Wilbur is afraid of water.
That was one of the first things Techno rediscovered about his twin brother three years ago. It rained for days during their journey back to the capital; Wilbur had sat curled up on himself in the carriage, hands pressed against his ears so as not to hear the patter of raindrops outside. Techno would bring a lantern buzzing with warmth or another scratchy woolen blanket for Sally to wrap Wilbur and Fundy in. Watching as his brother's pale face smoothened into sleep, he'd return back to the saddle, soaked to the bone and shivering with exhaustion.
Techno's brothers are similar in more ways than either of them would like to admit. Wilbur is too prideful to let anybody know of his fear; he didn’t have to say anything, however. Techno saw how his breath hitched, chest tightening, after Father asked him about the night he almost drowned. He noticed that the curtains of Wilbur's room were draped shut, and the next day the pond under his windows was drained, blue bells of honeywort planted in its place. Even the first time Sally had returned to Lmanburg without Wilbur, and his brother showed up at his doors, awkwardly struggling for words, Techno understood.
"Do you want me to help wash your hair?" he asked, and Wilbur nodded silently, please.
So many times Wilbur fell into panic when water had come too close to trickling into his nose or mouth; splattering and turning the tub over, he coughed and gagged until his throat was battered raw. On his worse days Techno is haunted with the memories of Wilbur's choked sobs as he mouthed, over and over again, "I can't breathe."
Those days are long behind. Sitting on a low stool, Wilbur tips his head backwards over a shallow tub of water, flinching only when a glass vial is uncorked a bit too close to his ear. Channeling all his concentration to circulating air in and out of his lungs, he has no energy to spare on weaving masks. That is Wilbur's true vulnerability: not that he trusts Techno's hands, gently rubbing shampoo into his hair, not to drown him, not admitting to the fear of every source of water bigger than a bucket, but that in his fluttering eyelids and lips for once relaxed out of a smirk, he looks almost Techno's brother, back from the time they still introduced one another proudly, "My twin."
Techno doesn't want this moment to end, but no silence can last forever, except death. Their unspoken agreement to keep any conversation on hold is broken when Wilbur straightens his neck, eyelids falling closed with a deep sigh.
"You're leaving again.”
Wilbur doesn’t ask, he states, so Techno doesn’t see any point in denying. "Bandit gangs have gotten bold in my absence. They’re robbing merchant wagons on unguarded roads. I must see to it that they’re exterminated as soon as possible.”
“Little use of our military if the smallest of inconveniences requires the general’s personal attendance,” Wilbur huffs, wincing when some water trickles down the collar of his shirt. “...Does Theseus know?”
A pang in his chest. Techno ignores it. “Not yet," he says.
“He’s going to be dissapointed.”
Techno remembers Theseus' eyes, to the brim filled with hurt and fury. I’m not so sure about that, he is about to say, but then he takes a moment to look at Wilbur more closely. When did Wilbur ever worry about Techno leaving, or what Theseus felt about it? Usually he would be apathetic at best to hear that Techno is about to take the field again, and at worst saying, it’s long overdue.
It feels odd to keep a conversation with Wilbur. Techno thought that their interactions are bound to be limited to silent agreements and brief encounters for the rest of their lives, but here they are, talking as if they are stumbling blindly in a dark room, getting used again to the sound of each other’s voices. What are you really here for? Techno would ask, if he wasn’t so afraid of scaring Wilbur away.
“You’re on edge,” he says instead, seeing the small lines forming on Wilbur’s forehead.
For a moment Wilbur looks like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "That tea party has stirred up some nobles' displeasure with me," he admits.
"How odd," Techno hums, squeezing the excess water out of Wilbur's hair. "It's almost as if you have to face the consequences of your own actions."
"I'm not speaking just about the letter incident," Wilbur says bitterly. "Suddenly they decided to remember it all. Running away, marriage with Sally, that my son was born as a commoner." Wilbur presses his lips tighter. "I've been their crown prince for twelve years of my life. Why does nobody ever remember that?"
In high society, the past is a luggage shackled to one's reputation. Theseus bears his as a brilliant golden crown and from Techno's shadows people tend to avert eyes and cower away. Wilbur, though... In the majority's eyes, he is forever labeled as a traitor.
Wilbur grew up hungry for praise and attention. He might claim not to care about public opinion, but Techno knows his brother better. Wilbur wouldn’t be here If Niki's support and advice was still available. Whether the queen told him to stay away or the prince himself didn't dare to show his face, he decided to turn to Techno instead.
"Do you want me to silence the culprits of the rumors?" he asks.
Wilbur shoots him a look from under deeply creased eyebrows and shakes his head.
"You wouldn't be asking if you knew how many enemies I have," he says. "Before, the fear of Emperor Philza had been keeping them at bay. Now they are using the crown prince's name as a shield to call me a waste of imperial blood."
Wilbur wears the same expression as he does when he tries not to let his emotions show through. In his eyes is a wildfire, and the nature of fire is that it won't stop blazing until it burns down everything it can reach.
In twenty-five years of their life Techno still hasn't figured out the way to put it out, but he never stopped trying. With the same hands that can snap necks like they're matches, Techno gently squeezes Wilbur's shoulders.
You're not a waste, you're my brother, Techno could say, but those words, meaning the world to him, would be an empty sound to Wilbur. It's not from Techno's lips that he wants to hear ‘I care’ from.
“You know that Theseus didn’t really mean when he said-”
“Of course he didn’t," Wilbur snarls, shrugging Techno's hands off. "It was Prince Dream's doing."
Techno steps away despite hollow protests of something deep inside him. He opens a drawer, pushes a crumpled piece of bloodied fabric further out of Wilbur’s view and takes a soft towel from where they are piled neatly on top of each other.
“Don’t trust George,” he says, turning.
Wilbur's shoulders tense, but the next moment he leans back and sighs. “Shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve been listening in on me. What’s next? Eating out of my plate first to make sure that food isn’t poisoned?" He makes a sour face, "Oh wait, I forgot that we already have food tasters working shifts for that."
Techno ignores the sarcasm in Wilbur’s voice. “That man clearly wants something from you," he says, handing Wilbur the towel. Wilbur straightens up and rubs it and down his head, far more violently than necessary.
“I am not five, Techno,” he sighs, exasperated. "I know a trick when I see one. And yet…" Wilbur tosses the towel away and wrenches around to look at Techno. "He has a point about a few things. First the tea party, now fueling rumors? Theseus would never dare to do that, or could for all that matter. It's clear as day that Dream is manipulating him into making those decisions."
"Are you saying that out of genuine concern for Theseus," Techno says calmly, looking in Wilbur's eyes. "Or because it dwells on you that it's Dream's whispers that he listens to and not yours?"
Wilbur fists the fabric of his shirt. He looks out of the window, and Techno trails his gaze. In a long gallery connecting the northern and southern wings, formed by parallel rows of columns, two people are walking side-by-side. Without his glasses Techno sees them as a blur of blue and green, but it doesn't take a genius to guess from how Wilbur's gaze hardens.
"I should’ve known that you won’t mind our brother steering away from us,” he says coldly. “You've been a joke of a sibling in my absence, but I’d prefer you by Theseus’ side a thousand times over Dream or that bastard Quackity.”
Techno withdraws a snarl. It's a habit to bite down on his tongue as he straightens his back a bit more – the pain is refreshing, if not in the intensity then with how it spikes sharply instead of tolling on him in howling waves. Even the implication that he cares about Theseus any less than Wilbur has Techno swallowing his anger.
"I despise Dream even more than you do.” How could he not, when one of the first things that Dream told him was, do you know that my ancestors killed yours? “If the choice was mine, I wouldn’t let him a hundred miles from the palace as the crow flies.”
Perhaps it'd make him a poor ruler; unyielding and unforgiving, clinging to the shards of the past that he himself hasn't known. For the better or for the worst, a sword doesn't guide its master's hand. Techno will leave the leisure of choices to the Emperor... and to the Imperial crown prince.
“Theseus is not a child anymore," he continues. "Today he is our crown prince, on the morrow our emperor. The same kid who used to look up to you with shining eyes is going to rule over the entire Empire someday.”
“He was never supposed to rule!” Wilbur slams his fist on the windowsill, so hard that the water in the basin ripples. “He was supposed to have a normal childhood, with his mother by his side, dreaming of some stupid things like riding a dragon or becoming a pirate.”
So much for keeping his composure. The moment Wilbur drops his calm act Techno’s flies shattered too. “His dreams almost got you killed,” he snaps.
Wilbur’s eyes glint sharply. “It’s you who almost got me killed.”
Techno flinches. Wilbur’s expression flashes from fury to curiosity. Lips turned upright, baring teeth and eyes narrowed, like a predator who smelled a wounded prey. “What would Theseus think if he knew that you had seen me on that night? That you told me to leave alone when I wanted to take both of us?”
“Don’t,” Techno growls.
Instinctually, he curls his fingers into fists, but it’s not a fight that he can win physically, and Wilbur knows it better than anybody else. The sound of his laughter is almost like a knife driven deeper into an old wound.
“You act so indifferent and turn tails the moment you see something that you can’t handle, but in the end, you care, don’t you?” he spits. “You’re scared that Theseus will turn to despise you like he does me.”
The shadows seem to be growing around him, and an alarm rings at the base of his skull, pulsating down his neck and sending waves of sharp energy to his limbs. Wilbur picks Techno’s weaknesses apart, peeling them away layer after layer. If he hadn’t stood there, a little short of fuming from the fire dancing in-between his ribs, Techno would think about how after all the death he had seen and caused, it's Wilbur’s words that cause a thick layer of fear to coat his insides.
“If you want to tell him the truth, do it,” Techno says. See if it’s going to make any difference in how he treats you. “It doesn’t matter what Theseus thinks of me for as long as he is in the safety of the palace.”
Wilbur smiles sinisterly. “That is where you are terribly, terribly wrong.”
Techno stills. “What do you mean?” he says, slowly, carefully.
Once again he finds himself at Wilbur’s mercy. Knowing that Techno is waiting, Wilbur takes his sweet time to round the entire room: brushing the back of his palm over the sheets of a neatly made bed, pressing his foot on every creaking floorboard as he walks up to a bedstand with a jewelry box on top. Techno nearly snaps when Wilbur touches the lid, but he merely brushes his thumb over the lock and whirls around on his heels.
"Think about it," he says. "Three years ago, somebody paid for Emperor Philza’s death. The assassin fails to kill his target, but dies before you could learn who he had been sent by. And now, Prince Dream, who has never set foot into the premises of the Empire, suddenly comes with an official visit and insists on getting closer to the crown prince… Doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.”
Techno doesn’t believe in coincidences either, just like he doesn't believe that Prince Dream has sent his knight Sapnap to the barracks for training only. If you spend enough time around the guards you'll eventually learn the times at which one shift is replaced with another, what routes they take and how many people are patrolling a section of a palace at a specific time. Techno's people know better than to spill information like that to outsiders, but there is more to Sapnap and Dream than meets the eye.
Without any proof he has nothing to accuse the crown prince of, but the sly ways that Dream glanced at him, leading Theseus away… He knew exactly what he's doing, and it was like Techno was fourteen all over again, seeing that dark light ignited in Wilbur's eyes for the first time.
Theseus looks far more fragile than he is. He might lack the strength but for his speed and agility Techno once compared him to a weasel. Raccoon, Theseus had corrected him, grinning as he tossed a gold-gilded button that he had sliced off Techno’s coat a moment ago. Hardly any attacker would expect a thin boy, looking a little livelier than a ghost, to put up much of a fight… That was an advantage that Techno thought might save his life someday, if only Theseus hadn’t exposed his own skills in that foolish duel with Sapnap.
He must have kept silent for far too long, because the next moment Wilbur's smile turns knowing. “You have thought about it too, haven’t you?” he asks, and Techno has nothing to say to that. He’s been played like a fiddle, a broken instrument that didn’t know it was capable of making sounds anymore. Techno’s arms fall at his sides, his shoulders sulking, no longer having any strength to keep himself standing straight.
“What do you want from me, Wil?” he asks, voice hollow.
The nickname makes something ripple in Wilbur's expression, and if Techno was a hopeful man he'd say that it looks like regret. The next moment, however, his brother turns away, touching the emerald dangling from his ear.
"Just so you would know,” Wilbur says. “Stay aside any longer and next time you come back you may not have a brother at all."
***
The idea of growing out his hair came to Tommy out of the blue. He just realized one day that it has been a while since he last got it cut, and decided… not to. In front of other people, he called it a change of style. Techno knew better. When he had returned to the palace and found Tommy nervously glancing from behind a curly fringe of blond. The first thing he asked was, ‘ Can I brush your hair for you? ’
They would spend hours together like this – Techno running a soft brush down Tommy’s scalp while they chatted the evening away. Admittedly, Tommy did the chatting. Techno mostly hummed and quipped a word or two in to show his acknowledgement. He rarely started a conversation first, but it didn’t mean it never happened at all.
“You could use a few hairpins,” Techno said, putting the brush away. Tommy’s hair grew long enough to start getting into his face, rendering all his effort of tucking it behind his ears useless. Agitated, Tommy tipped his head back and snarled:
“It’s not like I have any, dickhead.”
Techno looked at something over his shoulder. Without turning, Tommy already knew what it was. A jewelry box sat on Techno’s bedstand, sealed by a lock that had a single key. When Techno reached for the silver chain hanging from his neck, Tommy put a hand over his arm and lowered it slowly.
“Keep them,” Tommy said. “I’ll just wait until my hair’s long enough that I can tie it up in a ponytail or something.”
Rings, necklaces, hairpins and rings: Empress’ jewelry, each precious on its own, all together were worth an entire fortune. Techno had no need for the money. The only gem that he ever wore was a single emerald earring, one of a pair, yet he guarded the box as if a single stray glance would tear it to pieces. He nearly broke an arm of a maid who wanted to swipe off some dust from the top. Mother’s death left Tommy with a garden, and Techno – with a jewelry box. Remembering the promise given to the Empress on her dying breath, for the first time Tommy wondered if he was the only one in the family who harbored secrets.
“What do you want for your birthday?” Techno suddenly asked.
Tommy stilled. "My birthday?” it came out quieter and shakier than he intended.
“You’re turning thirteen in a month,” Techno repeated patiently. “What do you want for a gift?”
Tommy, who once would have pulled out a list twice his own height, and shove it into Techno’s hands with a cheeky grin and unabashed, ‘Don’t forget to check the other side!’ had gone entirely quiet. It happened more and more those days. Techno used to call him a nuisance for his habit of annoying the sanity out of people. Tommy thought his brother would be glad to get some silence for once, but Techno’s expression dropped.
“Anything,” he took Tommy’s hands, tiny in his calloused palms, and squeezed them gently. “You just have to ask.”
The honesty and desperation in Techno’s voice had breached an invisible glass wall. Tommy lifted him a shattered look, reaching blindly for something through a hollow frame. “Wilbur,” he said. “I want Wilbur.”
Techno’s hold tightened and slacked one more. He did not ask anything else, dropping his head forward, shoulders tensing as if he was trying his hardest to keep himself composed.
Feeling guilty, Tommy carefully peaked into Techno’s face. “You know, there is one thing that I really, really want,” he said.
Techno didn’t answer, but raised his head to show that he was listening. That wasn’t enough for Tommy, though. He leaned forward with a conspiring look. “A dagger.”
“A dagger?” Techno echoed, blinking.
Tommy nodded solemnly. “We’ve been training for a long time. Now I want a weapon of my own. The bestest, sharpest, most poggers dagger you can find.”
“Bestest is not a word,” Techno huffed. “And so isn’t poggest, for all that matter.”
Tommy could see that his words had worked, though. Behind a feigned look of annoyance, Techno was hiding his relief. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll get you a dagger if you promise to be careful with it.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Tommy clapped his hands together and grinned wider. “Oh, I’m going to stab so many people.”
“Theseus.” Techno tried to grip his forearm, but Tommy rolled out of the way and stuck out his tongue. A traitorous smile quivered in the corner of Techno’s mouth. “I’m arguing with a child,” he sighed.
Tommy let out an offended screech. “I’ll kill you,” he promised, mounting a bolster over his shoulder like a weapon. “Prepare to fucking die- AH!”
A pillow flies out of nowhere and pancakes Tommy’s face. It takes half a minute for him to realize that he is no longer dreaming, and another two that the faint throb in his face is not from sleeping on one cheek for too long.
“Good morning, Your Imperial Highness.”
Tommy pushes himself into a sitting position. His mind is still groggy with sleep, but not enough that he wouldn’t recognize the person standing in the doorway.
“Marchioness Beau, did you just throw a pillow at me?”
Beau looks at another pillow in her hand, tactically mounted over her shoulder, and tosses it away. “I would never,” she says, unblinking.
I swear, Beau gets bolder each second that I’m not looking at her, Tommy thinks. She trots to the windows and draws a heavy curtain away, fastening it around a hook with a gold-plated cord. The sun spits right into Tommy’s face with its irritating brightness, proving that Beau is, in fact, getting bolder, and that his gaze has nothing to do with it.
Covering his eyes with his arm, Tommy groans, “I’ll fire you.”
“No you won’t,” Beau declares, already halfway out of the door. “Else you won’t have anybody to cover the paperwork for you today!”
She leaves, and Tommy rolls out of bed, nearly faceplanting on the floor. Mornings suck when you spend half of the night looking over old reports. He walks into the wardrobe, where an outfit is already perched for him on a chair. Without the cast on his hand, he slips into a jade coat easily. Tommy removed it despite the physician's insistence that he keeps it on for another week. It doesn’t hurt… much. At least the plum purple of bruises had faded into less vigorous blots of yellow, and he can cover it up with a long sleeve.
Tommy doesn’t wear his crown often, not unless he needs people to see clearly who they are talking to, and today is exactly the occasion. A delicate piece of silver, made from symmetrical shapes that web around an emerald in the middle, slides down his curls – a familiar weight, reassuring and crushing in equal degree.
At last, Tommy picks up a dagger from a niche between the mattress and the headboard, and unsheathes it, steel scraping against steel. It’s a weapon as beautiful as it is deadly, with the handle forged into the shape of wings, and edges so sharp it can cut skin like paper. Tommy slides his hand against the flat side of the blade, feeling tiny intrications, not wider than the tip of a needle, forming a line of snowflakes. He loves how comfortably the dagger sits in his hand, the fragile yet perfect balance of a weapon lifted with two fingers – and hates it to an equal degree. When Tommy grips the handle and twists the dagger around, he imagines tiny droplets beading at the tip like tears. Drip, drip, drip, cries the steel, louder and louder, as his reflection swims in blood.
“Your Highness?” Beau peeks into the room again.
Click! The blade slots back into sheathes. Tommy foists the dagger into his belt. “Lady Beau, do you have any hair pins I could borrow?"
***
No more than ten minutes later he is marching down the hallway, his steps muffled by the carpet, Beau’s skirts sweeping close. Tommy doesn’t need her to follow him to the exit – Wisp is already here, along with four more guards – but she presses her lips together, side-glancing meaningfully, so he gestures to them to fall back a bit.
“Is something the matter?” he asks.
“Unfortunately,” Beau sighs, wringing her hands. “A certain incident occurred the day before yesterday, and it’s better if His Highness hears about it from my lips before anybody else’s.”
Tommy doesn’t have a good feeling about this. “I’m listening.”
“I may have angered Prince Technoblade. Unintentionally,” Beau says, as if somebody in a sane state of mind would anger Techno on purpose. “He walked on me quipping Ranboo and… oh well, didn’t seem pleasured by it.” There is more to that, Tommy knows, so he whips Beau a glare. “He handed my horse over to Ranboo. As a form of chastisement, I suppose,” Beau begrudgingly admits.
As soon as she finishes speaking, Beau pulls out her fan and waves it over her cheeks and neck, despite the windowless corridors being chilly enough that Tommy can sense it through the coat. Or is he the only one who feels this way?
Suddenly he wants to wrap his arms around himself. Techno rarely steps in to protect him against Wilbur. He could be sitting next to Tommy, listening to his twin’s poisonous words, and only occasionally glance between them with a sigh. Sometimes, Techno just leaves. Tommy had gotten used to the fact that Techno would rather avoid any conflict… But then why in the world would he step up for Ranboo?
Maybe Beau’s not telling him the whole story, or she somehow had insulted Tommy’s brother without realizing it. Techno had wounded her pride, which much is certain, and pride is a fragile thing among nobles. Tommy knows from experience that the more it suffers the more painful next blow will be. It would be hypocritical of him to scold Beau for something that he himself is faulty for, especially since it’s her first slip as his aide.
“Techno won’t cause any ruckus,” is all Tommy says, ignoring the throbbing feeling in his chest. “You may have a pick of any horse that belongs to the palace stables for as long as it isn’t Prince Techno’s chestnut stallion. If you are to quip Ranboo more in the future, make sure that neither my brother nor I hear of it.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” The fanning halts abruptly. “But the horse is not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Beau snaps her fan closed, the sound of it so loud that a maid across the hall jumps. She lowers her voice, "Can I speak to you freely, Your Highness?"
Now it feels like Beau is testing his patience. Tommy fixes her a look. "It seems to me like you’re already doing that.”
"This level of honesty needs your permission in advance, or else you might truly fire me."
Tommy looks for a hint of sarcasm or amusement in Beau’s face and finds none. He waves her ahead, if not for the truth then out of simple curiosity.
“It’s the crown prince’s own duty and right to deal with his servants’ misconducts, and no matter how you look at it, Prince Technoblade is below you in status. The fact that he allowed himself to choose and carry out a penalty in your stead is an enormous act of disrespect and a challenge of authority. You can’t just overlook it.”
Beau’s words have the effect of a dropping chandelier. Only Wilbur and the Emperor ever use such an openly demanding tone with Tommy, but at the same time, she isn’t inherently wrong. If it was some secretary who tried to challenge any of his rights as the crown prince, he’d have their enthusiasm smoldering fast, but Techno…
Tommy buries his feet into the carpet for a stop and whips around to face Beau. In an instant, he forgets it all: courtesy, restraint, patience. “Was it my imagination, or you have just said that to my face?”
If the ringing steel of Tommy’s voice intimidates Beau, she refuses to show it. “I don’t think my concerns are unfounded,” she says, calmly folding her hands on her skirt, the fan clenched between her hands. “Prince Technoblade is second in the order of inheritance, isn’t he?”
“And Prince Fundy is fourth, so must I see it as a breach of authority every time he forgets to bow to me?”
“All members of the Imperial family are competitors for as long as they retain any rights for the throne,” Beau says, calmly folding her hands on her skirt. “The crown prince's attention is currently on targeting Prince Wilbur, but Prince Technoblade is the only one who can be a real threat to his position.”
“It’s my older brother that you’re talking about!” Techno, who was the only one who supported Tommy, who comforted him after Wilbur’s disappearance, who carried him to bed when he was too tired or sick to walk. Who, above the throne and the crown, saw him simply as family.
Beau must feel that the ice under her feet is thinning, and fast, yet she still chooses to walk it. “In my memory, you have two brothers,” she says, as if Tommy needs a reminder. “We both have seen it happen before. It starts off with acts of insolence like refusing to use proper titles and ignoring courtesy. You let it slide – because truly, how much harm can come from something as small? – but before you know it, suddenly the whole world has turned upside down and you’re a trespasser in your own home.”
A familiar knife cuts twice as deep. One moment Tommy was confident that they were arguing about Techno, but now he isn’t so sure anymore. Beau’s every word easily applies to Wilbur, and if you really think about it… Ranboo, too.
Whatever happens to the crown prince affects all his court. Tommy understands, now, where Beau’s intentions are coming from, but it does little to tame his anger. For a few seconds, the grip of fury is so tight on his throat that he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Beau notices as much, waiting in patient, humble silence.
“It seems to me that you’re the insolent one here,” Tommy says dryly. “I gave you permission to speak, so I won’t hold your words against you, but neither will I hear another comment as such.”
“As it pleases the Imperial crown prince,” Beau agrees.
They walk the rest of the way in strained silence. Beau tentatively leaves his side before he could make it through the heavily guarded doors of the main entrance. Yesterday’s showers have left their mark; shy as a debutante on their first ball, the sun hides behind the ragged cotton of clouds. Tommy stops on the top of the stairs just to feel the wind breathing into his face, letting it quench his temper until his chest is no longer full of sizzling coals.
“Thes!”
A silver-gilded carriage waits for him at the foot of the stairs. Six raven-black horses are harnessed into three rows, a pair in each. They snort, bobbing their necks up and down. Dream waves at him from where he is leaning against the door, under a twirling and snapping flag of the Antarctic Empire. With a sudden wave of energy tolling on him, Tommy rushes down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time.
Dream throws a critical look at Tommy from feet up. Tommy instinctively tenses when Dream reaches out to his neck, but then he whispers, “We have an audience,” and the hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck stands upright.
Wilbur’s gate is an unmistakable rhythm of clicking shoes and shuffling steps – the sound that once had Tommy leaping to his feet in excitement is now akin to a wailing siren to his ears. He slowly relaxes, allowing Dream to unfurl his tie and loop it around his collarbone anew. The warmth of hands blazes his neck even through pristine white gloves.
"Not too tight?" Dream asks, furrowing his brows in concerns, and Tommy shakes his head with a sudden flush to his cheeks. This is all a play, he reminds himself. But then why does he feel so warm when Dream smiles at him and pats his shoulder?
Wilbur comes up to them, hands shoved into pockets, just as Dream finishes fixing Tommy's tie. The hem of his jacket flaps in the wind. Wire-framed circular glasses sit over his nose, his earring swaying from side to side with each small movement of his head.
"You're bringing him along." Wilbur drags his glasses all the way up with the knuckle of one finger and smears Dream with a long look that would've made anybody uneasy, if that anybody wasn't the crown prince of Esempi.
"Why the sour face?" Dream coils an arm around Tommy's shoulders. "I promise to return your brother, safe and sound."
Dream flashes Wilbur a bright smile, and for a moment Tommy imagines a sharp glint of fangs.
"You better," Wilbur replies dryly. His eyes flicker to Tommy, dark and unreadable. "Can I speak to you alone for a second, Theseus?"
At this moment, a footman opens the door of the carriage. Dream waits for Tommy’s nod and climbs in first, leaving him face-to-face with Wilbur.
“I’m surprised that you’ve volunteered, given that you’ve never engaged in event attendance outside of the palace before."
Tommy shifts weight from heels to toes, clasping his hands together behind his back. "It's on me not to realize that I rarely show my face in the capital." And let you flash yours too often. "I'm planning to change that from this day on."
Wilbur doesn't seem impressed. "We both know that you did it just to spite me."
"Do I have to admit myself guilty?" Tommy holds back a smirk. He won't lie, the expression on Wilbur's face is pretty damn satisfying. "In any case, somebody from the Imperial household has to be present. Not you, since the Emperor doesn’t want to risk fueling the unfavorable rumors wheeling recently.”
“Because of you,” Wilbur reminds.
"Thanks to me," Tommy corrects, hopping up on the steps of the carriage and ducking his head to fit into the doorway. Dream is already settled on one of the padded benches, throwing one leg over the other. Tommy sits down on the opposite side.
"Safe travels," Wilbur says, and suddenly he's smiling. "And watch the road."
The door closes with a click.
***
The palace stands on top of a hill, one of many that gradually spike into snow-powdered mountain peaks. The road curls and twists around it, and if Tommy was a bird soaring in the skies above, it would look like a giant python in deep slumber with its head resting just before the main gates. Techno wanted at least twenty guards with the crown prince at all times, but it was Wisp who overlooked his private security in the end. Tommy was able to negotiate his escort down to twelve people: six at the front, six more at the back, marching down the snake’s spine with the speed of the Emperor limping on his cane.
At first, Wilbur’s parting smile wouldn’t get out of Tommy’s mind, worry twisting into five different knots a minute. As scenery changes outside of the carriage, however, his words feel less of a threat and more like a petty attempt at soiling his mood. Most of the trees along the road have long since been cut down, and a rare stump sticks out of the grass, bristling with branches and bearded with moss, but in the distance, pine giants stand like soldiers of an ancient army guarding the hill.
"I thought I'm supposed to be the tourist here, but you're looking out of the window as much as I am."
Squinting his eyes at a scatter of greenish cones among the needles, Tommy doesn't immediately register Dream's chuckle. "I haven't been out of the palace in a long time," he admits. Within its great walls, his every step is watched and judged by hundreds of people, and every word that he says runs a risk of being used against him. Tommy hasn't realized how much it was suffocating him until he takes a gulp of air smelling of soil and wildflowers, and feels like he can finally breathe.
"Do you know the legend of how the Antarctic Empire came to be?" Techno once asked him, when he was… Six? Maybe seven years old. The Emperor and the crown prince were away on a trip for two weeks, and Techno had taken Tommy for a horse ride. Don’t tell Wilbur, or else he’s gonna be red with jealousy, he said, curling his arms around the boy's small form to lift the reins.
"No," Tommy had said, shifting in the saddle, head tilted curiously. "Tell me."
"Well… Once there was a king who owned a precious emerald unlike any other in the world. It stood on a high altar for the whole kingdom to see. One day a black crow had stolen the emerald and took it far, far north, and the king had sent a group of soldiers to retrieve it. They rode the plains, swam the rivers and climbed the mountains. Even when their horses had all died and the soldiers started dropping from exhaustion, one after another, the survivors continued to follow the shadow of wings gliding above them, knowing that the crow was bound to reach its nest one day. Well, it turns out that they’ve found it.”
And just like in his memory, the road takes a sharp turn, and the hill plummets into a cliff. Only a long line of sturdy stone walls to separate them from hundreds of feet of nothingness; Tommy has never been afraid of height, but even then his stomach drops dreadfully. A jagged cloud drifts away and bares the capital to the sun’s watchful eye: every building and every tree, streets in arching shapes and roads that gradually climb up and down, cobbled waves in an ever-frozen ocean. From all the way up here, the city looks like a nest cradled in the mountains’ gentle, cold palms.
Techno told him by the time that the soldiers finally retrieved the emerald, they realized that they no longer knew the way home. So they stayed to live here, built a castle on the hill, a village beneath it, and chose themselves a new king. People differ in opinions as to where avians belong in this legend: some say that they were here before the soldiers came, or that the emerald thief themselves were an avian, Techno had said, but Tommy wasn’t listening anymore. In his head, he was flying over the hillsides, ebony wings almost slicing the tip of pine trees.
Even all these years after, he feels the same way he did all that time ago, Techno's broad chest propping him from behind, his fingers tangled in the horse's mane and the whole world beneath him. He should've been scared of how small he was in comparison, but instead a strange sense of power circles in him. I'm a prince, Tommy thinks, and this is my Empire.
"What's the plan for today?" Dream asks, shifting in his seat.
Tommy blinks himself back into awareness and turns to Dream. "Attending the opening of a new town square, The population of the capital has grown enough that the Emperor had the city expanded a few miles to the east, and officially the project is put into service today. A prince is supposed to attend, give a speech-"
"And grace the commoners with his benevolent will,” Dream waves the rest away. “I have experience."
Tommy snorts. "You get the essence, then.”
On occasion, the Imperial family makes appearances at public events, be it opening of a new hospital or festivals celebrating the autumn harvest. The Emperor and the crown prince are usually too occupied with the state affairs to bother themselves with something as minor, so that part of his duties was passed to Wilbur.
“You told me that I should make more public appearances outside of the palace, to remind commoners who their crown prince is, so here we are. It’s a good opportunity for people of the Empire to meet you, too."
"More like your chance to attract more attention to this visit by bringing someone for people to gaze at,” Dream points out.
In truth, Tommy is simply nervous. It’s been two, maybe three whole years since he last visited the capital, and underneath a calm facade he feels sick to the stomach with worry. Dream always radiates an aura of confidence, and rightfully so: he is smart, he is experienced, and with him around Tommy feels less of a terrified chicken and more the crown prince he is supposed to be. He’s taller than Tommy, too. In case things go south he can hide behind Dream’s back and let him handle the consequences.
Not that Tommy would ever actually do that, but the thought alone lifts his mood a little. "People are curious," he smiles, crossing his legs, "and you make a good circus monkey."
For a long moment, Dream is silent, and Tommy's insides clench. Did he go too far with the jabbing? Could it be that Dream took his words seriously?
Then the prince sputters into a laugh, and Tommy soon follows, relief flooding his lungs. "What is wrong with you?" Dream shouts, wheezing.
"I doubt that criticism is apt when I take it all after you,” he grins.
Dream throws his hands up. "Oh, come on! Insulting people wasn’t part of my teaching!"
"Must be my natural charm, then." Dream gives him a doubtful look, and Tommy makes an offended noise. "For the historical records, I am extremely charming."
"Undoubtedly you are, Thes."
"I’ll let you know that I do not appreciate the sarcasm-"
It takes over an hour for the carriage to get down to the bottom of the hill, but time sprints unnoticed through their heated conversation. Certain tension roping Tommy’s insides slowly melts away. It’s… nice, in an odd way, and reminds him of how he and Wilbur used to poke fun at another in the past. Next time Tommy smiles, it turns out strained, so he discards that trail of thought before Dream could notice.
Soon the bumpy mountain road turns into a cobbled street. Buildings rise to either side of them, triangular roofs hoisted on top of two to five stories of bricked walls. The city, too, had felt the lingering touch of a generous summer: trees planted alongside the road and peaking out of backyards are gently swaying their emerald tops, basketed flowers strew the balconies and front of buildings. Tommy gazes mournfully at a pot of violets in clear need of watering, and tugs the curtains on his side closed.
He can hear a commotion brewing outside as they join the flow of other transport. The capital is full of highborns and aristocrats, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary to see a richly decorated carriage passing by, but the uniform of his guards and the flag mounted at the top is enough of a hint that the passengers are no ordinary nobles. His escort deals with the individuals who are too slow to clear the way for their crown prince, and the street rumbles with the sound of neighing horses and yelling voices. More and more curious onlookers strive to get a distant peek into the side window… and reel back when Dream tilts his head, a smiling mask slotted onto his face.
“Why a smile?” Tommy asks, when a kid, barely older than Fundy, points a finger at them, shouting something. Her father immediately shushes the girl and tugs her away.
“It’s simple and memorable,” Dream replies, dragging the curtains down. His voice sounds a bit different with the mask on, and even if it feels strange not to see his face after all the time they’ve spent together, Tommy can easily imagine his expressions based on the tone and gestures alone. “Besides, it has a formidable look to it, doesn’t it?”
"If it pleases you to believe so.” Before Dream could feign offense, Tommy speaks up again. “By the way, I have one more thing on my agenda after the ceremony. Queen Niki’s visit is coming to an end, and I’d like to pick a parting present, if you wouldn’t mind a little delay.”
"That reminds me, I still need to get some gifts for my sister,” Dream says, rubbing his chin in thought. “She won’t ever forgive me if I return home empty-handed.”
The reminder that Dream will have to leave the Empire at some point makes startles something in Tommy, and he clenches the fabric of his pants. “What is Princess Drista like?” he asks, if not only to distract himself from the ache rolling his ribcage. “Perhaps I may assist you with that.”
“Like me. But small,” Dream seems to think it over, and adds: “And vicious.”
Tommy sputters out of surprise. “Vicious?”
“On her last birthday I got her a trident and she tried to stab me with it. For self-preservation reasons, I shan’t get her any more weapons.”
At that moment the carriage comes to a sudden halt, and Tommy flies out of his seat. Dream catches him by his shoulders and prevents him from flattening his nose against the back of the bench. By some miracle, his crown didn’t fall off. Tommy mouths a thanks, and peeks out of the door window just as Wisp levels up with them.
“What’s the matter?” Tommy asks.
“We seem to have arrived, Your Highness,” Wisp says, pulling at the reins, his horse’s neck jerking upright and nostrils flaring. The captain sounds puzzled, and that already puts Tommy in an alarmed mood. He ignores the footman rushing to open the door for him and shoulders his way outside.
It’s one of the quieter parts of the city, where the buzzing markets are only a distant cry, and an occasional cart carefully wheels its way among front porches of houses and smaller shops. His carriage and escort have clogged the street entirely, but as soon as Tommy makes his exit all complaints that might have been brewing are swallowed by silence. He ignores bowing pedestrians and dismounting Wisp, only wincing when his pristine black shoes sink into a layer of road dust, and takes a look around.
Recognition floods him instantly. Even though Tommy had only been here twice in his life, both around a decade ago, he remembers this house from the top of a crumbling roof, remembers a tiny window that he had climbed through and an avian living in a dusty attic. His hands involuntarily clench into fists.
“Wisp,” he calls, and the captain reappears, leading the coachman in front of him. A small man with a cleanly shaved head pales as soon the prince’s gaze finds him, sharper than any blade could ever hope to be, and nearly falls to his knees when Wisp pushes him forward.
“Is this some sort of mockery?” Tommy thunders.
“Y-Your Imperial Highness..?”
Confusion flashes on the coachman’s plump face. Alright, then. If he wishes to play an idiot Tommy will treat him like one. “We’re half the city from where I’m supposed to be right now,” he says, leaning closer so that his face is practically looming over the man, his figure throwing a dark shadow over both of them. “Explain how that happened.”
The coachman looks close to fainting. He can’t seem to decide whether he should be explaining himself or just straight up plead for mercy. It’s a pitiful sight, really, and if Tommy was any less furious he might have given the man a moment to regain his senses.
“Are you deaf?” he scowls instead. “Maybe I should have your ears cut off, if you’re not using them anyway.”
That sombers him up. “Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness,” the coachman bleats. “Prince Wilbur told me that there is a change of plans and instructed me to take you here.”
Of course it’s been Wilbur. Nobody else knew of Eryn, not at the degree he did. Tommy closes his eyes, inhaling through his fuming airways.
“Your apologies fix nothing,” he says. “Do your job properly this time, and fast, or else you soon might not have one at all.”
The coachman nods energetically and scurries away. He would’ve had the same reaction even if the crown prince asked him to make the carriage fly. Watching him go, Tommy turns sharply aware of all the gazes pinned on him. Riders still waiting for the carriage to pass, eyes blinking from behind window shutters, his own guards – all have witnessed him losing his temper. Agitated, Tommy spins around, the hems of his coat swirling, and pulls himself back into the carriage.
“What happened?” Dream asks.
“Wilbur happened,” Tommy says, wishing he could kick something, and kick so hard that it would shatter to pieces. “The bastard had sent us the wrong way.”
Watch the road, it echoes in his head, again and again. Tommy isn’t sure who he is angry at more: Wilbur, for sabotaging him, the coachman, for taking orders from the wrong person, or at himself for not predicting this outcome. Maybe if Tommy had a better knowledge of the city than he stitched together from his childhood memories, he would’ve noticed that they were going the wrong way. He could practically hear Wilbur crooning, what kind of crown prince doesn’t know his own capital?
A riding crop whistles in the air, and the carriage jerks into movement just as Tommy plops down on the bench. “Where is the ceremony supposed to be?” Dream asks. “How much time would it take to get there?”
“Across the city. Two hours, maybe two and a half,” Tommy crosses his arms, biting his lower lip. Now that the initial wave of anger is wearing off, nervousness is starting to nibble at his stomach. “We’re going to be late either way.”
“Tell the coachman to take his time, then,” Dream says, calm as ever. “Let it seem like you’re meant to be late. Better seem like a snob than a fool, after all.”
Tommy suppresses a flinch. In this context Dream isn’t necessarily calling him that – a fool – but it feels like he is, and it strikes Tommy almost as hard as the realization of what Wilbur did. Nevertheless, he passes the order through Wisp, and the rest of the ride continues in total silence, with Tommy pressing his back into the bench so hard that it aches.
Only when Dream slides the mask off, concern in his eyes, that Tommy becomes aware of his own rapidly bouncing knee and painfully clamped hands. He eases himself into visually relaxing despite the pressure building up in his sternum. The heir of the throne can’t seem weak. Not in front of anybody, and especially not in front of Dream, the only person who believes in his abilities as a prince.
Tommy can’t disappoint Dream. That thought alone gets him through two hours of boiling in his own nervousness. Tommy recites his speech in his head, manages to forget the entirety of it and remember it anew. By the time they reach their destination, sweat thickly coats his back, but he secures the crown on his head one more time and shuts his worries behind a steel wall. The person who descends down the stairs, head held high, is no longer Tommy but calm and collected Prince Theseus.
He feels envious of Dream at that moment, that he can’t simply hide his face entirely by a mask. His own is made of lies and fake confidence, and as intangible as it is, he can practically hear it crack when thousands of gazes are raised upon him. With Wilbur and the tea party, there were barely twenty people, nobles that switch topics of rumors as rapidly as the sky switches between sun and clouds. Give it a few weeks and some warning from the Emperor and everybody will forget every unpleasant comment that they’ve ever thought of Wilbur. Nobody is going to forget how the crown prince didn’t deign to show up on time for his first visit to the capital in years.
Tommy had a speech prepared for him, a lot of lengthy gratitudes to people who worked hard on building the city square, but whether it be from the scorching afternoon heat or nervousness, he goes through it in a haze. He does remember vividly, however, the whispers, buzzing and sizzling, shared from ear to ear. Commoners always have seen nobles as snobbish and prideful, but some inner voice tells Tommy that there is something more to the disdainful glances he’s receiving. It drives him crazy that he doesn’t know what.
By the time that the ceremony is over and the crowd begins to disperse, flooding the newly opened shops and streets, Tommy wants to tuck his head between his knees and simply stop thinking. But he can’t. Princes don’t get the privilege of showing their feelings, or having feelings for all that matter. As far as people should be aware Tommy doesn’t feel anything at all.
The worst part is, Wilbur didn’t even have to be here. Oh, how smug and delighted would he be, knowing that he had delivered his sweet revenge, reclaimed his pedestrial in the competition of who can fuck the other over more. Right was the person who said that the higher you climb, the harder you fall. Tommy was so excited for this visit that in the end it only served to make him twice as agonized over the outcome.
Back in the carriage, Tommy closes his eyes, gathers all feelings of anger, shame and humiliation, and imagines himself suffocating them. Predictably, it doesn't work.
“I‘m sorry,” he says hollowly when there's a creak of Dream sitting down next to him. “For inviting you along for this disaster.”
"Don't apologize." The heated sincerity of Dream's voice has Tommy sneaking a look from under fluttering eyelids. "It wasn't your fault, and you handled it to the best of your ability.”
But is my best enough? Tommy thinks. He doesn’t vocalize that question. It would sound like Tommy's feebly begging for comfort, and he refuses to stoop that low.
Wisp suddenly appears, pressing a flask into his hands, water splashing over the top. Tommy doesn't realize how thirsty he is until he tilts it over his lips and gulps half of the blissful coolness at once.
"Where to, Your Highness?" Wisp asks, taking the flask back once he can't swallow another sip anymore. Tommy goes quiet. It seems as though the wisest choice would be to return to the palace now, and not leave it any time soon, or preferably ever. But turning back to the palace also means that he has to face Wilbur with his fake smiles and even more fake words, and Tommy doesn't think he would be able to prevent himself from throwing some punches if he sees that face now. What a wonderful nail in his coffin would that be if the guards or Techno show up and have to physically pry them away from one another.
Tommy lifts his chin, and suddenly he meets Dream's eyes. A warmth light sparks in them, anchoring and guiding him, like the beam of a lighthouse might guide a ship in a storm. Suddenly he knows what he has to do. Tommy won't give Wilbur the satisfaction of running his day, and keep going if only just to spite him.
"Dream, do you still want to get that gift for your sister?" he asks.
***
The fashion house, inherently a fusion between a clothing boutique, a hairdressing salon and a tailor's workshop, stands out among other buildings with walls of white stone, draping veins and multitude of balconies bulging out like decorations on a cake. The head seamstress and the owner of the business Aimsey had a noble ancestor three or four generations back, and that provided her with a wide customer base ranging from wealthy commoners to socialite aristocrats. Duchess Clara was one of them, and Tommy is personally acquainted with Aimsey from the few times he had accompanied his aunt on her shopping trips.
They walk up to the front porch, past a glass showcase of an elegant white gown embroidered with sunflowers, and to double birch doors that creak softly when Tommy pushes them in. Sunlight flows freely into the building through the tall glass windows, glistering on silk and velvet fabrics, leaping between plants in porcelain pots. The ring of a bell alarms people inside of their arrival: seamstresses and other customers alike drop their current affairs to greet the crown princes with bows and curtsies. Tommy waves them away, his eyes searching for Aimsey-
And finds Techno and Ranboo instead.