AN: Today's featured song is Thin White Lies by 5 Seconds of Summer. This song has been on repeat lately, and it kind of exemplifies how I assume Charles would feel in his situation – married to, and falling in love with, a woman who clearly doesn't want him back – a woman who disappears in the night far too often for comfort.
I forgot to mention in the last chapter, in case anyone is curious, that I've always pictured Charles as a young Joe Alwyn. I personally like when I can put a face to the characters I'm reading about, so I just thought I would mention it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the new chapter! I really liked writing this one.
Chapter 14: I Don't Feel Your Love, but I Don't Ask Too Many Questions
Eugene paces before the door, rapping his knuckles against the wood once more – as the first time he'd done so, he'd received no answer.
He's feeling positively pissed off this morning. Like, the kind of pissed off that consumes your whole body, and makes it hard to think about anything else. He hadn't wanted Rapunzel to know that last night – last night, when he'd had to explain to her why sex with Stalyan wasn't as good as sex with her, all because Stalyan decided that she has the right to plant such ideas in the princess's sweet little head.
Eugene hadn't wanted to scare her, hadn't wanted to explain the whole thing in any way other than delicately. He hadn't wanted to make Rapunzel feel like the situation was her fault, because it wasn't. So, he'd bottled up his growing anger the best that he could, at least until the morning.
Despite his best efforts, Eugene can't completely swallow the irritation which is bubbling its way up his chest, threatening to burst out of his throat. Earlier this morning, just before she'd snuck off to return to her own bedroom, Rapunzel had pointed out that it probably wouldn't be a good idea to face the issue with such a direct approach. And even though he'd wanted to, Eugene hadn't heeded her wise advice.
Instead, he'd stalked his way right to the maid's quarters, which is located in the wing adjacent to the guard's quarters. This close proximity, which is too close for comfort in Eugene's opinion, makes his stomach twist a bit, tangling itself in uneasy knots. Regardless, he's ready to give a stern talking to the person whose fault it is – the reason he'd had to have such a hard conversation with Rapunzel the previous night.
In hindsight, it was kind of a blessing in disguise that Rapunzel had brought up the issue of experimentation in their sex life, the issue of Eugene being terrified to hurt or scare her. He'd been a little bit relieved that they'd had this conversation, in which they'd painted a clearer picture of what she wanted from him, what her desires might include moving forward. In all honesty, Eugene had been wanting to have such a conversation with his princess, but just hadn't been sure how to broach the subject. Though he's incredibly upset with her, Stalyan had done him a bit of a favor, though he would never admit such a thing aloud. If Stalyan was good for anything, she was good at forcing you to take issues head on. She's also good for being a heavy ass sleeper.
Eugene knocks on the bedroom door. Then knocks again, growing increasingly impatient. With a steady stream of knocks coming from one hand, he absently inspects his fingernails on the other, sighing deeply. He could turn around, return to his own room, and come back later. But he knows that later he's going to have even less patience than he does now, so he may as well get this over with while he has the nerve.
"Just one moment!" A muffled voice answers from the other side of the door. Some banging around proceeds, followed by loud footsteps.
It's a voice which Eugene has heard a thousand times before. There's a certain familiarity to it – not the comforting kind, but the kind of familiarity that reminds you of every mistake you've ever made before. The kind of familiarity that forces you to remember all of the horrible things that you've ever done. He would recognize that voice anywhere, and if he could, Eugene would run far away from it. It's a voice that, although Eugene would never admit it aloud, had once made the wings of the butterflies in his stomach flutter, if only because it was the voice that awakened those butterflies in the first place.
But if this voice had once caused butterflies, then Rapunzel's voice causes a forest fire. Butterflies can easily be turned to dust. But a forest fire rages on, deep into the night, too stubborn to burn out.
The door finally swings open, revealing a groggy Stalyan, whose face immediately brightens when she realizes that it's him, standing here before her bedroom. She leans her head curiously around the door, looking him up and down, a sultry smile immediately tugging at her lips.
"Mm, breakfast is here. I didn't realize that I ordered a charming, sexy man."
It's too early for this, it's too early for this, you're doing this for Rapunzel –
"Get out here. Now. We need to talk."
With a subtle smirk, Stalyan shields her body behind the door, only revealing the coy expression on her face, with the clear intention of hoping his imagination will wander into dirty, obscene places.
It won't.
"Well, I'm not dressed appropriately, I –"
"Okay, so get dressed, and get out here."
Stalyan gives him a weird look, but to Eugene's surprise, she actually listens. He'll have to mark that on the calendar.
The door swings open again a few moments later, Stalyan now dressed in a simple black shirt and pants.
"Someone's feisty this morning." She notes, looking him up and down once more.
Eugene crosses his arms, trying his best to appear threatening. He knows that it's hard to intimidate Stalyan, but it never hurts to try.
"Yeah. That tends to happen when people, malicious people, purposefully make the woman that I love," Eugene looks around, lowering his voice, just in case someone is listening – which is always a possibility in a palace full of nosy people. Some of these people, being those who would love to see him get kicked out. "Worried that she's not… pleasing me."
Stalyan registers what he means, waving her hand dismissively with an enthused scoff.
"Oh, please. Are you talking about the sex thing, the thing that I said to her about us? I should've known she would be a snitch." Stalyan rolls her eyes with a sigh, cocking her head at him when Eugene shoots her an annoyed look. "Come on, I was just playing with her a little. Well, sort of. It was kind of fun to see the precious princess get all flustered at the mention of our… sexual history."
Eugene can only glare at her – glare at her knowing, prideful smile. Mostly because he likes seeing Rapunzel flustered, too. Just for very different reasons than Stalyan does.
Stalyan reaches out to slap him on the shoulder, and Eugene flinches away.
"Lighten up, Flynn! Are you worried that the princess can't handle a little healthy competition?" Stalyan pauses for a moment, raising her eyebrows. "Wait a minute… is the princess not pleasing you?" She leans forward, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "Do you not get off with her? Oh, you poor thing. If that's the case, I could help you with –"
Eugene takes a moment, a long moment, to lean his forehead against the wall, taking a deep breath through the nose. He thinks of Rapunzel, and the way that everything he does, is for her. He considers the way life would probably be a lot simpler, (not to mention, drama-free), if he just left this place already. Said 'hasta la vista' to palace life. But then, his life would be simple and meaningless, because it would be a life without Rapunzel.
Stalyan looks at the former thief questioningly as he keeps his head pressed to the wall, taking deep, calming breaths. Mostly because the Flynn she knew always had a snarky comment at the ready, no matter the situation. The Flynn she knew didn't take deep breaths before answering, didn't pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance.
"This. Is not. A competition!" Eugene takes a final, deep breath, willing himself not to raise his voice at the Baron's daughter. "There is no competition between you and Rapunzel. This isn't a game to me. Okay? I love her, and I don't love you. And I really don't know how many times I have to say that before you understand, but I will until I'm blue in the face, if I have to." He shoots her a pointed, especially irate look. "And yes, I get off with her, Stalyan. A lot, actually!"
Stalyan just stares at him, crossing her arms nonchalantly.
"Ouch. It's a little early in the day to be so harsh, don't you think?" Stalyan shakes her head, a sympathetic look on her face. "You must have something really big planned here, to put yourself through all this shit. Your acting skills have really improved since I first met you, though."
"Oh my…" The former thief runs both hands up and down his face, finding himself at a loss for words. "Okay, Stalyan. I want you to listen to me." Stalyan looks up at him intently, and Eugene tries his damn hardest to speak slowly, praying that she'll listen, and take what he says seriously for once. "I am not here to steal anything. I'm here, because I love Rapunzel. When are you going to get that?"
"You've always been a really good liar." Stalyan simply reasons with a shrug, clearly not budging on the whole, 'You must be here to steal something from the palace, because how could you possibly, actually love the princess' thing.
Slapping a frustrated hand to his forehead, Eugene lets the hand run down the side of his face, because Stalyan was right – it's way too early for this.
"Just – just stay away from Rapunzel, alright? Don't come here and feed her with garbage!"
"Is it really garbage if it's true?" Stalyan raises a suggestive eyebrow.
Okay, so maybe what Stalyan had said to Rapunzel yesterday is partly true. It's true that things had gotten a little out of hand with the Baron's daughter in the past – for reasons that were good, and for reasons that were very bad. It's true that they'd had some pretty wild sex back in the day. Eugene can't deny that. But it all seems so meaningless now, so obscure, compared to how Rapunzel makes him feel, compared to their love making – compared to the way she would still make him feel, even if sex was taken out of the picture completely.
He can't say the same about Stalyan. Sex, and the feelings of validation and wanting that come with it, had been one of the only things that had made Eugene stay with Stalyan and the Baron, taking their abuse, for as long as he had. The same can't be said for Rapunzel: Eugene would stay with her forever, even if he'd never get to touch her again. He would stay, even if their love was diminished to longing looks and unspoken 'I love you's', translated through the most heartbreaking of fleeting glances. He would've done it, gone forever without touching her again, if he had to. Just looking at Rapunzel is enough.
And now that he's thinking about it, Eugene has spent this entire conversation comparing Stalyan to Rapunzel – like how Stalyan's eyes aren't that dizzying shade of green, and how she doesn't have little freckles that litter the bridge of her nose, and how she doesn't radiate this undeniable warmth whenever he's near her – a warmth that makes him feel fuzzy all over, and a little bit like he's taking crazy pills, but never wanting to stop.
"Well?" Stalyan prods, wanting an answer, knowing full well that she has a point.
"Ugh!" Eugene throws his hands up, turning to stalk back down the hallway. He really should've known that it would be impossible to get anywhere constructive with this difficult woman.
"You know…" But Stalyan's voice stops him, as she leans against the doorframe, looking him over with the slightest bit of suspicion in her eyes. "I'm a little surprised that you'd go by Eugene again, even for a job. That name, gosh… it's everything you never wanted to be."
She's fishing – she's fishing for something, just like she always does. She wants to get under your skin, burrowing there. She wants to make you question everything you're doing, make you question why you're still living in the palace, why you're staying here for Rapunzel, even though she's married now –
"Maybe…" Eugene raises his hands in the air, defeated, letting them fall to his sides with a loud SLAP. "Maybe I changed my mind, actually wanted to be a better person. People do that, you know. When they find the right person to make them want to change."
Stalyan pushes herself from the doorframe, slinking to where he now stands, a bit down the hall.
"Well, I don't think people really change. I think I liked Flynn Rider a lot better. He was fun." She grabs at his collar, looking up at him with hooded eyes, as if to say, 'We're standing right outside my bedroom, and you're not going to take advantage of that?'
"Maybe my life isn't just about having fun anymore."
"I think we could change that." Stalyan pauses, her fingers like a ghost at the nape of his neck, sinking into his hair. "What do you think?"
Eugene peels her fingers away, turning to make his way back to his own room, before Stalyan tries to sink her claws into him any further – until they're too deep to dislodge.
"I think I don't give a crap what you think. Just stay away from her."
He leaves the Baron's daughter standing there, her hand still hanging in the air, from the place it had been at his neck.
Stalyan is right, and the fact that she's right, shakes Eugene up a bit inside as he makes the short journey back to his own bedroom. There was a time when he'd been so embarrassed of his real name, his real identity – embarrassed of the lost, unloved orphan he'd once been. The identity he'd worked so hard to separate himself from, only to throw away those many years of hard work that he'd spent establishing himself as Flynn Rider, for a girl. That's something Eugene had thought that he would never do, for anyone, let alone for the princess – the princess he'd stolen the crown of.
Part of Eugene understands, why Stalyan just can't understand. He never thought he would have been capable of changing for someone like Rapunzel, someone he could never really deserve.
But Rapunzel didn't really give him much of a choice, anyway. After all, she'd started calling him Eugene the moment he'd admitted it was his real name. Unintentionally, she'd made him want to be better, since the day he'd met her. From the moment they'd been sitting by the fire on their first night together, when he'd told her the story of Flynnigan Rider and the orphanage, when she'd asked if Flynnigan had been a thief, too. In that moment, for the first time in a long time, Eugene had been forced to question the direction of his life. For a split second, before he'd admitted, 'Well… no,' – that, no, Flynnigan hadn't been a thief, Stalyan had entered his mind. Stalyan, and the Baron, and the person that Eugene had been up until that point of meeting Rapunzel, all the horrible things he'd done. And for the first time, he was embarrassed about the direction of his life, because she was the one asking.
For the first time, he'd questioned if the direction his life had taken, was what poor orphan Eugene really would have wanted. Had he really wanted enormous piles of money? Had he really wanted to be alone on an island of his own? No, not really. He'd just wanted someone to love him, for who he really was. And it had seemed like, maybe, this strange girl with long, magical hair, could be that someone.
Turns out, she was.
Honestly, he'd never really minded when it was Rapunzel calling him by his birth name. Eugene actually likes his real name a lot more, now – now that it's frequently falling from Rapunzel's lips in little, panted moans, when she's giggling it, when she's saying it with that loving, endearing look in her eye.
Because he actually likes being Eugene, when it's her that he's doing it for.
Charles has been trying to find a way to get Rapunzel alone all week — with little success. He simply wants to spend some time with his wife, but he's unsure about how to approach this task.
A task which, in theory, should be incredibly simple. All he wants is to actually talk to her, to hold a conversation that lasts longer than five minutes, and isn't about the weather or taxes. Why is that so much to ask? Charles yearns to know the princess, to learn what's deep inside, under all of the heavy ball gowns and the crown. He wants to know everything about her – even the small, insignificant things that shouldn't matter at all, but would matter to him.
So what if the princess is a little strange and easily excitable, if she occasionally lacks common table manners, or if she carries around a little amphibian on her shoulder? Everyone is a little strange, in their own way, and he likes that about her. He likes that she's vastly different than all of the noble, young women that he'd known before her. Princess Rapunzel is endearing, and sweet, and Charles wants to know everything about her. And really, what's so wrong about that? Doesn't that make him a good husband, to yearn to be so attentive, to yearn to know her like the back of his hand?
Nothing, the prince of Maddoline reasons. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to intimately know your own wife. From the moment he'd been shoved into the marriage by his own parents, he hadn't expected an epic love story, per say. But he had expected at least some sort of an effort in building a relationship with the princess of Corona, before he'd realized that her ex-flame would still be lingering around for the entirety of their fledgling marriage. Well, there is an effort being made, but this effort has remained completely one-sided, and Charles has been feeling himself growing more frustrated by Rapunzel's lack of interest by the day.
Though he doesn't want to, Charles must face the pathetic realization that he wouldn't even know how to get her attention if he wanted to. He has no idea what the princess likes. Would she want flowers? Chocolate? She doesn't seem to be terribly materialistic – at least, not like most of the girls he'd courted back in Maddoline had been. Any girl he'd ever been with before, had really only wanted Charles for his money, for his title – and he would know, because he'd been with a lot of girls. The Maddolineon prince had been called a playboy enough times to know: being a playboy doesn't get you very far when it comes to finding true love, or when it comes to knowing what to do when you finally fall headfirst down the true love rabbit hole.
Regardless of their motives, plenty of women had wanted him, since the fever dream of his teenage years as one of the wealthiest men in the world under twenty-five. Of course, Charles had never felt anything of great significance toward any of these women – aside from the general appreciation of getting his dick wet frequently enough, and their looking good on his arm at his parents' epic parties and grand cotillions. Aside from that, he'd never had too much of a care for the women in his life, let alone any interest in falling in love. In all honesty, this is something Charles had assumed he would never do, if only because arranged marriages are so common, and true love in royalty is fairly rare. And he'd been okay with that, had accepted his fate.
And it would just so happen, now that Charles is actually falling for a woman for the first time, now that he has real feelings for someone… that someone wants absolutely nothing to do with him.
Charles feels at a complete loss, as though he's arrived at the edge of a very high cliff, and must decide if he should turn back, or take the free fall. He would never admit it out loud, but he's afraid – afraid of the moment of rejection, afraid of what it would mean to give his whole self to another person, if only because he's never experienced it before. And how do you possibly grasp the attention of a girl whose gaze is already completely, utterly fixated on something else – on someone else?
Keeping Rapunzel's attention often feels like water running through Charles's hands, and every fleeting interaction with her has left him feeling more parched than the last.
He doesn't know anything about her, he realizes. Not really. He knows that she'd been hidden away from the kingdom for most of her life, kidnapped by some unhinged woman for an undisclosed reason. The gritty details of the princess's life story, for concerns of security, were kept pretty under wraps by the king and queen. Charles had heard rumors that she was stolen as a baby for her magic hair, which explains why she has such a choppy haircut now. It makes sense, kind of, but the story was also a little ridiculous. He knows that she likes her pet chameleon, and taking walks in the gardens, but she doesn't seem to enjoy them very much when those walks are with him. When Charles had suggested that they take a stroll together in the past, she'd always gone a little awkward, a little stiff, as though she were shrinking back in on herself. It were as though the princess didn't know what to do with herself when she was alone with him, her own husband.
The princess likes to paint, though, he thinks. Charles has seen her painting on their bedroom balcony a few times, perched before an easel. She always looks so pretty, basking there in the sunlight, as though she were at total peace with a paintbrush in her hand. He could get her some new paint, Charles supposes, but he's not sure exactly what kind she uses, or if the particular kind really even matters.
He could get the princess a more expensive gift to catch her attention. After all, he had all the money in the world, and seemingly nothing to do with it. Jewelry, perhaps? He's not sure that the princess is very big on wearing jewelry, only because a necklace doesn't adorn her neck very often, nor bracelets on her wrists – despite her vast collection, she seems to only wear them to court events.
He'd recently noticed that she does wear a ring on her ring finger, just not the one that she was given to symbolize their marriage. Something about this makes Charles's skin crawl, but he can't quite put his finger on the reason why. It's a dainty ring, the one that she often wears, shaped like a flower. When Charles had asked where she'd gotten the ring, in an attempt to make conversation with her one morning at breakfast, Rapunzel had quickly answered that it was 'a Christmas gift from her lady-in-waiting', whom Charles had noticed the princess is quite close friends would've believed her, if the princess's cheeks hadn't gone pinker than the delicately painted petals on the ring when he'd asked.
But, like a lot of things in his relationship with Rapunzel (if you could even call it a relationship, which is a stretch), he'd pretended not to notice.
Charles could get her a piece of jewelry as a gift, but then again, she doesn't even wear her wedding ring – not even to public events. This is just about the biggest slap in the face that Charles has ever received, because it's as though the princess doesn't even care to pretend that they're a happily married couple. At the very least, Charles is dedicated to pretending, if that's what he has to do. Because he'd seen it done, a hundred times: when you're shoved headfirst into an arranged marriage, you smile, and you wave, and you accept the endless congratulations from the townsfolk and the nobility. You shut up, and you do what's expected of you, what's best for your people. It's positively a slap in the face that Rapunzel refuses to even do so much as pretend.
Well, that, and the unspoken issue that she's clearly still in love with someone else. But he tries not to think too hard about that, which feels more like a roundhouse kick to the gut, than a measly slap in the face.
It's not like Charles is desperate for her attention or something. It's not like he freezes up whenever he's around her, and forgets everything he was about to say. It's not like he's never felt so foolish around a woman before, like a child with a schoolboy crush. It's not like he's tried to memorize her daily schedule, so that he can determine the best times and places to potentially run into her in the hallway. It's not like he loses sleep just thinking about her, and about how she sleeps so far away from him in their bed, like she's afraid of him. It's not like he hasn't noticed that she disappears a few nights a week, and doesn't return to bed until the very early hours of the morning, when the sun is starting to come up. Whenever he's confronted Rapunzel about her frequent late night disappearances, she simply says that she falls asleep while reading in the library, and she's stuck to that story for as long as they've been married.
He's not so sure that he believes it.
Regardless, Charles tries his best to ignore his worries about his wife, tries to keep his insecure thoughts from eating away at him completely – but they do, like they're rotting flesh, eating at him from the inside out. He would love to swallow these growing suspicions down, forget that he'd ever tasted them at all. But doing so, ignoring these strong feelings and urges, is becoming increasingly difficult. Charles's tongue feels coated completely with anxiety, his stomach bursting with butterflies far too often to be comfortable. Probably because he thinks about her far too often to be comfortable – about her petite frame, the gentle curve of her body, the soft smile that so often graces her pretty face. About her voice, her laugh – all of the things that he's never cared to study on a woman before.
Because when you're falling in love, it's hard not to feel jealous, and it's hard not to overanalyze every move the person you're falling in love with makes. Like the way she tosses and turns in her sleep, and the way she's always eyeing the door, as though she wishes someone that isn't him would walk through it. He notices the way that she often nervously runs her hands through her short hair, lingering upon her shoulder, as though a phantom limb were resting there. When he watches the princess do this, Charles often considers the stories that he's heard – the stories about how Eugene had been the one to cut her hair clean off, the stories of how it had once been long, and blonde, and possessive of a folklore-like power.
Typically, Charles would prefer blonde hair on a woman. But something about the princess is so overwhelmingly attractive, so sweet, that he truly doesn't mind the brunette hair, paired with the untraditional haircut. He does mind that Eugene had allegedly been the one to give it to her, but that's just something Charles will have to live with.
Another thing he has to live with, but doesn't want to, is the generally distant nature of their relationship. The way that she only says as much as a quiet 'Good morning' to him at the breakfast table, avoiding him completely for the rest of the day. She then turns away from him each night, typically not even bothering to mumble a good night, her back to him in their bed, an unspoken message. And that's another thing: Charles hates this damn bed of theirs. It's far too big for a married couple – not that they've been intimate enough to even need a shared bed, at all. It only serves as a visual reminder of how far she is from him emotionally. To Charles's delight, though, the princess had giggled at one of his jokes this morning at the dining table, when they'd shared breakfast with the king and queen.
That's progress, right? It has to be.
But making progress with Rapunzel feels like picking away at a glacier with a handheld icepick.
It's not that she's a cold person, per say. On the contrary – the princess carries a certain, natural warmth around her, something that Charles has never noticed about a woman before – this, he has determined, is what makes her feel different than all of the women he'd been with previously. She's a kind, compassionate princess, a princess who truly cares for the wellbeing of her people. Charles has gathered as much, the few times that he'd seen her interact with the townsfolk. She's beloved by all, for good reason, and appears to be a natural at the job, after being in the shoes of a princess for only a little over a year now. It's become quite clear to Charles that Rapunzel is a genuinely sweet, upstanding young woman. And it's not that she's rude to him in particular, because she's not. The princess is polite, pleasant to be around, even – at least, in the incredibly limited time that he gets to spend with her, between his lessons, and her lessons, and her general un-interest in him.
Despite the naturally pleasant nature of the princess, it's completely clear that she doesn't want him, that she's afraid to get too close to him – afraid to give him so much as a chance. Charles doesn't know all of the things that have hurt her in the past, doesn't know the details of her traumatic backstory. But he has gathered that Rapunzel has trouble trusting others, despite her naturally caring, inviting aura. He doesn't blame her for that, doesn't hold her lack of trust against her. But he simply wishes that the princess would at least try to trust him – trust him enough to let him in, even a little. All he's begging for, is a thread – a thread of her attention, of her affection. Just something to nibble on, anything.
Charles knows that their situation is less than ideal, knows that he'd stepped on the toes of her love story with another man. But the reality of the situation, is that she must be married to him now, and Charles so desperately wishes that Rapunzel would wake up already. Because four months of watching her sleep, watching her dream of someone else, is far too long for Charles to bear.
Charles will admit it, if only to himself: he's afraid too. Afraid to be vulnerable, afraid to let another person completely in, to let them see his broken parts. But he's not afraid enough to not even try. He wants to try with her, wants to explore that feeling he gets when he looks at her – the sweaty palms, the heart jumping in his throat, the way the entire room seems to slow when she's in it. Charles has gathered that, while she's an undeniably good person, the princess is very distracted by outside sources, sources which hold her back from her true potential.
And it's not even her fault, the prince of Maddoline reasons, trying his best to comfort his overwhelming insecurity. It's not the princess that he blames for her lack of wanting toward him, for her lack of focus on her own marriage.
Its only one person's fault, this lack of interest that the princess has in him. One singular person in which Charles has deflected all of the blame for his failing marriage with Rapunzel: Eugene Fitzherbert.
Charles has never hated another man quite so much in his twenty-one, almost twenty-two, years of life. Perhaps, because he's never had to fight for a woman's attention in this way before – Charles had always solely held the attention of any woman that he'd ever wanted, right there in the palm of his hand. Perhaps, because he's never met a man like Eugene before, a man who actually rivals him in natural swagger, good looks, charming wit, and sex appeal. And it just seems wrong for a prince to have to compete with someone who was once a lowlife, untrustworthy thief, and probably still is.
Charles often considers the year that Rapunzel had spent with Eugene. The twelve, uninterrupted months that she'd had to fall in love with him, forever concreting Charles's fate as the 'other man.' Not concreting him as the love of her life, despite their marriage – never the one. But the other one, the guy that came along without an invitation. The wrench that was thrown in the fairytale.
Because of Eugene, Charles has to be that guy. The other guy. Because of Eugene, he has to be the wrench thrown in everyone's plans.
But he doesn't want to be that guy anymore, he doesn't want to be the wrench in her plans. Charles doesn't want to be the guy in the attic of her mind, covered in cobwebs, forgotten and neglected. He's been that guy, for four months now. And just this once, he wants to be the one. The one that the princess yearns to see walking through the door of every room that she's in. The one that she shares her deepest, darkest secrets and thoughts with. The one that she trusts with her heart, with her body. But he'll probably never get to be that person, because she's probably already entrusted all of herself to him, to Eugene – leaving nothing left of herself for Charles to claim.
Charles lies in bed, in the dark, thinking idly to himself, turning all of this over in his mind. He doesn't even bother trying to sleep. She's not here – probably 'in the library.'
Lying there, he wonders if the princess even still has her virginity. Most likely not. After all, why else would she have rejected him on their wedding night, shrinking back into herself, as if he'd deeply wounded her by suggesting such a common act. He hadn't meant to offend her, not in the slightest, but everyone knows that you must consummate a marriage. He'd been attracted to her enough, even then, and he'd known that having sex with the princess would simply mean that he was fulfilling his duty to his kingdom. Back then, before he'd actually started falling in love with her, Charles had accepted that sex with Rapunzel didn't have to mean anything more than creating successors for the crown.
But, clearly, Rapunzel didn't see it that way. On their wedding night, she'd claimed that she simply wasn't ready for that, that she, 'Didn't know him well enough yet to take that step.' Maybe that was partly true, and he'd respected her decision. But Charles didn't completely believe her reasoning, especially not after the way Eugene had punched him at their engagement ball. It had become quite clear to Charles that night, clear that Rapunzel and Eugene were still carrying a fiery torch for one another, despite Rapunzel's three month engagement to him. And Charles would've believed her desire to remain a virgin, if she hadn't seemed so offended, as though there were a much deeper issue behind her 'No.' A deeper issue named Eugene Fitzherbert, Charles would soon realize.
Everything seems to come circling back to Eugene, somehow, someway. And Charles is positively fed up with it.
He and Rapunzel hadn't done that one very simple, very expected thing, hadn't consummated their marriage as they should have. And the princess has never broached the subject again, not even once, despite the fact that they share a bed every night. Charles supposes, he can't really blame her. Who wants to have sex with a man that they know nothing about, a man that they don't even trust?
This four-month lack of sexual contact, the longest he's gone without it in a long time, has proven to Charles just how important physical intimacy truly is when building a relationship – not that he hadn't already known this prior. It's no wonder that his 'marriage' with Rapunzel is essentially nonexistent. It completely explains why the princess is still so emotionally attached to Fitzherbert. Girls are notorious for this – becoming totally, suffocatingly attached to you, right after you've fucked them only once. Charles would know.
It would only make sense as to why the princess has protected her body, her entire being, from him so desperately. Because, in her mind, it still belongs to someone else.
This thought leaves Charles feeling positively disgusted. Hadn't anyone taught the princess to save her virginity for her husband? The poor thing. From what Charles has gathered, she's been kept in the dark for most of her life, about pretty much everything: both in her tower, and here in the palace, by her overprotective parents. But he would change that. Charles would teach her the way that things should be between a husband and wife, he would free her from Eugene Fitzherbert's grasp. He's far too old for her, anyway. He's probably corrupted her completely, and Charles doesn't even want to think about the possibility of Eugene being the thing that she runs off to in the middle of the night.
Even though this is the most plausible answer, because no one likes to spend time in the library that much.
Charles just needs to find a way to win the princess over, to spark a curiosity in her about him, in the same way that he feels so curious about her. Charles would be the one – the one to save her from it all.
But how do you save a woman, when said woman refuses to be humored, refuses to entertain even the possibility of a life with you? How do you show your appreciation for a woman who appears to already have everything she could ever want, lost in the melancholy lull of her memories of someone else?
There are two categories, Charles realizes, of showing appreciation for a woman: public appreciation, and private. He could whisk her away, give Rapunzel no other option than to spend some time alone with him. This tactic would surely get her attention, once and for all. After all, the king and queen will be leaving for a few days at the end of the week, for the first time since the lost princess's return, Charles had heard. It would be the perfect time, what with her parents' overprotective tendencies out of the way, to whisk her away romantically. But, from what Charles has gathered about Rapunzel, forcing her to do something, probably won't end in the desired result. Take their marriage as example number one. Whisking her away doesn't feel necessary – at least, not right now.
So, that leaves him with the public display of appreciation. Charles could always bring the princess into town, shout from the rooftops to the village below, that, 'Hey, I'm falling in love with my wife, but she doesn't want me back, or anything to do with me, really, because she's still making doe eyes at another man! The man who stole her crown and committed grand theft TREASON. How about that?'
No, that tactic would surely offend the princess, if he hasn't done so already.
There's always dinner parties, Charles reasons. Usually, these parties are a grand, indirect public showcase of affection, in which someone hosts said party, and their guest of honor is intended to feel the appreciation of every guest who attends. Royals are notorious for those – notorious for spending thousands of dollars on one night, just to impress the nobility with endless rivers of champagne, the latest fashion trends, and one guest of honor who will be placed on a royally glistened, unattainable pedestal.
Charles shoots up in bed, drawing the silk covers back, pulling on a pair of pants, shoes, and an old shirt.
That's it. A party.
I'm going to throw her a party.
Stalyan had fallen into a relatively foul mood after her conversation with Flynn this morning. At first, she'd admittedly been elated to see him, her insides melting from stone at the way he'd shown up unexpectedly at her bedroom door. But the interaction hadn't gone the way that she'd hoped, and Stalyan feels herself hardening all over again, retreating back to that dark place which has become so familiar – a place marked by sarcastic comments, and a chip on her shoulder, and the notion that, 'Nothing can really hurt me, if I just pretend that it doesn't.'
So, Stalyan pretends. She pretends that she's a lot stronger, a lot harsher than she really is. She'd pretended for a long time, lied to her father's face that Flynn's betrayal didn't hurt as much as it had. Because it's a lot easier to be pissed off, than it is to admit that you're simply broken inside, and that the brokenness had started long before Flynn had ever left her at the altar. The brokenness inside of Stalyan had started the first time she'd found Flynn with another woman, after that first explosive fight, after that voice creeped into her mind, feeding her whatever it wanted to, saying, 'You'll never be good enough for him, you'll never fulfill his desires, you'll never be everything he needs you to be for him.'
For a while, she'd gotten away from that voice in her head. But now, it's back, and with a vengeance.
'You weren't enough to make him want to change… but she is. The princess is, in his eyes.'
And maybe, just maybe, that's why Stalyan hates the princess so much: because she's everything that Stalyan can't bring herself to be.
Now, here Stalyan is, throwing herself at Flynn, pretending that he'd never left her at the altar to begin with. Because she still loves him, and because eternally losing the one man which holds the history of her life in the palm of his hand, is too much to bear. Here she is, pretending to be a maid, just to catch a pathetic glimpse of him. Thankfully for Stalyan, she's a damn good actress, and the maid shoes fit her just fine. So, she's going to walk in them until her heels break – namely, she's going to pretend, until she's blue in the face – however long it takes to get Flynn back.
He still loves her, too. She can tell. He's just a little in denial, a little blinded by the princess, whatever she has to offer. But, with time, that issue will resolve itself.
In reality, a lot of things hurt Stalyan. Like the princess, and the way the princess looks and acts nothing like her. It bothers her that so many people fawn obliviously over the princess, placing her on a pedestal so high, so unreachable, that Stalyan couldn't even brush the bottom of it with her fingers if she tried. It bothers her that the princess seems to be followed around by this aura of light, which rests upon the crown of her head, moving with the effortless grace of her petite body. It bothers Stalyan that the princess is everything she can't be: sweet, and kind, and enveloped by this warmth, so unmistakable that it's sickening, strong enough to give you heatstroke. Stalyan hates the way that the princess gives off this air of innocence and compassion that simply can't be faked.
The Baron's daughter has spent an unhealthy amount of time comparing herself to the princess of Corona – so much so, that her brain feels fried, drowned in the nuanced comparisons – like green eyes versus violet, the sun verses the dark of the night – the unshakable daydream of being 'the one,' instead of the one that got away.
Now, Stalyan is sitting in the comfort of the dark night, hidden away in one of the palace towers, tucked far back in the south wing. She studies the kingdom below, the winding roads of the village, the way that the little houses put out their candlelight, one by one. Stalyan has been spending a lot of time here, in this hidden tower, since her arrival at the palace. She'd stumbled across it when exploring the extensive palace grounds one afternoon, trying to get a sense of direction in the sheer vastness of it all. Stalyan likes this spot, mostly because it's a quiet place to think, a peaceful place to contemplate her next move.
Which is ironic, considering the man she loves is fawning over a girl who'd spent her entire life in a tower herself.
Malicious. That's what Flynn had called her this morning. And it had hurt, to hear him say it, to know what he really thinks of her – though, of course, she'd pretended it hadn't. Stalyan had brushed the comment away with her snarky tone and sexual innuendos, not allowing herself to really think about it until she was alone like this. Stalyan's not so sure that she's malicious, per say, as this suggests a sense of inherent evilness. It's not that she doesn't have a heart at all, and it's not that she necessarily wishes ill will upon the princess.
It's just that the princess has something Stalyan desperately wants, something that belonged to her first. It's just that jealousy is a vicious, unforgiving force of nature, which has claws that dig themselves deep into your skin, refusing to let go. And sometimes, Stalyan has learned, there's simply no room to be nice when you're fighting for the things that you want.
So, if that makes her malicious, to fight for what she wants, then so be it.
Footsteps echo up the winding, stone staircase which leads to the top of the tower, to the window in which Stalyan is dangling her legs out of, dragging her from the waves of her obsessive thoughts. She looks down into the darkness of the stairwell, a naïve part of her hoping that it's Flynn making his way up the stairs to her, even though she knows it's not. He has no idea where she is right now. And even if he did, he probably wouldn't come to her. Flynn is probably with the princess right now, kissing her all over, the same way he had when they'd been hidden away in the study the other morning – well, when he'd thought that he and the princess were hidden away, but they really weren't. When he'd been kissing the princess all over, the same way he used to do to Stalyan.
And that's just one more thing that Stalyan has to pretend doesn't hurt, even though it does.
Regardless, Stalyan knows better than to feel disappointed when it's not Flynn that enters the little room at the very peak of the tower. In the late night dusk, she can just barely make out the young man's features – blonde hair, a nicely sloped nose, and strong shoulders – the kind of steady, rigid posture that royal types always seem to carry themselves with. The man is dressed in a navy jacket and pant set, with a pair of expensive-looking, leather shoes. Stalyan wonders if he's ever worked a day in his life for these expensive things. Or, if this man, similar to the princess, was simply handed everything that he has.
Stalyan is pretty comfortable with assuming the second.
"You're late." Stalyan says bluntly, staring at the young man, following his every move like a cat ready to pounce. She has a flask in her hand, which has been keeping her company here in the quiet darkness, keeping her warm, and she takes a long pull from it.
The strong liquid is good for warming her insides, and good for helping her to forget all that hurt she likes to pretend she doesn't feel.
"I know. I apologize." The man positions himself beside Stalyan, swinging his own legs over the windowsill, dangling his feet against the side of the palace to join hers. "It's nice to see you again."
"Likewise." Well, that's a bit of a lie.
Stalyan doesn't really care to see him, and doesn't care not to. She feels no liability to this person. He's simply a means to an end, a way to ultimately get what she wants, once and for all.
"How are… things going for you?"
Stalyan considers this, shrugging indifferently, not wanting to make a showcase of the vast amount of rejection she's felt since her arrival.
"They could be worse, but they could also be a lot better."
The young man sighs in heavy agreement.
"I understand. I feel the same way."
"You know," Stalyan turns to him, bending one leg under the other on the window's ledge, positioning herself to look at him better in the dark. "I really don't get it. Why you're going to all this trouble, just to get the princess to like you. You're already stuck with her forever, anyway. Arranged marriages are a dime-a-dozen, and soon enough, you'll be forced to pop out a few kids with her. Your fate is sealed, whichever way you look at it. Does it really matter if you like each other?"
The young man's eyebrows push together in a pattern of puzzlement, as though he can't imagine anyone not liking the princess. It's as though he can't imagine what it would be like not to yearn to be on the receiving end of the princess's affection. He swipes the flask from Stalyan's hands, taking a long drink before answering, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. The cold metal of the flask bites into his lips, though the liquid warms his throat on the way down. Normally, Stalyan would protest, but she doesn't, because the uptight prince looks like he could use the liquor just as much as her.
"Yes, of course it matters. She's my wife, and I would like to have an actual relationship with my wife." Charles takes another long, irritated pull from the flask before continuing. "And I refuse to go my entire life competing with him for her attention."
"Hey, join the club, buddy. Try coming in second place to a princess."
Charles sniffs, breathing deeply, the irritation clear on his face.
"Regardless, I want him gone."
Stalyan steals the flask back from the prince's cold hands, taking a long pull of her own, shrugging indifferently. Charles notes that she doesn't grimace at all, not even a little, when the strong liquid goes down. Coping mechanism, he assumes, understanding completely.
"Why do you think I'm here?"
"And are you actually capable of getting him to leave?" Charles wonders aloud.
"Yes, I'm capable." Stalyan reassures him, slightly offended at the insinuation about her ability to get Flynn to want her. Or, more accurately, her lack of ability in getting him to want her. "I just need some time, that's all."
"I don't understand. If he's still in love with you, as you claim, it shouldn't be that hard to make him leave with you."
"It's complicated." She explains vaguely. "What I don't understand, is why you're so attracted to her. She doesn't seem all that great."
There it is. That jealousy, nipping at Stalyan with its ugly, sharp teeth.
Charles whips his head at the Baron's daughter, as though he's been deeply insulted about his own appearance or character.
"I could say the same to you. You seem like a smart woman, a woman who would at least have some taste, even a little. I really don't understand what you could see in someone like him."
Stalyan considers this for a moment, considers broaching the subject of her treacherous history with Flynn, but decides against it. That's a long story, a story she doesn't have time for. They don't need to swap stories and braid each other's hair to get what they want.
"Yeah." Stalyan chuckles darkly, in partial agreement, much to Charles's surprise. She brings the flask to her lips again, emptying its contents, tipping the last of the liquid into her mouth before she finishes. She could be offended, because she is a thief, just like Flynn. She's 'someone like him.' But, for the sake of time, she decides to brush off the comment. "Sometimes… neither do I."
AN: Alright… so, now we know that Stalyan and Charles know one another. We know that Charles is falling head-over-heels in love with Rapunzel, desperate to get her attention, and that Stalyan very much still wants to be with Eugene. Too bad both of the people they're in love with, are in love with each other, huh? Not only that, but we know that Stalyan and Charles are up to something. What are they plotting? How far will they each go to get what they want, and can they fully trust one another? What does this all mean for New Dream?
Also, Charles is notorious for double standards and sexist tendencies. Blah.
Anyway, thank you for reading! I hope to see you for Chapter 15. I appreciate every single one of you for sticking with my little story, and I promise that there's a lot more to come!