a/n hello! this fic was originally written and posted for the 2014 USUK secret santa exchange hosted on tumblr as a gift for owynsama (the prompt chosen being: royalty au)! i hope everyone enjoys this little attempt at romance and usuk. it's always scary when you first start out~!
O.
Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms and two princes.
I.
Alfred meets Arthur at the tender age of nine.
It is winter, and as such, unbearably cold in the queendom. The coats on his arms are heavy, loose, modeled to fit the king he will one day be and not the young prince he is at present. He feels lonely without Matthew to his left, but Mother says today will pave the way to a golden future and his role in this is especially important. Alfred, obsessed as he is with tales of fabled knights and the men jousting in his queendom's tournaments, keeps (mostly) quiet about his wishes for his brother so as to prove to his mother how brave he is.
"Stop fidgeting," his mother chides softly as she adjusts his coats once more. They slip down his right shoulder again anyway. "Today is a special day, my sweet prince."
The sun has already long set against the backdrop of sea when the boat arrives. It is a proud thing, one unlike the ships his mother keeps at port, and it seems to command respect in the way it parts the waters. And so do the people aboard, Alfred learns quickly.
The King of Britannia, House Kirkland's Richard XV, is a large man, intimidating and towering, but he kneels to his mother and dusts a kiss across her knuckles with a delicacy Alfred has trouble believing belongs to such a man. The boy behind the king has an awkwardness in his limbs, but he stands tall and proud and Alfred can't help but to be slightly awed by his presence.
Until he opens his mouth, that is.
"You have breadcrumbs on your coats," Arthur says, green eyes shadowed by his lashes. He looks at Alfred as if he were no better than mold on bread, or rats in the cupboard. Alfred wipes at his chest, self-conscious and flustered, and how dare this boy step foot in his future kingdom and speak to him in such a way.
Richard XV laughs, loud and rumbling, a jolly sound, and says to Alfred's mother: "Seems they will be getting along quite nicely."
She smiles at Alfred and smooths his cowlick; like his coats, it lasts all of three seconds before it returns to its previous place.
Interlude.
It is after King Richard XV and Crown Prince Arthur make their voyage homeward, when Alfred is crowded against his younger brother and trading answers to their tutor's assignments in the parlor, that Mother asks, "How did you find His Majesty?"
"Loud, I guess," Alfred says, bland; he had seen much of the boisterous king, so unlike the arrogant prince who had remained holed in the library for the entirety of the week-long visit. "But nice."
Mother hums a bit before broaching the subject again. "And Prince Arthur?"
Prince Arthur had pretty eyes, Alfred supposes. Dark green like the leaves on trees after a late July rainfall. But Alfred is nine and doesn't care for pretty-eyed princes with personalities more sour than his nanny's hard candies. So he shrugs the question off, dismisses it entirely, unaware of the plans and arrangements being made between his mother's queendom and Richard XV's kingdom.
II.
It is the eve of his tenth year when Alfred learns of his betrothal to Arthur. He spends the remainder of his summer in a permanent grump, as though the sun were stolen from the sky and left nothing but rain-clouds in its absence. Matthew keeps to him as reassurance, but even he cannot do much as Alfred boards the boat to Britannia without anyone at his side that winter.
"My strong prince," his mother coos. She brushes his bangs away from his forehead to press the gentlest of kisses, ones only mothers can give to their children. Alfred feels like crying, but she shushes him with the touch of her hand to his face. "Your kingdom is so proud of you. I am so proud of you."
The trip across the sea is boring, isolated, and Alfred spends time in his cabin writing letters to his brother and ignoring the sick feeling twisting his gut with increasing intensity. A passing thought occurs to him, leaving him wondering: had this been how Arthur felt when he traveled to greet him last winter? So alone in a crowded room with no one to turn to but the characters in his novels.
Britannia is so different from his own lands, and Alfred feels a bit off-balance. Arthur spares little time for him, nose upturned or buried in the depths of his books, and Alfred doesn't need him anyway. He plays with the boys from the servants quarters until one of the nannies spies him and scolds him for soiling his nice clothes. He would rather not wear them, and he tells them such but no one listens.
On one such occasion, the nannies send him to watch Arthur's sword practices. Alfred never had been allowed a sword at home — Mother had said he had no need of such skills, as Columbia had one of the strongest armies in the entire world and knights dedicated to the crown to fight for him and their nation. His place was to be on the throne, not the battlefield.
Still, though, being a ten year old boy, he thinks of taking up a sword and shield and scaling grand towers to save pretty-eyed damsels who keep themselves cooped up in libraries all day waiting for his heroics. But as he watches the swift arc of Arthur's sword, he thinks, perhaps, the pretty-eyed damsel would make for a great sidekick when taking on the dragon threatening their lands.
Interlude.
During one such evening, spent watching Arthur practice in the dying light, Arthur glances upward at him. Alfred cannot make out his expression from so far away, and he scrambles out of his crouched position and dusts off his trousers.
"Come here, Alfred." The call is a demand, light as it is, and Alfred still has no footing in this kingdom. Plus, Arthur is bigger than he and carries the same commanding aura his father radiates.
Hesitant, but curious he steps closer. Arthur hands him a sword, and it's heavy in his hands. The weight is strange, foreign, like everything else in Britannia, but not altogether unwelcome. Arthur teaches; Alfred learns.
And when Arthur pins Alfred, sword tip pressed to the swell of Alfred's jugular, his eyes flash, dark green and angry. He commands, "Again."
III.
Arthur takes to Matthew well, and even though he shouldn't, Alfred cannot help but to feel some inkling of jealousy. He's always shared everything with Matthew, crayons and answers to homework and candies sneaked from the tin when none of the nannies were looking. So why should Arthur be any different?
This, though — whatever this is with Arthur (friendship? comradeship? acquaintanceship?) — Alfred wants to keep all to himself. When he thinks this way, he gives Matthew extra candies, asking for forgiveness for being so selfish, and Matthew blinks wide, confused eyes back at him before accepting Alfred's apologies and asking him for help with their tutor's assignments.
Arthur approaches him more now, questions him about whether or not he's been practicing his swordplay (he hasn't), and asks for tours of the queendom. Alfred loves showing off his nation, proud of his people and lands surrounding his castle, and he's happy to have Arthur's interests all to himself.
He is eleven, and he doesn't think much about pretty-eyed princes with nice laughs and smiles. But he thinks he probably should.
IV.
This time, when winter winds bring him back to the harbor, he does not bend or break. He holds his head high, to make his mother proud, and to prove to everyone who may see him that someday he will be king — a great king. But the salty air pricks and burns his eyes, blurring the image of his family waving farewell at the dock.
If Arthur suspects anything when Alfred silently listens to and obeys his orders, he never says. It's more in his movements. His touch grows lighter and — when he once again pins Alfred down with the tip of his sword to the dip of his neck, eyes kinder than Alfred's ever seen them — he says, "Again."
Interlude.
"What's this?" Alfred asks, inspecting the package thrust into his face. He absently rubs his palm, feels the calluses that have replaced once-upon-a-time baby smooth skin. He feels pleased with his accomplishments this winter. "For me?"
"Yes," Arthur says, a bit impatient too, if the tapping of his toes against the ground is any indication. "It is a gift."
Alfred grins, but he accepts it slowly so as to not appear too eager. Arthur teases him enough as is with his short quips about Alfred's young age, and he does not want to give Arthur anymore fuel to use against him, especially when he doesn't have the home-ground advantage.
"Father." Arthur coughs, and the tips of his ears are flushed the color of his robes. Cute, Alfred thinks; like a baby animal. "The king requested I offer you a token of some sort. You seem to enjoy fairy tales, and this one happens to be my favorite and —"
Arthur's rambling chatters fall away as does the fabric covering Alfred's gift. It is not a new copy of the fairy tale, worn at the spine and yellowed at the corners of the pages; a personal gift, thoughtful in a way Alfred knows only Arthur to be. Alfred grins and pulls Arthur to him, weeks of sparring practice building his strength. He had never noticed how lithe Arthur was until that moment.
"Thank you," Alfred says, voice quiet but deafening in the grand halls of the Kirkland castle. He squeezes Arthur and closes his eyes. And on the trip back across the sea, he thinks of pretty-eyed boys whose ears flush a vibrant shade of red when embarrassed.
V.
Alfred despairs meeting Arthur the coming winter. His body hurts, and his voice chooses to not cooperate at the worst of times. Mother has allowed him into the conferences and parliamentary meetings now that he is older; she hopes being there will help prepare him for his future role. It doesn't, not really. The yelling hurts his head, and he doesn't understand why these men never agree.
When he is king, he hopes the disagreements will finally stop.
When he is king, he thinks, more often now than before. When he is king, he will have a pretty-eyed king by his side to help him rule their vast lands. But for now he is a silly prince, and Arthur is no more than a pretty-eyed prince who he doesn't wish to see.
Arthur arrives anyway, on time, like clockwork. Alfred barely speaks to him, to keep his voice from breaking, and to hide away his sore body from Arthur's ever-knowing gaze. It's hard to keep secrets from him.
"Our dear princes are growing well," Mother says to Arthur over dinner. She smiles behind her hand, eyes crinkled. "But they are having a hard time."
Matthew shrinks in his chair, and Alfred frowns at the tablecloth, meal settling heavy and upsetting on his tummy. Arthur's teases never come. Alfred retires to his room early, and he reads Arthur's gift again. So engrossed in the words of daring deeds and strong princesses, he almost misses the soft rapping against his door.
"I'm pleased to see you enjoy the book," Arthur says, knuckles still placed against the wooden frame of his doorway.
It's dark enough in the room for Alfred to relax, tentative but unafraid. Heroes aren't scared of anything, least of all Arthur. Alfred isn't sure why he'd spent so much of their play time hiding away. Arthur hasn't teased him for quite some time now.
So, Alfred admits: "It's my favorite," and the smile on Arthur's face is worth the slight catch in Alfred's throat.
VI.
The fifth year of their engagement sees Arthur at the opposite end of the harbor. It is the first of many times in which Arthur willingly greets Alfred anywhere but the castle grounds.
"You have grown rather tall," Arthur comments, eyes flitting briefly, assessing him. "Prince Alfred."
Alfred's shins won't stop hurting, and he feels awkward and uncomfortable in his body. Mother says it's common, and Matthew also aches every day alongside him due to the discomfort of growing. He clutches his robes tighter against his body, self-conscious under Arthur's calculating gaze. Although they are on better terms than ever, Arthur's comments can stab as painful and deep as any thrust of his saber.
"You're still bigger," Alfred mumbles, shuffling his feet.
Arthur clears his throat and glances away, to where their carriage awaits. "Come now, Alfred," he says, not even looking at him, his hand a brief weight against his lower back to steer him in the correct direction, as though Alfred were still a child needing guidance. A small part of Alfred rebels at the thought of Arthur seeing him as anything but his equal, but he knows better; not yet, but maybe soon they will be. Alfred wants nothing more than to level the playing field.
The phantom warmth of Arthur's hand on his back lasts throughout the short carriage ride and follows him into his dreams.
VII.
Francis of House Bonnefoy holds a grand ball at his estate during Winter Solstice in honor of his recent acquisition of the Marianne throne. Arthur accompanies Alfred as his escort, and it is the first event they will attend together. It is enough to have Alfred a nervous wreck during the carriage ride from the port to Francis' castle.
Arthur eyes him from across the cart, skinny leg crossed over the other and the picture of calm, while Alfred frets over the silly ascot the dressers forced him in to. "Stop," Arthur says, voice belying a stray touch of humor that has the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Alfred can't begin to even fake annoyance when Arthur is so close to smiling at him in such a way. Alfred is fifteen; this is his first ball, with a pretty-eyed prince who has the sharpest tongue and sweetest smile in all the seven seas as his escort. The butterflies flutter away inside his stomach, and their wings stir up warmth that starts in his belly and spreads to the back of his neck.
"Easy for you to say," Alfred grumps. "You look great. I look," he pauses and tugs at the ascot again, "awful."
Arthur glances away, smile gone and replaced by that ever-present frown (really a pout, Alfred long since decided), and Alfred considers this a win because Arthur does not refute his claim nor try to argue back. Not for a long while at least — till the ride becomes smoother and lights and sounds from the party grow closer.
Arthur breaks the silence when the carriage stops and he makes to exit first. He surprises Alfred then, when he extends his hand for him to take, and it's not that Arthur never acts gentlemanly — on the contrary, Arthur remains as poised and proper as one can expect from the future king of Britannia. It's the soft look in his eyes when he glances up at Alfred from beneath his fringe; or, perhaps it's the lights playing a trick on his eyes, and Arthur perchance may be regarding him with the same indifferent look he spared him when he stepped off the boat six years previous.
Arthur smiles, and there's something vulnerable in the way it fits on Arthur's mouth. Alfred touches his fingertips to Arthur's palm, taking his proffered hand, and he can barely breathe with the butterflies twittering faster and faster against his chest. Arthur's gloved hand fits nicely against his own, he finds.
"You look quite," and here Arthur pauses, eyes searching. He averts his eyes ahead of them, hand leaving Alfred's to settle in the folds of his own coats. "Splendid, really." Arthur clears his throat; the tips of his ears burn bright red when he's embarrassed, Alfred recalls, startled. "Prince Alfred."
Interlude.
It is not uncommon for him to receive a letter from Arthur throughout the year. Usually on birthdays or significant dates in either of their nations' history. This is all the letters ever are, though; formal, false pleasantries mandated by their overbearing parents.
Yet, when Alfred receives the letter one evening, not too long after the Winter Solstice, he's a bit surprised and checks over his calendar for any important event or date he had (once again) failed to memorize. Arthur's correspondences always remain short, simple, and to the point; he does not believe in wasting words, especially on Alfred — or so he believes. The letters wish the queen health, as well as queries about Matthew (when he remembers), and end with a solitary "Arthur", or in more recent years: "Best regards, Arthur".
This letter, however, feels more personal — if written word could ever feel such a way. Arthur seems almost afraid, nervous; Arthur once was so big, and it's hard to think of him as anything but the boy he met at the age of nine. But here and now, in the letter, Arthur has that same vulnerability from the night of the ball. The letter, littered with issues and topics Alfred knows their parents tend to for the time being, ends with a simple:
I look forwards to sparring with you once more come this winter. Truly yours, Arthur.
Alfred is probably reading too much into it, anyway. But, still, he hopes.
VIII.
It is not the first time they've had an argument, but it is the first time they take it with them to their sparring practices. Alfred never considers how dangerous the situation might be, taking their anger out on one another with sabers involved, but he trusts Arthur. He trusts himself not to hurt Arthur either.
But he wants to prove to him that he is no longer a child. He wants to show his worth and make Arthur realize Alfred has every right to be his equal.
It is their longest match to date. Over the years they've begun to dance around one another, learning each move, weakness, strength. Arthur has grace, motions fluid and swift, but what Alfred lacks in finesse he makes up for with natural born talent and reflexes honed enough to dodge the worst of Arthur's attacks.
It surprises no one more than Alfred when he has Arthur pinned, sword tip pressed just below Arthur's chin, and breath ragged and harsh. Arthur swallows, and Alfred traces the motion with his eyes and feels his sword hand quiver beneath the weight. It's like he's relearning the blade, the feel of it in his hands, and he's afraid he'll lose his footing. He's finally won; he's finally proven himself.
Arthur's eyes flash, uncertain and curious, but the look fades to a darker, more dangerous mossy green. Arthur glances up, then down, and he says — low, almost airy: "Again."
Alfred is sixteen going on seventeen, and for the first time he feels as though he is on equal terms with Arthur.
IX.
"What is this, Alfred?"
Alfred folds his hands into his robes. He has to give them something to do, and twisting his robes is the best option at the moment because all he really wants to do is press his fingertips to Arthur's face and his lips to Arthur's sweet smile.
"A gift," he says, easy. He doesn't feel so nervous around Arthur anymore; something has changed. Something's there that wasn't there before. Whatever it is – Alfred likes it.
Arthur tucks his chin into his chest, but Alfred can see the faint traces of red to the tips of Arthur's ears. "I see, but why?"
"The future king of Columbia asked me to send you a token of his appreciation, and his wishes to remain allies for many years to come." Alfred grins, rocks on his feet, and those butterflies erupt in his stomach once more, wings beating increasingly faster. He feels like fifteen again, at his first ball with a pretty-eyed escort full of nice words and an even nicer smile.
Arthur regards him, open eyes vulnerable in a way Alfred has not seen in a long while. He almost apologizes, but Arthur lets the fabric covering his gift slip away. Worn spine, yellowed pages, and the greatest tale Alfred's ever known.
Arthur's eyes light up, but Alfred isn't sure if it's the bright sunshine or the salty air burning them. Alfred supposes it doesn't matter.
"This is my favorite," Arthur whispers, and he allows Alfred to step closer into his space. Their movements are hesitant, unsure, but once they settle and Alfred's heartbeat calms to a jog, he thinks they might know this dance after all.
He presses his forehead to Arthur's, and replies, equally soft: "Mine, too."
Alfred loosens his fingers from their hold in his robes and places them where he's been wanting to for so long now. His fingertips fit perfectly against the planes of Arthur's cheeks. And Arthur meets him halfway, smile upon smile.
When Alfred pulls back, he says, happy and more than in love, "Again."
X.
And as all great stories go: they lived happily ever after.
Fin.