Chapter Text
December twenty-first is the date that greets Bacon when he rises from his bed, the last remnants of moonlight clinging to his bedspread and laying itself across the marble flooring of his chambers. The air is cold; he tugs his blanket tighter around his body, inching closer to the nightstand for a candle to lighten up the room.
It’s seven thirty in the morning. The world outside screams midnight.
Other than the time and the date, today is the Winter Solstice Festival, an annual tradition of the Hillaeri Kingdom. He hurries out of bed – shit . Wrapping the still-tightened blanket around his shoulders, he stands up and makes his way to the closet, footfalls meeting cold and sleek material as the candlelight guides him to his wardrobe.
He’s forgotten that today is the Winter Solstice. He's forgotten that it’s cold and dark and dreary at seven thirty in the morning on a December twenty-first. He’s forgotten that festivities start at nine, when the sun decides to show face and bleed its clementine light into the evergreens.
He’s forgotten that today is his birthday. Bacon Ashton, Prince of the Hillaeri Kingdom, Figurehead of the Eastern World, is eighteen today.
After he puts on multiple layers of hoodies and sweatpants, he slips his closet door closed, moves to the bathroom, and flicks on the light. The oil lamps burn a yellowish glow into his body, feigning dampened sunlight. Taking one glance in the mirror, he grimaces, a muddy expression that causes him to turn on the faucet to the sink and stick his head in the basin.
A minute or so passes and warm water meets his fingertips, lathering across his face, pressing the unruly curls of his bangs back. He feels blood rush to his cheeks, red and warm midtones scattering across his skin. Suddenly, the entire rest of his body is cold, limbs falling off in frostbite, leaving him as nothing but two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.
Bacon groans. He figures he’s going to need a thirty minute shower to catch his body up to speed.
When he’s done with the bathroom, hair slicked back as much as he can force it and stray locks cushioned down beneath layers of water and product, he shrugs on proper clothing, draping a casual tunic over the myriad of hoodies he’s wearing. The aroma of nine hundred thousand or so breakfast platters greets him when he descends the stairs, hand sliding around the pole of the railing and lingering a little longer before he lets go and joins the rest of his family at the table.
He’s still blown away when walking into the dining hall from the staircase. The room is ornate, stained glass murals lining the ceiling, casting moonlight and starlight into colored geometries. Rainbows come to meet them when they eat, patterns angled perfectly so that light is always shining on the table no matter what time of day. Waxed copper pillars line the sides, splitting the walls of the room into quadrants, where painted patterns against wall trims create the transition through the floor and ceiling.
Near his feet, turquoise mineral knocks against his shoes, so polished that he sees the ceiling murals in its reflection. The table, a mix of dark oak and white draped cloth, sits in the middle of the room, copper varnishes resting on the bottoms of the legs. The table’s been set. Oxeye daisies and scarlet tulips, piled in vases that sit in thirds. White, silk napkins, silverware wrapped in the midst of them. Plates and dinner mats under them, beige blending into white as fabric transitions to porcelain.
Drinks are out, in decorative jugs and dainty cups, in teapots and unopened bottles. Most importantly, food decorates the table. Smells and colors enter his vision like a sensory overload. He’d be nauseated if he wasn’t currently starving.
His mother, Queen Veritania, sits at the head, attention fully on some book laid out in front of her. His father, the King Consort Sullivan, sits next to her, newspaper in his hand instead. His father’s the one to look up first, edges of the paper folding downwards as his eyes come to match. Bacon puts on a smile and takes his seat across.
“Morning, Father.” His voice is gravelly. He clears it and reaches across the table to grab a glass, taking the jug of water and filling it about halfway. When the glass is raised and lowered from his lips, he hears a response.
“Good morning, Bacon.” This voice is much more… authoritative? Bacon doesn’t know what he’s ever thought of his father’s voice; just that whenever he hears it he knows to be at attention. This morning, however, it sounds gentler. Quieter. Maybe it’s because of the Winter Solstice. Maybe it’s because of his birthday. Maybe his father just already had coffee.
Truth be told, there is a white ceramic mug on the right side of him. Bacon snickers softly.
“You sound pleased,” he comments, thoughts from earlier rolling off his tongue and onto the table. His father chuckles, setting down the newspaper in favor of the mug. When he’s done taking a sip, he responds.
“Because I am. My little boy is eighteen today.”
“Yes,” Bacon says, tone prouder as he lifts himself up higher in his chair, back straightening against the edge. “I’m actually an adult now.”
His mother hums, eyes still skimming over inked-in words. “No more kids, Sull,” she murmurs, words smooth and wrapping around both of them, “just adult manchilds.”
Bacon barks out a laugh. “Really? It’s my birthday. You’re not allowed to be mean.”
His father snickers in response, shaking his head. His eyes hold some kind of determination and sarcasm, emotions and semantics blending to create a brush of affection against normally stoic features. “Your brother’s going to torment you all day. We’re just the prep.”
Planet. Yeah, that sounds about right, Bacon thinks. He can never really shut up. And now that his brother’s an adult, bickering can go beyond what was considered fair yesterday. He’s not a baby, he’d say. Old enough to catch whatever’s thrown at him.
Planet’s not at the table.
“Speaking of, where is he?” Bacon’s head resorts to a swivel, looking left and then right across the dining hall. As Bacon turns his head to rest left, Planet emerges into the dining hall, a scarf and hoodie draped over his shoulders. When he sees Bacon’s eyes already on his, his smile widens and he hurriedly walks over to the seat next to him to take it.
“Good morning,” Planet says, eyes crinkling as he tilts his head towards Bacon. “Happy birthday!”
Bacon smiles, a soft, fickle thing. “Morning, Planet,” their mother says, uncorking a wine bottle and pouring herself a haphazard glass. “Shall we eat now?”
“Yes,” their father says. “Lower for prayer.”
Their heads all bow, eyes closing and hands joining. Their father starts to say something, words interlaced by the winter deity’s name and the blessings requested: a hearty and filling breakfast, a good Winter Solstice, a good Festival, a good afterspeech, and lastly, a good birthday. For Bacon.
Bacon spins his own prayer to the deity. I’m an adult now. Guide me to make the right decisions, if such a day ever comes that I should come face to face with some.
When they all lift their heads, easy smiles dote their features, and silverware starts to move as they begin their breakfast.
Bacon takes a long look at himself in his floor-length mirror. He’s properly dressed up, culturally significant robes and scarves and capes all over his body. The only skin visible is his head, neck buried by fabrics that speak of ancient and powerful constellations. He makes sure the most important one – the Winter Vase – is at the forefront of his outfit, stars aligning across the fabrics to create the full shape of it. The stars shine through his fabric. It’s beautiful.
With a final scarf wrapped around his neck, colored burnt orange and interlaced with some beige-tan counter, his outfit is ready, and he descends the steps, exiting the palace to find the Festival already in session.
Banners celebrating the dawn of the shortest day in the year scatter themselves across every building and castle wall they can find, blue and white silk fluttering in the winter wind. There’s soft orchestral music in the background, bells tolling in accordance, harmonies drifting along the same wind currents to join the rest of the Festival. He smiles softly, the corners of his lips upturning. Might as well join the fray.
All he feels when he steps in is a resounding home, familiarity and nostalgia surrounding him. This is his eighteenth Winter Solstice. His first was a gift from the world to him, the day he was born; the day the Festival was not held because the Queen could not show. The day the world celebrated the new prince Bacon Ashton.
Wow. He’s eighteen years of age today. He still drones on the fact in his head, the number playing over and over until colors burn their way into his head, until all he can see is himself – the miracle child, the figurehead of the nation, finally an adult.
The Winter Solstice Festival is not about Bacon Ashton, though. The world does not wait for him, axis turning and tilting away from the sun as days grow quieter and more reserved. The Festival is about the Solstice. So taking a deep breath and straightening his robes one more time, he steps into the plaza.
Music becomes overwhelming, sunrise illuminating the frost on the ground. There’s aimless chatter around him. No one’s really paying him any attention, caught up in their own groups of friends, dancing from one topic of conversation to the next. The plaza is a mesh of blue and black, of silver stars that sprinkle themselves across the dirt. It’s nice to be here, he thinks. Around people who respect his culture as much as he does; people who are of the same culture, who value the Winter Solstice with the reverence it deserves.
He wanders through the plaza until he comes across an open area, fairy lights in the shape of stars strung from pole-to-pole, framing a neat circle where couples step onto the cobblestone-brick and dance. Over the belltones, dress shoes clacking against worn material can be heard, shifts of cloth as noblemen brush their women’s dresses. Navy fabric wrapped in and out, no skin visible except for that around their head.
As Bacon’s passing by the dance circle, something – someone catches his eye. There’s a flutter of warm tones amongst the silver of the cosmos, sun motifs curling into threads and spilling out in flowery designs across garments. And then, there’s someone wearing those garments, pulling a noblewoman along with him, red and yellow scarf draped behind him that screams anything but Winter Solstice.
Bacon tilts his head. Is he a foreigner? The clothing is thick enough for the Solstice, but the colors are not anywhere close to cultural, all bright and shiny and flaunting. Maybe he mixed up the customs or is new to the…
As soon as his lady spins him in a circle, blonde waves flying around his face like a photo frame, it clicks. This is Prince Zam. Prince Zam, as in Prince of Sunlit. Prince Zam, whose kingdom celebrates the Summer Solstice instead of its opposite.
Why the hell is Prince Zam here?
When the dance is over, and the prince’s eyes catch Bacon’s dumbfounded gaze, he sneers, taking a couple steps to reach the edge of the dance circle. His hands find his hips, and he stands over Bacon, looking down at the prince like he’s something not royal – a commoner that the prince can have his fun with.
“Hello, your Grace,” Zam says, tone smooth and honeyed, syllables spilling out like mildew. “I take it you liked my dance?”
Bacon scoffs, dragging his eyes up and down Zam’s body, and then back up again. Zam’s not matching the festival at all, colors in all the wrong places, suns where there should be moons, waters where there should be ices. “Why the hell are you here?”
“Hm?” Zam feigns something, hand over his ear and head leaning closer. Bacon instinctively leans back, clutching the scarves around his neck with a free hand. “You mean what’s my name? I’m Zam. Prince Zam, actually.”
Bacon bites on his lip to stifle a yawn. He can be a salty misanthropist when he’s back in his chambers, alone with nothing but the stars in the sky to witness his emotions. “Really,” he says instead, a slight drawl dipping into his speech. “I thought you were just another commoner. Your clothes fit very well into the ensemble.”
Zam scoffs. “I’m a Summer Solstice guy, your Grace. I must have some respect for my culture when attending events such as these, no?” His hands sweep around the plaza, gesturing to the rest of the festival goers and presumably their clothing choices.
“This is the Winter Solstice,” Bacon says, teeth grit so hard he feels like they’ll chip and break at the next word. “Why are you here if you want to intertwine with the opposite?”
There’s another scoff. Bacon grumbles under his breath, something in a native language neither of them care enough to decipher into English. “My parents dragged me here. Believe me, if it was my decision, I would’ve stayed home. I could give two shits about the Winter Solstice.”
Bacon rolls his eyes. “Get the fuck away from me.” His arms move before he realizes what he’s doing and he pushes Zam away, palms landing on thick fabrics, warmth seeping from the midst. He practically storms away, leather material scraping off with each footfall as he turns towards the plethora of bars and buffet stands set up to the left of the dance circle.
“Happy birthday,” comes the same unmistakable voice grinding Bacon’s teeth together. Zam doesn’t follow him, a sly smirk settling on his features before he disappears back into the crowd. Still, when Bacon turns around, rosemary chestnuts with powdered sugar in his hand, bright yellow fabric pops out of the night sky on the plaza grounds.
All in all, it is a good birthday. Bacon moves from crowd to crowd, occasionally catching glimpses of the sun-kissed fabric wafting between the midnight blues, the brightest star in the sky mixing with the ones too dim to see with the naked eye. He picks noblewomen from the crowd to dance with, traditional footwork in his body like a sixth sense. He spins and he is spun, until he’s dizzy and tired and ready to do it all over again.
He does not see the Prince face-to-face for the rest of the festival, music and celebrations and festivities stretching long into the night, where the Solstice constellations come out of hiding and shine their light down on the plaza below. Choirs ring their voices like chords on a piano, singing to the heavens and whatever else is watching them from the galaxy above their heads.
He gets fleeting glimpses of the King of Sunlit once, his wife, the Queen Consort, right next to him. They’re talking to his parents, and then commoners he doesn’t know, and then his brother, and never him. They lock eyes and move past, hand-in-hand, like the prince they’ve just seen doesn’t matter as much as his older brother does. Zam’s always near, whispering something Bacon can’t read, his lips against his parents’ ears.
It makes him infuriated. Did Zam really get pretentious because Bacon was admittedly displeased at his color choice for the Solstice? They are in his kingdom, under his history, surrounded by his people. They should match to fit.
His parents, the King and Queen Consort, are also not dressed to fit, so he assumes that it is a family choice to disrespect the Hillaeri culture. It doesn’t make him any less pissed, world tinting red around him, fingernails digging into palms.
Shitty family. There’s more scoffs and eye rolls sitting on the forefront of his mind. He prays to the deity that night that he won’t be seeing them again.
When spring rolls around, the days have grown longer, sunlight stretching its rays into the closer corners of the day, pushing back on the night with an ebb and flow that relaxes like the tide. It’s warmer, which means Bacon’s not huddled in tens of blankets every time he goes to sleep. An oil lamp sits turned on beside his bed, soft glow catching the morning sunlight and mixing with it.
He gets ready all the same, breakfast underscored by the sunlight casting colors onto their food from the mural above them. It tastes riper today. His servants smile and bow their heads when they learn of his pleasure, hear his compliments and see his soft smile directed for them.
He finds Planet running from duty, gloves laid to the side as his fingers gently trace a blooming hyacinth bud. Bacon feels warmth envelop his hands and he steps closer, an aforementioned finding his brother’s shoulder and gently rubbing affection into the dip of his shoulder blade. It’s hard to say, but he feels his lips curve into a smile, brow bent in the faintest of expressions.
“What are you doing, man?” It’s quiet, soft words meant for only the two of them. It’s warm and bright and sweet, hydrangeas on meticulous bushes, cherry petals floating as the spring winds carry them wherever they please.
“Checking on our flowers,” Planet replies, short as his vibrant purple eyes drift up from the blue buds to meet Bacon’s. “The hyacinth bushes are new. Aren’t they pretty?”
“They are,” Bacon says, nodding his head slightly as he takes to examining every bud on the bush. Some are a light green, pushing chutes from their parent bushes but not unfurling into balls of color. Some are a light lavender; periwinkle, purples mixing together until they’re white. Some are rich and vibrant violet, color stark against the green and brown of most of the garden.
“Are there any other colors?” Bacon leans down to caress a still-blooming plant, the petals that are poking out a pure white.
“No,” Planet replies. “The gardeners said they only planted the purple variants this year.”
Bacon chuckles. “Do we care about color ordinance now? We already have purple and pink hydrangeas. I’d get bored of tending to the same color for the entire blooming season.”
“Well, talk to the gardeners. Maybe you can give them some sense.” Planet laughs, and it’s easy to fall into the same rhythm, Bacon’s shoulders shaking with every huff of joy. Because, recalling, Bacon has only ever seen cool-colored flowers on his walk here; purple, blue, and then the green of the plants. Turquoise of the rarer flowers that can survive in Hillaeri’s climate. Black of the rose bushes.
“I doubt they care. They wanted exotic flowers this blooming season. Look what we got.” Planet haphazardly gestures to the garden around them. “They’re all non-native. I’m pretty sure the only indigenous plants in the garden this year are the hedges.”
Bacon snickers, a light smirk painted across his features. “What a way to flaunt our wealth, somewhere where no one else can see.”
A boisterous laugh erupts out of Planet, and he has to bite his tongue to quiet himself. “I think we’re covered for flaunting our wealth. Take a look outside.”
“The gates?” Bacon scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. He turns his head to the side, eyes closing in fake defiance; sarcasm litters his tone, dripping from his tongue like tar. “They look like a poor man’s work. Do not come to me and say that copper and turquoise furnishings are of wealth.”
“Are you stupid?” Planet turns around, more emotion in his voice than what was expected, and he breaks into incredulous giggles, hands clutching Bacon’s sides with increasing intensity; breaking down at the seams from nothing but humor. “All that turquoise had to be imported, Bacon. You really don’t know jack.”
“I know too much,” Bacon murmurs, eyes squinting and arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t have room for the economics of our palace’s architecture.”
“I do!” Planet sings, a hand leaving Bacon’s arm only to raise itself into the air, palm splayed and fingers spread, catching the sunlight as it descends through the trees. “That’s why I’m the oldest, and also why I’m getting the throne. You just have to know everything important.”
Bacon laughs, the sound bright and infectious. He swats Planet’s remaining hand away, driving his own through his hair and pushing golden-brown curls back to frame his face. “You act a lot more childish than I do. If anything, I deserve that seat.”
“You’d grind Hillaeri into the ground in a week.”
Bacon taps Planet on the nape of his neck, pads of fingers brushing against warm skin. The touch sparks an exaggerated flinch, followed by an overly tense expression. Planet giggles, still, despite all his attempts at playing into whatever game they’ve started. It’s fun and banter, and Bacon’s barely holding himself together, sarcasm a thinly-woven sheet that shows his form clear as day.
“Don’t speak down to your brother like that.”
“Hey, it’s not your birthday anymore. I don’t care!” Planet gives Bacon a tap back, and soon they’re play-fighting, thick clothing hitting the ground as soil from the crevices in the cobblestone rubs all over their backs. They don’t stop until they’re a giggling mess of limbs and cloth and dirt, until Planet takes his arms and forcefully shoves Bacon to the side, back hitting the ground with a resounding thump.
Bacon’s the first to stand, dusting off his back the best he can. “I’m going back in. I have real work to do.”
“Flowers are real work,” Planet protests, “but fine. I’ll see you.”
“See you, big bro. Love you.” Bacon takes a hand and ruffles it in Planet’s platinum-white hair, the flakes of color hidden beneath the strands appearing under his interference. Bacon’s already walking away when a response echoes from the hedges of the garden.
“Love you too.”
Bacon is eighteen years and six months old today, the day of the Summer Solstice, the day he’s in front of his floor-length mirror, surveying his outfit for anything amiss. He’s wrapped up in traditional Summer Solstice clothing, thin suits and sashes revealing much more skin than he’s comfortable with. A flower crown sits atop his head, blue petals of hydrangeas woven together in miniature buds of their actual sizes. He is wearing absolutely zero yellows or reds. Silver spills across his chest like a wildfire, navy blue hurrying to catch up, colors mixing in patterns of stars and nebulae.
Sunlit is hosting the Summer Solstice Festival. Zam is there; Prince Zam of Sunlit, the same Prince Zam who practically defiled their culture for a reason Bacon doesn’t care to pick apart. He will do the exact same thing; blend clothing styles and color choices to bring a part of his culture into Zam’s space. Maybe Zam won’t care or maybe Zam will get extra pissed off, colors synonymous to his Festival bleeding from his mouth and onto Bacon. And Bacon will take those colors and bathe with it.
He doesn’t know why he’s so excited about defiling a Zam event right now. He doesn’t care that much, reasons crushing themselves into dust and scattering with his own breath. He’s still angry at Zam for flaunting his own colors at a culturally significant event – sue him. He gets to be a little salty, a little vengeful, if only in quiet resilience.
The carriage ride is peacefully silent. The rest of his family have chosen to wear traditional and warm colors to blend in with the rest of the festival goers. When they arrive, sun positioned high in the sky, the driver steps out to open the carriage doors for the family, and Planet grabs onto Bacon’s hand, Bacon tugging them out his side of the carriage.
The Festival, at a glance, is beautiful. It’s hosted around the shore of a lake, land sloping away to create a field of meadowy grass. Cicadas and crickets and bugs alike cling to blades of grass half-eaten by aphids before them, and quiet birdsongs fill the area. All other noise is drowned out by the laughter and high-spirited noises from the Festival grounds. Gentle waves crash against gravelly shores, rocks ground in by high heels and dress flats, fish scuttling to get out of the way whenever a sole comes too close to the break of the water.
Planet’s the first to go, wandering off in the crowd – supposedly to go find people to chat with or women to dance with. Not long after, his parents walk off together, his mother’s arm draped around his father’s. They find the King and Queen Consort of Sunlit sitting together on a stage, thrones placed for the both of them and carpet rolled out beneath their feet. They’re chatting over a glass of wine, a luxury brand of it sitting on the end table between them.
Bacon could not care less about what his parents are doing. Diplomacy was never his strong suit, and it never will be. He’s not in line for the throne, nor is he in line for discussions that fly in circles and last for hours, so he wanders off, more entranced by the festivities offered.
He’s never been to a Summer Solstice Festival before. The idea of it alone is intriguing – what could even be celebrated during the longest day of the year – and the fact that Prince Zam’s family is hosting it makes it all the more appealing.
Speaking of the prince, there he is, crown atop his head and solar fabrics swirling around his body. There’s red and pink and orange gems in the golden yellow crown, sunrise and sunset over platinum blonde hair. Multiple noblemen and noblewomen surround him, glasses of wine in hand as he stammers on about some stupid, half-witted joke. They all laugh, the sound polite and courteous, and Zam keeps talking. Bacon wonders how much effort and venom it would take to get Zam to shut up.
He doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but as Zam catches his eye and saunters towards him, he remembers the origin all too well. Zam is a cocky bitch who leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Grudge or not, he doesn’t care. He just knows he doesn’t want to be around Zam.
“Your Highness,” Bacon greets, bowing in a faux-reverent gesture. His eyes are flat, half-lidded, brow pressed into a thick line as he stands at attention and waits for Zam’s reply. His arms fold across his chest, weight shifting from one side to the other as he takes in the prince’s slowly shifting expression. First annoyance, then smugness, then something he can’t read, and then speech.
“It’s good to see you again, your Grace,” Zam replies. He reciprocates the gesture, bowing even lower and tipping his head so that his hair spills over the sides of his face, neck exposing itself. When he leans back up, he has to adjust the flowers pinned in his hair. His eyes, blue swirls of mass and color, don’t leave Bacon’s.
Brown against blue, some gross mix of pigments. Bacon shakes his head lightly. “Good to see you,” he says, jaw clenching slightly.
Zam tilts his head, eyes traveling up and down Bacon’s attire, meticulously picking apart the sigils worn in through deliberate stitchwork and careful fabric placement. “Why are your colors so off?”
“Not a question to ask a prince, is it,” Bacon replies, taking a step back. When he raises his head to look back into Zam’s eyes, his eyebrows are bent slightly downwards, irritation faintly present on his features. Zam snickers.
“We’re of equal footing, aren’t we?” He smiles, the corners of it not quite reaching his eyes. His arm comes up from his lap to lay lazily over the table, hand lifting off the edge and falling towards gravity. “I’m pretty sure I’m older than you, too.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Eighteen and what?”
“Six months.”
Zam barks out a laugh. “I’m nine months. So, technically, we aren’t on equal footing. I have more respect and manners than you do.”
Bacon sneers in response, teeth poking out from lips that curl upward in some sort of crude smile. “Do you, now? I don’t recall manners being what happened at the Winter Solstice.”
Zam frowns, eyes narrowing, and for a moment, the expression looks genuine. “What happened at the Winter Solstice?”
Bacon can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “...your outfit.”
Zam feigns contemplation and then gasps, lifting his arm to drum his fingers along the glass rim of the table. “Oh, you mean the golden one?” He chuckles lightly. “I kept to the kind of clothing you had on, at least. You guys wear very thick outfits then. It’s confusing. Also, winters are the only time with a predominant blue of night. I don’t honor the Winter Solstice.”
Bacon’s the one scoffing this time, hands tightening over the light, free-breath fabrics hanging over his shoulders. He hates the way they feel under the pads of his fingers. “You were coming to the Winter Solstice Festival. The least you could do was honor it.”
“Not by choice,” Zam counters, and Bacon scoffs again, a slight groan escaping along with it. “My parents made me. They wanted to talk to yours. They said that I should go talk with you as well, because your brother’d be busy, and it was your birthday.”
“I’d rather you didn’t talk to me,” Bacon mutters, almost imagining he’s said it before he’s pulled right back out of his thoughts and into Zam’s almost mocking laughter.
“You’re funny,” Zam says, brushing a palm across his face, skin and features shifting under its weight. “We’re princes, man, and our families are interested in each other’s kingdoms. We’ll be seeing each other a lot more. My advice is to not be a stranger.”
Bacon huffs, all words lost on his tongue as no more quips come to meet his emotions. “Okay,” he settles on. “But if I can avoid you for the time being, I’d rather.”
Zam smirks but doesn’t say much, tilting his head to the side as he watches the crowds of festival goers blend together, all warm tones and blistering colors, something Bacon stands completely out of. The only thing even remotely tethering him to the traditional colors of the Summer Solstice is his burnt sienna brown scarf, beige threads spilling around the corners.
Even then, it’s not wholly there. His palette is muted, buried under the layer of snow and smog that comes with the winter. The sun does nothing to improve them.
“Then bye,” Zam says finally, shooing Bacon away with the hand resting on the table. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Hopefully not,” Bacon replies, and then he disappears.
Not entirely at all – he’s wearing midnight blues and silvers that speak of ancient constellations – the sun no longer shines on him, and he doesn’t want it to, shadow following him on his own accord, stars trailing beneath his feet.
The Autumn Equinox is quiet in the Hillaeri palace, the leaves of trees a golden brown – Bacon’s favorite color. There’s a warm latte between gloved hands, soft wind kicking up around him and carrying dead leaves with it. He leans gently against the railing of his balcony, large glass doors behind him closed and blinds drawn.
Most of his skin is covered now as he prepares to move into winter, to shift into the colder seasons, to turn one year older and celebrate the longest night of the year, bask in darkness and revere the stars and marvel at the natural world. Marvel at his own existence, the fact that his birthday aligns with the Winter Solstice, the fact that he was blessed so heavily to be a prince all the same.
The same burnt sienna scarf wraps around his neck, coiling up to his nose. There’s a puffer hood pulled over his head, tousled curls resting on his shoulders and falling over his chest. Despite how much clothing he has on, how completely tied up he is, there’s still a faint chill to his body. It’s a natural thing to him. He’s never been a fan of heat, preferring to make his own warmth from the cold around him, draw in enough silks and whispers of fire until he burns himself bright.
The cold is where he lives. Temperatures in Hillaeri never climb above seventy, even on the hottest summer days, where the sun spends its time in the sky daunting and dancing through clouds. The night is his natural sky, blacks and purples stretching across the open canvas to dot it with milk droplets and give it names beyond what any well-faring person could do.
Life has slowed down. For a prince, there isn’t much to do. He participates in the occasional diplomatic discussion, submitting his own opinions when necessary, but most of the time, his role is to be a figurehead of his nation. His brother, Planet, is a much more suitable role for the title of figurehead; he’s charismatic, joyous, funny, and everything the general population would want out of a royal family. But because of Planet’s own duties to the throne and to the family legacy, Bacon has to step upon the pedestal and take the sash from him, stand tall and proud to preserve the family image in the public eye.
Sometimes he wishes he could take up his brother’s spot and work towards the throne, but nothing about political lives and a fluid mess of diplomacy ever interests him. It’s not like being a celebrity does, either. But being a prince, he can only choose one of two things, and since his brother is older than him, bearing the title of the first-born son, the only thing left for Bacon is the figurehead.
Quiet moments like these are his favorite, though, when it seems like the whole world’s stopped just to give him some peace of mind.
He finds himself on his phone after a while, latte mug set aside on the ottoman behind him. On the forefront of whatever news app he opens is an article, Zam’s name in the headlines, paired with Sunlit . He doesn’t bother to open it, scoffing and rolling his eyes, almost on instinct.
So Zam’s a figurehead too. Bacon knows that the Vermilion royal family only has one heir to the throne, one viable son, and that it’s Zam, so he has to play both roles. His brother, Prince Vitalasy, has been married off to another kingdom a while ago. Bacon almost feels pity – almost, when the feeling eats away at his gut and makes him groan. Pity’s a horrible thing to give out, especially from someone like Bacon to someone like Zam, but he can’t help from feeling it; carrying both roles is a big stressor.
He huffs. Zam’s a prince and three months older than him. And supposedly, the three months of age difference makes up for the double roles he has to play, because he’s perfect; demands and garners more respect from whatever public they’re competing for. So, really, he did this to himself. Yeah. Bacon turns off his phone and lets it sit on the railing, positioned between the arms he has hanging off of the front.
Bacon chuckles, thoughts resurfacing themselves. He’s supposed to be enjoying himself. Thinking about the prince that he’s still angry at isn’t helping.
Why is he even angry? Zam gets a lot more attention from the media than Bacon’s family ever will, garnering them more supplies and wartime benefits. Zam’s an arrogant bastard who prioritizes himself, burns his face and fingerprint into every surface he brushes against.
Every time that question floats back to the forefront of his mind, it’s always shot down with the same bullet, same gun, same angle, same velocity. No air and a clean shot; and then he’s back to being angry, holding a grudge that he has no reason to stick to.
He turns around and picks up the latte mug sitting on the ottoman and takes a careful sip from it. Warmth spreads through his veins. Anger’s momentarily forgotten.
Bacon is nineteen on December twenty-first when he hears screams from below his chambers, the voices all-too familiar.
He doesn’t bother with the clothes, rushing out in whatever he finds lying on the floor. His bare feet hit freezing flooring, what would be frost and cold nothingness rushing to his soles. Calluses garnered from years of military training soak in the cold and reimburse it all over his body. He runs and runs and runs; balance has been out the window for a long while, descending the steps two at a time to reach the bottom floor.
He steps in something wet, consistency of saliva and much, much darker. The smell of copper permeates his entire being. It’s blood.
Bacon has stepped in fucking blood.
He lightly pads his way over the streaks of it, lines becoming trickles and trickles becoming droplets and droplets becoming pools, until he’s standing in nothing but blood, drowning in the taste of iron in his mouth, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a dirty hoodie.
He looks down. Over barely concealed lamplight, a hand is nearest his foot, finger almost tenderly brushing a toe. He winces, chest going cold, entire body freezing, atoms stilling, and he kicks the hand away. It flops to the ground, squelching in the blood below it.
Panic grips his insides and squeezes his organs dry, heart out of blood to pump and lungs filled with nothing but a vacuum.
His head screams at him, forces words out of his chest like they’ll erupt, like he’s a volcano, spewing everything he has at the world. He keeps silent. They have to just be servants – a mistake, an attempt at intimidation but one that can be easily glossed over. They can’t be the voices he heard, nor the silhouettes he sees. They are maids. He breathes faster and sharper and clutches the hoodie he’s wearing. Fingers dig past fabric and into skin.
He moves to the next body. There are three of them on the floor, all lying next to each other, sprawled out under marigold light. Blood splashes up to his ankles, feet and sole completely drenched in red. It hardens around his skin, makes it uncomfortable to walk, and he keeps walking, and he leans down, knees soaking in the blood as well, boxer shorts resting against ankles dripping life force.
When he brings a hand down to peel back the hair of a body, and bright, rich purple eyes meet his own, he… he…
Everything is over, suddenly, and he’s dead. Hair’s white and bloodied and stained with marrow and organs and crushed bones, bodily fluids mixing into all the possible colors as white bone fuses with pus, as the muted purple of the liver infects the heart and spreads through the veins.
Planet lies below him, eyes glazed over and quiet, the world still. The world still. Bacon’s chest heaves, and suddenly there’s not enough air in the room, and he needs more, and he’s going to throw up, and he feels himself dying, and everything hurts, and the other bodies are his parents, and he’s one of the bodies, and the world’s collapsing under his fingertips–
He checks the other two bodies, familiar eyes looking away from him, body shapes that he’s memorized from years living with them. He feels skin tear from his throat layer by layer. He feels bloodshed. He is bloodshed.
Bacon is nineteen when he becomes the only surviving member of the Ashton royal family. Bacon is nineteen when he witnesses everyone he loves die in front of him, blood staining the cobblestone grounds of the chambers a mix of copper and crimson. Bacon is nineteen when he suffocates on his own sobs, throat closing up involuntarily as he gasps for air. Bacon is nineteen when he is thrust into the spotlight.
Bacon is nineteen years and thirty-two minutes of age when he is crowned the King of Hillaeri.