Wilbur was right after all.
It hasn't been two full days since their conversation when Tommy receives an inscribed notice: the Emperor is putting him in charge of trading affairs between the Empire and Badlands, and is to participate in meetings that would take place by the end of the week.
The way it's worded inadvertently suggests that Tommy's on probation and the decision can be changed at any time. More so, if he considers that three days is a ridiculously short term for him to get ready while there are still duties in need of his immediate attention.
It's like the Emperor expects Tommy to fail. Nothing out of ordinary, he supposes - the monarch always seems to have doubts when it comes to the crown prince, despite the fact that he hasn't ever given him a reason for that. Tommy has proven himself capable before, and he'll do it again.
He calls for Beau, and as soon as she arrives Tommy gestures at a pile of reports on the desk.
"I'm granting you full access to the document archives. Search for more there if needed, or talk to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, but I need these looked over and summarized in two days at most. And, for the love of everything - put the index on the first page. I hate to turn to the end each time."
Beau leaves, hauling the pile into her arms, and that seals Tommy's solitude for the rest of the day. Dream apologized profusely for not being able to keep Tommy company today; he and Sapnap were meeting up with a friend.
They never specified who that friend was; Tommy never asked, and guarded his expression so as not to let his disappointment show. He was wasting enough of Dream's time as it is. At the bottom of things, they were just acquaintances - or allies, at best - and the crown prince of Esempi had just enough obligations before Tommy as he had before a potted tree.
Tommy tunes to the sounds from outside his office. Click-clack-click of Dream's swift stride has him perking up and peeking out the hallway. The only people he finds there are the guards stationed at the doors. Tommy stands there for so long, scouring the corridors with a gaze, that they start sharing questioning looks. In the end the crown prince grabs a pile of paperwork and carries them into a parlor further down the hallway, where all sounds are swallowed by soft carpets and a living soul is rarely seen.
Afternoon leaks into dusk with Tommy hunched over books and tendrils of papers. By the time he has to light a reading lamp, his legs turn sore and his head sinks deeper and deeper into his palm. He tries to massage some life back into his stiff neck, blinking rapidly to prevent his eyelids from getting glued by sleep.
Knock-knock-knock. It doesn't sound like a rap of knuckles on wood and rather resembles a dry branch jabbing against a glass window. Sluggishly, Tommy makes an effort to turn his head to the side and face the bastard who dares to interrupt his rest, but his mind decides that it's not worth the energy to be wasted.
In a floating state of near unconsciousness, Tommy doesn't realize that somebody's standing before him until he is jostled into awareness by something touching his wrist. Locking his fingers on the book's spine, he swings it at the person blindly.
"Woah-" a blurry figure of sea greens and rusty gold reers back. "Sorry, sorry-" The voice sounds vaguely familiar.
"Dream?" Tommy blinks, confused, and surely enough, drifting shapes start merging with one another until he sees green eyes studying him with amusement.
"Yeah, that'd be me," Dream chuckles, straightening up. "You can put your weapon down now."
Tommy is still holding the book over his head, and his face blazes red when he realizes that he had nearly smashed Dream with a history of commerce in the Antarctic Empire. He slaps the book on top of a pile. The noise wakes him up a bit more. Tommy draws his sore muscles back and looks at Dream, rubbing a thumb in-between his furrowing brows.
"What's the- how is-'' a breath, a quick moment to recollect his thoughts. "Why are you here?" he finally settles on saying.
"I'm sorry that it has taken us this long. My friend had... a lot of opinions to share, since the last time we've spoken."
Dream smirks, a sheepish sort of curve to it that makes Tommy think of those many times that his family or Tubbo had been disgruntled with him for doing something foolish. He produces a timid smile of his own. "I hope that nothing has happened to put you on bad terms."
"However heated the argument was, we agreed to disagree," Dream says. "I thought you'd be preparing to rest by now so I sent Prince to you instead. He returned quickly and seemed alert, so I got worried and decided to check up on you."
Tommy scrunches his nose up. "Pardon me, I don't think that I've heard you right. You said you were worried- about whom, again?"
"You, Theseus," Dream says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
It's not. Tommy's frown grows so deep that his entire face resembles a shriveled grape. He feels like a fool incapable of following a conversation, but when his options are between that and gawking at Dream like a complete idiot, Tommy would much rather pretend that those two words don't launch him into utter confusion.
Tommy takes a moment to look around: with the reading lamp on the verge of flickering out, shadows cluster under armchairs and loveseats. Tommy wouldn't even notice Sapnap standing there, heel and back propped against a wall, if it wasn't for him quietly whistling a tune under his breath.
When their eyes meet, Sapnap retrieves one his arm from where it was crossed on his chest and waves. The hour is late, and yet both he and Dream came looking for Tommy from half across the palace just because he missed a visit from Prince.
"Well, you can see that I'm fine now," he blurts out, shuffling the mess of abandoned paperwork into his arms. "No need to further bother with-"
Tommy springs to his feet. His legs decidedly don't like that. Sore from hours of sitting in the same position, they give up on existence, sending Tommy crashing face-forward. He has one split second to say goodbye to his dignity and brace himself to kiss the floor before he is yanked back upright.
Tommy clenches the papers so tight that his nails leave marks on them. By some miracle, not a single one had slid off during his fall. Belatedly, he registers the warmth around his ribs - it burns through clothes and has him jerking instinctively.
"Are you feeling well?" Dream asks, and the arm holding him is gone. "We can accompany you on your way back to your quarters."
Tommy opens his mouth and closes it again. He can tell when people ask something out of courtesy, or because they feel obliged to - he had enough experience both as the listener and as the one talking. This isn't quite it. If Tommy wasn't so doubtful of his own abilities to tell the truth and lies apart, he would dare to say that Dream and Sapnap's concern sounds genuine.
A late wave of dizziness dices in and his empty stomach churns. Spots of black dance furiously in his vision, the beginning of a headache pinching his temples. "I'm fine," Tommy snaps, and even his voice sounds gaunt as it rises just below the break. The guilt is immediate, but Dream does not seem offended or hurt.
"That's good," he says. And after a pause and an odd flicker in his eyes, "Do you want me to send Prince to you again?"
Fueled by a sudden impulse, Tommy looks up and blurts: "Could we go and see him together? I want to make up for not responding to him earlier."
Sapnap chokes on air. Tommy glances up to make sure that the knight is okay, but Dream beats him to it; his pointed glare and a frantic gesture send Sapnap turning away and coughing into his fist. Some unspoken words pass from one to another. Anxiety digs a pit in Tommy's stomach. It strikes him forcefully that he doesn't fit here, in-between two long-time friends, like a stick doesn't fit with two swords.
"You do not need to answer that. I realize now that I made an unreasonable request," Tommy says, averting his eyes.
Both Dream and Sapnap freeze, exchanging a glance. Dream straightens up, folding his arms behind his back. Despite the confident posture, the crown prince fails to hide the panicked way his eyes dart, searching for a proper response as if it's going to leap from behind a corner any second now.
"Not at all," he finally says, with the defeated attitude of an actor forgetting his lines. "It's just that Prince is very..."
"-shy," Sapnap helpfully chimes in.
"Shy," Dream parrots, visibly relaxing.
Sapnap grins. "And an idiot."
"And an idi- Wait, what?"
Dream glares at Sapnap again, and this time with enough heat to melt iron into a puddle. The knight raises his hands placatingly and feigns extreme interest in a pile of books that Tommy had left behind, going as far as to open the top one and skim through brittle pages.
"I shall not waste your time any further and return to the eastern wing," Tommy says, feeling more and more awkward by the minute. He would prefer to shut his mouth and save himself the embarrassment, but words keep on slipping past his lips when Dream looks at him like this: like everything he says matters, like he wants to know more. It resonates with some part of Tommy that he didn't know still existed, and it aches.
Tommy attempts to bolt there and then, after some rushed version of a bow or a nod. He makes it to the top of the stairs before Dream's words throw a loop over his neck and yank him standing.
"You're my friend, Theseus. I would never consider time spent with a friend a waste," Dream says nonchalantly.
"Oh." When Tommy finds his voice, it barely crosses the borders of a murmur. "I... really should put those papers back in place. But I'll see you tomorrow, at the tea party, yeah?"
Dream barely has the time to nod before Tommy takes a sharp turn on his heels and breaks into a near sprint.
***
The first thing Tommy wants to do when he gets to his chambers is to duck under heavy covers and not come out until the tea party. But clothes stick to him with a day's worth of sweat and grime, soreness in his muscles still persistent even after a long walk he had taken back here, and he knows that he wouldn't be able to sleep with embarrassment still hot in his veins. Tommy had all but bolted out of the library, and didn't have any courage to look back and see what kind of looks Dream and Sapnap sent to his trails. He could deal with the confusion tomorrow; today, he just wanted to take a bath and sleep.
Tommy sends all the remaining servants to their rest, and walks into the bathroom scorching with steam. A bath is drawn waiting - it looks more like a proper pool. He could lay there at full height if he wished to, limbs sprawled to four sides without touching its borders. A number of glass vials line the pool on one side: colorful fragrances, oils and soaps of crushed herbs and powdered roots. Tommy leaves them all untouched, as always, and pops a jar of sea salt open. He turns it over and watches bubbles form, and the empty container is left to join a bunch of others in a cabinet.
Tommy sheds his clothes, tossing them into a pile to be later dealt with. He cups a handful of water from a basin and splashes it into his face, washing the concealer off. Tommy has already gone through the first container, and Beau has gladly promised to provide a few more. He rubs his face until all the makeup comes off clean and takes a moment to inspect his reflection. It hadn't struck Tommy as wrong how pale his skin looks, stretched sharply over prominent cheekbones, until other people started pointing out his tiredness. First Niki, then Beau and now Dream have all mentioned it in passing.
But then again, they are recent arrivals. Sullen cheeks and sober expression had scratched over whatever memory Tommy had of how he used to look before. There was some color there, maybe, sunflowers and diamonds and open afternoon skies, before it drained away like paint under heavy showers. Now he wears exhaustion like the rest of the Imperial family wears color blue. The closest to blue in Tommy are the bags under his eyes.
Tommy straightens up and lowers his legs into the steaming pool. It takes him a second to brace himself before he sinks neck-deep into hot water's grasp. First his skin seethes almost painfully; as heat spreads evenly through his entire body, Tommy slacks and tips his head back with a deep sigh.
Under the water, Tommy passes a hand from discolored birthmarks on his back to his sharply curving ribs. Skipping meals was just another bad habit that Tommy had picked up after Wilbur's disappearance. Before, Wilbur would be the one telling him when to eat, when to sleep, or when to waste away with him in the office. Tommy was so used to his brother instructing him every step of the way, that he didn't know what to do with himself when Wilbur was gone. The smallest of choices, like what to wear in the mornings or which route to take down the hall, came to flood him with terror.
By the end of the first week he was so overwhelmed that he refused to take a step out of his chambers. Caterpillars cocoon to turn into butterflies; princes lock themselves from the world they are not ready for. If Mother was still around, she would have scolded Tommy for the first meal that he had left to become cold and stale. It took the Emperor two weeks to even notice him missing at the dining table. Only Tubbo's pleading look could have the prince swallow a piece of bread or bite an apple, and he had turned into a husk of his former self.
"He's here, Your Majesty," Tubbo's voice quivered. Tommy thought vaguely that it isn't a good sign, that he should ask Tubbo what's wrong- but that seemed like just too much effort. Talking was exhausting. Trying to make sense out of muffled voices had already left Tommy drained, so he opted to close his eyes and ignore a gasp and callings of his name.
The bed creaked under new weight. Tommy was moved to sit against something warm.
"W-wilbur?" he croaked. His throat felt dry. Moving hurt, but hope flickering to life gave him enough strength to open his eyelids. Only agony of disappointment and ugly tears had come when he realized that the person holding him was not Wilbur but Father. Tommy shrieked and struggled and begged for his brother. The Emperor didn't let him go, murmuring soft apologies, until he drained himself into unconsciousness.
Each passing day reminded Tommy of how hollow his existence was. On his first birthday without Wilbur, he shook with silent cries while nobles had come to give him their gifts one by one. More than anything in his life Tommy wished that he could trade every single one of them for a chance to hear his brother's laughter. On the days that loneliness was most unbearable, Tommy would find the quietest corner in the palace and start a new letter with the same two words, "Dear Wilbur..."
In the beginning, Father offered his comfort every step of the way, but he eventually grew tired of Tommy's tears. Instead of words of understanding he received displeased glares and clipped responses. Tommy was called a disgrace when he was grieving and was treated like a burden for missing his brother. Thinking back on it years later, the only thing that Tommy would add to the Emperor's words is that he was also a major fool.
"Do you not have any friends from noble houses?" Quackity had once asked, when Tommy had told him that he didn't know who his allies in the palace were.
"Just Tubbo," Tommy said.
"You've got to be messing with me, Your Highness," Quackity said, elbow on knee, chin propped up on a fist. "You're the type of person to be surrounded by crowds and drowning in attention. I don't believe that you can't list a few names."
Tommy shrugged. "A lot of nobles offered their kids to be my playmates. Wilbur told me it's all because of my title, so he chased them away. But that was alright," he quickly added, kicking his leg out. "I didn't need a lot of friends when I had my brother."
As soon as those words had left Tommy's words, he felt a lump staggering his breathing. He used to have his brother, but not anymore. It reminded him of how hollow the palace was without Wilbur's laughter scattering from polished stone walls. It's quiet because you're not speaking as much anymore, Tubbo had told him. Tommy said that there wasn't anyone listening who would be worth the effort.
"Were those Prince Wilbur's words?"
Quackity's baffled voice had his gaze flinging up, He looked equally concerned and disturbed. Tommy didn't understand why. He shrank on himself, shoulders curving to his ears.
The baron leaned away. His face softened a bit but at the same time gained the guarded edge of a person afraid of spooking a wary bird. Tommy didn't like that. It wasn't pity per se, but something close enough that would imply that there was something worth grimacing for.
"Has he ever done anything else that might have... Isolated you, in any way?" he asked. "Said something that didn't sound quite right to you?"
"Of course not!" Tommy blazed. He glared at Quackity with all the ferocity that a thirteen-year-old boy could muster. Wilbur, who gave away warmth like he breathed, who treasured every pretty thread or dried flower from Tommy like they were precious gems, who pouted when Tommy wriggled out of his hugs - he defended the memories of that Wilbur, because they were the last thing left of his brother.
But there were different memories, too. Not as sun-bathed or rose-tinted like the rest of Tommy's childhood was. Things that Wilbur said that made Mother look sad and Techno pained, words shouted in rage whipping Tommy's hearing and making him hug his stuffed cow tighter.
Wilbur was never angry with Tommy, even on the days that he seemed to loathe the world itself. Despite that, seeing him fuming and spitting words like poisoned darts always made Tommy's heart stutter up in his windpipe. On days like this Wilbur would come stomping to his room, guitar tied to his back, and lead them into the busy heart of the capital. He would find a resolution to his anger in the chimes of the instrument and in people flocking to listen unaware that this was the crown prince in front of them.
Tommy was seven on the day that Wilbur had lost him. They were in the dense river of a marketplace when Tommy's fingers slipped from Wilbur's own. In a moment, both brothers were swallowed by the crowd and carried away to two opposite directions: Tommy only had the time to see Wilbur frantically looking around before he almost fell to his knees and under the feet of hurrying folk.
He was tossed around violently by moving bodies. Wide-eyed and terrified, he screamed Wilbur's name until his voice gave out and his feet hurt. Tommy climbed under a stall with cabbages, shut his eyes and let the tears flow.
"Hey," somebody said.
Tommy raised his head from where he sat, crying. A boy climbed under the stall after Tommy and sat down before him cross-legged. He was around the prince's own age, with black eyes that squinted into shards of obsidian and curly dark hair. The boy fixed a tattered cloak on his shoulders and gave Tommy the brightest of grins. The prince sniffed, confused, when a grimed hand was shoved under his nose.
"I'm Eryn," he said. "What's your name?"
When Tommy didn't take Eryn's hand, the boy took it himself and gave it a light squeeze. Eryn's palm felt warm and scratchy. Wilbur had said that Tommy shouldn't talk to strangers, or worse, tell them that he is a prince, so he only stared blankly ahead and blinked.
"Poor you, you don't even have a name?"
"Of course I do!" Tommy sneered, suddenly feeling offended. "I'm Big Man T Danger Cautious Kraken Innit, the biggest man of them all. But you can call me just Big T."
"Well, Big T," Eryn grinned wider. "Do you want to see my place?"
Eryn took Tommy's hand and led him through alleyways so narrow that two men wouldn't be able to pass chest-to-chest. Two small boys, one in a black cloak and the other in red, easily slipped through missing bricks in the sides of old buildings. Eryn had climbed a roof first, then hauled Tommy up, and they continued their journey with tiles rattling under their feet.
They climbed through a circle window of an attic. Inside, Tommy was met with a tiny room that he could barely stand upright in. The only source of light was the window that they had just climbed through. Shards of glass were hanging from the ceiling, painting stray beams of sunlight in all colors of the rainbow.
It was pretty, but it couldn't distract Tommy from the fact that Eryn didn't have a proper bed, only an old pillow shedding feathers, a small blanket that looked like a toddler's and a pile of worn out clothes to imitate sheets. The way it was arranged reminded him vaguely of nests he sometimes saw on trees in palace gardens, if those nests were made from human junk.
"The old lady downstairs is deaf, so she doesn't know I live here," Eryn explained as he ducked under a half-rotten ceiling beam.
"You live all on your own?" Tommy asked, abashed. "Why?"
Eryn leaned closer, a conspiring look on his face. "Do you know how to keep secrets?" he asked.
Tommy nodded solemnly, and Eryn untied his cloak from where it was barely kept together by a worn out thread. The fabric slipped off. Tommy gaped as a pair of dark-gray wings outstretched on two sides, almost slapping him on the face. Eryn folded one of them so Tommy could run a tender hand over the layers of slick feathers.
"Peregrine falcon," Eryn puffed up his chest. "They grew out a few months ago. Hurt like a bitch, let me tell you that," a grin disappeared from his face for a moment only to return twice as bright again, "People in the orphanage said that I'd be taken away to somewhere better, but I didn't want to go, so I ran and ended up here. You can live with me too, since your parents have abandoned you."
Tommy's heart skipped a beat. "I wasn't abandoned!"
"Then what are you doing all on your own?"
"I got lost. My family must be already looking for me."
"Oh. That's good, I guess."
The boy seemed almost sad. Tommy's chest panged with guilt. It never occurred to him that him having a family could upset somebody. His gaze scrambled for something to cheer Eryn up with. His eyes landed on an odd piece of wood branching to two sides with a leather strap between them.
"What's that?"
Eryn picked up the thing and handed it to Tommy. "Have you ever shot a bow?"
Tommy shook his head. "One of my brothers wanted to teach me, but the other said that I'm too fragile. I could break my hand if I tried."
"Well good then that a slingshot is much easier to shoot than a bow. Come on, I'll show you."
First few stones that Tommy shot went amiss. ‘Pull your elbow back further and don't close your eyes when you shoot,’ Eryn said after demonstrating how to use the slingshot one more time. Tommy followed his words, and the clay pot on a window shattered into pieces. That's how he first discovered that he has a steady hand and a naturally good aim, and learned to run very fast so that the angry owner of the pot wouldn't whack his head with a broom.
A few hours later, Tommy and Eryn were drying themselves on the sun after taking a dive in a river upstream of the capital. Eryn didn't know how to swim and refused to do as much as dip his foot in water. Tommy wafting lazily against the slow current must have wounded his pride, because he frowned and stomped right in, keeping his wings flared up comically so as not to get them wet. A useless effort, because after a fierce splashing match both boys were soaked from head to toe.
"Now they're all gross and grease," Eryn complained, wiping the wings dry with his cloak. The feathers were sticking out in all directions except the one they were supposed to point at, a few looking like they were hanging on for dear life.
"I can fix them up for you," Tommy suggested. "My aunt is an avian too. I know how."
Eryn gave him a puzzled look, but didn't pull away when Tommy's fingers clumsily ran through the feathers. He pulled out those that seemed loose and tried to realign the rest. Eryn made a surprised noise, his pupils widening until they almost took over his entire eyes. Tommy giggled when his new friend let out a long, low coo.
When they heard the sound of many footsteps approaching, Eryn scrambled to his feet and shoved Tommy behind his back, wings protectively flared. But Wilbur had shoved his way out of a line of guards, and as soon as Tommy had spotted him, he was running into his brother's arms.
"Theseus!" Wilbur crushed Tommy in a hug. His voice sounded wobbly and scared. "Where did you go?"
"I'm sorry," Tommy muttered, snuggling closer. "Got lost."
Wilbur didn't let him go for a long, breathless moment. "We're going home now," he finally said, grasping Tommy's hand. "Mother is worried sick about you."
"Wait! I need to talk to Eryn first."
Wilbur frowned, lips pressed in a displeased grimace, but Tommy had already yanked his hand out and was padding towards Eryn.
"I can't believe that I taught a prince to shoot a slingshot," Eryn said when Tommy had come closer.
"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you," Tommy said. "I didn't think it mattered."
"Not really, it doesn't," Eryn bumped his fist into Tommy's shoulder. "I'm glad that you've found your brother. "
They both fell silent.
"I guess this is where we say goodbye," Eryn said.
Tommy shook his head, defiant. "You can go back to the palace with me. You could meet Tubbo, and my other brother, and my parents will let you stay for as much as you'd like."
"No he can't," Wilbur snapped. Tommy shot him a wounded look. Wilbur's face twisted, and he added: "I'd gladly take your new... friend with us, but Father would not approve of it."
"It's okay," Eryn said. "I can manage on my own just fine."
"We'll meet again," Tommy promised. He unclasped his red cloak and draped it over Eryn's shoulders, maroon standing out sharp and bright on gray wings. It suited him well.
"For your nest," he explained.
Eryn touched it tenderly. He looked at Tommy like he had just gifted him the world and not a piece of scarlet fabric. All meek regret that Tommy had felt giving up the cloak - it was his favorite one, after all - had disappeared without a trace. He would get Eryn another thousand more like this if they made him this happy, but he felt that it was the meaning of the gift that mattered.
"Thank you," Eryn said. "I won't lose it."
Next time that Tommy was taken to the city, he beelined for the house that Eryn had lived in. Wilbur even asked the old lady to let him in the attic, strangely calm, but Tommy when climbed in, he had found that all of the avian's stuff was swept off clean and thrown away into a dumpster.
Eryn was gone, much like his red cloak, and Tommy never learned where he was taken. Wilbur wouldn't say a word on the matter, and whenever Tommy brought him up his brother would get snappy and angry. I can't be enough for anyone, can I? he once said, but it was so sad, and Tommy didn't like Wilbur being sad, so he hugged him tightly and never spoke of Eryn again.
Staring off into the bathroom's ceiling, Tommy wonders where Eryn is now. Did his wings grow large enough for flight, swiping across the skies and cutting air with razor-sharp feathers? Does he wonder, taking a faded red cloak, ten times over stitched at the seams, what their brief acquaintance could've turned into? Guffawing over silly jokes, warming hands on campsite fire and racing headlong gallops against the wind. Friends, they would've called each other, and Tommy wouldn't have to pretend to know what it means.
***
By the time Tommy climbs out of the bath, the water has gone cold. He is wiping his hair with a towel when he is alerted by a pointed knock. Tommy haphazardly pulls on the first clothes his hands lay on and spanks to the door on bare feet.
It's Beau.
"Your Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Sam has requested an audience with you," she says.
"At this hour?" Tommy asks, dumbfounded.
Beau just gives him a small shrug, the look on her face as lost as his own. "He seemed very insistent."
Tommy thinks back of his bed, so close and yet so distant. His muscles ache in protest, but he can't just deny Duke Sam's request either. Running late by a few minutes is acceptable given that the audience was requested without prior notice, but he is still a monarch in his own right, only the slightest below from Queen Nikachu or King Foolish.
"Very well," Tommy sighs. "Let me change into something more presentable first."
It would be hard to believe that Beau has this little to say when it usually feels like she is keeping a separate record on every person in the court. But Tommy did have her cooped up with paperwork, and the only information that she managed to gather in her free time is that the duke leaves the palace every few days, always at around the time that dusk made the ground bleed.
Tommy was curious to know what sort of business the duke might be having outside the palace. When Wisp reported to him that Duke Sam was gone again, he stayed up at night to see the man return. Recognizable in the dark only by his massive form, the man rode through the main gates, dismounted his horse and left it to a stable boy.
As Duke Sam was making his way back into the palace, he suddenly tipped his head back. Maybe the lights reflected oddly from the windows, or his imagination was playing tricks on him, but Tommy could swear that the man's eyes were glowing bright yellow-orange as they fixed on a window the crown prince was observing him from. I see you, Duke Sam seemed to be saying with the tilt of his head. But that wasn't possible. No human's eyesight was sharp enough to recognize Tommy in a blurry shape in the dark room.
Rational thought was of little help as he scrambled backwards, nearly knocking a chair over. When Tommy gathered enough courage to glance out the windows again, the man was already gone.
Tommy finds Duke Sam at a table fraught with dishes: beef steaks under rich crimson sauce, fish pampered with lemon, steaming rice paired with garlic bread and a selection of salads surrounding it all. The smell clots in the air and makes Tommy's empty stomach churn.
It's not the sort of serving that he would have arranged for a formal banquet where lightness and a complexity of refreshments is valued. Little short of an entire feast, it'd be enough to feed an entire squad of his personal guards. If Tommy didn't count just two sets of cutlery on the table - the head seat, and the one to the right of it - he'd think that more people were about to join them.
Tommy bows. "Your Grace."
"Prince Theseus," Duke Sam says. "I am yet to have an evening meal. Would you care to join me while we talk?"
Duke Sam points at a chair beside him. It would be impolite to refuse, and awkward to just stand there and stare as the duke dines, but maybe there is a tiny spark of defiance in Tommy, the irritation of being plucked out of his chambers at a late hour, but he plops himself down on a seat on the opposite side of the table. Granted, the table is short, and doing this didn't put Tommy on the other side of the room, but the distance is soothing to his spiking nerves.
Grand Duke Sam is hard to read, Beau said the other morning, and Tommy agrees. Even Techno, with all the stillness of his expressions, gives himself away with small twitches and grimaces and tone. In his attitude, the duke resembles the warden of a prison who served relentlessly for so long that he absorbed the somberness of stone bricks and iron bars. He pays no attention to Tommy's choice of seat. Sawing a steak with a knife, he shoves the piece into his mouth and chews in silence. With his patience short from the very start, it's not long before Tommy gives up waiting.
"You've recommended me to oversee the commercial affairs," he says, putting his arms on the table and broadening his shoulders in a display of confidence that he doesn't feel. Tommy immediately regrets that decision when the duke fixes a look at his casted hand.
"That I did," Duke Sam says. "Is it something you don't want to partake in?"
"Don't misunderstand. It would be my greatest honor and pleasure," Tommy says, and he means it. "But a few days ago, you..."
Called me an incompetent child and accused the Emperor of being a neglectful parent, Tommy can't force himself to say. What was supposed to be a statement turns into a question, near-bleated with how high his pitch had gotten.
Tommy thought he was over the incident during the Banquet. It's all confusion and colors and words blurred together with tear-striking pain, but heated up to one red shade of embarrassment boiling his ears. He nearly broke down there, forced to face the reality that he kept a blindfold on for. While Tommy was too deep in his old pathetic longing for love and attention to notice anything amiss, the duke was able to cut his chest open and pluck out the worst of his dreads by simply watching from afar. To think how much more Duke Sam had learned about Tommy that he himself doesn't know - that, in all brutal honesty, terrifies him.
The duke puts his glass down, rests his clasped hands on the table before him and looks Tommy in the eyes.
"I believe I owe you an apology, Prince Theseus," the man suddenly says. "I stand by what I said - governing an empire shouldn't fall on the shoulders of someone as young as you. However, my frustration at the banquet was directed at the wrong person." He shifts in the face, and Tommy wonders if by that he means Emperor Philza.
"You can trust that nothing that I have stated was intended to upset you or undervalue your competence as a prince," the duke continues. "In fact, when it comes to the issue of trade between our nations, there's nobody else in the palace who I can think would do a better job than you."
His voice is calm, with a hint of warmth that feels like the flicker of a candle in winter. Tommy can't help but find something soothing in it. "What makes you say so?"
Duke Sam produces a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He makes no movement to pass it to Tommy on the other side of the table. After a moment of hesitance, Tommy pushes his chair back and creeps up closer, settling at the edge of the seat closest to Duke Sam. Up close, the man's eyes hold darkwood depth and forest paths lost to moonless shadows, none the trace of wild yellow that freaked him out the other night. As slow as dripping honey, Tommy's shoulders sag.
The duke unfolds the paper and hands it to Tommy. Thumbs clasping the page on two sides, he runs a gaze through cramped lines and recognizes it as part of his report, the one he worked on during that brief period when he was in charge of overseeing new trading routes with Badlands.
"Is this your work?" Duke Sam asks.
"How can you tell?" Tommy drawls, hesitant, "There was no sign, no name. Only the crow seal that we mark all of our documents and letters with."
"But the invitation letters came from Prince Theseus' own name," Duke Sam reminds him, leaning back on his chair. "I put two side-by-side and came to the conclusion that the handwriting matches."
Tommy has nothing to say to that. It seems unlikely to him that somebody would base their judgment on something as insignificant as handwriting, but a weight has been lifted off his chest now that more or less all his questions have been answered to. He didn't forget about the duke's apology, either, and suddenly the duke seems a lot less terrifying than he did mere ten minutes ago.
He puts the paper back into Duke Sam's palm, and he folds it back into his pocket just as neatly as before. "I am curious," Tommy says, fiddling with a fork at the side of an untouched plate. "Why did you decide to tell me this now, and not at the oficial meeting in a few?"
"I find meetings suffocating," Duke Sam admits. "They are loud, full of excessive formalities and are more about nobles tiptoeing with their words as not to offend somebody than actually solving matters at hand. Every council is half flatterers, a quarter fools. I think our work would be much more fruitful if we could meet up like this every once and a while."
He has a point, Tommy supposes. Even paperwork doesn't always seem as anguishing as four hours of different ministers arguing on the price of bread only to recycle the last year's rates. Tommy would gladly prefer to have a meeting out in the open, on a terrace or gardens. Even the library would be a welcomed alternative to big round tables and uncomfortable chairs.
"I believe that can be arranged, for as long as those occasions are not too frequent," Tommy says.
For the first time since Tommy had met the man, Duke Sam smiles. It's a toothy sort of grin that lights up his entire face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It reminds Tommy that the duke is still a young ruler, closer in age to Wilbur and Techno than he is to the Emperor Philza, his hair a clean dark color void of wisps of gray and only the faintest of wrinkles touching his forehead.
"With that out of the way, we should dine," he says. "The cooks have outdone themselves. Let's not let their hard work be wasted."
Tommy looks over the table full of food; most is still untouched, whiffing warmth and wonderful smells. His stomach grumbles. Tommy breaks a piece of pumpkin pie with a fork and shovels it into his mouth, completely forgetting that he wanted to skip the dinner that day.
***
The invitation to a tea party comes early in the morning. Ranboo is more than surprised that it came from Marchioness Beau. He'd never spoken to the lady personally, but in the eastern wing, they stumbled into one another almost every other day. After all the disdainful looks and pointed snickers the last thing he'd expected to receive from her was a rose-scented envelope with pretty cursive letters that asked him to come to a palace courtyard for some pastries this afternoon.
Ranboo doesn't want to participate in any tea parties. Even though the nobles have started to treat him with far less open disgust, crowds still made him so nervous that he wanted to puke. The things that he could briefly catch people whispering... They weren't pleasant either. No matter how polite Ranboo was trying to be, no matter how hard he tried to click into the life of highborn nobles, he was treated the same as he always was. Slave, that he was before. Pleb, churl, hedge-born are some of the nicest names he hears.
Tubbo received an invitation as well. It's just the two of them in a small parlor of all soft blues and milk creams, their respective envelopes abandoned at a coffee table. Sunlight brushes half-drawn curtains, tumbles in and dances up and down the glittery surface of silver-gilded furniture. On a wall there is a painting of mountains, formidable in glory of icy spikes and rickety paths and dabbed with dark green pine trees at the base. A cliff cracks the picture in the middle. There, barely noticeable against gray stones, stands a man with two crow wings.
Ranboo feels almost envious. They were planning to try and climb the outer palace walls today. Tubbo claimed he had done it a thousand times before, but the perspective of falling to his death from seventy feet of height hasn't become any more appealing, and a pair of wings would be the most welcome. Ranboo voices that thought out loud, but a lasting pause makes him look at Tubbo with a gut-pinching sensation.
"I'll be attending the party," Tubbo says, voice quiet and brittle like rustling leaves. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Theseus in a while and... Well, I want to know if he's alright."
"Why?" Ranboo asks. He isn't trying to sway Tubbo from his choice, but thinking of how meek and mirthless Tubbo used to seem around Theseus makes his heart wrench. "Why do you still worry about him?"
"We were friends since we were six," Tubbo said, tone laced with sorrow. "I know Theseus. Even when he lashes out on people, it's not out of malice. It's just... He's been hurting, for a very long time."
Ranboo opens his mouth. No sound comes out. Two days ago, he might have argued; talked out the resentment that fills his heart, but now, after apologizing to Theseus for lying about being Dream's penpal, he isn't entirely sure of his feelings about the crown prince.
"Wilbur said that you're proud to admit it and w-well... I thought you'd be glad if I take that weight off your shoulders. Which doesn't excuse me, and I'm sorry," he said, trailing off into low muttering. "Can you tell that to Prince Dream too?"
Theseus looked calm and unbothered . "You may be assured that I will pass your words to Prince Dream. I recommend that you be more careful with whom you trust your words to. You never know when they can be used against you."
Ranboo still thinks that Theseus had no rights to treat his former aide the way he did, but with how Tubbo speaks of him now... Ranboo has never had a friend of his own before, so maybe there is more to it he doesn't understand. It isn't the first time that Tubbo brought up missing Theseus, either, but never as openly as this: his usually guarded expression cracks to reveal eyes full of grief. Ranboo sits down next to Tubbo and presses their shoulders together.
"I won't be against it if you wish to return to Prince Theseus," he says carefully.
Tubbo shakes his head. "He won't take me back. Especially not now that he has a new aide. I'm of no use to him."
Ranboo hesitates to ask, but the question has been swirling in his head for a long time. "You obviously care about Theseus, so why did you leave in the first place?"
For a moment, Tubbo is quiet. Ranboo thinks he might not get any answer at all, but with a heavy sigh, Tubbo says curtly, "I was useless." And after that it's like a dam breaking. " All. The fucking. Time. Nothing that I said or did had any impact. Theseus struggled and I tried my best to help, but maybe I wasn't doing something right, or he was too arrogant of a prick to accept it, because he always chased me away."
Tubbo voice cracks. He takes a moment to swallow some air, blinking away the unwanted tears. "So, I thought Theseus didn't want to have me around anymore. It hurt, but if he needs someone different than me, what kind of friend would I be to keep him from moving on?"
The pause that comes after is heavy enough to make a man drown. Ranboo doesn't know what words can be comforting in this situation; he barely knows Theseus and can't speak on his behalf. So he settles on the one thing he feels like would help. Tentatively, Ranboo opens his arms for a hug. Tubbo seems as shy as he leans into it, all steeled shoulders and stiff limbs. Ranboo rubs a hand up and down his back, noticeably smaller than his own, and lets the warmth draw the tension out of his body.
"I'm really glad that you're with me now, not as a servant but as my friend," Ranboo confesses. "You scare me sometimes, still, but you're one of the few who treated me well from the very start. For that, I'm grateful."
"The standard was pretty low. Almost everyone else was an asshole," Tubbo snickers.
Ranboo grimaces, but joins in with a quick laugh. When silence rounds their conversation once more, he asks, "Do you want me to go to the tea party with you?"
"You don't have to."
"I want to be there with you. Besides, some tea and cakes can't be all that bad. It sounds kind of nice actually."
"Thank you," Tubbo says, and cranes his neck up to Ranboo. Past the tired eyes close to crying, a tiny smile sneaks up on his lips.
***
Beau hosts the party at one of the palace's countless backyards. A round table is set on grass and filled with cakes and desserts under dome glass lids, and a roof of silk sewn over a birchwood frame shields them from scorching sunlight.
When Ranboo and Tubbo arrive, only about half of the seats are occupied. All faces are vaguely familiar, but only to two he can put a name: Baron Sneeg - one of the ministers in Phil's council, and Niki, who Beau is busy talking to while they make their way to a pair of empty chairs furthest from other noble folk.
Sitting down, Ranboo fiddles with a brooch, a miniature duck with tiny gemstones instead of feathers plucked into the front of his suit. Quackity handed it to him after their first conversation, claiming it to be a family symbol of sorts.
I'll be scouting around for a few days, seeing what has changed while I was gone. Keep low and carry on with the legend, he said. Ranboo is pretty sure that attending a tea party doesn't count as 'keeping low', but he was thinking about Tubbo first and cautiousness second. He can only hope that Quackity is not going to be mad with him when he's back.
"Are all noble families in the Empire symbolized by birds?" he asks Tubbo quietly, seeing an embroidered feather - an eagle? a hawk? - sewn onto a noble man's sleeve.
"Only those that were rooted with the start with the Empire," Tubbo replies. "Pure of origin, as they sometimes call themselves."
Ranboo blinks at Tubbo in confusion. "I don't quite get it?"
"The difference between a kingdom and an empire is that an empire contains several nations. There used to be a whole lot more countries and independent states on the continent before they were joined to the Antarctic Empire. Most of them present themselves as separate noble houses now with old symbols as their heraldry. See that woman over there, with a spotted short cape?"
Ranboo indeed sees her next to Niki, a dark-haired lady with a chiseled round face and curtains of black eyelashes over piercing blue eyes. When she demands a servant to bring some wine - I know that this is a tea party, wine goes well with citrus - her hand windmilling a glass doesn't quite move the right way. The said cape drapes over her elbows, leaving the shoulders open, and is brought together at the front with a silver clasp that Ranboo squirms at to see better.
"Is that a fish?"
"A seal," Tubbo corrects him. "That is Countess Minx. Her domain is right at the borders between the Empire and Drywaters."
"What about Marchioness Beau?" Ranboo sees the lady finish her conversation with the queen. Skirts of Beau's dress rustle as she moves their way: layers of puffy white underneath and laced mint-green at the top, flounce sleeves swallowing her forearms down half-way down her elbows. Ranboo makes sure to keep his voice down as he asks, "What symbol does her family have?"
"Poison ivy," Tubbo says.
"I'm glad that you could make it," Beau says, smiling, once she comes within earshot distance. She looks only at Ranboo, gaze so intense that Ranboo's eyes flicker down, down to his hands curling on his lap, to his shoes tightly pressed against each other. He wishes he could go even further, drop under the ground and throw himself into the tightest of cracks. Don't look them in the eyes.
Under the table, Tubbo's fingers around his own and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "We are most grateful for the invitations," Tubbo replies dutifully, but clearly it's not what Beau has been expecting..
"I heard that Ranboo is short-witted, not mute," she says. "Can he not speak for himself?"
Tubbo's eyes flash with anger; Ranboo presses his back flat against the chair. Before either of them could answer, a new appearance stirred Beau's and every guests' attention away.
"Your Highnesses," Beau curtsies. Ranboo risks a glance up. He notices something different about Theseus - grayish blue coat traded for currant red, clasped half-way up over white shirt and collaring under his chin. Steps, usually perfected to match one another down to inch, are abandoned to match Dream's swift pace; they both seem like they sail over the ground rather than walk on it.
Beau sits the princes down far closer to them than Ranboo deems comforting. Attendants are gestured over to put lids away from pastries and fill cups with fresh steaming tea. While they circle around, bouncing between requests, nobles start conversations with one another and it isn't long before one occurs that makes Tubbo and Ranboo clutch each other's hands tighter.
"Marchioness Beau, I congratulate you on stepping up as Prince Theseus' aide," Sneeg says. Curiosity creeps in his voice like a cat to a whiffing meal."Of course we were expecting the vacancy to be occupied at some point but none as soon. I am meaning to compliment His Imperial Highness when I say that he takes his time making important decisions."
"Oh why, thank you," Beau says, folding a hand under her chin. "It's a very honorable position, and it doubles as a responsibility. Truth to be told, I am still not quite certain what made Prince Theseus change his usual ways."
"It is true that I am not quick to put trust into people," Theseus speaks up from his seat, staring straight at a plate of strawberry tarts. Not like he wants to have a bite but rather tries to keep his eyes from staring at somebody in particular. "But recently the conditions of my trust have undergone major changes. For one, I no longer take the length of acquaintance into consideration. It seems as though even time is not enough testament to one's loyalty."
Theseus' gaze focuses on Tubbo and is gone back to phasing off again. Every other voice at the table had died out with people curious as to what the crown prince has to say, and that look casted at Tubbo lasted just long enough that the guests' attention switched to him. It couldn't be more clear whose loyalty they were talking about.
It's Ranboo's turn to squeeze Tubbo's hand tighter. He can hear his friend breathing in short puffs, feels the pulse speeding up with his fingertips pressed against the boy's wrist. A mistake, Ranboo thinks. Coming here was a mistake from the start.
"Working with Marchioness Beau has been a great improvement and relief," Theseus continues. "With her assistance, I have more time to spare on socializing in high society and frequent my appearances in court."
A murmur passes then, words exchanged from one ear to another. Nobles seem pleased; why wouldn't they be? Their beloved prince is providing them with gossip to feed on for the next week. Ranboo doesn't like the way Tubbo has quieted down, that he doesn't raise his fog-clogged eyes. Ranboo wants to stand up and take them both away, but Tubbo just sits there, as if he's nailed to the chair, or has been frozen for so long that he, too, started turning to wood. In his life, Ranboo has never truly wished anybody harm; but for Tubbo... He hates Beau, and more so, Theseus.
Ranboo isn't thinking straight when he pushes his chair back, words of anger huffing in his lungs, climbing up his windpipe and forming on his tongue. He wants Theseus to know how much he's hurting Tubbo; how he doesn't deserve a friend like him. Dream next to the crown prince kept his creepy mask on since the start of the tea party, and black hollows of his eyes pin Ranboo to place. With all of his courage suddenly gone, he sinks deeper into the chair and bites his tongue.
Beau seems as pleased as if she had seen a theater play performed right before her. "Bring some tea to His Imperial Highness," Beau waves a servant over, and they move with a steaming pot towards where Theseus sits.
Without raising his eyes, Tubbo gestures the servant to a halt. "Prince Theseus doesn't drink floral teas, they make him nauseated," he quietly says. "You can bring some earl gray instead."
The crown prince changes in the face - for a moment so fleeting that Ranboo doesn't get a chance to decipher it - but then someone on the table breaks the silence with a murmured, Prince Wilbur. Wilbur walks up to the table, long hems of his blue coat trailing behind him. Ranboo sees Dream lean in closer to say something to the crown prince's ear that makes the corner of his mouth tilt up.
"Prince Wilbur, have you been invited to attend this party?" Theseus asks.
"Greetings to you too, dear brother," Wilbur smirks, one hand over his heart as he bows to the guests at the table curtly. "Answering your question... it would be greatly inconsiderate of Marchioness Beau not to include me in a party in my own palace. I was expecting the invitation the whole morning, but it seems that a servant has been lost on their way. I take no offense, as this was an honest mistake."
Wilbur moves, smooth as silk, confident as a lion. A folded fan slaps the top of the chair, preventing him from drawing it out of the table.
"There is no mistake here, Prince Wilbur," Beau says. "Bold-faced liars are not welcome at one table with us."
The silence is utter and sudden, like after a lighting that struck without a rain. Ranboo has never seen anybody speak to Wilbur in that manner; he may have a hard time memorizing the order of all the noble ranks, but he knows that a marchioness is way below a prince to speak to him in that manner. Wilbur's expression that usually shifts with the speed of a slithering snake goes deadly, dangerously still.
"This is a serious accusation," Niki speaks up, putting a spoon down from where it's been frozen over a cup and dripping tea. Her face is sculptured out of marble. "Do you have evidence to base it off, Marchioness Beau?"
On the other side of the table, a glass rings as Dream strikes it lightly with a fork. "We have a confession to make," he says, standing up. Everybody turns to listen; everybody but Theseus, who watches with disinterest as a servant tilts a pot over his cup.
"I'm sure that everybody still remembers that, a few weeks ago, I was searching for my anonymous penpal. There was an unpleasant incident at a dinner when Ranboo claimed to be them and then couldn't prove it to be true." A few looks are casted at Ranboo; he shrinks on himself. "Prince Wilbur then vigilantly defended him and accused me of deceit, and Prince Theseus was unfairly treated for trying to stand the side of the truth."
"He was standing up for me," Beau says. "The real addressee of Dream's letters. I wanted to come forward and admit it, but when Prince Wilbur had started spinning a different tale... Who am I, the mere daughter of a humble noble house, to dare and go against someone as authoritative as His Highness?"
She presses her fan to her cheek, eyelids drooping down. "Poor Ranboo, too, had told me that he was dragged into this story, pressured by Prince Wilbur into lying."
Ranboo did nothing of the sort. But under all those watching eyes, air refuses to leave the prison of his lungs. He's balancing on a thin rope over nothingness below: one wrong word, and sympathetic looks that Beau had drawn to them both will boil to bloodlust. And yet, Wilbur stands so pale, his dark eyes seeking out Ranboo- he needs to step in. He needs to say something.
Ranboo hasn't noticed how tightly he has gripped Tubbo's hand until the boy squeezes it just as hard and nearly breaks his fingers. "Don't," Tubbo barely moves his lips. "They have better proof ."
"With all due respect, how do you know that it's not another fallacy?" Sneeg asks.
"Marchioness Beau has the originals of the letters," Dream says. "As well as has written a new one to prove that the handwriting truly matches. This time round, I have no doubts."
"Is it true, Wilbur?" Niki asks. "All of that has been said?"
Her words ring of steel. Even Theseus, mixing sugar into his tea, pauses to look at Wilbur. And the older prince... He sends a look over frowning lips, hostile gazes and accusing eyes, stumbling to a halt when it reaches his younger brother. For a moment, Ranboo thinks that Wilbur will reveal Beau and Dream's lie, but then he looks back at Niki and his shoulders sink down.
"I have nothing to say that would satisfy this audience," he says.
The queen looks away. Her disappointment, not even directed at Ranboo, makes his heart sink. "Then it's probably for the best that you leave our company at once."
Wilbur whirls around and strides away, arms folded behind his back, steps so stiff that it's obvious he barely contains himself from running. Once the older prince has gone out of their sight, everybody looks back at Theseus, silent and waiting. Whatever the crown prince says now will be engraved into each guest's memory, who will then spread the word further and further until every stone of every tower knows of Wilbur's disgrace.
Theseus draws out that moment of power; he sips out of his cup, not making a sound. "I am truly sorry on the behalf of my brother," he says, finally putting his tea down. "Ever since his return three years ago, Prince Wilbur couldn't come to terms with the fact that the Empire doesn't need him anymore. Perhaps he thought that a close acquaintance with the crown prince of Esempi would give him a sense of purpose he was lacking." Theseus turns to Dream. "I hope that you will take no offense to your name and kingdom because of one unwitted individual."
For the first time since the start of the tea party, Dream takes his mask off. Underneath it, his smile is sincere and his eyes are a bright sea green. Ranboo doesn't trust his own judgment of people's expressions, but the way he looks at Theseus... It feels like it's filled with pride.
"You've convinced me not to," Dream says. "As long as you're first in line for the throne, the Empire is in secure hands, Prince Theseus. I look forward to strengthening the relationship between our nations."
Guests start to turn back to their cakes and tea after that. Gone is the silence, filling with the sound of chattering and buzzing tones. While others gossip, Ranboo only watches Theseus. Theseus, who is Dream's true penpal. Theseus, who could've easily let his aide borrow the old letters. Theseus, who, by every passing second draws his lips apart wider and wider.
Ranboo has seen Theseus grin before; a joyous beam he shared with Fundy, bright and full of summer rays. The smile that saunters the crown prince's lips now sends a full-body shudder down his neck.
When Theseus' gaze snaps to him, Ranboo nearly jumps out of his own skin. Your turn next, his eyes seem to say.
Ranboo gulps.
***
From a second floor veranda that Wilbur stands on, he can see Theseus' retreating form, dull golden curls gathered in a ponytail that bounces with each step he takes. A few paces behind him is Marchioness Beau, a parasol casually slung against her shoulder. Either she had felt Wilbur staring or had spotted him watching a while ago, but she cuts her steps short and glances over her shoulder. Dream, closing the procession, follows her gaze.
The crown prince of Esempi pushes his mask to the side with mocking tardiness, baring half of his face to Wilbur. It's more than enough to read Dream's smirk. A teasing glance he tosses at Theseus is like a dagger to Wilbur's heart; Dream looks like he has won some precious prize and is showing it to Wilbur just to gloom, reminding how close he was to grasping it in his arms and how easily it had slipped through.
Except it's no it, it's him. His brother. From the moment Wilbur first held him in his arms, Theseus has been Wilbur's. He should be the one next to Theseus, he should be the one the boy looks at with utter admiration, and he should be the one coiling his fingers on his brother's arm comfortingly. Wilbur should be there, but instead Dream bumps shoulders with Theseus lightly and receives a smile in return. It's tiny, and more of a shy tug at the corner of his lips - but it's more than Wilbur has received in the last three years.
His hands clench on whitewood railings so hard that his knuckles turn the same color as them. Wilbur doesn't consider himself a violent man, but if a chance ever comes, he would gladly bash Dream's face in.
"A popular face now, aren't you, Prince Wilbur?" a male voice asks. "After getting publicly demolished, and so boldly on top of that... They say it was quite a spectacle."
Wilbur whirls around to the source of the voice. Bursting into the veranda and beelining for the railings, he hadn't, until now, noticed a man on a chair next to blooming bushes of mock orange. The stranger rests one foot on the thigh of the other, looking at a notebook held low over his lap through the lens of a wire-framed monocle. A golden chain attaches it to a button of a well-tailored burgundy coat.
"Who the fuck are you?" Wilbur spits.
The man slams the notebook shut and slides it into an inner pocket of his coat, the monocle soon following.
"Don't take it as an offense. I'm sure that they've done careful preparations." He stands up from the chair, movements slow, and shoves his hands into the pockets of dark pants. "I'm just surprised that it had taken so long for Dream to recruit Prince Theseus to his side. It usually takes less than that for a fly to get caught in his web."
Wilbur lets those words seal the silence as he takes a moment to study the man. A fairly young face with sleeked black hair and onyx eyes reveals everything and nothing at the same time. The stranger, utterly unbothered with a hostile stillness of Wilbur's expression, plucks his hand out for a shake. It's a rare gesture in high society where bows and curtsies are the norm; only merchants and chess players tend to use it.
"Grand Duke George of Kinoko Kingdom, beloved cousin of King Karl, the Keeper of the Great Library. In casual conversations, just George is fine."
"Aren't you supposed to be Prince Dream's friend?" Wilbur pauses. "And what do you mean, caught in his web?"
Wilbur has heard a few things about George. Always whirling in higher circles, they say that he's an excellent chess player who has conquered the court of both Kinoko Kingdom and Kingdom of Esempi. Some people credit the latter to Prince Dream, who values the duke a lot and keeps him practically glued to his side.
When it becomes apparent that Wilbur has no intentions of shaking hands, George draws arm back and sighs.
"If that's what the Antarctic Empire calls a profitable acquaintance, then sure, Dream is my friend. As to the spider and his webs... "
George looks at the courtyard, where Theseus and Dream walk side by side. Unconsciously, Wilbur's hands clench into fists. "I can see that you're concerned with your brother's well-being. So, as someone who has known Dream for years, I want to give you a fair note of warning. Wherever Dream goes, misfortune follows. Other's paths are marked with steps, and his are littered with dead bodies. Dream is like a voodoo doll who curses people around him to sorrowful fates."
"And yet, you seem to be doing just fine," Wilbur says sharply.
A smile barely touches George's lips. He steps closer, and Wilbur has to root himself to resist reeling away. "I know where to step so I don't get stuck. But Theseus is young. Naïve and easily mendable, craving for someone to look up to. Isn't it a brother's duty to make sure that nobody uses that to their advantage?"
If Wilbur is an instrument, those are the words that brush over the old strings. Fears and dreads, protectiveness and love, jealousy and determination; it's a wild mix and, despite knowing George for less than five minutes, he finds himself clamming his mouth shut and listening like he's life dependent on it.
George's eyes flash - a smug look gone as fast as it appeared. Passing by, the last words he says practically over Wilbur's ear. "If I was in your place, I'd step in and save my brother before he gets completely and utterly trapped."