Okay, so, a brief intro: This is a Top Gun AU, set in some wobbly time-line that's sorta the Victorian era (late 1800's). Probably historically inaccurate on several counts, although I did do a bit of research beforehand. Prince Peter Mitchell (Maverick) is a prince of England, and Commander Tom Kazansky (Iceman) is a commander in the King's army. Neven, who makes a brief cameo, is Hollywood, and Goose also makes an appearance, though he isn't named. Recommending listening is "Goodbye Stranger," by Supertramp.
You can laugh at my behavior
It'll never bother me
Say the devil is my savior
But I don't pay no heed
"I'm afraid my youngest son is really not fit for the throne."
Prince Peter Mitchell froze outside of the parlor and then backtracked a few steps, pressing his ear to the door.
"He has no head for business," continued his father, King James IV, to whoever he was talking to. "He's also flighty, belligerent, and occasionally hysterical. And do you know, all of my sons wed at an early age but him? His poor mother, he's always been her favorite..."
Peter straightened up and flushed brightly in the face. He would have been angry if he hadn't known every word of it was true -- as it was, he was vaguely abashed.
He heard some low voices from within the chamber, a decibel lower than he could pick up. He leapt away from the doorway in time for his father to not run right into him as he exited the parlor.
"Good afternoon," Peter said curtly, folding his arms.
His father raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, it is," he agreed, putting an arm around his son's shoulders and leading him toward a large door that exited into the blooming courtyard garden.
"The banquet tomorrow," James said, squinting up into the sunlight.
"What about it?" Peter said irritably, wishing his father wasn't pretending he hadn't just been bad-mouthing him to some stuffed shirt member of Parliament.
"I'm inviting someone I think you'll be interested in meeting," James continued. "Commander Kazansky. He's done a terrific job in the current minor struggle we've been having overseas with those French bastards. I've granted him a title and asked that he remain in England as an adviser to me."
"Fantastic," Peter replied shortly, not seeing how this affected him at all.
"There will be a lot of lovely young women there, too," James said. "Eligible women. Of the marrying age."
"Subtle."
"You can't remain a bachelor forever, Peter."
"Apparently I can," Peter snarled, pulling away from his father. "I don't need an heir, do I? Why do you give a damn?"
"I care about your happiness, Peter," James said in a pained voice, looking around the courtyard. "Lower your voice."
Peter stormed off, leaping a rose bush and heading toward Windsor castle without looking back.
"I hear it's a good night for a fuck," Neven whispered to Peter.
Peter glanced at him. "You're drunk," he said.
"Indeed I am," Neven said, grinning at him. "You should try it, Princess. Look at all these women, it's like a dream come true."
Peter ignored his footman and swept his gaze around the banquet hall. Nothing in it interested him. He looked up and breathed a sigh that made his dark hair flutter.
"Peter," someone whispered in his ear, grabbing him by the arm. Peter turned around to find his brother dragging him forward. "Father wants you over here."
"Why?" he said, stopping and digging his feet in.
"He does, that's why," Alexander answered, sounding irritated and pulling Peter harder.
"I don't --"
But it was too late, Peter was already being shoved toward a small circle of people that parted for him.
"My son, Peter, of course," the king said jovially, making a gesture toward his son. "And Peter, this is Commander Tom Kazansky."
Peter's eyes landed on a tall, official-looking blonde man standing near his father.
"Of course," Kazansky said. He touched his brow in recognition of Peter.
The commander was a bit intimidating, carrying with him a quiet confidence that was unobtrusive yet simultaneously overpowering. Peter's teeth automatically set on edge.
His father stirred in the circle, and then beckoned a few of the lower-ranking military officials in the circle away. Peter and Kazansky were left alone together.
"I've heard a great deal about you," Kazansky said, raising a blonde eyebrow.
Peter shifted his weight. "Was it good?"
Kazansky chuckled quietly, fingering the pommel of his dagger. "Depends on how you define 'good', I expect."
There was a milling about as everyone took a seat. Kazansky happened to sit directly across from Peter.
In the softly glowing candlelight, Peter took another look at him.
His profile was sharp and regal, looking every bit the military commander, but there was an emptiness to his smile, as if he didn't particularly want to be here.
He only glanced at Peter once, and held the gaze. Peter looked back at him steadily, refusing to waver, and finally Kazansky looked away.
"Good God!"
Peter opened his eyes to a shriek. He was tangled in sweaty silk sheets, a vague discomfort he recognized as needing to piss nagging at him. He sat up.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded of the pretty, naked brunette who was hovering next to his bed, holding his duvet to her breasts as an ineffectual cover-up.
"I'm the Duchess of Cumberland!" she wailed.
"Oh, uh," Peter said, pulling his sheet around him. "I assume you spent the night?"
She shrieked again. Peter winced.
"What the hell is going on?" yelled Louis, Peter's eldest brother, as he burst into the room. He stared at Peter in horror for a moment.
"I'm naked!" Peter yelled, promptly rolling off the bed and onto the floor. "A little consideration, please!"
The Duchess's shriek turned into a full-out scream. Louis grabbed her and thrust a hand over her mouth.
"I'll be into talk to you later," he growled at his brother, shepherding the girl out of the door.
Peter climbed back onto his wide king-sized bed. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the sheets, which were stained with several bodily fluids.
"Maidservant," he called out.
"Commander Kazansky asked about you," James said stiffly.
"Ah," Peter said.
"I think you two should go shoot some arrows together, spend some time with one another. He'd be a good influence on you."
"A good influence -- Father, he's barely a year older than I am if he's a day!"
"Yet he's got far more direction in his life," James said, his voice sharp. Peter looked at him reproachfully.
"The Commander is a very hard-working and bureaucratic man. I enjoy his company greatly."
"Sounds like my kind of guy," Peter mumbled sarcastically.
The king glared at him. Peter pretended to be mollified.
"Fine," he sighed dramatically, "I'll go."
"I assume you know how to fire a bow and arrow?" Kazansky said as they walked toward the pitch.
"Of course," Peter said, ruffled.
"Good," Kazansky said brusquely.
They took a few minutes setting up their equipment. Kazansky was particularly fussy about it, Peter noticed, doing everything with a slow military precision.
"Nice fletchings," Kazansky noted. "Gold plated? And your father wonders why England is headed straight for the poorhouse."
It was a lighthearted but unexpected jab, and Peter flinched from the weight of it. "Well, I wouldn't know much about that," he said bitterly.
"Ah, yes," Kazansky said. "He did mention you're not exactly... next in line for the throne." He slid on his leather finger tab.
"Christ," Peter muttered. "What else did he say about me?"
Kazansky was quiet as he drew back the bow for a practice shot. The arrow landed cleanly in the middle of the target.
"Not bad," Peter said, fingering his bow.
Kazansky looked at Peter steadily, waiting.
Peter drew his bow to his shoulder and fired. It landed slightly above the other. He swore under his breath.
They went on like that for a while, Kazansky usually eclipsing Peter just a bit with accuracy. He was more composed in his firing -- his technique never changed.
When they were done they began to walk back to the road leading to the range. It was early fall, late summer, and the foliage was a deep green just beginning to fray, blooms had long since burst into fruit and dropped their get to the ground for the wildlife.
Kazansky stopped next to a pear tree that grew near a crumbling ivy-laced wall. "You want to know what he said about you?"
It took Peter a second to clue into the conversation. "Oh," he said. "Yes."
Kazansky licked his lips slightly. It drew Peter's eye more than he would have expected, and his stomach gave a slight lurch.
"He says you're the most irresponsible of all of his sons," Kazansky said. "That you have no respect for the throne and disregard it almost completely. That you're a regular customer at brothels all over London."
Peter felt himself flush. "And what are you?" he demanded, stepping toward the commander, getting right in his face. "A slave to his pointless wars? Risking your life for imports and exports?"
"Risking my life for my country," Kazansky said curtly. "And you have no business speaking to me like this."
"No business? I'm a prince!"
Kazansky laughed derisively. "Not your main talent, from what I've heard."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Peter snarled.
"You haven't mentioned to your father, my liege, that your sexual prowess extends beyond women?" Kazansky said, smirking at him.
Peter let out a startled yelp. "You --" he hissed, stepping toward Kazansky with every intention of punching him, but the commander was too quick and pulled Peter into a kiss before he could.
He was startled into silence, the pressure against his lips overpowering him. Kazansky was fucking Peter's mouth with his tongue, and it was wonderful in a scurvy, filthy way, sending tremors all through Peter's body.
Kazansky's hands went farther, one gently brushing the fabric over Peter's lap, the other hand sliding against the curve of his ass, grabbing and squeezing soft, pampered flesh. Peter's lungs rose in a gasp that had nowhere to go.
Kazansky let go of Peter's mouth and drew his fingers to his mouth, tongue moving against them. He drew Peter's fingers down and kneaded them against his own cock while Kazansky's mouth moved to Peter's neck, trailing up between his earlobe and jawbone, running his teeth along the skin. Peter moaned loudly, pressing his crotch against Kazansky's hip, feeling every movement of their entwined fingers against the fabric, his erection straining.
Kazansky's tongue wound its way across Peter's face to find his mouth again, forcing itself back in.
They had shifted; Peter was now pressed up against the pear tree, the bark rubbing his skin as Kazansky ground against him, forcefully, as if he could release something from Peter if he pressed hard enough.
Peter's hands were clenched in Kazansky's blonde hair; there was a desperate, violent need inside him to have something to hold onto.
Kazansky's hand was teasing Peter, merely brushing him now at the moment he craved rough contact.
"Fuck," he snapped as Kazansky tore away from his mouth, "don't stop now --"
"You do have quite the mouth on you, don't you, Princess?" the commander said, shoving Peter to his knees. He landed on a rock and felt it to the bone, but the pain was distant. "Work for it," Kazansky told him, "God knows it'll be the only thing you work for in your life."
He was fully naked waist-down before Peter, who held him by the one hip and turned his head to lick where thigh met groin.
Kazansky's hand was steady on Peter's shoulder as his tongue rippled across the commander's dick, teasing his shaft.
"Use your hands," Kazansky grunted, his grip on Peter's shoulder tightening.
Blood pounded in Peter's head. He raised a hand and wrapped it around Kazansky's dick, his lips trailing across the surface of it.
Kazansky's hand slid under Peter's armpit and he yanked him to his feet. He shoved Peter against the crumbling wall behind them, their crotches pressed together, Kazansky creating just the right amount of friction with his writhing.
Peter tipped back his head and moaned, clinging to Kazansky with one hand -- he leaned forward and ran a tongue over the pulsing vein in Peter's neck, dragging his teeth against him, sucking the abraded skin, then kissing Peter again, the red, swollen curve of his lips.
Peter came against him and bent his head forward, resting his forehead against Kazansky's smooth, broad chest, shaking and whimpering. Kazansky continued to thrust against him for a few moments more, forcing Peter's flank against the eroded brick of the wall behind them, his flesh bruising with every motion, and then stopping as he came too, biting down on his lip.
Peter clung to Kazansky's heavy, even breathing for a moment, arched against him, and then looked up into the steady hazel gaze.
"Should be going," Kazansky murmured to him, stepping away and pulling himself together, running a hand through his hair.
Peter nodded slowly, barely comprehending.
Kazansky beckoned him over and then guided him to the end of the path, where their mounts were waiting. Peter's horse nickered at him, dropping his head and pawing the ground gently.
Kazansky shoved him forward. Peter stumbled a bit.
"Need a leg up?"
He nodded again. Kazansky came over and held a hand out. Peter stepped into it with his left foot and Kazansky threw him into the saddle.
The come against his stomach was already drying. Peter felt it flaking.
"I'll see you, your Highness," Kazansky said, shortening his reins, turning.
The click of hooves on pavement registered. Peter looked up in time to see him riding away.
"God," was all he said.
An 'event' was to be held in a few weeks.
It was sickening bureaucracy disguised as merriment, Parliament kissing his father's ass, the king of Spain getting drunk and signing whatever document the advisers handed to him.
Peter hated his father's parties.
The so-called riffraff did it right, with them revelry was true, pure, unbridled fun, not business.
The castle was in overdrive preparing, kicking him out of his wing and then wherever else he tried to go, and he had taken to the pubs of London. He knew that no one really gave a shit where he went anyway -- his father knew he wasn't heir and couldn't be bothered, his mother favored him too much to say anything that would make him angry, and his brothers were too busy grooming themselves for the throne to even remember he existed half the time.
A few nights beforehand, his father called all of his sons and most of his military advisers into the largest and most lavish parlor, the one with rich burgundy carpets that Peter had toddled over barefoot as a child, and they all drank into the night discussing boring things such as territory lines in tiny countries Peter knew nothing of, which strategies were working and which weren't, all while his brothers nodded eagerly, thrilled beyond belief to be included in the conversation.
Peter played with the fringe of the opulent armchair he was slumped in.
Commander Kazansky was there, in pride of place next to his father. He glanced once at Peter and gave him a half-smile, which Peter returned with interest.
Eventually the older men invited the younger ones to join them in the ceremonial tradition of smoking ridiculously expensive cigars, and most of them trickled to the other side of the room save Peter and Kazansky and a few men who were too drunk to get up.
Peter walked over and sat on the armrest of Kazansky's chair. "Not in the mood for cigars?" he said quietly, and with a glance directed at his father to make sure he wasn't paying attention, fell into Kazansky's lap.
"You're a belligerent little bastard," Kazansky said. "Got what you were asking for and now you're after more."
"I want more," Peter whispered to Kazansky, his lips wet and wine-stained against his ear.
"I can tell," Kazansky said. Peter shifted on Kazansky's lap, his ass brushing against his rapidly hardening cock.
"There's a bedroom down the hall," Peter murmured, palming the commander's crotch gently.
"Good," Kazansky said, softly.
Peter's mother loved fur, so it came as no surprise to him when he crept into the spare bedroom to find an enormous pelt of chinchilla stretched across the bed.
He slid onto it and rolled onto his stomach.
The door clicked behind him and he drew in a breath as he felt the weight of Kazansky on the bed behind him.
Peter's stomach prickled, his mouth drying. Kazansky ran a hand along his lower back and began to rip off his undergarments, buttons ripping and fabric tearing with an animal force that made Peter flinch.
"Have you done this before?" Peter said nervously, tensing his body.
"Relax, your Highness," Kazansky said. "In fact, I have. And if my assumptions are correct..." he slipped two fingers inside of Peter, "... you have as well."
Peter's breath hitched as Kazansky kneeled abreast him, his bruised and teased flesh feeling every rock of the bed, the luxurious chinchilla fur gliding against his naked body.
"Just be careful with me," Peter muttered, "I am --" gasp "-- royalty..."
Kazansky nicked Peter's ear with his teeth. "You talk too much, Princess," he said, sliding against Peter roughly, pressing him down against the bed.
Peter gave a hoarse, wracking gasp when Kazansky slid into him, fingers fisting themselves in the silky fur.
Kazansky hands moved over Peter, caressing him. Peter let out a low moan as Kazansky thrusted harder against him, arching his back, cat-like, bucking his flank against Kazansky's hips.
"Fuck," Peter hissed, features screwed up against the fur. He had the sensation of folding in on himself, pain blurring his vision as Kazansky drove inside of him, a scream of "Tom" finally spilling from his lips.
It was over within moments, Kazansky leaning down next to Peter and pulling him into his arms, kissing him repeatedly on the forehead, cheeks, and neck. Peter blinked a few times, clearing the glaze over his eyes.
"I love you," Peter murmured, not knowing if he meant it or not. He had confused sex with love before, but he had never felt so safe in someone's arms, never had been granted a rare moment of peace by another person so thoroughly.
Kazansky said nothing, just kissed the curve of his collarbone and stroked his dark hair, wet and tangled with sweat.
Finally he sat up, pulling on his clothes, sliding his discarded dagger back into its sheath. Peter watched him idly as he did.
"I'll see you at this party, I assume," Kazansky told him as he buttoned up his undershirt.
"I'd like to see you before then," Peter said, sitting up, looking at the commander with bright, lambent green eyes.
Kazansky paused, looking at him with amusement. "All right," he said. "Until then, your Highness."
He strode out of the room, the formal, stately guise firmly back in place.
They had sex a good number of times before the night of the party.
Peter wasn't worried about someone finding out, as the two of them were discreet and quick about it, but the tell-tale signs were there if anyone bothered to look. Rosy love-bites along Peter's neck, finger-shaped bruises along the length of his forearm where he had been pinned against the stone floor of the banquet hall, his lips swollen and red.
He was in his mother's bathroom, applying some of her finest powder to his neck, when Alexander barged in.
Alexander had been Peter's least favorite brother since they had been young and he had hit him upside the head with a toy sword. Alexander had insisted it was an accident, but if there was one thing Peter was good at, it was harboring a grudge.
"Father wants to see you in his study -- what the hell are you doing?"
Peter jumped. "You could knock," he snarled.
"Is there an occasion I don't know about? Why are you putting make-up on?" Alexander said suspiciously.
"Why does he want to see me?" Peter cut across him.
"No idea, but he doesn't sound happy."
Peter swore under his breath and pushed past Alexander, who was quite a bit taller than him and strode off in the same direction, his strides easily eclipsing Peter's.
"What do you think?" Alexander said, ducking as two men carrying a Persian rug veered to avoid crashing into him.
"No idea," Peter said shortly.
"Well, don't get his blood pressure up before the party, it would be rather inconvenient if he died," Alexander said, and left Peter alone.
James' personal study happened to be on this floor of Windsor, and Peter headed toward it apprehensively.
He knocked.
"Come in."
Peter slipped into the room and sat in front of his father's desk. James set down what he was reading, took off his glasses, and looked at his son.
"You wanted to see me?" Peter said, biting his lip.
"Yes," James said, clasping his hands. "Peter, I've heard something rather distressing from your footman."
Peter was quiet.
"You see, he seems to be under the impression you're... sleeping with Commander Kazansky."
Peter felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He suddenly felt weak, grasping the arms of his chair. "Father," he said.
"I fired him immediately, of course," James said, "but I wanted to speak to you about it... if there was a reason he'd be spreading this sort of slander."
Peter tried to draw in a breath, to fill his empty lungs, but his mouth had suddenly gone dry and the air ripped at his throat. He bent over, dissolved in a fit of coughing.
When he sat up his father was staring at him.
"Peter," he said.
"I'm sorry," Peter cried, and instantly knew he had said the wrong thing.
His father's face was reddening under his beard, his face going from concern to horror, and then unmitigated rage.
"This is true?" James said, his voice deathly quiet.
Peter sat, paralyzed, but it was answer enough.
"My god," James breathed.
"It wasn't not his fault," Peter cried out, knowing he had just fallen onto his own sword and there was no getting up now.
"Not his fault?" the king roared, leaping to his feet. Peter jerked back from the desk between them, from the invisible barrier that had always separated the two of them, and watched his father cross it.
"He's a commander of my army! A man whom I trust with the lives of my men, my countrymen, the blood and sinew of my sovereign, and now I find I can't even count on him to keep his hands off my son? Not to mention it's an abomination in the eyes of the Lord!"
"Father," Peter said, drawing back in his chair, "please..."
"No!" James shouted. "And you, Peter, you have absolutely no respect for me, think yourself too good for the responsibilities of the monarchy, want nothing to do with it... Are you happy now?"
"Me?" Peter demanded, rising and facing his father, spitting like an angry cat. "I'm never good enough for you," he hissed, "never have been, and you have the nerve, Father, to claim I'm at fault? What the hell am I supposed to do, what do you want from me? You make me sick," he spat.
The king's face purpled with fury for a moment, and before Peter could see him raise his hand, he slapped Peter across the face.
Peter fell to the floor, clutching the gash in his cheek where his father's diamond ring had struck him.
"I hate you," he said, venom in his voice, as blood streamed down his face.
"Good," James panted. "Now get out of my sight. I've had enough of this. I put up with it for your poor mother's sake, but... Get out of my sight."
Peter stood and looked straight at his father, tears mingling with the blood, and fled the room.
Peter didn't know where he was going, at first.
He was just riding, the wind buffeting his hair back, alone in the world.
It wasn't until he was halfway there that he realized he was heading toward Kazansky's villa.
When he got there he ran a hand through his hair and dismounted ungracefully, kicking his horse accidentally and muttering a quick apology.
He swiped at his cheek with his sleeve. It came away bloody and he sighed, making his way from the front gate through a path lined by large weeping willows that left the entire walk to the house in shadow. Peter felt a shiver travel down his spine.
There was a large gold lion knocker on the front door. Peter rapped it twice.
The woman who opened the door was young and pale, with a tired look about her beyond her years. "Yes, sir," she said in a Scottish brogue.
"I need to see Commander Tom Kazansky," Peter said.
"He's not looking to see anyone right now," she said brusquely. "Come back later, perhaps?"
"Wait," Peter said, irked, putting his foot in the door as she began to close it. "I'm Prince Peter the Fourth-- my father's the king of England, I need to see him immediately."
"Well, why on Earth didn't you say that before?" she said, opening it and waving him in. "Anything I can get you?"
"Tom," said Peter. "That's all I need."
Kazansky appeared around a corner and spotted Peter. "Your Highness," he said cautiously, glancing over Peter's left shoulder as if James were right behind him.
"I need to talk to you," Peter said, pulling Kazansky out of the grand foyer and into the adjacent sitting room, closing the door behind them.
Kazansky kissed Peter softly on the forehead. "What is it? You look... what happened?"
"He knows," Peter said.
"Who?" Kazansky said, stepping away from Peter.
"My father. He knows."
Kazansky let out a string of violent cursing. "Did he..." he raised a finger to Peter's cheek, but Peter brushed it away.
"I really think he's going to arrest you for treason," Peter said, willing his voice not to tremble. He took a deep breath. "It's all my fault," he whimpered.
"I won't let him," Kazansky said. "With all I know about the inner workings of his reign... he wouldn't dare. I'll speak with him. You," he murmured, dropping an arm around Peter's waist, "will stay here."
"Please, don't get yourself in trouble," Peter pleaded.
"Get myself in trouble?" Kazansky demanded, sounding ruffled. "How little faith do you have in me, your Highness? Might I remind you that while you've done nothing but shirk responsibility your entire life, I have been building my career, which I wouldn't dream of destroying over a mere affair."
"A mere affair?" Peter snapped, drawing away from him. "Is that what I am to you?"
"You should get some sleep," Kazansky told him, adjusting the sheath around his waist. "You're upset."
"You're an asshole," Peter said, and moved to leave the room. Kazansky stepped in front of him.
"I'm sorry," Kazansky murmured, tipping Peter's chin up with his finger. "Don't worry," he said. "Go get some sleep. Stay as long as you want. I'll be back in a few hours."
Peter sighed. "Fine."
Kazansky kissed him, sliding his hand up Peter's lower back, bringing him to his tiptoes.
When he let go he strode out of the room, the door creaking shut behind him. Peter heard another slam as the door to the house closed.
He sighed. For all intents and purposes, he was alone again.
When Peter stepped back into the foyer the woman who had opened the door simply said, "There's a guest bedroom just upstairs, first door on the left, sir."
The bedsheets smelled like summer, and Peter stripped off all of his clothing before he climbed under them. He closed his eyes.
He felt immediately comforted, like he was in Tom's arms, and before he knew it he had fallen victim to sleep.
Peter awoke to a new weight on the bed next to him.
"Tom," he murmured, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"I spoke with your father," Kazansky said, looking at him seriously.
Peter opened his mouth and Kazansky raised a hand, quieting him.
"He says he'd be willing to overlook it if you come back to the castle and atte--"
"Overlook it?" Peter demanded.
Kazansky sighed. "How would it look if you just disappeared out from under your father's nose? England is riled up enough about his decisions overseas, they don't need it to look like he can't control his own family --"
"So I'm just supposed to go back and grovel to him?" Peter snarled, drawing away from Kazansky on the bed. "After what he said to me?"
"Peter!" Kazansky said sharply, standing. "You are not a free man. You are a prince. When you're in this position, you do what's best for your country, not yourself."
"I can't, I can't go back there!" Peter exclaimed. "I'll run -- I swear to God, let's go right now, we'll go to America, Australia, Paris, Rome --"
"Peter --"
"And what about us? What am I supposed to do?"
"He wants you to attend Confession --"
"I don't want to lose you," Peter insisted.
"Will you listen to me?"
"Confession?" Peter screamed, leaping to his feet and pulling his boxers on. "I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Kazansky muttered, sinking to the foot of the bed. "Peter. Shut the hell up."
This startled Peter into silence.
"Nothing has to change," Kazansky said, rising and putting his arms around Peter. "You underestimate me," he said quietly.
"But my father --"
"We'll be more discreet," Kazansky murmured, kissing Peter's jawline. Peter held onto him below the shoulders, thumbs gently stroking the fabric of his clothes, staring over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in consternation.
"Besides, with the sort of things I have on him," he continued, sliding his hand up against Peter's stomach, nicking his ear with his teeth, "I doubt he'll threaten you again... I think he miscalculated the lengths I would go to for your comfort."
Somewhere in there was a compliment, but Peter's mind was elsewhere. "What else do I have to do?"
"He wants you to attend the party..."
"Damn," Peter said. "I knew it. Bastard."
"... go to Confession, as I said... It shouldn't be too rough for you. If the priest gives you any trouble, says anything other than 'do ten Hail Marys and all will be absolved,' you come to me about it." Kazansky kissed Peter briefly on the lips, drew him closer.
"But," Peter protested, "my father... my brothers... I can't go back there."
"Yes, you can. Maybe," Kazansky said, "once the dispute with France is over, when the world's eyes aren't so focused on England, you can leave."
"Who knows how long that's going to be?"
"No one," replied Kazansky, looking at him soberly. "But don't lose the kingdom for the want of a horseshoe nail."
Peter made a noncommittal noise. "Fine," he said, "I'll go to his damn party... if you're there," he said, grazing a finger against the commander's crotch.
"I'll be there," Kazansky replied, a smirk gracing his lips for a moment.
Peter knew he was drunk when the lights started streaking.
The conversation around him -- god, it was more like a roar, there were at least a thousand people here and they were all so loud -- was overpowering, like a wave breaking over him. He liked that feeling, of being just a small part of a seething mass, even if the seething mass was made up of the blue-blood aristocrats he had grown up learning to hate.
About an hour earlier, Kazansky had cornered him and told him bluntly, "Maybe we should cool it for a while."
"What?" Peter said, looking around, making sure no one was watching them. "But you said --"
"I know what I said."
"So you were lying to me?" Peter demanded.
"Peter, no," Kazansky said, clearly losing his patience. "But what I said about being discreet --"
Peter stormed off in the middle of his sentence.
He had headed for the booze, more specifically the cognac, and not looked back.
Peter supposed if he hadn't been drunk he would have noticed something odd about one of the crown princes of Spain approaching him, striking up a conversation, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially in his ear with his hand on Peter's thigh.
His name was Alfonso. He had dark, beautiful eyes that begged you to look at them, skin that was warm and sun-touched, and a dulcet, silky voice that said things that meant nothing but sounded so good.
He should have noticed something odd, drunk or not, when Alfonso whisked him off to one of the luxurious sitting rooms near the ball room, the lights off, and began to touch him with quick, practiced hands.
Peter moaned aloud, wanting it to happen, wanting to forget. Maybe someone would catch them, and... fuck it. His father would kick him out and he could live the streets of London, be himself for once, be apart from the stuffiness of this life that was choking and suffocating him.
But as Alfonso's hand began to pull at his clothing, an alarm went off in Peter's head.
"No, wait," Peter muttered, "maybe we should -- Alfonso --"
"What?" Alfonso said in his lilting Spanish drawl, "what, darling, Peter, just go with it, you're fine --"
"No," Peter said, a little louder, beginning to pull away from the other man, but Alfonso's grip tightened.
All of a sudden the door slammed behind them.
Kazansky stormed over to Alfonso, snarling, "You weaselly little fucker," grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of the room, shoving him back into the party.
The door slammed a second time. Peter cringed.
"What are you doing?" Kazansky demanded, stomping back over to Peter, his face bright with anger.
"What am I doing?" Peter slurred. "What are you doing? I had that under control!"
"Sure," Kazansky scoffed. "Is this your idea of revenge on me?" he demanded. "For doing what was best for both of us?"
"If you wanted to do what was best for me," Peter cried, "you would stand up for me!"
"I kept you in your father's good graces, didn't I? Face it, princess, you wouldn't last a minute outside of the luxury life and you know it."
"That's not true," Peter snapped. "I could survive on the streets. I want to survive on the streets. I want to live in the big city, I want to be a part of the world, not on a pedestal ten million miles away --"
"That's what you think," Kazansky told him. "So to get back at me for doing the right thing, you decide to put yourself in the hands of Spain's resident slut? Are you forgetting you're mine?" he murmured, leaning over Peter, hands palm-down the plush sofa on either side of Peter's thighs.
"I'm not yours," Peter said stubbornly. The world was still strange and swirly at the corners, but anger was sobering. "I don't belong to anyone," he hissed.
"But you want to belong to me," Kazansky whispered, "you want me to keep you in the manner to which you have become accustomed..." he kissed Peter's neck, ran a finger over his collarbone.
"Don't touch me," Peter protested quietly, shoving his hands away. Kazansky kissed him on the forehead and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, gingerly, bumping Peter's knees.
"I wish I could tell you it would all be all right," Kazansky said. "That you could do both, own the world and have the freedom to traverse every inch of it. But that's just not how it is, not now, and it may not ever be. All I can tell you is that I..."
Kazansky broke off. Peter looked at him.
"What?" he said, his tongue feeling strange in his mouth.
"I care about you a little too much, princess," Kazansky said, kissing him again.
"Come with me to St. Paul's," Peter said, "tomorrow... I don't want to go alone. You know how they are," he said scornfully, "teaching by shame, horrified by deviancy."
"I wouldn't go that far," Kazansky said. "I rather like the church."
Peter stared at him.
"That doesn't mean I necessarily agree with all of their policies, but what can you do?" Kazansky said, standing. "It's the age we live in, your Highness."
St. Paul's was, admittedly, beautiful.
In fact, beautiful was an understatement. To be in the stillness, to see the ornamented ceilings arc above you, you could almost feel God.
Almost.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," Peter said as soon as he sat down.
There was a beat. "How long has it been since your last confession?" the priest said.
He had the kind of voice Peter was disinclined to trust, a low, rusty rasp.
"I don't even remember," Peter said. A memory lingered in the back of his mind, of being young and swinging his feet while sitting in this very seat because they didn't touch the ground.
"What is your sin, child?"
"I slept with a man," Peter said. "Multiple times."
"Is that all?"
"No, but let's start with that," Peter said.
"Why did you do it, son?"
"I think I love him."
"You do realize homosexuality is a sin?"
"I disagree, actually," Peter said cheerfully. He was feeling a sort of of exhilaration sitting here, admitting these things, knowing the priest couldn't do a damn thing about it. "And I don't plan to stop."
There was a pause. The priest cleared his throat.
"Why do you disagree? It's written in the Bible. It is God's word."
"Father," Peter said, "I've been told my entire life that hate is a sin, that cold-blooded murder is a sin, that adultery is a sin. But love -- love is not a sin."
"It is written in the Bible," the priest repeated. "I can't grant you absolution if you do not want to accept the consequences of your actions, if you do not accept your penance."
"Let it be a black mark on my soul, then," Peter said.
"Hell is --"
"Hell is what it will be," Peter said.
He stood.
"If you're willing to admit what you did was --"
But Peter was already leaving.
St. Paul's was beautiful, but so was Windsor.
No one said that prison couldn't be beautiful.
Outside, the sun was missing in the sky, hidden behind the glowing silver of the sky. London twinkled, laid out in front of him.
Kazansky was waiting by the fountain, as crowds of passerby went about their daily lives, fully decked out in his formal attire.
To Peter, he was a damn gorgeous sight.
Their eyes met and Peter smirked at him as he approached the fountain.
"I'm going to hell, Tom," he murmured, quirking an eyebrow.
"I expect so," Kazansky said, in his clipped, dry military tones. "I'll be joining you, I assume."
"It won't be that bad, then," Peter replied.
"Well, your Highness," Kazansky said, spreading his arms to encompass London around him, "here's your city."
"I meant what I said last night," Peter said.
"So did I."
It took Peter a moment to catch that, and then he grinned, flashing his teeth at the commander.
"Good."
He waited a bit, shivering in the brisk air, and said casually, "Since it is my city..."
Kazansky looked at him.
"I may not be free in it quite yet, but we could pretend for a night."
The commander grinned back.
"It's a good idea, Princess."
Peter took a deep breath and another look at the people passing by him. His countrymen.
He stopped a small, mustached man with light brown hair and a twinkle in his eye. "Know of any good pubs around here?"
The man smiled broadly at him. "Boy, did you ask the right guy."