A/N: Spoiler alert for Chapters 54, 60, and 76, and headcanon theory alert, and a this-fic-has-finally-been-rewritten-because-Rosenberg-was-too-much-of-an-illogical-cinnamonroll-in-the-original-version-and-the-manga-kept-adding-new-stuff alert while I'm at it!

And this one's for Samuraiko, for opening Pandora's Box.

Tired Sometimes

Based on events in Chapter 54: Doubt and Suspicion; Chapter 60: Pet-Pet S.O.S.!, and Chapter 76: For Friendship.

I walk in on something that I probably shouldn't have. Yet I can't back up and leave the room now.

He stands by a mirror of murky, warped glass, with a tape measure loosely draped around his waist.

I close the door and lean against it.

His jacket lies neatly draped over the back of a chair, yet his hair is in a snarled tangle above his shoulder blades. His ribs show, sharp angles of bone through the fabric of his shirt. I feel a pang just looking at him.

'I'm coming in, Prince,' I whisper.

He doesn't turn. His body is cut in profile against a window shaded by pale muslin curtains. His only acknowledgement is the words, 'You seem to be already in the room.'

I push off the wall and walk over, a half-smile on my lips. 'Sulking again?'

If anyone was looking in on this, they would think I was being cruel. Or that there was something wrong with him.

But they don't know anything: not about this, nor about us.

I glance at the etched notches on the tape measure. My lips press together, yet allowing myself even that is too much.

It feels like our lives are measured in numbers now. Doses of medication, weeks of travel, of weight lost and and time misplaced.

Of colours fading, never to be seen again.

I flick the end of the tape measure. 'What's this? Trying to lose weight for a pretty girl?'

It's enough to force him out of his daze. He winds the tape around his fingers, in uneven loops. 'Did you come here to annoy me?'

'For once, no.' I pass him the new sheaf of paper. 'Your new schedule.'

Heaven knows how many times I've had to rewrite it this week.

He looks at it without seeing it, the papers slipping through his fingers. He places it on his desk.

I open the curtains with a sharp rattling of the loops on the curtain rail. 'Will you be able to manage that, or will I need to rewrite it again?'

Eins looks irritated now. Probably because I just opened the curtains before he had a chance to put his jacket again. I mean, forbid it that anyone see him as anything other than his usual calm-and-collected self, despite the totally desolated state of the palace grounds.

'Just put it back on then, for goodness' sake.'

Eins sighs and does as I tell him, putting his arms through the sleeves with stiff, awkward movements.

'Again, will you be able to manage this week?'

'I think so.'

'I don't want to risk a state dinner with members of the council on an "I think so," Eins. If you have an episode and I'm not there...'

'Fine. I'll be fine, just... fine.'

'That's better.'

I beat him to it, and fasten his jacket's buttons in their buttonholes. As I work, I can't avoid seeing how tired he is, how much weight he's lost. It hurts. More than I want to admit.

'You started that new medication, didn't you?'

'…'

'Eins.'

'D_ it Ernst, I did.'

'Well, pardon me for losing my touch with interpreting your non-verbal answers.' I give him a sharp glare. 'And lose the tone. You're lucky that I give you breathing room when we can afford it, and don't you forget that.'

'I know.' His eyes flicker. Focusing on my cufflinks, on the tips of our boots. He bites his lip and says, 'I know… Ern.'

I glance at the collection of pill jars clustered on his dressing table. A small glass jar filled with peppermints clings to the fringes of the group, adorned with a bow of twine around its mouth. A cheap gift, pathetic compared to all the sweets and delicacies he's tried on his travels. But he still hasn't thrown it out yet. 'Well? How many medications is that now?'

'...Eight. No, nine.'

'And you're taking them all?'

'...'

'Every last one — '

He catches hold of my shoulder, yet I snatch his wrist and sidestep it, he and I standing back-to-back. I laugh, and it's bittersweet. Sharply bitter and strangely sweet. This is stupid, but it brings back childhood memories and teases a smile out of me.

'…D_ you, Ernst,' Eins mutters.

'Heh.'

'Fine. I'm taking them all. Satisfied?'

'Quite, thank you.' Yet it doesn't please me as much as it should, not when I know the side effects some of the medicines cause. Not when I know how sick some of them make him, how wrecked they leave his body.

But the alternatives aren't worth thinking about.

Eins takes a seat on the low ottoman at the end of the bed. Maybe because he's too tired to stand. 'What else?'

'What do you mean, what else?'

'You're still here, so again, what else?'

'Fair point.' I check my pocket watch. Yes, it's getting late. 'What do you want for dinner?'

He looks visibly ill at the mere mention of food. 'I don't feel like eating.'

'You have to eat, no arguments.'

'I can't. I mean it.'

I cast a suspicious glance at the wastepaper basket under his desk. I've noticed that he's been losing weight, but still.

'If I check that wastepaper basket...'

'You'll find the packaging for a new jar of ink, and that's it.'

'Because it would be beneath you to make a spelling mistake and throw out a piece of paper.' I look at him through half-closed eyes. 'You fed your food to the hunting dogs, didn't you?'

'...'

'Eins! You're too old for this! You're as bad as if not worse than Prince Leonhard —'

'Don't compare me to him.'

'I will, if that's what it will take for you to get your act together. You. Can't. Go. With. Out. Food. It's not healthy, and you're old enough to know that.'

Eins just looks at me.

I know it's not healthy, because nothing about this is, it never has been, so can you stop pretending and just shut up?

It burns as clearly as though he said it aloud.

I sit beside him. And lean against his shoulder, suddenly feeling very tired. 'I… I just... I worry about you, Prince.'

I'm running out of ideas. If I snap at him, he'll clam up. If I pretend too hard, then he'll shoot it down. Nothing works anymore. Ignoring him, making it a joke, pretending as though my life depends on it — nothing works.

He leans into me. Just a little, and he rests his head on my shoulder. He must be feeling tired too. If the shadows under his eyes are anything to go by.

Only a couple of years ago, we were at military academy, and our biggest problems were breaking out after curfew for dates with local girls and getting back before the dawn. A couple of years before that, our fights were simple, brief clashes with wooden play-swords on the palace grounds, beneath a blue sky

We're barely in our twenties, and it feels like the whole kingdom's against us sometimes.

I glance down at him. 'You look terrible.'

'You too.'

'And whose fault is that?'

He chuckles faintly.

…His mood's improving.

I feel a flicker of hope. Even if it's a byproduct of his mind, or medicine, as uncontrollable as the tide… whether it's fake happiness or real light-heartedness lifting his spirits… if he's feeling better, then that's good.

It hurts to to see him this way. We fight like cats and snap at each other constantly, and I manipulate him like a marionette doll whenever I feel like it, hauling him around with a fistful of puppet strings, but it still hurts tremendously. We're still friends, despite our never-ending pile of baggage. And it hurts to see him like this — like he's trapped on a carousel, dizzy and lost. Like a set of rigged scales wildly ricocheting between two extremes.

But if it's hard for me to see him suffer, trapped by his own body and mind, then how much more painful must it be for him to bear it?

Fate can be a cruel mistress.

Darkness floods in, like ink spilling through cracks in broken glass.

Learning how to pull strings is addictive, once you begin doing it. It came naturally to me, as the new, young high-steward of Prince Eins' affairs. I could do whatever I wished or wanted — working in Eins' shadow for his sake, whether he wanted it, or needed it, or not. My father trained me to follow in his footsteps, but he never imagined that I would surpass him, never realised that he had trained and raised some inner demon in me, a demon that was just waiting to claw its way out of my chest and wreak havoc… with whomever might be in Eins's way.

Like some certain princes.

A brief smile twists my lips. They can have fun trying to pin the blame for the damage I've wrought in the palace on me, if they wish. Fools. Yet despite knowing that they don't stand a chance against me… I'm still entertaining thoughts of arranging to have that tutor disposed of in a shady backalley.

But His Majesty has said that Prince Eins is not fit for the throne…

My eyes narrow, and my nails dig into my leg through my trousers.

Shut up. Shut up — I KNOW THAT.

I exhale, and try to relax. I can't let myself get worked up over it. He's sharp, to be certain. And has his hands in the palace's inner workings in a way that almost rivals my own involvement, having gathered secrets that only those in the royal family should know.

But for his all posturing and sharp quips, he knows _ about us, and about Eins.

I stare at the mirror for a moment, noting how it only captures one side of the both of us, Eins and I. Only one side of the story.

I've felt from a distance, instinctively, that there's discord between Prince Eins and his father. And Eins himself is obviously aware of that tension, but to what extent, I don't know. But why else would I walk a dangerous line and go after the princes if I didn't have good reason to do so? But to hear that little d_ tutor start on it… Ugh.

…Regardless of that, there are undeniable grounds for what King Viktor is doing. The judgement calls he's making. He doesn't know about this — about the glass jars of pills and what we do to hide them — but he knows of other things, other secrets that we have. He knows, Eins knows, and I know.

But that doesn't mean we have to like it — and it doesn't mean it's right.

It's not right for His Majesty to write Eins off merely for his "behaviour." For coincidences and absences and a series of black marks on the prince's record. He doesn't even know the first thing about his son and the heavy burdens he's had to bear alone, because this blasted line of succession destroys any resemblance of functioning relationships, relationships where people can go to each other for help. Because doctors will never risk telling royals the truth and risk incurring their wrath. And doctors never want to come anywhere near illnesses that are anything other than 'physical.' All they can do is give you a list of of possible diagnoses, and give you nothing to ease the pain in your heart or quiet the demons in your head so that you can get a good night's sleep and try to forget, just for eight hours.

I should know. I stayed up through the night with Eins once; I listened to the prince talking in his sleep. Begging, for someone to just please tell him what was going on.

What's going on? What's happening to me?

I was the only one to hear those seven words, at half-past one on a rainy night.

Years later, over time, I've become the one that cares for him. All we have to show for the kingdom's best physicians' efforts is a list of a dozen possible conditions and a list of a dozen medicines, because it could be this, it could be that, and if you're taking that then you need to take this as well, and then this to counter that, and that was almost enough to make me lose my composure and stab a doctor with his own scalpel, on one occasion.

We had finally had enough. So now we take care of ourselves, watching each other's backs. Just the way we like it.

King Viktor knows a lot about Eins, but he doesn't know about those invisible words, the ones that are chained to his son like padlocks. Depressed. Moody. Unstable. Unbalanced. Unmanageable.

Yet for all the diagnoses… somewhere along the way I got the feeling that those doctors didn't even feel like they were looking at a human anymore. They were looking at an inconvenience, something that was covered up in society and not understood by medicine. Unloved.

And if nothing else, maybe Eins having me by his side has helped him to feel more human again. Someone who cares. Someone who understands. Someone who's less than perfect, but who can look at him as a person without seeing words written in black paint on his skin.

Maybe the fact that Eins had come of age was the reason that he left Weisburg Palace, but maybe those invisible words were another reason — that he was unable to keep up a front with his family. Unable to stand being monitored and being kept on display in that glass cage. To keep everything inside and be that perfect prince.

Maybe if he'd stayed, things would be different for him. Or they could have been worse. If anyone found out the truth, then that truth could bar him from the throne forever.

He's smart. And brilliant. And clever and strong, and the only difference between him and the next person is he takes things harder, suffers what he feels more than a normal person. But that could bar him from the throne — King Viktor could bar him from the throne if he found out the truth, merely for something the prince can't control.

All anyone can see is the outside.

Only I can see what's inside.

I've been asked why I do what I do. Countless times. I do this for… friendship. I don't know what else to call it. We're too far gone, our relationship too ugly to be called something so pure. But 'friendship' is the closest word that will fit in the keyhole. He's my childhood friend, one who's grown up with the world on his shoulders, and I want to help him. No one but him can bear the burden of his crown, but I can still give him my arm and walk with him nonetheless.

I do this for him. That's all. And if I have to tear the world apart, ruin the princes, and damn myself by my own hand, then I'll do it.

All to give Eins the throne.

A breath of soft air touches my neck. I come back to reality, surprised, and look down to see that Eins' eyes are closed and his head is still resting against mine.

'Are you asleep?' I ask.

'No. Not yet.'

'You should get some rest.'

'I've got that press conference. With the local papers.'

'…I'll cancel it. Or send a substitute. Or whatever.'

'You were just pestering me to go.'

'I don't want you keeling over in the street. You look exhausted. Are you taking your sleeping pills?'

'...'

'Sometimes doesn't count.'

A grimace flashes over his expression.

'You just told me you were taking all of them! Are we going to have to sit down and go through all of this again? I—'

'Sorry.'

The apology, however blunt, is a distraction. 'Fine. It's just... you can't not eat and then not sleep. It's bad for you.'

'Duly noted.'

He moves to shift away, yet I reach out a hand and pull him back for a moment. Neither of us are what you would call touchy-feely people. We have very little patience for that kind of thing. But occasionally, we'll put it aside and share a brief embrace, a rough pat between the shoulder blades. It's a way of saying, I'm here. It's all right. I slip an arm around his shoulders and close my eyes, not caring if I get cut on his sharp edges.

He returns it. The only chink in his armour is a weary breath that ruffles my hair. Then he pulls away and flops onto the bed, half-way, with his legs draped over ottoman.

'Don't, please. You said you could hardly sit upright after the last time you did that.'

'Mm.'

I scoff, and eye his boots. I pamper him, beyond belief, but I'm not going to go to the lengths of taking his shoes off for him. 'Up. Properly. On the bed. I want to see that by the time I return.'

He opens one eye and gives me a look. 'If you want me to sleep as per your request, then stop running your mouth.'

'It wasn't a request, it was an order.' An idea occurs to me, and my lips quirk. 'We couldn't send you to that press conference even if we wanted to. Those shadows under your eyes are hideous. I'd have to ask Lady Beatrix for some makeup for y—'

He snatches my wrist and tugs, pulling me over with a startled yelp and I trip and fall onto the ottoman with a crash. 'Ugh! Ow!' That jarred me to the core, and my knees are still throbbing from the impact. I get my breath again, my heart still pattering with the abrupt shock.

The afternoon faded to dusk while we were talking. Unbidden, memories trickle back of curling up together as children, of sharing the warmth of each other's company during frigid winters at military academy. My heartbeat slows.

Eins is still holding my wrist captive, his hair messed up and tousled. 'You say one more word and you'll lose your hand.' Yet the warmth in his eyes contradicts his words. He looks more comfortable than I've seen him in a long time. There are no royal duties, loud noises, or bright lights to bother him here, in the privacy of his chambers. He looks at home, able to simply be himself and relax.

I don't know if it's the medication. If it's a mood swing. I just don't know — but if he's happy, then I am too.

That's all I wish for after all.

All I wish for is his happiness.

I lower my eyes, yet don't hide my smile. 'Yes, my lord. Duly noted.'

'Don't quote me.'

'"Don't quote me."'

'That was juvenile.'

'That was too good an opportunity to pass by.'

His lips quirk in a brief flash of humour.

I lean against one of the bedposts, and gingerly prod the bridge of my nose. 'Ouch. You're lucky I didn't break something…'

Eins scoffs. 'Heaven forbid that you ruin you one-selling point.'

'What, my pretty face?'

'Your brain, idiot.'

'Heh.' It feels familiar, it feels good to joke like we used to and settle into the rhythm of trading witty remarks. I look look up at the plush shadows of the bed canopy behind me. We used to find constellations in the glitter that spattered the fabric these things when we were little. 'So do you want anything for dinner?'

Regret settles on his face. '...I don't think I can.' The fact that he's hesitating tells me that he's trying, so I don't have it in me to say something biting in an attempt to motivate him. So against my better judgement, I try something else.

'What about breakfast? If I make you your favourite, will you eat it?'

'You mean you'd ask the chef to make it, and no, I probably would not.'

'No, I would actually make it for you, dumkoff.'

He looks at me, startled. 'You don't know how to cook.'

'Since when? I'm actually quite a dab hand at it. You just never behaved so childishly that it made me resort to using it to bribe you.'

He glances at the glittered sky of fabric, then sighs. 'If it will make you get out and let me sleep, then by all means, have at it.'

I touch his fingertips, in parody of sealing a deal with a handshake. 'Remember to take your boots off. And up, properly, please. I don't want you falling out of bed.'

'...'

'Sweet dreams, Prince.'

'Get out of here.'

'Good night.'

'Get out.'

'Sleep tight.'

'Out.'

'And don't let the — '

'Out.'

I smile and get up. I close the curtains to shut out the daylight, and pad across the carpet to the door. I take a moment to light a candlestick before taking my leave.

I glance at him. 'If you were so inclined, would you like to spar tomorrow?'

He's halfway through taking his boots off, dropping the ridiculously expensive things on the floor with less than no care for creases in the leather. A smile flickers on his features.

'I'd destroy you, and you know that.'

'Yes, I know. It bruises my fencer's pride, but I know.' I rest a hand against the doorframe with a smirk. 'I would beat you in a shooting match, hands down, however.'

'Perhaps.'

'Then what do you suggest? Boxing?'

'You're worried about how I'll show up in photographs, yet you're offering to give me a black eye?'

'Perhaps.'

And I dart out of the room as the handcrafted Italian leather boots hit the wall with an explosive crack.

I lean against the wall and laugh until my ribs ache, all the stress and exhaustion flooding away in an effervescent torrent, like lemonade.

It can be difficult, and frustrating. And it's things like this that draw judgement and suspicion from others. But they don't know anything: not about this, nor about us. If we can find some small, silver lining, then we can continue to get through things one day at a time.

We can keep finding those constellations together.

I turn and glance back through the doorway.

Eins is screwing the lids back on some jars of pills. He takes the medication.

Then slips a peppermint between his teeth.

'Oh, Prince, how sweet. I thought you said you were going to burn those da—'

'Out, Ernst!'

I laugh and rest a hand on the doorframe, aware of the remnants of my conscience. I could step out of the danger zone — but what kind of friend would I be then?

And I surrender with a smile, standing in the doorway with my hands raised, ready to handle whatever my prince throws at me next.

The End

A/N: Reviews welcome, and thanks for reading!