A/N: So what if I wrote Gregory/Kyle + Christophe/Kyle Stick of Truth A/B/O AU? What if I just... did that? A big thanks to HighElfKyle for her enthusiasm!
Some notes:
- There are more complex pronoun systems in Larnionian and Lossúrean than in English, with different words for male and female alphas, betas, and omegas. In this fic, however, I'm still going to use "he" for people of the male sex and "she" for people of the female sex. But, Kyle is still the "Princess of Larnion" and eventually the "Queen of Lossúrea" because... because that's just how it's going to be
- Even when speaking in Lossúrean, Kyle says filler words and swear words/phrases in his native tongue of Larnionian, so these words are italicized. If he's using italics for emphasis, however, it will hopefully be clear from the context.
- This also contains one-sided Stan/Kyle, or perhaps I should say unrealized Stan/Kyle.
- This story is probably going to be a hot mess, in both the good and bad ways. Buckle up, buckaroos.
Eventide City was dazzling, to the say the least. The ivory, peach, and lavender details shone in the late afternoon sunshine and swam in Kyle's eyes, making him feel as if he were drowning in them. They hadn't even crossed the bridge that led to city's main gates yet. His face right up against the window, he devoured the magnificent sight right up until they turned onto the bridge, at which point he found himself staring hundreds of feet down into a rushing river. It was dizzying, and the sight stirred the worry and anxiety that brewed within him.
As the carriage entered the capital of the Kingdom of Lossúrea, Kyle studied the streets and houses and shops, gazing with awe and admiration at the statues, bridges, and fountains that glistened in the sunlight. Part of him felt ashamed as he thought of the much simpler, woodsy architecture of his homeland of Larnion, the high elven kingdom tucked into the shady Grove. The Lossúrean capital, on the other hand, was glorious, a world of ivory and gold, a gem of a city if there ever was one.
Kyle quickly noticed that some elves were staring at the carriage, right at him, their faces full of excitement. Others were pointing, and others yet were shouting in a language that finally felt too real, not just a melody of sounds he exchanged solely with Pip, the linguist that the sun elves had sent to Larnion over a year ago. Kyle sat back in the seat at once, only taking little glances out the window until the carriage finally moved past the market, going into the heart of the city.
They traveled down roads that seemed to be made of pink marble, across bridges that spanned crystal streams, and past magnificent, ritzy homes. Soon (too soon), the palace came into view, bursting into Kyle's vision in all its ivory splendor. The structure was a monstrous cluster of spires and towers and massive windows, all gold and peach and white, not a single harsh color. The front lawn before it was a sprawling expanse of gardens and fountains and pools, the entire visage warm and dream-like, so different from the deep verdant foliage of the Grove. Up ahead, Kyle could see the palace's main entrance, above which stretched a huge veranda. Over it hung cascading strings of flowers, creating a slight curtain.
Beyond that veil of flowers, he saw two guards standing on either side of the door, as well as another person, who was coming forward. This person, a female, had long blond hair, with beautiful, shiny curls that bounced as she stepped down the stairs. She was wearing cropped pants, a long, flowy tunic, and high-heeled sandals that made a smart clicking sound on the stone steps.
When the coachman came around to open Kyle's door, the female put her arm behind her back and bowed before him, saying, "Your Highness. It is my pleasure to welcome you to the Kingdom of Lossúrea." After completing the bow, she said, "My name is Bebe Starheart, and I've been assigned to be your primary attendant. My duty and privilege is to assist you and do whatever I can to make you as comfortable as possible here."
Although Kyle had dealt with royal servants all his life, he felt arrested there, gazing at this beautiful sun elf as he struggled to discern her scent and therefore, gender. In a way, she smelled similar to Pip, who was an omega, but different enough that Kyle wasn't sure. Somehow, though, he didn't get the impression she was an alpha.
Eventually, he just said, "Thank you."
"I pray the journey was not too difficult, Your Highness?" she asked.
"Umm. No," he said. There had been some mud and rain, but overall, it was as bearable as three long weeks on the road could possibly be. That is, barely.
While Pip and the coachman began to unload Kyle's many belongings, Bebe led Kyle inside the palace. It was as glorious as it was on the outside, with marble floors, brilliant statues, and twinkling chandeliers. Even so, it felt strangely cozy, the deep rays of late sun penetrating the many windows, some clear and some stained. He followed Bebe down the long hallways, occasionally passing other elves who instantly bowed down. The mixture of foreign scents was confounding, almost enough to give Kyle a headache as he tried in vain to determine the elves' gender. That said, he thought he might have passed at least one alpha, possibly two.
It was worth noting, however, that none of these elves smelled bad, only different. Overall, their scents seemed tangier and fruit-like, not very earthen. Kyle wondered what he must smell like to them, and then he began to worry about that. This was yet another feeling he forced himself to swallow though. Straightening his posture, he held his chin high the rest of the way to the dressing room.
This room had a massive window, but the blue curtains were draped, such that most of the light was coming in through the half-oval that spanned the top of the window. Besides two settees, a screen, and an armoire, there were two small tables surrounded by armchairs, upon which different robes were draped.
"I hope you'll find one of these gowns to your liking, Your Highness," Bebe said as she stepped over to the robes.
These clothes were very different from his. Currently, he was wearing his favorite robes, a deep crimson pair with gold embroidery and green trim that he wore often. At any rate, the truth was, he had had a number of new robes made for him before leaving Larnion: quite a few were very fancy, and all their colors were deep and purposeful, just like Larnion's flag. As Kyle felt the silk fabric of this light green gown in his fingers, it suddenly felt imperative that he wear one of his own robes.
The thought of being presented before the King of Lossúrea wearing one of these Lossúrean robes would be excruciating, as if Kyle were communicating that he belonged to him. And while that would be more or less true on paper come next week, it never, ever would be in Kyle's heart.
But though he stood firm in this decision, still, he worried. He was going to be the queen of this kingdom – could he really afford to present himself as so high elven? Yet as he glanced at Bebe, with her tan skin and blond hair, then looked at his own very pale skin and deep red hair in the large mirror on the wall, he realized that no matter what he wore, he would always be different here.
He walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back, seeing miles and miles of sparkling blue sea in the distance, beyond the low black hills. The high elves often referred to the Great Sea as "The End of the World." Remembering that, Kyle's face paled. He squinted out into the distance but saw nothing except the twinkling lights of the sun's reflection upon the water. The gravity of it was almost too much, and he turned away from the window, the curtains falling back into place as the room safely dimmed. Yet now, a lovely face was gazing at him with such sincere worry that he felt caught between duty and eternity, squashed so harshly that they bled into his skin and became him. The realness of it was nearly unbearable.
"I have robes," he suddenly said, as if he'd been caught doing something bad. "My own robes. So I'll wear them. They're with my other things."
"Alright," she replied easily. "Shall I go fetch them for you?"
"Yes. Please."
She left, and he knelt down on the carpet, putting his head down on it as he absorbed the precious moment of peace.
xxxxxxxxxxx
Although the sapphire blue robes Kyle changed into after his bath weren't quite as fancy as the Lossúrean ones, he was very satisfied with his choice as he looked at himself in the mirror. And it wasn't just because he looked good – no, these robes, with their silver embroidery depicting doves, were special beyond just that. They were made using a very particular dye that had been custom-made to mimic a very particular color. Kyle wore them today with equal parts defiance and sadness. Nevertheless, traces of anxiety still rode within him, and they latched onto the sadness, robbing him of power in his stride, of resolve in his face. Now that he was so close – seconds away – the trepidation was nearly impossible to swallow. His only hope was that his scent was so foreign that discerning his mood would be difficult, if not impossible.
On the door that Bebe brought him to, there was a crystal teardrop embedded in the wood. It was thick and convex, masterfully cut with many surfaces, making it hard to see through it. Most importantly, however, was that the shade of the gem was lighter than Kyle's robes.
Just before Bebe knocked on the door, a long, soft chime echoed from within the room – a clock announcing the hour, whichever it was.
"Come in!" a clear voice from inside said, and then when Bebe opened the door, Kyle was ruined.
He smelled him before he saw him. It was like a gust of air straight in Kyle's face, unexpected and overwhelming. This scent was so vivid, so delicious, so unmistakably alpha that Kyle was frozen solid, his cock suddenly twitching to life. Then he saw him coming towards them, wearing a decorous, white military uniform with golden tassels, his appearance pristine and sun-kissed in a way that was intolerable. His hair was light, touched with faint yellow gold; his clear blue eyes penetrating; and his face disturbingly perfect, as if cut from marble. He was so much more damning than how Pip had described him, and Kyle felt deceived, real terror gripping his heart as he inhaled that powerful scent, as he was annihilated by that beauty.
Yet even if he weren't so distressed, Kyle never would have noticed the subtle traces of anxiety in the king's blues eyes, the ones he failed to mask. Kyle could not look at him, could not step into the blue and beige room, not if his life depended on it, which it did, in a way. No – when he finally forced his legs to move, it was in another direction.
He ran.
He ran fast and hard, maybe faster than he'd ever ran in his life, going any which way so long as it was away. Away from that man who smelled so frighteningly good, away from these perfect walls and ivory luxury. It was too much; he couldn't do it; he was failing, right now, sprinting down these long halls to nowhere, almost certainly going in a circle before finally finding a stairwell. As he scrambled down the stairs, he ran right into an elf carrying towels, making them both stumble down, all the towels flying in the air. Panicking worse now, Kyle managed to spit out a frazzled apology, only to realize a moment later that he'd said it in Larnionian.
It was a miracle he made it to the grand entrance hall again, and he raced to the front door convinced that the guards would try to detain them, but they didn't. Outside, the front lawn seemed to stretch out for miles, and though Kyle's muscles were burning, he ran through the majestic landscaping by the sheer power of his anxiety, constantly looking behind him to see if anyone was coming after him. Then, he saw a problem up ahead: the gates to the palace. Horrified, he diverted his path, going as far away from the main gate as possible, running straight through the gardens but making sure to walk around reflecting pools. At last, he saw his salvation: a tree near the palace's white stone wall, with a branch that was low enough for him to climb. With his high elven tree-climbing prowess, Kyle easily scaled the tree, scrambling up into its branches until he was high enough to leap down onto the top of the wall. From there, he carefully let himself down.
Then, he was free.
Here, he took a brief moment to catch his breath, his hand on the wall for support. There was quite a large hill here, and perhaps a mile down below, the rest of the city. But Kyle knew he couldn't go there though – he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He looked to his left, and saw a paltry patch of strange, prickly trees just before the rocky hills that separated the city from the beach. It wasn't much, but it was something, and perhaps he could find a path through the hills to the beach, which seemed like a very solitary place.
He got lucky, for once: after going through the thin cluster of trees, he followed the hillside down to the right, where the hill dipped enough for him to be able to climb over it. Yet despite Kyle's high elven agility, it was much more difficult than he anticipated, and, to his horror, he cut his calf – and his robes – on a jagged rock. Cursing and nearly in tears, he resolved to analyze the damage after he made it over this stupid hill.
The way down was a struggle too: the other side of the hill was far more jagged than the way up, and this time, being far more frazzled and careless, he cut himself twice, almost glad for the additional damage. Now, everything was ruined; it was undeniable. On the vacant dunes, he studied his beautiful, ruined, robes, lifting up the hem to analyze the damage on his pale legs, as well as the cut on his forearm. The cuts weren't very deep, but they were bleeding profusely, ruining the torn silk that had been dyed to match his best friend's eyes.
In pieces, Kyle staggered over the dunes to the empty shore, where he crumpled in the sand and hung his head, his breathing labored as he caught his breath. The tears came then, but they did not break forth as if from a ruptured dam; rather, they began to stream just as the blood streamed from his wounds, draining him slowly and steadily, without end. His hands were buried in the white sand, his palms burning from all the little scrapes they'd suffered on the rocks. When he raised his weary head, he saw the sun melting into the sea and felt so empty inside, his shell so tattered, his heart so raw.
His tears dripped onto the sand, pouring from him like a rainstorm but refusing to alter the beach's whiteness with the dark little dots he craved to see. It was true, wasn't it? He was going to be absorbed by this place; that was the only way this would go…
And that smell…
He'd never smelled anything like it in his life. Just thinking about it now was giving him an erection, and in his ragged state, that was harrowing, devastating like nothing else.
He sniffed profusely and shook his head. No. No, it wasn't possible. He thought of Stan's scent, the gentle smell of spring rain, of dewdrops on moss and stars in mid-summer, all of that mixed in with the deep, hard smell of wood, the sharpness of pine, and something else, something rich and deep and strong. It was a smell of comfort and safety, a harbor where Kyle let something inappropriate and futile grow. He choked on a sob as he cried harder, desperate to hear Stan's voice, to feel his warm hand on his shoulder. Goddess, it hurt so much.
Stan had said he was brave. Ha… If only he could see him now…
Kyle looked over his shoulder and saw the palace in the distance, rising up over the hill. The windows were aglow with the light of the orange sunset, the walls peach. It looked like such a safe, clean place. Kyle scoffed, the sound wet with his crying, every bone in his body wanting to get as far away from that place as possible. Even so, he knew that was where he would be sleeping tonight. He just wondered how long it would take for someone to find him and bring him back.
The hours turned out to be a blessing. Though he was hungry and thirsty, and though the temperate had dropped too, the illusion of freedom was like a bandage on his broken spirit – a poor one, but a bandage nonetheless. It was dark now, the stars and moon shining in the sky just as they did in Larnion. The waves lapped the shore lazily, sleepily, and Kyle gazed at them in the same way, feeling so much older than his twenty-one years.
When the soft breeze brought Pip's scent to his nostrils, he was relieved it was him and only him, the one person he really knew in this place. Still, Kyle frowned, displeased that the inevitable had finally come.
"Your Highness?" Pip said in Larnionian, his voice drenched with concern.
Kyle neither responded nor looked at him, only hung his head. He could sense Pip hesitating behind him, but couldn't will himself to act properly and say, "I'm sorry, I'll come back now."
Instead, he said, "I tore my robes. And got blood stains on them. The blue ones, with the special dye. They're ruined."
"Oh, Your Majesty, I'm so sorry," Pip replied. "Perhaps I could have them make a new pair?"
"No," Kyle said instantly. "They're ruined; that's the end of it." A few moments later, he amended, "I don't know. Maybe."
"Alright, Your Highness," Pip replied. Then, very carefully, he asked, "Would you like to return to the palace? Perhaps have some dinner?"
"Give me a minute."
Kyle took one last look at the end of the world before standing, going back to the place where he would reside on the very edge of it. He followed Pip up the coast, feeling depleted as the blond elf led him to a torch-lined tunnel that went straight through a tall section of the hill.
"I'm surprised no guards came to drag me back," he said to Pip.
"Oh heavens no, that would've been dreadful!" Pip exclaimed.
Kyle said nothing. It was clear that yes, it would have been.
Just before they reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the tunnel, Kyle felt a wave of exhaustion set in, and as they went through the massive cellar, he felt like he was dragging his body along. Pip asked him about this, inevitably, and Kyle, so apathetic by now, just said he was tired, almost grunting the words.
Regardless, Pip sweetly said, "Ah, well, I hope you'll rest well tonight, Your Highness."
Though Kyle agreed, he nevertheless frowned, thinking about the fact that the guards didn't come after him – that there were no guards sent after him – and thinking, too, about how Pip had told him time and time again that the sun elves were, per their name and perhaps even biology, the kindest, warmest elves in the world. Up until this point, however, Kyle had only interacted with sun elves who were subordinate to him: Pip, the linguist, and Bebe, the servant. Of course, if he hadn't been such an idiot, he would've had a much better example to cite.
It was such torment deliberating these things now. The exhaustion, fortunately, allowed him to put them out of his mind, at least until a servant brought him dinner in the small, private dining room where Kyle had been waiting. After placing the plates down on the table, the servant identified them as if Kyle hadn't been eating herb-roasted quail with pumpkin rice, chicken of the forest, and dew and basil soup all his life. At first, Kyle didn't find any of this unusual, that is, until he noticed the odd juxtaposition of these plates against the peach-colored tablecloth, as opposed to a hearty wooden table.
It was hard to understand. He wanted to know whose idea this was (if it was a single person's idea), but it was hard to even formulate the question in his native language, let alone in Lossúrean. The servant was heading back to the kitchen now anyway, the wheels of the cart rolling effortlessly over the floor. Then Kyle was alone again, his eyes veering tiredly from the quail, to the rice, to the mushrooms, to the soup. It was obvious that these people wanted to make him feel at home, but the taste of the food was different enough that it only highlighted the fact that high elves had not cooked it. While he wanted to say he appreciated the thought – and he did, abstractly – the difference was enough to wound him, make the meal difficult. Worse yet, now he was going to have to tell them not to try to emulate high elven cuisine. When he was finished, he sighed and got up, tossing his napkin onto the empty plate and heading out into the hall, only to realize he had no idea where his rooms were.
It was at that moment that he saw a young female coming down the hall, a pink ribbon in her teeth as she distractedly tied another around one of the buns on either side of her head. She nearly ran into a table up against the wall, causing her to mutter a swear word under her breath and then briefly glance up, at which point they made eye contact. Her brown eyes huge, she froze and let out a soundless gasp, the other ribbon falling from her mouth. Then, as if ripped from a trance, she instantly bowed down, saying, "Your Highness! My sincerest apologies! Please excuse my tardiness!"
They were standing a good three yards away from each other. Kyle just stared at her, not quite sure who she was, let alone what was going on here.
"Um… Who are you?" he finally asked.
"Oh!" She suddenly looked up, and he saw that her cheeks were with flushed with exertion and probably anxiety. He felt kind of sorry for her. "I'm Flora, Flora Larksong. I'm, ah, I'm your night attendant," she said breathlessly. "I'm so, so sorry I'm late. And on today of all days! Sunlight, I hope you haven't encountered any trouble the past, err"—she looked around the hallway—"however long you've been without assistance, Your Highness."
Kyle stepped closer to her, honestly pitying her: she was so young-looking, maybe seventeen at most, certainly not an adult. "I'm fine. Please don't worry. We are all late at times. If you have any troubles from this, I will take care of it," he said, crouching down to pick up her ribbon that had fallen to the floor. He handed it to her, and her brown eyes were even wider as she tentatively took it, as if she couldn't believe he just did that.
"T-thank you," she managed to say.
Smiling at her, he asked, "Do you think you could show me where my rooms are?"
"Yes!" she said, perhaps a bit too emphatically. With more composure, she amended: "I mean, yes. Yes of course, Your Highness. Right this way, please!"
He followed her down the hall and up a stairwell, completely unfamiliar with this area and thinking to ask her for a map, but not really feeling like talking, either. He'd ask Bebe tomorrow. They went through a pair of windowed double doors, then down a short hall of hardwood floors. Along the left wall, there was a long glass shelf, upon which there were hundreds of pink roses. The window on the right was huge, looking down onto the front lawn. The following room was the bedroom, which was massive, exquisite, all the decor was roses too: pink, white, and peach, none red. However, there was some red in the room, and that was from the structure that Kyle first laid eyes upon. It was a very tall, very large lamp designed to resemble a tree, with a stained glass canopy of leaves, some spaces in it, just like there might be on a real tree. The trunk was leaden, and even had branches with little leaves that reached up into the glass canopy. But the most mesmerizing thing about it was the apples. There were some attached to the canopy and others placed amongst the branches, the little fruits made of the richest red glass, glowing so beautifully they looked good enough to eat. As Kyle approached it, he spotted something else in the branches, a little piece of paper hanging by a string. When he unfolded it, he was surprised to see a hand-written message in Larnionian:
Princess Kyle of Larnion:
I hope this tree can remind you of home.
Very truly yours,
Gregory
Kyle read the note over and over again, becoming increasingly upset and confused. It was hand-written, so did Gregory know Larnionian? But first of all, why did everyone seem to think he needed reminders of Larnion? As beautiful as the apple lamp was, it was so painful to look at. All Kyle could think of was climbing apple trees with Stan, sitting on the bank of the stream as they ate one after another, laughing as Stan's old hound Sparky tentatively licked one, as if the taste baffled his carnivorous tongue. Those days were long gone. Kyle knew that. He didn't need to have it shoved in his face, not by King of Lossúrea of all fucking people.
"I need this lamp removed," Kyle said quietly, closing his eyes as he hung his head. Goddess, was he tired. "Sorry, it's… It's distracting."
"Oh, that's quite all right, Your Highness, very understandable," she quickly said. "Let me to go get some help though; it's too heavy for me to carry on my own."
After Flora left, Kyle went through the other rooms, as well as the closet, where he found all the clothes he had brought in addition to a slew of new Lossúrean clothes. The difference in colors between the two was like night and day. He ran his fingers down a pair of dark green robes he liked very much, then a gray shawl of rabbit fur he often wore in winter. But there would be no winters here in Lossúrea, at least not winters like Kyle knew them, with snow and wind and ice and cozy fires and hot chocolate and Stan's breath white in the air. Kyle took the shawl off the hanger and buried his face in it, almost wanting to cry again but knowing he wouldn't be able to; he was far too exhausted, barely even having the energy to fish up some pajamas and change into them, taking an absurd amount of comfort in the fact that they were the same as always. They were his.
He stayed in the closet for about forty minutes, listening to Flora and two other voices through the door as they disassembled the lamp. During this time, he lazily rifled through the new Lossúrean clothes, turning his nose up at some, deciding he'd look good in others. Most of them were robes, and he wondered what the logic behind that was, whether because he was a mage by profession or because he was an omega. As Pip had told him, the sun elves often dressed based on gender, not profession, with alphas often wearing slacks; omegas, dresses and skirts; and betas, dresses and skirts for the female sex, and pants for the males. Yet these days, Pip had said, it was also very common for omegas and female betas to wear slacks too. Still, it bothered Kyle to think these people would see him wearing robes and view it in a totally inaccurate light. Perhaps he should start wearing pants. Ah, but he hated pants; they were so uncomfortable…
Then came a small knock on the door, followed by Flora's wavering voice saying, "Pardon the interruption, Your Highness, but I just wanted to inform you that the lamp has been taken away. Is there anything else you need?"
He went over to the door, cracking it open to peer at her. For some reason, he felt embarrassed about being seen by her in his scarlet pajamas.
"No, I'm fine now, thank you. I'll let you know if I need anything. I'm going to sleep very soon," he said, taking care to speak to her warmly. She seemed so damn flighty, like an actual bird.
"Understood, Your Highness," she said with a quick bow. "I'll be outside in the hall, just beyond the roses if you need anything throughout the night. There's a bell on your nightstand you can ring to alert me."
"Great," Kyle replied, and just before he was about to shut the door again, he said, "Ah, one more thing."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Don't forget. Tell me if they give you trouble. Okay?"
"Ah… Yes, Your Highness. You are very kind."
She smiled, genuinely, with teeth, and Kyle noticed something then: her smile was a lot like her scent, like spring flowers peeking out from the soil, but more exotic, the little touches to it warmer, yellow and orange. It was confounding not knowing her gender, not knowing anyone's gender here (except the king's, a voice in his head echoed), but it would be far too strange to ask, he felt. Pip had said he was able to differentiate between high elven scents after only a few weeks in Larnion, though sometimes he still failed to differentiate between betas and omegas, so Kyle expected the same would be true of him here in Lossúrea eventually. He hadn't expected it to be so frustrating in the meantime, however. For all the time he'd spent learning about Lossúrea and the elves, he felt so disoriented actually being here.
When he opened the door and saw the large empty space where the lamp had been, he wasn't sure if he felt better about it or not. Undoubtedly he did, he tried to convince himself. Yes, this was better.
He shut off the lights, eager to climb into bed. Though it was a comfortable bed, it wasn't his bed, and as tired as he was, he struggled to sleep that night, his thoughts circulating viciously in his brain, like a vortex in the sea. His mind veered back and forth, going from the image of a worn and weary Stanley in a battered tent, bags under his eyes, exhausted beyond belief. Then the scene would shift dramatically and uncomfortably to the perfect image of a perfect man, with golden hair in a white uniform, his blue eyes icier, cooler than Stan's deep ones. In Stan's deep blue eyes was comfort, home, a blanket around his shoulders and that long hug goodbye in a secret meadow few knew about. Kyle had loved him, still loved him, always would love him. He loved him so much that he was here in Lossúrea, so much farther than he would have been in Larnion, and he felt every single mile of that distance jab his heart like a thousand needles.
His pillow was wet.
The other side was cold. And that man, the one to whom Kyle was betrothed… There was something devastating about him; something terrible and overwhelming. But… perhaps Kyle had just picked up his scent wrong. Perhaps it had mixed in with Bebe's and created an absurd reaction. Because there was no way a man could smell that good, even better Stan. It simply wasn't possible. Kyle refused to believe it.
After a long time of not being able to sleep, Kyle got up for a glass of water. On the way back to bed, he stopped by the large window and peeked out the curtains, looking up in the starry black sky for Mother Moon. Yet he couldn't find the thin crescent she was tonight, and when he crawled back in bed, he had never felt more alone.
The next day Kyle woke up very late. He had slept well, at least, and felt refreshed. He put on a pair of deep verdant robes, attempted to wrangle his hair into shape, and then went out to find Bebe out in the hall, just beyond the double windowed doors. She had been sitting on the lavender settee in front of the window, and when she saw him, she put down her book and opened the door, coming into the short hall of roses to greet him with a bow.
"Good afternoon, Your Highness," she said, standing up straight. "I hope you rested well."
"I did, yes. And you?"
The question seemed to surprise her, and it took her a moment before she smiled and said, "Indeed I did. Thank you so much for asking, Your Highness."
As they went to the private dining hall where Kyle had eaten dinner yesterday, he thought again of all the things that had been bothering him lately, and how he might bring this up to Bebe, whom, for whatever reason, he felt most comfortable around. Maybe it was her scent; it struck him as somewhat motherly, maybe.
So when he sat down at the table, he awkwardly said to her, "Could you, um. Stay and eat with me? Or, if you already ate, then could you sit here with me?" He could feel his face reddening somewhat, which was so stupid – she was his servant; he could ask her for anything. And of course, she obliged, thankfully not seeming confused about it, either. She could probably tell he was lonely here, which made him feel pathetic, but oh well.
"I ate some… interesting food yesterday. Larnionian food," he said. "I'm curious. Do you know who had that idea? Because I think it would be a better idea that I eat Lossúrean food, to accommodate myself to the tastes, you know."
"Oh, of course, Your Highness. It's wonderful to hear you wish to try our cuisine," she said. "As for whose idea it was… I'm afraid I don't know, but I can try to find out." Standing up, she finally added, "Anyway, let me go fetch you today's menu. I'll be right back."
While she was gone, Kyle looked out the window down into the courtyard, where the gardeners where tending to the grass, trees, and shrubbery, much in the same way one might manicure their nails: neat, precise, and tidy. The sun was terribly bright outside, and the gardeners seemed hot, though perhaps he was just assuming that. He probably couldn't really tell from up here.
When Bebe returned, she said she hadn't been able to learn from the kitchen whose idea it was about the Larnionian food, but she did have the happy news that one of today's specials was the pear-something something with something leaves. Kyle didn't know those words, nor did he know most of the words on the menu, which was upsetting. Even so, he didn't want to go through the effort of hounding down Pip right now, so he just asked Bebe if the meal she mentioned was good, and she said yes, so he ordered it. And it was good. It was fish, but the taste was fuller, sweeter. He ate in silence, the final thing he needed to bring up hanging over his head.
"About yesterday…" he began, pushing the leaves around with the utensil he forgot the name of. "What happened after I ran away?"
"Ah… Well. The king was rather surprised, I think."
"But what did he do?" Kyle pressed. "Did he say anything? What happened?"
Bebe's brown eyes widened slightly, but then she seemed thoughtful. "Well, we were a bit startled at first, and I think he asked me where you went, and I told him I didn't know. In the end, we figured you were perhaps a bit nervous. I'm not sure if that's the case, but that's what we assumed, Your Highness."
Kyle heaved out a sigh, shutting his eyes. "Maybe this is too much to ask, but could you please treat me like any normal person? I don't care about these… what's the word, fuck, I don't know it, but this whole idea about you are so afraid to say the wrong thing and be rude to me. How you make things sound better and nicer. I don't care about it. Because yes, you're right, I was nervous. I wish that wasn't true, but it was. I ran away like a little kid because… because I don't even know why. I just felt like… I needed to breathe."
"Of course, Your Highness," she said kindly, offering him a small, almost sad smile. "And it's alright to feel nervous; it's alright if you need space. That's what we figured, and that's why we let you be. Everyone just wants you to feel comfortable and welcome here in your new home."
In his head, Kyle knew that was true, but as sweet as their efforts were, they still ended up stinging, somehow.
"Please call me 'Kyle.' …Please. No 'Your Highness', just my name," he said to her, hearing the imploring tone in his voice but not even caring.
"Alright, Kyle," she said, smiling and nodding slightly.
It was such a relief having someone address him by his first name, a taste of realness and familiarity in this foreign, pastel world. It felt so good. He nearly sighed as he thanked her before asking, "What do you think I should do now? About the king. What will happen?"
"Hmm. Well, I'm not sure. If you feel ready, perhaps you could seek him out and explain. You'll also come across him during the wedding preparations and rehearsals."
"Oh, Goddess' grace," Kyle muttered. "When will that take place?"
"Well, today we need to work on your dress; we have a couple that we just need to fit you for, although if you have something else in mind, there's still time for the dressmaker to make something from scratch. Or, if you don't want to wear a dress, we could talk with the tailor…"
"I have wedding robes. They are… somewhere." He hadn't seen them in his closet.
"Oh, good! That saves a bunch of time. We'll have to track those down then."
She went on to tell him the itinerary for next six days before the wedding, which included other design preparations, namely his hair, which he agreed could use a trim. The main preparation, the rehearsal, was on Tuesday, two days before the wedding. Kyle knew it would be so much more awkward if he didn't at least properly introduce himself to Gregory beforehand. Goddess, would they have to practice the kiss during the rehearsal, too? He gripped the utensil in his hand, having forgotten he was still holding onto it. His whatever-leaves were forgotten though.
Swallowing, he said, "I think I'd like to chat with the king before that."
xxxxxxxxxxx
It seemed like so much time had passed since yesterday that Kyle felt strangely prepared as he went to meet Gregory again. He was still embarrassed about what had happened yesterday, true, but if the sun elves were as warm as Pip said they were, then hopefully the king would at least be sympathetic. That was the impression Kyle had from that lamp. He just hoped the king hadn't found out that he'd had it removed. If he did, well, then Kyle would just have to explain that too.
These were all the things he was thinking about as Bebe took him to the king's garden room. It was like déjà vu, and his confidence vanished as he strode down the long marble halls in his deep green robes.
This time, however, Bebe said something about his nervousness: "Everything will be fine, Kyle, I promise," she said reassuringly, giving him a kind smile that he tried but failed to return.
He wasn't sure if she knew he was nervous because she'd become accommodated to his scent or because she was just emotionally intuitive. Still, hearing her address him by his name made him feel additionally comforted: it felt like she was truly speaking to him, like she really cared. At the moment, Kyle didn't care if the latter was true or not – he took the encouragement regardless. He needed it. Goddess' green earth, did he ever need it.
The door to this room had a glass sun on the door, allowing one to see through it easily, though the view was yellow, slightly-distorted. As Bebe told him she would be right outside, Kyle peered through the window, squinting as he discerned a large glass table over to the left, statues, and lush plants and flowers, but no person. He took a deep breath before knocking twice on the light-wood door.
The voice that said "come in" was softer than before, coming from farther away. Swallowing, Kyle turned the door knob. He wasn't going to run away like a baby this time. He was going to sit down in here and have a conversation with this man even if it killed him, which it very well might.
When he stepped into the room, he was so impressed that he stood there distracted for a moment, taking in the details in their full color and clarity. There were so many lush trees and plants that the place was almost a maze of green, with the furniture peeking out from among the foliage like ancient relics lost in a wilder world. Most of the walls and ceiling were windows, letting in the golden afternoon sunshine and making it almost feel like the place was outdoors. The room smelled wonderful, like life, and Kyle only caught the faintest whiff of that devastating smell from yesterday, coming from the same direction he now heard that voice pierce the wonder of the room as it coolly called out: "I'm in the back, beyond the fountain."
Stepping forward uncertainly, Kyle peered through the foliage until he saw the origin of the trickling water. The fountain was a statue of a lithe male elf with his two hands raised, water falling from his palms into the pool surrounding him. There were water lilies and white fish in the water, Kyle noticed as he walked around the pool, bravely proceeding through the trees and flowers as he followed that scent to the very back of the room, where his eyes fell upon Gregory of Yardale, sitting on the edge of a cushioned wicker sofa, his hands over a book in his lap as he looked up at Kyle through a thin pair of spectacles, a polite and placid smile on his face. He was wearing casual clothes today, silky light green slacks and a loose white shirt.
Though intermingled with the myriad of floral scents, his smell was still so pervasive from where Kyle was standing a few yards away. Naturally, horrifically, he felt so arrested and uncertain all of the sudden, a knot in his throat that made speaking impossible. He could feel how wide his eyes were, how furrowed his brow was.
"Please, sit," Gregory said in a soft voice, gesturing to a wicker armchair a few feet to Kyle's right, at a safe distance. As safe as it was going to get, anyway.
Kyle was breathing hard as he sat down, partially due to nervousness, though partially due to that scent, that beautiful, nightmarish scent, a scent he didn't want to be filling his lungs with but couldn't seem to stop. It was so bright, so decadent, yet so confounding, an aspect of it as deep and pungent as the wildest berries, yet unlike any berry Kyle had ever tasted. It eluded him, and he couldn't help but want it, want all of it. It was so troublesome that he really wanted to run away again. Goddess help him. He had to try to ignore it somehow. He had to remember why he was doing this, why he was here. Crossing his legs, he forced himself to look at Gregory again, reminding himself that this man was a tool, a necessity.
Gregory gave him a polite nod. "I hope you slept well?" he said.
"Y-yes."
Kyle hated himself for this response, for the whole way he was acting. It was killing him that he simply couldn't be gracious and composed, as Gregory seemed to be.
"And your journey here was safe, I understand?" Gregory asked.
Eyes moving around the room, looking at anything but Gregory, Kyle replied, "It was good, yes. No monsters. Boring. But I am here now."
Goddess, damn this man for smelling so good. Damn this erection too! Damn it all!
"Have you… found everything to your liking?" Gregory asked, sounding more cautious this time.
Kyle looked at him. That tanned face was a wall, the blue eyes, stones. They implied nothing, gave Kyle no direction. "Yes…" he eventually lied.
"Even the food?"
"What? Oh… um, no. I think I will eat your food from today forward."
"Ah. I see," Gregory said, and he sounded slightly disappointed, just slightly, which Kyle picked up on.
"It was your idea," Kyle stated, unable to keep the accusation from his tone. "About the Larnionian food."
"Well, yes," he admitted. "Is that a problem?"
Kyle scowled. No, obviously it wasn't 'a problem,' but… It wasn't what he wanted, and he hated feeling like a jerk for that. He hated that he was sitting here with a boner as he was assaulted by this guy's painfully decadent odor only to be made to feel like an asshole on top of that. Fuck this! Fuck it!
"No," Kyle finally replied. "I just want to eat your food. Is that a problem?"
And though he had said it somewhat hostilely, Gregory's response was calm: "No, of course not. I'm happy that you want to eat our cuisine. I just thought it might be easier for you to adjust if you could at least eat the food you're used to. I realize the kitchen was likely unable to emulate it perfectly, however. Please accept my sincerest apologies in that regard."
Fuck, he was so articulate too. It wasn't fair; it wasn't fair that Kyle had to sound like an idiot in front of him just because he'd only been studying stupid fucking Lossúrean for a year. Then, he remembered something: "That note on the lamp… Did Pip help you?"
"Hm? You mean, the note I put on the apple tree lamp?"
"Yes."
"No."
Getting frustrated, Kyle demanded, "Then how did you know those words? Do you mean to say that you can speak Larnionian?"
"Yes."
At first, Kyle just squinted at him. Then, with suspicion, he slowly asked, "Why?"
Gregory shrugged. "I like learning things."
"When did you begin to study it?" Kyle asked, still regarding him with scrutiny.
He seemed to think for a moment before saying, "Twelve years ago."
The disappointment of hearing that was unexpectedly crushing. Oh, but of course. There was no reciprocity here; there was no way the King of Lossúrea would have learned Larnionian because of him. The thought was bitter, inflammatory as Kyle swallowed it.
"Good for you then," Kyle said curtly, dismissively.
Then, Gregory was quiet. When Kyle looked up at him a moment later, he saw the king gazing out the window almost tiredly, out across the low black hills. The sunlight was shining on his hair in a way that was tragic, too beautiful, impossible.
Even so, Kyle felt guilty now. "Why did you begin to study it though?" he asked more genteelly, truly curious.
Gregory glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but he did not turn his head to respond. "I have a friend who was interested in learning it, so I studied with him."
"I see," Kyle said. "Are you fluent then?"
"Yes."
"Say something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, something. Anything."
"Hmm. Let's see…" Then, in Larnionian, he said, something absolutely damning, far too real: "I'm sorry if I did something wrong yesterday."
It took Kyle's breath away, literally. In addition to his anxiety and arousal, hearing his native tongue in the king's cool voice, in his strange Lossúrean accent… It was so much, and the overflow of emotion was enough to make his eyes glisten, not with sadness or happiness, but simply as a reaction to the intensity of everything in this flowery room.
Finally managing to get ahold of himself a bit, Kyle replied in Larnionian: "You didn't do anything wrong. I just… It was just a long day for me yesterday. It probably would've been better if we'd planned to meet for the first time today instead." It was so embarrassing talking about this. He hated it.
"You're probably right, so I apologize for my lack of, ah… prior planning," Gregory said, smiling a little.
"It's fine," Kyle said, touching the side of his head as he looked away, frowning. Gregory's Larnionian was really good, a lot better than his Lossúrean. He was jealous, and it made him feel kind of dumb. "I don't really want to talk about it anymore. Let's just forget it ever happened."
"I can do that," Gregory said easily, and Kyle let out a small sigh of relief – just a small one, not enough to truly put him at ease. He didn't think that would ever be possible around Gregory. It was just that damn smell. This conversation would be so much easier with a glass wall between them.
Gregory said nothing for the next few moments. It made things so much harder not having him to sustain the conversation – the silence was hell. When Kyle looked at him, he saw the king looking pensive, staring at the floor. That was when Kyle noticed how tightly Gregory was gripping the book in his lap. His knuckles were white.
"What is it?" Kyle asked, and Gregory looked up at him slowly, fluidly, like gently-moving water.
"It's nothing," the king said smoothly, offering Kyle a pleasant smile. "I was just thinking about dinner, is all," he admitted, laughing a bit, and that was enough for Kyle to be convinced he was telling the truth.
"It's three o'clock," Kyle said, incredulous. Dinner was hours from now.
"Well, there's still an hour and a half to go, but I'll likely go earlier," Gregory said in perfect Larnionian. Then he added, "You're welcome to join me, if you wish. Even if you would just like a snack or coffee or something."
And while it was true that four o'clock was a very adequate time for honey tea and mint brew, Kyle didn't think he could bear another minute around Gregory. The strings of his mental and physical composure felt so tattered just by this short exchange. Would it always be like this, he wondered?
"I… I'm afraid I can't," Kyle muttered, staring at his hand clutching his knee. "I have to uh…" Hurry, think of something! But don't say 'I have to go do something', because then he'll think you're going to go masturbate! "Write a letter."
"Ah, that's fine," Gregory said, giving him yet another polite smile. "Perhaps another time then."
"Yes," Kyle replied, not really meaning it. Clutching the armrest in his palm, he slowly hoisted himself up, turning his back on the king once he stood so he wouldn't see his now-freed election. Goddess, he was going to have to start wearing pants around here, wasn't he? "Anyway," he began, clearing his throat. "Nice, um, to meet you, I suppose. Best to, uh…" Fuck, what was he even saying? "I… better get going. Have to write that letter." Aware he was being terribly rude, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the king with his blond eyebrows raised, simply staring at him. "I'll see you around," Kyle finally said.
"Yes, I suppose you shall," Gregory replied. "Have a good evening, Your Highness."
Although it didn't seem like the king was being sarcastic, something about being addressed like that by him was annoying, like he was playing games with him or something. Fortunately, at least, the irritation was enough to help squander Kyle's arousal, which he effectively killed off by stuffing his face into a strange yet safe-looking purple flower once Gregory was out of sight. In the end, he didn't go back to his rooms to masturbate as he was thinking he might have to, though nor did he write any letters, of course. Rather, he found on the shelf the journal where he had written down the lyrics to all the songs Stan had written. He took great care not to let his tears drop down and mar the paper, but one slipped by, creating a lamentable splash very near the inconsequential word "and." Not "love" or "hope" or even some foresty noun, but "and." It meant nothing, and that was somehow worse than the smudge that soon developed as the water bled into the perfect calligraphy.