The Broflovski monarchy has only existed for a few generations, their royalty born from circumstance. The former king, who invested most of his efforts in rhythm and blues, heavy soul food, and making love to women, employed the family as his Senior Counsel, on account of their merits serving in court. But when that king died, in a tragic adventuring accident, he left the throne empty, begetting no children despite spending a majority of his reign between bedroom sheets. What did leave, however, was an ironclad decree stating that, should the prior monarch pass without heirs, the crown would transfer to the top legal advisor, reward them for their dedication. With that, the Broflovski lineage achieved regal status, and prompted an era of prosperity and peace.
Honestly, their role of is largely ceremonial, or at least in the Crowned Prince's case. His birthright dictates that, one day, he will govern the kingdom, like his father and grandfather before him; but, until that day, what does he do, really? His parents tell him he's preparing, learning how to become a good king. Yes, over the years he's been educated in science and arts, in history and politics, in etiquette and manners. He knows the laws of his kingdom and of his faith, the obligations of a sovereign and of a gentleman, the responsibilities he has to his subjects and to his family. Kyle manages his duties without much difficulty, excelling in all areas except one: the issue of marriage.
The royal coach speeds along the country lane, a quiet and more scenic way to the castle, avoiding the unwanted attention generated on the main avenues. The horses hooves clop-clop-clop on the tightly packed dirt, and Kyle pulls aside the curtain over the window, gazes at the evergreens passing him by. The matchmaking began as soon as he turned thirteen, officially a man and thus obligated to plot out his future. At first, it was just planning, arranging betrothals while meeting foreign liaisons, another diplomatic matter for deliberation. It was all hypothetical, so Kyle didn't mind, smiling through dull introductions with young ladies of high stature, without ever considering any as a potential wife. But as he grew older, approached that age, the efforts intensified, Kyle sent portrait after portrait of eligible ladies, asked question after question about his preferences, pressured again and again to pick one and propose. Their persistence redoubled, as did his stalling.
The alpine forests ought to bring him comfort, thought of home usher a wave of calm. But nature's majesty cannot keep his mind from drifting, keep him from dreading the inevitable. He'll arrive and everyone will greet him, cordially ask about his stay abroad, shower him with warm words and beaming smiles. The hospitality will last only so long, until someone enquires about the people he encountered, specifically asking if anyone caught his eye, kept him company, daresay stole his heart. They'll interrogate him, relentless and merciless, until he finally tells them, no, he didn't, in a firm and final tone. Then, once again, he'll be put on trail for his assumed indecision, a terrible crime when first-in-line. Everyone knows he's putting it off, but they're all too busy making speculations to ask why he is. His brother says his standards are too high, but Kyle has no unrealistic expectations. His father suspects his anxiety stems from performing as a husband, but Kyle has no sexual trepidations. His mother believes his heart waits for his one true love, but Kyle has no romantic delusions. Kyle, quite frankly, has no interest in marriage, detached to the point of aversion.
Unfortunately, he's put off the notion for too long, run out of excuses, and must get married.
A sigh slips from his lips, a long sorrowful breath. He's put this off too long, run out of excuses, nowhere else to turn. He fogs the glass with his despair, view obscured by a cloud of doubt and melancholy. He knits his brow, rudely denied his last moments' distraction, unfairly robbed of his final respite. As he uses the curtain as a rag, wipes up his misted ennui, the clomping changes timbre, metal shoes beating the wooden drawbridge, lowered as soon as the carriage entered the gatehouse's sights. The horses then plod upon limestone pavers, the verdant pine needles and dark brown barks replaced with pale white bricks and mossy slate tiles, sylvan clutter traded for spacious bailey. The gallops' cadence slows to a halt, and he shuts his eyes.
Why can't they leave him alone, let him wait a few more years? Maybe by then, he'll actually care.
With a faint creak, the sedan door opens, tearing away his protective shell of lacquered carvings and padded plush. Kyle opens his eyes to an invasion, assaulted by the afternoon's bright rays, blinded by the sun. Vibrant tints whirl together, a blur of colour and light, forcing Kyle to squint, let his eyes adjust. He grasps for the golden frame, slowly rising from his seat, letting out a low groan. His vision clarifies, shapes forming, edges sharpening, as he hears a too familiar voice:
"Presenting His Royal Highness Prince Buttwipe—"
"Fuck you."
The Duke of Marsh and the Crowned Prince first met as mere tots, Stan invited to be one of Kyle's playmates. The two instantly became best friends, virtually inseparable as they ran through the halls, pulling pranks and playing games, always together and always up to something. Their bond only strengthened the older they grew, Stan accompanying Kyle everywhere as his closest confidant, giving him somebody to make jokes and snicker with during the most banal events. Stan knows him better than anyone else, in ways no other knows him. Perhaps if Kyle met someone, someone who treated him the way Stan does, who made him feel open and genuine, he'd give marriage more consideration. Perhaps.
"Wow, and I actually missed you, too," He extends a friendly hand, to help Kyle descend the narrow coach steps. Kyle grips Stan by the wrist, wobbles on his climb down. After hours cooped up in a sedan, his legs ache, cramped from the time on the road. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and stretches, rolls his shoulders, lolls his head with a grumble. Stan stands a near half foot taller than him, with pitch black hair and rich ocean eyes, and, between the two of them, looks far more like the broad-shouldered storybook prince, "How was Canada?"
"Fun enough," Kyle says, with a casual shrug, then draws in a deep breath of mountain air. Lungs fill with brisk ice, welcoming the freezing bone-chill, the wintery embrace he genuinely loves. More mild and soothing than their northern neighbour's winds, less noxious and sulphuric too. Amongst them, Kyle stood out, his hair a mop of crimson curls, his eyes a striking shade of green, his appearance distinctly foreign. When he proposed his trip, a part of him felt bad exploiting his brother's origins, solely for elaborate procrastination, but Ike lobbied on his behalf, on the condition Kyle put in a good word for him with their princess. He exhales, begins towards the castle steps, "Helped clear my head."
"Yeah?" Stan follows, long strides easily catching up. He keeps pace with him, walking at his side, shirks the custom of allowing the royal family an extra step. As Kyle puts it, Stan is practically a member of the household, doesn't need to observe the boorish and archaic practice. Though the monarchs should be the bastions of tradition, Kyle adores bending the rules, breaking them when he sees fit. However, considering the new precedents set by his father, redefining establishment may be in his blood.
"Yeah," Whilst servants attend to the horses and carriage, Kyle and Stan cross the yard, head to main entryway. The façade boasts soaring spires, arching buttresses, crystalline windows and graven doors. A grand clock presides over the court, a pearl face with ebony dials, affixed atop the highest tower, belting out a deafening peal to mark every hour. Kyle always wondered who ordered the monstrosity, annoyed by its awful drone and utter impracticality. Didn't the architect realise that people could keep clocks inside, where they could see them, rather than run all the way out and gawk at the sky? They reach the fanning stairwell, the smooth rounded steps gradually narrowing with their ascent, when Kyle says, tone severe and grim, "I'm shit outta luck."
"C'mon, Kyle" Stan sighs, because they've had this conversation before, a good hundred thousand times. He always tells Kyle how he's in a similar position, the only son of his house. But Kyle always points out how tolerant his parents are, allowing Stan to approach taking a wife at his leisure, while Kyle's press harder each year, "You're being really dramatic about this."
"My title is dramatic, asshat," Once they mount the last step, a pair of servants push the double doors open, grant them passage into the foyer. As Kyle smiles at them, gives a gracious nod, and they bow, in the brand of ostentatious deference he loathes. He and Stan cross the threshold, oak slamming shut behind them, a loud thud resounding through the chamber. Sweeping staircases flank the room, metal vines snaking around the rails, trim festooned with bronzed flowers and plated leaves. Balconies wrap around the walls, supported by modest pillars, stone a pinkish hue. Their footsteps echo, echo, echo, and Kyle hates the empty space.
"No, it's theatrics," Stan corrects him with his own phraseology, referencing Kyle's recurrent rant about his job. A prince is an actor, performing in a play upon an epic stage, unaware whether he stars in a comedy, tragedy, or farce. Kyle wishes his part smaller, bored with the repetitive courtesies and bland dialogue, disillusioned with the one-dimensional characters and insipid plot devices. But with his silver tongue and golden heart, Kyle captivates his people, enchants them with flowering monologues. He flourishes under their attention, intense ardour exuding from his words, and, for his audience, truly adopts his role of the young future king, "The other stuff is all you."
But his victories can be undone, should he carelessly select the wrong partner. Being a prince is being a strategist, too, something Kyle learned when he was eight years old, when his father taught him the rules of chess. Success lies in a strong king, but alone, the king is the weakest token. He requires his pawns, his bishops, his knights and his rooks, but his queen is his most valuable piece. A good king needs a queen who understands her power, who compliments his tactics, who improves what her husband lacks. A single ill-conceived move may jeopardise the kingdom, destroy their stability, fall their name. Kyle has no interest in marriage, because just a single ill-conceived move might in the endgame put him in checkmate.
"Whatever," He says in a huff, chest heavy and leaden. He wants to go upstairs, retreat into his bedroom, lay down on an actual bed and sleep off the pains of travelling. But alas, he passes under the mosaic ceiling with its gilded chandelier, bound for the throne hall to reunite with his parents, so they can remind him why he left in the first place, "Doesn't make it less dumb. I mean, my dad isn't on his deathbed or anything like that. I shouldn't need to get married now."
"It's a peace of mind thing," Stan speaks on behalf of reason, his level-head something Kyle both loves and despises. Kyle is a naturally passionate person, which often means he is an extremely stubborn person. Though he often leans on ethics and character, he can succumb to waves of passion, consumed by his own strong will, a fire feeding on itself. Stan balances him, with his cooler composure, pointing out the logic Kyle refuses to see, "You get married, they get a princess, and there's hugs and puppies all around."
"Oh, everything's great," Kyle sneers, having considered every scenario, every prospect broken down, with the same bleak conclusions, "Until my wife ends up being a raging bitch who actually hates me, or a shallow narcissist who burns the treasury, or fucking advertisement."
"So, what's your solution?" He narrows his eyes, his tone sharp and steeled, "Just go on avoiding it and screwing your tutors?"
Stan never liked Gregory, thought him pompous and uptight. Kyle realised the truth of his judgement, after their month-long affair, when he abandoned his position without notice. No one else found out, which must be why Stan doggedly holds against him, bent on reminding him until the day he dies. Blood pools beneath Kyle's cheeks, and he shoots Stan a hard glare, "That was one time."
"Point is," He rolls his eyes, "If you can give some prick from Yardale a chance, you can give other people the same one. And it'll turn out way better, for the kingdom and for you."
Every part of him wants to argue, to find some earthshattering flaw in Stan's sound reasoning. But he can't. He can't tell Stan he's wrong when he's right, right in every respect, right in ways Kyle wishes he wasn't. Rather than concede, admit defeat, Kyle grunts, stares forward, prideful and headstrong. He presses his lips into a tight line as they near the throne room, as his time runs thin. His stomach knots tightly, sinks in his gut, overcome by a creeping sensation. He doesn't fear his parents, not their power or their wrath, but he does fear consequences, the consequences he's dodged for oh so long. He takes another step, and the doors swing open.
A carpeted dais hosts the seats of the royal family, a chair made for each member, so all can oversee the court. The princes rarely attend, Kyle and Ike only called on special circumstance, but today Ike lounges slouched in his chair, boredom plastered on his face. Tedium glazes iron eyes, but when his gaze falls on Kyle, the round beads sparkle. Beside him, Queen Sheila fusses with her red pouffe, hair stacked high in a past era's fashion. Once adjusted satisfactorily, her eyes flicker to Kyle, red painted lips curving into an enormous grin. Next to her, King Gerald sits poised, wearing the stately crown, head always covered. His expression softens, giving Kyle a warm look, welcoming him back. At his right is Kyle's empty seat, the throne of the crowned prince, and Kyle wonders how mere carpentry can capture his inner sadness so well. But chairs cannot get married, and for that he envies them.
"Oh, bubbie, you're finally home!" Sheila's native accent slathers her words, her pitch shrill and piercing. She restrains herself from flying from the platform, rushing to her son and hugging him like a small child. In her eyes, Kyle will always be her little boy, her sweet yeled tov, but he's a grown man, beyond his twenty-second birthday, and inheriting the crown; she can't coddle him forever. She flattens her dress, hands rolling over the satin folds, "How was your trip? Did the Canadians treat you well? The weather wasn't too bad was it, y'know you catch colds so easily especially during blizzard season—"
"I'm fine, Ma," Kyle says, somewhat comforted hearing his mother's rambling. She cares about her sons, with every ounce of her heart, wants only the best for him and for Ike. Why can't she understand that marriage isn't best for Kyle? "The embassy was fine, the weather was fine, everything was fine."
"How's the Princess?" Ike asks with a smirk. When Sheila and Gerald failed to conceive a second after Kyle, they passed a decree allowing adoption to all couples, including the royal house. Though officially a Royal Knight of Canada, his title as a Broflovski Prince precedes all else, and entertains a possible courtship between him and the Maple Maiden, "She miss me?"
"Ike," Sheila gives him a stern and admonishing look. Ike may be eager to advance his engagement, but nothing can be done until Kyle takes another's hand. He fronts for his brother, empathises with his dilemma, but he knows Ike is just as frustrated with him as his parents. Things would've been so much easier were Kyle born second.
"Oh terribly," Kyle says, teasing at a smirk. Eventually, that annoyance will sow into resentment, and Kyle will lose one of his few allies; if he hasn't already, "Soon as she heard you weren't with me she got her bard to sing how for you her heart goes on and on."
Ike sticks out his tongue, because if their mother weren't there he'd give him the finger. At least he isn't fed up with Kyle. Not yet, anyway.
"Speaking of that," Gerald has a talent for inserting himself into the conversation, whether his remarks warranted or not. No one protests, assuming their king has every right in speaking, though Kyle thinks they ought to, "Your mother and I have been talking."
Kyle's smile fades, ebbing away in a few blinks. His respect for his father often wavers, oscillating between tolerance and irritation. In the public's eye, Gerald maintains a positive image, balancing the aristocracy's demands with the requests of the common. Hiding in his study, however, are private diaries, pages and pages of vile and vicious commentary, senseless cruelty tucked away on a shelf. Whatever the future holds, Kyle hopes he can be a better king than him.
"About what?" He feigns innocence, then venom coats his tongue, prepares for the fight. Barely any pleasantries this time around, Kyle must really be gnawing his patience. Of course, he wouldn't be, were Gerald not grating his nerves with this at all. From the corner of his eye, he sees Stan bite his lip, relegated to silent observer. For all the power Kyle allows him with their friendship, Stan must abide by the King's rules, namely that in actual family matters he know his place.
"Now Kyle," Gerald's favourite part of being king is talking down to people, or that's Kyle's theory. For someone who demands filial respect, he frequently directs his condescension at his own son, "Most families don't care what their children want and force them into these political unions for selfish purposes. They prioritise a convenient alliance over sustaining happiness, which we don't agree with."
"And we've been very generous letting you choose yourself, Kyle," Sheila talks with her hands, but her frantic gestures won't sway him, won't convince him of their benevolence. How many times will they claim to value his heart above all else, yet still push and push and push him? "We just want you to be happy."
"Exactly," Perhaps he gets his obstinacy from Gerald, both so adamant in their ideals, determined to be right. No wonder this argument has never broached agreement, "Which is why we were thinking about expanding your options. You know, give a few duchesses or marchionesses a shot. Maybe some countesses if that doesn't work out."
Why limit his rejection to the highest class? Throw him to those even more petty and power-hungry, who will care even less about him and more about rank! They must have never heard that old joke about the aristocrats.
"That's your solution?" Kyle asks, almost laughing. His veins run hot, fire in his blood, body struck with outrage. This must be their plan, make the process progressively agonising until he relents, draws a name from a hat, and rushes beneath the canopy. He feels Stan's gaze on him, apologetic and sorry, appreciated but useless.
"Kyle, we're doing the best we can," Sheila used his name, she must be distraught! Torn to pieces over this mess! Why won't he just take someone's hand? Why won't he provide his mother a sense of security? Why won't he give her a daughter-in-law and a slew of grandchildren? In a softer tone, she adds, "We just want what's best."
"For you," Kyle hisses, balls his hands into fists, "You want what's best for you."
"For the kingdom," Gerald's voice cuts, severe and clinical, "You need to get married. That's not up for negotiation, that's part of your duty as a sovereign and as our son."
"I'll do it later," Kyle hears a drop in his voice, a falter in his conviction. Has he said this so much, so many times, that it's lost its meaning? Even to him?
"You said that when you were eighteen and we allowed it," He was right in his thinking, "You said it at nineteen and we allowed it," He's used all his spare time, "And at twenty and twenty-one," He's run out of excuses, "You're done putting this off."
You're shit outta luck.
Kyle stares a long moment, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. Stupid, this is all so stupid. They see his refusal as immaturity, as shirking his responsibilities, as childish fears and restless apprehensions. He founded his decision on the good of the kingdom, or so he tells himself. He doesn't want to ruin his future reign before it begins, by accidentally selecting a gold-digger or a figurehead or a person he just doesn't like. He's had so many suitors, but none he's really known, let alone had a chance to like.
Or maybe Kyle never gave them that chance, just discarded them after one quick look. In his youth, he heard stories about love at first sight, a notion he never believed in, doesn't believe in. He may be derailed by bouts of emotion, of fervour and zeal, but he has a rational mind. He understands lust at first sight, felt it a time or two himself, but never love. Love is complicated and messy, its trappings often left out of the fairy-tales, simply summed up as the couple living happily ever after. Kyle is no fool, knows love is confusing, is sloppy, is separate from marriage. He does not expect to love his bride, but he at least wants someone bearable, someone who could serve as a companion, a friend.
He channels his breath through his nose, letting out a slow and calculated exhale. He sees Sheila's tearful eyes, sees Ike's concerned stare, but Kyle focuses on Gerald's harsh glower, an ultimatum etched in green. Cooperation or coercion, those are Kyle's true options, and now he must pick wisely. His choice does not matter, for he'll be married either way, no matter what.
"And if I say no to all them, what're you gonna do?" Choice might be an illusion, but Kyle refuses to yield without a fight, "Just move to down the ranks? Make me shuffle through the gentry, too?"
"We just want you to find someone. As long as she's who you want—"
"Well where the hell am I gonna find her, huh?" Kyle throws his hands in the air, "Are you just gonna throw a ball and have me meet every girl in the kingdom so I can meet the one?"
Silence befalls the chamber, an unsettling, suffocating quiet. Kyle's words hang in the air, but the snide and sour edge dissipates. No, the revelation reflects in his father's eyes, taking snark as suggestion, a solution to his grievances. Statistically speaking, out of every maiden in the kingdom, Kyle is bound to like one, and all he has to do is like her. Then, their conundrum is solved. Gerald's eyes twinkle, and Kyle's complexion drains.
"Actually, that's not a bad idea," Gerald turns his head to Stan, a small smile on his lips, "Why I'd issue that as a royal decree."
Stan's mouth gapes wide, conflicted between his best friend and his king. And, loyal as he is to Kyle, for now he adheres to the current king, not future one, must obey his commands. Kyle can't hate him for that, even if it hurts watching Stan gulp, bow his head, and deliver his reply, "I'll… get on it, Your Majesty."
"Excellent!" Gerald claps his hands, "Then it's settled."
"Oh, a ball," An enormous grin dominates Sheila's face, "How wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!"
Ike and Stan hold their tongues, the two looking to Kyle, the same worry in their eyes. They both stare, watch the light dwindle in his eyes, as he accepts his own words as his undoing. There's no way out of this one, not when it can be traced to his idea, even if proposed in spite. This is happening, by royal decree, a ball for Kyle to finally end his postponement, finally find a wife.
"Shit," Kyle and his big fucking mouth.
A/N: I couldn't stop working on this after I updated, haha! I'm moving again (and have other WIPs) so it might not be so soon to get more, but at least we get to see s'more Kyle. Thank you so much for reading, favouriting, and leaving reviews! I hope you enjoyed and will continue to do so for all of this wacky ride!