A Royal Pain

CHAPTER NINE

He'd tried to at least be productive with his time, between all the crying and wishing that he could slither out the window and run away and never have to see Phil again. For example, he'd still practiced with his sword every morning, although now instead of fighting Phil, he imagined that he'd be able to stop himself from telling Phil that he loved him if he could just swing that much faster, sidestep that much quicker. Yesterday he'd practiced until he was so drenched in sweat that it'd dripped down his calves and into the plush carpet. And then he'd reused the cold bath water from the day before, having not even opened his doors to the maids. (He would have to soon enough, if he wanted clean bath water. Or he might just stop bathing entirely.)

He'd also spent time trying to read books, though for some reason he found himself unable to sit still and immerse himself in a story. So instead he'd used them for firewood (the maids hadn't been able to restock on that either, and his rooms had a definite chill to them. He'd started sorting his books into categories of burnable, unburnable, and only if you haven't starved to death yet). It was true, he'd been much without food these past three days, unless you counted the variety of chocolates he'd always kept in his bedside table. (And he wasn't counting them. Mainly because the numbers were starting to dwindle, and counting them meant acknowledging the fact that he very well might starve to death in here, all because his brain had betrayed him in a moment of weakness.)

He'd attempted to read past letters of Phil's to make him feel better, though he probably should've had the foresight to realize it would only make him feel worse. After getting merely two paragraphs into one letter, he'd thrown the paper into the fire, watching as it turned brown and curled upwards. And then his heart had wrenched and tears had been drawn inexplicably to his eyes, and he'd dived to the carpet and thrusted his hand into the fire, crying out as he managed to save the mostly burned but partially salvageable letter. (He'd used his right hand to practice with his sword today—his left was still covered in painful blisters.)

More than anything, Dan wished to ride Alamo. Nothing got his mind off things like riding, and he knew if he could just feel the wind in his hair and his horse beneath him that he'd feel better, at least for the time being. But he also knew that it was likely Phil would follow him again, just like he had the last time Dan had sulked in his rooms for a few days. Except this time it was worse—this time the thought of seeing Phil left him feeling sick. Though he'd been trying to keep his mind off Phil as best he could, it was evident that he was failing. Phil lived in all the little cracks of his mind, slipping through and invading his every waking moment and leaving him unable to stop thinking about him.

Phil didn't love him. Dan knew that. He knew that and yet he was unable to stop feeling wretched that he didn't, unable to stop filling with warmth as his mind betrayed him and he dreamed of warmth and Phil. He just wanted to stop thinking about him.

Without much else to do, Dan tried to clean out his closet. He tried to get rid of everything that reminded him of Phil, throwing his clothes angrily to the ground and kicking them the to back of his closet. But then he was left with barely any clothes, and he really did love wearing capes—he didn't want to get rid of those!

Resigned, Dan went about picking up his clothes and doing his best to hang them back up again, wincing at the sudden lopsided and ugly looking clothing. No, he really was no match for the maids when it came to these kinds of things.

Slowly, time slugged past Dan as he sulked about in his rooms, a melancholy cloud following his every step, unable to abandon him. Mostly, Dan ended up laying on his bed and wishing time away. He wished for many things, actually. And then he didn't wish for anything at all.

--

"Your Highness," Alfonzo said with a sigh. Dan had spent a lot of time looking forward to conversing with Alfonzo and Bentley again, which had been his main highlight of the previous day. He'd even managed to put it off for a while, wanting to savor it—he'd ignored Alfonzo calling his name for nearly ten minutes.