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The Prince of Bog’s Hollow is perhaps the most insufferable person in all the Lands That Are. This is a known fact to everyone and anyone who has had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of his attention. He is perhaps one of the few cases in the world where ‘beauty is within’ does not apply at all, yet even the Nine Great Gods with their chisels and hammers could not compensate for the filth that drips from his lips.
“Tadius? Tadius!”
Familiar sharp clicks fill the air. One day the Prince will learn that snapping once is ample, given Tadius is unable to teleport. That day is not today, the Narrator knows.
The Narrator also knows that Tadius is otherwise occupied with a lady of the court, but it seems for the best that he doesn’t share that tidbit. Certainly not when the Prince is already making a spectacle of himself.
Too late — the man arrives before him by way of quite a marvellous moonwalk. Usually, the Narrator would step away, retreat to the sidelines. He is an observer, after all. An archivist rather than a partaker. In spite of the lack of interest and the naysayers, he still clings to his hopes that one distant day, his accounts and tales will be as important as those that tell of the Nine Great Gods and the royal forefathers.
Yet he does not slip away in his usual fleeting fashion. Instead, rather boldly if he says so himself, the Narrator bows to the Prince, offering up his untouched drink with a flourish. Accepting it from the waiter was merely for show; at events like these, it pays to blend in, especially when wanting to watch and recall, and that oft means accepting the alcohol as a point of social convention.
Social conventions, naturally, do not apply to royalty.
“Oh, sparkling fernflower, how delightful. You knew this was my favourite?”
“Of course.”
The Narrator did not. So that information is filed away for another time, in the section of his mind concerning His Highness that may just surpass professional interest.
Gentle jazz picks up into something slightly quicker as Toothless Jon counts the rest of the Whippoorwills in. What attracts the Prince to the very band playing the drinking holes and dumps of Bog’s Hollow remains to be seen, but the Narrator can at least appreciate how the groove seems to spread into His Majesty’s body like magic.
“You should dance, Narrator. We were given the gift of movement, why not use it?”
“We were also given the gift of sight, which seems much more appropriate for my duties tonight, does it not?”
Sight feels more like a curse as the Prince begins to swing his hips in a circle.
“Nonsense! No one is on duty tonight, we’re celebrating my marriage.”
The Narrator leans back against the marble table behind them and crosses his legs. Even after so long, he has to take a moment to study the Prince and realise - yes, he is truly this naive.
“My Prince, I would require the hands of many men to count the times you have called for Tadius this evening, and we’ve barely started allowing guests in. Not to mention, it is a little far-fetched to call this a wedding party when you’re yet to choose your bride.”
“It’s not my fault those stupid witches outside the kingdom don’t want me.” The Prince huffs, bottom lip full and near-wobbling. Even at his age, he is the perfect image of a petulant brat. “I tried my very best to woo them, you know — speaking of, have my lyrics been accounted for in the royal archive?”
“Of course, Your Highness. I particularly appreciated the song for the princess of the western kingdom. Bringing her brother into it, that was new.” The Narrator knows better than to question the Prince’s so-called genius. He’s also smart enough to back it up with his acting.
Finishing the wine with a flourish, the Prince foists the empty glass off onto the next servant that passes them. “Inspired, wasn’t it?” he sighs as he comes to perch next to the Narrator.
Even through layers of leather and silk and cotton, the Narrator could tell you exactly how their thighs touched.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this marriage thing. Tadius says no, but that’s because he’s so close-minded about my sexual liberation. Anyways, I realized when we were out west that the Princess’s brother was actually far less trouble than she was- I mean, women, am I right?” The Prince nudges him in the side with a knowing wink.
It is becoming increasingly difficult for The Narrator to ignore the contact between them.
“Right. So much drama with the Princess, plus she called me crude. It was ridiculous! At least the prince laughed at my jokes. So really I thought– if a hole is a hole, why do I even have to bother marrying a princess at all? Why not try it on with him too?”
“Just as inspired, Your Majesty.” The Narrator chokes out, downing the remainder of his own drink. He’s not sure his own inclinations are a hot topic around the castle, so being the first to hear this from the Prince is awful. He can’t tell if it’s targeted or if His Highness truly would share his newfound ideals with anyone. “But you remain alone tonight, no man nor woman on your arm, only me beside you. One can only assume that the ‘trying it on with him’ didn’t go as well as hoped.”
“Well, I got my cock sucked if you want to include that in the archives.”
The Narrator thanks the gods he finished his drink, because it certainly would’ve ended up spat onto the floor upon hearing that. He manages to restrain his reaction to just his eyes widening, instead of the curses that threaten to spill over his lips. Heat rises to the high points of his cheeks nonetheless.
The Prince frowns at the lack of response and turns to face him. “I’m serious, you know. I can act it out for you if you want a real account to write down. He was all-“ he lets out a series of strangled moans, “and I was all, oh, fuck, yeah, blow me.”
Hands grasp at imaginary hair just in front of his crotch. Despite growing up in the periphery of His Highness, the Narrator is still shocked at how… puerile his humor is. He needs another drink.
“You don’t think you ought to be a little quieter?” the Narrator suggests. It’s probably as harsh as he can will himself to be right now.
It earns him a guffaw. “Fuck no! Tadius said I can’t start any wars with any churches, but that’s because I asked about two brides. There is nothing wrong with taking a groom, my man…” the Prince pauses for thought. “Or dick without marrying the rest of him!”
Suddenly, the pattern of the tiles on the floor has become incredibly interesting to the Narrator. No matter he’s seen it at every event since he took up this role. No matter the heat in his cheeks only increasing.
The Prince scoffs at him. “Oh, come on, don’t act like it’s shameful. I know it’s a little unconventional for Bog’s Hollow but there’s nothing wrong with-“
“-I have no problem with appreciating all sorts of people, Your Majesty.” the Narrator chooses his words carefully. Unconventional is an apt descriptor, but the other’s sudden acceptance may not extend to himself as well. “Far from it. I observe more than breasts and asses, my prince, this is all.” he settles.
As a boy, the Narrator spent much of his alone time in the brook near his family’s home, composing stories while the babbles of the water disguised the tales leaving his lips. And disguises they were, given it didn’t take long for him to develop a juvenile crush on the young prince… and decide to keep such developments from his parents.
Tales grew with him into fully-fledged stories, written down with the utmost care. Scraps of paper became notebooks became bookshelves lining his walls. When he took the archivist position, the stories only grew with him. As did his interest in the Prince.
Once more, the Narrator looks up only to find the Prince looking right back at him. Studying others is his forte; being studied like this makes him squirm.
“Oh, really?” the Prince’s smile grows almost predatory, eyes never leaving the Narrator’s. “That’s a new development.”
“I’m sure it is.” the Narrator responds flatly, taking in a steadying breath. Roses and honey fill his lungs; the Prince’s cologne. Between this, the fleeting touches, and the general overwhelm of a party in swing, the Narrator isn’t sure how much longer he can bear to stay the subject of royal attention. It’ll be easy enough to find some excuse or another about notes to take or records to finish, return to the sidelines where he prefers it.
Yet for a moment, different stories come to mind. Less official, more… self-indulgent. How would the Prince’s story go if he were not obliged to find a bride (or husband now, apparently) in good standing? If he could follow heart over mind? If the Narrator played a larger role?
“You know-” Too much daydreaming. His Majesty’s breath is now warm and entirely too close to the Narrator's ear. It sends a shiver down his spine, though he quickly masks it by feigning interest in his empty glass.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” he replies, aiming for the dry, measured tone that has always served him well.
“I’ve decided something. About you.”
How is one supposed to respond to that? “And what revelation has struck you now, Your Majesty?” the Narrator deadpans, not looking up from his glass.
The Prince grins, the same cocksure smile that likely sent half the eligible maidens of the Western Kingdom running. He pauses for dramatic effect, leaning back against the table beside him and resting an arm on the Narrator’s shoulder. The contact sends an electric pulse through him, though he wills his composure to remain intact. “I’ve decided you’re one of my favorite people in this entire kingdom.”
He’s drunk. He is so impossibly drunk. That’s the only explanation. The Narrator snorts softly, shaking his head. “How flattering, Your Majesty. Should I start planning the parade in my honor?”
The Prince cackles, entirely unoffended, his grin wide and gleaming. “Oh, I’m serious. You’re not like all these other bootlickers.” He waves a hand toward the crowd. “They’re here because they have to be. You’re here because- wait, you don’t actually have to be here, do you?”
Of course the Prince would think he does this just as a hobby.
“Of course I do,” the Narrator replies dryly, gesturing to the crowd. “Someone has to record the dazzling events of His Majesty’s wedding-that-isn’t.”
“Right, right.” the Prince smirks, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But admit it: you enjoy it. Writing about me, following me around. You’d be bored stiff without me.”
“Possibly.” The Narrator tilts his head. “Or perhaps I simply prefer the relative simplicity of your tantrums to documenting a thousand years of royal tax disputes.”
The Prince barks out a laugh, clapping him on the shoulder in a way that feels a little too familiar. “See? That’s why I like you. You don’t just grovel. Not all the time, anyway; not like Tadius. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m glad to be such a shining beacon of honesty, Your Majesty”
“Of course you are.” The Prince’s grin grows wicked. “You’ve probably written a thousand pages about me already, haven’t you? Just admit it – you’re obsessed.”
“I’m thorough,” the Narrator corrects, though his cheeks flush slightly.
“Thoroughly obsessed,” the Prince quips. Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he snaps his fingers. “You owe me a dance.”
“I owe you no such thing.”
“Ah, but you do.” The Prince gestures grandly toward the dance floor. “Every party has to have at least one poor fool who strikes up some gossip for the guests by spinning in circles with me. Tonight, that lucky sod is you.”
The Narrator raises an eyebrow. “Surely, Your Majesty, there’s no shortage of eager volunteers.”
“True,” the Prince concedes, and the Narrator is almost scared of how his smirk turns positively devilish. “But this is a matter of principle. Everyone else does it because they’re obligated. I want you to do it because you’ll hate it. So much more satisfying.” His sigh is near-wistful, hand held to his forehead as if his one dream has always been to ruin the Narrator’s life.
Already regretting every choice that led him here, the Narrator exhales slowly. Calm. Collected. He can make this work. It doesn’t mean His Majesty immediately knows every thought and ideal tucked away in the crevices of his own mental archives. “If I agree to one dance, will you leave me to work for the rest of the evening?”
“Absolutely not.” The Prince beams, grabbing his wrist and hauling him onto the floor. Every instinct tells the Narrator to pull away, to retreat to the safety of the shadows where he belongs. But the crowd parts for them as the Prince leads him to the center of the dance floor, where the Whippoorwills is playing a lively tune. The Narrator feels exposed, vulnerable under the watchful eyes of the guests. But then the Prince begins to move, twirling him in an exaggerated flourish that draws a ripple of laughter from the onlookers. And despite himself, the Narrator laughs too.
It’s ridiculous, absurd, and entirely inappropriate. But for the first time in a long time, the Narrator lets himself be part of the story instead of just recording it.
As the song ends, the Prince pulls him close, their faces mere inches apart. Hands creep far too low on his waist to be appropriate. “See?” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only the Narrator can hear – and even then, so low he can only imagine other words. “You leave me extremely satisfied. I would only hope you’re able to say the same.”
Heat floods the Narrator’s cheeks, but before he can respond, the Prince releases him with a wink and a bow, leaving him flustered and all too aware of the many curious eyes still on them.