Chapter Text
I.
The war ends, Nohr heals, prosperity returns. Peace abounds throughout the land, everywhere except in Xander’s study, where there are presently two impediments to Xander’s own peace.
Laslow knows himself to be one of Xander’s persistent annoyances, sitting very incorrectly in one of Xander’s better chairs and sighing at regular intervals as if he were paid per exhale. He can tell it drives Xander absolutely mad, which unfortunately makes it all the more amusing for Laslow. Breaking his king’s composure in any way is always a hard-fought victory that fills him with no small amount of satisfaction.
The second (and much more bothersome, in Laslow’s opinion) reason for Xander’s pinched expression sat stacked in a neat pile atop his desk.
Letters.
Marriage proposals.
Dozens. Perhaps even a hundred. From all over, near and far, all asking in some form or another for Xander to consider their (or their daughter’s, or their sister’s) hand in marriage.
Laslow sighs again. Xander does the same.
“I can misplace them for you, if you’d like,” Laslow says, the first words spoken in what feels like hours but is likely only twenty minutes at the most. “You know. Whoops! Right out the window. Hm?”
Xander looks as though he wants to accept that offer quite badly, but remembers at the last moment that he is king and must not condone such trite acts of immaturity, etc etc, so on and so forth, so he settles for leveling his most stern glare at Laslow in lieu of a proper response.
The glare works, and Laslow puts up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to be helpful. You seem like you’re rather…”
Laslow trails off, and Xander raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“...Not enjoying this process,” Laslow finishes, lamely.
Xander can’t contain the sigh he lets out. “I’m not.”
“Hmm,” Laslow walks toward Xander’s desk, picking up the first letter on the pile. “What if you just… picked one? This one here,” Laslow waves the unopened envelope in his hands. “Meet her, court her for a bit, marry her if you’re feeling ambitious. I’m sure the proposals would stop if people knew you were…,” he falters. “Accounted for.”
Xander frowns, ever the picture of staunch disapproval. Yet still he takes the letter from Laslow’s hand, opening it, humoring him.
“She’s thirteen.”
“Ah.” Laslow grabs another from the pile. “This one, then.”
Xander opens it.
“Sixty-three,” Xander deadpans. “With three children. All older than I am.”
Laslow covers his mouth in an unsuccessful effort to smother the laugh that spills over. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t imagine your options would be so…” He trails off. He can’t finish the sentence, consumed by another giggle, so he settles for gesturing to the rest of the letters.
Xander sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he places the opened letters back on his desk. “I think I would rather be at war again,” he grumbles. “It would be much easier if I could ask you,” he adds with a weary, mirthless chuckle. “Keeping you out of the taverns would solve two of my problems.”
“Oh,” Laslow hadn’t been expecting that, but he thinks he manages to play off his surprise rather coolly. By which he means his face doesn’t feel entirely on fire, and he gets out his next words without tripping over them. “Well. You can. Ask.”
“Don’t be absurd,” but he looks up and Laslow can see his resolve falter even as the words have barely left his mouth. “I couldn't ask that of you.”
“You could,” Laslow says, picking up another letter from the pile and opening it just to occupy his hands. “I would say yes.” His eyes scan the letter, not processing a single word.
Xander falls quiet and Laslow finds that he desperately needs to chase the silence away. “I would do it at no cost, you know. But,” he moves more of the letters around, tidying up the pile and placing them closer to the edge of the desk, dangerously near the mouth of the waste basket. “If it would ease your conscience… perhaps a vacation in exchange for my valiant efforts, battling off your mass of suitors? I’d like to visit Ylisse. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen my family.”
Laslow moves a hand close to the pile of letters as he speaks, closer with each movement. He thinks it would be rather funny to teter the whole pile into the bin, but Xander clearly disagrees, sending another glare in his direction before Laslow gets the chance to follow through on the bit. Laslow raises his hands, stepping away, pleased that at least the tension had dissipated slightly.
“I am a natural woman repellent, after all,” Laslow continues, since Xander has yet to say a word. “This is perhaps the one instance where my services would be entirely invaluable to you.”
Xander pinches the bridge of his nose. Again. “Don’t speak like that. Your help is always invaluable to me.” Then he sighs again, lowering his hand. “But...are you certain? You would be...alright with this?”
A thick pressure blankets the room, and Laslow tries to dispel it with an easy smile. “Yes,” he says. More than alright, he doesn’t say.
Selfish.
Xander looks away, uncharacteristically embarrassed, clearly searching for some words and unsure how to give them some life. “Alright. Then I would… appreciate it.”
Laslow beams. “Excellent to hear, darling.”
Xander stares daggers into him, blushing a furious red that only enamors Laslow further.
“Ah, I see, no pet names. Understood.”
-
Their charade works. Not all at once, but after a few months of practiced gestures in front of prime Nohrian gossips and some visiting dignitaries, word of their heart-wrenchingly tender affair spreads past the walls of the castle. The letters slow to a trickle. But still they come, and a few is evidently still too many.
Fall turns to winter turns to spring, and Elise demands a proper celebration for her birthday. Xander sees an opportunity, and asks Laslow if he would be willing to use the celebration as a more public venue for their performance.
“Of course,” Laslow agrees, easy as breathing.
“You’re certain?” Xander asks, unconvinced. “That would be alright?”
Yes,” Laslow answers. More than. “You know, with any luck, this might even be the last thing needed to sell it. If the proposals finally stop after this, then you’ll be...,” he trails off with a small laugh, searching for the right words. “Well, then I shall sleep well on my vacation without worrying about you being swarmed by harems of women in the absence of your stalwart defender,” he smiles at Xander, a practiced gesture, but not an entirely genuine one.
Xander looks at Laslow for a moment too long to be considered polite, expression indecipherable. Laslow looks away first.
There is a tension between them that sets Laslow on edge, and he lets out a small, nervous laugh. The sound is thin and cracked even to his own ears. “I hope your ballroom dancing is up to my standards,” Laslow says, shattering the strange moment. “My liege,” he adds with a teasing lilt and an overly-dramatic bow.
Xander’s expression changes to something between annoyance and fondness, a look seemingly reserved for Laslow alone. Laslow’s cheeks warm.
The moment passes and so do the days, and soon enough, Elise’s birthday celebration is upon them.
The party is an extravagant affair and though the planning was exhausting for all involved, the result is a happy Elise, which is truly all that matters.
The night draws to a close, and the alcohol is a dull, pleasant warmth beneath Laslow’s skin and his feet and heart are light. Xander guides him by a hand on his back from the ballroom and into the cool night air of the courtyard gardens, and the hand does not drop even when they are long out of sight of the remaining partygoers.
Xander seems lost in thought, so Laslow fills the silence by humming the last song that they’d danced to before leaving. They had danced to quite a few songs, actually. Some before the ball as well, to practice.
Both of them had blushed furiously during those first few sessions, and quite a few feet had gotten stepped on, much to Laslow’s dismay. He was supposed to be a professional and not some blundering fool, but, well. He was willing to admit, at least to himself, that Xander would always have that effect on him.
With time their dances grew smooth. They owned the dance floor that night, elegant and flawless, the envy of all the partygoers.
Sometimes Laslow followed in their dances, other times he led. It was perfect no matter how they performed it. They were perfect.
Laslow’s humming falters as he realizes their last dance may very well have been their… last. He finds himself filled with a profound unwillingness to accept the thought. And the words form a life of their own, bubbling up from his chest and spilling from his lips as he asks:
“Might I request one last dance, your majesty?” Laslow extends a hand and performs a deep bow. He hopes Xander reads the action as playful, light, an inside joke between two good friends. In honesty, it is to hide his face from the nervousness he knows is written all over it.
“Here?” Xander asks, glancing at the garden surrounding them.
“Mm. Why not?”
“There isn’t any music,” but he takes Laslow’s hand anyway, the same way they always begin their dances, now a comfortable routine. Laslow hadn’t known how tense he’d become until he feels Xander’s hand in his own, relaxing him gradually with the warmth of the touch.
“That’s alright. I’ll just-” and Laslow resumes humming as Xander places a hand on his waist, intending to lead.
Laslow loves it when Xander leads. He’s never said it out loud, he’s sure of that, knowing it would set his face alight to admit such a thing. But he thinks Xander knows. Just as Laslow knows that Xander prefers following as well, likely because being the crown prince turned king meant dancing with only women his entire life, which meant always being in the lead, and Laslow thinks he can understand the desire to have someone you trust take control for once.
Xander prefers following, and still he holds Laslow’s waist and takes the lead. Not out of habit, but because he knows Laslow prefers it. He will let Laslow have this.
Laslow is so deeply in love with him. It’s another thing that he hasn’t said, but thinks Xander must know.
He still doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything at all, just continues humming his tune as Xander spins them around the garden.
Eventually it comes to an end when their skin grows cold from the night breeze. There is a moment heavy enough to sink them in shallow waters as they both realize how long they’d been out, how long they’d been pressed together, heedless of time or temperature. They separate, dispelling the moment by mutual agreement before the awkwardness can spread its roots further, deeper.
They resume their walk. Xander’s hand finds the small of Laslow’s back once more. It’s nothing, it’s so small, a polite gesture made a thousand times, and it’s so much.
They walk toward Xander’s room, another little routine of theirs since the start of their charade. They would walk to the king’s quarter’s together, quiet, stealthily, but always hoping to be seen. Then they would play a game or two of chess, or share a drink, or simply chat. All three, more often than not. And then Laslow would slink away, hours later, and Laslow’s attempts at stealth were not performances during these walks of shame; he was truly rather embarrassed to think about the conclusions people would draw. People often saw him anyway.
And so Xander’s room is where their feet begin to carry them, by unspoken agreement.
“Would you permit me to ask you a personal question?” Xander asks as they move out from the night breeze of the gardens and into the castle.
“If you permit me the possibility of not answering,” Laslow smirks, going for levity in the face of a conversation that he knows full well might be his undoing.
The castle is eerily quiet, far more so than usual. Most of its usual inhabitants were likely either enjoying the last dregs of Elise’s party, or exhausted from the event and fast asleep. The feeling of its emptiness makes Laslow’s skin itch. There was no one to perform for. There hadn’t been for some time now.
“You don’t seem…,” Xander looks stalwartly ahead, down the hallway lit only by the full moon’s bright blue light. “…Uncomfortable with this,” he finishes.
“Hmm,” Laslow looks to Xander and the expression he sees there is pinched, looking only straight ahead and not at all congruous with the quietude of Xander’s voice. “That isn’t a question.”
The stillness of the castle makes itself known once more in the beat of silence that ensues. “I was…,” Xander sighs, hardly more than a soft exhale. “Hesitant. To accept your role in this, at first. You offered, but you-” Xander’s voice grows quieter, seeming more ill at ease with each word, “-have only ever shown affection for women. I thought you might be…” then, quieter still, “Uncomfortable, being seen with another man like this. So publicly.”
Also not a question, Laslow nearly says, all of his evasive instincts rising up within him. He briefly entertains the idea of running away entirely. He also briefly entertains the idea of putting Xander out of his misery and answering the unspoken question anyway, before Xander speaks again.
“Your loyalty is exemplary, but I am… more than aware that this is far outside of your duties. I hope it isn’t something you consider an obligation to me as your king, so, please, answer truthfully,” a question, finally: “Does this… make you uncomfortable?”
Laslow pauses, considering his words carefully. Knowing that he won’t be able to take back any of the words once they’re said. “I’m not opposed to being seen with men. Not opposed to being with men, either.” Another beat of silence between them, their light footfalls the only sounds in the entire world it seems. “So, no. I’m not uncomfortable.”
“You’ve been with men before?”
Laslow knows they’re on a precipice, teetering over, and he isn’t sure what they’ll find at the bottom of the cliff once they fall, but he knows as surely as he knows his own blade that the fall is imminent. He ignores the swooping feeling that comes before the plunge, pretends his feet are firmly on solid ground. Keeps himself walking steadily down the hallway, toward Xander’s room.
“Men,” Laslow gives a low laugh. “Just one. Once. He didn’t-” another low chuckle, subdued, a disquiet quickly covered by a cracked attempt at a smile. “Ah, well, you’ve seen how I woo the ladies. It should come as no surprise that my history is no better with men.”
Xander doesn’t laugh. The silence grows more uneasy with each second that passes by, too long without any sounds to hide how Laslow’s heart beats hard and too quick. Laslow knows his discomfort must be written plain as day on his features as Xander’s gaze searches his face.
“You loved him?” Xander asks, the fragile sounds filling the silence.
A short laugh. Does it sound nervous? Laslow hopes not, but knows it does. “Yes, maybe. But it was a long time ago. I didn’t call it love then, and I certainly wouldn’t now. But,” Laslow claps his hands together, hoping the sound chases away the tension pressing in on them from all sides. “There you have it!” another laugh, definitely more obvious in its timerity this time. “I have the whole field open to me, yet still so tragically…” he gesticulates, unwilling to pin down the correct word. Lonely might be apt.
Xander doesn’t say anything. Just… stares at him.
“Does that make you uncomfortable?” Laslow asks. He tries to sound confident. Fails spectacularly. The words fall out, thin and frail from his lips.
“Of course not,” Xander’s answer is swift, and Laslow tries not to fully sag with relief. “You thought I would-?”
“What? No, I know you’re- very, ah, accepting, of course, I didn’t mean-”
“I never would have agreed to this if it made me uncomfortable-”
“Right, yes, glad that’s cleared up, I’ll just-”
They’ve reached Xander’s door now, and surely he should just walk away, further down the hall to his own quarters.
“Laslow.” Xander’s hand grips his arm, and they both stop short. Laslow can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe until Xander lets go of his arm, which is there for only a painfully short amount of time before he pulls it away as though burned. Laslow mourns the loss of it. He would gladly give up all the air in his lungs for that hand to grip him tightly just once more, anywhere.
Xander’s eyes bore into Laslow, commanding his full attention, yet seemingly unsure what to do with it once he has it.
“Yes?” Laslow presses, featherlight.
Xander’s hand finds its way back to Laslow’s arm, lighter this time. Laslow shivers as the hand trails down the arm to his wrist.
“You asked me to dance earlier.”
“I did.” He swallows. He’s sure they are about to freefall over the edge now. “You said yes.”
“I did.” Xander takes a step closer. “There wasn’t anyone around.”
“I know.” Laslow thinks they might be falling already. Are they? He’s never felt more tethered to solid ground than he feels with Xander’s hand on his wrist.
“Then it wasn’t a part of the act?” Xander asks, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen his liege before.
“No,” Laslow confesses with a small laugh, taking a small step forward. “I’m a dancer. Never really had a talent for acting, you know.”
Xander swallows, and Laslow’s eyes track the movement shamelessly. “You’ve done a fine job of it these past few months.”
“Mm.” Laslow says nothing more, just smiles. Waits.
The truth comes to Xander slowly, as though he’s known it this whole time (and he has, of course he has) but it’s this, the act of sitting in this silence that allows him to finally accept it.
“None of it?” Xander breathes out, not louder than a whisper yet an impossibly deep sound that Laslow would love nothing more than to hear directly in his ear.
Laslow shakes his head, not trusting his words at the moment. He’s sure that his blush must cover every inch of his body. He valiantly pretends it does not.
“You suggested it, and you-?,” later, Laslow might celebrate the fact that he’s rendered his king momentarily dumbfounded. “Why?”
Xander is so close to him now. Laslow wishes he’d stop asking questions already. Laslow is slowly losing his ability to listen to words, much less answer with words of his own.
“What can I say?” Laslow chuckles. “I saw an opportunity to have just a taste of the life I’d love to have. I truly wanted to help, but I-,” in a much smaller voice, losing steam with each word that trips off his tongue: “I’m… well. Just a man. Selfish.” And softer still: “Are you angry with me?”
Xander’s free hand comes up to card lightly through his hair, making its way down to caress his cheek. The gentleness of the action is directly at odds with the way he finally answers Laslow’s question with a simple, pleasant,
“Yes.” He steps forward, moving Laslow just slightly to press him into the door. Laslow leans into it, hoping either the door or Xander will keep him vertical when his knees finally give out on him, which they seem wont to do at any moment. “For not saying anything sooner.”
And their lips crash together.
