Chapter 17

Eugene's collar is too tight, and resisting the urge to tug at it – which he has been told again and again and again not to do – is making him feel hot and twitchy. Leaning against the wall and looking cool while he scopes out the other people as they arrive for the dam meeting sounds like a good idea and would probably calm him down, but he's not supposed to slouch or casually lean against walls, and Phil told him that the way he sizes people up makes them feel uncomfortable and makes him look untrustworthy. He debates for a moment whether it's better to look untrustworthy or to look awkward.

He's leaning towards untrustworthy.

"Pst." He turns to see Goldie sidling up next to him, her wide eyes taking in all the meeting attendants in all their puffed up finery. "This is exciting!" she squeaks in something between a squeal and a whisper that only she can pull off.

"I guess," he shrugs. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming to this." Oh, please let her come to this. It would make the whole thing bearable.

"No, I just came to check on you."

Rats.

"And now that you've checked on me, how do you think I'm doing?"

She contemplates him for a moment before saying, "Stiff."

He snorts under his breath.

"Do you know who everyone is?" she asks.

He returns to his completely un-sketchy surveillance of the men around him, all talking in small groups and occasionally laughing in an over-acted way. "Yeah, so far I do."

"Who's that?" she asks, nodding her head towards a very fat man in purple with a bald head and flushed cheeks.

"That is Lord Percival. He owns the land that until a few months ago was a lake."

"And who's that?"

"That is Master Dugan, a royal engineer."

"And who's that?"

"That's… hold on, are you quizzing me?"

She blushes and shrugs. "Just a bit."

"Sneaky.'"

"Just trying to help. I've been working at memorizing names and faces around here longer than you have."

"I know." Honestly, it's weird for her to know something he doesn't, as it's usually the other way around. She's usually the one that needs help. The vulnerability in this situation irks him as much as his collar, and the prospect that Blondie doesn't really need him any more makes him feel uncomfortable. He shrugs the thought off. It's good that she needs him less, it means she's finally coming into her own, which is most definitely a good thing.

"Oh," she hisses, trying to duck out of sight a bit, but not really succeeding, and not really wanting to as she wants to keep staring. "It's that man who has your nose."

"Don't remind me."

"He's coming this way."

"Fantastic."

Lord Wesley hurries towards them, looking as though he's trying very hard to contain his excitement. He's a slender man and a bit fidgety, giving him the look of a sapling about to be blown free of its roots in a storm. As he bows to the princess, Eugene notes that he and Lord Wesley have the exact same color hair although Wesley's style is not doing him any favors. As the young lord stands straight again he shows that the same is true of their eyes, the tint is the same although the shape is markedly different.

"Your highness," he says with a grin and a light in his eyes that makes him look like he's fourteen again. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. We're all so thrilled at your safe return."

"Thank you. The pleasure is mine," she says, bobbing ever so slightly into a curtsy that Eugene has to admit is impressive.

"And Mr. Fitzherbert!" he says, holding out a hand. "It's so good to see you again."

Eugene narrows his eyes and raises one eyebrow at the extended hand. Someone in his position isn't supposed to shake a Lord's hand. A Lord can shake a Lord's hand, and the princess' betrothed can shake a Lord's hand, and brothers can shake hands with each other, but Eugene doesn't want to admit that he has any sort of status whatsoever, and he doesn't want to mislead this man into thinking that they're on friendly terms. Meanwhile, refusing to shake hands will amount to an incident, probably a stern talking to from several people, and maybe a duel or death threats or something.

Good grief, he hates politics.

They shake hands and the Lord beams at him.

"We met once before," he says, "about ten years ago, maybe?"

"More or less."

Sheesh. Yeah. They'd met ten years ago just a bit after Eugene left the orphanage, and right after he had gotten into some trouble in a town that turned out to be governed by Lord Wesley. Well, it was technically governed by Wesley, but since he was fourteen at the time it was actually governed by his mother, who is awful. But then again, Eugene's biased. Wesley had come to the jail, ordered his release, then gawked at him for about an hour in dumb struck awe that he could have a half-brother who led a life so different from his own.

Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he felt lonely. Maybe he felt some sort of responsibility. Eugene didn't know, and he still doesn't. He did know that he didn't want anything to do with the boy, and he still feels the same way.

"And have you heard anything from… oh, what was her name?... Anne! Have you heard anything from her?"

Eugene suppresses an eye roll. Anne was one of their mutual half siblings, apparently the only other one whose name Wesley knows. They had lived in the same orphanage for a while, but had never been overly friendly.

"I last saw her about six years ago."

"And how was she?"

"Dead."

Wesley's face falls, but being embarrassed is what he gets for asking stupid questions. "Oh. Oh dear. How did she pass?"

"Syphilis."

"Oh," Wesley says, distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry."

Eugene shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

This comment has the desired effect of getting the idiot to switch back over to talking to Rapunzel about something completely benign. Eugene pretends to listen until a hand falls on his shoulder and he looks up to see the king smiling at him.

"Sit on my immediate left," he instructs in an undertone, before jovially greeting Lord Wesley. Eugene stares, not listening, taken completely by surprise that he's been given a seat usually reserved for someone with exceptional status. Blondie elbows him to get his attention and silently balls her hands in front of her face, mouthing the word "Yay!"

He supposes that's one way to look at it.

With the king's arrival, everyone slowly files into the meeting room, where Eugene pauses a moment before taking his seat. He reminds himself yet again not to pull at his collar and to try to look relaxed as surely everyone will be looking at him.

Lord Wesley slips into the seat next to him with a sheepish grin, and Eugene braces himself for the great stretch of monotony and awkwardness spread out ahead of him.

Five hours later he finds himself rushing to the library, relieving the strain in his legs and the ache in his back, moving away from Lord Wesley (who had hinted several times that he wanted to talk over lunch) and away from lengthy discussions of hydrostatic pressure and natural wood rot rates and the trauma that his escape from the guards has caused – not that anyone has seemed to piece together that that was what happened. Except the king, and Eugene was now convinced that sitting through this meeting and stewing in his own uncomfortableness is punishment for something, but he's not exactly sure which of his many crimes he's supposed to be contemplating during this torture.

He has maybe a half hour over the lunch break before people start to think that he's skipped out and start to look for him, so he's damned well going to make the most of it.

He sticks his head into the library, where Rapunzel's tutor (he's pretty sure this one is for history) immediately cuts off his lecture at the interruption, causing Blondie to turn around in her seat and then grin at him.

"I beg your pardon," Eugene says, putting on his look of sincerest humility. "Her highness' presence is required in a very urgent matter that simply cannot wait."

Her tutor looks skeptical, and Eugene gives the man his most winning empathic look. Yes, it's awful that I have to take your pupil away. I completely understand how frustrating it must be. But what're ya gonna do? This look involves a complicated eyebrow movement and a slight purse of his lips.

The man sighs. "Oh, very well. I suppose this is as good a place as any to pause for the day."

"Thank you," Rapunzel chirps. She snatches up her books and bounds up to Eugene, who takes her wrist and pulls her down the hall.

"How's the meeting going?" she asks.

"Awful," he says, not pausing in his march away from the library.

"What's so bad about it? And where are we going?"

"Here." With a sweep of his eyes he establishes that the little sitting room is empty, and in a single movement he pulls her in behind him, presses her against the door to close it, and kisses her.

She jumps from the suddenness of it all, but eases into him with a sigh, her arms melting over his shoulders, her body relaxing against the door.

He needs to remind himself why he's doing all this, why he's putting up with meetings and lessons, with nobles and guards, with disapproving looks and uncomfortable clothing. He does it all for her, just for the chance to hear her laugh, hear her gasp, to look into her eyes, to count the freckles across her nose. She flicks open the topmost buttons on his jacket, giving him some much needed air, a much needed release of the heat mounting in his chest. He loves her for that – it's exactly what he needs.

He pins her snug against the door, flush against his body, letting the heat of her and the smell of her and the feel of her seep into his muscles, which draw tighter, firmer as her kisses grow more heady and intoxicating. He drags a heavy hand up and down her side, teasing all the little muscles of her belly, all the trembling nerves against the side of her breast. She moans into his mouth, her fingers grabbing at the back of his jacket, wishing more than anything that it was bare skin in her hands.

He slips down her neck, and her shoulders roll back against the door as her head falls back in a gasp. His hands trail down to her hips, his mouth against what pale expanse of skin there is to be had until her neckline, where he curses, and her fragile laugh is cut off by a sharp gasp as he slides to his knees and rakes up her skirts. His name is pulled from her lips, out from her lungs, from her soul into the air, where it trembles and flutters as one of her hands grabs at her skirts and the other grips his shoulder, unsure how to support herself.

Hands run along her smooth legs, rubbing hungry figures into her flesh, sending eddies of pleasure up into her core and out into her toes. He's fantasized about her legs so often, the feel, the shape, the strength of them, the feminine curve of her calves arching upwards and tantalizing him. With a steadying hand against her hip, he presses his lips to the inside of her thigh, dragging slowly upward, feeling heat race across her silky skin while her breath catches and her nails stab into his shoulder - a pang that runs straight to his crotch, fueling his need for her.

He peels away her underwear, slick from her need, and she hurriedly wiggles her hips and kicks them away before spreading her legs ever so slightly around him. She takes several shaky breaths as he resumes his course upward, rubbing small circles against her hip in reassurance as she squeezes his shoulder to show her trust.

He nuzzles his nose against her, and she squeaks, her legs nearly giving out, and maybe this position wasn't such a good idea, but it's far too late now as his tongue drags across her slit. And back. And forth. And back. And she's warm and wet and with every stroke she widens, inviting him in, her pulse growing wild against his lips. Hs thrusts inside her and her hips buck and she contracts around him so he's filling her, his tongue pushing in and pulling back and pushing in and pulling back and she is overwhelming, the smell of her, the taste of her, so much like sweat but so deliciously, viscerally different. All he wants is more, more of her, more of this dizzying feeling as he feels all her muscles roll and boil against his tongue.

She comes so beautifully above him, a thin trial of juices slipping down her leg, down his throat. Her legs shake so violently that she collapses to the floor, into his arms, burying her face helplessly against his chest. He holds her as she struggles for breath, his arms tight and desirous around her as he fights off his own need.

He holds her, and he loves her, and for her he would do anything.