - thus he spends the rest of the hour eating dirt. 

Three weeks before Alfred’s return home, the capital of Spades hosts a grand celebration. Monarchs and nobles from all four kingdoms gather to witness Yao’s official ascension to Jack of Spades. The ceremony is set within the majestic, cool stone walls of the cathedral.

Alfred has visited the cathedral only a few times, so he takes in the space with wide-eyed reverence, admiring the impressive architecture. Intricate details adorn the floors, pillars, and ceiling; even the walls bear lavish mosaics and paintings. Light filters in through the stained glass windows, casting a spectrum of colors across the congregation, as if the very air is alight with hues of royal blue, ruby red, and deep emerald.

While walking through the nave and past the rows of columns, Alfred’s attention is on the vaulted ceiling above, marveling at the hollowed curves and dizzying height. Absorbed in his surroundings, he almost strides directly toward the massive altar. Arthur’s quick, steady hand on his elbow redirects him to the proper path.

“Sorry.” Alfred murmurs sheepishly once Arthur lets go of him. 

As he follows Arthur to their designated seats, he notices Arthur’s sullen mood. The older prince has been distant all day. He recalls Arthur absentmindedly pushing his food around at breakfast. Even during their politics class that morning, Arthur had been distracted, eyes unfocused and words few. Alfred wonders what’s troubling him. Surely a change of scenery should be welcome, not?

They settle into their seats as the cathedral fills, a sea of murmuring nobility and commoners alike, eager to witness the ceremony. Opposite them, the Queen of Spades exchanges pleasantries with the recently retired Jack. Alfred notes, with faint amusement, that Arthur is his only neighbor, as there is no chair to his left. 

Suddenly, Arthur leans subtly toward him, almost crowding his side. Alfred follows his gaze and realizes why: an elderly priest has taken the seat on Arthur’s right. Alfred can feel the tension seeping from Arthur’s stance, and suddenly, it all clicks into place.

Though Alfred himself has come to appreciate the grandeur of religious buildings, his own faith, if it can even be called that, has never felt obligatory. As a child, he and Matthew accompanied their father to services, but as he grew older, Alfred found every excuse to avoid sermons. The dogma had always seemed stifling, and when it veered into condemnations of mages and other so-called heresies, he’d found it outright troubling.

He hesitates for a few seconds, wondering if Arthur would be offended if he were to offer help, but decides to roll with his instinct. 

“Do you want to switch?” He asks quietly, settling a hand on Arthur’s lower arm and subtly eyeing Arthur’s neighbor. Arthur freezes briefly when Alfred’s hand lands on his arm, but he does not flinch away or shake it off.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Arthur answers, equally quiet.

Still, when Alfred shifts slightly to offer Arthur more space, Arthur follows him, the fabric of his outer layer brushing Alfred’s. The realization that Arthur, who normally shies away from casual touches, would prefer crowding into Alfred’s space rather than sitting too close to a priest, causes Alfred’s stomach to jump weirdly. 

“You stink, by the way.” Arthur sniffles. 

The sudden and random affront tears a chuckle out of Alfred’s throat, one he craftily disguises as a cough. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur’s eyes crinkle with a concealed smile.

“They got me wearing four layers, all right.” He returns, knowing it is all the explanation Arthur needs. The stiffness of the fabric he wears does not combine well with either puberty or the humidity of summer. Arthur looks quite clammy himself, though his composure is infinitely better than Alfred’s. 

When the bishop moves to the altar, Arthur hushes Alfred, even though he was not saying anything at that particular time. He takes it in stride anyway, happy that he at least managed to drag some amusement out of Arthur’s otherwise tense demeanor. 

He’s also intimately aware that his hand is still on Arthur’s lower arm. Does he remove it? Does he keep it there? If he removes it, will Arthur take offense? If he doesn’t, will Arthur take offense? Will other people notice?

The ceremony begins, with Yao proudly taking his place on the altar. 

Arthur shifts and Alfred jumps at the opportunity to quickly pull his hand back, immensely relieved when nothing happens as a result. 

Yao looks every bit as regal as his new role implies. His attire has been tailormade, fashioned to represent both his native roots as well as the royal fashion of Spades. A deep blue coat covers his upper body, flowing over the long underskirt he wears underneath it. 

Spade symbols adorn said skirt, as well as the wide sleeves of his jacket. Traditional jewelry adorns the crown of his head, and his eyes have been lined ever so lightly with a black substance Yao has once told him was called kohl. He exudes authority, and Alfred cannot help but be impressed. 

The ceremony starts and proceeds with no problems. Once anointed with holy oil and given the Jack’s Sword, Yao is escorted to the front of the altar. Alfred smiles the entire time, proud of his future Jack and excited for the day that it will be Arthur and himself in Yao’s place.

He imagines Arthur will carry the same elegant, yet commanding composure that he now sees on Yao. He’s always been more confident than Alfred when it came to giving speeches or addressing nobles. Alfred himself has a little more stage-fright, though he’ll be happy to lean on Arthur’s performance when the time comes. 

“My fellow citizens,” Yao begins, voice booming so that the entire crowd may hear. “Today marks yet another momentous occasion in the history of our great country. With humility and gratitude, I stand before you as your new jack, crowned with the blessing of our divine Creators.”

Next to him, Arthur sighs. Alfred resists the urge to grab his hand and squeeze it, as he would with Matthew, whenever his younger brother felt troubled. 

“I vow to serve you and our country with honor, compassion and dignity. Together, we will overcome future challenges and work to build a brighter future for us all. May Spades continue to thrive and flourish under our shared leadership. Long live Spades, long live its people!”

The crowd erupts in cheers and applause.

The ballroom at the Spades palace is a marvel of elegance, but tonight it’s particularly breathtaking. 

Gold, silver, and shades of deep blue cover every inch, catching the light of the chandeliers that shimmer overhead. Candlelight glints off decorative jewels, bathing the hall in a warm, dreamlike glow that softens the sharp edges of the grand space.

At the back, the King and Queen of Spades sit on their thrones, the newly appointed Jack on their side. Gentle laughter and conversations flow as they greet their guests, though it is nearly drowned out by the music played by the orchestra. 

Dozens of guests have taken to the floors. Couples twirl and spin around, dresses flowing gracefully and heels clicking in a perfect beat. Alfred weaves his way through the crowd of onlookers, smiling apologetically to young maidens wishing to dance with him and (falsely) promising them he will have time to dance later. 

He leads himself to the sumptuous banquet of roasted meats, fine wines and delicate pastries. Not because he’s hungry (though he could always eat), but because of the company that awaits him there. 

“Ludwig!” He greets, knowing he does not need to pretend and use formalities. “How’ve you been?”

“Alfred,” Ludwig returns with a nod, ever stoic but polite. “I have been well, thank you. I trust you have been doing well, too?”

“Yeah, all things considered.” He replies, knowing that Ludwig knows exactly what Alfred means, considering their latest encounter and sharing of thoughts. “Are Kiku and Feliciano around as well?”

At the names of his counterparts, Ludwig does smile. “Feliciano could not come, unfortunately, but he told me to send you and Arthur his regards. Kiku is dancing with Arthur.”

That surprises him. 

He quickly turns, finding Arthur spinning effortlessly with the future Queen of Hearts, Kiku, on the dancefloor. They’re engaged in a sauteuse waltz, making casual conversation as they spin around the floor in sync with the other couples. 

A strange pang sparks in Alfred’s chest as he watches them, a feeling that flits between admiration and an odd possessiveness he doesn’t quite recognize. Shaking his head, he tells himself he’s merely intrigued by the sight of Arthur dancing voluntarily; after all, Arthur makes no secret of his usual reluctance for any formal occasion.

That; and he was not aware that Arthur and Kiku were friendly enough to be dancing. 

Ludwig seems to read his mind. 

“They have been exchanging letters for a while.” He offers, and if he’s surprised by Alfred’s lack of knowledge, he does not make it known. “I would not know what about, but apparently, they share a love of novels.”

“That sounds like Arthur.” Alfred murmurs.

“I take it you are on better terms now?” Ludwig tentatively asks, though he masks it as indifference pretty well.

Alfred feels his cheeks heat up a little, embarrassed that he had given Ludwig that piece of information, too. Then again, he doubts there is a soul in all four kingdoms that cannot see that the open hostility between the future King and Queen of Spades has transformed into a friendly alliance. 

“Yeah, it’s been better.” He confirms, resisting the urge to lean against the table behind him and appear slouchy. “We’ve been - “

They’re interrupted when an arm slings around Ludwig’s shoulder in an amicable manner. Alfred blinks at the future King of Diamonds, who has appeared seemingly out of nowhere, despite his obnoxiously golden outfit. There is a half-empty glass of wine in his other hand, which could explain the slight red tinge to the bearded man’s cheeks. 

“ A-ha , there you two are.” Francis drawls, grinning when Ludwig politely but firmly removes his arm. “I cannot be left alone with Vasch for one second more. What a stick in the arse.”

Alfred feels a tinge of sympathy for the future Jack of Diamonds - he cannot imagine having to deal with Francis on a daily basis and maintain a sane attitude at the same time. He enjoys seeing Francis during celebrations and such, sure, but he also enjoys seeing Francis go home to his own country again. 

“And then I thought, why not ask Elizaveta for a dance? But Ivan was hovering nearby, so.” Francis ends his impromptu announcement and explanation with a wave of his hand and he takes another sip of his wine. 

“So what you’re saying is that we are your last resort?” Alfred asks, slightly unimpressed, but unable to resist a smile anyway when Francis fakes an insulted gasp. 

“More like a last hope, my friend!”

“I think it’s time you give that to me.” Ludwig deadpans, taking the nearly empty glass of wine from Francis’ hands.

“You are about as fun as Antonio.” Francis says with a bit of a scowl, referring to the Ace of Diamonds. He does not object, however, merely linking his arm through Ludwig’s own. Alfred smiles teasingly at the future King of Hearts, happy that he is not the subject of Francis’ affections this time. 

Alfred has yet to meet Antonio, but like most Ace’s, they rarely interact with the monarchs during events such as these. Either they remain at home or they stand guard, preventing anything untoward from happening to the royals they are guarding. 

“Antonio is João’s cousin, right?” He asks, having a sudden epiphany. As if on cue, all three of them tilt their heads to look over at the future Ace of Spades. He is standing near one of the pillars, diligently keeping watch over the dancefloor. 

“They are not on good terms.” Francis says with some amusement and Alfred wonders why that would be. Then again, he has never heard João talk about Antonio during their sparring sessions - and João does like to talk about his mother and siblings. “Are you?”

The question throws him off, but he quickly gathers himself and nods. 

“Yes, I consider him a friend.” The why? is left unspoken, but he thinks Francis has heard it anyway, with how Francis tuts his lips and glances over at the man in question again. 

“That surprises me! I would have thought not, but it is good you do. A king must get along with his Ace for his kingdom to thrive, no?”

Alfred frowns; why would that surprise Francis? 

As far as he knows, Alfred has never uttered a bad word about João in their presence - he doesn’t even think he has done so outside of their presence. Perhaps Antonio has been feeding Francis false information; perhaps that is why the cousins do not get along. 

“Francis,” Ludwig warns and the confusion must be visible on Alfred’s face. He has a sinking feeling that the two princes in front of him know something that he does not know, yet should know. 

“What?” Francis says, innocently. “I am simply referring to our dear Arthur. If Alfred has no problem with the nature of their relationship, is that not a good thing?”

“ Francis .” Ludwig hisses, now outright scolding him. 

“What do you mean?” Alfred asks, and although he means to sound patient, even he hears the petulant tone in his voice. Ludwig and Francis might be older than him and therefore might have access to more gossip than him, but damn it, Alfred is part of their circle, is he not? “Arthur and João are friends as well.”

“Oh, yes.” Francis laughs. “They are very good friends indeed.”

Somehow Alfred thinks he already knows what the Diamonds prince is implying. He turns around anyway, taking another good and long look at his future Ace. 

And then he sees it.

João is not just keeping watch over the crowd on the dancefloor - his eyes are specifically tracking Arthur. There is a barely-visible smile that tugs on his lips as he watches Arthur twirl around with Kiku; a certain looseness to his shoulders that Alfred would not expect from a guard on duty. 

He thinks back of their interactions, of all their conversations that concerned the other prince of Spades. João has always talked warmly of Arthur, has always urged Alfred to befriend the mage and to try and see things his way. Alfred never sought anything behind the way João always seemed to understand Arthur. He had always thought they were simply friends due to their similar age. 

But what if there was something more to it? 

Alfred knows little of love. He has never been in love himself. Despite that, he is not unfamiliar with the concept nor the rituals that are attached to it. He’s had talks and read books, no big deal. But he has never seen Arthur and João do anything that would betray an intimate relationship… 

Has he? 

“Excuse me.” He says, announcing his departure towards an arguing Ludwig and Francis, who do not really seem to hear him anyway. His mind is on João, on confronting him and asking if his suspicions are true… and yet his feet lead him to the middle of the dance floor. 

Predictably, dancing couples quickly move out of his way, their eyes lingering to see what the youngest prince of Spades is going to do.

He does not think too much about the implications of his actions as he taps Arthur on his shoulder, causing him and the future Queen of Hearts to abruptly stop their waltz.

“Mind if I cut in?” Alfred asks Kiku, smiling charmingly when both future queens look at him with equally questioning expressions. 

Kiku quickly nods, bowing his head towards both Arthur and Alfred and thanking Arthur for the dance. Arthur seems apprehensive, but he does not refuse when Alfred reaches for his hand and assumes a dancing position with him. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Alfred teases. “I know you’re not a fan of dancing so I had to take my chance while you were still trapped here.”

Alfred can feel a jolt of tension sparking in the touch of Arthur’s gloved hand against his own, a warmth that seeps up his arm, almost distracting him from the steps. Arthur, still somewhat rigid, rolls his eyes but gives in, allowing Alfred to take the lead. 

“ Trapped certainly is the right word. What is it with these cake-like dresses lately?” He murmurs, his words only audible because their faces are closer than normal. “It must be an influence from Diamonds, those pompous pricks.”

Alfred laughs, but the distraction causes him to lose focus, and his foot accidentally grazes Arthur’s. As he attempts to rectify himself, he nearly stumbles, and it is only due to Arthur’s calm and firm hold that he does not make an entire fool of himself. 

“I see you’ve paid attention in class.” Arthur says mockingly, though there is no harmful note in his voice. “Just follow my lead.”

“Gladly.” Alfred acquiesces. “You know, I think this is the first time we voluntarily danced with each other.”

Arthur frowns, though it is obvious that he does so because he is sorting through his memory. Like Alfred, all he will find are dances that have been ‘subtly’ arranged by the Jack of Spades, but never by themselves. 

“It appears so.” Arthur says eventually, expression smoothing out once more. “Now we will certainly be the talk of the night. What’s next, a relaxing stroll through the gardens?”

“Princes of Spades spotted engaged in friendly banter over tea.” Alfred says, making it sound as if he’s calling out the last news in the city streets. 

At that, Arthur chuckles. He never really laughs out loud, not in the way Alfred does, so when he does chuckle like this, Alfred almost feels as if he witnesses a miracle. The fact that he’s the cause of it makes his heart thump a little faster. 

Alfred doubts he will ever not feel ridiculously accomplished for making the famously brooding Prince Arthur laugh. 

As they turn and spin, Alfred catches glimpses of appreciative gazes from the crowd, yet he’s too absorbed to care. Alfred does not really remember why he came out to the floor to dance with Arthur, but he does not regret doing so, enjoying the way they glide over the marble floor. 

During their shared dancing lessons their movements have always been so forced, but now they seem effortless. When the music ends, Alfred feels a reluctant tug as Arthur steps back, his hands slipping from Alfred’s. 

“We should return to mingling.” Arthur says, and if Alfred did not know better, he would think Arthur sounds remorseful about it. 

They bow to each other, as tradition dictates, but Alfred hesitates, his gaze drawn to João standing watch at a pillar across the room. The Ace’s expression is unreadable, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by a tense wariness that sends an unexpected thrill through Alfred.

Right. 

With a confident smirk, Alfred raises an eyebrow at João, a silent taunt, as if daring him to match whatever unspoken claim he’s feeling in this moment. A challenge, for he does not know what. 

What he does know is that João and Arthur are not just friends - and that, for some reason, it’s not something Alfred is very happy about.

Chapter Text

It is well into the night when Arthur startles awake with a gasp. His hair sticks to his sweaty forehead and his lungs burn as he sucks in a large gulp of air. A sense of foreboding dwells deep within him, but as he wildly looks around his room, he finds nothing out of place. 

Everything is as he’d left it before retiring to bed. Even the oil lamp he forgot to extinguish still burns, though its light has softened to a dim flicker that casts the smallest of shadows on the desk. The curtains near his open window occasionally sway as a breath of night air finds its way in. 

In the corner of the room, one of the Jones family dogs sleeps upside down on a pillow, undisturbed. 

A nightmare, Arthur realizes. One that immediately slips his memory, leaving nothing but the nauseating sensation of his rabbit-like heartbeat. With a sigh, Arthur throws himself back into his bed and allows the pillows beneath him to envelop him like a cushion of clouds. And while he normally likes the feeling, he starts to feel suffocated, and so he thrashes about until most of the pillows are thrown off his bed. 

The commotion wakes the mutt, who heaves with a big sigh. Arthur hears it stand up and circle, before settling down again with another sigh. And honestly; why is it even sleeping with him in here? Arthur does not know why this particular dog has taken such a fancy to him, but ever since last winter, it would not stop following him. 

“My sincerest apologies, Tassel.” The mage says humorlessly before following suit and lying down on the mattress again. 

Closing his eyes, Arthur forces himself to focus on his breathing. A gust of wind reaches his bed and sweeps over the sweaty skin of his chest, but it does little to cool him off. In an effort to calm himself down, he reminds himself of his whereabouts; of the day before and of the day to come. 

In just a few hours, he will be en route to Diamonds to attend the inauguration of their new Jack, Vasch. They will arrive in time to attend the ceremony and will stay for an additional two nights, so that they may partake in the festivities that follow and be allowed some rest before returning home. 

The prospect of this little getaway relaxes him. The last few weeks have been draining to say the least. As the years go by, Arthur’s responsibilities increase and ever since his twenty-second birthday he has been on the road with Yao near non-stop in order to improve intercountry relations between Spades and Clubs. 

The few moments he had been home, the palace had been in a frenzy to adequately prepare for Alfred’s eighteenth birthday and his subsequent moving in. Arthur had even come home at one point to find that his own chambers had been relocated, so that they may be on the same floor as Alfred’s new chambers. 

At least Alfred does not seem very bothered by it all. If anything, he seems excited. Arthur had expected Alfred to feel at least a little terrified of having to leave his home and family behind indefinitely, but even if he did, Alfred did not look the part. 

Though Arthur supposes that they have shared enough late night conversations for him to know by now that Alfred considers the palace a home away from home. Even hours earlier, over a game of chess, Alfred confirmed being more than ready for this next step. He admitted to growing more confident each day in becoming the king everyone wants him to be - and when asked if Alfred were also confident in becoming the king he wants to be, he cheekily stated he would be when with Arthur by his side, before check-mating him.

Knowing that he will not get any sleep with the racing of his thoughts, Arthur once again opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Unwittingly his thoughts drift to the room further down the hallway and he wonders if Alfred is having trouble sleeping as well. 

When Arthur arrived the evening before, with their Jack and future Ace in tow, Alfred had seemed… happy, yes, but wary. He had not seemed to relax until Arthur proposed a game of chess in the library. Arthur had asked about it, hence their conversation about the upcoming changes, but it had not gained him any more wisdom considering Alfred’s laid-back answers. 

Perhaps he is overthinking it. Alfred does not appear cross with him. Perhaps he is just tired. 

They were becoming… good friends as of late. 

They had a rocky start, but things seemingly developed on their own once they had found common ground. By now it is no longer a novelty for them to be spotted in each other’s company - willingly, that is. More and more often, one would search out the other and they’d fill their spare time with sparring, games of wit or with wreaking havoc in the kitchens. 

Last winter Arthur had even allowed himself to be convinced by Alfred to sneak out into town and attend the village’s Christmas celebrations. It had taken the younger prince quite some teasing and goading before Arthur had given in, and if he had to be honest, it was only the promise of wearing masks and thus being unrecognizable that won him over.

It had started off a little awkward, sure. Arthur had not accounted for the sheer mass of people that would be present and had been very overwhelmed at first. Either Alfred seemed to notice, or he felt the same, but the younger prince had quickly led them into quieter areas where they could enjoy the festivities without too much stimulation. They spent the night perusing the stands and festivities, but not really partaking in any except for the king cake. 

The night had ended with spiced ale, despite knowing better. Arthur learned a valuable lesson that night - mainly that if alcohol did not taste like alcohol, it did not mean it did not contain any alcohol. 

The complete dressing down they received from Miss Edwards the day after had been worth it, despite their hangovers. 

Arthur snorts at the memory and closes his eyes, allowing the anxiety from before to be overtaken by a warm sense of contentment. By the time Tassel makes his way up to the bed to lie down against Arthur’s side, the young mage is vastly asleep once more.

Despite sharing a border, Diamonds is different from Spades in many ways. The country as a whole appears less chauvinist, one might even say. It is not always their greatest feature, given their history of being on the losing side more often than not. But the people appear happy and laid-back and their traditions are executed with less strictness; less posturing. 

As such, the inauguration of their new Jack does not take place in a cathedral or church, but in the Diamonds’ palace itself. The grand hall is adorned with rich tapestries carrying intricately detailed portrayals of Diamonds history. Banners display both the heraldry of the Diamonds monarchs and of Vasch’ family. A distinguished gathering of nobles, clergy and other prominent figures attend the ceremony, all dressed in their finest attire. The sheer amount of golden fabrics and colors hurt Arthur’s eyes; but at least Vasch is dressed in pure white.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees Francis soothing an emotional Lili. The princess of Diamonds must be about twelve years old now, Arthur reckons, and she has yet to make many public appearances. It must be overwhelming for her, he realizes, to watch her brother’s procession.

“Just saying,” Alfred whispers, leaning in close so that his shoulder presses comfortably against Arthur’s. “Ours was much fancier.”

Arthur sends him a harmless glare and shushes him, hoping none of the people surrounding them overheard. Alfred grins and for a moment Arthur thinks he will stick out his tongue at him, but then Vasch’ Oath of Chivalry starts and Alfred recollects himself. 

“Citizens of Diamonds! I hereby solemnly swear to uphold the noble virtues of chivalry in all my actions. I vow to be a beacon of honor, both in times of peace and on the field of battle, and to conduct myself with the integrity and truthfulness you have entrusted me with.”

Sudden pause.

“To you, I pledge unwavering loyalty. I promise to exhibit courage and bravery in the face of danger, never shying away from my duty to protect the weak, the oppressed, and those who cannot defend themselves.” 

To anyone not paying close attention, Vasch’ falter seems like merely a pause of breath. Arthur sees the new jack’s eyes waver towards his little sister, however, and he cannot help a small smile of his own when Alfred jokingly coos under his breath. 

“With this oath, I bind my heart, mind and soul. May I be guided by these principles and may my every action be a testament to the ideals I embrace. So do I swear, on my honor and my life.”

The end of the oath is followed by the old Jack of Diamonds helping the new Jack of Diamonds into his armor, piece by piece, symbolizing their transition. Arthur allows his eyes to wander, knowing that another speech will follow before the inauguration comes to an end. Several feet from Vasch’s right stand a line of guards, with one standing out in particular. 

Antonio Carriedo, Diamonds’ Ace and João’s cousin. 

They look disturbingly alike, something Arthur has not stopped to ponder before. Like João, Antonio wears a curly mop of brown hair above green eyes. His skin is a tad bit darker than João's, most likely due to the difference of climate they live in. 

Arthur diverts his eyes before he can be caught staring and is momentarily tempted to look for João, before knowing better - his own future Ace will most likely be somewhere behind him and if he were to turn back to look for him, he would be sure to grab someone’s unwanted attention. 

João does not talk much about Antonio, not even when they are alone. In that sense it is obvious that the two do not get along much; João loves to talk about other cousins and siblings, after all. Arthur wonders what goes on in his… in João’s mind, now that they are in the same room. 

It is at the gathering that follows the inauguration that Arthur gets his answer, in some way. 

The palace gardens have been transformed into a lavish and near ethereal scene. Vibrant flower beds thrive in between the opulent decorations and tables filled with sumptuous feasts. Strategically placed topiaries create a picturesque backdrop and in the middle a large fountain gurgles softly, casting a delicate mist into the air due to the temperature change of the water and spring air. 

Tents decorated with blossoms provide shaded areas for guests, though most seem to prefer the rays of sun as they mingle and enjoy the joyful tunes played by minstrels or the performances of troubadours and jugglers.

Further away, several garden games and competitions are taking place. Arthur stands at one of the long banquet tables that is laden with a variety of roasted meats, exotic fruits and freshly baked desserts as he watches some fat baron attempt to throw a horseshoe on a target and fail miserably. To avoid anyone seeing the amused curl of his lip, he raises his goblet of wine and takes a small sip. 

“Arthur, my dearest of friends.” Someone drawls behind him, and Arthur reluctantly turns around to regard Francis approaching him. “You look like a melted tart. Why not find some shade before turning into a burnt tart?”

“Funny.” Arthur says shortly; even though he silently has to agree. 

He does not know how he looks exactly, but he certainly feels as if he were melting. You would think that, as a prince of a country that specializes in water magic, they would have found a way to stop the cascade of sweat running down his back on days such as these. 

The long sleeves and gloves are not helping, either.

As such he allows Francis to jovially herd him to one of the tents nearby. He does so with the appearance of guiding him, but without ever touching Arthur. It has been like that since they were young - Francis had somehow seemed to know that Arthur did not appreciate being touched without an explicit invitation. And though his aversion towards amicable touches has lessened since then, Arthur appreciates Francis for keeping up their silent understanding. 

The tent they approach is occupied by a strange combination of guests. Feliciano is engaged in seemingly pleasant conversation with Antonio, their faces adorned with familial grins and smiles. On the opposite side, Vasch is conversing with Elizaveta; and while they look a lot less uncomfortable than their company, they do not look unfriendly or bored. 

Arthur spares some sympathy for Vasch - he himself does not really know what to make of Elizaveta either, and he has spent quite some time with her over the past few weeks due to Arthur’s new responsibilities. 

Elizaveta seems to struggle to fit into her role, or so the rumors go. The religious upbringing she suffered as princess of Clubs is said to clash with her nomadic roots and the result is brash and at times unpredictable behavior. But she seems down-to-earth, most of all, and that is a quality Arthur respects. 

“Look who I found.” Francis exclaims as he makes a flourishing gesture towards Arthur. The party of four silences as they’re interrupted; and Arthur bites the inside of his cheek when he notices Vasch using the interference to make his escape. Elizaveta seems unbothered, simply nodding at Arthur in greeting before turning to Feliciano.

It is Antonio who approaches Arthur and Francis, smiling amicably at them both. “Your Royal Highness, Prince Arthur.” He greets, bowing his head while simultaneously holding out his hand for Arthur to shake. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

Arthur is taken aback by the gesture, seemingly so informal but accompanied by the formal words. He is not displeased, however, and readily takes Antonio’s hand in his own gloved one to give it a firm shake. “Likewise, Sir Antonio.”

“Please, simply Antonio is fine.” Their hands part and Arthur nods. “How are you finding the festivities?”

“I would have preferred them to take place in a cooler season.” Arthur says with some mirth, narrowing his eyes at Francis’ jubilant snort. “But I admit Diamonds knows how to host a pleasant gathering.”

“Pleasant is not really the word I would use for it.” Francis interrupts teasingly. “Beautiful, perhaps, divine, even. Or maybe ethereal?”

“Personally I would use the word excessive.” Antonio rebuts, much to Arthur’s satisfaction and Francis’ displeasure. “I look forward to attending the celebration in Spades this summer and experiencing the difference.” 

Charmed simply because Antonio has joined forces with Arthur in terms of bullying Francis, the prince of Spades allows himself to grin and lean forward conspiratorially. “I promise it will be as… ethereal , only with better company.”

Antonio laughs and Francis mutters something about Arthur winding Carriedo boys around his finger; and as luck would have it, said other Carriedo boy appears seemingly out of thin air. A warm hand rests briefly on his lower back, as João is wont to do when he knows no one is watching, before the future Ace of Spades takes a more formal position next to his future queen. 

“A moment of your time, Your Highness?” João requests politely, though Arthur sees the cold narrow of his eyes as he regards his own cousin. Francis rolls his eyes somewhat knowingly and links his arm with Antonio’s, effectively dragging him away from the Spades duo. 

Once they have turned, João offers his arm to Arthur with a suave smile. Arthur takes it, albeit with a stern glare. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” João says, faking obliviousness. “I merely wished to save you from terrible company.” 

The knight leads Arthur through the gardens and towards the fountain, where the cold mist of the water was admittedly a welcome sensation. Arthur knows João has led them there for that reason and he smiles to himself, warmed by João’s considerate nature. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Your cousin seems quite pleasant.” Arthur answers, amused to see João’s jaw set stubbornly. “Is it true that he has an ongoing dalliance with Feliciano’s older brother?”

“I would much rather do anything else but gossip about my cousin’s love life.” João quips, instinctively readjusting his position when Arthur sat down on a marble seat, so that the cut of his body could offer his prince some shade from the unrelenting sun. 

“So it is true.” Arthur says thoughtfully. He has heard the rumor from Alfred, who apparently heard it from Ludwig - and wasn’t that something bewildering, the future king of Spades and Hearts gossiping amongst each other - who must have heard it from Feliciano. “Funny how that goes.”

João’s expression relaxes minimally and Arthur wonders if anything else is on his mind. They have not seen each other much lately; João has spent the last couple of weeks training new recruits in the Spades military out in various corners of the land. 

Whenever he did return to the palace, Arthur would be gone, traveling to Clubs or elsewhere. They wrote to one another occasionally, but even their letters have become somewhat repetitive. 

Arthur has an inkling of why that may be.

“Did you guys hear that there’s going to be a jousting tournament tomorrow?” Alfred asks in lieu of announcing his presence. He throws himself next to Arthur, their sides bumping softly as Arthur moves too late to properly accommodate him. Arthur does not miss the way João’s eyes linger when it’s clear Alfred does not move to rectify his intrusion. “Hey, are you participating too?”

“I’m afraid not.” João replies. “But should such a tournament be organized for your eighteenth birthday celebration, I will be happy to participate as your champion.”

Alfred grins brightly and Arthur wonders if the other prince is simply oblivious to João’s internal struggle or if he chooses to ignore it. He hopes it is the first - because if it were the latter, then that would mean Alfred knows . João seems to think Alfred does, but Arthur knows Alfred is terrible at lying and even worse at keeping secrets. 

Alfred could not possibly know. 

He remains quiet as he observes Alfred and João engage in friendly banter, thinking back of the last time João brought his concerns up. Arthur is unsure what to make of his sudden change in behavior. The future Ace seemed to like Alfred plenty before and then at one point, João suddenly expressed some doubts - specifically concerning the nature of Alfred’s feelings for Arthur.

Which is absolutely preposterous. 

Arthur is becoming friendlier with Alfred by the day, yes, but to insinuate that their relationship would progress beyond that? The first time João had suggested it, Arthur had not been able to keep from laughing. After the second, third, fourth and so forth time, Arthur had given him the benefit of the doubt and had watched Alfred closely for a few days… but he stood his ground. João’s concerns were ungrounded and ridiculous; Alfred probably saw Arthur as a brother figure at most. 

“Pardon me, gentlemen.” A voice exclaims, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. He looks up to find Yao, looking back at him expectantly. “The archery contest is about to begin and some Diamonds slugs have been boasting insufferably… I propose we give them a taste of what true talent looks like.”

Alfred laughs at Yao’s chosen words and cheers encouragingly when Arthur rises from his seat to follow Yao to the archery stands. Because while Arthur may be good at magic and politics… he is perhaps even better with a bow and arrow. 

By midnight, most of the guests have gone to bed in order to rest for another day filled with festivities. The smaller library Arthur finds himself in is by all means deserted for this reason. There is no librarian to keep watch, but there is a gaggle of fairies near one of the windows, their high-pitched giggling and singing offering little distraction.  

He peruses some shelves hidden away in the back. The wood is dusty and the books appear old and untouched; which is a testament to their contents. Not many people are interested in the arcane; not when they are written in languages that are not native to Suits.

Behind him, Alfred sits with his legs thrown over the arm of the chair he is in, paging through a book of his own. Arthur doubts that Alfred is really reading any of the words inked on the papers, judging by the speed at which he flicks the pages. What he does know is that Alfred is having trouble sleeping - a common occurrence for the young prince whenever staying over at a new place. 

It happens in the Spades palace at the start of every summer as well. At first Arthur would stumble upon Alfred roaming the hallways at night and they would head down to the kitchens or up to one of the libraries together - on other occasions Alfred uses a shortcut by simply turning up to Arthur’s door instead and proposing a game or midnight stroll. 

This is one such occasion. Arthur hadn’t been surprised: he supposes wandering around aimlessly would not hold the same appeal in a foreign palace as it would in a familiar one. Though that could also be because Arthur teamed up with Yao earlier to spook Alfred with some stories of ghosts, walking skeletons and trolls. 

Arthur smirks and grabs the last book he wants from the shelf, turning back to Alfred. “I am finished here.” He announces, causing Alfred to close his own book. “I think it’s best we both retire to our chambers, considering the hour.”

“Yeah.” Alfred says, with the sigh of a man who knows he will not be catching much sleep. “Hey, don’t tell anyone, but - “

“ Please do not make me complicit in whatever unlawful thing you have done.” Arthur quickly interrupts, smirking when Alfred sputters at the interruption. 

“What? I have done nothing wrong! I was just - ugh, you know what? Now I’m not telling you. You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

Huh. 

“I was kidding.” Arthur quickly says in lieu of an apology - though they both know very well Arthur rarely actually apologizes. “What is it you want to tell me?”

“Nope.” Alfred says, surprising him. “I don’t want to tell you anymore. You’ll just have to be surprised like everyone else.”

“Oh, come off it.” Arthur says, gathering the books he has chosen to… borrow, in his arms and quickly following Alfred, who made a hasty retreat. “You’re terrible at keeping secrets. I know you want to tell me.”

“You ruined it!” Alfred deflects, but at one point he does abruptly stop, causing Arthur to almost bump into him. It is obvious that he forgot whether to turn left or right, so when he turns back to Arthur, the young mage begrudgingly nods his head to the right. “There is nothing you can say or do to convince me to tell you now.”

Arthur resists the urge to pout - because why on Earth would he pout? 

“Is that so?” He asks instead, wondering if it would be horribly out of place if he were to threaten his counterpart by charging his hair with electricity for the rest of their stay. 

Alfred leans forward and grabs half of the heavy books in Arthur’s arms, smiling boyishly. Arthur is surprised at how normal such a gesture is - somewhere over the years, Alfred became less annoying and more chivalrous. 

And has he always had such a prominent dimple in his left cheek? 

“Don’t worry Artie, you’ll find out tomorrow. Promise." With that he takes off in the direction of Arthur’s chambers, most likely to drop the stack of books off. Arthur quickly follows, though he drops the subject in favor of biting back;

“It’s Arthur .” 

Much like the gathering from the day before, the tournament of today is meticulously prepared. The central arena is surrounded by viewing stands, which are in turn surrounded by tents, makeshift stables and resting areas. Banners stick to the viewing stands, adorning the colors and symbols of the noble houses whose knights are participating in the jousting. 

Yao and Arthur are led to one of two royal boxes, each of them on opposite sides of the arena. The stands on their sides are slowly filling up as the crowd gathers and takes their seats. Despite the rather brutish display they are about to witness, every guest is dressed in what seems to be their finest attire, ranging from brightly colored dresses to opulent doublets and robes. 

As they sit down, Arthur shifts his attention to the scene unfolding in front of him. The jousting arena is carefully leveled, ensuring the safety of the knights and horses that would participate. Stable boys and squires run up and down to perform their chores and both guards and healers are scattered in cases of emergencies. 

Down the center of the arena, a long and narrow wooden tilt has been placed. Arthur supposes it will serve as the track for charging opponents. He regards it all with moderate curiosity - after all, attending one such event is a novelty to him. Jousting tournaments are rare in Spades and when they do take place, it is usually too far from the palace for him to decide to attend casually. 

“Where is Alfred?” Yao eventually asks as more and more of their fellow monarchs enter and settle. The herald is taking his place, signaling that the tournament will soon begin. “I swear to the Gods, if that boy is still in bed…”

Arthur wouldn’t put it past him, actually. 

The space next to him remains empty and eventually Francis slides into it, leaving the space between himself and Feliciano unoccupied. “Have you ever been to a jousting tournament before, my dear?” Francis asks sweetly, offering Arthur a goblet of what he hoped was wine or mead.

“I have not.” Arthur answers, taking the goblet and taking a careful sip from it. Wine.

“Then you are surely in for a treat.”

Cheering erupts and when Arthur looks up, he sees that the King of Diamonds has risen from her seat in the opposite royal box and has approached its ledge. She raises her arms, the large sleeves of her poofy dress more noticeable than anything else. The cheering dwindles down, people noticing her speech is about to begin. 

“Be welcome!” Her voice booms, surprisingly gentle despite its volume. “Many of you have traveled from afar to be present for this momentous occasion. I thank you and promise you that no one will leave disappointed. Today we gather not only to witness the skillful maneuvers of our valiant knights; but also to celebrate the ascension of our new Jack.”

More cheers erupt as Vasch stands from where he was sitting next to the Diamonds queen. He joins his king and salutes the guests in attendance, the expression on his face a carefully crafted one. Stern, yet neutral, as Arthur has known him since forever. 

“Let us remember the virtues we hold dear during this spectacle of strength and gallantry. And let us remember that each knight who takes the field represents not only their own prowess, but the ideals they - the ideals we - strive to uphold as a kingdom. May the camaraderie forged today last for generations to come. And may the luck of the Creators shine on all combatants!”

As the King and Jack of Diamonds return to their seats, the knights parade into the arena, wearing polished armors in a variety of golden colors. Some stand out in blue, green and red, signaling that they belong to visiting noble families who have decided to partake as well. None of them are particularly recognizable or memorable, due to close-fitting helmets they wear to protect their heads. 

The herald announces the beginning of the first joust. Squires scramble to quickly supply the knights with long and sturdy, wooden weapons, their tips blunted. The knights accept them gracefully from their perch, their horses neighing and shifting in anticipation. 

A whistle sounds, and like lightning, they are off. The knights gallop forward with lowered lances and by the time they meet in the middle, their lances collide. Splinters fly as wooden shields absorb most of the impact, but both riders manage to stay on their horses. 

“How does this work, exactly?” Arthur asks, leaning into Francis just a bit more so that he does not need to talk too loudly. 

“If a knight is unhorsed, he may forfeit or choose to continue the contest on foot with swords or blunted weapons. In that case, whoever yields first loses.” 

“And if neither are unhorsed?”

“Then it depends on their blows. A knight who breaks his lance on his opponent’s shield without being unhorsed, gains points. The knight with the most points is declared the victor.”

“The prize being?”

Francis shrugged. “Gold, valuables, bragging rights.”

At the end of the wooden tilt both riders turn their horses around sharply, kicking them back into a gallop so that they may approach each other once more. This time, one of the knights manages a better aim. His lance pushes past his opponent's shield and slams into his chest, knocking the poor man from his horse. A clatter of iron sounds as he crashes onto the ground, his armor rattling as he rolls before coming to a stop. 

Arthur only just manages not to wince and is unsure if he is doing a good job of hiding his grimace as he watches the loser crawl to his feet and stumble to the sidelines. “Do people honestly enjoy this?”

Francis shrugs, sipping his own goblet of wine. “From what I’ve heard, it used to be much more violent and bloody. The rules have been adjusted several times over the past centuries and their armor is magically enhanced to absorb most of the blow.”

Small comforts, Arthur supposes. 

He watches the winning knight turn towards the royal box holding the ruling Diamonds’ monarchs, bowing and removing his helmet so that he may address them. Arthur does not quite hear what he announces, but Francis explains to him that the knight is asking for the favor of one of the king’s ladies-in-waiting. For good luck, apparently. 

It seems hopelessly romantic and Arthur cannot help but tilt his head so that he may catch João’s eye. The future Ace of Spades is in the royal box with him, but standing near its side, ever on watch. João offers a small smile when he notices his spectator; Arthur wonders if João would be bold enough to ask for his favor, should he have participated. 

The young lady’s favor did nothing to help the knight in the next round. A knight with green colors swiftly unhorsed him during their first round, and when approached by the still horsed green knight, the losing knight had swiftly yielded before ever choosing for a physical continuation. 

More rounds follow, and now that Arthur knows there is little actual harm to be done, he finds himself enjoying the spectacle a little more. Francis offers amusing commentary on the knights he knows - or rather the houses they represent. 

At one point, a knight from Hearts asks Feliciano for his favor. The future Jack of Hearts gives it with an adoring smile, causing many guests in their vicinity to coo. 

It is only then that Arthur realizes Ludwig is neither in their royal box nor in the box opposite of them. He has seen the looks Ludwig and Feliciano share - surely he would be a little put off by this display of flirtation. 

Unless.

“Is that Ludwig?” Arthur whispers, watching as the knights take their place. Francis’ answering grin confirms his suspicion and Arthur sits a little straighter, knowing now that one of the knights he is watching is familiar to him. 

Ludwig manages to either unhorse or emerge victorious for three more rounds before he meets his equal. A knight dressed in the colors of Spades, one Arthur has seen win a few more rounds before this one, is his next opponent. Before they start, both knights raise their lances at one another, in what seems to be a friendly gesture.

And suddenly something clicks. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Arthur mutters and when Francis giggles delightedly, he feels somewhat betrayed that he has not been told earlier. 

Then again; if he had been told, Arthur might have stopped this from happening. And how has this escaped Yao, of all people? 

The signal sounds and both Alfred and Ludwig kick their horses into motion. Their galloping is as deafening as thunder and Arthur is unaware of the anticipation building up inside of him until he notices that he is sitting on the literal edge of his seat. 

The princes collide, and while Alfred’s lance is knocked from his hands, he remains on his horse. They ride on to the end of the wooden tilt, where squires hand them new lances. Arthur holds his breath as he watches them gallop towards one another once more - Alfred might be a fool for participating, but he would be even more foolish if he lost. 

The scolding he would inevitably get from Yao once discovered, would only be worth it if he ended up in the top three at least. 

The princes meet and both of their lances collide with their shields. Wood splinters into fragments upon impact and for a second, Arthur fears the worst. But then he sees Alfred leaning into the shock, allowing his armor to absorb the force. It must shake him down to his core, considering Ludwig’s equal super strength, but he does not let it deter him. 

Alfred pushes his lance through and it hits Ludwig’s abdomen, unseating him with a mighty crash. As he all but flies from his horse, the crowd erupts in cheers, their excitement over the powerful display tangible. 

Alfred jumps from his horse and rushes over to his fallen friend; most likely to check up on him. But Ludwig surprises both him and the crowd by jumping to his feet and demanding a sword, initiating the second stage of their competition. 

“Like two dogs fighting over a bone.” Francis says with a sigh, though his amusement is palpable.

A few seats down their row, Feliciano is clutching his hands tightly and watching the display nervously - and for some strange reason, Arthur shares the sentiment. They wouldn’t actually hurt one another, right? That could not be good for political relations between their countries. Friends or not - they should know when to call it quits. 

Alfred does not back down from the challenge however, and easily accepts when he is offered a sword of his own. He even tosses his own shield in a show of companionship, considering Ludwig has no functioning shield of his own anymore. 

The crowd cheers and jeers as they start their dance; swords clashing against the metals of their armor and blades. Arthur wonders if anyone knows the faces hiding behind the helmets - if anyone knows about the sheer force that must be exchanged in their blows. 

Their contest of arms ends as abruptly as it began - with Ludwig managing to disarm him and with Alfred retaliating by slamming his head into Ludwig’s own. The dirty tactic catches Ludwig off guard and Alfred wastes no time tripping Ludwig to the ground, getting him to finally yield.

The resulting applause is overwhelming and the knight in blue throws his arms up encouragingly, obviously reveling in the win. Then he turns around to help Ludwig back to his feet. The prince of Hearts goodnaturedly accepts, allowing Alfred to hoist him back up and most likely congratulating him with a slap on the shoulder. 

And then the knight in blue - Alfred - turns towards the royal box that holds Arthur. 

He approaches and Arthur cannot help but rise to his feet to do the same, stopping when his hands meet the ledge of the box. Alfred comes to a halt and removes his helmet, exposing his identity to the masses. The responses are mixed; some people cheer louder, others quiet down to scandalized murmurs or excited gossiping. 

Arthur can just about imagine Yao’s face, but he does not care to turn around and look.

Instead he looks down at his counterpart. Alfred’s hair is messed up terribly and blood is sluggishly coming out of a split lip, most likely a courtesy of his winning move… but he is grinning widely, his eyes squinting with pride and excitement as he peers up at Arthur. 

“I was hoping to ask for my future queen’s favor.” Alfred announces, louder than need be probably, and the crowd erupts in renewed cheers. 

The request seems absurd, yet Arthur cannot help but grin down at the younger prince, helplessly charmed. Here is a boy who, up until a handful of years ago, Arthur swore would have traded him for a bag of chocolates - and who is now publicly asking for his favor in a tournament. 

Oh, how the tables could turn. 

With a huff of laughter, Arthur retreats to grab one of the wreaths perched on a table nearby. He picks the one with roses - they are not blue, but it comes close enough, he supposes. Returning to the ledge, he bends over it slightly so that he can throw the wreath into Alfred’s waiting hands. 

Alfred catches it with a flourish, before attaching the circular band of intertwined flowers on his belt and bowing extravagantly. 

“My prince.” He says, in lieu of gratitude and farewell, and Arthur watches him return to his horse with strangely heated cheeks.

He doubts Alfred will be allowed to participate in any more of the jousting now that his identity has been revealed - and as he turns to reclaim his seat, he notices that Yao has already taken his leave, most likely to grab onto Alfred’s ear and tear him a new one. 

And João - 

If anyone notices him freeze right before he sits, Arthur would deny it when confronted. He catches sight of João’s tight and unhappy expression and something cold and ugly wells up in his chest. He sits down quickly, trying not to show his unease as Francis teasingly congratulates him on Alfred’s victory. 

He does not know what exactly he feels uneasy about. Is it because he now knows João saw the ridiculous display and Alfred’s and Arthur’s following interaction? Or is it because maybe, in some way, Arthur suddenly suspects that perhaps João’s accusations had held some truth in them after all? 

And perhaps, Arthur has simply just not seen it until this blatant display of affection, however playful and unserious? 

“What did I tell you?” Francis says knowingly, a wry smile on his face. “Like two dogs fighting over a bone.”

Arthur thinks of Ludwig and Feliciano; of Alfred’s dimpled smile and his blue eyes. He wonders if Alfred even knows what he is doing and if he does, if he also knows why he is doing it. 

And so Arthur does what every respectable noble would do in a similar situation. 

He sinks down into his chair and downs his goblet of wine, intent on forgetting any of this ever happened.

Chapter Text

The past couple of months have been rough. 

Moving into the palace indefinitely had not gone as smoothly as Alfred had hoped it would have. Of course, part of it was his own fault. Anxiety and homesickness had reared their ugly heads the moment realization kicked in and the few panic attacks that had unpredictably followed were anything but pretty. 

Fortunately, his new family had taken it in stride. The king assured him of having gone through such an episode himself, too, when he turned eighteen and was hastily relocated to the palace. Even the queen acknowledged having had trouble with the adjustment when she was young - despite having lived near the capitol and her relocation therefore not having been too spectacular. 

Arthur had been less understanding - though that, Alfred knew, was also his own fault. 

He had run his mouth: Arthur’s attempts at providing comfort had been awkward to say the least, and in a moment of petulant sadness, Alfred had remarked on how much easier Arthur had to have had it: after all, he’d lived in the palace all of his life - he had never had to go through such a big change. 

To his credit, Arthur did not blow up at him as he would have done years ago. Instead the other prince had looked hurt - and wasn’t that so much worse? 

Before Alfred could attempt to apologize for his idiocy, Arthur had murmured something about ‘how hard it must be for him to be away from his family’ and ‘I truly hope you feel better soon’ before promptly retiring to his quarters.

The panic attack that had followed that particular moment had also not been very pretty. 

In a continuous tragic turn of events, news arrived that the nation of Clubs had lost two of their three monarchs. They had visited a mine in a show of support, attempting to soothe the rising dissatisfaction of the working class, and it had collapsed on them. 

Apparently not even Clubs’ earth magic could go up against Mother Nature itself, is what the headlines had said the days after. 

Alfred had attempted to lighten the mood that next day over breakfast, saying that in case of a flood, they would probably be better off. I would be more likely to electrocute you than save you , Arthur had muttered darkly. He might as well have done exactly that, because Arthur’s guarded expression had hurt much more than a silly bolt of lightning could ever hope to do. 

A jolt startles him out of his brooding; the carriage must have hit a bump on the road. Opposite of him, Arthur frowns and quietly readjusts, but his eyes remain glued to the book in his hands. How he does not get sick from reading in such circumstances, Alfred does not know. 

A stiffness in his shoulders tells him he’s been tensing his shoulders, unconsciously so. As he forces himself to relax, he finds his fists loosening - he had been clenching them as well, digging his nails into the fleshy bed of his hand. Crescent-shaped indents had formed, though they had not broken the skin. 

Out of habit, Alfred seeks the comfort of the raised, tree-like lesion scarring that covers the inside of his right hand. Even though the nerve endings are irreparably damaged, Alfred finds much relief in tracing the feathery scar, in finding where the feeling starts and where it ends. 

He’s often reassured by people when they see him do it. They tell him they’re so sorry for him and that he shouldn’t think it’s ugly; he shouldn’t be insecure, they know good creams for when it’s hurting and they know a mage who might be able to heal it. 

But the thing is, Alfred doesn’t want it gone. 

He doesn’t think it’s ugly - how could he think of such an integral part of himself as ugly? It has been there for as long as Alfred could remember, longer than any other scar he wound up with due to his own clumsiness. 

He doesn’t need any cream, because it does not hurt, and he does not need a mage who can heal it, because he wants to wear it as a badge of pride instead.

Alfred looks up, finds Arthur’s eyes have finally left his book and are now focused on Alfred’s hands. Alfred wonders what the mage thinks about his scar. Does he feel guilty about it? Considering the way Arthur had been raised, Alfred has no doubt that he has been made to feel bad about it. 

Yet Arthur had been what, four years old, when it happened? 

He wishes he could ask about it, but he does not like the unreadable expression on Arthur’s face. 

“What are you reading?” He finds himself asking instead. His voice is a little gravelly from disuse and he clears it uncomfortably. They’ve been quiet thus far, having entered the carriage at the break of dawn. 

Arthur does not ignore his question and he even closes his book, though not before marking his page with a little ear in its corner. That’s a good sign, Alfred thinks. There is some uneasiness to Arthur’s expression, though - perhaps even some color on his pale cheeks. 

“A story about a crew of pirates attempting to find an ancient treasure.” Arthur says, voice careful. “It’s silly.” 

Alfred can’t help but smile, pleasantly surprised by the answer. He had expected the book in Arthur’s hands to be one of politics, history or magic. Once or twice, he’s caught Arthur’s eyes lingering on the covers of fairy-tale collections, but he’s never actually seen Arthur indulge in - well, in a fun reading.

“It’s not!” He quickly says when Arthur’s green eyes abruptly leave Alfred’s. “I’ve always loved a good adventure story. My favorite of all time is this one about a farmhand who has to leave his home and travel the country to rescue his true love.”

Arthur looks unimpressed and for some reason, Alfred feels an immense urge to prove himself.

“For real! He has to fight monsters and bandits, but he meets all kinds of people who help him on his quest. In the end, he fights his way through a castle to rescue his love from an evil tyrant. Then he gets named a knight and they live happily ever after.” 

Remembering his love for this particular story made Alfred exaggerate his words with gestures and facial expressions, and somewhere during it all, Arthur starts smiling and smiling until he’s failing to hide a chuckle. 

Is it Alfred or is it warm in here? 

Perhaps they should open the curtains, onlookers be damned. 

“Somehow it does not surprise me that your favorite story of all time,” Arthur says, mimicking Alfred’s earlier words. “involves monsters, bandits and a hero.” The teasing tone of Arthur’s voice tells Alfred that he means it as a tease, but Alfred feels far from insulted. 

“All right, pirate. What’s your favorite story, then?” Alfred retaliates, grinning when Arthur narrows his eyes harmlessly at the name-calling. 

The mage quiets, though, obviously pondering the question. Gloved fingers dance delicately over the leather bindings of the book in his lip, briefly stealing Alfred’s attention as he wonders if it is not too warm for gloves. 

Then Arthur parts his lips, seemingly having an answer. And if Alfred would have looked anywhere else, he would’ve missed it: something vulnerable flashed across Arthur’s face, appearing before disappearing just as quickly. 

He’s going to be told a lie, Alfred realizes. A harmless one, of course, but a lie nonetheless. 

“There’s a book with stories about a girl who falls through a rabbit hole and ends up in a fantasy world.” Arthur answers in an almost practiced manner. As if he’d been asked this question before and had picked out this story as the safest answer. “The world is in peril, of course, and she needs to save it.”

Alfred resists the urge to frown and ask Arthur what is really his favorite story - or perhaps more importantly, to ask him why he feels that he needs to lie about something so trivial. 

But before he can muster up the courage to do so, the carriage jolts to a halt. Arthur stretches discreetly, exhaling a sigh of relief. A footman approaches the carriage and opens their door, before announcing that they’ve arrived at the inn they would be spending the night, and if they would please follow him to their respective rooms. 

Alfred watches Arthur leave the carriage first. Despite his complaints of aching limbs and muscles, he moves gracefully, poised. More often than not, Alfred felt like a bull in a china shop when in Arthur’s wake. Always too big, too much. 

They enter the inn and go through the standard procedures of being welcomed by its owners and staff. It's the part where Alfred takes precedence. He has always been told that he's easy to socialize with; that there was a certain charm to his boyish smiles and candidness (though Yao would disagree). 

Arthur, for all his decorum and manners, has always been much more reserved. Especially so when it came to people he’s unfamiliar with -  or those who might be uncomfortable with Arthur’s status as royalty. As such, he stands sedately as Alfred chats and jokes, smiling demurely whenever anyone looks at him. 

Once all is said and done, they are guided upstairs to their rooms, valets in tow. The entirety of the inn has been reserved for them and their entourage, so that they would not be bothered by sleuths or fans. Alfred thinks it’s a little silly, but he knows the innkeepers are paid a hefty sum for their services. 

“Dinner will be served in your room.” His valet explains, and Alfred sees Arthur’s valet most likely announcing the same. “You best get some rest, sir. We’ve got a long way ahead of us still.”

Alfred resists a grimace. It would be at least two more days before they’d reach the Clubs palace. Perhaps he could convince the footmen to allow him to travel on horseback for a while; he might even succeed, considering Yao’s absence. 

“Alfred,”

He’s about to step through the doorway to his room, when Arthur calls out to him. Alfred halts, one foot in what will be his bedroom for the night, one foot still out in the hallway. Arthur stands in front of his own doorway, thin lips curved in an unsure smile. 

“Do you want to join me for dinner?” 

The request surprises Alfred. Not because they’ve been on thin ice for the past few weeks, but because of João. The future Ace should be downstairs, although Alfred has seen little of him thus far. He knows he’s around somewhere, though, and he had expected him to join Arthur in his chambers to - well.

You know. 

“Yeah!” He says once he sees Arthur’s smile wavering. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” 

Arthur nods, and nods some more. “Then I will see you in a bit.” 

Alfred nods, and also nods some more. “Yeah, nice! Great.”

They both stand there for an awkward, silent second; and then Arthur huffs a chuckle as he tilts his head in farewell and disappears into his room. The door shuts behind him, and it’s only when Alfred’s valet clears his throat, that he’s able to kick himself out of his stupor.

It really can’t be him, it must be a warmer day than usual. 

Their next and last overnight stay is in a little inn that has certainly seen better days, just past the border to Clubs. It’s remote and surrounded by forest, allowing them both some downtime not spent in either a room or carriage. After stretching his legs, Alfred manages to cajole João into sparring with him. 

The Ace-in-training readily agrees, lips set in a smile more professional than friendly. Alfred tries not to think about their deteriorating friendship - he knows the cause of it, of course, knows it began after his theatrical display at the Diamonds jousting tournament.

It’s not something he likes to think about. Because when he does, he also has to think about the nature of João’s and Arthur’s relationship. And then he has to think about why he feels so unsettled by the mere idea of them being involved. It’s not as if he is jealous or anything - any future king would be a little weirded out by his future queen and future Ace getting it on, right?

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred sees Arthur crouching down to talk to the daughter of the inn’s owners. The girl’s eyes are wide and her cheeks are an adorable red as she shyly shows Arthur the stuffed toy in her hands; Arthur plays along with great interest and nods seriously as he is being introduced.

Okay. Perhaps, he has been a little resentful - at first! 

How could he not have been? He had tried to befriend Arthur his entire life and has only just managed to scratch the surface. Whereas all João needed to do to befriend Arthur, was show up and smile that suave, stupid smile of his. 

More than befriend him, even. 

Whatever - it is all in the past now. Alfred feels no such resentment anymore, because Arthur and himself have been doing pretty good, lately! Sure, they still engage in the occasional argument and sure, some of these arguments still bleed into full-blown fights. 

But they don’t hate each other, not anymore. Of that Alfred is absolutely certain. 

Arthur and him were friends, now - good friends! Perhaps one might even call them something akin to brothers, considering the fact that they grew up together. And Alfred would also feel very weird about any woman or man Matthew would bring home, so. 

There is nothing odd about his discomfort concerning the relationship between his future queen and future Ace. 

The girl runs back to her parents and Arthur rises to his feet, discreetly tucking his chin into his collar so that he may hide an indulgent, little smile. He catches Alfred’s eyes as he does so, and the smile turns upside down as an embarrassed color tinges his cheeks, green eyes hastily searching for something else to focus on.

João signals his readiness and Alfred’s not sure why he does the utmost to ensure his victory, considering it is merely a sparring match. But he does not want to think about it - doing so only hurts his head, turns his stomach. And so he doesn’t, he pushes uncomfortable thoughts far down, and focuses on João’s suave, stupid smile. 

Apart from a few errors, he manages to wipe the floor with him. The crowd that has gathered to watch erupts with cheers for their future king, and in his moment of triumph, Alfred searches for Arthur, hoping to - to see what? Approval?

Alfred doesn’t want to think about it.

And he doesn’t have to, because when he finds Arthur, he sees him engaged in conversation with his valet. The poor man looks incredibly nervous, seemingly stumbling over his words. The fact that Arthur is simply frowning and looking back and forth from him to Alfred, only adds to the valet’s apparent anxiety. Curiously, Alfred makes his way over it, wiping the accumulated sweat from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. 

“What’s up?” He asks kindly, hoping the nonchalance sets the poor valet at ease.

“I’m truly sorry, sir.” The man says quickly, bowing to Alfred now that he’s joined the conversation. “It seems some of the rooms have been damaged due to recent weather conditions. I know it is unheard of, but I have been requested to ask if you would perhaps be willing to share a room for the night.”

For a moment, Alfred is at a loss for words. His instinctual reaction is to laugh and to wave away the valet’s worries; despite their luxurious upbringings, he knows that both Arthur and himself are sober enough to not care for the size of their private chambers - especially not while traveling. 

And yet he knows what etiquette demands; knows that the valet has probably been trained to find such a request outrageous and is probably now expecting a proper dressing-down. One that Yao might have given him, but Yao is not here. 

“It’s fine.” Alfred says, hoping to ease some of the valet’s fright. He looks at Arthur, who looks rather perplexed - not offended or slighted, but simply confused by Alfred’s answer. “It’s no big deal. Right, Arthur?” 

Perhaps Alfred miscalculated. Perhaps it is a big deal - perhaps Arthur had intended to invite João to his room tonight, considering he had not done so the night before. 

“Of course.” Arthur quickly says, offering his valet a reassuring nod. “I am sure we will manage. Make sure to pay the innkeepers extra for their troubles, so that they might restore their rooms to their former glory as quickly as possible.”

Properly reassured, the valet smiles widely and praises Arthur for his generosity, before leaving in order to finalize the arrangements. 

“Are you sure it is okay?”  Alfred quickly asks, a little put-off by Arthur’s nonchalance. Before he’s able to propose something as stupid as offering to switch places with João, however, Arthur settles Alfred with a somewhat mocking smirk. 

“Yes. Unless you are afraid I might zap you in my sleep?”

Soothed by the tease, Alfred grins and edges out of range of Arthur’s electrifying fingertips. 

“Do your worst, weather boy.” He says casually, before hurriedly entering the inn. He bites down on his cheek when he hears Arthur attempting to follow him, without appearing inelegantly rushed. 

“I - weather boy?” Arthur repeats, sounding both incredulous and amused.  “Rest assured I will do my worst if you snore. You look like a snorer.”

“I do not!” Alfred exclaims, feigning offense as he stops at the bottom of the stairs to allow Arthur go first. Arthur passes him by with a haughty expression, his nose turned upward, but the squint of his eyes betray his amusement. 

He follows the other prince up without further ado, considering the strangeness of their next situation. He’s never shared a room with Arthur before - not for sleeping at least. Suddenly he would get answers to questions he has never thought to ask. Does Arthur talk in his sleep, as well? Does he turn staticky when having a nightmare? Does he hog the blankets?

Fortunately, he would not have to find out the answer to that last question. Upon entering the room, he sees two beds, one on either side of the room. Arthur quickly claims the one by the window, much to Alfred’s amusement. 

“I will be glad to reach our destination.” Arthur says as he sits down, testing out the mattress. Whether or not it pleases him is unclear, considering he does not really react to its bounciness. “Though perhaps I will be even more glad to go home again.” 

Home. The palace, now for both Arthur and Alfred, indefinitely. 

“Not excited for the coronation?” Alfred asks, pushing away thoughts of home and where that might be. He thinks instead of the coming days; of Ivan and Elizaveta being crowned King and Queen of Clubs, following the untimely demise of their predecessors. Roderich had been named Jack a few months prior, so theirs would be the first nation with an entire new generation on the top. 

“I could do without the grand fanfare surrounding this momentous occasion.” Arthur says, dryly, eliciting another chuckle out of the other prince. 

“Aw, come on. Maybe we can sightsee some, too. That would be fun.” 

Again - with Yao absent, doors upon doors of possibilities are opened with much more ease and much less negotiating. 

“I have seen my fair share of Clubs by now. One would think they are our closest ally and not a country with which we have a - ” Arthur pauses as their luggage is brought in by their orderlies, waiting patiently until they have exited the room again before continuing quietly; “a less-than-ideal truce.” 

Alfred ponders Arthur’s grimace. Even before the official truce, Spades and Clubs had not actively been at war for many years. But the accord had only been officially finalized once Clubs officials handed baby Arthur over to Spades officials, some twenty years ago. 

Neither Arthur or Yao tell him much of Arthur’s history or involvement with Clubs, and so Alfred only knows what he sees or that which is publicly known. 

For example: he knows that Arthur was found at a Clubs orphanage at the age of roughly one. He knows that, once Arthur became of age, it was always him that Clubs requested to be present at negotiations and never the ruling monarchs or Alfred. He knows that Yao sometimes mutters something about Clubs believing that Arthur owed them something.

“Will you be fine without Yao?” Alfred asks as his mind races; Yao has always refused to let Arthur go to Clubs without himself present. Whenever the topic of another visit to Clubs arised, Yao more often than not reminded him of a guard dog, protectively hovering over Arthur. 

But this time, Yao is tied up in Hearts. And so only Alfred and João, along with their royal entourage, are going to be with Arthur. 

Arthur is quiet and Alfred fears he has asked something ridiculous, or something offensive. He knows Arthur is proud; that Arthur is able to take care of himself and knows it, too. But when he looks up, he sees the mage sitting on his bed, perfectly still. 

His brows are furrowed, bottom lip sucked in slightly as the mage worries it with his teeth. Immediately, Alfred is reminded of their conversation about favorite stories in the carriage. The well-concealed hesitance on Arthur’s face is one Alfred can only read due to years and years of knowing him. 

Quickly, Alfred looks around in the room. The door is still ajar, having been left so by the orderlies who carried in their luggage. Dinner would not be served for a while more, he knows; they should be undisturbed for perhaps half an hour or so. 

Then he sees it: a vase with roses, decorating the cabinet in between their beds. 

Alfred quickly stands and walks over to it, slowly extracting one of the roses, so he does not get pricked by any wayward thorns. He smiles when Arthur shoots him a questioning look, and, mindful of the rose in his hand, grabs a shabby chair from its shabby desk. Quickly he drags it to the door, which he closes, before using one leg to propel himself upward. It takes him longer than he cares to admit, due to the fragile stem of the rose and his thick fingers, but he manages to tie the rose onto the wreath that decorates the space above the door. 

“There.” He says, moreso to himself, as he returns both feet to the ground and admires his handiwork. Arthur looks - looks perplexed, perhaps? Maybe he is confused, or maybe he is surprised that Alfred knows what the gesture means. 

“Sub Rosa.” Alfred says, both in lieu of explaining and of proving that he does know what he was doing. The tradition might not be upheld these days, but its remnants are visible in many rooms within the palace of Spades. “What is said in this room does not leave this room.”

For a torturous few seconds, all Arthur does is stare at Alfred with an inquisitive, somewhat suspicious expression. Alfred feels terribly awkward under his scrutiny and fights against the urge to quickly abandon ship, but then Arthur’s shoulders sag. 

“I admit it is a novel experience.” Arthur admits, referring to the absence of Yao. “But it opens up an opportunity.”

Alfred frowns, surprised by Arthur’s answer. Perhaps he had expected something more vulnerable, an uncertainty about how well he would fare without the constant hovering of their jack. Instead his voice is laced by something opportunistic, his tone not subjected but hopeful. Alfred sits down on his own bed again, resting elbows on legs as he leans forward. 

“What kind of opportunity?”

Arthur seems to hesitate, green eyes thoroughly searching Alfred´s face for anything that might prove his insincerity, so Alfred does his best to show nothing but genuine curiosity, though it is hard not to avert his own eyes under such surveillance. 

His perseverance is rewarded when Arthur relaxes and clarifies; “You know that I was a citizen of Clubs, before I became a prince of Spades.” 

Alfred hums encouragingly, not wanting to break this rare spell by doing something as stupid as running his mouth. 

“And I suppose… Well, my questions have always been deflected - when they were not simply ignored. No one in Spades will tell me of the orphanage I was found in. I was hoping that perhaps someone in Clubs would have an answer.”

“You want to go to the orphanage you were left in?” Alfred immediately cringes at his own wording, but Arthur does not seem to mind. Perhaps he did not even hear, considering the sudden spark in his eyes.

“Someone must have left me there.” Arthur says, in lieu of explaining. “And that someone must know what, or who - where I am from, originally. They must know why I’m a - ” 

Abruptly, Arthur stops and swallows what he had wanted to blurt out next. The mage averts his eyes, glares to nothing in particular. Alfred feels frustrated, wishes he could just walk over and shake Arthur and tell him to spit it out already. 

That he can trust Alfred with his thoughts. 

“I would never be able to indulge in this curiosity if Yao were around.” Arthur says, changing subject. Alfred does not miss the ugly way Arthur’s voice curls around the word curiosity - is that what he has been told this is? Just a curiosity, one he should squash? 

“All right.” Alfred says, after a second or two of shared silence. “We could ask Roderich. He should be able to point us in the right direction, right? Or at least know someone who knows someone, or something. And we could probably sneak out sometime after the ball, I reckon. If it’s anything like a Spades or Diamonds ball, the guards will be much too concerned with drunken guests to notice us sneaking out.”

“I beg your pardon.” Arthur interrupts, looking at him with narrowed eyes, brows knit tightly together. “ We ?”

Alfred freezes, realizing that perhaps he got ahead of himself. Something nasty and mean curls low in his belly, clawing his way up his throat as he attempts to remedy the situation; “Or I could create a distraction, if you want me to. Give you and… and João an opportunity to sneak out, instead.”

Horrible, horrible silence follows. 

A variety of emotions travel across Arthur’s face, most of which Alfred cannot exactly name. He’s pretty sure there is surprise, confusion and anger somewhere in there, but he should probably stop assuming before he makes things even worse. 

“No.” Arthur says, finally, releasing Alfred from a never-ending cycle of dooming thoughts. “I - I do think we should start with asking Roderich, like you suggested.”

Oh.

“But let's reconsider the sneaking out part.” Arthur continues then, eyes trailing downwards to watch his own fingers play with the sheets he is sitting on. “I know we are spectacular at it by now, but if we damage our already fragile relations with Clubs by sneaking out on the night of their coronation ball, I am sure they will want our heads on a pike back home. Perhaps next time.”

Arthur’s attempt at propriety is hilarious, giving his begrudging tone of voice. And Alfred would have laughed, perhaps cracked a joke, but all he could focus on was that Arthur did not object to Alfred’s idea - nor did he appear to prefer enacting said idea with João.

The nasty, mean thing slides back down his throat and dissolves - and just in time for dinner, too, if the sudden and startling knock on the door is anything to go by.

Sober as Clubs may be, the fanfare surrounding the coronation of their newest king and queen is as grand as Arthur had previously predicted. Alfred would liken it to a celebration held in Spades, Diamonds or maybe even Hearts, if it were not for one deviating determinant; Clubs’ piety.

Alfred is aware that like Clubs, Spades is also built on the fundamentals of religion. But over the years, the country has deviated from the once so sacred path, embracing flexibility and modernity. Other religions, despite not being encouraged, are allowed to be practiced - there is even a different kind of church in the Spades capital. The same goes for Diamonds, which has always been the least religious of their quartet, and for Hearts, who prides itself much more in its steadfastness than it does in its Godly devotion. 

Clubs has lagged behind. Though Alfred suspects that might change very soon, with Elizaveta now occupying the throne of queen. You could take the nomad out of the wilds, after all, but you could not possibly take the wilds out of the newly crowned Queen of Clubs.

Alfred fiddles with his cufflinks as he waits for Arthur to arrive, so that they could be called into the ballroom officially. As future King of Spades, he is of course wearing nothing but resplendence - which is, simultaneously, resplendently uncomfortable. Each piece of garment has been tailored to his exact size, leaving no room for any wayward movements. 

The perfect representation of Spades, Yao would probably say. Alfred tugs at his collar; he’s wearing a lot, this time. Magic, candles and tapestries can only do so much to ward off the uncomfortable cold of Clubs’ climate, especially up here in the mountains. 

“Aren’t you the picture of royalty!” 

The familiar voice of a friend relaxes him and Alfred grins when Francis playfully nudges his shoulder, before moving ahead and taking his place next to Vasch, who (like Alfred had done before) looks as if he would rather be anywhere but here. 

“Speak for yourself.” Alfred replies goodnaturedly, admiring the golden details of Francis’ own coat. He has always preferred gold over silver, a color that every tailor in Spades seemed to prefer to match with blue. 

Francis gives him a salacious one-over before winking. And whereas his feigned coyness used to make Alfred uncomfortably self-aware, now it simply puts him at ease. It’s a sign of goodwill; he knows by now that Francis only ever acts this coquettish if he considers the other to be a friend. 

Then Francis whistles, appearing almost impressed as his eyes focus on something behind Alfred. 

“Keep it in your trousers, frog.” Arthur replies, surprising Alfred by suddenly appearing at his side. The mage fidgets with his gloves, pushing a finger into one to presumably scratch at his palm, before fixing the fabric again.

And well - Alfred has to agree with Francis. 

Sleek, midnight-black trousers cling to Arthur’s legs, making him appear taller than he actually is. His shirt is made of a vibrant and deep blue silk, offering a subtle sheen that catches the light. Finely stitched seams and silver-threaded embroidery decorate the shirt’s cuffs and collar.

Unlike the trousers, the shirt is more loosely fitted, pulled together by the centerpiece: a vest crafted from rich, black velvet. It’s decorated with silver embellishments that form a pattern of interlocking Spades symbols, which curve around the other prince’s waist. 

Black, leather gloves come up to fiddle with silver buttons, encrusted with sapphire, which secure the vest in place. To top it all off, a knee-length coat hugs Arthur’s shoulders, its color mirroring the deep blue hue of his shirt. Its bottom is adorned with silver-threaded Spades symbols, creating a striking contrast to the prince’s otherwise darkly-dressed legs. 

Someone - Francis, probably - clears their throat. 

Alfred does not know how fast he looks up, but he is pretty sure he has never done anything that fast in his life. Arthur’s eyes are lined with a smudge of kohl, which enhances the already spectacular green of his irises. Those same eyes are fixed on something below Alfred’s face, perhaps his chest, embarrassment clearly coloring his face.

He looks - Alfred feels as if a lump were stuck in his throat. Gone was the uncomfortable coldness of before; if anything, Alfred feels as if he’s wearing too many layers, and he desperately resists the urge to tug at his collar again. 

It’s just that Arthur - Arthur looks so - he just, well , he - 

“You should wear fine things more often, mon ami.” Francis coos, stealing away whatever word had been on the tip of Alfred’s tongue. Something horrifying, most likely. 

Captivating, compelling, mesmerizing, beautiful - 

“Yeah.” Alfred says, before Arthur can snippily respond to Francis’ tease. Arthur looks at him with surprise, piercing green eyes locking onto him. Alfred wets his lips, wonders why his mouth is so incredibly dry. “Yeah, you… you wear fine things well.”

Fuck, even Alfred realizes how lame that sounded. 

And yet.

Arthur’s expression softens. 

“You clean up well yourself, Your Royal Highness.” The mage says with a hint of a tease, before gracing him with an indulgent smile Alfred’s seen only a handful of times. 

Alfred can’t help but smile back, feeling increasingly ridiculous and silly and - 

Arthur nods to the side and Alfred discovers Francis has suddenly disappeared. He hasn’t even heard him leave - nor has he heard Ludwig and Kiku appear. The two princes of Hearts were fortunately engaged in a conversation of their own, not paying the princes of Spades any mind. Behind the curtain at the end of the hallway, a booming voice calls out their names. 

The master of ceremonies, Alfred realizes, announcing them as honored guests. 

On a whim, he offers his arm, curving his elbow to form a loop for Arthur to hold onto. “Shall we?” 

If the gesture surprises Arthur, he doesn’t show it. Perhaps Alfred should think that is odd; they have never walked into any room with their arms linked to one another. Such a display is not uncommon, but usually reserved for people who are - well, for people who were not Arthur and Alfred. 

And so he expects Arthur to be hesitant or to even refuse him. At most, he expects Arthur to accept but to keep him at a respectable distance anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings but not wanting his space to be crowded, either. 

What he does not expect, is for Arthur to wind his arm around Alfred’s offered one; for him to take a step closer, so that they might walk arm-in-arm comfortably. They are not pressed together, but this being as novel as it is, they might as well have. Alfred is incredibly aware of the warmth Arthur’s body radiates; incredibly aware of maintaining a straight posture so that he does not accidentally collide with the other prince. 

Arthur’s hand squeezes his arm, comfortingly so, once they enter the ballroom and are met with the usual cheer and applause. It’s short-standing of course, and Ludwig and Kiku are already announced the moment Arthur and Alfred make their way down the stairs. 

It doesn’t matter. All Alfred is able to focus on is Arthur’s hand on his arm. He’s pretty sure Arthur is not emitting any electricity, but he might as well have - it feels as if his hand is burning straight through the fabric of Alfred’s jacket and shirt, leaving a permanent mark on his arm, one to match the one in his palm. 

They reach the bottom of the stairs - but Alfred finds that he is not yet ready to let go of Arthur, so that they may go their respective ways and socialize with the other nobility in attendance. It would be odd for them to stay linked like this, unless - 

“Care for a dance?” He asks, quickly, before Arthur could remove himself from Alfred’s hold. Arthur’s eyebrows raise at the suggestion, but he tilts his head to look at the various people already twirling to a waltz. 

“We might as well give people something to talk about.” Arthur says with a curt nod, much to Alfred’s delight. 

Alfred all but sweeps him onto the dance floor, smiling as if they share a secret when Arthur discreetly rolls his eyes at his enthusiasm. The song changes, signaling the start of another waltz, and due to years of practice (most of it together, often forced) neither prince of Spades have any trouble setting themselves up correctly before gliding over the floor. 

Arthur offers quiet remarks and silly gossip as they go, pointing out people of the Clubs’ court that he has had dealings with before. Alfred would be amused, but Arthur could have just as well spoken in gibberish - it is not as if Alfred is able to focus on anything Arthur is saying, after all.

Not when the light shines so magnificently on the blue of his shirt and coat. Nor when the twinkling of the chandeliers above them catch so clearly in Arthur’s green eyes. Alfred finds himself too transfixed on the freckles on Arthur’s cheeks, partially hidden by a smattering of powder he wishes Arthur had forgone. 

He’s simply too obsessed with the way Arthur’s nose crinkles when he shares a piece of particularly scandalous hearsay; too enraptured by how one corner of his lips twitches upward after Arthur asks Alfred if he is even listening to him.

All too quickly, the dance finishes. Alfred would be more than happy to spend the rest of the night dancing with Arthur, but the other prince mentions he should find Roderich, reminding Alfred of their conversation the night before. And so he wishes Arthur luck, but not before bowing and bringing his counterpart’s gloved hand up to brush his lips against it in a courteous, farewell gesture. 

Arthur’s eyes squint with mischief and he calls Alfred a twat, although with a fondness even Alfred is unable to miss. 

Alfred watches him leave, his hands clenching and relaxing, the phantom feel of Arthur's hands and waist in them unrelenting. He can still feel the texture of Arthur's glove against his lips. Unconsciously so, he sucks in his bottom lip to see if he could taste it, too, all the while thinking:

Shit.

Chapter Text

“To His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur of Spades,

I trust this letter finds you in good health. I write to inform you that I have looked into the task you have graciously requested of me and that I have sought information about the whereabouts of the orphanage in which you were found. Given the personal significance of this task, I have handled it with the utmost discretion. 

It is with a heavy heart that I must convey the result of my inquiries. Regrettably, my efforts have not yielded the desired information. It appears that there are no records available regarding the orphanage in question. This could mean a number of things, none of which I am able to confirm at this time. It is conceivable that the orphanage no longer exists; yet it is also within the realm of possibility that the orphanage has never existed in the first place. 

I understand this news may be disheartening and I wish to express my sincerest apologies for not providing the answers you were hoping for. Should you wish to continue your quest, please know that Clubs is committed to assisting you in any way possible. 

Yours sincerely and faithfully,
Roderich Edelstein
Jack of Clubs"

It has been months since Arthur has received Roderich’s letter. And apart from gracing the Jack of Clubs with a thankful reply, Arthur has not undertaken any other action. How was he even supposed to find a place that no longer existed - a place that might not have ever existed in the first place? 

He cannot shake the feeling that he has been too late; that he should have asked the late King and Queen of Clubs, who had overseen Arthur’s transferral from Clubs to Spades in the first place. Asking Elizaveta will not garner any other response, either - Arthur knows of her close relationship to Roderich and as such, he doubts Roderich has not already discussed Arthur’s request with her, discretion be damned. 

And asking Ivan… Well, Arthur does not wish to find out what debt such a request of the newly crowned King of Clubs would lead to. He would prefer to leave all dealings with Ivan to Yao, who has always been much more impervious to Ivan’s manipulative demeanor, hidden under layers upon layers of feigned cheer and innocence. 

It would be best to forget about it. He knows that. It’s what his betters have been telling him from the day he was old enough to start asking questions. He knows he should not look into the past and instead be grateful for his present and future. Because what could he possibly be wanting for, when he is already living the life of a prince? His every whim, his every curiosity, all of it will be tended to with just a snap of his fingers. He should stop being selfish; should start focusing on becoming the queen everyone wants him to be. 

Arthur knows this.

He still lets Alfred read the letter. 

They’re hidden away in a long-forgotten chamber, one that Arthur happened upon some ten years ago or so. Its entrance is cleverly hidden behind a beautiful tapestry; one so valuable and old that the servants never take it down in fear of damaging it. Arthur had lifted the corners of it once, wondering what was so incredibly special about something so musty, and wound up finding a small entrance. 

Small enough to fit a child, which by then was fine, but now that Arthur is a proper adult, he has to crouch slightly to squeeze through it. 

Even as a child Arthur had not been very surprised by the chambers’ presence. After all, every palace has their secret tunnels and passageways, many of which are still used these days, as escape routes or shortcuts. The chamber he had happened upon, had not been used for a long time, however. It had been incredibly dusty and everything had been covered in cobwebs. The fairies that had accompanied him that day had told him the chamber had once been a study; one for a mage that has passed centuries ago. 

For a long time, it’s been Arthur’s favorite hideaway spot. And he’s not sure why, a few months earlier, he decided to show Alfred the room. 

Call it a whim. 

By then, he had already managed to turn it into something more befitting for himself. He could not hope to fight the ever enduring layers of dust, sadly, but he’s fixed some of the furniture, hung up new candles and decorated the space with some projects of his crocheting days. The desk and bookcases are the cleanest, mostly because he uses them more frequently. With a bit of magical help from the fairies, he'd been able to restore most of the books, and the stories and spells they had held within were nothing but breathtaking, prompting Arthur to visit whenever he found the time. 

Now, Alfred often accompanied him during those times. Arthur told him he doesn’t have to do so, because he imagines how boring it must be to simply watch Arthur study and try (and fail) out new enchantments. But the future king seems content to use that time to nap or to read something of his own - on rare occasions, he would even sit at the desk and begrudgingly work on documents or letters.

Perhaps Arthur should dislike the way Alfred has been making this space his own, too. More and more often he finds trinkets he knows do not belong to him; books about adventuring knights Arthur knows he does not read. 

He doesn’t dislike it, though. If he were being completely honest, he might admit that he likes it, sort of. He likes how Alfred’s personal belongings blend in with Arthur’s so effortlessly - it reminds him of a home.

“Well then.” Alfred says, having read through the letter. And while he must have seen the date line, he does not comment on the gap between its arrival and his reading of it, apparently respecting Arthur’s decision for having waited this long. “That sucks.”

Arthur’s unsure why he expected anything more eloquent than that and he heaves a sigh. “Tremendously, so.”

Alfred worries his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes roaming over the letter once again before he puts it back down on the desk. “So what do we do next? Someone has to know something, even if Roderich can’t find anything in writing. Some of the people from back then have to still be alive - you’re not a hundred years old.”

“As far as we know.” Arthur quips, though even he hears the words lack their intended humor. 

Alfred’s words might inspire hope, were it not for the fact that Arthur has already tried it all. He’s tried talking to their own king and queen, but had only gotten sympathies and deflections. He’s tried some more recalcitrant ways, invoking the services of people who make a living out of finding forbidden information.

Nothing. 

Maybe he should give up. He turns twenty-three, soon. Alfred will turn nineteen shortly after. In only two more years they will be officially crowned king and queen of Spades, if all goes according to plan.

And although two years might sound like a long time, Arthur knows it is not. Not when there is still so much to prepare for, so much to learn, so much to arrange. He knows the negative impact a sudden, ill-prepared coronation has had on Clubs and he does not wish to put Spades through the same ordeal. 

Alfred seems to notice his reluctance, judging by the somber look on his usually cheerful face. Arthur kind of despises that he’s the one responsible for putting it there.

“Are you okay?”

Such a strange question, Arthur thinks. It’s not one he has been asked often; not with the same sincerity bleeding through Alfred’s voice, at least. It’s almost as if he is truly concerned for Arthur’s mental wellbeing - as if he’s not simply asking him this question to get it over with, so that Arthur can return to his lessons or to his princely duties. 

He thinks back of when he first found his chamber, some ten years ago. How often has he used it to hide in, after being scolded by his governess? After fighting with Alfred over who knows what? How often has he used it to curse someone, comforted that his audience were only made up of fairies and books? How often has he cried, and cried, and cried out of anger and sadness, until his eyes were so swollen that - 

“Arthur?” 

“Yes, of course.” Arthur quickly says, wishing Alfred would stop looking at him with those blue eyes of his. Alfred does not do so though, instead searches his face a little while longer, blue eyes unreadable behind thinly-framed glasses. 

An opening, he realizes, something to change the subject with. 

“Have you gotten used to your eyeglasses yet?” 

It works. Alfred blinks, and somber concern is replaced by boyish annoyance. He sits back in his chair and carefully pulls the frames from his face, untucking a piece of his shirt so that he may clean the glasses with it. 

“I guess it’s nice to be able to see again.” Alfred says, though there is a slight to his attempted humor. He puts the frames back on, wiggles his nose a little as they settle. “But now I’m just constantly aware of my own nose. And I still get dizzy when I look up or away too fast, but the doctor said that will pass.”

Arthur can’t help a grin - he knows Alfred is terribly self-conscious of the new addition to his face. He tried to go without for a while but eventually realized they did help a ton and from then on, kept them on like a dog would a collar. The future king feels they make him look like his dad, though Arthur has to disagree. 

Whereas Lord Jones looks stern and unapproachable, Alfred simply looks - well, Arthur does not know what word he would use, exactly. Intellectually appealing? Or maybe sophisticated, mixing the youthfulness of his face with a maturity that better represents his standing in society. The eyeglasses do wonders for his facial features too, complimenting Alfred’s short, blonde hair and blue eyes with its thin, silver frame. 

Attractive, he realizes.

Attractive is exactly the word he’d use.

It’s also exactly what he has been ignoring so far. Ever since Alfred impishly asked for his favor at the Diamonds jousting tournament, all that time ago. It often comes with a feeling, one Arthur ignores as well. One that bubbles up when Alfred taunts him once he beats him at chess; or that appears whenever the younger prince emerges victorious from a sparring match and enthusiastically seeks out Arthur's gaze, seeking praise and an opportunity to boast. 

Arthur doesn’t want to think about it. Thinking about it makes his head hurt, makes his stomach uneasy.

“At least I’m told the ladies like it.” Alfred says, finishing up a rant that Arthur had, in his distraction, missed completely. The blue-eyed prince winks at him, familiar confidence oozing through. 

“What ladies? Your mother, or the kitchen maids?” Arthur asks, both genuinely curious what ladies Alfred is referring to, and eager to (harmlessly) bring him down a notch. 

He expects Alfred to feign mock offense. Instead, Alfred slithers out of his chair and joins Arthur on the makeshift couch the mage is sitting on, crowding his space with a stupid grin. “Aw, come on, Artie. Look real close. Don’t you think I look handsome? I think I look rather smart.”

Arthur resists the urge to laugh at Alfred’s feigned friskiness and instead swats at his chest. Alfred doesn’t go without a fight, though, and considering the prince’s formidable strength, it takes Arthur a while before he manages to push Alfred back sufficiently so. Alfred fishes for compliments the entire time, with pouty lips and innocent eyes, and Arthur has to will his cheeks to cool down.

“You spend too much time with Francis.” He accuses, relieved when Alfred feigned flirtatiousness is replaced by genuine, affable laughter. 

“Who, that joker?” Alfred says, pushing the glasses that had slid down his nose, back up with a flick of his hand. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and removes himself from the exceedingly uncomfortable situation, ignoring the strange racing of his heart as he walks over to the desk to fold and pocket the letter. It’s not until they part ways and bid each other good night, that Arthur reminisces on how Alfred had called Francis.

It seems the future king of Spades had inspired hope, after all. 

Only the Chant of Creation holds any written record of them, but they are widely known to exist.

To children they are simply characters in stories meant to warn them; to adults they are an omen, creatures you do not wish to cross paths with, because that would mean misfortune. Only mages know of their true potential, of their true abilities. And that is why they are told to never, ever seek them out. To never interact with them, to never deem them worthy of a reply if they appear and offer their help. 

Arthur knows all of this, as prince of Spades but most importantly, as a mage. 

And so he also knows that before he’s about to summon a Joker, he needs to get some other affairs in order. 

One of them being something Arthur has been putting off for months - perhaps longer.

He’s entirely to blame for it. He’s simply been too afraid of the consequences that would follow this moment; of the loneliness that would ensue. Their time spent together has already diminished greatly what with their growing responsibilities; losing what little time they do spend together would have a big impact, Arthur knows. But he’s been witness to too many awkward encounters between Alfred and João; has been on the receiving end of too many ridiculous interrogations about Alfred’s sudden kindness to him and has been given too many stern, disappointed glares from Yao, who always seems to know more than he lets on. 

This has been a long time coming, no matter how much Arthur wishes to postpone it. 

“You called for me?” João asks pleasantly, shutting Arthur’s door behind him after entering his bedchambers. Arthur watches him walk over, both endeared and torn by the familiarity of it all. João feels at home, smiling gently as he approaches Arthur and bends down to caress his cheek with his lips. Arthur’s not sure why he allows it - not when he’s about to do what he’s about to do. “You look distraught, meu amor.”

Arthur takes an inconspicuous, deep breath; molds his expression into something more neutral.

“We need to talk.” 

The waver in his voice is awful, making him sound too unsure, too vulnerable. João hears it, he has too, he knows Arthur too well to not hear it. One of his arms raises, hand reaching for Arthur, before it is dropped to his side again. Arthur is grateful for small leniencies. 

“We need to call an end to this… affair, of ours.” Arthur continues, resisting the urge to avert his eyes and look everywhere but at João’s face - which does not change much in terms of expression, he has to admit. 

João is quiet, body as still as stone as he absorbs Arthur’s words. He’s still caught in an intimate position; his head ducked ever so slightly, so that he might search Arthur’s eyes, so that he might be easily reached if Arthur wishes to lean up and kiss him. Brown, curly bangs frame his face and Arthur hates how he recalls the feel of them against his cheeks, his hands, his neck. 

The Ace-in-training does not appear surprised or angry, and somehow, that makes it worse. Arthur almost feels as if he hasn’t been heard - as if João is having trouble understanding him. And yet, Arthur knows João must have been expecting this. Must have known from how often Arthur pulled away from him lately; from how few physical affections Arthur allowed these days. 

Arthur wants to ask him to say something - anything. But then the spell breaks on its own, and João straightens, takes a step back. 

“Is this because of Alfred?” He asks, voice careful in a way Arthur knows masks his annoyance. And suddenly it’s Arthur who is annoyed. Because - really? That’s really the first thing João wants to ask after Arthur breaks up with him?

By the Gods, men. 

“It is not.” Arthur snaps, fixing João with a glare. “But it might as well be. This pissing contest between you two needs to stop. The Ace is supposed to be the king’s right hand, his most trusted advisor. How do you plan to fulfill that role when you are constantly fighting over my attention like dogs?”

If his outburst surprises João, the Ace-in-training does not show so. Instead he still looks annoyed, perhaps even a little angry. Something resentful flashes in his eyes, in the downward curve of his lips. Arthur knows João does not truly hate Alfred - in fact, he knows that they are actually very good friends and that they care greatly for each other. It’s just that they clash on this one, insignificant and ridiculous thing. A thing that, if left to fester, will only grow and grow until it is no longer insignificant.

And so when Arthur sees João prepare to object, he knows what kind of words he can expect. He also knows that every wall in this palace has ears, even those inside the privacy of his bedchambers. He cannot allow João to say what is now on his mind, spur-of-the-moment or not. He refuses to let the Ace embarrass himself by condemning his future king over something so insignificant. 

“Alfred is your future king.” Arthur interrupts, mustering up all the finality he is able to. He will not allow for any back-talk; he’s the future Queen of Spades, damn it, and he will be taken seriously. “And my future husband. You would do well to remember that.”

The words have their desired effect. João freezes, almost as if slapped. Anger is replaced by surprise followed by - oh, and that hurts. In the weeks leading up to Arthur’s decision, he has not once imagined he would actually be breaking João’s heart. Because their involvement was never supposed to be permanent. There is a reason why relationships among the Quart Major are discouraged; too much is at stake for such influential people to become compromised over something as silly as love.

Briefly, Arthur thinks of Ludwig and Feliciano, of Elizaveta and Roderich. He knows that, despite discouragement, such dalliances still take place. And perhaps if Arthur had not been maleficus; was not already hated by a significant part of his nation’s population… Perhaps, then, Arthur could have toyed with the idea of him and João being something more permanent, Alfred’s opinion of them be damned.

Then he thinks of Alfred.

The other prince might be many things and if there is one person in this forsaken nation that most often annoys Arthur, it would be Alfred, but... he is still the future king. He is still that annoyingly cheerful boy Arthur grew up with, who would not let Arthur bully him into leaving him, who kept trying to be Arthur’s friend despite Arthur’s scary magic and cruel words.

He’s still Arthur’s future king and husband - and although that last particular word carries little meaning in their predicament, Alfred is still all of those things.

Arthur knows he will be a great monarch. He believes this wholeheartedly. How could Alfred not become one of Spades’ greatest kings, with his neverending kindness and optimism? The people love Alfred and for good reason. The only thing able to tarnish Alfred’s impeccable reputation and future is Arthur, ruling at his side as queen. As maleficus. So he cannot allow himself to stand in the way of João’s and Alfred’s future companionship, his own loneliness be damned.

“Arthur - ” João says, softly so, in a voice that had always comforted Arthur, had always made him feel heard and understood and cherished. Arthur refuses the welling up of tears in his eyes; burns them away with a willpower as powerful as thunder.

“Prince Arthur.” He corrects, steeling himself and looking João right in the eye. “Or better yet, Your Royal Highness.”

João’s expression crumbles - Arthur feels lightning trying to violently claw itself out of his veins.

“That was all.” 

It’s a rainy night in April when Arthur decides no time is better than the present. He’s not entirely sure what to expect, so he does not go about the day or night any differently than normal. He’s simply going to perform a ritual, summon one of the most powerful mages history has ever known, ask them some questions and then return to bed.

Hopefully.

After bidding goodnight to his valet, Arthur sits cross-legged on his bed, biding his time. He’s much too anxious to consider a nap, and does not want to miss his window of opportunity, anyway. Perhaps the lightning crackling from the skies is a tad too much, but it certainly helps with herding any potential busybody into their quarters.

He waits until it’s well past midnight. Only a skeleton crew should remain, and Arthur has wandered the hallways at night often enough to know their whereabouts. It would be easy to evade them - any he should run into, he could tell he was heading down the kitchens for a midnight snack.

Nothing new, nothing strange.

Still, he opts for socks and not shoes. Best ensure his footsteps are as light as they can be, considering the act of treason Arthur is about to perform. Well, perhaps not treason, considering Arthur is the very royalty such treason should be committed against, and he doubts one can betray themselves - anyway. It is forbidden, and even if he would not be executed for it, the consequences would still be dire.

He does not want to imagine Yao’s disappointment.

Without further ado, Arthur sneaks through the hallways towards the secret chamber behind the expensive tapestry. The Gods must smile upon him, because he does not encounter any maid or servant or guard. It’s so easy that Arthur would be suspicious - were it not for the fact that it was often this easy and Arthur just feels on edge this time.

The fairies are only too eager to help him - they have always been that much more willing, whenever Arthur planned to do something naughty or untoward. Such is their nature, he supposes, another thing he has always been warned for and yet another warning he has always ignored.

They tell him what symbol to draw onto the wooden floor with chalk that stains his fingers; tell him what herbs to smoke. They numb his hand as he removes its glove to cut his palm with a blade, and they heal said cut after a sufficient amount of blood has been poured onto the symbol. They perch on his shoulders, whispering the words he needs to say for the incantation to take effect.

It does not immediately take effect.

Arthur ponders what he might have done wrong, the fairies playfully tease him by saying he is too weak, and one other benevolent fairy says it does not always work as intended and that he should keep trying.

The words, which first tied his tongue, come out much more fluently after the fourth time.

“Attenrobendum eos, ad consiendrum, ad ligandum eos.” The fairies echo it back to him, whispering in his ear, their voices high and melodious, a stark contrast to Arthur’s own deeper voice. “Potiter et solvendum. Et ad congregandom. Eos coram me.”

“Doth my eyes deceive me?” A voice suddenly says. Arthur looks up, but sees nothing in front of him. It cannot have been the fairies, either, considering the shrill and raspy sound is unlike their usual lilt. “A prince of Spades, as I live and breathe…” 

Warm breath tickles the back of Arthur’s neck. The mage startles, whirling around to see who has managed to sneak up on him. Laughter sounds and the candlelight flickers dramatically; Arthur has an inkling of what is happening. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, forcing down the fright and nerves. 

When he turns back around, he finds a foreign figure draped over his makeshift couch. One leg is swung over the armrest, the other is strewn lazily on the floor. The figure - a man, in appearance at least - is draped comfortably over the pillows. 

He is clothed in seemingly nothing but black, a stark contrast to his pale skin and shockingly white hair. Blood-red eyes stare at him, pale lips curved in an unnatural smile that shows sharp, glinting teeth. Behind him, something flickers - a tail, Arthur thinks, its tip formed in a razorsharp triangle. Blunt, red knobs push through white hair. Horns, probably. 

Arthur knows how Jokers are created, more or less. 

He knows that they were once mages, ordinary ones even. And he knows that they, at one point, strayed and dabbled in void magic. That they ignored the elements offered to them by the Creators, and that they greedily grabbed onto the unknown instead. He knows that this is how they have made themselves immortal; and he knows that immortality does strange things to one’s appearance. 

“How may I be of service, Your Royal Highness,” The Joker says gleefully, forked tongue darting out to tease at a corner of his own lips. “Prince Arthur of Spades.”

Arthur will not allow himself to be freaked out. He’s summoned this creature; he called him here for a reason. And Arthur’s not going to let him go before he has his answers. 

“You have me at a disadvantage.” Arthur begins, grabbing onto the comfort of etiquette. 

“No need to be so formal, Artie.” The Joker says, plucking a wayward fairy out of the air. The small creature squeaks, though not out of fear - it sounded much more like delight. The white-haired mage tickles at their wings before tossing the fairy aside, and they fly through the room in a fit of giggles. “You can call me whatever you want. Monster, demon, maleficus. Though you don’t like that last one much, do you? Heh. Gilbert is fine.”

So far, Arthur has established two things: this Gilbert knows who he is, and this Gilbert also knows the root of Arthur’s problems. Disconcerting as it may be, it also speeds up the process, he supposes. 

“Gilbert.” Arthur repeats, watching the Joker sit up and slap his hands to his knees, the crack of it echoing through the otherwise quiet chamber.

“Right, let’s get down to business! I haven’t got all day. Or, night? It’s night here, right? Doesn’t fucking matter, I guess. Aaaanyway.” Apparently, immortality affected the brains as much as it did the body. “What can I do for you, Artie?”

“I have questions.” Arthur says, pushing down the urge to correct the name used by the Joker. “Questions I think you can answer.”

“Probably, yeah.” The Joker confirms, and Arthur admits he is a little surprised by the Joker’s outspokenness. He had expected a bit more mystery. Riddles, or something. “It’ll cost you.”

Straight to business, then. 

“I’m afraid I have no firstborn for you to devour.” Arthur says dryly, concealing the fact that he has no idea what to offer the Joker. Gilbert bursts out in laughter, and although unsettling, it does sound genuine. Arthur doesn’t know if he should be comforted by that or not.

“Oh, is that what they’re saying about us these days? We’re not that cruel - no wait, some of us are. Now that you mention it, I think someone definitely ate a baby once. Huh, I wonder how that bloke is doing. Haven’t seen him in ages, really.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I thought you were in a hurry?”

“Ha! You don’t rush genius, weather boy.” Gilbert taunts, and now Arthur’s composure slips - there is only one person who calls Arthur that name; only one person who is allowed to call him such. “I haven’t granted any requests in ages, let me think.”

“Is this not a usual occurrence for you?” Arthur asks, unable to help himself. The tales in which Jokers are used as a warning omen, describes them as demons able to be summoned, who will grant wishes and fortune in exchange for something of great value; more often than not, another person’s life or soul or something equally cliche. 

Gilbert shrugs. “Nah, haven’t done this in a while. Got enough years in my pocket to stir up trouble for centuries to come. And then there’s the whole, immortality getting kind of boring thing, you know? Gotta save some time to squeeze in the random existential crisis, perhaps start a war or two. Not yet, though. Don’t worry, I won’t make your life any shittier than it already is.”

“Should I just start asking my questions?” Arthur interrupts, both impatient and anxious with how long this was taking. He wants to be done sooner rather than later, so he can return to his chambers and ponder what to do once he has the answers. 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Gilbert says, now grumpier than before. “I’ll sweeten the deal for you, considering your princely ass. Every question answered, I take only one year of your life.”

Arthur frowns; whilst not the worst offer one could expect when dealing with a Joker, it still gave him pause. Arthur is a few weeks shy from twenty-three years old: if nothing goes awry, he will probably live to be eighty-something years old. But if things do go awry - if destiny has decided he must die prematurely of an illness or accident… who knows at what age Arthur is supposed to die? 

Well, a Joker would know, maybe. 
 
“I’m not telling you how many years you have left, that's not fun.” Gilbert says, and either he’s read Arthur’s thoughts from his face, or he’s actually reading his thoughts. Arthur is leaning towards the latter. “Take it or leave it, baby boy. Be grateful I’m not asking for five.”

“Deal.” Arthur says, deciding to believe in the best-case scenario. Besides, if he asks the right questions, he would not be down too many years.

“What?!” Someone else exclaims loudly. Arthur nearly jumps out of his own skin, horrified by the appearance of a third person. And considering the chamber he is in, that could only mean - “Arthur, you’re not doing that!”

“Alfred,” Arthur hisses, whirling around to glare at the other prince. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Trouble in paradise…” Gilbert sings behind him, much to the delight of the gaggle of fairies that had been present since the beginning. 

“Shut up, you mal - ”

“Oooooh!” Gilbert interrupts, eyes wide and lips parted in a round shape. He looks at Arthur, conspiratorially so, as if telling on someone who did something naughty. “Are you going to let him call me that, Arthur? Show some solidarity!”

“Arthur is nothing like you, you demon piece of - ”

“Shut up.” Arthur says, though he does not know who exactly he says it to. “Shut up, the both of you!”

“Woof.” The Joker says, waggling his eyebrows at Arthur in a manner that reminds him a bit too much of Francis. “Well, regardless of what pretty boy thinks, you’ve already agreed. You can ask your questions and I’ll answer them.”

Alfred’s standing next to - no, somewhat in front of Arthur now, partly blocking him from the Joker’s view. He’s facing Arthur though, his back turned to the Joker, blue eyes worriedly dancing up and down Arthur’s body before grabbing his hand. “Are you hurt? Why is there blood on your sleeve?”

Distracted by the warm skin of Alfred’s hand on his own bare one, Arthur instinctively yanks it out of Alfred’s grip. He’s not sure where he’s left his glove, so he bends his arm and hides his uncovered hand behind his back, where it can’t do any damage. 

What is he supposed to do now? Alfred knows what he’s done - if he tells anyone, if he tells Yao... What must Alfred think of Arthur now? Arthur’s just proven to him that he’s not good, he’s bad, just like the priests say - 

“Aw man, you’re gonna give him a panic attack! Give him some space, four-eyes.” The Joker interrupts. A snap of fingers is heard and Alfred is suddenly dragged back, feet smudging the symbol drawn on the ground as an invisible tether of magic forces him back. Alfred bares his teeth in anger, hand instinctively going to his waist, before finding there is no sword attached to it for him to grab. 

“Alfred.” Arthur says, making up his mind. Alfred’s here now, there is nothing he can do about it. Maybe if he offered a few more years, he could get the Joker to wipe the other prince’s memory. That seems like something he is able to do, right? “It’s fine. I - you know I need answers. And he can give them to me.”

“There are other ways.” Alfred objects immediately, settling Arthur with an intense look that makes Arthur want to hide. “You don’t have to do this. We can figure something out, Arthur. I’ll help, you don’t have to do this alone.”

“Awwww.”

“Shut up!” Both Arthur and Alfred exclaim and Gilbert snorts, holding up his hands in surrender. 

“I’ve exhausted all other options.” Arthur admits, almost hysterically so, his awareness of their situation and of the time already spent closing in on his sanity. “I’ve got no other choice. You - you don’t know how… my entire life, Alfred. I need to - I need answers.”

Alfred’s face goes through a wide range of emotions and thoughts, if the frowning and scowling is anything to go by. But Arthur holds his eyes with his own, pours into that connection every emotion and thought and feeling of the past twenty-something years; everything he has never been able or allowed to say.

And eventually, Alfred gives up. He slumps a little, though not enough to lose his guard. Eyes soften, though, scowl making place for something infinitely more sympathetic and understanding. It’s a look Arthur sees more and more often on Alfred’s face these days, one that makes him feel - 

“Hate to break up this truly touching moment.” Gilbert says, apparently having grown bored. “But I do have better things to do, remember?”

“I want in.” Alfred then says, turning towards the Joker. “One year for every question answered, right? Deal me in, too.”

“What are you - ”

"Bold! Double the years for you." Gilbert says with a wicked grin. 

"Fine."

“What could you possibly want to ask?” Forgetting himself, Arthur takes a step forward and reaches out, grabbing Alfred’s lower arm with his uncovered hand and yanking him back - away from the Joker, away from the danger - before shoving that same hand underneath his other arm, because where the fuck is his glove? 

“I’m not going to let you carry this burden alone, Arthur.” Alfred replies, quieter, as if hoping the Joker could not hear. “We’ll take turns until you’re satisfied. Though I hope you know what to ask.” 

Arthur wants to reach out and shake Alfred. He wants to dismiss the Joker and forget this ever happened. He’ll just drag Alfred back to his chambers and, well, push a pillow on his face until he passes out or something, and then claim the next morning that all of this has been nothing but a very strange dream. 

Alfred smiles, small and sweet and sincere, and Arthur feels his resolve crumble.

“All right.” Arthur says, turning back towards Gilbert. The Joker had been picking his nose, appearing increasingly bored, but when Arthur turns towards him he flicks away whatever he picked and sits up straight, clearly anticipating Arthur’s questions. “What happened to the orphanage I was left in?”

Gilbert grins.

“What orphanage?” He says, and since it is not fair to deflect, Arthur knows what this means: there has never been an orphanage, despite what the written records tell him and everyone who wishes to read it. 

Alfred clears his throat. “How do we find Arthur’s family?”

Gilbert shrugs. “Uh, you’d have to die. They’re super dead. Not even necromancy can return them now.”

Arthur hasn’t expected that to hurt as much as it did. He should have expected such an answer, considering he was a baby when found. Clearly, he has never had a family - so why does it sting so much to hear that they are dead? Why does it still punch a gasp out of him? 

“Since when?” He asks, impulsively so, and Arthur almost feels the year being written from his life span. 

“Last of ‘em died five years ago.” Gilbert replies casually, as if he’s not shattering Arthur’s entire world bit by bit. 

Five years ago. Arthur had been seventeen years old, five years ago. Does that mean that for seventeen gruesome, lonely years, someone out there had been related to Arthur? A parent, a sibling? 

“Oh, don’t cry. You’ve cried enough over them, wouldn’t you think?”

Arthur inhales a shuddery breath, clenching his eyes shut. He’s not going to cry. There is nothing to cry over. Alive or not, his family abandoned him. They’re not worth crying over, especially not when they’ve been dead for years. 

“Unrelated, but how can I kill you?” Alfred asks, obviously angry on Arthur’s behalf, and Gilbert laughs.

“That’s classified, pretty boy! I’ll be nice and not take two years for that one. Hormones are running pretty high at your age, I've been there. What’s next?”

Ignoring the fact that it’s technically still Alfred’s turn, Arthur reopens his eyes and settles the Joker with a crafted, neutral glare. “Where was I born?” 

“I’ll paint the picture! See, you were born in a small house made of wood and stone, in the midst of a forest made up mostly of pine trees. The room you were born in was your mother’s bedroom. She gave birth to you on her bed - ”

“Stop joking around!” Alfred snaps, again, seemingly angry on Arthur's behalf.

“Come on man, it’s in the name.” Gilbert replies, matter-of-factly. “Kinda comes with the job description.”

A fairy Arthur swears he’s seen before flies up to his face, touching his cheek with tiny, cold hands. They trace his freckles and kiss the tip of his nose, before flying over to his ear and whispering; ice runs in your veins. 

And all at once, it feels as if the ground is ripped away from underneath his feet. He remembers being told those very words before, perhaps even by the same fairy, years ago. Back then he had thought it an insult, a referral to his cold and mean words. But what if it hadn’t been an insult? What if it had meant something else entirely? 

“Gilbert,” he asks, interrupting a back-and-forth discussion between the Joker and the future King of Spades. “Was I born in Clubs?”

Gilbert grins again. Though this time not wicked, nor cruel. Encouraging, perhaps. He shakes his head. “You get that one for free, smarty Artie. Smartie.”

“Then was I born in Suits?” Five questions, one free. Four years.

“Nope.”

Alfred seems to catch on, judging by the widening of his eyes. His lips part, as if meaning to say or ask something, but then close again, eyes glazed over as his brains absorb this newly-revealed information. 

“You’re - he was born overseas, wasn’t he?” Four years for Alfred as well. They should stop.

“Correct!” Gilbert says, childishly clapping his hands. “Oh, Arthur, if only you had listened to the fairies sooner. They’re not all shits and giggles - some of them are genuinely fond of you, you know?”

All this time, his little friends had not been teasing him: had been trying to tell him that he doesn’t belong here, because he is not from here. 

Arthur isn’t sure what to do. He doesn’t know what to ask next, nor does he know what to say or even think. He’s imagined so many different sorts of reasons for his magic, for his absent family. Never once did he consider that he was not born in Clubs or even Suits. 

And while the presence of lands beyond the sea has never been a secret, everything about them has been shrouded in secrecy nonetheless. If not for the rumors spread by sailors and merchants, Arthur is pretty sure the entirety of Suits would be led to believe those lands deserted, barren, uninhabited. Instead it is rumored to be a cold, harsh environment, occupied by savages who’ve grown skin so tough that not even ice could puncture it. 

Alfred’s hand finds his and, despite the foreign heat of skin on skin, Arthur does not pull away this time “Will we find the answers Arthur seeks if we sail across the sea?” Alfred asks next, snapping Arthur out of his stupor. Because he cannot possibly be suggesting - 

“Ooooh, how adventurous.” Gilbert says, almost as if in awe. “I imagine you will, if you ask the right people.”

“Who - ” 

“Stop.” Arthur interrupts, yanking on Alfred’s hand to grab his attention. Three questions, but double the years for Alfred: that makes six years. “Stop asking questions. That’s enough. It’s enough. Gilbert, you’re dismissed.”

“Aye-aye, captain!” Gilbert jumps up from the makeshift couch, grunting as he does so, and wipes down his trousers. “I do wish you luck on your quest, Arthur. You’ve always been somewhat of a favorite of ours.”

Before Arthur could ask what that meant, the Joker vanishes, simply disappearing into thin air. If not for the indent of his body on Arthur’s makeshift couch, one could even say he had never been here at all. Silence fills the chamber once more, disturbed only by the occasional fluttering of a fairy who is making itself scarce, known only to Arthur’s ears. 

“All right,” Alfred says, squeezing Arthur’s hand, because he’s still holding onto it. Arthur quickly pulls it back, putting it back where it cannot hurt anyone, even though he feels reluctant to do so. “Sounds like we have our work cut out for us.”

“What are you rambling on about now?” Arthur asks, still having trouble wrapping his head around everything that has just occurred, everything he has just learned. 

“I’m saying we should go.” Alfred clarifies, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to suggest that they, the princes of Spades, jump ship and sail overseas. “We can hitch a ride on a mercantile vessel, I know of a port that intercontinental ships visit every now and then.”

“You - you know of a port?” Arthur repeats, Alfred’s suggestion sinking in. “Alfred - are you hearing yourself? This isn’t sneaking out to the beach or into town. This would be treason, Yao would - ”

Arthur’s objection is cut short rather abruptly. Not because Alfred interrupts him with words of his own, but because Arthur is suddenly all but suffocated. Without Arthur noticing, Alfred has taken a large step forward, enveloping the smaller mage in his arms and pulling him close to his chest. 

A hug, Arthur realizes. Alfred has never hugged Arthur - they have never hugged each other. The most physical contact they have ever shared is of what belongs on the dancing floor. Hands in hands, hands on shoulder and hands on waist. Proper, prim, distanced.

Arthur does not know what to do, his own arms dangling uselessly at his sides. His unresponsiveness does not seem to deter Alfred though, no, he only squeezes him tighter.

And by the Creators, it’s so warm. Alfred's warmth seeps into Arthur’s skin, through the layers of his clothing, wrapping around every muscle and organ that he holds within. It is overwhelming, the immense sense of comfort and safety that seems to want to swallow Arthur unforgivingly whole. His eyes burn, his throat fills with lumps consisting of words and feelings and thoughts Arthur does not dare voice into existence. 

It’s not until he feels his entire body jolt that he realizes he’s crying. Alfred makes a soothing sound, through closed lips, and it only causes Arthur’s body to be wrecked by another silent sob. Finally, he is strong enough to raise his hands and clench them into the fabric of Alfred’s shirt. 

Shocked and scared of the hurricane of emotions tearing through his body, Arthur turns his head so that he may hide it in Alfred’s shoulder. A hand rubs over his back, between his shoulders, and Arthur feels the side of Alfred’s face press into his hair. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, Alfred simply holding Arthur, and Arthur doing his utmost to grip onto Alfred like he is his only lifeline. It’s embarrassing, and Arthur will most likely isolate himself for the next couple of weeks in hopes of forgetting this has ever happened, but right now, Arthur does not care. 

Alfred does not offer any words of comfort when they finally disentangle, does not smirk or tease or smile. There is concern in his eyes, yes, but not overwhelmingly so. Mostly, Arthur reads understanding, and it makes him want to scream. 

“Whatever you decide to do, Arthur.” Alfred says, once he’s pulled away from Arthur. “I’ll help.”

Arthur knows what he has to do - what they have to do.

Chapter Text

Little of consequence happens in the months that follow their encounter with the Joker.

In part, this was due to their busy schedules, which had been packed with, amongst others, celebrations and international visits. But more so than that, Arthur simply had been unable, or perhaps unwilling, to take action. He knows that the answers he has been searching for his entire life are waiting for him on the other side of the ocean. Logically speaking, he should want nothing more than to board a ship and get them. 

And yet, right now, he’s unsure if he still wants those answers. 

If the Joker had been truthful - and Arthur sees no reason for why the immortal mage should be anything but - then Arthur’s family is dead. And they would have been dead for a long time. 

And despite not having known anything about them, despite still not knowing anything about them apart from their rigor mortis… Arthur could not help but mourn. For what, he does not know; for something he has been missing? For something he has been - and will be, from now on - forced to live without?

He goes through one sleepless night after the other and his days are not much better, not when he simultaneously has to deal with the inevitable heartache that followed his separation from João. He knows that their split is for the best, but it’s agonizing to encounter the Ace-in-training and not be able to do - to do anything. He cannot reach out, ask for comfort, or share his inner conflict. Despite having rarely initiated these things in the past, Arthur cannot help but suddenly crave them now that he’s unable to do so.

João, for his part, mercifully acts as if nothing is out of sorts, but his eyes sometimes linger. On top of all that, perhaps worst of all, is that Arthur has no idea of what to do with Alfred either. 

He knows that the younger prince wants to help; it bleeds through every interaction. His curious glances, his subtle suggestions, his casual questions. He is eager, to say the least - unsurprising, considering his love for stories about dangerous adventures and heroic knights. But that same love seems to blind his judgment. He’s already sacrificed six years of his own life for Arthur’s desperate quest.

The fairies already tease him with jokes about Alfred’s untimely death; Arthur already dreams of him burning to a crisp at the hands of lightning. 

Secretly, he wishes Alfred had never found him that night. If Alfred had been asleep, if Alfred had been anywhere else but in that hidden room, then Arthur would not have to worry about Alfred’s fate. The mage could pretend nothing was amiss, and he could sneak out on his own, leave Alfred in the Spades palace - he’d be concerned, sure, but he’d be safe.

And yet, selfishly so, Arthur wishes even more to not have to do this alone. 

The ball drops on a rainy night, late in summer. 

Plagued by thoughts of both impending and past doom, Arthur decides to forgo sleeping, choosing to instead wander the hallways. It’s not long until he ends up in front of Alfred’s bedroom door, even though he had no previous intention of doing so. And before he even realizes how inappropriate he’s being, his hand rises to knock on the wood three times. He entertains the thought of fleeing. No one tells him to enter, and so perhaps Alfred is asleep, perhaps he has not heard the midnight call. Before he can act on the thought though, the wooden door creaks forebodingly. 

It opens halfway to reveal Alfred, his hair mussed and his frameless eyes squinting as he takes in his visitor. Arthur resists a wince; Alfred had been asleep then, or has been attempting to do so at least. Once Alfred realizes it is Arthur who has woken him, he opens the door further. 

Briefly, Arthur is distracted by the surprise of Alfred’s bare chest - or perhaps more so by the large Spade etched into the skin above Alfred’s heart. In a way it is like his own, but it is much bigger. Arthur wonders why that is. Does its location, broader than Arthur’s wrist, permit it to grow in size? Alfred carries his Spade proudly, he knows. He does not shy away from partial nudity; especially in summer, when the sun burns brightest, Alfred’s prone to taking off his shirt during practice, at least when said practice is happening with wooden swords and not metal ones. And the people able to witness it, oh, they eat it up. They murmur about it, adoring the prized jewel etched onto Alfred’s chest.

His birthright, his ticket to the seat that belongs to the king of Spades.

Arthur is different. Even now, in the middle of night, he wears his gloves. Not only to cover his lightning-prone fingers: if he were to wear them for only that, he would not need for the fabric to stretch over his wrist. No, he has to wear them longer, because it would be terribly inappropriate for him to wave his own Spade around, wouldn’t it? His is not one to be admired; his is one to be discussed, because why has it appeared onto him, and not onto someone from Spades? 

He can only imagine the riot that would break out once people would find out he’s not from Spades, nor from Suits, but from a whole other continent. The clergy would have a field day. Arthur wonders if it would be grounds for dethroning him, destiny be damned. 

“Arthur?” Alfred asks, voice low and gravelly, and Arthur blinks, realizing he’s been staring dispiritedly at Alfred’s Spade. “Is something wrong?”

Many things are wrong. 

It’s wrong that Arthur is standing here, in front of Alfred’s open bedroom door. It’s wrong that Arthur summoned a maleficus and it’s wrong that Arthur now knows that his entire family is dead. It’s wrong that Arthur wants to jump ship and travel to frozen, less-than-friendly lands. It’s wrong that he wants to do so with Alfred; it’s wrong that he wants to be so horribly selfish. 

His inner turmoil must show on his face, because before he’s able to form an actual reply to Alfred’s question, Alfred reaches out and grabs hold of his elbow. With a simple tug, he pulls Arthur inside, and the wooden door shuts with a heavy and dull thud. 

It occurs to Arthur, then, that he has never actually been inside of Alfred’s chambers before. Not like this, at least; perhaps he has been here quickly in passing, to fetch Alfred, but he’s never stood inside of it. Unable to help himself, he looks around, takes in the similarities to his own chambers and the differences that make it uniquely Alfred’s.

Much of their furniture is the same, if not differently decorated or differently placed. His bed is less close to his balcony than Arthur’s is for example. His desk is right underneath one of the larger windows, so that it may overlook the palace gardens, whereas Arthur’s desk is in a darker corner, somewhere he is less easily distracted. A tapestry depicting the heraldic symbol of the Jones house hangs next to one of the Spades kingdom, above a small fireplace that currently sits empty. Several rugs cover the stone flooring, more so than they do in Arthur’s room, and items such as clothing and discarded armor and weaponry are strewn about pretty much every chair in the room. 

Arthur’s eyes linger on the wooden cabinets and bookshelves; beautiful pieces of marquetry, much like his own. They’re filled with books, manuscripts, trinkets both valuable and invaluable - and the wreath Arthur tossed him during the jousting tournament in Diamonds, carefully dried and preserved. 

“Come on then.” Alfred suddenly says, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts once more, and Arthur is embarrassed to have been caught spacing out this often. “Hop on in.”

He turns and sees Alfred has climbed back into his canopy bed, its dark blue curtains drawn tight against all four bedposts. For a second, Arthur thinks he must have misheard Alfred, but then Alfred pats the mattress next to him. 

“I beg your pardon?” Arthur replies, warily so.

Alfred snorts. He pulls back the blanket a bit more, showing the admittedly large leftover space that Arthur could occupy. Much like Arthur’s own bed, Alfred’s bed could easily fit two grown men; they wouldn’t even need to worry about accidentally touching.

“Did no one ever sleep with you when you had a nightmare?” Alfred asks then, one of his hands raising to rub at his eyes as a yawn follows his question. He doesn’t wait for a reply and falls back into his mattress, leaving Arthur to stand in the middle of the room. 

And for a moment, Arthur hesitates. He could just turn around and leave. He could apologize for disturbing him and leave. He could admit that he did not have a nightmare and that he’s just being weird, perhaps Alfred would kick him out. He could do those things, but he could also accept the offer given to him; could admit to his concerns and his melancholy. 

He wonders how often Alfred and Matthew shared a bed at night, following a nightmare or maybe a particularly gruesome day of chores and studies. He wonders if, before shipped to Clubs, Arthur too had a sibling that would take him to bed with them, to soothe and reassure him after a nightmare or a fright.

His limbs unlock without his permission, but once it happens, Arthur allows it. He walks over to the bed and, after discarding his slippers, gingerly climbs into it. It’s as soft as his own, most likely made from the same materials, though it’s warmer than he’s used to - perhaps Alfred had been lying on this side, first. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Alfred's voice is hushed, as if there were other people asleep in the room they were in, people he did not want to wake up. He’s turned on his side, so that he is able to look at Arthur, who is still sitting up, back painfully straight as every fiber in his body tells him he should run and deal with this himself. 

Arthur looks down, watches his gloved fingers nervously play with the sheets in his lap. He’s not sure what to say, nor where to begin. Maybe he should explain why he is here in the first place. Then again: admitting to thinking of Alfred as someone he can trust within the privacy of his own mind is one thing, but saying it out loud - well. Arthur doesn’t do that, never has. 

Alfred has to know, anyway. Right? 

He thinks of when they were children, years ago. At one point, they were taught about all the royal families they needed to know from memory. There had been so many names they needed to memorize, so many titles. Alfred had boasted about the Jones family name at one point, much to Arthur’s irritation - and upon seeing his displeasure, a naive Alfred had attempted to comfort him by saying that once they’d be married, Arthur could carry the Jones name, if he so wished. 

Arthur did not. Arthur wanted his own last name. 

With some mirth, he recalls the particularly nasty fight that followed, one that ended in a dislocated shoulder and in Arthur’s handprint seared into the vulnerable skin of Alfred’s lower arms. Unlike the scar on his palm, the palace doctor had been able to heal that one, at least. 

Alfred is quiet, next to him. Arthur chances a glance his way to see if he’s fallen asleep; to see if he’s granted the opportunity to get out of this situation unscathed. Unfortunately, Alfred is not asleep. His blue eyes seem more awake, even, latched onto Arthur’s figure as he waits. 

“I think I want to go.” Arthur blurts then, surprising himself and perhaps also the other prince. The words come without warning, Arthur had not even thought of them, but his mouth had done the speaking for him. Perhaps he had been hexed by a fairy, or perhaps he’s simply that tired, but it’s the truth, he realizes. “I want to go.”

Alfred doesn’t say anything, at first. He watches Arthur carefully, as if expecting Arthur to take his words back, or perhaps to follow it up with a reason why Alfred should not come with him. 

Arthur gives him neither and then, finally, Alfred smiles and nods. He reaches out, slowly, giving Arthur all the time he needs to pull away, but Arthur does not do that, either. He watches, with some weird fascination, as Alfred’s hand touches his own. Despite the many negative associations Alfred must have with the mage’s hands, he covers it with his own bare hand anyway, squeezing it once before letting go again. 

“Then we’ll go.”

Sneaking out should be laughably easy, considering the amount of times they had done so before. Then again, the times they had done so before had been for harmless reasons: such as strolls around the palace walls or the beach near the Jones estate. On a handful of bolder occasions they had ventured into town, but always only for an hour or two, and always with the intention of returning before the sun would rise.

Arthur’s pretty sure this time would be easy too, if he weren’t worrying about it so much. He does not know why Alfred seems so calm, but he supposes it’s better if at least one of them is. Alfred tries to reassure him by mentioning their plan and preparations, but eventually he realizes it’s better to shut up and let Arthur stew. 

They agreed to meet at the stables, knowing that they could not hope to reach the harbor before sunrise without them. It would be riskier than normal, because horses are bigger and could potentially make more noise, but they would have to take the risk. Alfred’s already secured them a sizable hole in the palace walls, and Arthur’s already secured a distraction for the guards patrolling that particular area. 

Nothing should go wrong. 

“Are you ready?” Arthur asks as he slips into the stables. He sees that Tony is already saddled up and spots Alfred trying to tack up an antsy Bunny, but then the future king startles and nearly drops the saddle, which further worries Bunny.

“By the Gods, Arthur, you scared the living shit out of me.” Alfred hisses, settling him with an annoyed, yet harmless glare. 

“Sorry.” Arthur says, albeit dryly so, and he grabs the saddle from Alfred’s hands; Bunny immediately quiets down, obviously soothed by his presence. 

“Pfft. No, you’re not.” Alfred mutters, returning to his own horse, checking if the bridle of the saddle fits properly and refastening his knapsack. He shifts on his feet then, watching Arthur finish tacking up Bunny. “Did you get everything you need?” 

Arthur acknowledges the question with a hum. Once Bunny is probably saddled up, he takes a moment to comfort her, running his hands over her crest and scratching her behind the ears. He can sense that she’s a little worried; most likely due to the late hour and Alfred’s attempt to tack her up without him or her usual stable boy present. 

“We should probably not ride them out of here.” Alfred says then, absentmindedly patting Tony’s shoulder. “It’d be quieter if we lead them out. Just until we’re past the walls.”

Arthur agrees, and once both horses have calmed down they leave the stables with their horses in tow. Bunny and Tony are used to accompanying each other, fortunately, and as such they have no problem following each other in close quarters. 

Arthur lets Alfred go first; he trusts him to focus on their surroundings, as he needs to focus on not summoning a random bout of thunder as he murmurs incantations that’ll mess up the foot- and hoofprints left in the sand and dirt. Fairies fly around his feet, their giggles louder than Arthur would like them to be, but he reminds himself that he is the only one capable of hearing them.

The gap in the wall is only just big enough for the horses to pass through, causing some disruption. Tony in particular refuses to follow Alfred at first, but Alfred doesn’t lose his patience, jumping through the hole and back again several times to show his noble companion that there’s no danger to be expected. 

Once Tony is finally through, and once Arthur begins leading Bunny forward, things go awry. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spots a flicker of light - a torch, perhaps, or an oil lamp. His breath catches in his throat and he quickly turns to find its origin, hoping it is perhaps a forgotten candle in a window sill, but it is not. 

Some feet away from them, João stands eerily still, a torch in one hand. Most likely he has decided to make the rounds upon being made aware of the distraction Arthur discreetly caused earlier, and for a moment, Arthur curses the Ace-in-training's reliability. 

He’s seen them, too - he has to, since he’s looking right at Arthur, expression unreadable due to the little light his torch provides. His free hand rests on the pommel of his sword, as if having expected an intruder. Arthur hears Alfred curse under his breath once he notices the hold-up and he seems to ready himself for a confrontation. But then João tilts his head in acknowledgement, his torch lowering and his other arm relaxing at his side once more. They watch him turn his back to them, and they watch him walk away, steadily and purposefully. 

“Quick.” Alfred mutters, some anxiety bleeding into his voice. “Before he sounds the alarm.”

Arthur does not think he will, but he listens to Alfred nonetheless. Bunny follows him without any problems and before they know it, they are trotting away. Arthur wishes they could break out into a gallop, but that might cause a commotion, and they should first put some distance in between themselves and the palace. 

“Do you,” Alfred suddenly begins after, give or take, thirty minutes of silence. He falters, pressing his lips together with a pained expression when Arthur looks over at him. “Uh. Back there, with João. Is that something we need to talk about?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Arthur tries, hopes, but then Alfred scoffs. 

“Come on.” Alfred rebukes, sounding as offended as he does curious. Arthur swallows thickly - the tone of Alfred’s voice implies that he knows more than he’s let on, and it confirms that which Arthur had hopelessly hoped to be untrue. “You don’t need to pretend you guys aren’t, uh. Involved. I know, yeah?”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, at first. He could say it’s none of Alfred’s business, nor is it any of his concern. He could deny it even, but he finds that all of the words associated with the aforementioned sentiments fall short. 

Perhaps he’s been a fool for pretending to believe Alfred did not know. And perhaps Alfred had not known at first, when he was thirteen going on fourteen, but Alfred has always been close to João. And he’s grown so much closer to Arthur over the following years, too. 

It had always only been a matter of time before he would connect the dots. 

“We’re not.” Arthur says at last. “Involved, I mean. Not anymore.”

Another silence follows. Arthur distracts himself from awaiting a response by counting the seconds. Nineteen of them pass when Alfred shifts in his saddle, his grip around the reins in his hands tightening.

Twenty-three of them pass when Alfred finally clears his throat and says; “I’m sorry.”

He wonders what exactly Alfred is apologizing for. 

They ride uninterrupted for a couple of hours, alternating between a quick gallop and an easier trot, before Arthur decides the horses need a well-deserved break. He knows Alfred can use one himself, too, with the way he’s been shifting in his saddle, his face adorned with an expression of discomfort. 

Arthur has no idea of where they are, not really, but they crossed over a river a while earlier. Knowing it cannot be too far from them, Arthur urges his horse away from the trail and into the trees, slowing her down so that she may carefully tread and not trip or stumble. He hears Alfred follow, or more so hears the soothing noises Alfred makes in an attempt to settle his horse. 

Eventually, the sound of running water hits Arthur’s ears - and more importantly, they hit the ears of his horse. He lets her take over, confident that she’ll bring them to the source of water herself. Soon after, they stumble upon a creak. 

Arthur dismounts Bunny, scowling as his muscles and joints protest but biting through the annoyance. Before he allows his horse to wander, he unfastens his own knapsack, deciding now is as good a time as any to continue with their premeditated plan - disguises. 

They had originally planned on a change of outfit, but Arthur had overheard a conversation between some of the scullery maids a couple of days prior, one that had given him a new idea that would reinforce their disguises. The pouches containing the powder he needs are tiny though, and he needs to crouch down to properly rummage through his knapsack. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Alfred asks once he’s approached him, because he is nothing if not curious. He drops his own sack onto the floor next to Arthur with a dull thud, and sits down on a conveniently placed tree trunk opposite of him, stretching his arms and shoulders with a groan. 

“We should disguise ourselves now.” Arthur says, in lieu of explanation. “It will be dawn in a few hours and I have no doubt the entire country, if not the continent, will know of our disappearance by dusk.”

With some remorse, Arthur thinks of Yao. He can only imagine the panic that will arise once the Jack of Spades is told of their absence, either by their valets or chambermaids. Yao will most likely order a thorough search of the palace grounds first, to ensure Arthur and Alfred are not up to any random shenanigans. That would take an hour, perhaps two. Then they will realize the two princes are not in or near the palace. Perhaps Yao will first order the neighboring capital to be searched, but most likely, realization will have already set in.

Yao isn’t stupid - he’s been hovering over Arthur for most of his life for a reason. 

Briefly, he wonders if João will step up and admit to having seen them escape. It would have enormous repercussions; he might even be accused of treason for having let them go. He might even lose his position as the future Ace of Spades. Selfishly, Arthur hopes he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Perhaps we should’ve left a letter, or something.” Alfred muses, perhaps reading Arthur’s internal conflict on his face, or perhaps dealing with the same thoughts. 

“It’s too late to worry about that now.” Arthur says, hoping to dismiss both his counterpart's worries, as well as his own. Finally, he finds the pouches he has been looking for, and he fishes them out with a victorious grunt. “Red or brown?”

“Uh,” Alfred replies, frowning as he watches the pouches, one in either of Arthur’s hands. “What do you mean? What’s in the pouches?”

Arthur studies him for a second - the red might clash a little too strongly with Alfred’s blue eyes, he thinks. Brown would be better, more subtle. He might even pass as a citizen from Hearts, where brown hair is most common. And Arthur’s green eyes will probably blend in better with an auburn red. 

Regardless of the outcome; everyone knows the princes of Spades are blonde, and thus it’s better if they are not. 

“Powder.” Arthur says, tossing Alfred the pouch with the brown dye. Then he climbs back to his feet, grabs his knapsack and heads over to the creak. “If mixed with water, we can dye our hair with it. It shouldn’t be permanent, but it should last for a couple of weeks.”

He drops the pouches onto the ground and begins undressing himself without further ado. Alfred is quiet behind him, perhaps pondering the dye and whether or not he really wants to, but Arthur does not bother telling him he has to - the other prince is smart, he knows it’s for the best. 

Then Alfred clears his throat and audibly stumbles; and Arthur realizes that perhaps Alfred was not pondering the dye, but was instead staring at Arthur as the mage changed into his new outfit. He catches the change of color in Alfred’s cheeks and feels his own warm as well, but he does not comment on it. If they’re going through with this, they’ll have to get used to living in close quarters, at least for a while. Arthur brought plenty of coin with him, but he does not want to needlessly spend it on two cabins aboard a ship. They’ll learn to share and be normal about it. 

Once done, Arthur kneels back down on the ground, unbothered by the inevitable stain it will give him. Better he looks a little disheveled, like any commoner traveling at night. He removes his gloves and soaks the pouch into the water, watching as it absorbs water before opening it and deeming it fine. 

“Should we do each other’s?” Alfred asks then, a little hesitant. “Just, y’know. To make sure it’s all covered.”

Arthur cannot find a flaw in Alfred’s logic, but he stares down at his hands regardless. He doesn’t want to taint his gloves with Alfred’s dye, but to comb his fingers through Alfred’s hair without any cloth barrier seemed needlessly reckless. As if on cue, his fingers twitch, and Arthur watches a slither of lightning travel between his thumb to his middle finger. 

He’s distracted enough by it to not notice Alfred kneeling down next to him, and when Alfred suddenly grabs hold of the hand he’s been studying, he instinctively attempts to yank it out of Alfred’s grip. The hold is strong though, as if Alfred anticipated this reaction. 

“Alfred - ” Arthur warns, memories of burn wounds and scarring and pained crying welling up before his eyes as he feels the foreign warmth of another person’s skin on his own bare hand. 

“You’re not going to hurt me, Arthur.” Alfred interrupts, sounding much more sure of it than Arthur could ever hope to feel. “Besides, don’t you think I’m used to a little electrical discharge by now?”

“That’s not funny.” Arthur snaps, but Alfred huffs with laughter. He lets go of Arthur’s hand, only to place his own soaked pouch into it. “I’m not apologizing if I accidentally fry your hair.”

“It’s just hair.” Alfred reassures with a shrug, seemingly unbothered by the potential prospect of a bald head. “It’ll grow back.”

Then he sits down on his arse, legs crossed and hands resting casually on his knees. Arthur glares at him, and at the pouch in his hands, and then he glares at the stars above them for a brief moment, as if attempting to warn the forces of nature to not mess with him now. 

He climbs to his feet again and moves to stand behind Alfred, before dipping his fingers into the dark goo of the pouch in his hand. It’s darker than he thought it would be, but Arthur does not really know anything about hair dye in the first place, so it’s probably meant to be that dark. 

Alfred’s hair becomes static and floats away from his scalp in an almost comical manner when Arthur hovers his hand above it, and he inhales deeply, before softly slapping the dye onto the crown of Alfred’s head. 

Nothing happens - other than Arthur accidentally spilling some of the dye down onto Alfred’s shoulder, which earns him a grumble. But Alfred’s head does not spontaneously combust, nor does it catch fire, nor does the hair sizzle. Arthur bites down on his cheek, mentally chiding himself for such ridiculous thoughts in the first place, and gets to work.

It’s not long before he’s got most of Alfred’s previously blonde hair covered; his short style does not leave much hair to be dyed, after all. He makes sure to thoroughly rub the dye into the little hairs at the nape of his neck and into the locks behind Alfred’s ears, hyper aware of Alfred’s body language - he knows people like it when their hair is played with, as it’s infinitely relaxing and above all, intimate. Beneath the gentle kneading and rubbing of Arthur’s hand, Alfred's posture slackens and he sighs: his guard is obviously down, and Arthur wonders if Alfred’s eyes are closed as well. Then his nails catch on a bit of excess dye and he scratches it off to distribute it. A soft groan vibrates from the younger prince, and he leans his head further into Arthur’s hand. 

Arthur feels his chest constrict with something - something weird , something that knocks the breath out of him and makes his blood rush to his face. He feels as if set on fire and quickly pulls his hand back.

“Done.” He exclaims abruptly, deciding he’s done his best. 

His voice is much hoarser than he wants it to be and he desperately clears his throat, before all but tossing the near empty pouch on the ground. His fingers itch and he rushes over to the water to stick his hand into it, hoping it will clean him of both dye and the lingering feel of Alfred’s hair. 

“Thanks.” Alfred says, voice tellingly neutral and Arthur feels his stomach sink a little more with - with something he does not want to think about. “How long should I let it sit?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur admits, firmly scrubbing at his hand and firmly not looking at his counterpart. “A few minutes, at least.”

“Sounds good.” Alfred agrees, and Arthur hears him shuffle to his feet. He imagines Alfred behind him, then, his fingers coated in red hair dye and gently combing it through Arthur’s hair. “Should I - ”

“I can do my own.” Arthur quickly says, unsure if he’s able to handle Alfred’s fingers on his own head without causing a booming thunderstorm. It should be easy to imagine Alfred as clumsy and rough, considering the damage he’s done (however accidental) to Arthur’s bones during their youth, but it’s not, and if Arthur finds out it’s not, he’ll - he’s going to -  

“Okay. I can check it when you’re done, just in case.” Alfred says.

Arthur firmly tells himself that he’s imagining any disappointment he might hear.

“This is definitely not brown.” Alfred whines, once their hair is washed out and dried. He is pouting down at the water, which offers him a rough reflection, courtesy of the moon shining down on it. 

“It might be dark brown.” Arthur offers, pointedly not looking down at his own reflection - his hair is much redder than he had anticipated it to be. “We won’t know until the sun rises.”

“No,” Alfred laments. “I’m pretty sure it’s black. Have you ever seen me wear black, apart from when Yao forces me to do so? No. Why is that, you ask? Because black is so not my color.”

For the first time that night, a bubble of amusement claws its way up Arthur’s throat, and although he’s able to keep from laughing, he cannot help but snort when Alfred returns to pouting at his own reflection. 

“It’ll wash out.” He says reassuringly, hoping that he sounds more sure of himself than he is. He thinks it will wash out, at least. “Listen, I think we should also practice new names. And we should decide on the nature of our relationship, too.”

Alfred takes a moment longer, resembling a scolded puppy as he takes in his new appearance, but then he seems to come to terms with it. He straightens and turns back towards Arthur again, looking much more exasperated than he had done at the beginning of this journey. 

“What do you have in mind?”

“It might be easiest if we pose as brothers.” Arthur muses, with some uncertainty. He doesn’t want to break any boundaries; does not want to appear like he’s aiming to replace Alfred’s very real brother. And so when Alfred’s eyebrows raise, he quickly clarifies; “We grew up together, it won’t be too difficult to pretend.”

“Yeah, I guess. We could also pretend to be husbands, in that case.” Alfred answers, breezily. 

Arthur nearly chokes on his own spit at the suggestion. Logically speaking he knows it’s not that ridiculous; it might even be more feasible, considering Arthur and Alfred look nothing alike, especially not now that their hair colors have been altered. And they’re going to be married at one point anyway - for diplomatic and purely platonic reasons, of course, but married all the same. 

But they’re not going to pose as princes of Spades, nor as any kind of nobility. And commoners do not marry for diplomatic and platonic reasons. If they opt to pose as a married couple, people will expect to see them in love, they’ll have to be - 

“Brothers.” Arthur decides, and to his credit, Alfred agrees without another word. “But we have different mothers. Mine died giving birth to me and yours, uh, married my - my father afterwards. We both look like our mothers, but we’re definitely siblings.”

Alfred grins, a little wryly. Apparently he is much more amused by this than Arthur feels he should be. “Dramatic, but it’ll work. Names next, right? Uh, what about Allen?”

“Isn’t that a little too similar to Alfred?”

“Yeah, but that’s why it’ll work!” Alfred says, obviously not willing to compromise on this. “You could pick something like, I don’t know. Archer? Arvid? Arnold?”

Arthur pulls a face at the, frankly said, horrendous suggestions. He’s already picked out a name for himself - one straight out of his favorite book, though he’d never admit that last part. 

“I’m picking Oliver, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oliver.” Alfred repeats, as if testing it out. “Yeah, I like it. Oliver. Ollie.”

“Oliver.”

Alfred laughs, happily and unrestrained, and the sound inexplicably puts Arthur’s concern to rest. He’s unable to prevent a smile of his own as he watches the other prince giggle with delight, dark strands of hair falling over his forehead and offering a stark contrast to the blue of his eyes. 

The young prince might not like the color black, but Arthur thinks it suits him rather well. 

“Enough pleasantries.” Arthur says, firmly swallowing down that same weird, warm feeling from before. The horses should be rested now, and they can’t afford to waste more time - the sooner they reach the harbor and find a ship to take them overseas, the better. They’ve come too far now to be captured and taken home. “Let’s go find ourselves a ship.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

Chapter Text

The sun’s rising by the time they arrive at their destination. 

This harbor isn’t completely foreign; he remembers it through a child’s eyes, his father’s reassuring figure by his side, and his mother’s steady hand anchoring him. Now, standing on his own, the familiar place feels vast and daunting, like stepping into a world too big for one person. But he steels himself, focusing on the scene before him. 

The harbor stretches along a naturally formed bay, its waters shielded from the open sea by the curve of the land. Wooden and stone docks jut into the gentle waves, where ships bob at their moorings, creaking with each motion. Smaller vessels are clustered close to the docks, and he catches sight of dockworkers loading crates onto the decks, their voices a blend of barks and laughter. Closer to the shoreline, sailors bustle with crates, ropes, and nets, working alongside handcarts stacked with all manner of goods.

Farther out, larger ships hover at the edge of the bay like shadows, their sails folded but ready. Alfred’s pulse quickens as he recognizes the flags of the Spades navy among the merchant vessels. They've got some time, he tells himself. Maybe an hour, maybe two, before their absence is noted. Another hour before word spreads. By then, he hopes they’ll be well out at sea, beyond the reach of the customs house and the naval barracks tucked further inland.

“You go home straight away, you hear me?” 

Alfred turns around to watch Arthur talk to his horse. Bunny leans her head against his chest, clearly searching his pockets for a treat. Arthur’s gloved hands gently rub the soft fur of her poll, moving to cradle her muzzle with a touch that’s almost reverent.

“You go home straight away, you hear me?” Arthur mutters, his tone holding a warmth Alfred rarely hears. “No detours. And make sure that lump of a foal follows you.”

Alfred suppresses a smile, casting a sidelong glance at his own horse, Tony, who seems perfectly unfazed by Arthur’s pointed remark. Bunny presses closer to Arthur, more responsive than any horse Alfred’s known, her large eyes fixed on her rider with an almost human attentiveness.

"And you two," Arthur’s voice softens further, and Alfred catches a hint of something unusual. Arthur’s gaze flicks to something seemingly invisible near Bunny’s head, his tone dipping in a way that suggests he’s speaking to someone - or something - beyond sight. “No funny business either. Just take care of - no, I’ll be fine. Go with them.”

Arthur must be talking to a magical creature, he realizes. Alfred’s never been too keen on believing in fairies, trolls or unicorns. At first, he’d dismissed these as Arthur’s quirks or pranks. But after years of Arthur’s unwavering belief, and the Joker’s surprising, matter-of-fact references to such creatures, Alfred’s skepticism has softened into a wary curiosity.

“Are you ready?” Alfred asks eventually, not wanting to dwell on the thoughts for too long.

Arthur sighs, resting a final hand on Bunny’s mane before giving her an affectionate pat. As if understanding, the mare lifts her head, whinnying, then turns gracefully, nudging Tony along as she trots away from the harbor, heading toward home.

Alfred watches Arthur’s tense expression and adds; “Don’t worry. They’re smart.”

Alfred knows how close he and Bunny are. Unlike Alfred, who’s spent much of his life around different horses, Arthur has had his mare as a near-constant companion. Bunny represents years of companionship, loyalty, and solace in ways Alfred imagines are irreplaceable.

“They’ll be fine.” Arthur acknowledges, apparently picking himself up again and turning towards Alfred with renewed resolve. “Let’s go.”

It’s not all too difficult to find themselves a ship that is bound to cross the ocean. Few people are brave enough to undertake such a harrowing journey in the first place; even fewer people are willing to do so with the intent of staying on the other side to trade, however brief. 

It takes a few people and a few innocuous questions, but within an hour Alfred and Arthur have managed to locate a ship that’s planning on crossing the ocean: a galleon, with multiple decks and three masts standing high and proud. It must be at least a hundred feet long, Alfred thinks, and he wonders what it would feel like to climb into its main mast while at sea. 

They do not find the captain, but they are told where to find the quartermaster. Arthur murmurs in passing that they have a better shot at negotiating with the second-in-command, anyway. Alfred takes his word for it - he’s been privy to a handful of seafaring trips with the Royal Fleet as a younger boy, but only ever from one harbor to the next one. Which makes sense, considering how he, as king, will not have to busy himself too much with the affairs of the naval fleet.

Once they catch sight of the quartermaster, Alfred stops, assuming they need to come up with a plan of action. Arthur surprises him by marching past him, his shoulders squared and his expression determined. His initiative is uncharacteristic; both of them know that Arthur is not comfortable with socializing, usually preferring to hide behind his untouchable status of royalty while letting Alfred do the talking. 

“Passage aboard my ship?” The quartermaster repeats, once Arthur’s done declaring what they want of him. He looks them up and down a little, and is clearly not very impressed by what he sees. “What are two snot-nosed brats looking for in Antevaria, anyway?”

Antevaria. 

Alfred’s been drilled with lessons upon lessons concerning geography, and he knows pretty much every larger town in Suits by name. Antevaria is unfamiliar to him, and as such, it must be the name of whatever country lies on the other side of the ocean. For a moment, the new information stuns him - they’ve been kept out of the loop of intercontinental affairs so deliberately, that Alfred never once thought that the lands outside of Suits would have names. 

Arthur seems unphased, though. 

“Don’t worry, we can pay you for the inconvenience. As for what we seek in Antevaria,” Impressively so, Arthur’s tongue curls around the foreign word with little trouble, pronouncing it in the exact same way the quartermaster had done. “We are looking for our father, who has not come back from his trading mission earlier this summer.”

The quartermaster still does not look very convinced, but Arthur ties the loose ends by reaching into his pocket and extracting a pouch, round and full with coins. He hands it over to the man in front of them, allowing him to test its weight for himself. 

“Not that it’s any of your concern, of course.” Arthur says. He exudes so much certainty and confidence, that for a moment, even Alfred believes him. It’s impressive to say the least, especially considering Arthur’s subpar people skills. Perhaps the mage has been holding out on him. “My name’s Oliver, by the by. This is my brother, Allen.”

“You know what?” The quartermaster says, as he pockets the pouch of gold. “It’s your funeral. The name’s Abel. I can offer you two a cabin on the upper deck. Nothing fancy, but we’ll get you across.”

He reaches out a hand and only then does Arthur falter. Alfred jumps in almost immediately, stepping closer and reaching out to wrap his own hand around the offered one, giving it a firm shake. Abel does not seem too perturbed. 

“Welcome aboard the Celestial.”

So far, so good.

The ship is in decent condition, the crew is friendly albeit a bit teasing considering Arthur’s and Alfred’s lack of sailing experience and their apparent death-wish. They’re told the journey would take two weeks, give or take, which is shorter than Alfred had anticipated but longer than he would have liked. 

Interestingly enough, the captain is not a man, but a woman. She introduces herself as Laura after Abel shoves them forward as their new guests, and warmly smiles at them, saying that if they are ever in need of something while aboard her ship they should ask for it. 

Before setting out, Arthur tells Alfred that her politeness is odd. Alfred tells Arthur he’s read too many pirate stories and that he should not be surprised at the kindness other people may offer them - especially not when having been handed a hefty pouch of gold.  

After setting out, Arthur mostly hides away in the cabin they had been given. Not because he doesn’t like to socialize, or because he does not like the view of the sea, but because he’s too busy throwing up. 

Alfred would not in a million years have thought Arthur could suffer from seasickness. 

The mage has never appeared squeamish during any of their travels before, be it in a carriage or on a horse. And considering Arthur’s decent knowledge of seafaring and his barely concealed excitement once the time was there, he had sort of believed that Arthur had traveled on a ship before. Yet only a few hours after they disembarked, Arthur’s face had turned as pale as the seafoam lapping at the ship’s hull. He found a new fast friend in the rusty bucket that Abel had quickly given him, the hint of a smug smirk dancing on his otherwise neutral face. 

“Eugh,” Arthur groans, and his expression suddenly crumbles mid-conversation. 

Alfred rushes to yank said bucket closer and shoves it into place just in time for Arthur to retch into. By now, Alfred’s a little amazed at what the mage is still able to throw up - one would think a stomach would be empty at one point.

“Easy,” Alfred murmurs soothingly, instincts kicking in. Matthew’s gone through a fair amount of stomach bugs when they were younger and more often than not it was Alfred who spent the night with him, helping him through the worst of it. 

One of the sailors on the ship, a younger man of around Alfred’s age called Luca, had told Alfred that Arthur would probably feel better in a handful of days. Apparently his body just needs to get acclimated to the ship’s motion. Which would probably be easier, were it not for the rougher-than-usual waves crashing against the ship. 

“You should probably let up a little.” Alfred proposes, once another dull crack of thunder disturbs the skies outside. At least Abel has reassured him that the ship is more than able to withstand the sudden storm. “I’m pretty sure that’s not helping.”

“I’m trying.” Arthur snaps at him, his voice hoarse and his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and unshed tears. “If I weren’t, I would’ve capsized the ship already.”

Despite the very real possibility of Arthur’s threat, Alfred chuckles. “Just try and get some sleep, all right? You’ll feel better soon.”

Arthur makes a face and reaches for the bucket, but nothing comes out this time. The dry heaving sounds even worse than the retching and Alfred winces, feeling a little useless as he watches Arthur’s chest convulse. Eventually, the mage quiets down, and he warily puts the bucket back down on the floor. Alfred quickly rises to his feet to grab the bucket and empty it out of the small window into the waters below, pointedly not breathing through his nose. When he returns, he sets it back down within Arthur’s reach. He’s not offended when Arthur does not bother with a look or word of gratitude. 

“Did you learn anything new?” The mage asks instead, referring to their earlier conversation. Business as usual, it seems. 

Alfred grabs hold of the one chair in their cabin and drags it closer to Arthur’s bed. They’ve been given a bunk bed, and although Alfred had wanted to give him some grief over it first, it had been a no-brainer to offer Arthur the lower bed once he started throwing up. 

“Not much. Antevaria is dangerous, its people are dangerous. We’re probably going to freeze to death, if we’re not done in by the locals first.” Alfred says, repeating that which Arthur already knows. “The view is supposedly pretty though. Apparently light rides in the sky at night and some of the mountains are so tall that they disappear into the clouds.”

“A grave with a view.” Arthur says sarcastically. He clears his throat, looking anxious for a second, but then his stomach seems to settle again. “I’ve been told our best shot at finding our father is to seek out the council.”

Alfred wonders when exactly he had been told that - did someone come in here, when Alfred had been absent? Or did Arthur venture out without Alfred noticing? More importantly so; 

“Council? What council?”

So far, all Alfred knows about Antevaria is that it is an unfriendly environment with unfriendly people. The story goes that Antevaria was built by the people who either rejected the authority of Suits, or who were thrown out of Suits for whatever reason. It might have happened literal ages ago, but the hostilities remained, despite centuries of ceasefire. Concerning the Antevarians themselves, opinions seemed to vary. One sailor said they wore more tattoos than clothes, carried rings of bone on every finger, and that metal pierced their noses and ears. Another one scoffed at that and said they do not look much different than they do - but that their skin is as hard as rocks, which protects them from the cold. 

All in all, Alfred got the idea that the people in Antevaria lived in something like a dog-eat-dog world. 

And a council definitely does not fit that image. 

“The captain, Laura? She says that Antevaria is governed by a democratically chosen party of four. Their council is held in Dicea, the capital and city nearest to where we will dock.”

Democratically chosen - now there’s an idea. Democracy is not something foreign in Suits, as towns for example get to elect their own mayors, but the ruling of a country is left to those who bear the royal marks. 

“Do we know what these four people are like?” Alfred asks, a little amazed by how much more Arthur has managed to learn, despite his ill condition. Then again, it makes sense for a captain to be able to divulge more information than it does for anyone Alfred has been talking to. 

“No. She's only ever met with one of them, when her ship first made port in their harbor.” Arthur says, and he closes his eyes, frowning as what is undoubtedly a bout of dizziness runs through him. “He, Tino something-something, seemed polite, she thought.”

“Might be worth a shot, then.” Alfred suggests. Much like the royalty back in Suits, he imagines the leaders in Antevaria have access to the answers Arthur is seeking. They must keep records of civilians, alive and dead, somewhere. 

“I propose we avoid them at all costs.” Arthur says, surprising him. “I do not know if news of our absence will reach Antevaria, nor do I know if the Antevarians will care about it. But what I do know is that we would make spectacular hostages, should it come down to that.”

Alfred frowns. That particular thought had not yet crossed his mind. Right now, Spades is not at war. Their alliance with Hearts and Diamonds is solid; their alliance with Clubs is perhaps a little less stable, but it’s holding nonetheless. Alfred does not know much about intercontinental relationships, because they’ve simply not been taught thus far, but he knows that there used to be a war - before both continents decided upon ignoring one another. 

He does not think they will be kept as hostages, but then again, he’s pretty sure Spades will pay a hefty sum for their return. And people, no matter their origin, are naturally opportunistic. 

“Then what do you suggest?” 

Arthur’s expression remains unreadable for a brief moment, and then he heaves a frustrated sigh. 

“I have no idea.” He admits, voice wavering a little as he shivers and swallows thickly. “I’m sure I can think of something once I’m able to stand up straight again.”

Another pang of sympathy knocks against Alfred’s chest and he smiles reassuringly. “You should really get some rest. Do you want me to fetch you something to eat or drink?”

It was the wrong thing to say, if the expression Arthur gives him is anything to go by. Alfred hastily raises his hands in surrender, and watches Arthur lower himself back to the mattress. The mage lasts all of two seconds on his back before he rolls on his side, one arm slung over his own stomach protectively. 

Alfred hesitates. 

He could stand up and leave him, at least for a bit. He could go out on deck and offer his help, get some physical exercise in. He could also ask around a little more, to see if there is knowledge of something akin to a library with public records of Antevarian civilians. 

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath and Alfred tenses, ready to grab the bucket, but ultimately it proves unnecessary. Arthur settles again, but he does shut his eyes tightly and Alfred can only imagine his discomfort. The mage still looks sickly pale, and a sheen of sweat seems to cover his forehead. Locks of red hair cling to the skin. Arthur shifts a little, clenching gloved hands around the sheets around him - Alfred imagines their leathery fabric must be anything but comfortable right now. 

He knows Arthur values them, though Alfred doubts that they will actually be able to block any wayward sparks that Arthur lets fly. It’s probably the mere idea of them that puts Arthur at ease, and Alfred wishes he could just rip them off and throw them overboard; wishes he could somehow convince Arthur he does not need them. 

Another shiver wrecks Arthur’s body and the mage groans, looking every bit as pathetic as Alfred imagines he feels. Alfred thinks of Matthew and his stomach bugs - his little brother always had trouble sleeping when plagued with stomach cramps, headaches and soreness, but a soothing touch always helped him to relax. His arm twitches instinctively, but Alfred hesitates. He knows Arthur does not like to be touched, be it because of an irrational fear of hurting others or because he simply just does not like it.

Whatever the case is, Arthur always tenses whenever someone touches him. Alfred can count the times he has actually touched Arthur on one, maybe two, hands. Apart from their dancing, sparring and their physical altercations as children, that is. 

Not for the first time since - well, since realizing he’s stupidly crushing on the mage in front of him, Alfred wishes he could make Arthur understand that he’s not afraid of him. He’s been on the receiving end of Arthur’s magic more often than he cares to count. He knows what to expect; knows it can hurt, but also knows that it’s (almost) always unintentional and that it will always heal, eventually. 

“Are you just going to sit there and watch me waste away?” Arthur grumbles dramatically, green eyes glaring at him through his dark eyelashes. 

Alfred answers with a halfhearted glare of his own. Then he moves the chair he is sitting on a little closer and reaches out with a tentative hand. Softly, he brushes away some of the bangs sticking to Arthur’s sweaty forehead. The mage’s glare is instantly replaced by something more panicked. 

“Shut up.” Alfred says, before Arthur can react, verbally or nonverbally. “It’ll help, okay? Just let me help.”

Alfred participates in the stare-off that follows for about three seconds before continuing. He combs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, pushing locks back from the mage’s forehead and mingling them with the rest. 

He tries not to look at Arthur’s face as he does so, and he also tries not to think of how abruptly Arthur refused his help the day before, when they dyed their hair. Instead he digs his fingers in a little deeper, applying some more pressure as he runs his fingers from Arthur’s temple to the back of his head. 

Miraculously enough, Arthur’s eyes flutter shut. The mage still seems a little tense, but he isn’t pulling back or pushing Alfred away. Alfred takes it as permission to continue. And yet, despite the non-verbal approval, Alfred feels more and more as if he’s doing something forbidden. 

Maybe this is weird.

It’s kind of weird, right? Doing this to his little brother back when they were children is one thing; doing it to Arthur while they’re both at the cusp of adulthood is another. 

But Arthur’s sick. That makes it okay, he thinks. He would never dare to do something this... intimate otherwise. Not even during that one time when Arthur fell asleep in his bed, days prior to their sneaking out. And also not during that other time when Arthur had fallen asleep on his shoulder, during a particularly long carriage ride from Hearts to Spades. 

During those times, Alfred had remained as still as a statue, afraid that even the barest of twitches would break the spell and have Arthur move away from him. Even now, Alfred is uncomfortably holding his breath, afraid that a hint of life would snap Arthur out of his feverish trance, the one that is allowing for this to happen. 

Nothing happens when he finally exhales, though. 

In fact, Arthur seems to slowly relax as Alfred’s fingers work against his scalp, movements alternating between gentle, long strokes and soft, kneading circles. The furrowed line between his eyebrows smooths over and Arthur burrows a little deeper into his bed. 

“‘s nice.” Arthur mumbles, sleepily. 

And he must be unaware of how the simple praise makes Alfred’s lovesick heart sing. 

Alfred swallows thickly as he feels his own mouth dry a little. It feels as if he’s on fire, and his other hand itches, eager to join in on the action. He tries not to allow his mind to wander, but fuck, he’s barely left adolescence, okay? 

It’s already tough enough having to keep up appearances. Every time they’re entangled in a dance, he has to fight not to pull Arthur a little closer, to not lean down and get a better whiff of the scent of Arthur’s hair. Every time they’re engaged in a game of chess in the library, Alfred has to fight not to melt into a puddle as Arthur’s piercing eyes tease, mock and challenge him. Every time they argue, he has to fight not to shut Arthur up with a hug or even worse, a kiss. 

He’s doing his best, okay? He really is. 

It helps that Arthur probably hates him more than he likes him. It’s grounding to have Arthur frowning at him, to have Arthur ignoring him when Alfred’s being particularly mouthy. It even helps when Arthur snaps at him - it keeps him with one foot in the real world, keeps him from becoming hopeful whenever Arthur does smile at him. 

He knows they are better off as friends.

Spades is better off with them as friends. 

Still, he cannot help but wonder what it would feel like to run his fingers down Arthur’s back, which he now knows is covered with a smattering of freckles. And he also cannot help but wonder what it would feel like to hold Arthur’s hand, ungloved and relaxed, while they stroll around the gardens or share a meal. 

For the briefest of moments, he wonders how much Arthur has allowed João to touch. Were his hands allowed to wander where they pleased? Was the Ace-in-training able to hold Arthur’s hands in his own; able to trace the freckles on his back with his bare fingers? And did he ever run his fingers through Arthur’s hair like this, on nights sleep evaded the mage?

Another sigh left Arthur, this one infinitely more pleased than its previous, frustrated sibling. Alfred hums in acknowledgement for he knows not what, and swallows down jealous thoughts as well as unrealistic fantasies. He waits until Arthur’s breathing evens out and until his face goes slack, before pulling away. His hand tingles, burns, and he angrily wipes it on his trousers, hoping to rid it from the sensation of Arthur’s hair before said sensation latches onto it permanently. 

It takes Arthur five more days before he starts to feel better. At first, he alternates spending his time between their cabin and the galley, carefully wolfing down much-needed meals to regain his strength. Typically enough the weather calms down at the same time, but fortunately, no one connects the dots. 

Eventually, Arthur starts spending his time out on the decks as well, taking in the sights. He doesn’t offer to help any of the sailors with their work, unlike Alfred, but he does take an interest in the ship’s navigator, an older woman who is mysteriously missing an arm. 

When Alfred asks about it, Arthur simply scolds him for his morbid curiosity - he suspects Arthur does not know, either. 

Arthur does tell him more of the various seafaring routes between Suits and Antevaria and about the goods that are traded. Apparently snow and frost covers most of Antevaria’s lands throughout the year, making it hard to grow crops. What they cannot grow, they trade for, along with several spices and fabrics. They mostly do so with Clubs, but ships from Spades are equally welcome, as long as they adhere to the same rules. 

They find out nothing more, nothing substantial at least, about their destination. Alfred struggles not to hover over his companion as he goes about his investigation, but he cannot be blamed for worrying that Arthur might suffer another bout of dizziness and promptly trip over the railings of the ship, can he? If Arthur notices, he does not speak on it.

In fact, they do not speak of the other ‘it’, either. Alfred’s unsure if he should be grateful for it or not, but at least Arthur seems normal. He does not regard Alfred with disgust or mistrust, nor does he seem any less comfortable around him than before they boarded the ship. Maybe he does not even remember it happening at all, trapped in vertigo as he was. 

On the fifteenth day, they finally see land on the horizon. 

From this distance, the country of Antevaria does not appear much different from the country of Spades. Perhaps it is more like Clubs or Hearts, though, because Alfred does already see more white-tipped mountains than he will ever be able to see in Spades. 

“We should secure lodgings first.” Arthur says, joining him at the taffrails of the ship’s forecastle. Alfred takes a moment to appreciate how Arthur’s cheeks have tinted a rosy red, most likely due to the cold. His hair is a little dull though, having been treated to the unkind sea-salted air. He imagines his own the same. “And warmer clothing.”

As if on cue, Alfred shivers. He’s already bundled up in warmer clothes than usual, courtesy of the captain, who had taken one look at them and told them they were ill-prepared before telling Abel to fetch them something warmer. Arthur seems to fare better, though; wearing at least one layer less than Alfred is.

“Sounds good.” Alfred agrees. “Once we get settled, we have a better shot at finding what we’re looking for anyway.”

“Be careful when asking around for your father.” Luca says, appearing next to them so suddenly that even Arthur startles. “I don’t know what kind of man he was, but if he’s gotten himself into trouble, people might not respond kindly.”

“Duly noted.” Arthur responds. Alfred tries to convey with his eyes that it would not hurt to convey a little more worry for their supposed father. 

“How are you feeling, Oliver?” Luca asks next, smiling amicably. Alfred bites down on the inside of his cheek to prevent a giggle - despite having been called their new names for the past two weeks, he’s still not used to it. 

Arthur - Oliver - is much more of a natural. He dons a smile, a practiced one, one Alfred has seen him use to appease nobility or to converse with clergy. It’s a far cry from the easier smile Arthur adopts when in the presence of his fellow monarchs, and an even further cry from the indulgent smile Arthur tosses his way whenever Alfred does or says something silly. 

“Much better, thank you.” The mage replies. “Your captain proposed we start by approaching the council.” 

An opening, or a suggestion. Luca takes it, unaware of how Arthur’s played it. 

“I don’t know about that.” The younger man says, pursing his lips a little in thought. “The one she met, Tino? He seems nice, sure, but I heard that the others aren’t as easy to talk to. Apparently one’s a violent drunkard, while the other almost never speaks.”

“What about the fourth one?” Alfred asks, knowing Luca only described three of the four leaders so far. 

“I’d definitely avoid him. He’s the only mage of the lot.” Luca admits, unaware of the way Arthur’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline with surprise. Alfred shares the sentiment - of course it is not surprising that Antevaria should have mages, but to have one of them as their democratically chosen leaders, is a different story. 

“Good to know.” Arthur says, voice carefully neutral. Alfred can tell that he wants to know more, but Luca probably does not know more himself.

“My best guess is to try a tavern first. Tavernkeepers have eyes and ears everywhere.” 

Orders to prepare for docking are shouted next, and Luca pushes himself away from the railing with a smile and a nod farewell. Arthur turns back to peer at the rapidly advancing shoreline of Antevaria, expression unreadable. 

“I could use a drink.” Alfred proposes, both to lighten the mood and to signal that he agrees with Luca’s suggestion. Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgement, averting his eyes to glance over at Alfred before peering back at the lands before them.

“A drink it is.” 

Chapter Text

The first couple of days Arthur and Alfred lay low. They find a decent inn and pay for one of its rooms upfront making sure it will last them a while. Then they settle in and look around in order to get a lay of the land. 

Dicea is not a large city, despite being Antevaria´s supposed capital. There are plenty of homes, workshops and stores and the city is surrounded by a massive wall, but ultimately it isn’t even half as big as the Spades’ capital. 

Another stark contrast is the lack of grandeur: there are no looming cathedrals, no mansions made of marble and there are no splendorous churches made of gilded wood and stained glass. What buildings Arthur has seen so far are all made of the same materials: wood, dressed stone and mud. Roofs more often than not are made from thick turfs and grass, skillfully woven together with branches and reeds. 

On paper Arthur might have called the city impoverished or sober, but in reality he sees that the capital is anything but. The buildings, albeit sparsely decorated, are efficiently spaced across wide and clean streets. Despite the cold temperatures, those same streets are always filled with people. Everywhere he looks women are tanning leather or spinning wool, men are smoking fish or salting meat and children are running amok. 

The houses are large as well, larger than Arthur is used to seeing. Their innkeeper, an elderly man not unfamiliar with the occasional foreign guest and thus not opposed to their curiosity, explains that most Antevarian families live together most of their lives, thus needing the space for children and grandchildren. 

For that same reason many of the other towns and settlements scattered across Antevaria are even smaller. Yet for all intents and purposes, Dicea is nothing like the barbaric and primitive town that so many people have warned them about. 

That does not mean they are particularly welcome, though. 

Surprisingly enough, a lot of the Antevarians are able to speak in a tongue Arthur and Alfred are able to understand. Whether it be the native language of Clubs, Spades, or the more commonly used universal language of Suits - almost every one of them speaks at least one. 

But they have their own language as well and it’s the one that most often meets Arthur’s ears whenever they wander about, accompanied by lingering glares and wary glances.

Surprisingly enough, Alfred fares much better. It’s probably his boyish charm and the blue eyes - that, and his supernatural strength. He does not flaunt it of course, because they cannot afford to stand out too much. Yet even the barest usage of his royal given gift grants him the favor of many locals. 

The last couple of nights they have been frequenting the nearest tavern and Alfred manages to become a bit of a spectacle, courtesy of his broad shoulders, friendly laugh and infinite competitiveness. 

Arthur doubts that the shenanigans Alfred finds himself in are going to help their cause, but Alfred seems to be having fun and that in itself makes Arthur relax. He admits that it is fun to watch Alfred cut loose, to see him have fun. 

The mage nurtures a mug of mead as he watches the younger prince work his charm. Alfred is sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the tavern, surrounded by men and women Arthur has never seen before. Alfred’s lips are split in a wide grin as he accepts yet another challenge of someone who wishes to test their strength. 

Arthur’s only condition had been that Alfred lets the men twice his size win. They have to keep up appearances - they have to pass as normal people. Of course, people of Alfred’s own size are fair game - there’s enough muscle in Alfred’s physique for him to pass as someone who works out regularly, so there’s that. 

And it is one such man who sits across from Alfred next, holding out his hand once he’s placed his elbow on the wooden table between them. There is nothing particularly outstanding about him - many of the Antevarians are blonde and blue-eyed, but this particular fellow seems a little… different, nonetheless. He appears to be a local favorite, judging by how other Antevarians cheer him on with laughter and friendly slaps against his back. 

Arthur hopes Alfred goes easy on him, the poor lad. 

Without further ado, Alfred grabs onto the offered hand and once the start of their match is signaled, he pretends to struggle for a bit. He does it so well, that even Arthur starts to doubt himself for a second - from his perch on the barstool, he is able to see the fabric around Alfred’s bicep pull, the muscles straining. 

Discreetly, Alfred tilts his head to send Arthur a mischievous little grin. Arthur ignores the funny feeling dancing low in his belly and ignores the desire to wet his lips, instead pretending to be occupied by his drink. 

Alfred seems unperturbed by his lack of response - he might even seem more amused by it, but Arthur is unable to really tell, with how he is doing his damndest to avert his eyes. 

Playfully so, Alfred allows his own arm to slacken a little, enhancing the play of his struggle. The crowd around his opponent and him cheers, shouting words of encouragement for both ‘Allen’ and Mathias, which Arthur supposes is the name of the blonde man. 

Then Alfred applies more pressure and, slowly but surely, he forces his opponent’s arm down onto the table’s surface. Their hands knock into the wood with a dull thud and the group of spectators erupts into another round of cheer. 

The loser of the match, Mathias, seems a little annoyed at first but then he pushes a new mug of mead into Alfred’s hands, congratulating him with words Arthur cannot make out from here, but words that make Alfred laugh nonetheless.

This time, Arthur does raise his own mug in acknowledgement when Alfred looks his way again, and the way Alfred’s face lights up at the recognition intensifies the funny feeling he’s been trying to ignore.

It’s so bloody difficult to ignore, though. 

He’s been doing a reasonable job at it, so far. Ignoring that feeling, pretending it wasn’t there. But now - now they live in such close quarters. And Arthur cannot avoid Alfred anymore when the feeling gets a little too real; when he gets a little too close to acknowledging it. 

They have been each other’s sole company for the past three weeks; the only person they could be themselves with. And they probably will be for another three weeks, if not more. 

Arthur swallows thickly, averting his eyes from the other prince once more. If he gives into the feeling, if he starts to acknowledge and explore it, things will only become complicated. It will make everything so much more difficult, never mind the enormous strain it would put on their already fragile friendship. 

It’s better to think of Alfred as nothing more than a friend. A partner in crime, maybe, but only in a diplomatic sense. Anything other than friendship is discouraged among the Quart Major and for good reason. 

But then Alfred had to be so bloody sweet, back on the Celestial. 

Arthur has been sick before, of course. Like any other child, he had been subject to fevers, infections and stomach bugs. And every time he was sick, he would be expertly nursed back to health by the royal physicians or some of the more maternal maids. They would tend to their every need; food, drinks, stories, blankets and pillows. 

No one has ever petted him to sleep though. 

It’s ridiculous. Arthur has to stop thinking about it, and he has to stop imagining it as a big deal. He knows such affections are normal for people like Alfred - it’s a thing people like Alfred do for their friends and family. And Alfred is a touchy person too, he’s never shied away from physical contact, not during sparring matches with his knights nor during impromptu dancing lessons with the kitchen maids. 

People like Alfred give hugs, hold hands and pet heads. And they think nothing of it. Arthur is fine with that, but the problem is that people like Alfred also thrive on receiving such touchings. 

And well, Alfred is probably not even aware of how he seeks out Arthur more and more lately. Not only in a figurative sense, but also a literal one. He probably does not know how often he sits closer than necessary or how often he touches Arthur’s shoulder, or arm, or even his lower back, whenever he passes him by down the stairs or into a room.

He probably does not know, but it’s driving Arthur absolutely insane. 

Arthur glares down at the dark liquid inside of his mug. Perhaps it’s his own fault. Perhaps he’s been doing a shitty job of ignoring this feeling - perhaps he’s been letting it fester instead, ever since that damning tournament in Diamonds. 

His future queen’s favor. Ugh. 

“You’ll never believe what I just learned.”

Alfred’s voice jostles him from his thoughts and he watches the younger prince approach after having parted from his adoring crowd. He sits on the empty stool to Arthur’s right and in doing so, his arm brushes Arthur’s side. Arthur bites down on his cheek until it stings. 

“Apparently some of the people here wear their smallclothes inside out when the clouds look a certain way. They think that if they change their routine they will prevent whatever bad omen is forewarned.”

“Superstitions are everywhere.” Arthur mumbles, watching as Alfred drinks what must be his fifth or sixth mug of mead by now. “Shouldn’t you slow down a little?”

Alfred shrugs. “Maybe, but this stuff’s pretty weak to me. Strong metabolism, I guess. And at least this doesn’t taste like goat piss.”

“Familiar with the taste of goat piss, are you?”

Alfred glares in return and Arthur tries but fails to hide his smirk.

His own tolerance leaves much to be desired and so he nurses his one mug carefully and for hours on end. Briefly Arthur wonders what it would be like to see Alfred drunk - he imagines it’s a funny thing to witness, but he doubts he ever will. At least not in Spades, because Yao would probably have Alfred’s head should he get even slightly tipsy. 

Arthur fights a grimace at the thought of their Jack. 

Yao must be beside himself by now. No news of their disappearance has reached Antevaria yet, not as far as Arthur knows, and he wonders if Yao has figured out their whereabouts by now or if they’re still combing through Suits. 

“Did you learn anything useful, too?”

Alfred remains quiet and Arthur knows what that means. He’s not even that disappointed. He knows it’s difficult to find answers to questions they will not ask directly. And apart from basic politeness and their awe of Alfred’s skills, the Antevarian’s are understandably wary of them and their intentions. 

It would be much easier if they could just ask about a baby that was born with a mark of a Spade, some twenty-three years ago. It would also be easier to ask about how frequently babies from Antevaria are sent to Suits. And maybe they can ask those questions, once they’ve established a bit more trust within the community. Which would take time; more time than Arthur wants to spare, if he’s honest.

What an unsatisfying night of answerless questions it was turning out to be.

Perhaps he dismissed the Joker too early. 

Six days they have been in Antevaria. Six nights Arthur has slept badly or not at all, plagued with nightmares and visions of the Spades Royal Fleet arriving to drag them back by their ears. 

They are no closer to where they were six days ago. Perhaps they are even further from their goal. After all: why should their answers lie in Dicea? What if they are not here, but in one of the few dozen other towns - in one of the hundreds of settlements scattered across the land? 

He’s getting worked up, and he knows that it’s not good for him to get worked up. Stress means a loss of control, which leads to more stress. Arthur feels his blood burning underneath the thin layer of his skin and even through his gloves he feels sparks fly whenever he comes near anything made of copper, silver or steel. 

Arthur supposes he sees the irony. This way, it’s only a matter of time before he’s going to snap. And isn’t that what the ruling monarchs of Spades have always been warned about? That Arthur needs to be kept in check, needs to be watched, because if he wasn’t, he would snap? 

And now it’s going to happen because Arthur is no longer watched, nor is he kept in check. 

“Y’know,” Alfred says, as he pulls a second, long-sleeved shirt over himself. He’s been dealing with the cold a lot worse than Arthur has been. “We don’t need to stay here. We could go to another city. There’s one about an hour away on horseback. What did that guy call it? Dusken-town?”

“Duskenfell.” Arthur corrects quietly. 

“Duskenfell! Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”

Alfred could be right; he could also be wrong. 

Apart from Duskenfell there were at least two other towns within an hour-long journey on horseback. But Arthur didn’t bring enough gold along for them to turn the entire continent upside down. 

Besides: the Celestial is bound to return in as little as three weeks. Its captain has told them, upon their farewell, that they are welcome to sail back with them if necessary - free of charge. 

They would be fools not to take the offer. 

“Maybe I should summon him again.” 

Arthur had not meant to speak the words into life, had meant for them to only be thought within the privacy of his own mind. But they’re out there now, and Arthur knows they’ve been heard, because Alfred freezes, the glasses he wanted to put on dangling in his hand, in the air. 

“What?” 

Alfred is giving Arthur an opportunity to correct himself. He could dismiss his earlier words, he could pretend he said something else, something that sounded like what he said but something that is not the same as what he said. 

“I can probably get the same deal.” Arthur says instead, because apparently, the cooperation between his brains and mouth has been severed. “And I could limit myself to five questions. What are five more years, anyway?” 

Alfred stares at him, and then he stares at him some more. And then, finally, he moves. The younger prince huffs and abruptly looks away, down at his glasses, which he cleans with his sleeve before he puts them on. Then he runs a hand through his hair - which has faded into a browner shade by now, and admittedly, it does suit him better than black. 

“No.” Alfred says, resolutely so, and he turns back to Arthur. “Far be it from me to interfere with the process, but we’re not giving up yet. We just got here.”

Arthur’s fingers burn. He stands up from his bed and paces the room as he allows the racing of his thoughts a voice. 

“We’re not going to find anything, Alfred. Anyone who knows anything won’t want to tell us. They don’t want us here and we shouldn’t have come here. We have a responsibility, a duty and - Yao is going to kill me. He’s going to kill you. My reputation is already shit, but you, you were the golden boy and I stole you away from the palace, for this selfish, fucking - ”

“Whoa, hey! You didn’t steal me, I came out of my own volition.” Alfred interrupts, taking a step closer and grabbing onto Arthur’s lower arm in an attempt to calm him down. 

“Unhand me!” Arthur snaps, trying to pull his arm back. “Just listen to me for once!” 

It doesn’t work; Alfred’s grip is iron. He refuses to yield and even dares to take a step closer to the mage, as if their proximity was not already oppressive enough. Arthur feels as if he’s suddenly too large for his own body - it feels as if his lungs are trying to claw their way out through his chest in an attempt to obtain more air than Arthur is able to give them.  

“Don’t raise your voice at me.” Alfred bites back, and then he seems to regret his words, because his expression softens and he grabs onto Arthur’s other arm as well, in an attempt to soothe him. “Let’s calm down so we can talk - ow! ”

Alfred abruptly lets go of him, face adorned by a pained grimace. He frantically rubs his hands on the front of his shirt, as if wiping something away. The smell of burnt skin and something metallic permeates the room. 

Arthur’s nerves sing with relief, but all Arthur is able to feel is panic. It builds up fast, climbing up his spine to wrap its nasty vice around his throat.

“That’s - ” Arthur says, choking out the words as he sees the redness of Alfred’s palms, the frayed edges of his sleeves, the feathery scar on the inside of his right hand. “I didn’t - you - I told you not to touch me, but you do what you want anyway, and if you would just fucking listen for once - ”

“Shit,” Alfred hisses, his hands still clenching and unclenching. “Don’t act like this is my fault!”

It’s not his fault, Arthur knows it’s not Alfred’s fault. It’s Arthur’s fault, it’s his fault for losing control, for not being able to come to terms with the fact that he’s maleficus and that people will always be scared of him, and they should be, because Arthur’s obviously not in control of himself.

Arthur needs - he needs to be anywhere but here. Without another word, he turns on his heel and flees the room. The slam of the door drowns out Alfred’s cry of alarm. 

He’s not stupid enough to venture out of the city and into the wilds, no matter how much he wants to be alone. That does not stop Arthur from wandering the outskirts of the city, his arms crossed and his hands hidden beneath his upper arms. Locals will probably mock him for being thin-skinned, but it is better if they think he is simply cold. 

Then again, not many of said locals are out and about, and for good reason.

Thunder booms in the air above him. Idly, Arthur wonders if Dicea’s inhabitants are now busy turning their smallclothes inside out. It had been a clear day after all, before Arthur threw a spanner in the works. The rain that accompanies the storm is not his fault though and that makes him feel a little more at ease at least.

As the minutes pass by and as the electricity seeps out of Arthur’s body and into the air, the pounding between his ears eventually fades. He’s ashamed of losing his temper, even more so of taking it out on Alfred. It’s not Alfred’s fault. Arthur should have told him that the increasing amount of touching was making him uncomfortable. He should have asked Alfred to reign it in, like a proper adult. 

But that would also mean that the touching would stop.  

Arthur knows Alfred; the younger prince would never want to do anything that makes other people uncomfortable on purpose. They’ve both outgrown those years. If Arthur tells Alfred to keep ten feet between them at all times, Alfred will do so. 

He will stop touching Arthur.

A phantom sensation on his head, his arms, his hands, tells Arthur to not tell Alfred anything of the sort. Because who else would touch Arthur so freely, so carelessly? 

Arthur shakes his head, annoyed by the treachery of his own thoughts and feelings. 

He looks around and wonders where he has ended up - he’s not yet mapped out this part of the city. For good reason, he decides, once seeing that the area in front of him is eerily similar to a graveyard. On its side is a religious structure, a temple of some sorts, big enough to fit a handful of people who want to leave offerings to whatever Gods they worship here. 

He wonders if said Gods are any kinder than the ones at home. 

Arthur turns around and tries to retrace his steps. He knows he won’t get lost; not really. In the middle of the city stands the longhouse, a building that functions as the city’s town hall as well as houses the council. He knows from what angle he needs to see it, if he wants to return to a familiar neighborhood. 

Suddenly something half his size bumps into him. Arthur’s more surprised than he is annoyed, considering the fact he had not seen anyone else on the street he is occupying. As he straightens and whirls away, he catches sight of the culprit - a young boy, at most fourteen years old. His blonde hair stands out sharply against his otherwise black outfit. 

“Sorry Arthur!” The boy yells before disappearing around the corner. 

Arthur scoffs. 

And then freezes. 

Arthur? 

As if struck by lightning himself, Arthur bolts. He has to remind himself not to run, because running is not proper - and also, the ground is muddy enough that Arthur would probably slip and fall, were he to run. Once he rounds the corner, he finds no trace of the strange boy. 

Had he been real or had Arthur just been imagining things? There are some people, huddling underneath the awning of a building, but they do not look perturbed and they do not even glance his way as he approaches. Nothing points to the unruly phenomenon of a boy running past.

Arthur looks around: it is a perfectly normal street, all things considered. There’s a vegetable garden at the end, next to a pen with goats. Across from where he stands, he recognizes what is a tanner's homestead, as well as a storage and a smaller tavern than the one he’s frequented so far. 

The building with the awning, though, is unfamiliar. Arthur decides it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. It seems public, and even if it weren’t, he could excuse himself as the foreigner he is and flee under the cover of ignorance. The people under the awning do not stop him though, confirming his assumption.

Not many people are inside of the building he enters, but enough of them linger to not make Arthur feel out of place. The interior is a revelation, one he’s been discreetly looking for. Bookshelves, laden with scrolls and leather bound tomes, meet his eye. The heavy scent of aged parchment hits his nose, as well as a hint of burning wood, courtesy from the hearth standing in the center of the room. In between the bookshelves are a couple of wooden tables, occupied by people who seem to be either reading or writing. 

In the short time Arthur got to explore Dicea, he did not think something as… luxurious as a library would exist in the city. The process of creating books is labor-intensive, he knows, and expensive to boot. And whilst this particular repository is nowhere near as extensive as those in Spades, Arthur cannot help but be impressed. 

Careful of his wet clothing and boots, Arthur makes his way over to one of the bookshelves. He does not see any kind of system that would help him navigate subjects or languages, but right now, that does not matter. Instead of worrying, he marvels at the offer on display, surprised to see some of the leather tomes have been decorated with runes that he recognizes from spell books back in the palace. 

He grabs one of them and opens it on a random page - nothing he can read, but incredibly interesting anyway. As such he does not notice someone approaching him; not until they speak up, that is. 

“Hello there.” The stranger says, gentle, as if not wanting to startle Arthur. The mage feels less startled and more caught, but he keeps his cool, looking up to see a young, blonde man with warm, brown eyes. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before.”

“Probably not, no.” Arthur answers, before hastily returning the book to its shelf. “I arrived in the city less than a week ago.”

“Let me guess.” The man says, smiling not unkindly. “Spades? I can tell by the music of your speech that you are not from Clubs.”

“Guilty.” Arthur admits. Suspicion battles with curiosity: so far, other people had not asked them from which country they were. Suits had been enough of an answer for their expressions to tighten. This man, however, seems much more open-minded. “Have you visited Spades before?”

“No.” The stranger says, with some amusement. “I would like to, someday. I’ve been told it’s worth seeing.”

Arthur thinks of Spades' soft winters and cool summers, of its rainy weather and its green hills, greener forests and large cities. He imagines an Antevarian would be amazed by the lack of snow and mountains - perhaps a little overwhelmed too, by the denser population. 

“Is there anything in particular you are looking for?” The man then asks and Arthur realizes he should have probably said something in response to the stranger’s earlier comment. “I’m afraid we do not have many texts in your tongue here. Most of them concern only Antevarian history and legend.”

How utterly fascinating. Arthur can only wonder about what secrets might wait for him to be discovered; stories of battles and adventures, of wisdom and generational lore. What a pity that he cannot read it, not now or later, when he inevitably returns to Spades. 

He sees an opportunity when one presents itself, however. Here is an Antevarian man, one who treats him with a warm politeness Arthur has not yet encountered in Dicea, offering his help. 

But he has to stick to his cover.

“Actually there is something, or someone, I am looking for.” He admits. The stranger’s eyebrows raise and Arthur soldiers on with the lie, hoping he might get an answer he can work with. “You see, my father is a merchant on the Celestial, a ship that regularly docks here. He went missing a few months ago. My brother and I have come here in an attempt to find him. We were wondering if perhaps Dicea keeps track of the people that arrive and depart by ship.”

“I’m sorry to hear.” The stranger says, and Arthur notes that the man genuinely does sound apologetic. “Relations between our continents might be tense, but we hold tradesmen in high regard. If something has happened to your father, there might be records of it.”

Yes!

“Why don’t you and your brother stop by at the longhouse tomorrow? I am sure me and my fellow counselors can find a way to help you.”

No!

“Counselors?” Arthur repeats, hoping his surprise is masked by feigned confusion. 

“My apologies, I forget myself.” The man says, his serious expression making way for friendliness again. “I’m Tino Väinämöinen, one of Antevaria’s leaders. Which sounds much more serious than it is, really.”

Of course this happens - of course Arthur happens upon the one person who is willing to help him out and of course that same person has to be one of the four men Arthur had been keen on avoiding at all costs. 

“I - it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tino. I’ll discuss your offer with my brother.” He quickly says, grasping at the basics of etiquette, even though it’s a lie - he won’t discuss it with Alfred, at least not in the way his words imply. 

“Splendid.” Tino says cheerfully. “Don’t worry about formalities, you can simply come and visit us whenever you are able. What did you say your name was again?”

“Oliver.” 

“Well, Oliver, don’t hesitate to stop by. Take care on the way home, we don’t often suffer thunderstorms like these.”

As if on cue, another stutter of thunder echoes. Arthur only just manages not to wince at both the noise and Tino’s words. The counselor simply smiles though, nodding at him before turning around and returning to whatever he had been doing previously. Arthur decides not to linger and quickly leaves, unaware of how brown eyes linger on his departing figure. 

Alfred’s not in their room when Arthur returns. He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or not, but Arthur takes advantage of the solitude, for however long it may last. 

The hearth is still lit, fortunately, and Arthur wastes no time approaching it. The storm and rain might have let up sometime after Arthur left the library-like building, but his clothes are still wet and cold. He manages to undo himself of his outer layers without too much shivering, and at least his first layers have remained somewhat dry. 

He crouches down in front of the fire and attempts to warm his hands, before realizing it would take forever with his gloves on. Reluctantly, he peels them off as well and puts them down to dry on their own, before holding his hands out in front of the fire again.

His eyes catch on a sliver of ink, peeking out from underneath his sleeve. With a simple flex of his wrist, he uncovers the rest of the permanent mark. A delicate Spade greets him; bolder outlines, filled in by an intricate pattern of lines and swirls, resembling fine filigree. A near exact copy of the mark on the current queen’s collarbone, and a close twin to the mark on Alfred’s chest. 

Arthur studied the mark so much in his childhood, that he could draw it with his eyes closed. As he grew older, though, he looked at it less and less, opting to hide it beneath long sleeves and gloves. Nothing changed over the years, though, apart from maybe its size. He sighs, and rubs the pad of his thumb over the symbol. 

“Hey,” Someone says behind him, and Arthur freezes - he did not hear Alfred come in. “You’re back.”

Arthur shrugs his sleeve back over the symbol and stands, turning so that he may look at Alfred properly. The other prince is bundled up in several layers of clothing and a scarf, one that partially hides his face. His glasses are fogged over slightly. 

“Where have you been?” Arthur asks, watching the bowl and satchel Alfred is juggling in his hands as he closes the door behind him. Food, Arthur realizes, and as if on cue his stomach grumbles - he hasn’t eaten all day. 

“Sheesh, I heard that from over here.” Alfred says, clearly amused. He puts the bowl and satchel down on the little table in their room and steps away to disrobe himself from any unnecessary layers. “Got you some food, figured you didn’t eat yet.”

The tease is familiar; harmless. Alfred seems nonplussed by their argument earlier, and whilst Arthur is happy that they’re done arguing, he still feels a little uncomfortable. How could he not? He hurt Alfred, despite Alfred’s reassurances that he believed Arthur would never do so. 

“Thank you.” 

Arthur walks over to the table and sits down on its chair before dragging the bowl of soup and the satchel with bread closer. He forgoes propriety as he all but wolfs the meal down, allowing the food to settle his stomach and the heat to warm his bones. As he finishes, he watches Alfred hang his coat, scarf and his own gloves out to dry. 

“Are you - ”

“Guess what I - ”

Both of them quiet down, realizing they attempted to talk at the same time. Alfred laughs and Arthur wants to avert his eyes. 

“Me first,” Alfred declares, and Arthur lets him. “I met this little dude, back at the bakery. Don’t ask me how or why, but he knew my name - my name, name. I couldn’t really follow much of what he said, but he mentioned someone called Lukas. Have you heard of any Lukas?”

Arthur falters; a boy who knew Alfred’s real name - that sounded familiar. He thinks of the blonde kid that literally ran into him, who called him Arthur before all but vanishing. If he had not done so, Arthur would not have followed him, and then he would not have happened upon the library. He would not have met Tino, if not for the boy.

He’s willing to bet the rest of their money that this Lukas, too, is one of Antevaria's leaders. And he’s also willing to bet that this boy is not a figment of Alfred’s and Arthur’s shared imagination. For all he knows, the boy is a magical creature, or perhaps something more sinister. 

And maybe, his appearance means that their best shot are the Antevarian leaders, consequences be damned. 

Alfred apparently takes his silence for what it is not - annoyance, or perhaps anger. 

“I’m sorry.” He quickly says, somewhat anxiously. He walks over to sit down on the chair opposite of Arthur. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that and I definitely shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”

“Are you hurt?” Arthur asks, looking for Alfred’s hands. 

At that, Alfred’s smile returns - so bright and sweet and blinding. He puts his arms down on the table and unfolds his hands, showing Arthur two perfectly normal palms. Well, not perfectly normal he supposes, considering the ugly scar on his right palm. 

“Nope.” Alfred reassures, wriggling his fingers. “You’re gonna have to do worse to hurt me, weather boy.”

The name, ridiculous as it may be, tugs at Arthur’s heart. He thinks of the food Alfred just brought in, of the hunger it suddenly instilled; hunger he did not know had been there before. And without thinking, Arthur reaches out a hand of his own. 

Alfred seems to freeze like a rabbit caught in a snare when the mage presses his bare fingers into the meaty part of Alfred’s right palm. The tissue at the center of the scar is rough and raised, but the forks that branch from it gradually blend into the skin. One feathery line extends onto the inside of his middle finger, ending just over the crease. Alfred’s hand suddenly twitches and Arthur tenses, but Alfred simply chuckles. 

“Little ticklish.” He says, quickly putting Arthur’s worries to rest. He regards Arthur warmly, blue eyes soft and filled with wonder and understanding and - and Arthur can’t look at him for too long, so he looks back down at their hands, still touching.

“Have you ever forgotten to eat?” He asks instead, thinking of the food Alfred brought for him.

“Huh?”

“Have you ever been so busy that you forgot to eat? Yes or no.”

Alfred, understandably so, looks confused at the change of subject. He doesn’t pull his hand back, however, and he does not seem uncomfortable. “Uh, I guess?”

Arthur nods, trying to find the words for what he’s trying to say. 

For what he’s trying to explain. 

“Sometimes you’re just so busy that you forget to eat, but it’s fine. Everything is fine. You don’t even think about eating. You’re probably not even that hungry.”

“Sure?” Alfred prompts. 

“And then you suddenly see something that reminds you of food. Or you smell something that does. And suddenly, all you can think about is how you’re starving.” 

His heart is racing. Arthur tries not to panic, tries not to let the quickening of his pulse get the better of him. It’s warm, as if someone added some more logs to the fire, and Arthur resists the urge to pull his hand back. No, instead he pushes it a little firmer against Alfred’s. 

“Uh, yeah? You know it’s fine, right? I don’t mind bringing you food.”

Of course he doesn’t understand. Arthur frowns, wants to shake him, but he shakes his head instead. 

“No, I mean. When you are like this with me, it’s like that.”

“Arthur, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Frustrated, Arthur grabs hold of Alfred’s hand properly. He curls his thumb and his pinky around Alfred’s hand, squeezing the palm against his own. 

“Listen - it’s like when you forget to eat and then remember. You - and your touching. When you touch me.” Arthur rambles, and it feels as if he’s vomiting the words, but Alfred’s eyes widen, and he understands, he has to. “You touch me and I suddenly remember I’m starving.”

Alfred says nothing, next, looking down at their hands. Arthur fights the urge to reach out, to make him understand, to make him say something. He fights the urge to rip his hand away and to never let Alfred touch him again - but most importantly, he fights the urge to not climb over the table and sink into his embrace, to not ever let him slip through his fingers again. 

Then Alfred looks up and locks eyes with him again. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, but it's nothing cheeky or teasing. No, he looks sad and yet also happy, as if Arthur’s given him the one thing he’s been wanting for his entire life, a thing he thought he would never have. 

And Arthur feels as if he’s suffocating. He’s drowning in that bloody feeling he’s been trying to ignore and push away, but he can’t, not anymore, not with how it envelops him and overpowers him. 

Alfred slowly turns his hand around, slowly intertwines their fingers into a more intimate and proper hold, his smile growing as Arthur allows it. 

How could he not? How could he do anything but succumb to this man, who’s seen all the worst Arthur has to offer, who bears proof of all the worst Arthur has to offer, and who is still sticking by his side? Who isn't shy with displays of affection, whether they be public or private? Who risked everything to help Arthur across the ocean, no questions asked?

Arthur finally admits that which he has known for far longer than he cares to admit: he’s hopelessly infatuated with his future king.

Chapter Text

There is an unexpected warmth against Alfred’s side when he wakes up. 

It’s a comfortable, soothing sort of warmth. One that tries to pull him back into the world of the sleeping. He’s tempted to let it, but then that same warmth squirms. Alfred knows that pillows and blankets do not squirm and he is aware enough of his surroundings to know that there should not be a dog in the room, either. 

Reluctantly he opens his eyes. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust, without his glasses. He sees things up close better than he sees them from far away and fortunately, that what lies in front of him, is close. 

Arthur is still asleep. 

He’s lying on his front, with his face turned towards Alfred. One arm is bent underneath his head in what Alfred doubts is a comfortable position. Its twin must be dangling from the other side. A fold marks Arthur’s cheek, most likely a courtesy of having slept with his face against the sheets. 

They are not close enough to touch, but it is a near thing. 

Alfred probably does not neven have to move his entire arm, just his hand, for it to rest against Arthur’s shoulder. The idea is tempting: ever since Arthur’s admittance of being, for the lack of better wording, touch-starved, Alfred has been at a loss of what to do. All he wants to do is touch Arthur more and more, to give him that which he admitted to missing, but he knows that could also have an adverse effect. 

So instead of reaching out, Alfred simply looks. 

The slumbering mage looks at peace, which is not a look Alfred sees on Arthur often, not even when he catches Arthur unaware. There is no furrow to his dark eyebrows, no tightness to his closed lips. This way he looks much younger than he usually does, Alfred thinks with some amusement. 

As if having telepathically heard the tease, Arthur’s nose twitches and his eyelids flutter. Fortunately he settles again, allowing Alfred more time to study the older prince. He does so unabashedly, eagerly trailing his eyes over Arthur’s face now that he can do so at his own leisure. He’s pretty sure that if he were to stare at Arthur like this when said mage is awake, he would be zapped.

Alfred follows the freckles scattered across Arthur’s face. Some of them are near invisible, and he sees them only due to their proximity. Others are a little more pronounced. Alfred knows that most of them will fade soon: they are always that much more prominent during summer, when Arthur is most exposed to the sun. And while Arthur normally covers his face with a concealing powder, he has not brought such a thing along now, and thus Alfred is now free to admire as he pleases. 

A near-invisible, little scar at Arthur’s hairline catches his attention. He has not seen it before, or rather has not seen it healed over before. He remembers its likely origin: a fall in the garden when Arthur was twelve years old. Which had been the result of being pushed by an eight-year old Alfred, following an argument about nothing Alfred remembers now. He had not meant to push that hard of course, but Arthur had tripped over a rose bush all the same, before falling face first into a decorative stone. 

There’d been so much blood, Alfred remembers with a grimace. And yet Arthur hadn’t even cried, even though Alfred had done so, out of guilt and out of the fear for the consequences of his actions. 

Now it’s nothing but a silvery, nearly imperceptible line. 

Alfred wonders if it’s actually bigger. If perhaps, the rest of what Alfred remembers to be a gruesome wound, is actually hidden in his hair. He’s tempted to find out, but he doesn’t want to risk waking Arthur. 

Instead he allows his eyes to linger on the mage’s hair. The red dye is fading out, and with some amusement, Alfred wonders if it will turn pink before blonde again. 

He’s not sure how much more time passes as he maps out the angles of Arthur’s face, the strands of his hair, the rhythmic rise and fall of his back. But then something outside barks and Arthur’s breathing stutters. 

Alfred quickly closes his own eyes. He does not want to be caught staring, nor does he want to face the awkward situation that will inevitably follow once they both wake. It would be better to let Arthur think he woke up first, to give him a chance to roll out of Alfred’s bed and pretend nothing happened. 

Without nothing else to do but wait, Alfred reminisces on the past few days. They’ve been in Dicea for well over a week now - nine days to be exact. More importantly, it’s been three days since Arthur’s outburst.

They’ve not really… talked about it since then. 

Alfred doesn’t know if they need to and if they do, he does not know where to start. Too much is happening at once, he thinks. 

They are still not any closer to the answers Arthur needs to be at peace, although Alfred admits that neither of them had made any particular effort the last three days. Instead of looking and asking around, they’ve simply wandered around, enjoying the increasing friendliness the town had to offer them. People seemed to slowly warm up to them, most likely because they have not caused any kind of trouble since arriving.  

Alfred wonders if Arthur might be stalling; if he’s afraid of the answers he will find, once he makes an actual effort. Or perhaps, like Alfred, he is simply enjoying the breather that pretending to be a commoner gives them.

Arthur has to know though, as well as Alfred, that their current way of searching is not going to garner them anything. If they want results, they will need to step up their game and approach the Antevarian leaders. That, or summon the Joker once more, a solution Arthur seems to prefer but one Alfred will not allow him to seek out. 

Selfishly he wonders if it would truly be so bad to not figure things out. 

He knows Arthur has been struggling his entire life with his identity and heritage. He knows that Arthur has felt alone for most of his life, partly due to the forced isolation that comes with a childhood spent in a palace, and partly due to the prejudice against his specific brand of magic. 

He wishes he could reassure Arthur that he does not need to feel so alone: because while Arthur himself might not see it, Alfred does. 

He sees Yao’s brotherly dedication to Arthur. He knows Francis’ teasing is rooted deeply into familial affection for his fellow prince. He recognizes the warm sincerity with which Kiku speaks of the mage. And he hears the way the servants in the palace talk about Arthur, always with so much protective fondness. 

He does not know how to make Arthur aware of all this. And so he simply puts that particular conversation off and off. He’ll help Arthur with this first, he’ll help him find the closure he craves. And he’ll definitely not be weird about their developing closeness, no matter how much it leaves his heart wanting. 

But then, of course, Arthur had admitted to sleeping terribly ever since departing Spades. 

And perhaps Alfred had been a little too eager in seizing the opportunity to suggest he help Arthur sleep, like he had done on the Celestial. 

And perhaps Arthur had been a little too casual about accepting the offer without another word. 

That’s how they ended up in the same bed. Not in a way Alfred’s wildest fantasies entailed, but in a way he would have never dreamed of regardless. The beds here are nowhere near as large as their beds back at the palace, after all: they can both fit, but not without the risk of touching one another.

Alfred supposes he should count his blessings that he did not latch onto Arthur in his sleep, thinking him a pillow or a stuffed toy. That might be taking it a step too far. 

A change in Arthur’s breathing greets his ears, confirming his earlier assumption. He forces his own to even out in order to keep the facade going a little longer, curious to find out how Arthur will respond. He half expects him to go rigid and leave; perhaps even panic. 

Neither happens. Instead he feels a careful scuffle, one that comes with rearrangement. He wonders if Arthur turned on his side to sleep some more, his back to Alfred. He wonders even more if Arthur turned on his side to face him. The phantom sensation of being watched makes him believe it is the latter. 

He should cut Arthur some slack - he’s done the exact same thing, minutes earlier. 

Still, it takes everything in him to not startle when fingers suddenly brush against his shoulder. Their touch is light, hesitant. If he had been occupied by anything else, Alfred would have probably not even noticed their presence. Briefly, they still, before dragging delicately over the fabric of his shirt. 

The idea that Arthur is toying with the sensation of touch, with touching him while he’s (supposedly) unaware of it, makes his stomach flip. If this were a dream, Alfred would probably roll over and do something untoward, but it’s not a dream, and as such Alfred keeps up his act. 

Arthur pulls his hand back, but before Alfred registers their absence, they return, this time on the far edge of Alfred’s face. Two of them dance over his jawline, as if mapping out the feeling of his face.

Alfred fights to not melt into the gentle caress, to not angle his face into Arthur’s palm in an attempt to receive more as the warmth of Arthur’s hand travels up to his hairline. Some strands of his hair are brushed back, but they fall back, and after another attempt Arthur gives up. 

The mage lowers his hand again, carefully settling it over where Alfred imagines his heart is. It must be thumping loud enough for Arthur to feel, he thinks, but if it does, Arthur seems unbothered. 

Briefly he wonders what Arthur’s hand would feel like on his bare chest. He wonders, if in a completely different scenario, Arthur’s fingers would trace sparks of electricity down his bare skin. He wonders if a kiss would generate electrical charge, like a piece of wool would do once rubbed. He wonders if the mage would come alight, not figuratively but literally, when touched intimately. 

And, well. 

His train of thought goes down the gutter much more rapidly than Alfred had anticipated it would. A hot feeling pulses low in his stomach. It’s a sizzling, smoldering sensation: much like a hot drink on a cold day, one that has difficulty settling and swooshes around instead. 

Alfred is not unfamiliar with such a feeling. And were he within the privacy of his own chambers back at the palace, he would gladly indulge. He’s even gotten past the initial guilt and embarrassment of picturing the object of his desires, so he’s a big fan of the feeling, usually. 

Right now however, it’s his biggest enemy. 

Arthur might have admitted to enjoying Alfred’s friendship and casual affections, but Alfred does not think Arthur will appreciate it if Alfred next assaults him with proof of his more intimate feelings. 

Even though it pains him, Alfred decides Arthur needs to stop feeling him up. 

Now.

He inhales deeply; feigns a stretch and a grunt to signal his own waking. Predictably so, Arthur’s hand immediately disappears. And Alfred all but tastes the panic in the air as Arthur quickly rolls back and - and out of bed. A dull thud and curse follow and Alfred quickly sits up, his earlier excitement waning as he leans over and looks down at the mage, who is now sitting on the floor with a disgruntled expression. 

“Morning, Artie.” Alfred declares, hoping to smooth out any awkwardness with amicable annoyance by using a nickname. “You didn’t hit your head, did you? We still need it.”

“Bugger off.” Arthur grumbles; he does not seem injured, though he does rub at what appears to be a sore spot on his hip. “It’s a wonder this did not happen at night. This bed is way too small to fit us both.”

Alfred panics: he does not want to agree, because then Arthur will go back to sleeping in his own bed, but he does not want to disagree either, because that would be weird. So what he blurts instead is; “Should’ve thought of that before you climbed in.” 

He’s pretty sure that’s worse. 

Arthur cheek redden, hilariously so, and the mage quickly averts his eyes. Alfred kind of wants to groan with misery and lie back down, so that he can count his losses in a fetal position. 

“Perhaps we should push the beds together next time.” Arthur says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Alfred wonders if his eyes bulge or if it just feels like that. The mage, to his credit, looks carefully nonplussed - and Afred would believe it, were it not for the color dusted across his cheeks. “I could do without a tumble for a wake-up call.” 

Alfred disagrees - a tumble might be a good wake-up call, just not the tumble Arthur is referring to. 

“Yeah.” He quips, aware of how his voice catches and comes out higher than intended. He quickly clears his throat. “Yes, good idea.”

Neither of them say much more, but Alfred would not know what to say anyway. He’s still reeling from the fact that not only is Arthur not deadly embarrassed by their pseudo-cuddling, he is also not opposed to doing it again. 

Perhaps he’s dead, though if heaven is an inn in a foreign country, then the clergy back home have some explaining to do. 

Arthur climbs to his feet and brushes himself off. They did not bother with changing into something more comfortable before they went to sleep the night before, thus there is little to change to prepare for the day ahead. And apart from what they wear at night, they only have one suitable outfit anyway.

“Should we get some more clothes?” Alfred inquires. He does not know exactly how much coin Arthur brought with him, but so far, it’s been more than enough. “Maybe a new doublet or a pair of trousers?”

Arthur looks down at himself, inspecting the shirt and doublet he is currently wearing himself. He even goes as far as to inconspicuously sniff at his armpits and Alfred snorts. They haven’t had access to any of their usual bathing routines ever since sneaking out, but they have a wash basin in their room, which they use. 

He wonders if it would be weird to say he smells fine. Because Arthur does smell fine. He smells of the leather worked into his clothing, of the smokey smell from the hearth he frequents more often now, and of something sharp and fresh, something that reminds Alfred of a storm on a sunny day. 

Yeah, it would probably be weird. 

“We could check out the marketplace.” Arthur agrees, sitting down on the unused bed opposite of Alfred’s own. He slips on his boots, before grabbing the gloves. Alfred watches with some remorse as they’re put on, hiding the last bit of visible, pale skin that did not belong to Arthur’s neck and face. “I’m not sure if we have enough for both, but perhaps an extra shirt is not a bad idea.”

“Sweet.” Alfred says, happy with the prospect. Perhaps he does not so much need a new shirt for cleanliness, but more for comfort - even with the three layers he already wears, he’s cold. He doesn’t know how Arthur manages with only two layers, but then again, he has always run hotter than Alfred has. “Breakfast first? I’m starving.”

Arthur falters for a moment, most likely due to his choice of words. Alfred pointedly ignores him and quickly goes to prepare himself for the day, as well.

The market takes place on a large, oval-shaped square near the entrance to the city. Sturdy wooden stalls are lined up in front of buildings made of timber and stone, ensuring a wide and open space in the middle for people to walk through. On their wooden tables and rough-hewn shelves, a variety of goods are displayed. 

The air is filled with dozens of smells, some familiar and some unfamiliar, as well as the sounds of merchants calling out their wares and offers. The occasional clatter of metalwork sounds from a stall belonging to a blacksmith, though it is not loud enough to disturb the otherwise agreeable cacophony of sounds.

And for the first time in over a week, Alfred feels somewhat at ease. The marketplace reminds him terribly much of the one held near his own hometown back in Spades. 

Growing up he would often visit the marketplace with his mother and Matthew. Sometimes to peruse the stands, other times his mother would catch up with friends while Matthew and Alfred mucked about. 

As such, Alfred finds that he is thoroughly enjoying himself. Merchants jump at the opportunity to explain to him what certain designs on tapestries mean, hopeful that they might sell one to him. A blacksmith gruffly shows him how certain ornamental pieces, unfamiliar to Alfred, are meant to be worn on one’s body. 

A woman at a table laden with barrels of salted fish, smoked meats and pickled vegetables offers him samples of a fish Alfred has never heard of. Some kids at a table with spices accidentally spill some nutmeg on the leg of his trousers. 

Arthur, predictably, sticks close to him. Alfred does not know if Arthur has ever visited a market before, apart from the one time Alfred managed to convince him to sneak into his hometown with him for some Christmas celebrations. 

Probably, the few times Arthur did visit a marketplace, he did so under the watchful eye of several guards, guards who would clear Arthur a path and who would ensure no one approached Arthur without his consent. 

He does not have such coverage now. People bump into them every now and then. They do not hurry to disperse for them. And while Alfred knows Arthur does not particularly like the Royal Treatment he’s enjoyed before, he also knows crowds make Arthur uncomfortable. 

And so Arthur sticks close. There is an occasional brush against his back, an occasional press against his side. He seems interested in perusing the stalls himself, but seems more interested in keeping a sharp eye on Alfred, to ensure he does not disappear from view. Alfred takes his time, moves slowly, both to set Arthur at ease and to give him time to explore at his own leisure. 

He even toys with the idea of grabbing onto Arthur’s hand, at some point. He’s pretty sure Arthur would allow it for practicality. But they’ve been posing as brothers for their entire stay so far and Alfred’s not sure how it would be perceived for two brothers to walk hand-in-hand. Even with Matthew, Alfred ceased doing so sometime after the age of thirteen. 

To give them an air of privacy anyway, Alfred decides to switch over to the native, musical tongue of Diamonds. So far he has not yet heard either Hearts’ or Diamonds’ language; confirming his suspicions that the Antevarian shores are only frequented by merchants from Spades and Clubs. 

“Did anything catch your fancy?” He teases, catching the way Arthur’s eyes linger unnecessarily long on a wooden table filled with trinkets made for wearing. Arthur merely hums, neither confirming or denying, before moving on.

Alfred hangs back to briefly look down at the table with trinkets; rings made from silver, brooches made from bone or copper and necklaces made from colorful beads that catch in the sunlight.

He wonders if Arthur likes these kinds of pretty things. He knows the formal attire chosen for Arthur to wear during formal events is often matched with pieces of the Royal Treasury, such as brooches, rings and even hairpieces. But those items are not his own, they belong to the monarchy and as such can only be worn when Arthur presents himself as its representative. 

Indulgently, he imagines acquiring some pretty knickknacks for Arthur to wear casually. Perhaps a brooch to hold together his cloak; or some cufflinks. Or perhaps something more extravagant. Gemstones such as sapphires and emeralds would match nicely with his green eyes and the Spades’ blue of his usual attire. Silver and gold, maybe? He knows they are conductors for lightning; perhaps Arthur would see humor as well as beauty in it.

Alfred thinks of the golden ring his father gifted his mother, sometime before Alfred was born. A small band, bearing a minimalistic replica of the Jones’ family crest and encrusted with two small rubies. A symbol of his devotion to her. 

They’re not going to be exchanging wedding rings, once they are wed and crowned as king and queen. Their marriage is not a normal one after all. It’s one born out of diplomacy and propriety. Once it’s over and done with, they’ll return to their respective rooms with only one change: their royal titles. 

Maybe if Arthur wore a ring, though, he would not as easily wear those damned gloves. 

“Are you planning on buying something?” The merchant suddenly says, looking a little suspicious. 

Alfred blinks, abruptly torn from his brooding and realizing he has been staring at the trinkets on display a little longer than strictly appropriate. Hastily, he excuses himself with an apologetic grin, fleeing the scene before the merchant calls the guards on him. 

Arthur eyes him with some amusement as he rejoins the mage’s side two stalls ahead. When he next speaks, he does so in an impeccable Diamonds’ accent, one Alfred imagines Arthur would never allow Francis to hear. 

“In the market for a souvenir, are you?”

“Yes, I imagine my mother would love a brooch made from an indeterminable bone.” Alfred deadpans, enjoying the way Arthur’s eyes light up with mirth. 

He then notices that the stand they are at is one of textile and leather goods - items they could use. The garments on display are dyed in earthy tones and adorned with patterns Alfred now recognizes as Antevarian. 

The merchant behind the stall obviously sees that they are in need of additional garments and quickly addresses them, promoting various items made of linen and wool.

Alfred suspects he’s also asking twice than what he would normally ask. But if Arthur, despite his lack of socialization skills, has one thing down to perfection, it is the art of appearing uninterested. 

Fascinated, he watches as Arthur’s attention seems to wane. His eyes lose focus, wandering over to the next stall to see if they offer similar goods. The price drops and then drops some more before Arthur conveys his interest again. In the end, they walk away with not only one new fur-trimmed tunic, but also a pair of leather leg gaiters and a set of linen undergarments. 

“I feel kind of bad.” Alfred admits as he hauls the now-filled knapsack over his shoulder. “I feel like we ripped him off.”

“Oh, we definitely did.” Arthur agrees, though he sounds much less remorseful over it. “And if I had access to the bottomless bursary that awaits us at the palace, I would have given him a year’s worth of payment. Alas.”

“You’re terrible.” Alfred accuses playfully. 

“And you’ll thank me for it once huddled in your additional layers of clothing.”

Well, there is no arguing there. Alfred’s body betrays him with a shiver, one Arthur notices, and he raises an eyebrow as if to further drive his point home. They trade some more banter, or rather Arthur teases him, wondering out loud how someone so thick-headed could be so thin-skinned and Alfred’s much too distracted by the playful curve of Arthur’s smile to take offense. 

The dissonance of the shopping crowd dims as they reach the apparent end of the market. Stalls make place for makeshift tents, occupied by musicians playing both familiar and unfamiliar instruments or by storytellers captivating both young and old with tales that are undoubtedly grand, but ultimately indecipherable to both Arthur and Alfred. 

Crowds are formed around people engaged in friendly competitions over strength or agility and in the distance, Alfred sees a bunch of children playing.

“Do you wish to stay a little longer?” Arthur suddenly suggests. Alfred realizes he’s slowed his step so that he may look around better. “If you want to partake, you have my blessing. Just remember our agreement.”

Alfred laughs as he spots a couple of large men partaking in something that reminded him an awful lot of a game of tug of war. “Nah. I’m fine with calling it a day if you are. Want to grab a bite somewhere?”

Before Arthur can agree or propose a different suggestion, they are interrupted. A blonde man donned in beige and blue colors approaches them, followed by a much taller, much broader man. The size of him is almost enough to intimidate Alfred, though he is more distracted by the longsword attached to his hip - that thing is about as large as his smaller companion, he reckons.

“Oliver!” The man says, and for a moment Alfred is confused, but then he remembers their aliases. He is still confused as to how Arthur knows this man however. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you again. You haven't stopped by the longhouse yet, have you? I hope I didn't miss you.”

“Tino,” Arthur says, and Alfred can tell he’s trying not to do it through gritted teeth. The name rings a bell and he remembers having heard it in other conversations; with Laura, Luca, and with Arthur himself. “We have not yet found the time, no.”

Alfred wonders how believable that is. If this Tino has been told their cover story; if he knows that they are searching for their missing father, would Tino not believe them wanting to make time? But Tino’s friendly expression does not waver. Neither does that of the man behind him, although he looks as stoic as he did upon arrival. 

“The offer stands.” Tino says warmly, before his brown eyes settle on Alfred. He regards him with curiosity, before asking; “Is this your brother?”

Alfred readjusts the knapsack, moreso for appearances than for comfort. As far as these two strangers know, Allen is completely up to date with Oliver’s shenanigans, after all. “Yup! I’m Allen.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Allen. My name is Tino, I’m on the Antevarian council.” Tino nods his head to the man behind him. “Along with Berwald.”

Alfred catches the way Arthur tenses; not one council member, but two of them. Alfred wonders if this Berwald is the violent drunkard, the mage or the one who never speaks. He has an inkling it’s the latter when all that greets them upon the introduction is a curt nod.

“Yeah, uh, nice to meet you too. Sorry we haven’t properly introduced ourselves before, we’ve been… overwhelmed.”

“Understandable.” Tino says, apparently believing Alfred’s awkwardness stems from stress and not anxiety. “Your brother has told me of your troubles. Please know we’re willing to help in any way we can. I am sure we can figure out a way to help you.”

He sounds… genuine, Alfred thinks. And his offer does not sound too bad either. Of course it might cause some problems when they confess they are not actually looking for their father, but it might not be insurmountable. 

Tino does seem nice. 

He knows Arthur has his reservations, but he also knows Arthur is getting frustrated with the lack of success and that he is nearing that moment he might decide to give up - or worse.

“We would love to stop by tomorrow.” He blurts, pointedly not looking at Arthur. He hopes the mage is doing a decent job of hiding whatever anger, betrayal or shock must be coursing through him upon hearing Alfred’s impromptu and undiscussed decision. “Would that be okay?” 

Something strange happens. It lasts for only a second, but Alfred sees it. He sees the way Tino’s eyes dart over to Arthur expectantly, to gauge his reaction. He sees how the other man, Berwald, narrows his eyes upon hearing Alfred’s request, as if he’s expected it.

Alfred wonders if, perhaps, these two people know more than they let on. If they’ve been played with smiles and words of friendliness and if Alfred just fell face-first into a trap. 

Then Tino clasps his hands and smiles. And perhaps Alfred imagined it - perhaps he’s simply tired, perhaps his nerves are just a little frayed, perhaps he’s simply prejudiced by former warnings.

“Wonderful! We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nothing else happens. The Antevarian leader nods in lieu of bidding them goodbye before continuing on his merry way. The taller man follows Tino without another word, though as he passes them by, his eyes linger on Alfred. The younger prince does not know why, but he feels challenged, and immaturely so he straightens his back somewhat, keeping their eyes locked until Berwald looks back ahead of himself.

“Wonderful.” Arthur repeats, under his breath, once the Antevarian leaders have gone. 

Surprisingly enough, he does not whirl around to tear Alfred a new one, nor does he chew him out. Instead he’s glaring at something in the distance - a large, rectangular building with a steep, thatched roof, Alfred discovers as he follows his line of sight.

The longhouse. 

He’s been told that it’s the center of the city not only geographically, but also because it functions like a town hall. A designated place for grand celebrations, political matters and for the housing of the elected council members. People are free to come and go as they pleased, or so he has heard, and they often gather around the hearth for comfort and company.

Arthur starts walking without another word. Alfred follows him silently until they are back at their inn, and until the door is safely shut behind them. Once he’s tossed the knapsack onto one of their beds, Arthur finally addresses him. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” The mage says, hesitantly so. 

Alfred is at a loss for words - he had expected Arthur to be angry, to lash out at him and demand an explanation. He did not expect Arthur to leave the ball in his court. Arthur does not look at him as he removes his outer layers, starting with his cloak. 

The problem is that Alfred does not know what he’s doing - not with the Antevarian council, nor with this wild goose hunt of theirs, and he especially does not know what he’s doing with Arthur.

He’s tempted to ask Arthur why he has not been told about his encounter with Tino, but it might open a new can of worms that, ultimately, would contribute nothing.

“It’s worth a shot.” Alfred proposes instead, hoping he sounds more sure of himself than he is. “We don’t immediately need to show our hand and come clean. We can just, I don’t know, see what they have to offer first?”

With how easy Arthur seems to relent, Alfred suspects that the mage has already been playing with the idea himself. And despite the uncertainty of their next step, that offers him some comfort. It’s better if they are on the same page, if they are an united front. 

“Try on your new tunic.” Arthur then says, changing the subject and walking over to where the sack had been dropped on the bed. He digs through it to find what he is looking for, tossing it unceremoniously over his shoulder so that Alfred can catch it. “If it’s too tight, we might still be able to exchange it.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Alfred returns amicably as he yanks off his current upper garments. Fortunately, the innkeeper has already lighted the hearth in their room, and as such he does not freeze to death while bare-chested in the room. 

“If the shoe fits…”

One shirt hits Arthur in the face, and it might or might not have been on purpose, but who could tell? Arthur grumbles irritatedly as he pulls the worn shirt from his head, and Alfred laughs, quickly pulling the new tunic on so that he may be spared from any repercussions. It fits fine, if a little snug, but nothing insuperable. 

“Seems fine.” He says with a shrug. He wouldn’t be able to wear any of his other shirts under the tunic, but he would be able to wear them over the tunic, and a layer is a layer. Alfred’s long past the point of caring about fashion, not with temperatures like these, and the cloak that goes over all of it covers him from head to toe anyway. 

Arthur furrows his brows, seemingly not completely convinced. He steps closer then, reaches out to smooth over the fabric stretched out over Alfred’s shoulders. Most likely he is not even aware of the novelty of his actions, but Alfred is and he freezes on the spot for it.

He’s as close as he had been that morning, when still sleeping. Only now Arthur is awake, his eyes wide open, his brows stuck in an ever-seemingly present furrow and his lips pursed in a thoughtful pout as he tugs a little at where the fabric pulls around Alfred’s shoulders and armpits. 

Then Arthur’s eyes flicker up to meet his own and as if on cue, Arthur freezes as well. 

Alfred is no poet, but he’s pretty sure time seems to stand still. This close he’s able to make out the specks of amber in the green of Arthur’s irises, able to see his dark eyelashes and even darker brows. 

Arthur’s gloved hands have stilled but they still rest on his chest, just below his collarbone. He looks scared, for lack of a better explanation: though not in a way one might be scared of something terrible happening. Perhaps anxious would be a better fit. 

Nervous, he decides. Arthur looks nervous. And yet he doesn’t look away. Arthur’s eyes are wide, but latch onto him nonetheless. Alfred is much too transfixed to look away, to move away like he should. 

And then movement catches his eyes, somewhere below Arthur’s eyes.

Involuntarily so, Alfred’s eyes lower and he watches the tip of Arthur’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, watches him suck in his lower lip briefly before releasing it again. 

Immediately he feels his own mouth dry, he’s parched, and without helping it he tries to swallow but his throat feels as thick as his tongue. 

“Please.” He blurts, utterly horrified yet unable to help himself.

“What?” Arthur prompts, and Alfred panics, because Arthur cannot have missed how Alfred’s eyes have wandered. 

“Please - I know you don't - please just this once,”

He falters. What does he want to say anyway? Please hug me, kiss me, love -

“Alfred.” The sound of his own name, spoken softly, makes him shiver. “Look at me.”

Alfred does. 

Arthur still looks nervous. His chin dips forward a little, but his eyes are still fixed on him, peering up from underneath his eyelashes. A rosy color creeps up Arthur’s neck, one Alfred imagines is painted on his own face now as well. 

“Your heart races like a frightened rabbit.” The mage murmurs, and the hands on his chest twitch as fingers press into his skin. 

Alfred’s not sure where he’s mustered the courage from, but he raises a hand of his own. The inside of his lower arm brushes Arthur’s upper arm, but the mage does not flinch. 

Slowly, as if handling fine china, Alfred places his hand somewhere along the side of Arthur’s face and neck. He brushes his fingers over where he imagines Arthur’s pulse point is and despite not knowing, not truly, he says;

“So does yours.”

Alfred watches as Arthur’s own eyes dart down to catch how Alfred wets his own lips this time. 

“Is - is this okay?” Alfred then asks, his hand still ghosting over pale skin.

Arthur says nothing, but he tilts his head a little, until his jaw connects with the palm of Alfred’s hand, until hairs on the side of his head brush against Alfred’s fingers. 

Cupping Arthur’s cheeks would probably be too much. Instead Alfred lightly digs his fingertips against the curve of Arthur’s neck, holding him steady as he leans in and dips his head. 

He falters, loses his nerve. Arthur’s eyes flicker with something and the mage leans up. Their foreheads brush, the sensation so featherly light that it tickles. Arthur’s eyes go half-lidded and unfocused and Alfred feels himself go slightly cross-eyed in an attempt to watch it all.

This close, Alfred is able to practically feel Arthur’s lips on his own. 

They’re practically breathing each other’s air. His mind is reeling: what if Arthur is messing with him? It can’t be right: Arthur isn’t cruel. He’s many things, but he isn’t cruel. Arthur can be annoying, snobby, and ill-tempered. 

But he’s also kind, generous and patient. He indulges Alfred in many of his whims, he smiles at kids and plays along with their games, he helps out servants when he sees them in need of assistance and he spends nights down in the kitchen to learn how to bake. 

No, Arthur would never use Alfred’s feelings against him.

“Please,” he tries again, choking on indecision again. 

“Yes.” Arthur says and Alfred does not know what he refers to, but it doesn’t matter, he thinks dizzily. 

Alfred leans in the rest of the way and kisses him.

Arthur’s lips are cold, but warm quickly between the two of them. The hands on his chest clutch at the fabric and for a terrible, horrifying moment, Alfred thinks he’s miscalculated. 

But then those same hands pull and it’s as if the whole world is spinning.

Arthur pulls him down, closer, so that Alfred has no choice but to lower his arm and wrap it around Arthur’s waist. 

The mage’s breath stutters against his lips and Alfred eagerly silences it by kissing him again, chaste but firm, because if he’s finally, finally doing this, then Alfred is not about to make it subtle. 

Arthur all but melts into the embrace, leaning further into him until Alfred has to brace himself to not stumble backwards. Hands travel upwards from his chest, ghosting over his neck before disappearing into his hair. 

The leather of his gloves does not slide smoothly through his hair, but Alfred does not care and only makes a sound, soft, high, bordering on embarrassing. 

Daringly, he darts out his tongue, running it over Arthur’s lower lip. 

Immediately, Arthur shudders, body tensing and hands leaving his hair to once again settle on his shoulders.

No, no, no.

He pulls away from Alfred and Alfred has to remind himself to let him, has to remind himself not to overwhelm Arthur. 

Arthur already seems overwhelmed though. The flush that had started on his neck has bled out onto his face, and his green eyes have gone lidded, his lips swollen. 

By the Gods. Alfred just kissed Arthur. Nary two months ago, Alfred thought his touch repulsed Arthur - some dozens of months before that, he could have sworn Arthur wanted to smother him in his sleep. 

Suddenly he understands how Arthur might feel: overwhelmed, that is. A cacophony of thoughts and feelings and fears and hopes race within him, making his blood roar while also making his stomach do nauseating little jumps. 

Gently, slowly, he untangles himself from Arthur; because while he does not want to get a wrong message across (because Alfred does want to kiss Arthur until he’s dying of asphyxiation), he also knows that Arthur needs the physical space to calm down and he knows that he himself needs the air to think.  

Surprisingly enough, it is Arthur who speaks first.

“Well.” Arthur says, sounding as if he just ran a mile, and Alfred feels his pride receiving a warm, long stroke. “I’d say the tunic fits you fine.”

Alfred’s not sure if they should be talking about his new tunic. They should probably talk about what just happened. They should probably talk about what it means, what it has meant and will mean. 

Alfred should tell Arthur he wants to talk about it. 

Instead he says; “Yeah, I think so too.”

Arthur smiles, small and sweet, and Alfred supposes they can talk about it later.

Chapter Text

Arthur wonders how many crises one person is able to handle at once. 

At twenty-three he has somewhat adjusted to being both a maleficar and an orphan , considering he has been both for as long as he can remember. The added burden of being both a deserter and a traitor to his own throne are still relatively new to him, but it’s growing on him.

Now, on top of all that, he’s also kissed Alfred. 

He’s not unfamiliar with the idea of something being wrong with him but by the Gods, something is terribly wrong with him. 

It’s not as if he has never thought about kissing Alfred. He has done so multiple times even. Sometimes in a negative context, like when he had nightmares about having to kiss Alfred in order to break a spell that turned him into a frog. 

More recently the thoughts had taken place in a more positive context. 

Once when they were down at the beach near the Jones manor, an occasion Arthur at the time refused to think about but nowadays begrudgingly acknowledges. Another time when Alfred leaned over his shoulder to read the recapitulation Arthur was writing concerning a meeting he had earlier with Yao and diplomats from Diamonds. Or during the Clubs coronation ball, when Alfred had looked at him with such blatant adoration for all to see. 

At those times, Arthur dismissed it as a growing need for physical contact, considering his relationship with João had long since started to lack such a thing. He abolished the brief inclinations to kiss the younger prince as nothing more than a passing fancy, nothing personal. 

He knows now that he’s been fooling himself; perhaps he knew it back then as well, but that’s a crisis for another day. 

Because now they have kissed. 

He had not even thought about it, not until Alfred’s eyes started to wander across his face, a plea (for what?) leaving his lips. Not until he cradled his jaw, gently, as if he were going to break Arthur, not until he asked if the touch was okay, until he - 

And it felt so… nice. 

Okay, perhaps nothing as simple as nice. It was maddening, intoxicating, disarming. It was bewitching and enthralling and exciting. But it was not overwhelming, not for a while, not until the reality of it all caught up with him. There was no nauseating thrill, no painful buzz under his skin, none of the discomfort Arthur usually had to go through when - with - well, before. 

Arthur wanted to do it again. 

But they have not discussed what happened yet. Not because Arthur does not want to, at least he thinks he wants to, but he does not know how to do so without making a monumental fool of himself. 

More importantly, he is uncertain of Alfred’s thoughts and feelings, which is not strange on its own, but which is harrowing nonetheless. Alfred had wanted to plead for something; had it been a kiss? He had seemed in a relatively good mood after it happened, despite Arthur pulling back before anything… intimate could happen, despite Arthur sleeping in his own bed the night that followed. 

He doesn’t think Alfred is upset with him. With them. 

By the Gods, why is this so complicated?

Electricity flickers across his fingers and he hastily, yet sufficiently, cleans himself and dresses. In the old mirror of the wooden cabinet he notices Alfred’s lingering glance and upon realizing that he’s been caught staring, the younger prince’s face visibly reddens. 

Arthur quickly averts his gaze, bothered by the fact that he is not all that bothered, and instead fusses over his shirt buttons with sweaty palms. 

Apart from a few cordial exchanges of words, they get ready for the day in relative peace. The chatter of people outside softly filters through their closed window and downstairs Arthur can hear the distant clatter of kitchenware. 

“Here,” Alfred suddenly says, his voice still rough with sleep. Arthur only just manages not to startle and looks back up in the mirror, watching Alfred in its reflection. Alfred’s behind him, having approached him without Arthur noticing apparently, and is holding out his gloves. 

If Alfred notices Arthur’s odd behavior, he at least does him the courtesy of not mentioning it. 

Arthur discreetly clears his throat and turns around, accepting the gloves from the other prince. As he reaches out, his fingers brush against the supple leather, but also against the warmth of Alfred’s fingers beneath. Unable to help himself, Arthur’s touch lingers longer than it would need to. Alfred’s placating smile falters briefly and it seems he might say something, but then Arthur pulls back, clutching the leather gloves in his hand. 

Arthur halfheartedly wishes Alfred would say something about it all. If Alfred brought it up, Arthur wouldn’t have to. An awkward conversation could even lead to an argument, a familiar territory.

Or. 

His eyes briefly linger on Alfred’s lips. 

The memory of their warmth pressed against his own charges headfirst into his sanity; as does the memory of Alfred’s arm wrapping around Arthur’s waist, of his scent invading his senses, of the slick slide of his tongue as it slid around the seam of his lips. 

It takes all of half a second, he imagines, and he does not think Alfred notices; not because the signs are not obvious (considering Arthur’s face feels as if he’s contracted a sunburn), but because the younger prince turns away from him. 

“I’m going to get some breakfast. Do you want anything?”

“I’ll… have what you’re having.” Arthur replies falteringly, because he cannot for the life of him remember any dish he’s ever eaten here when his mind is still grasping at the memory of their rather chaste kiss. 

There’s a quirk to Alfred’s eyebrows; probably because their palates differ enough for a one-on-one copy to be undesirable, but he kindly does not mention it and simply nods before turning and leaving.

The door closes behind him and Arthur waits three long seconds before breathing in and out deeply, loudly. A tightness gripped his chest like a corset, each breath threading through the proverbial eyelets and tightening the laces. 

Grimacing, Arthur reaches up to brush the bangs from his face, forgetting the faint blue sparks leaping from his fingertips. A soft crackle erupts as his fingers brush his hair, startling him with a sensation of tiny electric needles on his scalp, prompting him to quickly lower his hand.

“Bloody hell.” He hisses as he sits down on his bed, flexing his fingers, and memories of how firm Alfred’s chest felt underneath their tips rise unwittingly.  

What would have happened, had Arthur not been shaken into reality by the touch of Alfred’s tongue? If he had not frozen, torn between the urge to continue and the urge to retreat? Would their kiss have deepened? What would Alfred taste like? He can’t imagine, but he knows his scent by now: a whisper of spring, cool morning dew, and a promise of drizzle.

To his horror, a spark of excitement flickers in his abdomen as he inevitably imagines what could have happened the night before. Unknowingly, he had raised his hand and touched his lower lip with it, as if attempting to trace the memory, the taste, of Alfred´s lips. 

Perhaps it is not all that complicated. 

It’s quite a pleasant day, Arthur thinks, though he feels some sympathy for how Alfred shudders when they step outside. The sky is clear at least and although their breathing forms clouds upon exhalation, Arthur does not mind the sting of cold. He much prefers it over the itch of sweat, but Alfred probably would not agree.

“Should we discuss a battle plan?” Alfred says, the cheer in his voice sounding forced. 

He stands close, Arthur realizes, closer than he would normally do or what would be absolutely necessary. His elbow brushes against Arthur’s own and it’s all Arthur can focus on for a second. 

“I was under the impression you had one figured out already.” Arthur replies, somewhat impressed by how steady he sounds. “Considering you decided today’s course.”

“That’s not fair.” The younger prince says, his already forced cheer diminished, and Arthur immediately regrets his earlier words, knowing how they had sounded. 

An apology lies on the tip of his tongue, but it refuses to make itself known and when Alfred reaches out to perhaps grab his elbow or hand, Arthur simply averts his eyes and hopes that Alfred does not see his barely contained wince. 

He probably does though, because he falters and pulls his hand back. 

Arthur resists the immature urge to grab Alfred’s hand. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Alfred says quietly, and Arthur doesn’t know exactly what he is referring to. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Well, he is certainly right on that account. 

“We’ve been on a wild goose hunt for days now.” Arthur says, as if they had been talking about the aforementioned battle plan all along. “We’ll see what they have to offer. With some luck they will show us where they keep their records of those who enter and exit the city and leave us to it.”

Doubtful. 

“What if they don’t?”

Not for the first time, Arthur feels the bitter taste of acid clog up his throat. Feelings of guilt and regret overwhelm him and for a moment, it feels as if breathing is becoming increasingly impossible to do so - he’s led them right into a trap, hasn’t he? 

This all will fail spectacularly and Arthur foresees only two possible outcomes; them on a boat back to Spades, none the wiser, or them in a dungeon somewhere below the frozen grounds of Antevaria.

How could there be any other outcome, when their lack of planning and strategy is becoming so glaringly obvious? And it’s all his fault. Arthur has acted impulsively, emotionally, and desperately. He had not considered the how, only the why and when.

He went and did exactly what Yao tried to protect him from doing and brought not only himself in danger, but Alfred as well. 

“I - ” Arthur begins, but his breath catches and he falters and wheezes. What could he possibly say to fix this? 

“Arthur,” Alfred says softly. Distantly, Arthur is aware that Alfred should call him Oliver out here, lest they blow their cover, but it’s overshadowed by the feel of Alfred’s fingers circling his wrist. “Breathe in deep, okay? And hold it in for a few seconds.”

Arthur sucks in a deep breath and firmly presses his lips together, holding Alfred’s eyes with his own as he waits for his next cue. Alfred waits and says nothing for a while, simply looks at him as his thumb rubs circles into his fabric covering his wrist. 

“And out, slowly.”

It’s remarkable how much tension escapes him as he breathes out and he unconsciously closes his eyes, focusing on the relaxing of his shoulders and the pleasant, albeit muted, touch of Alfred’s gloved thumb on his covered wrist. He’s unsure how long they stand there, exactly, but eventually Alfred’s touch disappears and Arthur mourns it immensely. 

“You know,” Alfred then says, and Arthur opens his eyes now that he is somewhat more sure of himself again. “We really should’ve gone with the husbands-act. I don’t think people here will think kindly of brothers our age holding hands, despite their wildly different culture.”

A treacherous part of Arthur agrees, though not for the same reasons. 

And so instead of gracing Alfred with a response, Arthur merely rolls his eyes. Alfred grins and the familiarity of it brings comfort. He would never admit that out loud however and so he merely turns and starts walking, knowing Alfred will follow closely. 

It does not take them long to reach the square that houses the longhouse, with it being the center of the city both literally and figuratively. 

The sunny day has lured many people out of their homes and as such the square is filled with the sound of haggling, gossip and laughter. Children weave their way through stalls as they play tag or hide-and-seek and there’s a long-haired cat basking in the sun a few feet away, distracting Arthur briefly before he remembers the task at hand. 

The steep, thatched roof of the rectangular building casts a cool shade over the bustling square. The warm glow of strategically placed torches mingles with the scents of roasting meat and fresh bread from nearby stalls, replacing the sun’s fading warmth.

People wander in and out of the longhouse through multiple entryways, though one stands out in particular as its main entrance. No one looks at them weirdly as they enter the building, confirming what they have been told before: that the longhouse is open to everyone who wishes to seek its shelter or warmth. 

Arthur slows his pace as he takes in his surroundings: a long, central hearth dominates the central hall. Every wall is lined with raised platforms and benches, which in turn have been covered by an abundance of furs, ensuring a comfortable place to sit. 

Wooden tables surround the hearth and at it, people are either conversing, eating or reading. Simple, wooden partitions betray the presence of rooms Arthur is unable to see from where he stands. 

Further ahead, at the very end of the central hearth, are four chairs placed in such a way that they could only serve one cause. Two of them are occupied - one by the man Arthur recognizes as Berwald, and one by a smaller man Arthur has not yet seen before. Both of them are occupied by what Arthur thinks must be townspeople, coming to inform them of a happening or to request of them a favor. 

“I see Tino.” Alfred points out, nodding towards the side. Arthur follows his gaze and sees Tino leaning over a wooden table near one of the small, wooden partitions, his eyes cast down at whatever lies on the surface of said table. “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

Arthur forgets to tell him to wait, too distracted by the man present at Tino’s side. He could swear he has seen him before, but he cannot quite remember where - nor can he remember why it would matter. Most likely, it was simply another townsperson, seeking out his counselor’s advice. 

But then he realizes Alfred has made his way over to the table already. He sees Tino and the man look up, and recognition settles in; it’s the man Alfred wrestled arms with a few days ago. He had seemed different back then as well, and now Arthur realizes why - his outfit displays the same sort of authority Tino’s and Berwald’s does. 

Biting back a curse, Arthur hurries over to where Alfred’s already greeting Tino and what must be another member of Antevaria’s council. 

“Oliver,” Tino greets as he approaches, his smile gentle and welcoming. “It is good to see you and your brother again. I am glad you both decided to come after all.”

His words betray nothing but kindness, but the man next to him watches them with a strange smile, one that sets Arthur on edge for some reason, but before he can dwell on it, Alfred cheerfully replies; “Thank you again for offering to help us, sir.”

“Allow me to introduce my fellow counselor Mathias.” Tino says, redirecting his attention to the man next to him. “These are the young men I told you about.”

“The brothers looking for their father.” Mathias says, deceptively cheerful, as if he does not feel much remorse for their supposed situation, and either that means he’s an asshole, or -

Arthur’s fingers twitch as he fights the urge to grab onto Alfred’s hand and pull him out of here. He locks eyes with Mathias, and he must know that Arthur knows, because his grin does not falter at the anxious glare he is given in return - if anything, it seems to sharpen. 

Whatever conversation Alfred is having with Tino goes over Arthur’s head and he isn’t aware of it until Alfred nudges him with his elbow.

“Oliver? Are you alright? You have gone quite pale.” Tino asks, concern written over his face, but Arthur sees Mathias’ eyes squint with delight. 

“I think I need some air.” Arthur all but chokes, and he grabs onto Alfred’s elbow and all but yanks him back, back towards the side entrance. Their best bet is to go to the docks, to find a ship that they can stowaway on, any ship would do, as long as it took them away from here and back to Suits. 

They manage to exit the longhouse without any trouble, but that is where Arthur’s futile escape attempt ends; they’re waited on by Berwald and the other man Arthur has seen before, the fourth and final council member he imagines - the mage, Lukas.

“What’s the matter, Oliver? ” Mathias asks jovially, and Arthur turns around to see that Mathias and Tino have followed them outside. Tino at least has the gall to look somewhat sympathetic; but it does nothing to soothe Arthur’s already frayed nerves. “Cold feet?”

Arthur spares a brief glance towards his feet, realizing Mathias had not only said those words to be witty; ice is rapidly forming around his feet. The realization that he’s being trapped with ice magic bewilders him for a moment, how could it not, when he has never actually seen it in practice?

Next to him, Alfred tenses, unsure of what to do or say. Arthur knows Alfred could break free but offers no cue, preferring to keep their abilities hidden for now.

“I apologize,” Arthur tries, opting for diplomacy. He’s the future Queen of Spades, damn it, and if he can talk himself out of petty arguments with politicians and clergy, then he can do so with these men. “The severity of our situation sometimes catches up with me.”

He pointedly does not mention his restraints, nor attempts to break free of them, hoping his docility will work in his favor. 

“Yes.” Mathias says agreeably, although it is obvious that he is anything but. “Your dear father has gone missing, or so you’ve been saying. I’m sure that also explains why Spades’ navy is looming on the horizon.”

That - that is new information. 

Next to him, Alfred gasps in surprise, obviously not having expected Mathias’ answer either. Arthur resists the urge to glare at him for wearing his heart on his sleeve, a quality he usually admires more than he likes to admit, but one that is not going to help them right now. 

Horrendously enough, the debacle has already managed to attract the attention of the townsfolk around them. The constant buzz of conversations has died down and Mathias’ new announcement causes some of them to gasp and whisper amongst themselves. 

Realistically, Arthur knows they could have expected this. After they vanished into thin air, Suits would first be combed through, but Yao is smart - he’d have figured out where they went, either on his own or with João’s help. But he had not thought he would have done so this fast ; it took them two weeks to make the cross and they have only been here an additional two weeks, give or take. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Arthur begins, realizing holding on to their original lie would be stupid - the Antevarians know that they’re from Spades, after all. 

“Do you know what we do with spies?” Mathias interrupts, averting his eyes briefly as a guardsman approaches to hand him a battle ax the size of a small child. “There’s this bird I love. A blood eagle. You know what an eagle is, right? I can make one from your guts. Ask me how I do it.”

“Mathias.” Someone says behind Arthur, and they sound exasperated. He imagines it is Lukas who says it and not Berwald, but he refuses to check - partly due to the ice still trapping him in place. Mathias ignores him and approaches them, ax in his hand. 

Arthur hears the ice around Alfred’s feet crack. 

“To start, I’ll crush your ribs and crack them one by one. Then I’ll tear out your lungs and stretch them over your back, to aid you in your flight to your Heaven.” 

An attempt to appear intimidating, Arthur thinks. And it might have worked, too, had it not been for the fact that they do not (yet) seem to know who Arthur and Alfred actually are, and thus do not know of their combined strength. Not only that; the intimidation technique is also mitigated by the way Tino rolls his eyes and by the exasperated sigh coming from behind them. 

Arthur's mind raced. Any wrong move could spark a potentially lethal conflict between them and the Antevarians. One which would inevitably lead to a potentially catastrophic conflict between Antevaria and Spades - Suits, even. He couldn’t let them be captured or worse.

“We’re not spies.” Arthur replies, opting to direct his words at Tino, because he is obviously the saner one of the duo. “Our intent is genuine. We - ”

The sound of a sword unsheathing behind them obviously sets Alfred off, conditioned for combat as Arthur knows he is. The younger prince breaks free from the ice trapping his feet and lunges forward within the span of a second, taking them all - even Arthur - by surprise. 

Alfred manages to avoid the sharp edge of the ax’s blade as Mathias swings it in front of him and attempts to grab onto the Antevarian’s arm instead, bending it in an attempt to disarm him. Alarmed shouting fills the square as the townsfolk watch on with horror; Arthur remains frozen on the spot as he watches Berwald rush forward to push Tino out of the fray, his own sword poised and unsheathed - the culprit, then. 

Arthur's heart pounds rapidly in his chest as he stands there, motionless. If Alfred permanently hurt someone, if he fought back too hard, it could be seen as an act of war. But before he manages to do anything, anything at all, Berwald whirls around and charges at Alfred as well. And while Arthur imagines they normally would be able to quickly subdue an opponent with their combined strength, Alfred is not a normal opponent. 

He shoves Mathias back and ducks to avoid Berwald’s swing, jamming his elbow harshly into the man’s side before straightening and headbutting him in the chin. It sends the large, now-disoriented Antevarian stumbling back and more shouts are heard, and so Arthur’s warning about Mathias is drowned out. 

He watches as Mathias’ ax parts the fabrics covering Alfred’s waist but before he can assess whether or not Alfred has actually been injured, Alfred grabs onto the wooden handle of the ax and all but rips it from Mathias’ grip, before hitting him in the face with its pommel. There’s a crunch Arthur hears from where he stands and he internally winces, unsure if Alfred held back or not when he swung. 

“Enough!” Lukas yells and Arthur freezes as he watches Lukas throw out his arms, dispelling a wave of magic towards Alfred. 

Before he’s able to make an attempt at blocking it, he sees and is distracted by the ripple of ice growing over the ground, rapidly making its way towards Alfred. It wastes no time enclosing Alfred’s feet with crystal clunks of frozen water, which quickly build up to his calves. 

“What the - ” Alfred exclaims, stumbling and dropping the ax. He stares down at the ice clawing up his legs in shock and visibly strains as he attempts to break free, but this time when the ice cracks, it is quickly reinforced and grows thicker, higher, reaching his hips in no time.

“Oh, you’re going to regret that.” Mathias sneers, his words slurred by the blood pouring from his nose. He makes no effort to wipe it away however and instead climbs to his feet to retrieve his ax and approach Alfred once more. 

Blood pounds between Arthur’s ears; the ice around his own feet is as it was before, and so they obviously do not deem him a threat, but Alfred’s made a target of himself and although Arthur is unsure if they will kill him, they’ll hurt him - 

“Stop!” He yells, although he does not really register himself doing so, and a searing heat escapes his palms as he throws them up. Thick, burning tendrils of lightning crackle as they escape and lash out wildly, and judging by Alfred’s wince, he’s hit more than the quickly-forming permafrost now reaching his waist. The ice shatters upon impact though, and he’ll apologize for any burns later, because at least Alfred is now free once more. 

All at once, the shouting stops; or at least Arthur thinks it does, through the pounding between his ears. In front of him, Alfred is frozen into place (figuratively this time), watching Arthur with bare concern. It is only then that Arthur realizes his palms are burning, and he looks down, sees how he’s managed to burn away the inside of his glove and how the pale skin of his palm is now red and welted. 

He looks back up and sees the bewildered expressions on the crowd around them, on the council members in front of them. Tino looks about as concerned as Alfred; Berwald seems more disturbed than anything, but it’s Lukas that surprises Arthur - he looks considerate, almost knowing, and where is the fourth - 

“Cheer up, folks!” Mathias roars, before spitting out a mouthful of blood. “It seems like we’re in the presence of royalty!”

Chapter Text

They are not taken prisoner, not exactly, but they are imprisoned. 

After Mathias’ grand announcement, Tino disperses the crowd while Berwald and Lukas, along with a dozen or so guards, usher Arthur and Alfred towards a half-buried house south of the Longhouse. 

The pit house looks rather impoverished from the outside, but once inside, Alfred sees that it is anything but. Whatever wall is not carved from the excavated earth is made of rough-hewn logs and wooden ceiling beams crisscross like the ribs of a great beast above them, but there are also rugs on the floor, as well as sparse furniture strewn about. It does not look like a home, but it does look like a place to stay.

Perhaps for traders… or political prisoners. 

The shuffle of Arthur’s boots distracts him from where he’s brooding on one of the overturned barrels, and he watches the older prince of Spades pace near the door.

After Lukas all but had them thrown into the little house, he told them to sit tight and not cause any trouble before shutting the door and leaving them be. A distant murmur of guards can be heard outside and Alfred knows they are there to prevent them from leaving. He looks sideways, towards the narrow horizontal windows that offer no means of escape, only a view of grass and graying sky. 

Despite the house not being as cold as Alfred would expect, he still shivers. There are a few animal pelts on the bed that he could wrap around him if it gets really bad, but there’s also a small hearth at the far end of the house. 

Alfred wonders if Arthur feels controlled enough to light it with a little spark. Judging by his pacing and muttering, probably not. 

“Do you often talk to yourself?” Alfred asks, because he hopes that if he’s airy about this ordeal, Arthur might snap out of whatever panic attack he is working himself into. 

Arthur settles him with a look, and if looks could kill, Alfred would probably be six feet underground, but he does not take the bait and snap at him. Rather he side-eyes something in the air, something Alfred cannot see. Alfred’s struck with the uncomfortable realization that Arthur might have been talking to a magical creature. 

“It would be more productive to do so.” Arthur utters, annoyed, before turning away from the door and heading over to the hearth. To Alfred’s surprise, he does manage to create a spark, but it takes him three tries and a whole lot of wincing before it actually sets the logs alight. 

Alfred grimaces as he watches Arthur blow on his bare hands; they’re still red and welted from the fireworks he unleashed earlier. Alfred wonders how often such a thing happens and if it would be better for Arthur to have a conductor. 

He pictures him with a wand or staff and tries not to snort at the rather ridiculous image. 

“Well…” He says instead. “At least it’s a step up from dungeons.”

“It’s an insult dressed as a favor.” Arthur says with a scoff as he looks around derisively. Eventually he grabs one of the pelts from the bed and brings it to Alfred, before sitting down next to him. 

Briefly Alfred considers putting an arm around Arthur, but he quickly dismisses the idea. 

“What do you think will happen next?” 

Arthur doesn’t respond at first. His eyes are fixed on something invisible in the distance; perhaps hearing something Alfred cannot. He wraps the pelt around himself, knowing it is better to prevent frostbite than cure it. 

“I don’t know.” Arthur admits eventually, his fingers carefully running along the palm of his left hand. It’s in a worse state than his right, or at least its glove had still been intact, while its twin had been all but rendered obsolete. 

“Does it hurt?” Alfred asks, before mentally slapping himself. Of course it hurts. He’s intimately familiar with the kind of injury Arthur can cause: his are usually superficial and they still sting like a bitch. “Sorry, stupid question.”

“It’s fine.” Arthur murmurs. “It’s not the first time.”

“Does it happen often?”

Arthur says nothing, but closes his hand, as if to hide it from Alfred’s probing eyes. That in itself is answer enough. 

There is a knock on the door, but before either of them can respond, it is thrown open. Instinctively Alfred jumps up to stand in front of Arthur, despite knowing Arthur is probably in a better position to defend himself than he is, as demonstrated earlier. 

Fortunately no defending is necessary. Lukas simply walks in, followed by Mathias. Several guards hover somewhat uncomfortably outside, most likely barred from entering because it would be too crowded. 

Mathias, who is holding bowls and a pitcher, walks over to the low table to drop aforementioned items on it. It must be a meal and a drink, Alfred realizes, for which he is somewhat grateful. Mathias’ face is still bruised, for which Alfred is also somewhat grateful. 

Lukas is holding a jar of something Alfred cannot determine, but he supposes it is not for him, not with how Lukas is looking at Arthur. 

As for how Arthur is looking at Lukas… 

Again, if looks could kill. 

“This should heal your burns.” Lukas says, shortly. 

He holds out the jar for Arthur to take, but Arthur only clenches his hands in a show of defiance. The Antevarian mage matches his glare and waits, but eventually thrusts the jar into Alfred’s arms. 

“What exactly is the plan here?” Arthur asks bitingly. “Or did you twats not think of one yet?” 

“Your hatred burns bright, prince. I could warm my balls on it!” Mathias provokes vulgarly, but to Alfred’s surprise, Arthur does not deign him with a reply or even a look. 

He keeps his eyes firmly on Lukas, most likely deeming him as the only threat. Alfred’s on his side on that one - he has never seen someone wield ice, himself. Then again, apart from Arthur, he has also never seen someone wield lightning. 

Perhaps it is an Antevarian thing.

“Mathias, shut up.” 

Lukas says it with such a lack of emotion that Alfred suspects the mage is used to his fellow councilman’s antics. 

“Obviously we thought you were spies and not royalty.” Lukas says, surprisingly honest. “We will have to decide what to do next. Until then, you two will remain here. We do not want to risk you getting hurt and causing a war with Spades.”

“How did you know we were the princes of Spades?” Alfred asks, wondering if the news about them going missing has somehow reached Antevaria. They had been keeping discreet tabs on intercontinental news, but none of the traders had mentioned anything of note. 

Silence follows. Lukas tears his eyes from Arthur and settles Alfred with an unreadable look. 

“Ha!” Mathias laughs. “We got them both? Those nithings must be pissing their pants over there.”

“We knew he was a prince of Spades.” Lukas explains, nodding at Arthur, before looking back at Alfred and subsequently, Mathias. “Not you. Though I suppose that explains how you managed to throw him around so easily.”

“Hey!” Mathias objects. 

Arthur visibly startles, and through his suspicion Alfred notices a surprising eagerness. “And how did you know I was a prince of Spades?” 

Lukas falls silent again, seems to hesitate. It’s obvious that he has an answer for Arthur’s question; that he knows something. And although both of them knew the logical conclusion was that if anyone would know anything about Arthur’s heritage, it would be the Antevarian leaders, it still comes as a surprise to realize Lukas knows something. 

“Eat, rest and take care of your hands first.” Lukas eventually decides. “We will talk more tomorrow.”

The Antevarians leave without another word and Alfred grimaces as sparks fly across Arthur’s abused fingers. 

After the day he had, the bed looks incredibly inviting. It’s made from solid oak and draped with woolen blankets; its mattress is filled with straw, which is a far cry from the feather-filled luxury back at the palace, but beggars can't be choosers.

There is one problem however: the bed is not very big.

It’s bigger than his single back at the inn, but it’s nowhere near big enough to hold them both without any… touching. And if there had been a couch or arm chair, Alfred would have happily sacrificed himself, but a cold night balanced over several barrels does not seem like it would improve his circumstances. 

At least Arthur says nothing about it. He merely removes his cloak and outer tunic before sitting on the bed, leaning down to untie his boots. 

Stalling, Alfred grabs the jar Lukas gave them earlier and approaches Arthur with it. “We should treat your hand.” He suggests, awkwardly holding the jar out as Arthur straightens and looks at it with an unreadable expression. 

“Will you… do it?” The mage then asks, calculatingly, as if he’s sorting through a dictionary to select the words he wants to use.

Alfred sits down next to Arthur, perhaps a bit too eagerly, without another word. His hip bumps into Arthur’s in the process but he doesn’t acknowledge it and merely opens the jar. Inside is a thick, creamy substance that smells faintly of pine smoke, sweet herbs and an iron-tinged sharpness that hints at magic. 

Without thinking too much about it, he scoops out a glob of it. It doesn’t in any way harm him on impact so he figures it’s safe to use: he doubts the Antevarians would prank them anyway. 

Next to him, Arthur pulls one leg onto the bed and repositions himself in order to face Alfred. He then holds his injured out in between them, and it trembles slightly, so Alfred gingerly grabs its wrist with his clean hand in an attempt to keep it steady. 

Arthur doesn’t pull away, but he seems tense, his shoulders stiff. Alfred tries not to think about it too much as he gently starts to massage the cream on the welts on the mage’s palm. 

It must be cold or feel unpleasant, because he hears Arthur’s breath hitch and feels a slight shiver run through him. A quick glance up shows that Arthur is staring fixedly at the floor, his jaw tight. 

Alfred thinks back to the last time they held hands, the time Arthur grabbed onto his hand and told him he wanted to be touched, and suddenly he wonders if perhaps Arthur did not find the touch unpleasant, but rather very pleasant. 

And great, now he feels his own face heat up. 

Acutely he is aware of how Arthur’s muscles jump beneath his fingers, of how he subtly leans into it one moment, only to tense up the next. It’s like Arthur is caught between craving the contact and fearing how much it affects him. 

Alfred is unsure how much he needs to apply, but he continues until the cream is all but absorbed and then adds another glob for good measure, just in case. Eventually Arthur’s eyes flutter shut and he relaxes, which only makes Alfred that much more nervous. 

The good news is that the welts beneath his fingers are slowly disappearing, so at least whatever healing spell the cream contained is working. The bad news is that Alfred doesn’t really want to let go of Arthur’s hand. 

His heart pounds in his chest, a frantic rhythm he’s sure Arthur can hear. He wants to… to reach out, to touch, to hold, but he’s afraid. The thought of Arthur pulling away, of seeing that familiar wall slam back up, is enough to make his fingers twitch with hesitation. 

His pondering is abruptly cut short when the view of Arthur’s hand in his own hand is suddenly replaced by a whole lot more of the mage. It takes him a second to realize Arthur has not paralyzed him with his magic, but rather with his lips. 

Arthur leans back, his cheeks red and his eyes wide. “Sorry,”

Alfred surges forward and kisses him, kisses him back.  

It hurts in a good way: like dipping your cold hands in lukewarm water, like scratching an itch that had been bothering you all day. Arthur leans back, but he also clutches at Alfred’s shoulder with his free hand, so Alfred simply follows and presses more close-mouthed kisses against Arthur’s warm lips. 

It feels surreal, despite them having done this the night before, but then again, Alfred did not think he would ever get the chance to do it again, having already counted himself insanely blessed for that one opportunity. 

This time, he refused his lips to part, knowing that it was the threat of a deeper kiss that caused Arthur to startle last time. Instead he keeps kissing him firmly, and although he aches to grab onto him and touch him, he refuses to hold anything but Arthur’s slowly-healing hand. 

There’s a moment of stillness, where Alfred savors the closeness, the feeling of finally, finally having what he’s yearned for. For a brief moment it’s perfect, like nothing else matters except the feeling of Arthur’s mouth on his. He’s acutely aware of everything, of how Arthur’s breath mingles with his, the way his hand grips Alfred’s shoulder like he’s holding onto something fragile and precious. 

To his horror, when Arthur begins to retreat, he whines. He actually whines like some dog being denied a treat and he could not be more mortified. A stutter of breath escapes against his lips, and Alfred realizes it’s a chuckle, Arthur’s laughing, and maybe he is a little less mortified now. 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur murmurs and Alfred resists the urge to burst out into hysterical laughter.

“Don’t ever apologize for kissing me, in fact, kiss me all you want, whenever you want.” He babbles, and perhaps he’s forgone the laughter but he’s still feeling pretty hysterical. “Seriously, you don’t ever need to ask, just get right to it - ”

“Alfred.” Arthur admonishes, but he sounds fond, and ugh, when can they start kissing again? 

Using the fact that he still holds Arthur’s hand in his own to his advantage, Alfred raises it between them and gently kisses the mage’s knuckles. A thrill rushes down his spine when a burst of static shock meets his lips. 

“We need to talk about this.” Arthur says, sounding as if he’s saying something incredibly unpleasant. 

Alfred shares the sentiment: talking has never really been their strength. He thinks of Spades, of Yao and shit, Mattie’s going to have a field day once he hears about this. 

“Do we though?” He muses against Arthur’s knuckles, playfully looking up through his lashes. “I feel like we should postpone talking. In fact I think we should not talk at all and instead kiss some more.”

Arthur snorts a laugh under his breath and to Alfred, it’s one of the best sounds he’s ever heard. “By the Gods, what have I created?”

If only Arthur knew how long Alfred had wanted to kiss him. 

Alfred probably shouldn’t tell him. Not with their history of hostility, not when Alfred feels like he is only just starting to understand Arthur. He could lie and say he first wanted to kiss Arthur at eighteen, once he realized he was in love with the older prince, but if Alfred is honest he’s probably been wanting to do it since he was sixteen. Somewhere around the time he realized Arthur had been involved with João - and wasn’t that a hornet’s nest he had no intention of stirring anytime soon. 

“What now?” Alfred asks, in an attempt to distract himself from brooding, to distract himself from lunging forward and kissing the living daylights out of Arthur. “Do you, uh, should we go to bed?”

Okay, maybe saying that was worse than kissing Arthur again. 

Arthur ponders the bed, as if only just now realizing how big - or not big - it actually was. To keep from fidgeting, Alfred busies himself with at least removing his shoes: he’s not really tempted to take any of his layers off with how his breath is forming puffy clouds in the air. 

“All right,” Arthur decides. “Lie down.” 

Alfred nearly trips in his eagerness, and he doesn’t even know what he’s eager for, but the way Arthur laughs makes up for it. Once he settles underneath at least one woolen blanket and two fur pelts, Arthur climbs into the bed with him - settling for only the two fur pelts. 

Whether he does so because he is warm enough or because he wants to keep enough layers between them, Alfred does not know, but he also does not care, not when Arthur slides up and hesitantly cuddles up against his side. 

“Don’t overthink it.” Arthur scolds when Alfred all but freezes. He wriggles a little and manhandles Alfred’s arm, the one Arthur had been uncomfortably pressed against, under and around him, before thoughtfully covering it with one of the furs again. “Are you warm enough?”

Alfred’s burning.

“Yeah, this is fine.” 

Nailed it. 

It takes him forever to fall asleep. 

By the time Tino and Berwald come to fetch them in the morning, they’re awake and dressed. Alfred’s applying a new layer of the healing cream onto both of Arthur’s hands. His burned one already looks much better, but it never hurts to be careful. 

Berwald remains silent, as usual, his expression giving nothing away, which is typical as far as Alfred’s concerned. Tino is much chattier. He starts with apologizing for the way they have been treated the day before, then goes on to apologize for their lodgings and have they had been given breakfast yet? 

It’s jarring how different the four council members of Antevaria are from each other, each one of them having a completely different personality, but perhaps that is why the people chose them. 

“You’re not prisoners.” Tino promises as he walks with them back to the longhouse. The words do not match well with the atmosphere: there are still a dozen guards circling them as they walk through the town and they are still gawked at by the townspeople. “We were just not expecting you two to visit Dicea, it’s not really something that happens, you know.”

“We know.” Arthur replies dryly.

“With all due respect,” Alfred intervenes swiftly, lest Arthur accidentally picks a fight. “we weren’t sure how we would be welcomed. That’s why we thought it best to come in disguise.”

Tino doesn’t seem slighted by Arthur’s tone of voice, nor by Alfred’s crappy excuse. “I suppose it is some comfort that there is no father of two missing. At least, I hope not. Assuming you two are not here for that reason.”

“I have a feeling you lot know exactly why we are here.” Arthur snarks and he skillfully ignores the look Alfred throws him. 

Tino makes a face, as if he wants to say something but thinks better of it. It’s Berwald who eventually speaks up, his voice gruff and heavily accented. “Lukas will explain.”

The remainder of their walk towards their destination is spent in silence, the crunch of their boots the only sound breaking the stillness of the early morning. The cold air bites at Alfred’s cheeks and his breath forms clouds that fade quickly into the gray sky. 

When they finally reach the longhouse, Alfred notes how different it feels compared to their last visit. The hall, then lively with chatter and movement, now seems eerily quiet. The low murmur of voices echoes from the hearth at the center, where a few townspeople huddle close to the flames.

They’re greeted by Lukas, who quickly beckons for them to follow towards a separate room at the back of the longhouse. Alfred’s eyes flick to the guards flanking them, their expressions neutral, hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. The air feels thick, and every step echoes loudly in his ears, a reminder that they’re surrounded and watched. 

The room they enter has a large table in its middle with what seems to be a map carved into it. Alfred assumes it’s of Antevaria and he wonders if the Antevarians have access to any maps of Suits. 

“This is a conversation best held in private,” Lukas says, but the room’s lack of an actual door and the presence of a guard by the entrance feels anything but private. 

Curiously enough, none of the rooms they have seen so far are separated from the main area with an actual door. There are wooden partitions and a curtain here and there, but nothing else. Alfred wonders if such a thing is on purpose; to create an open atmosphere for anyone needing the council’s assistance. 

The four councilmembers settle into the room: Lukas and Tino stand at one side of the table, Mathias hops onto a barrel fashioned into a stool and Berwald stands at the doorway, perhaps to keep anyone else from entering. 

Arthur walks over to the table as well and Alfred is quick to shadow him, unwilling to be too far apart from him, despite the relative safety he senses. 

“Let’s start with why you two have come to Antevaria.” Lukas begins. 

“Why not first tell us how you knew I was a prince of Spades?” Arthur retaliates as he crosses his arms. “As far as we know, no news of Suits about our disappearance has reached your shores.”

“Well, there is the itty bitty problem of Spades’ navy…” Mathias helpfully reminds them. 

“We should start at the beginning.” Tino interrupts, somewhat exasperatedly. “What have you two been told about Antevaria?” 

“Pretty much nothing.” Alfred answers. It’s the truth, in a way: they have been told nothing, only that Antevaria exists, that it holds a fragile truce with Suits and that some merchants are allowed to travel back and forth to trade. 

“And what have you been told?” Lukas asks Arthur. 

“That’s it’s cold.” Arthur begins, somewhat humorously. “A land of ice and mountains. That it’s been at war with Suits in the past.” He falters and looks down at the map on the table between them and the Antevarian mage. “That I’m from here.”

“Which is why you came here.” Tino prompts, gently, voicing the answer to Lukas’ first question. “Were you told of your heritage?”

Arthur’s eyes remain fixed on the map. Alfred can see them flit over its surface, as if trying to find something recognizable, something to latch onto. He’s only able to make out a few names himself, such as Dicea and Duskenfell, names he’s by now familiar with.

“No.” Arthur says, the word quiet enough to qualify as a whisper. “I was told I was born in Clubs.”

“Figures.” Mathias scoffs, sounding wholly unsurprised. “Bet the lightning devilry kind of fucked up their cover story, huh?”

“Is it common here?” Alfred asks, because if he’s honest, it’s a topic that has been on his mind ever since he saw Lukas wield ice. He wonders what it has to do with the Chant of Creation; why wielders of lightning and ice are named maleficar.

“Less common than ice, water or earth.” Tino helpfully answers. “But not unheard of.”

“Why would they make up a cover story?” Arthur asks, getting them back on track. His eyes have left the map and have settled on Lukas once more. 

“It’s complicated.” Lukas begins, before being interrupted by Mathias.

“No, it’s pretty simple. Let me break it down for you: Antevaria was founded by a group of people from Suits who decided they were sick and tired of their damned fate-chosen rulers. Those that defected and crossed the ocean were labeled traitors, but once gone, Suits left them alone, because why bother, right?”

Lukas sighs, his eyes cast upward as if in annoyance, but he does not interrupt. Alfred assumes Mathias is giving them the summarized version of whatever grand tale he had wanted to spin. 

“Until, surprise! Antevarian families start popping out babies with the marks of the Quart Major. Suits doesn’t notice until one king of whatever country dies and no new one has appeared. So they send soldiers to cross the ocean and demand their babies back.”

That makes sense. Children with the mark of one nation are often born in another nation; Alfred doubts the fates take any borders or continents into account when assigning the marks. 

“Antevaria refuses of course. We ask them to simply wait until the babies are of age, so that they can choose their own destiny. That doesn’t sit well with Suits, because how dare people want to take charge of their own destiny.” 

“War was inevitable.” Lukas interrupts, deciding he’s had enough of Mathias’ storytelling. He settles his fellow council member with a warning glare and Mathias holds his hands up with a grin. “We managed to hold our own, but it cost us dearly. You’ve seen the land here. Suits was far more powerful than Antevaria could ever contend with. Eventually a ceasefire was reached. Antevaria would hand marked babies over at birth and in exchange Suits would allow trade between our continents, giving us a chance to develop.”

Alfred’s mind is reeling with the implications of what he is being told. As the future monarch of one of Suits’ nations, he would think he would’ve been privy to this information - to this political agreement that had such far-reaching consequences. 

A bitter taste rises in his throat as he realizes the depth of the deception. How long has this agreement been in effect? How many children had been forcibly taken from their families? 

Did the current King and Queen of Spades know about this? Did Yao?  

Betrayal is not an emotion Alfred is familiar with. He’s been taught loyalty to Spades his whole life, loyalty to his people and to his duty as a prince. But now… now that loyalty feels tainted. 

“When you were born,” Tino directs at Arthur, voice somehow even softer and gentler. “Your mother discovered your Spade and panicked. In her fear she killed her midwife, who wanted to take you to the council of that time.” 

Arthur’s hands clench into fists, but apart from that, he holds deathly still. It seems as if he is holding his breath. Alfred’s own hands twitch with the urge to reach out for him, to tether him to the here and now. He can practically feel the tension vibrating off Arthur, and he knows - he knows - that this story is unraveling everything Arthur believed about his past.

“Knowing she would be punished and you would be taken, she fled her settlement.” Lukas continues. “But survival in the Antevarian wild is nigh impossible. After barely a handful of months she brought you to the council and agreed to give you to Suits, as long as her oldest son would be allowed to accompany you.”

A vast silence followed and Alfred desperately wonders what Arthur is thinking. He watches the rigid set of Arthur’s jaw, the way his eyes have gone cold and distant. He wants to say something, but his throat feels tight: what words of comfort could he possibly have to offer anyway? 

“Suits’ representatives claimed he perished at sea,” Tino continues, sympathetically. “but we don’t know for certain.”

“He’s dead.” Arthur said hollowly, his eyes unfocused. “The - Gilbert said they were all dead.” 

Lukas’ eyes flash with something unreadable at Arthur’s slip; Alfred realizes Lukas knows exactly who Gilbert is. He does not comment on it, which Alfred is grateful for: the Joker is the least of their concerns right now. 

“Well, this could have been written correspondence.” Mathias eventually exclaims, breaking the rather tense silence that followed Arthur’s words. “Now that you’ve got your answers, what are we going to do about your ships?”

“You’re such an asshole.” Alfred grunts. 

“Oh, I do apologize, Your Royal Highness.” 

“Mathias, I swear, sometimes I feel like you should have been deposited into a sock and not into society.”

At Lukas’ rather sudden insult, Mathias laughs, much to Alfred’s surprise. There is a weird sort of forwardness between the two Antevarians; something uncomfortably familiar about Lukas’ vexed glaring and Mathias’ teasing smirks. Even Tino and Berwald do not react negatively to their exchanges - Tino simply looks as fond as ever. 

Alfred realizes they remind him of Arthur and himself. Intimately so. 

“Have they reached out yet?” Arthur asks, interrupting Alfred’s rather mind shattering revelation. “Has Spades sent a representative?”

“Not yet.” Tino replies. “We heard they are holding up the traders coming and going, presumably to interrogate them.” 

“I understand that, now that you have the answers you sought, you might be wanting to return home as soon as possible.” Lukas says as he leans forward, placing his hands on the table in front of him and looking at them rather sternly. “And I hope you two understand that we cannot allow such simplicity.”

“You’re afraid we’ll retaliate for our capture.” Alfred says, somewhat resigned.

It makes sense, especially after the harrowing story they have just been told. Antevaria’s council must ensure their own country’s security and must ensure that the fragile truce between their continent and Suits will hold. They won’t simply allow Alfred and Arthur to leave, not without creating conditions that will safeguard their own interests. 

If Alfred’s learned anything growing up as the future king of Spades, it’s that negotiations will make or break circumstances such as these. 

Arthur looks over at Alfred and immediately, Alfred recognizes that Arthur’s asking him to take the lead. 

“We’re not going to be separated.” Alfred begins, because if anything, either of them are fantastic hostages to exchange. “Allow us to draft a letter in which we state that we are safe and wish for no action, hostile or otherwise, to be taken. That will buy us time to… figure something out.”

“Any other demands, Your Majesty?” Mathias asks sardonically, grinning when Alfred glares at him. 

“Better lodgings.” Arthur prompts near immediately. “I understand you want to keep us under supervision, but we are not accustomed to your climate.” Alfred’s mostly certain Arthur said it only for his benefit, considering Arthur has been all but thriving in the colder weather, but he does not mention it. 

Lukas exchanges a glance with Tino and says something in a language Alfred does not understand nor has ever heard of. They talk quickly, their tongues warping around syllables Alfred would not know how to recreate, before coming to an agreement. 

“Very well,” Lukas agrees. “We will arrange the correspondence and discuss your accommodations. But know this, your freedom and the truce between our lands depends on the trust we can build in these next few days. You will be under constant supervision by our soldiers and mages.”

Arthur’s expression remains unreadable, his eyes fixed on the table, but Alfred feels the weight of the warning settle in his chest. 

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

When Lukas showed up to their quarters to toss him a thick cloak and ask him to follow, Arthur had expected to be taken for a stroll around the city. It had appeared to be so, right up until Lukas brought them to the stables, where two large horses were waiting for them, packed with enough supplies to last them at least two or three days. 

Arthur, more curious than suspicious, had mounted the horse given to him without a word before nudging it to follow Lukas. It had a bit more temper than Bunny did, and was quite bigger than her as well, but Arthur could lament the strain it would take on his thighs some other time - he was even looking forward to the discomfort, because it would distract him from the looming pit of nothing he felt more and more these days. 

At least Lukas did the right thing by not telling him in advance, because Alfred would have surely protested if he had known Lukas would be taking Arthur away for days instead of hours. He does not envy Mathias, Tino or Berwald for the outburst that was sure to have happened once Alfred realized Arthur was not coming back soon.

Not that Arthur could blame him. Alfred has every right to be suspicious of the foreigners, they have only been in their custody for a handful of days. Negotiations concerning their release are strained, with both Alfred and Mathias prone to divert into verbal bickering. Their letter has been written, approved and sent, but a reply would take at least another handful of days, Arthur knows. 

He does not know much more, if he’s honest with himself. Alfred’s been handling most of the negotiations thus far. Arthur… 

Arthur’s ashamed to admit he’s been wallowing. 

With everything he has learned the past few days; with everything he has done … And for what? What little answers he has been given do not solve anything, not the abnormality that is his magic, nor the consequences he will face once Yao inevitably drags them bag by their ears. 

Not even the ever-present pit of despair, the one that’s been festering in him ever since he was old enough to realize it was there. 

The snow-covered terrain blurs as they trot onward. Icy plains stretch out endlessly before them, the landscape devoid of color save for the occasional dark slash of a stunted tree or jagged boulder. 

Arthur allows his eyes to close and his grip on the reins to slack. It doesn’t matter if he falls behind or not; the horse would follow Lukas and even if it did not, Lukas would probably retrieve him. Arthur isn’t sure if it’s a comfort or a curse.

The weight of the thick cloak Lukas has given him presses down on his shoulders, far heavier than it ought to be, and he has half a mind to throw it off, if not for the cold air that bites at his cheeks. 

His mind cycles through the same thoughts, the same questions, the same guilt. Why had Arthur not settled for the answers the Joker had given them? Did he not simply wish to know what had happened to his family and where he originated from? 

The answers he sought had been offered, but they hadn’t soothed the ache in his chest or stilled the restless lightning in his veins. Instead, they had torn open wounds he hadn’t even realized were there.

Why was it never enough ? How much deeper must he dig this hole, one he not only got himself stuck in, but now Alfred as well? He knows the past few days have been hard on the younger prince; he sees the hurt on his face whenever he is confronted with the knowledge of Suits’ immoral history, sees him struggling with his loyalty, which had once been as strong as steel. 

And it’s all Arthur’s fault.

He was supposed to be better than this, a voice whispers in his mind, sounding suspiciously familiar, like an old teacher or caretaker. You’re the elder, the responsible one, you’re supposed to lead.

Instead of leading, of protecting, Arthur had been drowning. Not in storms or seas, but in the suffocating weight of his own thoughts, each one pulling him further into the abyss. And wouldn’t that be a riot, if he were to succumb to the void, prove to everyone that called him maleficar that Arthur could do so, so much worse still. 

Ahead, Lukas urged his horse forward, the man’s back a steady guide through the desolate terrain and Arthur swallows a bitter bout of misplaced envy, because Lukas belongs here, has always belonged here and has always felt like he belonged here.

Arthur’s horse snorted, its breath a misty cloud in the frigid air. He gave it a distracted pat on the neck. He envied the horse, too. Simple. Instinct-driven. Not burdened by thoughts that spiraled endlessly, never reaching resolution.

“You have not asked where we are going.” 

It is not a question, nor a statement; it is something in between and Arthur feels compelled to answer it all the same. 

“Does it matter?” Arthur replies, his voice barely loud enough to be carried across the sharp, cold wind that washes over the icy plains they are treading on. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already.”

He expects Lukas to react; to snort or to assure him he would not. And perhaps Mathias or Tino would have done so, but not Lukas. The ice mage simply regards him from over his shoulder, his profile sharp against the pale backdrop of snow. His dark gaze flickers briefly over Arthur’s slumped form but he says nothing, unsurprisingly. He has proven to be a man of few words and even fewer expressions, and strangely enough, Arthur is completely unbothered by it. 

It doesn't matter where they are going. Perhaps Lukas has set up a meeting with a Spades’ official somewhere outside of Dicea, perhaps he is attempting to cheer him up by showing him another city or perhaps he means to abandon Arthur in the middle of nowhere. 

In the secrecy of his own thoughts, Arthur admits he would much prefer it to be the latter. Perhaps his death would mean the quickened birth of a new Spade Queen, one that would be home to Suits, one that would be fit for their role. Alfred would be devastated, sure, but Yao would set him straight eventually. 

No more words are exchanged, but Arthur doesn’t mind. The brief interruption had been a branch Arthur desperately clung onto. Forgoing more brooding, Arthur instead slumps forward and rests his cold cheek in the horse’s mane. The horse snuffles somewhat indignantly at being used this way, but ultimately it does not object and so Arthur closes his eyes and focuses on the crunch of hooves on frozen earth. 

“We are here.”

By the time Lukas speaks again, Arthur jolts with surprise. He did not fall asleep, considering the uncomfortable position he was in, but he did doze off for however long it had been since he closed his eyes. 

Arthur quickly straightens and rubs his eyes, immediately regretting doing so, the gathered frost on his gloves unpleasant against his eyelids. Disgruntled, he looks around, seeing that icy plains and jagged peaks had given way to a steep, narrow path. 

It takes him a few seconds before realizing the random debris around them is not random at all. Rather than debris, it is a shadow of what must have been a settlement. Stone and wooden remains of buildings are scattered about, as well as abandoned carts and stalls. Further ahead there are a few houses still intact, although their roofs sag under the weight of snow. 

Apart from the occasional squawk of a faraway bird or the groan of shifting ice, it was deafeningly quiet. Arthur grimaces as something foreboding stirs low in his belly; something queasy, something that wants to turn around and go anywhere else. 

He does not ask, and Lukas does not say, not until they dismount and unsaddle their horses in what appears to have once been a stable. Lukas seemingly trusts the horses to not run off because he does not hitch or stable them. He fills one of the surviving troughs with snow and, with a flick of his wrist, fastens two sacks of food on the walls with clear ice. Arthur’s horse momentarily snuffles at his side, searching for a treat and Arthur regrets not having any for him. 

“You know where we are.” Lukas says as he grabs his pack and Arthur does not reply as he does the same. 

He does not want to confirm what he had been thinking - that this was the settlement Arthur had been born in. He supposes it would be typical for the place to be abandoned and void of any life. He wonders if it would have been better if the settlement had not been abandoned; if it had been instead thriving with people who, perhaps, knew of him or his family. 

“What was it called?”

“Attirenth.” 

How surprisingly underwhelming. Arthur feels nothing; no sudden clarity or relief or sadness. Then again, if he were to believe the story, his mother had fled with him immediately after he had been born - how could he have ties to a place he had not lived in? 

“Why did you bring me here?” Arthur asks, moreso because he doesn't know what else to do or say. 

Lukas looks ahead of himself, taking in what must have been a thriving settlement at one point in time. Arthur wonders how long the place had been abandoned; no more than twenty years, if his family still inhabited the place during the time he was born. What could have happened to it since then? A war, a disaster? Did people simply pack up and leave in search for greener (ha) shores? 

“Fate binds your bones to this land.” 

It sounds simple; inconsequential. Lukas says it as if it is a known fact, as if it’s written in stone, as if it’s not something Arthur has been waiting to hear since forever. As if, despite being wary of Arthur and of his ties to Suits, it is something Lukas is undoubtedly sure of. 

Arthur isn’t aware that his knees are wobbly until they meet the cold, unforgiving ground. Cold snow seeps into the fabric but Arthur welcomes the stinging sensation against his flesh. Lukas does not turn to look at him or help him up, not even when a strangled sobs forces its way out of Arthur’s throat. 

Instead he reaches down to grab Arthur’s forgotten pack and heaves it up, before heading towards one of the few houses that is still standing, leaving Arthur to gasp for some much-needed air. 

By the time Arthur gathers his wit and joins his fellow mage, Lukas has managed to somehow light the hearth. He has also unpacked their bedrolls and sprawled them out near the fire and prepared a simple broth - Arthur grimaces at the realisation of how long he must have been sitting outside, sniveling and mourning. 

He sits down near the fire and accepts a bowl of broth, and although he lacks hunger, he slowly eats it anyway, despite the warm liquid doing little to thaw the cold knot in his stomach. He forces himself to swallow anyway, the heat spreading faintly through his chest. 

Lukas finishes first and helps himself to seconds, which he manages to finish as well, seconds before Arthur finishes his own. Briefly, Lukas stills, watching Arthur like one might watch a rabid dog, but when Arthur does or says nothing, he clears away their bowls and the broth and settles down once more. 

“I notice you struggle with properly wielding your magic.” 

As Lukas speaks, Arthur flexes his fingers absently, frowning as the healing skin stretches taut. Mere days before the skin on his palm had been blistered and melted, but now it appears only slightly cracked, like parched earth. 

The lightning beneath pulsed with a faint, restless rhythm, prickling like an itch he could never quite scratch. He hates how his own magic seems to mock him, reminding him of his failure to master it.

“I imagine it hurts.”

“It does.” Arthur answers, truthfully. It has been years since he injured himself quite so grotesquely, and although it has happened before, the pain remains as relentlessly novel and searing as ever. 

The only thing Arthur has learned to control, he thinks with some mirth, is his reaction to it. 

“Have you not been taught to wield a conductor?”

Arthur is unable and unwilling to resist the sarcastic snort that escapes him. 

“I’ve been subject to all sorts of tools.” He replies, because Lukas does not seem as amused as him. “The feathered fans would disintegrate, the flowstones would dry out and the pyrestone rods would overheat and break. And I suppose I do not need to explain why orebound gauntlets would be a bad idea.”

Lukas frowns. “These are all conductors used by mages who wield elements you do not.”

“Exactly.” Arthur says, with some chagrin, because he does not need the reminder. “Eventually we stopped trying.”

“And instead they allowed you to simply injure yourself on the daily?” 

“Nothing quite so forward.” Arthur rebukes half-heartedly. “They taught me restraint.”

Lukas doesn’t respond immediately and stares into the fire instead, the light casting shadows across his sharp features. When he finally speaks, he does so with an uncanny edge to his voice. There is an emotion Arthur could not quite place, moreso because he is pretty sure it is the first time he has heard such unfiltered emotion slip into Lukas’ tone at all. 

“ Restraint ?” Perhaps disappointment, or quiet anger. “And they call us barbarians.”

An uncomfortable silence follows. Arthur chances a brief look upwards and finds Lukas’ usually unreadable face showing slight irritation, which might as well have been a full temper tantrum, considering Arthur’s experiences with the man’s expression thus far. 

He’s pretty sure the temperature also drops, but whether that is because of Lukas, he dare not say. 

“I don’t just hurt myself.” Arthur clarifies. “It would have been fine if I only hurt myself, but others got caught in the crossfire too. Alfred, he…”

Arthur halts, only just managing to not bite down on his own tongue. He does not want to ramble, nor does he want to reminisce on past memories. And it’s easy, usually, because most of the injuries he has caused others had been superficial enough to be healed without any scarring. 

Except for the one on Alfred’s palm, the one Alfred so blatantly flaunts as if it were a battle scar and not something forced upon him at his most helpless. It’s not even charming to look like, not as if it might make him appear more handsome or rugged as knights often believed they did with their hard-won scars; no, the scar Arthur inflicted on him is nothing more but knotty, streaking branches that have caused irreparable nerve damage. 

“He does not seem bothered.”

“He’s an idiot.”

One of the corners of Lukas’ lips quirk upward at Arthur’s exasperated, yet fond admission. It’s another foreign expression on the man and Arthur wonders if, perhaps, he had completely misjudged the Antevarian councilman, or if he was currently privy to certain liberties Lukas would never take when in the presence of others. 

“I have one of those myself.” 

Arthur thinks of Mathias, of how he always hovers nearby Lukas and teases and ribs him, of how he does not seem the least bit spooked whenever Lukas’ would settle him with an icy glare (pun intended), of how easily he weaved around Lukas’ magic back when they were engaged in battle, only a handful of days ago. 

“I cost Mathias a toe, once. We were children and fighting over something mundane. I do not remember why, but I lashed out and a wave of ice surged across the floor to trap Mathias in place. He had been barefoot and by the time we managed to chip the ice away, his little toe had succumbed to necrosis.”

Arthur… does not know what to say to that. 

“You’d think he’d learn caution after that, but no. He still insists on testing my patience every chance he gets. Just a few months ago I nearly impaled him with an icicle.” Lukas continues, unbothered by Arthur’s wide-eyed staring. “And don’t get me started on how often he has to leave our bed because his teeth cannot stop chattering.”

At least this confirms Lukas and Mathias are a couple, something Alfred has wholeheartedly believed for a while now (Arthur ignores that it probably confirms that Lukas thinks Arthur and Alfred are a couple as well). 

“My point is that it is impossible to avoid causing injuries when dealing with magic, whether on yourself or on those you hold dear.”

Arthur thinks back of all the times he accidentally hurt the ones he cared about - granted, the list of such people was not terribly long, but he had still managed to hurt each and every one of them. Alfred, he had hurt more often than he cared to remember. Yao had been subject to it often enough to no longer flinch when lightning tickles his arms. João, Francis, even Kiku have literally burned their fingers on him.

He remembers a young maid, apprenticed under Rosie, her eyes wide with terror as Arthur accidentally burnt the hem of her dress. She had fled the palace the next day, and though no one had blamed Arthur aloud, the whispers had lingered. Maleficar. Dangerous.

“Magic is unruly, Arthur. Even the most disciplined mages falter. Do you not think fire mages have set their loved ones aflame at least once? Restraining yourself will only cause more damage in the long run. You need to find a proper way to conduct.”

“I’ve tried.” Arthur repeats, clenching his hands into fists when he feels an annoyed spark dancing between knuckles. “None of it worked.”

“All elements depend on each other to thrive, Arthur.” Lukas says, somewhat impatiently. “Even the flames here rely on the wood and air to thrive. Without one, the other cannot burn. Your magic isn’t different; lightning depends on air and water, and from lightning comes fire, which allows new life to grow on soil.”

“Right.”

“My point is,” Lukas says, and at last he sounds a little aggravated, and Arthur feels an unhealthy surge of satisfaction and having been the cause. “You need a channel, something natural to guide your magic. If not the traditional garbage they force onto you in Suits, then perhaps something more unique. What that is… we'll have to discover.”

“It better not be a staff or wand.”

“We’ll work on it.”

By the time they return to Dicea, Arthur feels simultaneously lighter and heavier. Being away from the capital city and all problems attached to it has helped clear his mind, and Lukas, despite being as sociable as a rock, made him feel at ease - the ice mage treated Arthur as an equal, not in the way a leader would treat another leader, but in a different way, a way that mattered, a way Arthur could not describe with examples. 

Rather than pushing him to his boundaries or hovering over him in an attempt to comfort him, Lukas had simply been there - a silent, yet firm presence in the corner of Arthur’s eyes as he worked through the worst of his emotions, as he processed the last few days in the only way he knew how, by creating thunderstorms and by raining down lightning strikes. 

Lukas had not flinched, nor blinked in surprise, nor egged him on. By the time Arthur got the worst out of his system, Lukas simply handed him another jar of healing cream, though he did not offer to rub it into his palms. Because that is another thing he seemed to have noticed: he did not invade Arthur’s personal space, did not offer any unnecessary touching. Arthur thinks they have touched only once, when Lukas handed him a bowl of porridge and their fingers met briefly. 

The way back was somewhat livelier than their way towards the settlement. Lukas mused about possible materials Arthur should try out, ranging from materials Arthur has already tried to materials Arthur has never heard from. Lukas did not know of any mages like Arthur nearby, but Dicea’s library had accounts of others, and perhaps they could start with the materials those mages had used. 

Foolishly, Arthur expected Alfred to be waiting at the city’s gate like a disgruntled parent waiting for their child who sneaked out well past their bedtime. When Alfred was not at the gate, he expected a similar scenario near the stables, but he was proven wrong again - instead of Alfred, they encountered Mathias, and now that Arthur finally knew the nature of their relationship, he could see proof of it shine through every interaction they shared.

Because Arthur is still a political prisoner, and because his new accommodation is inside of the longhouse itself, Lukas and Mathias walk him back to his quarters and leave him there, but not before Lukas mysteriously promises they’d get to work soon, which aggrevates Mathias enough for Arthur to hear his complaints even when he shuts the door behind him.

Arthur decides not to give any attention to the flicker of hope in his chest, so dangerously close to his heart, because he would rather be unsurprised than disappointed. He is unwilling to entertain more failed attempts - and yet Lukas’ words linger. If what he proposes would work, if Arthur would actually be able to find a proper conductor, something specific to him? It stirs a faint ember of curiosity, one Arthur cannot afford to grow.

He focuses on Alfred instead. 

The younger prince stands in the middle of their room, watching Arthur with some wariness. He does not look much worse for wear: there are no signs of sleepless nights or pacing or fretting, something that both relieves and irritates Arthur. There is only a faint crease of worry on his brow as his blue eyes study Arthur, most likely looking for injuries. 

And that was when Arthur realizes how badly he wants to be touched.

The thought startles him. Lukas’ distant yet steady presence has been what he needed during their journey, but now… Now Arthur wants warmth, grounding. He wants Alfred.

The other prince must have seen something in his expression, because by the time Arthur steps forward, Alfred is already moving, his arms outstretched. Arthur closes the distance in two hurried steps, and then Alfred’s arms are around him, pulling him close. Arthur fights the instinctual urge to freeze and struggle, overwhelmed by the warmth of Alfred’s body and his soothingly familiar scent. He feels Alfred’s nose burying itself in the hair behind Arthur’s ear, feels Alfred’s chin bumping against his jaw. 

“Are you okay?” Alfred asks, uncertainly, his fingers digging gently into Arthur’s sides as though afraid he might slip away.

Once Arthur successfully forces himself to relax, he all but melts in Alfred’s embrace, and clutches at his back in an attempt to not completely wobble and fall to his knees. 

“I’m okay.”

Alfred huffs out a breath, his grip tightening. 

“I prepared a whole speech.” He says, his words muffled against Arthur’s neck. “I was going to yell at you. Tell you how angry I am and how I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

Alfred does not grace him with this aforementioned speech, at least not verbally. He presses his lips to Arthur’s jaw, the touch featherlight but steady. Arthur does not startle, instead sighs and melts some more, and Alfred buries his face in Arthur’s neck. He inhales deeply, as if soaking his nose with Arthur’s own scent, which must not be very pleasant after days of travel and no washing. 

He feels the weight of Alfred’s body against his own, the way the younger prince seems to sag, as if the worry he’d carried for days finally dissipates. It’s almost childlike, the way Alfred clings to him, and Arthur swallows down the guilt that threatens to rise, shoves it down into the depths where it couldn’t reach him, at least for now. 

They manage to separate long enough for Arthur to wash, and by the time he is finished, one of the Antevarian guards outside of their quarters has brought them stew for dinner. Arthur picks at it, distracted and tired, but Alfred does not pressure him to eat more than he does, simply smiling when Arthur offers his leftovers once Alfred himself is done. 

Not much of import has happened over the two nights Arthur was absent. Alfred managed to convince Mathias to spar with him, or actually he convinced Tino to do so, because Mathias had apparently been itching to get his fists back on Alfred as well, but the younger prince speaks of their sparring with more fondness than Arthur had anticipated he would. No correspondence from the Spades’ ships has arrived yet, and because of that, any further negotiating had been halted, considering Arthur’s own absence as well (not that Arthur contributed much before). 

Arthur shares bits and pieces of his own past few days, of where Lukas took him and of what they discussed concerning their magic and a possible conductor. Endearingly enough, Alfred is much more excited about the idea than Arthur is, even going as far as to pitch a few ideas of his own concernign materials and shapes. Soon, most of his ideas venture into the fantastical setting, and by the time he's describing daggers and swords, Arthur tunes him out, content to simply watch Alfred's youthful enthusiasm unfold. 

By the time night falls, they settle into the rather large bed they have been given - and Arthur is still unsure if he should be glad or embarrassed that they have been given one large bed rather than two separate beds, but the jig of them being brothers is up, and he much prefers Alfred closeby. In fact, he prefers it so much that it creates an unfamiliar urge within him as he lies on his side and watches Alfred, who is a whole arm’s length away from him. He could easily touch him if he moved closer; could then easily rest his fingers across Alfred’s bicep like he would do most nights. 

He doubts it would be enough. 

Alfred is watching him as well, his eyes squinting slightly as they readjust to the absence of spectacles, which are safely resting on the stand next to him. He seems to be thinking about something, struggling with it even, and Arthur’s curiosity to hear it outweighs his impatience.

“Do you,” Alfred begins, halting briefly as if reconsidering. “want to… cuddle?”

Cuddle. 

Arthur is aware they have cuddled before, if one could call it cuddling, what with the sheets separating them and what with Arthur being as rigid as a wooden plank. And it’s not an odd request, not when they are… exploring that which is growing between them.  

“Cuddle.” Arthur repeats, somewhat dryly, and he resists the urge to giggle when Alfred’s cheeks are immediately set aflame. He feels irrevocably fond when Alfred frowns, both embarrassed and irritated, and so Arthur shuffles closer, until he feels the heat Alfred’s body exudes seep into the fabric of his nightwear. “Do you want to cuddle ?”

“Actually, I changed my mind, you can keep your cold fingers and toes on your side of the bed.” Alfred says, somewhat derisively, though Arthur knows when Alfred’s serious and when he is not. 

“What, these cold fingers?” 

In a spur of entirely uncharacteristic playfulness, Arthur reaches for the hem of Alfred’s shirt and delves his fingers underneath, pressing them against Alfred's sides. He wiggles them and Alfred all but shrieks as he wiggles in an attempt to get away, but Arthur’s on a roll now, and he all but crawls closer to keep tickling him. 

And what delightful knowledge, for Alfred to be ticklish. Arthur carefully files the information away for later use. He may not wish to hurt Alfred anymore, but he can surely torture him with means other than permanent injury should the need arise. 

Eventually Alfred manages to gain the upper hand, and he does so by grabbing onto his wrist and all but hauling Arthur on top of him. Distracted both by the precarious position and the slightly too tight grip around his wrists, Arthur freezes, unsure of what to do next. Not even João’s gotten him in such a position before, he thinks somewhat dizzily, and Alfred most likely did not even do this in an attempt to get frisky with him. Beneath him, Alfred freezes as well, his eyes going wide as he realizes what he’s just done. Arthur briefly wonders if Alfred will shove him off, but to his (pleasant) surprise, Alfred simply lays there. 

And so begins Arthur’s exploration. 

It begins unconsciously, he admits. Alfred’s grip on his wrist slackens and Arthur seizes his chance to unhand himself and to place his hands down on Alfred’s chest, testing out the mixed soft- and firmness he finds there. 

He pointedly does not look at Alfred’s face, afraid of what he might find there, but at one point a hand circles his own wrist and Arthur stills, hands still flat across Alfred’s collarbone. Fingers hook around the cuff of his sleeve and skim over the inside of his wrist. The gentle, warm pressure on the Spade Arthur knows is etched onto his skin is not unwelcome, but wholly foreign. Arthur keeps the sensitive skin covered at all times, except for the times he is washing himself, and yet Alfred’s touch does not feel like an intrusion. 

Discreetly, he chances a look at Alfred’s face, and he finds nothing but a pleased smile.

“What’s on your mind?” Alfred asks, his voice hushed. 

A lot of things are on his mind, some of them bad or confusing, but if he lingers on them too long, he’ll back out. 

“I want to feel you.” He blurts, spurred on by their closeness, and he inwardly cringes at how he worded his thoughts; he struggles to find the words to clarify, to explain, struggles how to do so without disappointing Alfred, without him leaving. 

Alfred simply raises the wrist he still holds in his grasp and presses his lips against his knuckles, before maneuvering Arthur’s open palm to lie against Alfred’s cheek. 

And oh, Arthur aches.  

His fingers twitch, his thumb curving around Alfred’s jaw and feeling the rhythm of a slightly faster-than-normal pulse. He feels it when Alfred swallows, a movement he follows with his thumb. 

Alfred’s so warm. Arthur never liked being too warm, but he wants to melt in Alfred’s warmness. Distractedly, because his mind is not entirely there, Arthur lowers his hand and follows the flash of black ink he spotted before, pulling down the collar of Alfred’s loose shirt in order to trace the upper lines of his mark. 

“Do you want to see it?” Alfred asks, and Arthur knows what that means, knows what he’ll have to do because the shirt isn’t that loose, and Arthur shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but Alfred is so warm. 

“Yes.”

He sits back as Alfred pushes himself up to awkwardly tug his shirt off, and then Arthur is suddenly exposed to a lot of bare skin. 

“Keep it above the navel.” Alfred teases as he lies back down, cheeky despite his reddened cheeks. 

Arthur entertains the notion of denying Alfred any more physical touch for the foreseeable future for that comment, but his own eyes betray him as they wander down to said navel. He catches sight of the slight blonde hairs traveling down to somewhere under his breeches and Arthur immediately realises just where he is sitting exactly. 

Before Arthur can do something as mortifying as flee the scene altogether (and where would he go, when there are guards outside their door), Alfred grabs hold of his hand once more and guides it back up, flattening it across the Spade on his chest. 

It’s larger than his own, but he’s able to cover it with his hand. Arthur traces the bold, dark lines with curious fingers, finding the many similarities and differences to his own and committing them to memory. He can feel himself being watched, but tries not to let it distract him as he explores his boon. 

He drags out his exploration of Alfred’s Spade for far longer than he should and he knows he needs to move. There’s a beginning firmness that rests against his thigh and Arthur knows what it is, knows that he’s starting to feel warm himself for reasons other than Alfred’s body temperature. 

The mere realization alone chills him; because he’s not sure if he’s ready for such a thing, for so much so soon. What if he gets overwhelmed, what if he loses control? He does not want to disappoint Alfred, does not want to push him away or hurt him or -

Whether or not Alfred notices his inner turmoil, Arthur cannot say, but when Alfred slowly tugs Arthur down towards him, he obediently follows, half terrified, half curious. But Alfred does not kiss him, does not tug at his shirt - he only pulls Arthur close to him, manhandling him until Arthur is covering him like some sort of blanket, before grabbing an actual blanket and covering them both with it. 

“Don’t you want - ”

“This is all I want.” Alfred murmurs, one arm slung comfortably across Arthur’s back, in a way that would allow Arthur to slip away if wanted. He does nothing else, merely settles and quiets down, as if he’s perfectly content to fall asleep like this. 

Arthur feels as if he’s going to explode out of his skin, as if lightning is going to consume him whole. It doesn’t, but Arthur is aware of the fickle static he’s emitting; it’s not enough to hurt, but it’s there, a tingling caress. Alfred must feel it, shirtless as he is, yet he does not react. Not negatively at least, because he does sigh and nuzzle his face into Arthur’s hair, like he did when he hugged him that afternoon.

He doesn’t mind, Arthur realizes, and he did not think he could be any more besotted, but apparently, he could. Slowly, he relaxes and rests his cheek against the warm skin of Alfred’s shoulder, feeling the restlessness all but seep out of him. 

Chapter Text

It’s not often that sleep eludes Alfred. He’s lucky like that, he supposes, as it’s fairly easy for him to fall asleep once he lies his head on a pillow and closes his eyes. 

Tonight, however, is different. 

The night is still, save for the occasional creak of the longhouse settling or the muted voices of the guards stationed outside. Arthur is pressed against his side, fast asleep. His breathing is slow and even, his head resting lightly against Alfred’s shoulder. The weight is both grounding and distracting; it’s the kind of closeness Alfred had only dared to dream of before these past few days. 

Despite the urge to twist and turn, Alfred keeps still, not wanting to disturb him. But his thoughts are too loud, too restless to allow him the peace Arthur seems to have found. 

Alfred doesn’t begrudge Arthur his rest, however. It’s rare for the older prince to sleep this soundly, Alfred knows. It’s not something Arthur talks about, but Alfred knows Arthur frequently struggles with bouts of sleeplessness. He’s seen the weary hollowness under his eyes, skillfully covered by make-up and magic; has witnessed Arthur wandering the halls during the oddest hours of the night when Alfred himself had gotten up for a midnight snack. 

As a child, Alfred always thought Arthur was sneaking off to some clandestine meeting or hidden study session. It led him to sneak after Arthur, though never quite sneakily, resulting in more arguments between the two of them. It wasn’t until one of the palace’s older maids gently explained to him Arthur had a habit of seeking solitude when sleep evaded him. 

Now, more than ever, Alfred understands that peace is something that’s hard to come by for someone like Arthur. He sees it in many things he used to misunderstand: the electricity that occasionally sparks from Arthur’s fingertips when he grows anxious, the way he curls in on himself when someone gets too close, the flashes of self-doubt he tries to disguise as arrogance.

But he’s been better, lately. 

Alfred doesn’t know if it’s due to exhaustion, considering their stressful journey thus far, or due to contentment: Arthur’s gotten the answers he’s been searching for his entire life, after all. 

He’s changed ever since they left Suits. He seems at ease, finding comfort in their closeness, sleeping whilst tucked into Alfred’s side as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. After his impromptu getaway with Lukas, Arthur’s become more… social, seeking Lukas out and debating with him the merits of magic and whatnot with a glint in his eyes Alfred cannot recall ever having seen before. 

All of which sparks more doubts in Alfred’s already tumultuous mind. 

He wonders, not for the first time, if Arthur would even want to return to Suits once this is all over. The question feels dangerous to even think about, but it clings to him like a stubborn splinter. 

Away from the rigid expectations of court life, away from the ever-watchful eyes of Spades, Arthur’s sharp edges seem less defensive and more defined. He belongs here in a way that Alfred can’t ignore. 

What if he doesn’t want to come back with Alfred? What if he sees this place as a chance to start over; a chance to be someone other than Spades’ lightning-wielding maleficar prince - or queen? 

The thoughts come unbidden and Alfred feels a pang in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. He forces himself to breathe deeply, silently counting the beats of Arthur’s steady breaths against him. 

Alfred might not ever admit it out loud, but the idea of ruling without Arthur terrifies him. He’s always envisioned their future as a shared one. Even when they were kids and always fighting, Alfred saw them as partners. Without Arthur at his side, the future feels like a hollow, glittering cage.

And Arthur…

Alfred knows how much Arthur has struggled with - with everything. He knows how Suits’ bias and beliefs have shaped Arthur’s sense of belonging or lack thereof. Meanwhile, Antevaria has not only given him answers, but also the potential for a home - people who understand him, who don’t see him as an anomaly, but as one of their own. 

A bitter taste rises in his throat at the idea that Arthur might be happier here. He doesn’t want to think it, doesn’t want to believe it, but the evidence is hard to ignore. And if Arthur wants to stay… 

Whatever happens, whatever choice Arthur makes, Alfred will support him. Even if it breaks his heart.

Arthur shifts slightly in his sleep and Alfred instinctively adjusts, his arm tightening around him. He glances down at him, pushing aside morose thoughts to instead marvel at Arthur’s peaceful demeanor. Without the sharpness of his usual guarded expression, Arthur’s face seems softer, younger. 

Even if sleep doesn’t come, the warmth of Arthur at his side is enough.

It’s midday when word comes that correspondence from Spades has arrived. Alfred is just returning from washing up after a sparring session with Mathias, his hair still damp and his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably, when Lukas fetches them - Arthur is holed up in their room with a tome, a poorly translated companion, and various metals, bravely attempting to make sense of it all. 

The longhouse has been mostly cleared of citizens, leaving the central hearth and its surrounding benches feeling oddly intimate. 

“Good morning,” Tino greets them as they sit down, his tone measured as he holds a document in his hands. “I trust you both had a restful night?”

Arthur nods curtly but says nothing and Alfred offers a half-hearted “As much as we could.” His focus immediately shifts to the parchment in Tino’s hands.

“This arrived early this morning,” Tino says, noticing Alfred’s wavering attention. “It’s from the Jack of Spades, Yao.”

“Yao?” Alfred asks, the name coming out almost incredulously. He hadn’t expected their Jack to leave Spades, especially not with the king and queen likely reeling from their disappearance. 

Tino nods. “Apparently, he thought this situation warranted his direct involvement. His ships are among those on the horizon.”

The weight of that statement settles between them like a stone. Alfred exchanges a glance with Arthur, who doesn’t outwardly react but whose knuckles whiten slightly as he reaches for the letter. 

“I’ll let you read it for yourselves,” Tino says, leaning back slightly as Arthur picks up the parchment.

Alfred shifts closer, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder as his eyes skim the elegant handwriting. The strokes are unmistakably Yao’s: meticulous and impossibly precise. Alfred feels a faint, familiar pang of comfort and dread at seeing it again.

To Their Royal Highnesses Prince Alfred and Prince Arthur,

It is with great relief that I write these words, knowing that you are both alive and safe. The news of your departure from Suits has caused great concern within the court and the kingdom, and while I am deeply relieved to hear of your wellbeing, I cannot overstate the severity of the situation you have placed yourselves in.

Arthur, Alfred - your safety is paramount. Whatever grievances or uncertainties led you to leave without notice, we must now focus on ensuring your return home without delay.

The court is abuzz with speculation, and the presence of our navy near Antevaria has not gone unnoticed. Tensions are high and I fear any misstep could lead to unintended consequences. I urge you both to trust me to handle negotiations with the Antevarian council swiftly and decisively.

I demand, with all the urgency I can convey, that we meet as soon as possible to resolve this matter. The navy has identified a neutral location at sea where this meeting can take place. I will bring a small delegation to represent Spades and ensure your safe return.

Stay safe. Be cautious. And, for once, listen to reason.

Yours faithfully,

Yao Wang
Jack of Spades

By the time Alfred finishes reading, Arthur has lowered the letter and is staring at Lukas and Tino with an expression, before stiffly asking: “And you have agreed to this meeting?” 

“Yes,” Lukas confirms. “A location has been chosen, and we’ve sent word back to Yao. Berwald and I will accompany you to ensure all parties’ safety.”

Alfred glances at Arthur, who nods almost imperceptibly. “When do we leave?”

“At first light tomorrow.” Lukas answers. “The meeting is to be held on a neutral ship anchored at sea, well away from either coast. That said, we should discuss terms. This will not be an easy negotiation.”

“First, I’d say it’s about time we introduce you to one of our customs.” Tino interrupts, waving over a guard who brings them a set of simple, but beautifully carved wooden cups and a clay pitcher. “It is Antevarian tradition to conduct business over a drink, to foster understanding and camaraderie.”

“Bit late for that.” Arthur murmurs under his breath, and Alfred hopes he’s the only one who has heard it. 

“This is aquavit,” Tino explains as he fills the cups with a clear, slightly golden liquid before handing them out. “Traditional, strong, and best enjoyed with company.”

Alfred accepts his cup, sniffing curiously at the drink. It smells sharp, but he’s never been one to shy away from something new. Arthur takes his cup more cautiously, his fingers brushing the rim distractedly.

“Tomorrow’s meeting is critical.” Lukas continues, once Tino settles down, and he glances at Alfred. “You’ve made bold statements about change, but boldness alone won’t be enough. We need specifics.”

The words hang in the hair and Alfred feels his pulse quicken. Lukas couldn’t have known what statements Alfred made, not unless Mathias had passed them along. Then again, why wouldn’t Mathias have mentioned it? Most of their sparring matches have been less about physical strength (considering they both knew who would win) and more about Alfred letting loose the storm of thoughts and doubts inside of him. 

He remembers the clash of their training swords in the clearing behind the longhouse, the satisfying thud of his strikes being blocked and the rhythmic give-and-take of the fight. Mathias had grinned at him with his usual cocky energy, clearly enjoying the exercise, but Alfred’s mind had been elsewhere. With some taunting and teasing, Mathias eventually got Alfred to spill his concerns about the policies shaping the relationship between their nations. 

And, subsequently, his perhaps unrealistic desire to change things. 

At the time, Mathias simply tested his resolve with more taunts before telling him that he’s got guts, and that had been the end of it - or so Alfred thought. 

Alfred leans forward slightly, the aquavit warming him from the inside as he gathers his thoughts - and most importantly, his courage. “Changing the policy of taking marked children has to be a priority.”

He’s acutely aware of Arthur’s presence beside him, the way the older prince seems more reserved, as if waiting to see how Alfred will handle the pressure.

“How do you propose to convince your kingdom, or the other three, of this?” Lukas asks, his tone challenging. “They’ve held this policy in place for generations. It’s entrenched in their governance. Morality will not change this.”

“We end the policy entirely,” Alfred blurts. The words feel bold and final as they leave his mouth, even though his heart hammers in his chest. “No more taking children from their families. If a child is born here with a mark, their family should decide what happens. If they want to send them to Suits, fine. But if they want to raise them here, that choice has to be respected.”

Arthur’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide with surprise. Even Tino and Lukas seem taken aback, their carefully composed expressions faltering for a moment.

“And you think Suits will just agree to this?” Lukas asks skeptically, his tone cutting. “Do you understand what you’re asking for? You’re suggesting Suits give up power and influence for... what, exactly?”

Alfred falters as doubt floods his thoughts. He knows Lukas has a point; Suits has no incentive to change, not unless they’re forced to. What if this is all too idealistic? What if he’s just making things worse? He takes a shaky breath and clenches his hands into fists beneath the table.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he says, forcing strength into his voice. “What Suits is doing is wrong and not sustainable. This... this isn’t just about fixing the past. Antevaria isn’t just some distant land we trade with. It produces heirs to the thrones of Suits’ kingdoms.”

He stops abruptly, the words catching in his throat as he realizes the weight of what he was about to say. His heart pounds, and his gaze flicks instinctively to Arthur and he clamps his mouth shut before he can go any further.

Arthur is watching him, his expression unreadable, and Alfred’s stomach twists into a knot. The silence stretches uncomfortably, and Alfred’s confidence falters. He looks away, staring into the flickering hearth as his face burns with embarrassment. 

“I mean...” he starts again, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “What I’m trying to say is that... we can’t keep pretending Antevaria isn’t part of Suits’ story. We need to be proud of it and honor the connection instead of burying it like a shameful secret.”

He chances another glance at Arthur, but the older prince hasn’t moved. Alfred swallows hard, wishing he could read whatever was going on behind those green eyes. 

“If you’re serious about transparency, you’ll need more than good intentions to make it work.” Tino says, helpfully distracting Alfred from his sudden anxiety.  “Suits isn’t exactly known for welcoming change.”

“I know that.” Alfred replies, regaining some of his earlier fire. “But if we don’t start somewhere, nothing will ever get better.”

Lukas narrows his eyes, clearly unimpressed. Alfred’s heart sinks, and for a split second, he’s convinced he’s lost whatever credibility he might have built up earlier. But then, to his surprise, Arthur speaks.

“What Alfred means, is that this arrangement has been built on lies and exploitation.” Arthur says, his voice quiet but steady. “Antevaria deserves better. And as a nation, Spades would benefit more from a true partnership than a relationship built on coercion and resentment.”

“But why would this matter to you?” Lukas presses skeptically. “You’re from Spades. What’s Antevaria to you, beyond a convenient excuse to make demands?”

Alfred knows it’s not personal, because he suspects Lukas has developed a soft spot for - well, Arthur, at least, Alfred perhaps not so much. Still, the words cut deep, forcing him to confront something he’s still uncomfortable with himself. He looks at Arthur again, takes in the tension in his jaw and the electricity flickering faintly at his fingertips. 

And the answer becomes clear.

“Because Antevaria isn’t just some other continent. It’s Arthur’s home.” Alfred says, aware of how Arthur stiffens next to him. “And Arthur is the future queen of Spades. That makes Antevaria important to me. Hiding Arthur’s heritage, hiding the truth, it’s wrong. It dishonors both of our nations.”

The room falls silent. Neither Tino nor Lukas say anything, but their gazes linger on Alfred. Tino smiles amicably and even Lukas’ expression softens. Next to him, Arthur is quiet, unmoving, and although Alfred wants nothing more than to reach out for him, make sure he - they - are all right, Alfred keeps his eyes firmly trained on the two Antevarians opposite of him. 

“Well,” Tino says finally, his voice quiet but thoughtful. “This has been... unexpected. But not unwelcome.”

Lukas leans back and crosses his arms. “You’ve got conviction, I’ll give you that. We’ll see how much weight your words carry tomorrow.”

The longhouse is quiet when they return to their chambers. The doors to the building are still closed, preventing Antevarian citizens from seeking the longhouse’s comforts, and Alfred suspects they’ll be opened once Tino and Lukas conclude whatever business they still need to attend after their rather long preparations for tomorrow’s negotiations. 

Alfred walks a step behind Arthur, his thoughts spinning. He can’t get a read on his counterpart, only sees how stiff Arthur’s shoulders are and how clipped his movements are. 

He must be angry or offended. Alfred replays the conversation from earlier over and over in his mind, wincing as he recalls how he’d brought up Arthur’s heritage in front of Lukas and Tino. It hadn’t been his story to tell and yet he’d barreled forward, driven by a mixture of righteous fury and desperation to make a point. 

What if Arthur didn’t feel the same - what if the answers Arthur had found here, the connection to his homeland, had made him realize that this was where he truly belonged?

When they reach their chambers, Arthur pushes the door open without a word and steps inside. Alfred hesitates at the threshold, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to make things worse, but he can’t bear the silence stretching between them. Finally, he follows, closing the door softly behind him.

“Arthur,” he starts, his voice hesitant, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Arthur spins around so suddenly that Alfred’s words catch in his throat. The fire in Arthur’s eyes is startling and for a moment, Alfred thinks he might actually yell. But instead, Arthur speaks, his voice sharp.

“You surprise me.”

The words are simple, but there’s a weight to them that leaves Alfred frozen in place. Before he can respond, Arthur continues, his voice rising slightly as he gestures vaguely in Alfred’s direction. 

“You keep trampling over every single wall I build around myself and you don’t even seem to realize you’re doing it. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Alfred blinks, taken aback and he attempts to speak, but Arthur does not let him. 

“You’re so considerate, so bloody thoughtful. And for what? For me? ” He scoffs, though there’s a tremor in the sound. “I don’t deserve it. Any of it. Especially not from you.”

“Arthur, that’s not - ”

“You should be angry at me, Alfred. You should hate me for all the trouble I’ve caused you. Not just now, but always.” Arthur interrupts, his voice breaking slightly. “Do you even remember what we were like as children? How many times I pushed you away? How many times I - ”

He stops, his hands trembling at his sides as he takes a shaky breath. Alfred stares at him, utterly speechless. Suddenly he realizes it wasn’t anger that captivated Arthur earlier. It was fear, shame, and something much worse: a heartbreaking doubt in Alfred’s feelings for him. 

“Now I’ve dragged you into this mess, made you leave Spades, made you lie to everyone you care about. You should - ”

“Stop.” Alfred says, the single word cutting through Arthur’s somewhat repetitive tirade like a blade.

The mage freezes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, but he doesn’t speak or protest. He just looks at Alfred, his green eyes wide and apprehensive, like he’s waiting for a blow or reprimand that Alfred is never going to deliver. 

“Arthur,” Alfred says, stepping closer, his heart aching at the sight of the mage unraveling before him. “I could never hate you.”

Arthur opens his mouth as if to argue, but Alfred doesn’t let him. “I’m not mad at you. Not for anything in the past, and definitely not for now. You didn’t drag me into this. I’m here because I want to be. Because I care about you."

He hesitates, his throat tightening. 

“If you can’t see how much you mean to me, then I haven’t shown you well enough.” Alfred continues, his own voice breaking slightly, but he stubbornly barrels on. “That means I’ve failed, not you.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy with the weight of everything they’ve said and everything they haven’t. Arthur looks away, his jaw tightening as he blinks rapidly, and Alfred realizes that he’s holding back tears.

Finally, Arthur speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t understand why. You should be furious with me and yet, yet you’re not, you’re fighting for me. For a future I’m not even sure I deserve. And I don’t understand why.”

Alfred steps closer, his hands hovering uncertainly before he reaches out and grabs Arthur’s hands, rubbing his fingers against the rough fabric of gloves. He looks down at them and gently peels them away, studying Arthur’s newly-bared hands as he gathers the courage to continue. 

“Because I love you.” 

The admittance feels like stepping off the edge of a cliff. It’s frightening, terrifying. His entire life has been about strength and politics, but love isn’t something he can lift, push or carry. It’s not something he can fight with a sword or with sheer determination. 

And yet it also feels like discovering, mid-fall from the aforementioned cliff, that he can fly. Relief hits him like a tidal wave, because it’s true, Alfred loves Arthur, has loved him for so, so long, and to finally name what’s been inside him all this time feels like a triumph. 

As such, the proverbial dam all but breaks. Alfred lets go of Arthur’s hands and turns away, not wanting his expression to be on display as he admits his feelings. He sighs and sits down on an armchair behind him, because despite being high-strung with nerves, Alfred’s just so exhausted. 

“And I should’ve said it sooner, but I’m terrified of losing you. I’m scared that you might not want to come back with me, that you want to stay here. That you don’t see a future with me in it now that you’re home.”

Arthur’s head snaps up at that, his green eyes wide with something Alfred can’t quite read. Alfred forces himself to keep going, his voice trembling but determined.

“I shouldn’t have brought up your heritage like I did. Or your future as queen. That wasn’t fair. This is your story, your choice.” He falters, his throat tightening. “I just... I don’t want to lose you.”

Silence follows. Arthur’s expression shifts from startled, to uncertain, to fragile and uncomfortable. Alfred peeks only briefly before lowering his gaze to his own hands, nervously fidgeting with his fingers as he waits for a response.

“Home.” Arthur repeats suddenly, incredulously. “Home? You think this - Alfred, you absolute twat. You’re home.”

Alfred freezes as Arthur’s words hit him like a jolt of electricity. He stares at the older prince, his mind struggling to catch up with what he’s just heard. Arthur’s cheeks are flushed, whether from anger, embarrassment, or something else entirely, Alfred can’t tell. But his voice, when he speaks again, is steady and sure.

“Do you honestly think I care about staying here? About this place? Yes, I wanted answers, I needed answers, but that doesn’t mean I want to stay. It doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon everything - abandon you - just because I finally know where I came from.”

Arthur steps closer, his movements sharp, almost frantic. “And as for a future with you… I want nothing more, you fool. Do you know how much that terrifies me? How much it... it hurts to realize that I could have lost you before I even let myself admit - ”

Arthur’s shoulders tremble slightly as he falters, before groaning with frustration, and then he’s in front of him, leaning down and twisting his hands in Alfred’s shirt to all but yank him up into a kiss. 

Despite their unfortunate position, Alfred responds immediately. He cranes his neck for a better fit and raises a hand to cradle Arthur’s jaw, tilting him for a better angle. Even though they have kissed quite a few times now, Alfred doesn’t think he could ever get used to kissing Arthur. It’s not long before he loses himself in the taste of Arthur’s lips, even if his neck is aching a little. 

Just as he’s mentally debating the merits of standing up, a tongue traces the seam of his lips and Alfred lips part with a muffled moan. Arthur’s tongue meets his, careful but determinant, and a shudder ripples through Alfred’s entire body. He tries not to seem too eager as he allows Arthur to explore, but it’s difficult, what with his entire body feeling like it’s a string that’s about to snap. 

He trails his hand from Arthur’s jaw to the nape of his neck, squeezing gently as if to tether him, and feels Arthur’s own hands tremble where they’re still twisted into Alfred’s shirt. Slowly, Alfred breaks the kiss and bumps his nose softly against the mage’s. 

“Breathe, Arthur.” Alfred murmurs, and Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his green eyes dark and fixed on Alfred’s with unfamiliar desperation. 

Alfred smiles and sits back, gently loosening the iron-like grip Arthur has on his shirt and bringing his left hand up to his lips. He presses kisses to each of his fingers, his knuckles and to his palm before sliding his lips over the inside of his wrist. As he kisses the Spade symbol delicately but with intent, he feels the throb of Arthur’s pulse beneath his lips. 

Tiny sparks of electricity follow in his wake but they do not hurt, only tingle. Arthur must think otherwise because he tenses and attempts to pull back his arm, but Alfred does not allow him to do so, and instead licks a broad, wet stripe over the ink to cheekily get his point across. 

The gesture is, however, a bit more profound and lewd than anticipated. Arthur’s eyelids flutter and before Alfred knows it, he’s got a lap full of mage. Arthur definitely knees him in the side at one point but none of that matters because he also slides his free hand up Alfred’s neck, tangling his fingers into his hair before dragging him back into another wet, demanding kiss. 

“Arthur,” Alfred attempts, because perhaps this is a little too much, too sudden, and he doesn’t want to freak Arthur out, doesn’t want to overstep - 

“Shut up and kiss me.” Arthur answers between kisses, his hands alternating between Alfred’s hair, neck and shoulders, seemingly unable to decide on where to rest and instead choosing to flounder all over. 

And well, Alfred’s nothing if not willing to do whatever Arthur wants him to do, so he does just that; he keeps kissing him, though he avoids his lips this time, peppering sweet kisses over Arthur’s cheeks, jaw and forehead until he feels Arthur tremble in his lap. 

“Say it again.” Arthur pleads, breathless, tugging at Alfred’s hair as Alfred presses a long and doting kiss to his neck. Alfred doesn’t need to ask for clarification, something in him simply knows what it is Arthur wants to hear. 

“I love you.” He murmurs against the skin of Arthur’s jaw, allowing Arthur to catch him into another slow, adoring and wet kiss.

He curls a hand around Arthur’s hip, squeezing gently as Arthur all but melts further into his embrace, his hands fumbling with his shirt, pushing and pulling until fingers touch skin and trace ticklish lines of static up his sides. 

He feels the chair they are in tip backwards ever so slightly and in an attempt to not have them tumble down or break the damned thing, Alfred repositions them, but in doing so he insinuates a thigh between Arthur’s legs to move him along. Arthur slants forward as accidentally rocks his hips against Alfred’s thigh, and Alfred feels as if he’s on fire when he feels the evidence of Arthur’s arousal against his leg. His own cock all but flies up in attention, juvenilely eager for whatever may follow. 

But then Arthur startles and Alfred immediately loosens his grip to allow Arthur to disengage. 

“Sorry.” Alfred all but gasps, trying to ignore how wonderfully debauched Arthur looks with his flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes and swollen lips. “We can stop, if you want.”

Arthur frowns, looking almost… pained, Alfred realizes, and it’s enough to clear away some of his lustful haze. Arthur’s fingers retreat from where they’d been pressing into Alfred’s bare skin and return to fidgeting with the fabric around his shoulders. 

“I don’t want to stop.” Arthur all but grits out, and although his words say one thing, the tension of his body says another, something Alfred both sees and feels.

“We can keep kissing.” Alfred offers half-heartedly, hoping it might appease, might bring back some comfort. “We don’t need to do anything else. Just… maybe we need to relocate.”

There’s a vulnerable look to Arthur as he registers Alfred’s words and for a chilly, dreadful moment, Alfred wonders why Arthur feels obligated to take things to the next level. 

Then a faint crackle of electricity sparks from Arthur’s fingertips and tickles Alfred’s jaw. Bereft, Alfred watches as Arthur hastily pulls his hands back and clambers out of his lap. 

It’s for the best, he knows, but he deeply misses the warmth Arthur had provided seconds prior. Once Arthur is back on his feet, he starts pacing, raking a hand through his hair. Another pop of electricity sparks at his fingertips, causing some wayward hairs to stand upright, and the words come pouring out, sharp and fast. 

“This is infuriating. I hate that I can’t - I want this. I want you. And every time I try to, I just… It’s not fair!” Arthur mutters, frustration palpable in his tone. “You’re - you’re everything I could possibly want and yet I am ruining it.”

Safely tucking Arthur’s confession away for later enjoyment, Alfred sits a little straighter and resists the urge to readjust himself - he doesn’t want to bring any undue attention to his unfortunate situation, and it’ll go down in a moment anyway, considering the lack of sexy-ness in their current conversation. 

“We don’t have to rush anything.” He says, not even surprised by his own honesty about the situation. “Arthur, for years I’ve dreamt about simply being able to hold your hand. If our - if this never progresses past the occasional hug and kiss, I would still much prefer it over going back to whatever we were before.”

Arthur stops his pacing, staring at Alfred with wide eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time of that day. Then his face twists, contorting into something hurt, and he clenches his eyes shut - but not before Alfred saw them beginning to water.

Alfred all but jumps out of the chair, mentally cursing himself for making Arthur cry, even though he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong exactly. His hands twitch with the urge to reach out and hold the mage close, but he doesn’t know if his touch would be welcomed, so he awkwardly stands in front of him. 

“You’re insufferable.” Arthur laments eventually, having managed to withhold the waterworks, although the tears are audible in his voice. “And I am in love with you beyond reason.”

It’s a confession Alfred had not thought to hear - at least not today. He had not expected Arthur to return his admission of love so soon, considering past experiences. As such, he’s not exactly sure what to do; he wants to lose his marbles and gush and kiss Arthur’s entire face, but he doubts that would be appreciated right now. 

“And I love you, Arthur.” Alfred repeats for the third time that day, and if his voice is shaky, then no, it isn’t. “And if we need to take things one step at a time, then that’s what we’ll do. Besides, there’s a lot going on right now. It’s probably for the best if we wait.”

Arthur exhales shakily, his posture relaxing slightly as he looks at Alfred. “One step at a time.”

“Exactly,” Alfred says, smiling reassuringly. “No expectations, no pressure. Just us.”

For a moment, Arthur says nothing, his gaze searching Alfred’s face like he’s trying to find something he’s been missing. Then, slowly, he nods. He parts his lips, hesitating as if he’s wanting to say something but unsure of how to say it, when a soft knock at the door interrupts them. 

“Arthur?” Lukas asks, his voice somewhat muffled due to the wooden door’s barrier. “The metals from Cardinea have arrived.”

Curiosity sparks in Alfred’s chest as he remembers how Arthur has been spending more and more time with Lukas lately, in an attempt to find a solution to a problem Alfred can’t ever fully grasp: controlling the volatility of Arthur’s magic. 

Arthur blinks, the spell of their conversation broken. He straightens and smooths his tunic, before fetching his gloves from where Alfred dropped them before and quickly pulling them back on. When he looks at Alfred again, there’s something hesitant in his expression, almost apologetic.

“I - ” Arthur starts, but he falters, his words tangled somewhere between his mind and his tongue. He glances toward the door, where Lukas undoubtedly waits. 

“It’s okay,” Alfred says softly, forcing a smile to reassure him, even though his chest aches faintly at the abruptness of it all. “You should go. This is important.”

“Are you sure? After all that…” Arthur gestures vaguely between them, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words.

Alfred nods firmly, though his exhaustion is catching up with him after the emotional whirlwind of the day. “I’m sure. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

Arthur doesn’t move immediately, his gaze lingering on Alfred like he’s searching for something. Permission, perhaps, or understanding. Finally, he nods and takes a step toward the door.

“I’ll be back soon.” he says quietly, his voice carrying a rare gentleness that makes Alfred’s heart ache all over again.

Lukas’s voice calls again, a touch of impatience in its tone, and Arthur sighs before opening the door. He steps into the hallway, murmuring something to Lukas that Alfred can’t quite make out, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alfred sighs and sinks back into the chair. He’s exhausted, not just from the day’s physical demands but from the sheer emotional intensity of everything that’s unfolded.

And yet…

Arthur loves him.

The thought settles over Alfred like a blanket, comforting and surreal all at once. He smiles as he stares at nothing in particular, allowing the happy realisation to calm him for now.

One step at a time. 

Chapter Text

Considering the journey from Spades to Antevaria itself took fifteen days, it takes them a while to reach the neutral area in which they agreed to meet. 

Fortunately, this time, professional healing magic is at his service and as such it takes Arthur only little more than one day to recover from his sea sickness. The ship, which rises and falls rhythmically along the waves, no longer causes his stomach to roll. He stands at the railing near the stern, holding onto the worn but sturdy wood as he ponders the endless expanse of gray ocean. 

The Northern Gale, as a true Antevarian vessel, is practical and modest, yet undeniably impressive in its craftsmanship. Made of dark oak and adorned with intricate carvings, it cuts through the waves with ease, its rectangular sails billowing lazily whilst catching cold wind. The deck itself is simple but spacious, with sailors moving about in quiet efficiency, their boots softly thudding on a deck that houses multiple cabins.

Arthur and Alfred have each been provided with a small, private cabin. They’re just large enough to fit a narrow bed and a modest chest, and while the privacy should be a comfort, Arthur finds himself unsure how to feel about it. After weeks of sharing a room with Alfred, the solitude feels strangely alien. It’s unsettling to realize how accustomed he’s grown to Alfred’s constant presence, the warmth of his company filling the spaces between them. The thought of returning to the palace, with its expansive halls and their separate, far larger quarters, leaves him feeling unexpectedly hollow.

The thought sours his mood and he turns around, looking across the deck to where Lukas and Berwald stand near the bow, their faces almost identically serious, which would be comedic were it not for the reason. 

Arthur could not begrudge them their solemnity; his mind, too, is consumed by the weight of the next few days. Their meeting with Spades’ officials will determine whatever happens next, both for Spades and Antevaria - and Arthur cannot help but feel anxiously responsible. 

Because he’s the reason all of this is happening. He set all this in motion because he sought answers to questions he had all his life, and now that he had these answers, they felt hollow. The truth about his family, the circumstances that had led to his being sent away from Antevaria - the truth had not been what he’d expected. As prince of Spades, he knew his life had been dictated by politics, but he never could have guessed to what extent exactly. 

Worst of all? The answers he had been given have not brought him the clarity or closure he had been hoping for - not yet, at least. Instead it left him with a gnawing uncertainty about the choices he’d made. 

Has it been worth it? Leaving Spades? Lying to Yao and everyone else who had cared for him? Dragging Alfred into the chaos of his personal quest? The thought makes his stomach twist with guilt.

A faint creak of wood behind him catches his attention and he glances over his shoulder to see Alfred approaching. Somehow, Alfred looks as though he belongs here just as much as he does in Spades’ gilded halls, his movements easy and his broad frame blending in with that of the sailors around them. 

His impossibly blue eyes find Arthur and a bright smile adorns his face; combined with the little light from the overcast sky catching in Alfred’s blonde looks, Arthur feels his heart skip a figurative beat. 

“You’ve been out here a while,” Alfred says as he joins Arthur at the railing. “Everything all right?”

Arthur hesitates, his gloved fingers brushing the worn wood beneath them. “I’m not sure.”

Alfred leans against the railing, his shoulder brushing Arthur’s in a show of jarringly familiar affection. “You’re thinking about Yao.”

Arthur resists the urge to grimace and turn away. Yao has always been more than just an advisor to him. Arthur spent his childhood chasing Yao’s approval, clinging to the subtle nods and rare smiles that felt like victories in a world where praise was scarce. As a boy, Arthur tried so hard to live up to his expectations: straightening his posture, perfecting his calligraphy, biting his tongue when frustration threatened to spill over. 

And he can’t quite shake the fear that he’s ruined everything now. He lied to Yao, defied him, upended everything. And in the end, Yao had been right all along in his attempts to shield Arthur from the mess he’s gotten himself in. 

He’s not sure if Yao will ever forgive him. 

“I’m thinking about what’s going to happen next.” Arthur says, once realizing Alfred is waiting on an answer. “There will undoubtedly be repercussions.”

And not just for them, either. 

His thoughts shift to João. Had their future Ace announced their departure after allowing them to escape, or had he waited until asked? Had he been punished for not stopping them when he could? Had he said nothing at all, is his involvement still unknown? 

Arthur does not look forward to reuniting with him, that’s for sure. He hadn’t been fair to his… to João. Not during their involvement, nor when he ended things, something that became clearer the more involved he became with Alfred - the very person João accused of driving a wedge between them. He would have to face João when they returned to Spades. As the king’s Ace, João would be an integral part of Alfred’s future, and by extension, Arthur’s. They couldn’t afford to let personal grievances fester. 

Another bridge to cross when they return home, Arthur sullenly thinks. Any confrontation with João will pale in comparison to the one he’ll have with his court back home - or worse, the clergy. There’s no doubt that they will use this transgression to further brand him an outcast. 

And he can’t say any of this, not to Alfred, because Alfred will heave the burden with him, will sacrifice his own reputation just to stand by him, and Arthur can’t do that to him. 

“I don’t like that look.” Alfred says, playfully nudging Arthur with his elbow before sliding up in front of him. “What if I told you to stop thinking and start kissing me?”

For what it’s worth, Alfred’s crude attempt at distraction works, and Arthur falters for a moment. He feels his cheek warm as he looks around the very public setting they are in. 

“Here?” He clarifies, because surely, even Alfred knows why such a thing is ludicrous. 

“Why not?” Alfred replies, leaning even closer with a grin that promises nothing but mischief. “Can’t a man kiss his betrothed whenever he pleases?”

Despite his lingering embarrassment, Arthur feels his mood soften at Alfred’s antics. He tries to maintain an expression of exasperation, but Alfred has a way of unraveling his compuse with the smallest of smiles and glances, and Arthur wonders why he still tries. 

“Are you always this insufferable?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to deflect.

“Only when I’m around you.” Alfred teases cheekily. “You bring out the best in me, sweetheart.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but the term of endearment sends an involuntary warmth spreading through his chest. Alfred’s been getting into a habit of using endearments lately, as well as casually mentioning their arranged betrothal, but in a way that implied it a source of joy rather than an obligation. 

As if it’s something Alfred looks forward to. 

Arthur thinks of Alfred’s earlier confession of love. 

“Aw, you’re blushing,” Alfred continues as he braces his hands on either side of Arthur on the railing, caging him in. “Come on, Arthur. Give me one good reason why I can’t kiss you right here, right now.”

Arthur hesitates, glancing around the deck. The sailors were scattered, focused on their tasks and paying little attention to them, but the mere thought of such public affection makes him squirm.

“Because,” he begins, fumbling for an argument that doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels, “it’s... unseemly.”

Alfred tilts his head, feigning deep consideration. “Hmm. Nope, doesn’t convince me. Try again.”

Arthur sighs again, though this time it’s accompanied by a small laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Alfred says, his tone softening just enough to make Arthur’s heart skip another proverbial beat. Before Arthur can do or say anything else, Alfred leans in and brushes his lips lightly against his temple. 

“See?” Alfred murmurs, his voice warm and close. “Not so unseemly after all.”

The younger prince steps away and winks, before turning to rest against the railings next to him once more. Arthur attempts to relax, his heart still beating faster than it should as he mentally lingers on the faint imprint of Alfred’s kiss on his temple. 

How disarming it is, how easily Alfred reminds him that love doesn’t have to be complicated. And maybe, if it weren’t for their surroundings, Arthur would have had the courage to grab him by the shirt and yank him back in for a proper snog. 

Maybe. 

On their fourth day at sea, they glide into view of the neutral meeting point previously arranged. 

The Spades ship is hard to miss.  It’s one Arthur recognizes, one he’s seen from afar on royal tours and visits. The royal blue sails and Spade symbols spark a nauseating mix of homesickness and anxiety in his chest and he clenches his fists, suppressing the lightning that threatens to flicker from his fingers. 

From his position at the railing, he slowly sees the dots on the nearby ship transform into human beings. Almost immediately he locks his gaze on two familiar figures, standing tall and composed on the ship’s quarterdeck: the Jack and Ace of Spades.

Yao’s expression is unreadable from afar, a combination of sharp calculation and something solemn that Arthur can’t quite place. Distantly, he’s aware of Alfred’s eyes on him - perhaps an attempt to seek out his gaze and comfort him with a smile, but Arthur is unable to tear his eyes from the nearing ship. 

Surprisingly, actual comfort comes in the form of Lukas. The ice mage moves to stand next to him, close enough for Arthur to notice and yet not enough to touch. He does not say anything, but Arthur hears his quiet support loud and clear anyway once he looks over to find Lukas appraising him with a neutral, yet thoughtful expression. 

It’s almost eerily quiet once the ships come to a stop. The only noise comes from the ocean around them, its waves gently sloshing against the hulls of both ships. Sailors are quietly murmuring among themselves as they prepare to lower a bridge, but they falter when Lukas steps forward and raises his arms to form a thick bridge of ice between the two vessels. 

It’s a bold and political move, Arthur knows. Undoubtedly to prove that the Antevarians are not to be trifled with. He almost smirks when he sees the people from the other ship (his people) gasp and startle. Not Yao, though, but Arthur would be disappointed if he had startled.

“We welcome the delegation of Spades aboard the Northern Gale.” Lukas says, further cementing the political move Arthur suspected he wanted to make all along. “We trust you’ll find our vessel hospitable enough for the purpose of our meeting.”

Fortunately, Yao takes it all in stride. Although the bridge must be at least somewhat slippery, he easily steps onto the bridge and makes his way across it in measured steps. The Ace follows him with equal sureness, but a few of the other soldiers seem to slip every now and then, before quickly correcting themselves.

Judging by the twitch of Lukas’ lips, Arthur realises the Antevarian’s enjoying this immensely. 

Once the delegation steps aboard, Lukas waves a hand to dissipate the bridge of ice into fine mist, which causes some alarm on the other ship until Yao raises a hand to shush them. 

“Jack of Spades,” Lukas says, inclining his head toward Yao, who returns the gesture with a nod of his own. “We appreciate your willingness to meet on our terms.”

“It’s in the interest of resolving this… predicament swiftly.” Yao replies, his voice calm but clipped. Another wave of anxious homesickness washes over Arthur at the sound of his voice and he resists the urge to wince when Yao's dark eyes flick briefly over towards him and Alfred, before settling on Lukas once more. “May I introduce Eugènio Carriedo, the Ace of Spades.” 

Eugènio’s expression, at least, is a bit more easy to read. Beneath his politeness and composure, Arthur sees a glimpse of concern, which is at least somewhat better than fury or disappointment. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, despite the circumstances.” Lukas replies. “My name is Lukas Bondevik, council representative of Antevaria, and my fellow council member, Berwald Oxenstierna.”

As expected, Berwald does little more than incline his head in silent acknowledgment when introduced. Arthur suspects he is mostly here to look imposing, and it works, considering he is taller than even Eugènio. 

“If you’ll follow me, we have prepared a room for our discussions.” Lukas continues, holding out an arm to steer his guests into the right direction. 

The Spades delegation follows without protest, led by Yao, but not before the Jack casts another lingering gaze towards Arthur and Alfred, perhaps checking to see if they are physically well. Alfred visibly tenses and Arthur again resists the urge to fidget like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar - a testament to the impact of Yao’s unreadable expressions, he thinks with some mirth. 

Lukas motions for Alfred and Arthur to go ahead. Arthur hesitates, briefly catching Alfred’s eye. The younger prince is visibly tense, but nonetheless graces Arthur with a small, reassuring nod. Fidgeting with his gloves, as if the worn leather would tether him somehow, Arthur nods in return and follows. 

To say that the negotiations started off on the wrong foot, would be an understatement. 

“Antevaria has no right to detain the princes of Spades.” Yao began almost immediately after they sat down, his tone sharp and clipped. “Return them with us, and we will consider this entire incident a misunderstanding. Pursue any further defiance, and you will force us to take measures no one wishes to see.”

The proposal, or rather, the threat, catches Arthur off-guard and by the clench of Alfred’s fists, hidden from everyone’s view but Arthur’s, he’d say Alfred is equally surprised. After all, Yao knows that Arthur and Alfred chose to come to Antevaria themselves - they might have eventually been detained, officially, but they weren’t really. 

It seems Lukas did anticipate this, however, his demeanor as cool and composed as ever. 

“We are prepared to address the matter comprehensively, starting with a reevaluation of the agreements between our nations. Agreements, I might add, that have gone unchallenged for centuries despite the imbalance they perpetuate.”

“This situation is not the forum for such discussions.” Yao rejects with narrowed eyes. “If Antevaria seeks to renegotiate its standing agreements with Spades, you will need to go through the appropriate diplomatic channels. This meeting concerns the safe and immediate return of the princes, nothing more.”

For a moment, Lukas only blinks, his expression as impassive as ever, but Arthur sees the faintest flicker of annoyance in the set of his mouth.

And without being fully aware of it, he finds himself speaking.

“It has everything to do with the current situation.” 

All heads turn towards him. Perhaps Alfred seems most surprised, considering Arthur has thus far kept himself on the sidelines, and it occurs to Arthur that perhaps Alfred had been wanting to interrupt the rapidly worsening situation as well. Although he feels quite embarrassed by the sudden shift in attention, he keeps going, grounding himself by digging his fingers into the meat of his thigh, the buzz of static familiarly comforting. 

“This isn’t just about us leaving Spades. It’s about why we left. About why I left.” 

The way Yao looks at him almost causes him to lose his nerve. He expected Yao to be angry or disappointed at the interruption, but instead Arthur catches a flash of something guilty, something sad, and doesn’t that just break his heart? To know for certain now that Yao has known all along - has opted to simply withhold the information Arthur sought all his life. 

“The agreements you’re talking about are built on centuries of misunderstandings and exploitation.” Lukas continues, noticing Arthur’s inner turmoil. “Arthur’s life has been shaped by those agreements. You can’t sit here and say they do not matter when they are the reason the princes are here in the first place.”

Arthur has to give it to him - Lukas is skilled at painting a picture, what with the bridge of ice and now the use of Arthur’s name instead of his title, hinting at a familial relationship between them. Yao seems to notice it as well, his eyes flickering between the two mages for a moment, before settling on Alfred. 

The younger prince doesn’t flinch and instead squares his shoulder, clearly finding some of his earlier courage now that the stage has been set. 

“You know the agreements we’re talking about, don’t you?” Alfred asks, careful to not sound accusing. “The ones that stripped the Antevarians of their autonomy and turned them into nothing more than suppliers of heirs.”

Yao’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t immediately respond, his silence a crack in the otherwise impenetrable façade he wears. 

“If we go back without addressing this,” Alfred continues, voice softening slightly. “then we’ll be complicit in continuing the same cycle. We can’t do that, Yao, not to anyone and especially not to Arthur.”

Yao’s expression doesn’t falter, but Arthur can see the subtle shift in his posture, the way his fingers flex slightly against the edge of the table. His gaze flickers back to Arthur, lingering just long enough to make him feel exposed. 

Arthur knows Alfred’s words cut too close to the truth and hearing it spoken aloud feels like reopening a wound that’s barely had the time to scab over. Knowing now for certain that his heritage had been known by Spades’ most important royals, by the people Arthur had trusted all his life, stings. And the idea of them sweeping it under the rug, of simply yanking Arthur back to Spades and pretending nothing ever happened, is distressing.

He grips his thigh harder, aware of the faint crackle of electricity. Almost immediately, Alfred shifts in his seat so that he’s able to discreetly reach out and grab Arthur’s hand with his own - something that does not go unnoticed by Yao, Arthur realises with some embarrassment. 

“For generations, your kingdoms have demanded and we have complied.” Lukas continues, once it’s clear Yao is not going to respond. “But we’re not a vassal state.” 

“This is not the time for a political grandstanding,” Yao snaps, his control fraying at the edges. “The princes’ safety and return to Spades are the immediate priorities. Everything else can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” Alfred interrupts firmly, his hand squeezing Arthur’s as if to draw confidence from the simple connection. “Because our safety isn’t just about getting us back to Spades. It’s about ensuring Arthur can live as himself without being pulled apart by two worlds that don’t understand him. If we don’t address this now, it’ll never change.”

Arthur sits frozen in his seat, his chest tight as he listens to Alfred’s impassioned words. He had prepared himself for a difficult negotiation, for challenges and barbs, but he hadn’t expected Alfred to take such a bold stance against Yao. 

With startling clarity, he suddenly realizes Alfred’s stepping more and more into his own skin as a future ruler - speaking not just as a prince, but as someone who cares deeply for the people impacted by these policies… all while clinging onto Arthur’s hand. Arthur’s so in love with him that it makes him want to burst out of his skin - a thought he cannot afford to have, not now, not here. 

Yao simply regards Alfred with an unreadable expression, studying him in a way that makes Arthur wonder if perhaps he thought Alfred and himself were being forced. Knowing Yao’s stubbornness, Arthur decides to throw caution in the wind and try a different tactic.

“Do you remember when we traveled to Clubs, just after my ninth birthday?” Arthur asks, deliberately slipping into a rare Hearts dialect - one only he and Yao know fluently. Yao, because of his nativity to Hearts; Arthur, because his childhood boredom left him ample time to master it. The dialect is one Alfred and the other Spades soldiers might recognize in fragments, but it offers a measure of privacy in the midst of watchful eyes. “And the storm that caught us on the way?”

Yao’s expression shifts subtly at the unexpected language, surprise giving way to recognition as his gaze narrows, clearly sorting through the memory.

“We had to take shelter beneath a willow tree,” Arthur continues, his tone careful as he picks through the precise words and pronunciations. “I was terrified, convinced the storm was going to tear the skies apart. But you weren’t. You told me to watch the willow, to see how it bent under the storm instead of breaking. You said that was why it would endure.”

For the first time since the negotiations began, Arthur’s able to read Yao’s expression. His sharp edges dissolve into something softer, quieter. Recognition flickers across his face and for a moment Arthur sees not the Jack of Spades, but Yao Wang, the man who’d been a constant in his life for as long as Arthur could remember. 

“Bending doesn’t mean weakness.” Yao murmurs, his voice tinged with an edge of resignation. He leans back in his chair, studying Arthur with a gaze that feels piercing and strangely tender all at once. “It means knowing how to weather the storm and grow stronger for it.”

Arthur releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly. Alfred’s hand is still loosely covering his own, the entanglement hidden from view by the table they are sitting at, and he resists the urge to clutch it tighter. 

“Very well,” Yao says at last, returning to the Spades’ language everyone present knows and addressing Lukas once more. “Let us discuss what bending will look like. What do you propose?”

After two more hours, Lukas and Yao decide to put the negotiations on hold - there is too much to work out in a single day, and even if they do manage to come to some kind of accord, Arthur imagines an actual agreement may take many more days or even weeks to form. 

For now, Yao reluctantly agrees with Lukas’ proposal to allow Arthur and Alfred to stay on the Northern Gale, recognizing that the Antevarians are not quite willing yet to give up their best bargaining chip. 

His one condition is to be allowed a moment in private with Arthur. 

Upon hearing the request, Arthur all but feels his heartbeat quickening. Alfred halts as well, clearly struggling with his loyalty towards Yao and his protectiveness towards Arthur, but he deflates when Arthur gives him a subtle nod. Lukas waits the longest, holding Arthur’s gaze with his own until he finds what he needs to see, before nodding and telling them to take as long as they need. 

Once the door clicks shut behind them, the room grows silent, save for the occasional creaking of the ship. Arthur stands rigidly, somewhat awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back as Yao appraises him. 

Then Yao moves. He crosses the room in a few swift strides and pulls Arthur into a firm embrace. Arthur freezes; it’s not as if he expected Yao to slap him for his transgressions, no, but he did not expect a hug either. He doesn’t think he’s ever hugged Yao after the age of, what, six? 

“You idiot.” Yao says softly, his voice trembling just enough for Arthur to hear it. “Do you have any idea of how worried I was? I didn't know if I'd ever see you again.”

The words lodge a painful knot in Arthur’s throat and he hesitates, his own emotions swirling too chaotically to name. He tries to speak, but no sound comes out; he tries to lift his hands to return the gesture, but no movement is made. 

“You never should have had to endure this storm alone.” Yao says, pulling back just enough to look at him, his expression startlingly vulnerable. “I thought I was protecting you, shielding you from what you weren’t ready to face. But instead... I left you to bear it all.”

Arthur swallows hard, his chest tight as he searches for something to say. “You didn’t trust me.”

Yao grimaces, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I know. And I am so, so sorry Arthur. For the lies, the secrecy. I tried to do what we - what I -  thought was best, but I failed you.”

The words break something in Arthur and he shakes his head, blinking rapidly as his vision blurs. It’s not Yao who’s meant to apologize, after all, it’s Arthur: it’s Arthur who failed Yao, who upended their kingdom by leaving without a word, who betrayed Yao’s trust. 

“Forgive me.” He all but wheezes, his throat tightening as he desperately fights back tears. 

Yao’s expression twists and he pulls Arthur back into another firm embrace. This time, Arthur’s hands lift out of their own accord and he clutches at Yao’s navy-blue coat. 

“There is nothing to forgive, Arthur, do you hear me? You did what you thought you needed to do. I may not have liked it, but I’m… proud of you. For enduring. For bending and weathering the storm.”

Proud. 

It feels jarring to hear such a declaration from a man who had been both his fiercest critic and his most steadfast mentor growing up. Arthur presses his forehead against Yao’s shoulder, his composure slipping further as Yao’s arms around him tighten some more. 

“I’ve made such a mess,” Arthur admits within the safety of the embrace. “of Spades, of my place there, I’ve dragged Alfred into this chaos. I feel like I’m making everything worse.”

“You’ve made difficult choices, but never any mistakes.” Yao reassures sternly. “And no matter what happens, I’m on your side. You’re my family, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know how to reconcile the swirling guilt, relief, and the fragile sense of hope that suddenly flares to life inside him. He clings to Yao, craving the safety he felt as a toddler when he would hide behind Yao’s legs after having done something bad. 

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Arthur slowly loosens his grip once he feels a little more like himself, like he’s not going to break down at any given moment. Yao lets him go equally slow, his hands lingering on Arthur’s shoulders before dropping to his sides entirely. 

Then the door opens slightly, and Alfred peeks his head inside, his expression cautious. Arthur wonders just how difficult it must have been for Alfred to stay outside all this time, fighting against the urge to storm in, and all in all Arthur’s surprised he’s lasted this long. 

“Everything all right in here?” Alfred asks, his gaze flicking between the two of them.

Arthur manages a faint smile, glancing at Yao one last time before nodding.

“Yes, we’re all right.”

The sound of water lapping against the hull is a soothing constant in the stillness of the night, and yet, sleep eludes Arthur for the fourth night in a row. 

He lies on the narrow bed in his cabin, staring up at the wooden ceiling above him. The room itself is perfectly adequate - small, but private - and it should have been a relief after weeks of cramped, shared quarters and stolen moments of solitude. 

Instead it feels cold, the absence of Alfred’s quiet snoring leaving an empty, hollow silence that seems louder than the waves outside. It shouldn't matter, Arthur is used to being alone, has been alone for most of his life.

And yet… Arthur sighs, pressing his hands against his eyes. 

He misses Alfred, misses his warmth, the occasional mumbled quips as they ready themselves for bed, the quiet assurance of his presence just an arm’s reach away. The solitude of his cabin feels like a void and he knows exactly why and how to fix it. 

With a groan of frustration, he abruptly sits up. Ridiculous, embarrassing even! And yet he still finds himself swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. 

For a moment, his pride causes him to hesitate, but the longing wins. Grabbing his cloak and boots, Arthur quickly dresses himself somewhat decently, before slipping out of the cabin and into the dimly lit corridor. The ship is quiet, with most of its crew having gone to bed. He moves carefully, his steps silent as he navigates the narrow passageway toward Alfred’s cabin.

When he reaches the door, he pauses. What if Alfred is already asleep? What if he is not, and finds Arthur foolish or intrusive? Arthur hesitates; he could always retreat and pretend this had never happened. 

But then he remembers a sweet goodnight kiss from only hours prior and quickly pushes the door open just enough to slip inside. Alfred’s all but sprawled on the narrow bed in a way that somehow looks both awkward and natural, his broad shoulders taking up more space than the bed seems capable of accommodating. 

The younger prince stirs as Arthur closes the door behind him, his eyes fluttering open as he blinks at his intruder. 

“Arthur?” He mumbles, voice groggy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Arthur begins, suddenly feeling very foolish. “I couldn't sleep.”

His embarrassment melts almost instantly when Alfred smiles and shifts to make space on the bed, patting the spot beside him. “C’mere.”

Arthur quickly removes his cloak and boots before crossing the small room and maneuvering into the narrow space made available. The bed creaks under their shared weight, but holds steady, and Alfred instinctively tugs Arthur down to lie beside him, their shoulders brushing in the cramped space. 

It takes only a few moments for the warmth of Alfred’s presence to settle Arthur’s frayed nerves - which is ironic, really, because being in such close quarters with another person would have had Arthur panicking a while ago. 

Instead, as Alfred’s breathing evens out, Arthur finds the strange ache in his chest finally easing.

Chapter Text

This was bound to happen sooner or later. If Arthur is honest with himself, he’s a little surprised it took this long to happen, all things considered. 

He had entertained the thought of it happening once or twice, but always postponed coming up with a suitable plan or reaction, considering nothing of the sort had happened before. And so now, when Arthur does find himself in this predicament, he finds himself at a loss for what to do.

The predicament being his current entanglement with Alfred. With the bed being as small as it is, and them both being adult men, Arthur can’t say he’s surprised they ended up in a spooning position. Somewhere along the night, Arthur turned on his side, and shortly after, Alfred must have followed, and now he has his arm wrapped tightly around Arthur’s waist, all but squeezing the mage back against his chest. 

And his… well. 

Arthur’s unsure how to word it properly, so he might as well be direct: Alfred’s sporting a mighty enthusiastic boner, and its unmistakable hard line is pressing right against Arthur’s rear.

At least some entity holds Arthur in some regard, because Alfred’s not really doing anything about it. He seems fast asleep still, content to just hold Arthur - but that right there is also the problem. He’s not simply content, but rather adamant on holding Arthur, who only needed to inconspicuously wiggle once to prove that Alfred’s unconsciously tapped into some of his strength to keep Arthur where he is. 

He could, of course, force himself out. By elbowing him, for example, or zapping him with a healthy dose of electricity. But then Alfred would wake up, and he would be aware of their current situation, and that’s not really something Arthur’s ready to face. 

At least if Alfred stays asleep, Arthur can pretend that nothing has happened. 

…but what if it is still there when Alfred wakes up in the morning? Then Arthur will have suffered all night for no reason. 

Not that he’s suffering. Far from it, surprisingly enough. Being held this tightly by Alfred is actually quite nice, once Arthur got past his initial panic upon waking up all but trapped. Alfred’s pleasantly warm and his arm, not the one around his waist but the one under his head, makes for a fantastic pillow.

Against his back, Alfred’s steady breathing tickles the hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers, which dig slightly into Arthur’s waist, twitch every now and then but nothing more. Arthur imagines he wouldn’t mind falling back asleep like this, if it weren’t for the pressure of Alfred’s dick against his rear. 

Horrifyingly enough, interest stirs in his own lower regions. 

He’s not unfamiliar with the feeling, far from it, and were he in his own quarters, he would begrudgingly take himself in hand to scratch the itch that surfaced - and if he did so with Alfred in his thoughts more often than not these days, well, then it’s a good thing Arthur is the only one privy to his fantasies. 

Only he’s not in his own quarters, because like the lovesick puppy that he was, he crawled into bed with Alfred instead. And now he reaps what he sows.

Intimacy has always been a difficult thing for him. The very idea of it brings about a tangled web of yearning and trepidation, stitched together by years of starvation. The idea of giving up even a sliver of control unnerves him, but the thought of allowing Alfred closer stirs something much more complicated. 

He knows what he wants. He feels it in the subtle longing that creeps up on him at the randomest of moments; in the way his heart stirs whenever Alfred’s hand brushes his or whenever he leans in for a light kiss. 

And yet when something more does threaten to happen, his body freezes, mistrusts, screaming at him to retreat. 

Still, Alfred has been nothing but gentle, understanding and patient. He has never once tried to, however lovingly, convince Arthur into trying things out. He’s never once sighed or grumbled or made Arthur feel incomplete or cowardly. 

Perhaps that’s what makes it all the harder. Alfred deserves someone who gives him as much as he offers, someone who doesn’t flinch upon being hugged and someone who doesn’t instinctively tense at the mere idea of being vulnerable. 

But Alfred’s made it clear, over and over again, that he wants Arthur. Even if it means never going beyond a simple hug and kiss. 

For that, Arthur’s longing only intensifies. Alfred has a way of making him feel safe, taken seriously. With him, Arthur glimpses a version of himself that does not have to shoulder his problems alone, he sees a version of himself that can let go and simply be. Alfred’s not afraid of who Arthur is, of who Arthur can be or could have been. He’s never been afraid, not even as a child. 

His stomach tightens as the thought simply makes him yearn for more. He wants it to be okay to lean into Alfred’s warmth, to trust him, to let himself be held without worrying about the consequences. 

Arthur concludes that he does not actually want to slip out of Alfred’s hold at this moment. So what if he decides not to do so? What if he decides, under the blanket of night, to simply let go and indulge? 

First, Alfred needs to wake up. Arthur’s not that kind of person. 

“Alfred.” He whispers, wrapping a hand around the arm wrapped around him and shaking it gently. “Wake up.”

“Mhhmmm.” Alfred complains, shifting a little and pressing his face further into Arthur’s hair. The friction causes Arthur to tense, but Alfred, at least, does not seem to notice yet. “Too early. Don’ wan’ t’get up.”

Fondness helps Arthur relax and he digs his fingers into Alfred’s arm, allowing a few sparks to dance across his skin in an attempt to get his point across. It’s not enough to hurt, and Alfred snuffles somewhat indignantly, wiggling his arm and pulling Arthur impossibly closer in an attempt to defuse him. 

This time, the friction does not make him tense - mostly because he expects it. Experimentally so, Arthur pushes back a little and he shudders, reminding himself that a loss of control is both desired and planned. 

“Alfred,” He admonishes, breathier than he meant to, when Alfred lazily meets him with an uncoordinated roll of his own hips. 

It seems as if a bucket of ice is thrown over Alfred, because he wakes up immediately. His hold on Arthur tightens before loosening altogether and for a moment, Arthur entertains the idea of Alfred actually pushing him out of bed, but the younger prince instead manages to shove himself flatter against the wall behind him in an attempt to create some distance. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Alfred exclaims, voice still slurring with sleep. “I didn’t mean to - ”

Arthur attempts to turn around and shush him, but in doing so nearly elbows Alfred in the face. Startled, he tries to twist back the other way to apologize, but his movement sends him perilously close to tumbling off the narrow bed entirely. Before he can process the inevitability of his fall, a hand closes around his wrist, halting his momentum with an abrupt jerk.

Alfred’s reflexes are fast, maybe too fast, because the grip is firm - too firm. Arthur winces, imagining for a brief moment that he can hear the faint creak of his bones under the pressure.

“Shit!” Alfred curses, his voice sharp with alarm as he releases Arthur instantly, hands flying up as if burned. “Arthur, I didn’t mean - Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

Arthur rubs at his wrist, where the brief sting is already fading, and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m fine, Alfred. You didn’t hurt me.”

“But I could have.” Alfred insists. Even in the faint moonlight filtering through the cabin window, Arthur can see the weight of frantic guilt settling across Alfred’s face.

Arthur watches him, somewhat perplexed by the sudden turn of events. He knows Alfred’s strength is an innate part of him, and also knows Alfred frequently thinks of it as a burden; he sees it in the way Alfred hesitates before offering a handshake, the way he holds himself back when hugging someone. Always careful, always cautious, as if the very essence of who he is might break someone else if he’s not vigilant. 

It must be suffocating, to be afraid of your own strength. 

And by the Gods, isn’t that a wry resemblance? How many times has Alfred stifled his own desires and needs, because he couldn’t trust himself to be gentle? 

Arthur leans forward and claims Alfred’s mouth with his own, hungrily pressing their lips together. He swallows the surprised whimper escaping Alfred and instead parts his lips, his tongue requesting access Alfred readily provides. 

He feels the tension bleed from Alfred’s shoulders and it makes his heart jump with affection, so he decides to bury his fingers deep into Alfred’s sleep-tousled hair as he takes his time to explore and taste. Slowly, hesitatingly, one of Alfred’s hands finds its way to Arthur’s hip, settling there like a warm tether. 

Some of his fingers accidentally brush the bare skin revealed between Arthur’s shirt and breeches. The touch isn’t nearly as invasive as Arthur suspects it to be and so he presses forward some more, focusing on the sweep of Alfred’s tongue against his own as he settles his weight on Alfred’s lap. 

Alfred breaks the kiss with a grunt as Arthur all but sits down on his slightly less, but still enthusiastic erection, his hands flying up to clutch at Arthur in reprehension. Arthur decides not to give himself the time to panic and instead peppers kisses along Alfred’s cheeks and jaws, before sliding back to his lips and kissing him like a man starved until he is eventually forced to take a breather.

“Arthur,” Alfred husks, his fingers digging firmly into the flesh of his hips, seemingly torn between keeping him still and pulling him closer. “We don’t have to - are you - ”

“I want this.” Arthur interrupts, pleads. He leans forward to rest his forehead against Alfred’s, his eyes boring deep into Alfred’s familiar blue ones until he goes cross-eyed and has to close them. Experimentally, he rolls his hips again, trembling at the slide of Alfred’s abdomen against his own cock. 

Alfred bites back a moan, visibly struggling with what to do next. Arthur half suspects he’s searching for something to say, something reassuring or soothing, and so Arthur kisses him again, long and firm, in an attempt to communicate that Arthur doesn’t need words, he needs - he needs something else. 

“Just like this.” Arthur murmurs against his lips, before deepening their kiss once more, not leaving any room for further discussion. The slide of their tongues is less hurried this time, less heated. 

One hand slides from Arthur’s hips to slip under his shirt and settle against his lower back, fingers gently massaging the skin. Arthur shudders before all but unraveling against Alfred’s firm body, melting in his embrace. Inexperienced, he wriggles a little, trying to find a way to move in a way that would be enjoyable for them both. 

Alfred’s other hand roams towards his rear and Arthur makes an agreeable noise, finding himself not at all averse to the touch. When Alfred’s fingers flex, he hums approvingly, and then Alfred grabs onto his rear and squeezes, pulling him down against him whilst simultaneously thrusting upwards. 

Arthur breaks the kiss to gasp and he falls forward, planting one of his hands on Alfred’s shoulders as he feels all the blood leave his head and enter his groin. 

“Just like this.” Alfred repeats after him, brushing light kisses across Arthur’s cheekbone. He allows Arthur a second to catch his breath and clarifies; “Clothes on and all. Tell me to stop and I will.”

“No,” Arthur rejects frantically, aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest and hoping that Alfred doesn’t mistake it for panic. He shoves Alfred back flat onto the bed, clutching the fabric of his shirt and trapping one of his legs between his own. “No, don’t stop.” 

Alfred groans, his hold on Arthur tightening before he rolls his hips up in a devastating motion. Arthur gasps for air, once against finding that his strength to stay upright fails him and he slants forward. Alfred easily readjusts and angles his head to press his lips to Arthur’s shoulder, his breath dampening the linen fabric of his shirt, before he travels towards the bare skin just above his collar. 

Arthur shivers, panting softly as heat floods his torso, pulsing waves of electricity rushing to send a throb into his torso. Another languid, experimental roll of their hips, before Alfred sets a slow, thorough pace, borrowing some of his strength to set an easy, slow and thorough pace, his hands on Arthur’s hips tugging the mage down onto his own thrusts upwards. 

He hears a static-like popping sound and smells burnt fabric, and for a moment, he’s horrified, but Alfred either doesn’t notice or does notice. Either way, he entices Arthur back into another profound kiss, his tongue licking deep into his mouth. 

It takes Arthur a second to realize the strangled, keening noises are his, and perhaps he should feel embarrassed about such a display, but as Alfred’s fingers knead and massage the flesh of his rear, he finds that he simply does not care. 

They have to part at one point, and Arthur sucks in a deep breath which ends in a choked whimper as Alfred grinds against him. He watches as Alfred’s eyes clenched shut, and despite the dark of night, he’s able to make out the flush on Alfred’s face, the swollenness of his lips. 

“More.” Arthur demands, bumping his forehead against Alfred’s in an attempt to have him tilt it back so that they can resume kissing. Alfred misunderstands and instead repeats his earlier grinding motion, and Arthur almost chokes on his own breath. “Al - Alfred.” 

He’d never thought he’d enjoy this to the extent that he did. He groans his approval, his hips rocking back sloppily onto Alfred’s out of their own accord. The friction, albeit far from ideal, causes his stomach to flip over and over again. Heat rushes up his inner thighs and down his chest as Alfred pulls him flush against himself. 

“Ng - fuck ,” Alfred pants, tightening his grip on Arthur’s rear and it might bruise, or it might not, but Arthur could not care less either way. Every movement sends a flutter of sensation up over his abdomen, the hot glut pooling insistently in his belly and making him dizzy with anticipation. 

Alfred eventually does tilt his head, not to kiss him, but to bury his face into Arthur’s neck. His warm, wet lips slide over Arthur’s skin, languid kisses sending spikes of arousal and affection through his veins. 

One particular roll of Alfred’s hips has Arthur grappling to stay upright and in doing so, one of Alfred’s hands slides from his rear up to his waist, his fingers catching on the fabric of his shirt and dragging it upwards. Warm fingers skim across his bare side, thumb brushing over his lowest rib, and Arthur shatters, fractures into tiny pieces. 

Alfred presses another reverent kiss on his temple, uncaring of the sweat that’s accumulated as he noses past the strands of hair that clung to his forehead, and Arthur goes rigid as he finds himself pushed over the edge, his body shaking with staccato little jerks. 

Dimly, he’s aware of Alfred making a strangled noise as he holds Arthur through his climax, his own hips insistently thrusting upwards a few more times before the younger prince shudders as well, the rhythm of his hips slowing to weak twitches. 

The room goes quiet, their breathless whispers dissipating as hands cease their wandering. Alfred’s thumbs trace lazy circles along Arthur’s hips, the motion slow and aimless. There’s a contentment in it, a quiet kind of affection and yet - 

And yet Arthur feels his skin begin to crawl familiarly. 

He finds himself tensing, unwillingly, hears his blood pound between his ears in a much less pleasant way than before. Alfred lets out a soft hum and Arthur watches the way his face softens with sleepiness. For a moment, Arthur’s heart aches with the enormity of what he feels for this man. 

Then Alfred’s hands twitch and the subtle press of his fingers against Arthur’s ribs is more painful than comforting. He grabs hold of Alfred’s hands with his own, stilling their accidental movements.

“Too much?” Alfred asks quietly, his voice gentle, obviously having noticed Arthur’s sudden distress. 

Arthur can’t bring himself to say anything, but he manages a nod, and thankfully, Alfred understands. His hands, so warm and reassuring mere moments ago, retreat with an almost aching slowness. The absence is both a relief and a loss.

Alfred presses a featherlight kiss against Arthur’s hand, which he’s dragged with him as he retreats, before settling back onto the bed. He doesn’t protest and doesn't try to hold Arthur close again. Instead, he gives Arthur the space he needs, allowing him the freedom to move where he wishes.

“We should probably change.” Alfred murmurs, somewhat shyly. “I should have something that fits you.”

Arthur breathes deeply, grounding himself. The sensation of being touched still lingers on his skin, sharp and unbearable. As does the rapidly drying patch on his breeches, and he resists the urge to grimace as he feels its fabric stick to his skin. 

As he sits up and looks toward the chest that holds Alfred’s belongings, he realizes that while he does want out of his sticky clothing, he doesn’t want to leave. 

Carefully, he decides to test the waters before doing anything else. Shifting slightly, Arthur lies back down, but he keeps a deliberate space between their bodies. Alfred doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reach out or attempt to close the distance. He simply breathes, his quiet acceptance easing the tension in Arthur’s chest, and Arthur feels his erratic pulse slow. 

This… this, he can manage.

At this rate, Arthur suspects the negotiations will last up until winter, which is not a season he wishes to experience unprepared whilst on the Antevarian continent. 

Lukas and Yao have been trading pointed arguments for what feels like hours. Alfred chimes in occasionally, and Arthur speaks rarely, his interjections more about clarifying Antevarian perspectives or reinforcing Alfred’s points. Still, the weight of centuries-old misunderstandings hangs heavy in the air, complicating every exchange.

“We’re not asking for immediate upheaval,” Alfred says, his voice firm but tinged with frustration. “We understand this will take time. But we need to start somewhere.”

Yao regards him with the same inscrutable expression he’s worn for most of the day. “Tradition and governance are not so easily swayed, Alfred. These systems have endured for centuries because they are deeply entrenched. Uprooting them will not come without significant resistance.”

Arthur can’t argue with Yao’s point, though the implications sit uneasily with him. Change will come at a cost, one he and Alfred will have to bear. In less than two years, they are expected to ascend the throne as King and Queen of Spades. The enormity of that responsibility feels even heavier now.

“Which is why transparency is key,” Arthur says, his voice steadier than he feels. “If people see why these changes matter, if they learn the truth about their future queen, it might make the transition smoother.”

Yao’s expression tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considers the suggestion. “If your heritage is made public, Arthur, it won’t simply be a revelation. It will be a weapon, used by both sides.”

“If we’re trying to build a bridge between Suits and Antevaria, someone needs to be that bridge.” Arthur counters, before briefly exchanging a glance with Lukas. “I’m uniquely positioned to do so.” 

Yao’s lips press into a thin line, his dark eyes narrowing as though weighing the cost of Arthur’s words. “Things will get worse before they get better, Arthur. You will face accusations, ridicule. Some will see you as a traitor, others as a usurper. And once Alfred assumes the throne, the two of you will carry this burden together.”

Alfred leans forward, his jaw set. “We can handle it.”

Arthur’s chest tightens at Alfred’s conviction, but he finds himself nodding as well. “If it helps to foster unity, it’s worth it.”

“You’re both as stubborn as ever.” Yao grumbles, his displeasure evident. “Very well. But do not expect this to be a path of convenience.”

The conversation shifts again as Lukas, ever pragmatic, offers a measured suggestion. “We must also consider the logistics. If families choose to stay in Antevaria, governors from Suits can be sent to maintain diplomatic ties. If families wish to move to Suits, they must be granted suitable accommodations, and the transition handled delicately.”

Yao’s sharp gaze snaps to Lukas. ““That is an oversimplification. Do you think Suits will easily accept these terms?”

“And do you think Antevaria will blindly trust Suits without question?” Lukas retaliates frostily. “Compromise will be required on both sides. No one will get exactly what they want.”

Yao presses his lips into a thin line, clearly considering his words before announcing them. “I cannot make any concessions without consulting the court. We’ve covered as much as we can for now.”

Lukas arches a brow. “And does that mean you expect the princes to return to Spades before these discussions continue?”

Arthur watches the exchange, sensing the beginnings of another argument. He’s been thinking about it himself for a while now, ever since Alfred first broached his fear of Arthur deciding to stay. 

Returning to Spades means stepping back into a role that has always felt impossibly foreign, means giving up this newfound connection he’s forged with the land of his birth. Spades’ court will not greet them as if nothing had happened; and a small part of him aches to stay in Antevaria, because there is still so much to learn, so much left unfinished. 

“If it will foster trust, I will allow Arthur and Alfred to return to Dicea for one more season.” Yao says, surprising them all. “But after that, regardless of the state of the negotiations, they must return home.”

Lukas remains quiet for a beat, appraising Yao with icy eyes as he determines whether he is truthful or not. Whatever he finds, seems to be enough, because he leans back with a nod. 

“Very well. We will discuss the princes’ departure tomorrow.” He announces, before pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. “You have things to discuss, I’m sure. I’ll have a drink brought to you. Consider it Antevarian hospitality.”

His gaze lingers on Yao for a fraction longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of their shared irritation. Yao, to his credit, responds with an imperceptible nod. Then he turns to Arthur. “A moment of your time once you are done here, please.”

“I’ll find you.” Arthur agrees, wondering what Lukas might want to discuss with him in private. 

The door clicks shut behind the ice mage, and the silence grows heavy once more. Yao turns to the princes, his expression softer now, but no less serious. 

“Let’s talk.”

The forecastle deck of the Northern Gale is bathed in the muted light of dusk, the horizon painted in soft hues of orange and gray. The air is crisp and carries the faint tang of salt, the ship creaking gently beneath their feet. Arthur leans against the railing, his eyes lingering on the Spades ship anchored near them. 

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his reverie. Turning slightly, he sees Lukas, the mage’s usual calm demeanor in place, though there’s a faint edge of something softer in his expression - something Arthur might call sentiment if he didn’t know better. The ice mage nods in acknowledgment as he stops beside him, resting his hands on the railing.

“I appreciate you making the time,” Lukas begins, his voice low but clear. 

“My schedule isn’t exactly packed.” Arthur rebukes, but it falls flat even to his own ears. Lukas merely raises an eyebrow at the attempt to humor him, but gracefully ignores it. 

“You will always have a place in Dicea,” The ice mage says, unmistakably sincere. “Whether for training, diplomacy or simply rest, the door will always be open to you. And should you need guidance with your magic, I will do everything in my power to find those who can help. Mages with experience in lightning are rare, but they exist.”

Arthur blinks, his chest tightening at the offer. “You’d send them to Spades?”

“If they are willing, and if you are willing to host them, yes,” Lukas answers. “If not, you are welcome to return here whenever your duties permit. Your potential should not be stifled by geography or politics.”

“Thank you, Lukas. That… means more than you know.”

Lukas inclines his head, accepting the thanks without ceremony. “You’re uniquely positioned to strengthen the ties between our nations. But more than that, your magic deserves to flourish. It would be a disservice to both you and the power you wield to let it stagnate.”

Arthur can’t help but smile, although he attempts to cover it up by slightly turning his face away from Lukas. “I’m starting to think you’re less cold than you like to appear.”

“Don’t tell Mathias. He’ll ruin my reputation.” Lukas says, his tone light and teasing. Then he reaches into his coat to retrieve a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth, which he offers to Arthur. “Speaking of reputations, this is for you.”

Arthur takes the bundle, carefully unwrapping it to reveal a timepiece. It’s beautiful, its surface glinting with a mixture of metals. Copper, silver, iron, and what Arthur suspects might be graphite. Intricate engravings decorate the edges, blending symbols of Spades and Antevaria into a harmonious design. 

But it’s the shimmering, almost ethereal material at the center that draws his attention.

“Aetherium,” Lukas explains, his voice quieter now. “Strong enough to conduct any lightning storm. It’s a void material, rare and difficult to come by. I had to bargain with a Joker to procure it.”

Arthur’s fingers brush over the intricate engravings, marveling at its craftsmanship, before realizing what Lukas just said.

“A Joker?” He repeats, glancing back at Lukas with a furrowed brow. 

Lukas nods, his expression darkening slightly. “Antevaria has a complicated history with the Jokers. They helped us escape Suits in the beginning, aided in building our civilization, and occasionally provided prophecies. But their involvement is rarely without cost.”

Arthur’s mind flashes to his own encounters with the enigmatic figure, the faint, lingering suspicion that the Joker - Gilbert - had meddled with his journey to Antevaria. 

“They meddle in ways that often seem benign but carry unseen consequences,” Lukas continues, seeming to sense his thoughts. “I suspect they’ve had a hand in your travels as well, perhaps even disguised themselves to steer you in certain directions. And while it is not in their nature to deliberately create chaos, they thrive on it nonetheless. Be wary of them, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, clutching the timepiece tighter. “I will. Thank you for this.”

Lukas’s lips twitch into the faintest of smiles. “Consider it a symbol of our cooperation, one I hope will continue into the future.”

Arthur opens his mouth to thank him again, but Lukas cuts him off with a sly, uncharacteristic grin. 

“And congratulations, by the way.”

Arthur blinks, confused. “On… what?”

“Your growing relationship with Alfred, of course,” Lukas says with mock casualness. “It’s not often Suits’ monarchs are matched by both fate and affection.”

Arthur feels his face heat, his mind scrambling for a response. “I - how did you know?”

“Apart from it being painfully obvious,” Lukas replies dryly, his grin widening just enough to tease. “The beds below deck also creak an awful lot.”

He all but feels his jaw drop as he gapes at the other mage, his cheeks on fire now that realisation is setting in. Once Lukas realises Arthur is not going to (or rather, is unable to) retaliate he amicably bumps their shoulders together. 

"Consider it blackmail to keep my earlier lapse in casual impartiality a secret. Good night, Arthur.” 

He turns and walks back to the main deck, leaving Arthur alone on the forecastle deck with only his thoughts and a brand-new conductor, which vibrates as it catches the wayward sparks escaping his fingertips. 

Chapter Text

The candle in the corner of his cabin flickers restlessly and Alfred distractedly follows the long and wavering shadows that are cast across the wooden walls. Around him, the ship creaks as it glides through the waves, a rhythmic sound that could have sang him to sleep, were he not waiting for Arthur. 

It’s Arthur’s turn to come to him tonight, but he’s taking longer than anticipated. Though perhaps he just got caught up talking to Yao again, something Alfred cannot begrudge him. Arthur’s disappearance obviously melted some ice from the wall Yao’s constructed around himself, because ever since their reunion, Arthur and Yao were near inseparable, constantly reminiscing and talking things through. 

Perhaps he should take the initiative and go to Arthur’s cabin instead. It’s silly that they’ve got this unspoken agreement of taking turns sneaking to each other’s cabin after all. 

Just as he wants to push himself to his feet, he hears a soft and quick rap of knuckles against the door to his cabin. A soft click follows almost immediately and the door opens just wide enough for Arthur to slip in.

Alfred grins, his insides doing a funny little flip, as usual. “Took you long enough.”

Arthur makes his way inside before Alfred can say anything else and shuts the door behind him, pausing only for a moment to ensure it was locked before relaxing and approaching Alfred. Eagerly, Alfred pushes himself back on the bed (barely big enough for one man, let alone two, but alas), waiting for Arthur to join him. 

“I can’t stay long.” Arthur says as he stops in front of him. 

It’s a sequence of words he keeps repeating every time he sneaks out to Alfred’s cabin and Alfred rolls his eyes. They’ve only messed up once, and that was when Alfred went to Arthur’s cabin and fell asleep - even then, Alfred woke up early enough to sneak back towards his own cabin. 

“I’m serious, Alfred.” Arthur sighs wistfully. “If I fall asleep here and your valet finds us together in the morning, the entire ship will know before we even dock. And then it will spread like wildfire the moment we return to Spades.”

Alfred’s not so sure what the problem is. He does not mind the idea of their relationship becoming public. No, it’s Arthur who wants to keep their involvement under wraps for now. Alfred understands why, he supposes: it would only add fuel to the fire and right now, their fire is big enough already. 

But eventually, he would love for them to be public. 

“How scandalous, a future king and queen actually in love.” Alfred deadpans, before moving forward and grabbing Arthur by his wrist. “Come on, we have all night.”

Arthur resists, for all of a second.

Then Alfred’s arms encircle his waist and he slowly pulls Arthur down onto his lap, giving the older prince all the time he could possibly need to object or pull away. It’s immensely gratifying to see that Arthur does not object and instead melts a little into Alfred’s embrace, and before long, Alfred’s got him where he wants him. 

“See?” Alfred quips, his insides warm and mushy with affection as Arthur raises his hands to rest them atop of Alfred’s shoulders. “Much better.” 

This is Alfred’s best strategy, currently. Years upon years of little physical touch have made Arthur starved for affection and now that he’s no longer uncomfortable with receiving it from Alfred, at least not as much as before anymore, he’s terribly easy to distract with a strategic hug or kiss. 

But he wouldn’t be Arthur if he gave up that easily, of course. 

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” Alfred insists, tilting his head in an attempt to kiss his significant other. 

“Yes, we do.” Arthur counters, settling him with a pointed glare as he deftly moves back to avoid Alfred’s wandering lips, a full departure restricted by Alfred’s arms. “We’ll be back in Spades by the end of this week, and we need to figure out how we’re going to handle things. The speech, my heritage, your family - ”

Alfred’s entire body tenses in a way that’s impossible for Arthur to miss. His jaw tightens, his fingers clench slightly where they rest on Arthur’s back and although he does a marvelous job at keeping his expression neutral, he does allow his gaze to flicker towards the swaying lamp, hanging from the ceiling. 

Arthur sighs. “You’re avoiding it.”

“No, I’m not.” Alfred mutters.

“You are. Every time I bring up returning home, you change the subject.”

Alfred runs a hand down his face. “Because I don’t want to think about it yet, Arthur.”

“You’re going to have to.”

Silence stretches between them. Arthur is still looking at him, green eyes sharp with that unwavering intensity that always makes Alfred feel like he’s under scrutiny. 

And oh, how the tables turn. Back when they had first left Spades, when they had first arrived in Antevaria, it had been Arthur who dragged his feet, wary of every step forward. It had been Arthur who was reluctant, uncertain, while Alfred had been the one pushing him - them - forward. 

Now it’s Arthur who spends hours bent over maps and documents, discussing strategies with Yao and Eugènio. It’s Arthur who tirelessly goes over every possible speech he might give, every approach he might take to ease his eventual revelation to the court and people of Spades. 

And Alfred has started dragging his feet. 

The thing is: the closer they get to returning home, the heavier it begins to feel. That weight of what they have done; the consequences that they will have to face. 

Alfred has just spent weeks basking in the quiet freedom of being unknown. Of not being the Crown Prince of Spades, not the future king. He had simply been Alfred (or Allen). There had been no expectations, no nobles gossiping about his every move, no wary glances from people afraid of what he might break. 

On top of all that, Alfred had seen Arthur thrive.

For the first time, Arthur had not been an anomaly trapped in a palace. He had not been a curiosity, an outsider with the wrong magic, wrong bloodline, wrong everything. He had been home in a way he had never been before and Alfred had watched the way his walls came down. 

He’s terrified all of this will disappear the moment they disembark the ship they’re on. 

Would Arthur pull away again, retreat back into that wary shell he had built for himself after years of being othered by their court, would he bury himself in duty? Would Alfred have to slip back into the carefully controlled role of the good son, the strong, dependable prince who never faltered, who never questioned his place?

All of that pales in comparison to what might happen to them, though. To what had slowly and cautiously grown between them. 

Whether or not their relationship will be public, Alfred knows their every move will be watched in the coming years. And once Arthur announces his heritage, the clergy will scrutinize him; the nobles will speculate and argue. 

Even worse… Would Arthur stop looking at him like he does now? 

Unconsciously, Alfred’s fingers twitch against the fabric of Arthur’s tunic. The thought of losing this, the Arthur who finally lets himself be Alfred’s, who has finally started to meet his touch with his own, who finally wants him back… it makes his stomach twist. 

Fingers brush gently across his cheek and Alfred blinks, realizing Arthur is talking to him. 

“You’re not even listening, are you?” Arthur muses, appraising him with a cautious yet worried expression. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Alfred says. 

He realizes he sounds uncharacteristically bitter and to prevent a sudden argument, Alfred quickly redirects his emotions towards another issue that weighs heavily on his mind: his family. He can already imagine his mother’s despair, his father’s fury, and Matthew’s disappointment.

“We left without a word. Just disappeared in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea what that must have done to my family?”

Arthur visibly hesitates as he searches for the right words and sentiment. “They love you, that won’t have changed.”

Alfred lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Love doesn’t erase the fact that I abandoned them.”

Arthur frowns. “You didn’t abandon them. You left because I -”

“Because we left.” Alfred corrects, finally looking up at him again. “We left, together.”

Arthur’s fingers linger for a moment in Alfred’s hair, smoothing down strands before he pulls back. “You’ll make it up to them.” 

Alfred watches him, blue eyes glinting with something mischievous beneath the candlelight. “And what about you?”

Arthur frowns delicately. “What about me?”

“You’ve had to put up with me all this time.” Alfred grins, his hands sliding a little lower on Arthur’s back. “Think I need to make it up to you too?”

Arthur huffs, unimpressed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Alfred gasps dramatically. “Me? I’m a responsible and upstanding prince, Arthur.”

Arthur gives him a dry look. “Alfred, you once broke a solid oak door because you pushed it instead of pulling.”

“Okay, but in my defense,” his hands tighten slightly around Arthur’s waist, his voice dipping into something warmer, more teasing, “I was very distracted by your legs that day.”

Arthur’s lips part, then press together again. The realization dawns slowly in his eyes before his face abruptly heats, a scowl forming as if to shield whatever reaction he refuses to let show. “You’re insufferable.”

He shoves at Alfred’s chest, hard, but Alfred lets himself fall back, dragging Arthur with him.

“And yet.” Alfred murmurs, his smirk lazy and content. “Here you are, sneaking into my room in the middle of the night.”

Arthur’s face does something funny and for a second, it seems like he wants to bite back with something witty, something sharp that would knock Alfred down a peg.

But he doesn’t - instead, his expression softens into something shy and content. His lips twitch into a secret little smile as his fingers trace the faint line of Alfred’s jaw, featherlight but deliberate. 

Alfred is so in love with him that it actually hurts.

He barely breathes as Arthur studies him, really looks at him, as if memorizing every inch and every detail illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His grip on Arthur’s waist is firm, but not demanding, simply a reminder that Arthur is here, in his arms. 

Warm, and real, and his.

Arthur exhales, his breath fanning against Alfred’s skin as he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. His fingers slide into Alfred’s hair, threading through the strands at his temple, his touch so careful, so achingly tender that Alfred has to physically stop himself from chasing it.

“I should go.” Arthur whispers, but there’s no real conviction in it.

Alfred swallows, his hands tracing slow, soothing circles along Arthur’s back. “Will you kiss me goodnight first?”

Arthur makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh, a scoff, and surrender. And then, finally, finally, he closes the space between them.

His lips press against Alfred’s, warm and familiar, and Alfred’s grip tightens as he melts into it. Arthur leans in fully, hands sliding from Alfred’s hair to his jaw, his touch firm, fingers curling like he doesn’t want to let go. Like he doesn’t want to leave.

Alfred tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and Arthur lets him, lets himself fall into it, just a little more. He tastes like sea salt and candle smoke, like something Alfred wants to keep forever.

Arthur pulls back just barely, their lips still brushing, his breath warm as it ghosts over Alfred’s skin. “I have to go.”

Alfred hums, sliding his hands a little lower, tilting his face up to kiss Arthur again, soft, slow and coaxing. “Then go.”

Arthur doesn’t.

Instead, his hands tighten against Alfred’s jaw, and he kisses him again, harder this time. Arthur’s hands slide against his skin, his weight pressing down just enough to make Alfred’s stomach flip, and -

He doesn’t care what happens when they return to Spades. He’s never going to give this up. 

“Alfred.” Arthur murmurs against his lips and the way his voice rounds out the syllables of Alfred’s name never fails to make his head spin. 

Alfred doesn’t bother replying, not with words at least. Instead, he drags Arthur back in, kissing him deep, wet and wanton, his lips parting just enough to taste the sigh that slips past Arthur’s own. 

As Arthur melts beneath his fingertips, Alfred shifts, his hands drifting from the small of Arthur’s back up to his arms, his thumbs pressing lightly into the muscle there as he maps him out. Slowly, carefully, to etch his figure into his memory; but also to allow Arthur to adjust, to not surprise him, to make him comfortable. 

Arthur exhales sharply as Alfred’s lips leave his own, only for them to press lower, against his jaw, the hollow of his throat and the sharp plane of his collarbone. Alfred imagines he feels Arthur’s pulse jump beneath his mouth and the idea makes him feel a little silly, so he grins against the skin, skims his teeth across it. 

He wants more. 

Aware that he can’t simply take - he doesn’t even want to simply take, he wants to give and give - Alfred slowly slides his hands beneath the fabric of Arthur’s shirt, fingertips teasing over bare skin.

He’s managed this once before, and this time, Arthur does not startle. He tenses, briefly, but then he relaxes again and Alfred takes it as approval to carefully ease Arthur’s shirt over his shoulders. The linen pools at Arthur’s elbows because Alfred does not rush to remove it fully, too busy kissing him. 

His lips find Arthur’s again, then his cheek, his temples, the soft spots, the quiet places, the places only Alfred gets to touch. He noses away the stray strands of Arthur’s hair that have fallen across his forehead before brushing his lips there, lingering.

Arthur sighs, shifting forward until there’s no space left between them.

His hands, previously clenched at Alfred’s shoulders, finally move, fumbling and tugging at the hem of Alfred’s own shirt, trying to rid him of it, but distracted by Alfred’s unrelenting kisses. 

Arthur tries again, only for Alfred to nip at his bottom lip this time, his hands brushing low along Arthur’s back in slow, featherlight strokes. It earns him a shiver, a sharp inhale, a low noise in the back of Arthur’s throat.

Alfred can’t focus enough to finish ridding him of his shirt, but Arthur apparently has no such problems. He all but forces Alfred’s arms up and although the fabric snags slightly, Arthur manages to pull it free, his knuckles grazing Alfred’s bare skin. 

Alfred sucks in a breath, sharp and audible, when Arthur’s fingers skate over the dip of his hipbones, brushing against the soft skin of his lower stomach.

Arthur freezes. For a fraction of a second, he looks guilty, as if he’s burned him, and he starts to pull back, but Alfred doesn’t let him.

He pulls Arthur back, chasing the warmth that had almost left him, trying to convey how much he would not mind being subjected to Arthur’s wandering electricity as long as it meant Arthur kept touching him. 

Arthur exhales, some of the hesitation ebbing away as Alfred sighs into the next kiss.

And then, carefully, tentatively, Alfred resumes his earlier course, his fingers tracing the ridges of Arthur’s ribs as he drags his shirt up with them.

Arthur shivers and stills, but does not tense. They briefly break the kiss to rid Arthur of his shirt as well and Arthur, face flushed and lips swollen, smiles shyly down at him from where he’s still perched atop of Alfred. 

Alfred falls in love all over again. 

It’s a trustful thing, this. To be so vulnerable, to let somebody in when you’ve spent a lifetime covering your heart in armor. 

Alfred’s fingers skim across Arthur’s back, tracing the bumps of his spine and lingering where the skin is softest. Arthur doesn’t flinch or pull away, he only leans back down to kiss him again, soft and sweet, while Alfred’s fingers drift back down, coming to a rest against the lowest set of Arthur’s ribs. 

He applies the slightest bit of pressure, and Arthur’s breath catches. Alfred feels the way his own heartbeat thrums throughout his body, echoing in every bit of bare skin that Arthur touches, accidental or not.

He wants to say something, but words feel clumsy, unnecessary.

Words escape him anyway when Arthur slowly, cautiously, grinds down on him. 

“Oh, that’s good.” Alfred groans, acutely aware now of both his own cock and Arthur’s cock, both hard and at attention. 

They’d only been intimate once more since leaving the Northern Gale, and somehow, it had ended in minor injury: specifically, a small burn on Alfred’s jaw, courtesy of Arthur’s wandering hands and excitement. 

Yao had not been amused. The following morning, he had taken one look at the reddened mark, sighed deeply, and, after a long sip of his tea, flatly asked if they had been fighting again.

Alfred, ever the composed diplomat, had immediately replied with a sulky affirmative while Arthur desperately tried not to choke on his own sip of tea. 

It took Alfred a lot of reassurances and a lot of kissing to convince Arthur that he did not really hurt Alfred, nor was Alfred reluctant to touch him again, and a few more things, but it seems Arthur’s finally forgiven himself. 

And, well, Alfred is nothing if not an opportunist. 

“Can I try something?” he asks, the words muffled against Arthur’s lips, spoken between breaths, between the soft, feverish press of mouths that had only just found their rhythm again. “Please, let me try something. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop immediately.”

Arthur stills at the somewhat desperate edge to Alfred’s voice, his brows twitching together as he pulls back just enough to meet his gaze. His green eyes, darkened by the dim candlelight and something else entirely, flicker over Alfred’s flushed face, his parted lips, the way his chest rises and falls beneath him.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, voice quieter now, curious.

Alfred swallows, hands twitching where they rest on Arthur’s (bare) waist. 

“I just…” Alfred exhales and tilts his head back slightly. Slowly he drags one hand down from Arthur’s waist and to his lower abdomen, testing, measuring the way Arthur reacts before venturing further. 

Arthur’s abdominal muscles flutter and the mage shivers. And, fuck, if that isn’t the most encouraging thing in the world.

“Tell me to stop.” Alfred says, somewhat urgently, because he does not want Arthur to feel like he is not in control.

Slowly, deliberately, he lets his hand wander further down until his fingers are spread against the warm, hard surface of Arthur’s clothed cock. He dares not grip onto it just yet, instead waits to see Arthur’s reaction. The mage inhales shakily, his eyes drooping closed as he tenses, but he doesn’t move away. 

“Arthur.” Alfred says, somewhat desperately now, his own cock throbbing in time with his pulse. He tilts his head, nosing along Arthur’s jaw, brushing his lips there before murmuring, voice low and gravelly. “If you don’t want this, tell me to stop.”

“...Don’t stop.”

How Alfred does not spontaneously combust right then and there, he’ll never know, but he’s incredibly glad for it. Alfred doesn’t rush, he presses his thumb into Arthur’s hipbone first, exploring leisurely now that he’s been given permission, both for his own personal gain, but also to ease Arthur into it. 

Alfred’s pulse thunders in his ears as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of Arthur’s trousers, the fabric warm beneath his touch, taut where it clings to the dip of his hips.

“Is this okay?” Alfred asks, his voice low, heated, thick with something he doesn’t know how to put into words.

Arthur doesn’t stop him.

Instead, he exhales, his breath shaky, his hands tightening against Alfred’s ribs like he’s grounding himself. Then he leans into Alfred’s touch, his own fingers dragging against bare skin as he shifts.

And he nods.

Alfred’s chest tightens, his grip instinctively flexing as heat coils low in his stomach, but he doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Instead, he takes his time, watching, waiting, searching for even the smallest flicker of hesitation.

There is none.

Arthur trusts him.

And all Alfred thinks is that his hand is too dry for this. 

Arthur’s expression when Alfred pulls his hand back and licks it is definitely something Alfred’s going to revisit later, but then he dives back in and finally, finally, curls his fingers around Arthur’s cock.

If Arthur’s been tense before, he’s frozen now. He goes absolutely rigid, his eyes clenched closed and his lips pressed tightly together as he inhales through his nose and holds it, as if waiting for the ball to drop. Alfred waits, draining what little willpower he has as he waits.

“Ssh, it’s okay. Let me take care of you.” He finds himself murmuring, soothingly. “Tell me to stop and I will. Fuck, Arthur, you’re so -” 

 A low, unconstrained groan breaks from Arthur’s lips as he exhales, low and rough. “More.” 

Alfred has never obeyed an order this fast in his life. Careful to not overwhelm, to not take and take and take, Alfred gently sweeps his thumb over the leaking head of Arthur’s cock and this time, it’s Alfred who moans, despite being all but untouched himself. 

He strokes down the length agonisingly slowly, staring up at Arthur, at how he bites down on his lower lip, at how his eyelids flutter and at how his brow furrows with pleasure. Alfred desperately wants to kiss him, to taste him, but the fear of it being too much and Arthur retreating keeps Alfred where he is. 

Instead Alfred just stares at Arthur’s lips, licking his own and imagining he was licking Arthur’s instead. 

For a while, all he does is rub his thumb over the head of Arthur’s cock over and over, alternating it with a gentle slide up and down every now and then. 

Then Arthur shifts and all but grinds down on Alfred’s neglected erection and Alfred all but spasms, his fingers clenching. Arthur keens and slumps forward to press himself back against Alfred, the warmth of his bare chest against Alfred’s own overbearing and so, so good. 

Restraint abandons Arthur, it seems, as he tightens his legs around Alfred’s hips, using his position on top to his advantage. With uneven, jerky motions, he grinds forward, pushing down into Alfred’s fist until all Alfred’s able to do is lie there as his fist is being fucked and his cock is being grinded upon sporadically. 

The idea of being trapped, of allowing Arthur to use him as he sees fit, punches a strangled noise out of him and Alfred digs the finger of his free hand deep into Arthur’s rear. 

“It’s alright, I’ve got you, c’mon, come for me, that’s it, that’s it.”

Arthur comes, with a low and throaty sound, his face hidden in Alfred’s neck and his body jerking as he spills hot and wet across Alfred’s fist. 

Whether it’s the sound, the feeling or the realisation of it all, Alfred doesn’t know nor does he care. He follows almost immediately after and his climax is so intense, that it feels less like a relief and more like being dragged out to sea and pulled under by a current.

Pleasure skates through his body like a landslide and he shudders helplessly through it. He might have screamed, he might have not made any sound - it doesn’t matter, because his ears are ringing regardless. 

It’s not long before Arthur winces, likely overstimulated, and attempts to pull back. Still not entirely aware of where he is and how he is, Alfred refuses him an escape at first, and is rewarded with a zap of electricity down his side, which tickles more than anything. 

“Sorry.” He all but slurs, slowly and reluctantly releasing his hold on Arthur’s softening cock. He thinks about raising it to his face and licking it clean, but figures Arthur’s not quite there yet, so instead he idly wipes it dry on his trousers. 

Arthur leans down to kiss him, pressing small, firm, desperate kisses against his face, and that’s when Alfred realizes Arthur is crying. 

“Shit.” Alfred rasps between kisses, panic seizing his chest as his clean hand cups Arthur’s cheek, thumb swiping over damp skin. His body is still buzzing, his heart still racing, but worry cuts through the haze like a knife. “Arthur, are you okay? I’m so -”

“I love you.” Arthur’s voice is hoarse, but steady. Unshaken.

Alfred freezes, lips parting, breath catching in his throat. He should say something. He needs to say something, but his mind is stuck, tangled in the sheer gravity of those words.

It’s not as if Arthur hadn’t said them before, but something about him saying them now, about how he’s said them, about how he allows himself to be open and vulnerable, it makes Alfred’s stomach flip violently. 

Before he can speak, before he can even think, Arthur’s fingers are in his sweaty hair, tugging gently, pulling him in again.

“Do you need space?” Alfred blurts, still breathless, still overwhelmed. “Do you need me to -”

“Alfred, I love you.”

Arthur says it again, firmer this time, his voice raw in a way Alfred has never heard before.

And then he kisses him—properly, fully. Alfred makes a sound, low and guttural, because fuck, he doesn’t know how to do anything else when Arthur kisses him like this. Like he means it. Like he’s never meant anything more.

Alfred kisses him back, hard and hungry, his hand sliding from Arthur’s cheek down to his neck, his chest, his waist, just to feel him, just to hold on.

Arthur shudders into it, melting against him, his fingers still tangled in Alfred’s hair, holding him so close, so tightly that Alfred doesn’t think he could pull away even if he wanted to.

He exhales shakily when they finally break apart, resting his forehead against Arthur’s.

“You’re not just saying that, right?” Alfred whispers, almost afraid to ask.

Arthur laughs, wet and breathless, and it’s the best sound Alfred’s ever heard. 

“Idiot.” The mage murmurs, nuzzling closer, his nose brushing against Alfred’s cheek. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

Alfred’s chest tightens painfully.

“Say it again.” He pleads, because he needs to hear it.

Arthur smiles. “I love you.”

Alfred doesn’t trust his voice, so he just kisses him again.

The morning after had been rushed. Arthur panicked the moment the first hint of dawn spilled through the cabin window, shaking Alfred awake with wild eyes and a slew of hushed curses as he scrambled for his clothes. 

Alfred, on the other hand, had been too dazed and too in love to properly care. 

He had stretched, languid and satisfied, still feeling the ghost of Arthur’s touch on his skin as he watched his lover pace, muttering about discretion and consequences while desperately trying to dress properly in his frantic state.

Arthur had been adorably grumpy ever since.

Now, standing on the deck together, the ocean stretching before them, Alfred still rides the high of last night, his gaze trailing lazily over Arthur’s profile. All sharp lines and soft edges, all familiarity and something new all at once. Arthur, however, seems far less charmed, arms folded as he leans against the ship railing, eyes narrowed slightly against the wind.

“I still can’t believe I fell asleep.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “I never meant to -”

Alfred grins, boldly reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Arthur’s ear, not discouraged when Arthur swats his hand away. 

“I don’t know.” He teases. “I thought it was kind of sweet. You were so relaxed, all curled up next to me -”

Arthur shoots him a flat look. “Don’t.”

“Besides.” Alfred continues, as if not having been interrupted at all. “You were the one who fell asleep right after exclaiming your love for me for, oh, some twenty times?”

Arthur’s entire expression twitches, his grip on the railing tightening slightly. “…That was a lapse of judgement.”

“You love me.” Alfred sings teasingly under his breath.

Arthur exhales sharply, then turns his gaze back toward the sea, choosing to ignore him rather than take the bait. Instead, his expression softens, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wood. “I suppose we’ll have to practice our speech today.”

Alfred groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me.”

“What, and let the kingdom figure it out on their own?” Arthur deadpans, though not without a small smile. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Future Queen of Spades apparently from Antevaria - shock of the century.’”

Alfred snorts, shaking his head. “I mean, they’d figure it out eventually.”

Arthur laughs and Alfred almost freezes at the sound. Not because it’s uncommon, he’s heard Arthur laugh quite some times before now; he’s heard Arthur laugh at his expense more times than he could count, for one. 

But this, this is different. There’s no sarcasm or restraint behind it, it’s genuine, a rare, quiet joy. Alfred is entirely mesmerized by his counterpart, something that’s happening more often than not, these days. 

Even before all of this went down, before Alfred caught feelings, he could admit that Arthur had always been beautiful in his own way. But here, now, with the wind in his hair and a spark of something like excitement in his eyes…

Alfred’s done for. He wants this forever. 

The thought hits him suddenly, without warning, crashing into his chest like a lightning bolt. 

And, well.

Alfred has never been the type to think things through, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I want to marry you.”

Arthur chokes on air.

“What -”

“I want to marry you.” Alfred repeats, louder this time.

Somewhere behind them, the conversation among the crew pauses. Arthur stares at him, stunned, his mouth opening and closing, his fingers gripping the railing like he might actually collapse.

Alfred barely registers the growing whispers, the movement of people turning to look.

His focus is entirely on Arthur. They’d face everything together, side by side. He will make sure that Arthur feels heard, loved, wanted, in every moment he can offer from now on.

He imagines their future, a real one, not dictated by the court, not suffocating under expectation. Days filled with stolen moments in the palace gardens, riding horses through the countryside, visiting the sea just because they could, sneaking away from the palace to join the festivals and markets.

He wants all of it.

“…What do you mean?” Arthur asks, his voice low, his green eyes darting over Alfred’s face, like he wasn’t sure if he had actually heard him right.

Alfred steps forward and grabs onto Arthur’s hand. He’d get down on one knee, but that would definitely draw attention (unwanted attention, knowing Arthur), so this is the next best thing.

“I want to marry you.” Alfred repeats for a third time and he squeezes Arthur’s hand gently, enjoying the way Arthur’s cheeks color slightly at the casual display of affection. “Not because we have to, but because we want to. Will you marry me?”

A hush has fallen over the deck.

The crew has all but abandoned their chores to turn and look at them, whispering quietly among themselves, and Alfred’s positive Yao is glaring daggers into their sides, but he’s not going to turn and look to make sure. 

Arthur, still stunned, looks around in growing horror as realization dawns.

And then, someone clears their throat, sharp and terribly familiar.  

“Are you certain you wish to do this in front of an audience?” Yao asks, and he stands just a few feet away with his arms crossed, expression wholly unamused. 

Arthur’s face goes beet red. “No, he doesn’t -”

“Yes, I do.” Alfred interrupts firmly, his grip on Arthur’s hand tightening. Arthur whips his head back toward him, mouth open in sheer disbelief. Alfred just grins, undeterred. “Because I love you.”

Arthur opens his mouth, and closes it again. Alfred watches him carefully, heart pounding, waiting - waiting for anything. 

Then, quietly, almost hesitantly, Arthur nods. Alfred barely has time to grin triumphantly before Arthur yanks him forward, burying his face into Alfred’s shoulder to hide his mortified expression as the deck erupts into cheers. 

Alfred just laughs, arms wrapping tightly around Arthur’s waist.

“Guess that’s a yes.”