While this isn't the first story I've ever written, this is the first one I am posting. I hope to have more to follow! Just a little bit of fluff.
During the day, she was a dignitary. Proper, lady-like, she acted exactly as her position required. She schmoozed the correct people, smiled when necessary, and pretended to laugh at jokes she didn't think were funny. All of the young men (and old men, though she pretended not to notice) looked at her with eyes full of adoration, but for all her warmth and friendliness, she kept a barrier between her and them that subconsciously they knew was there. She wanted nothing to do with them. So while they laughed and fawned and idolized her, they kept their distance. She wore her mask and played her part well.
He was the perfect bodyguard. Tall, with a serious face and imposing figure, he fit his role. He kept a respectable distance behind her, feet placed slightly apart and hands clasped behind his back. His eyes wandered the room in what seemed like careless boredom, but anyone watching for any length of time would note how he carefully examined every aspect of his surroundings and often brought his gaze back to her. He was aware of her every movement, and moved with her to compensate. He also wore his mask well and expertly feigned disinterest in everything that transpired.
This was how they filled their days: pleasantries, superficial conversations. He observing, she actively participating, hardly looking and never speaking to each other.
During the evening, after she dutifully recited her goodbyes and farewells and good evenings, they retreated to their own world—her room. It was small, but cozy and well-furnished. There they stayed together (over the protests of the other nobles—how improper to sleep in the same room with a man—but he is my bodyguard and I need him to protect me, she insisted and finally won the battle). There, they could finally rise above the expectations and pressures of social life, take off their masks, and laugh at the world. It was these moments that kept them sane.
They gossiped over the aristocrats ("Did you see what he was wearing today?" "He must have gotten dressed in the dark this morning"), made faces, shared stories. When they ran out of things to talk about (which rarely happened) and even when they didn't, they turned to books. The only piece of furniture she insisted on having (aside from a bed) was a bookshelf. It reached from the floor to the ceiling and was completely full. They took turns reading to each other, sometimes acting out ridiculous scenes, trying and failing to speak in hushed voices, stomachs bursting at the seams from laughing—sometimes reading quietly to each other, curled up next to each other on her bed, listening to the sounds of each other's voices. Their heaven was in that small room.
He slept on the floor next to her bed with a pillow and blanket she sacrificed for him. He refused to accept more. The ground was hard and the pillow did little to soften, but he would not have given it up for the most comfortable bed in the world. Each night he fell asleep to the sound of her voice and the image of her smile (his smile, not theirs) and each night he inched a little closer, intoxicated. This was how they fell asleep, pale moonlight streaming in through the window beside the bed, stillness, breathing, promises.
But then they had to wake up and play the game again. Her days became longer and every time she turned around it seemed she had new responsibilities. She talked little and smiled less, even with him. She stopped reading and left her mask on, even in her room, in what had been their heaven. When he asked she gave no answer, and all he could do was lie on his floor and stare through that pale blue light to the face that was now turned away from him.
One night he came into her room to find his makeshift bed gone, the pillow and blanket replaced on her mattress. "Does this mean you want me to leave?" he asked, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. She was already lying down. "Sleep next to me?" she pleaded. He hesitated and then said in a low voice, "I don't think that's the best idea." She grabbed his pillow and blanket and threw them on the floor, turning away from him. A few seconds later, she felt the weight of the blanket being placed over her and was rewarded with a warm body sliding in next to her under the sheets. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her hair. She felt rather than heard his sigh and his body relaxing.
"I'm failing at my job," he whispered into her ear. A shiver ran up her spine.
"No, you're not," she whispered back. "I've never felt this safe in my life."