Wanted to do horror for this one but... It was already pretty long so I'm leaving it off for another day. Still a bit strange, this one. Wanted to write a story where "prince is oh, so pretty. Covered in bodily fluids and wearing a dress". Instead. The prince is wearing a dress. Must write him in one more frequently. No idea about old-fashioned make-up and dresses so I wrote out of my head. Enjoy!
His brother was handsome; he was pretty. It was an unspoken rule, an omitted truth, that had always existed. Since birth, it was fed to him, as finite as his maths lessons, as substantial as the feasts he ate. It was something that lived without encouragement or sustenance, as were all laws. And therefore it stood: his brother was handsome; he was pretty.
As a child, it hadn't much meaning. Words like "hate", "love", "handsome", "pretty" didn't have much bearing on a child's mind. Words in general felt weightless. They were pretty little puffs of air, manipulated with tongue and teeth, until they formed recognizable imitations of their originating source. There was no heartbreak in love, no vitriol in hate, no admiration in pretty or handsome. They were sounds and scribbled letters.
However, something - some unknown emotion that fiddled with his insides, flopping between his stomach and his heart - was stirred by terms like "handsome" and "pretty". He assumed, because no one could properly define it, that the feeling was the meaning in his words. The emotions to back them up, proving to him at least that they weren't falsities. But, again, words can hold very little weight to a child.
He thought Logan was indeed handsome, nevertheless. He was more like their father: tall, gangly, plain with just a hint of something special. That something special was in everyone their mother interacted with. It was like some of her beauty permeated that of others'. In Logan, it showed in his face. His face was something to notice. It was all sharp lines, chiselled bone, thin and masterful, something remarkable. His scowl, so unlike the smile always gracing their mother's lips, had an effect on people. The teasing sorts, like Aunt Hammer and Mr. Reaver, took his frowns as challenges and tried their best to get a rise out him. The nervous kind were uneasy around him, even more when he turned out to be a genius. The greedy restrained themselves under his steely glare, never fleeing because there was power to be found in his wake, but not flocking either, kept at arm's length by his keen perception. People of all types were beautifully orchestrated around him, moving just so to suit him, a ballet or music score under the hand of a skilled conductor.
Logan was powerful. He was special. He made the greatest brother, an even worse enemy, and a force to be reckoned with. Not least, he was handsome. The ladies of court said it, their mum said it, even he had acknowledged it: he was handsome. And his little brother was pretty.
The youngest prince resembled his mother. Big, dark, clear eyes being framed by forests of dark lashes. Strong lines and shadows created from powerful bone structure. Full, dark hair and a body more attuned to lean muscle than any other form. A doll-like expression of the basest emotions. They had commanding looks. She was beautiful, but he wasn't there yet. He was pretty.
The maids adored him. Most women did. Whenever he made rounds with his mother to the kitchen, treats were snuck into his palm or his pocket. Syrupy sweet words, with little effect on him, accompanied the esculent presents. He was adorable, an absolute darling, and oh, so very pretty. Sometimes his mother let him fall under their watch. It was usually during her meetings or trips, but occasionally a lazy day off warranted time alone. At those times, his small hand was transferred from her large, firm one to a calloused, dainty one.
It didn't happen the first few times. They seemed to find it precious enough spending a few hours with their pretty prince. But then it was suggested, offhandedly, a delicious little dare spoken with a thrill of apprehension and mischief. It was dismissed but it burned at the back of their minds nonetheless. It was inevitable in the end. As soon as it left one's mouth, entered one's head, it was already in motion. A lazy Saturday afternoon brought change in the form of lace, ribbon, satin, silk, frills, and all things pretty into his life.
The fingers tied the ribbon in his glossy brown hair gingerly, as if afraid stirring any other hairs would cause everything to fall apart. There was a tension in the final tug of the red satin. He looked at her curiously, though his glassy stare did little to show actual emotion. The women chittered, cautious, but with that same underlying sense of excitement. Next came another ribbon, a facsimile of the other. It grasped another section of hair on the other side, still done with an anxious air. But there was something like satisfaction mixed in.
Everything moved faster. The ribbons were followed by gloss, which came with a confession of theft that sounded none too guilty. The women rubbed it on his lips, making puckering faces until he imitated them. Then there was a light pink powder, vaguely resembling the flowers blooming in the garden. With an apologetic look, one female brushed it against his cheekbones, working it in. Then it was smeared over his eyelids. Like the assault of his brother's pieces on his opponents', during his seldom games of chess, they didn't stop there. Next was a thick black goop, which they coated their finger tips in, before grabbing his eyelashes and pulling lightly on them. A veil of black darkened part of his vision and he fluttered the lashes to try to get more visibility. It succeeded, but also drew out a few adoring murmurs from the group.
His shirt was removed, followed by his shorts and shoes. A flurry of cloth blinded him, having only time to register pink and shine. They were careful of his face, or more accurately, careful of their work so far. They pulled the material down, multiple hands coming to smooth it. He glanced down at himself as appreciative comments burbled up. It was a v-neck, with cap sleeves. Where the satin neckline and sleeves ended, white frills burst forth. They crept to his neck, danced around his wrists. The skirt was full and trimmed by more of the frills. It was simple and yet received such praise from the women. They were calling him pretty.
The next dress was an off-the-shoulder gown, still kept simple considering it was intended for children. It flowed over his hips, clung to his chest, pooled around his feet. It was blue silk, the color of the marks on Uncle Garth's skin, flowing with just as much contrasting intricacy and simplicity as the designs that covered his dark skin. They told him how fantastic his body was in it, that it really suited him, that they were jealous, that he was so pretty. The torrent of well-meaning words ended when the door opened and emitted the queen.
There was nothing but silence that followed. The digits adjusting the ribbon in his hair flexed before dropping. There was fear, tension, guilt, a dread so tangible and stifling that the prince flinched. He raised his eyes to his mother.
And she smiled. A wave of shock took the room as she scooped the youngling up, resuming their cooing and coddling. When her eyes shifted from her son to the staff, the look in her eyes was reproaching but almost completely inundated by amusement. Amusement, something like camaraderie, and an impish glee. Something akin to relief shone in the maidens' eyes.
Lazy afternoons became exciting afternoons, sometimes fading into evenings, and sometimes including the monarch. Every colour and fabric available became acquainted with his body. His lips were plumped, his hair adorned, his skin polished. And all the while, he was told he was pretty. It became the truth, testified by the help, his mother, and on one occasion, his brother, who gave his dress-wearing little brother one of the sweetest smiles he had ever given.
It didn't stop when he began school, nor when the queen died, nor when he became a teenager. When his body became too muscular for the old things, they made new ones. When his hair was cut too short for decorations, they sought out a wig. When there was a flood of people coming to the castle, they hid the activities. The only thing that stopped them was the prince's coming of age. Sixteen came and brought revelations to them, it would seem. He was a man, royalty, and no longer the tiny doll fawned over by all the castle. The dress-up game was retired.
But he was still pretty. He knew it with feverish clarity. The way glances lingered, shifting into stares; the smouldering feelings laced into every word he was given; the touches and strokes to his person - they told him he had grown and retained his prettiness. No one put it into words but it was evident. Just as much as his brother had kept on being handsome, he was still pretty. No amount of time, no loss of grooming, no lack of afternoons filled with adoring could take that away.
He kept up what the maids had quit. He took the powders and the gloss, the frills and the lace, the ribbons and the bows. And when his door closed on sunny afternoons with nothing to do, they were brought out. Clasps were clasped and buttons were buttoned. With an air of dignity and grace, produced by the outfit, he would stand in front of the mirror. He would croon how pretty he was, stroking his hand along the glass. He would vary his expression, from salacious to sly, from indignant to incomprehensible. And each made him look so wonderful, so marvellous, so pretty.
The muscles of his arms pulled at the straps of the dress, but wasn't strength darling? A few hairs curled over the top of dress, but wasn't that a sign of vitality? The dress hung limply at his hips, but weren't large hips bothersome? Seams were stretched around his chest, but nothing could be wrong with a large chest, could it? The dress stopped a little short of his ankles, but wasn't such a view considered sexy? The make-up made him look a little unnatural, but weren't all the best beauties something different? The bows were a bright yellow to a forest green, but didn't they give an interesting statement?
He smiled and watched with sheer delight as the vision trapped in the glass did the same. Yes, he knew it irrefutably. His brother may be handsome but he...
He was so pretty.