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mapleapplepiee · 1 month

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Okay so: what follows is a little ficlet drabble I wrote to respond to/ expand on @mapleapplepiee’s lovely Pie and Prince AU. It was made and posted with her permission, but is not necessarily canon to that au, just an idea taking place in the same space of thoughts. It’s seriously necessary to read her stuff to understand what I’ve got going here, but it’s great stuff and also not super long, so just go do it!

That said, I hope you enjoy!

Pie and Prince Continuation

The fact that Bitty has mistaken Jack for a guard actually comes in handy, for now. Once Jack pulls his foot out of his mouth— possibly he insinuated that baked goods have no place in the diet of anyone seeking to be any kind of athlete, and when Jack compliments his muffin-pan-bludgeoning, Bitty forces him to agree that the muffins themselves didn’t exactly slow him down, now did they, hun?

Jack relents, and at the price of being expected to try one baked good for every time he makes Bitty do this, he’s able to convince Bitty to join him at the castle’s sparring grounds under the promise that he won’t come to any harm.

Being the prince, he’s able to arrange for private training time, but lies and says it’s just the time the guards usually eat lunch— which it technically is, it’s just that he’s not a guard and wouldn’t usually be expected to eat with them, or at this time. The fact that he’s apparently skipping lunch, though, makes Bitty even more determined to get a little bit of pastry into him each time; he even starts mixing in things like quiches to count as both a baked good and a sensible guard’s meal.

When they meet for the first time, Jack decides to show Bitty a sort of sparring pattern that the guards (and he, because he was trained by the best of the guards), use to practice all the relevant moves for a sword fight in one flowing pattern. They start out flowing through the motions of it side by side, like a sword-based tai chi, but as Bitty gets faster and better, Jack convinces him to do it in a proper sparring session.

Now Bitty had some sort of training growing up which means he’s skilled at this sort of thing in general (jousting or fencing or something? The kind of thing that you would see on display at a gathering, not used on a battlefield) so he’s picked up the motions without much trouble, but actually facing Jack while his (wooden, practice) sword swings at him? It’s terrible. And Jack’s moving at an almost ridiculously slow clip, not the kind of speed he’d displayed in the bakery, eons behind the actual pace of battle. But Bitty only sees his trauma, and collapses into the dust before Jack can even get close.

They work through it— slow and halting— over weeks, fitting in time between Bitty’s bakery work and Jack's real princely obligations. As they do, they start to open up to each other, just a bit, just enough to see the light peeking through each other’s facade.

They’re eventually able to work up to crossing blades, and then from there they slowly increase the speed until they’re spinning around the fenced-in practice arena, complex footwork keeping time with the rhythmic hammering of their blades. It’s truly something like a dance— Jack swings his sword with enough speed, now, that it’d certainly hurt if it made contact, but Bitty’s (wooden) blade is already there to meet and redirect it.

They dodge and parry and weave and spin through the whole perimeter of the yard, their feet throwing up puffs of dust, breathing hard but focused entirely on the pattern of each other’s movements. When they come to the end of the movements, they’re standing chest to chest, crossed swords trapped and immovable between them as they heave from exertion.

That’s when cheering erupts from the edge of the practice ring. It’s the assembled members of the SMH! (The Samwell Majesty’s Honorguard, obv). They, and their frogs, ahem, sorry, their squires, have been watching from the lunch hall for months now, and finally made themselves known after that impressive and not at all sexually charged display. They applaud their well-toned asses off, then introduce themselves. Bitty is intimidated for a bit before he recognizes some of them as bakery customers, and then he’s in Work Mode.

He leaves that day with a collection of orders for baked goods, and a sinking feeling that he’s started to fall for this guard— who is almost certainly straight, and would definitely stop training with him if he let it get out that he’s got a crush. So he smothers that crush as hard as he possibly can.

Just in time for the annual dignitaries ball! Or, well, the several-month lead-up to the ball. Bitty is slammed with food orders as the delegations from various countries come into the city, and Jack is slammed with actual Prince work, so neither of them notices at first that they’ve gone longer and longer between practices— then they both notice at once, and assume instantly that the other has detected their budding romantic feelings and is trying to let them down easy.

In a moment of bravery, though, Jack arranges for an invitation to be sent to Bitty that he might attend the culminating event of the visitations, the masquerade ball itself. Bitty— caught off guard— agrees to attend, and the squire who’d come around to announce his invitation leaves before he can change his mind, just after depositing a beautifully inscribed ticket in his hands.

Bitty’s friends leap at the chance to dress him up for the ball, helping him out as much as possible to be presentable, and in the end, he looks ravishing— and very different from his usual garb. He feels a bit gaudy and strange, but his friends swear up and down that he looks perfect, so off he goes.

At the ball, everyone dances with everyone else. The aim, in theory, is to create a sense of equality— the masks mean that anyone could be anyone else, and so you must always treat your partner with respect, because they could be the king or a visiting dignitary as easily as they could be a random lady in waiting or, say, a baker. (In practice, the delegations almost exclusively wear the colors of their nation’s livery, so you can make an educated guess based on your partner’s age, colors, and dancing skill— but a baker wouldn’t be trained to make those calculations.)

When he gets onto the dance floor, Bitty gets passed from person to person, as is the tradition of the ball. He dances with a woman old enough to be his grandmother, a boy who couldn’t be older than him, a middle-aged man, a lovely lady just his height, the list goes on and on and on. Finally, he’s passed into the arms of a man in a stunning dark blue getup, with gold accents at the buttons, the shoulders, and around his mask. They make a dapper pair, with Bitty in scarlet.

Neither recognize the other at first. Jack isn’t sure what country this small blond belongs to, and the guy is certainly not a good enough dancer to be properly-trained royalty, anyway. Bitty is so focused on not tripping over his own feet that he’s not even trying to parse each new partner— though the quick glance he spares for this one tells him he’s definitely his type.

They speak in quiet voices, and Bitty makes a joke at his own expense that pulls a laugh out of Jack, and suddenly they’re both a bit more relaxed in the moment. Then Bitty puts his foot into a puddle of someone’s spilled drink, and he slips to the side. He recovers quickly, his hand in Jack’s firm one giving him plenty of purchase to pull upright, but suddenly they’ve slipped out of the rhythm of the circling dancers.

Bitty, frantic and unsure and embarrassed, falls back on what he’s been practicing for months, and takes the first measured step-step-turn of the sword dance. To his shock, his partner mirrors the movement, stepping in time and sliding backward as he turns so that they’re kept in sync.

After that, they just fall into the dance together. It’s a little different, doing the footwork without the swords, but they hold tight to each other and glide across the dance floor adroitly.

Everyone who’s anyone in the room, save Bitty, has already figured out that the dashing gentleman in blue is the nation’s prince, and nobody who’s anyone has any idea who this shorter man in red is, but they all move to leave room for the pair to spin across the floor in tandem. At the close of the song, the pair are brought chest to chest with each other— and then just as quickly, they’re separated. It’s time to switch partners, after all.

Bitty’s next partner can’t believe their luck, to get the first chance at the gossip scoop, and immediately starts asking Bitty where he’s from, where that dance is from, how does the prince know that dance?

The prince?

Bitty extricates himself from the dance floor after that dance. He’s tired, and he certainly must’ve heard wrong. The prince? No, surely not.

He looks towards the man, still at the center of the whirling maelstrom of dancing, standing out in both grace and color— those are, of course, the colors of the country that they’re in, and so… huh. The prince.

Bitty, having gotten entirely too close to two handsome and ridiculously unattainable gentlemen with blue eyes and dark hair, runs. He leaves the party entirely, making his way into the dark garden outside the ballroom. Of course, some partygoers have filtered out here, but really the only inhabitants of the space are the guards, posted two-by-two at each entrance. He finds himself on a bench, as far away from the glittering colors of the ballroom as he can get without leaving the grounds entirely.

He’s wasting an irreplaceable opportunity to network for his bakery, he tells himself. He should go back in. He’ll never get to be on the inside of a party like this again, either. He really, really should go back in. Come on, Bitty. Get up. Go.

He doesn’t move.

Some interminable time later, he feels someone sit down next to him, and pulls his face from his hands.

It’s Shitty, from the bakery event. From *Jack*. Like Bitty didn’t already feel miserable enough, here’s a guard from Jacks own team, closer to Jack than he’ll ever get to be, to rub his face in it.

But of course, Shitty doesn’t do that. He sits there, not touching Bitty, not even saying anything, but aiming an understanding and open expression at him. An invitation.

“I…” Bitty starts. His voice breaks a little, so he takes another go at it. “Have you ever…” He trails off again.

Okay, deep breath. He pulls off his mask, turning it over in his hands to look at the glittering garnet-red decorations as they catch the light. When he speaks, he’s talking towards the mask more than Shitty.

“There’s… something that I want,” he begins, deciding to keep it vague. “Something that would make me so happy, but I know I can’t actually have it. And I’m worried that if I keep wanting it, it’s going to ruin things that are already good where they are, you know?”

Shitty fixes him with a searching gaze, and Bitty flushes, feeling exposed, almost wishing he kept the mask on so that Shitty’s eyes couldn’t pierce all the way to the core of him.

“Bitty, you wonderful angel sent from above to bless this kingdom with pastry, thank you for telling me all that.”

Bitty didn’t think he’d told all that much, but he got the sense that now was not the time to interrupt, so he smothered his protest.

Sure enough, Shitty continued, “If you want the advice of this guard, all I can say is: if things are really that good, I don’t think you can ruin them so easily. You just gotta ask for what you want, and if the answer’s no, that doesn’t mean that every other nice thing in life has to go that way, too, yeah? And hey. I think there’s always a chance it’s a yes, you know?”

Bitty flushed further, and busied his hands fixing his mask back over his face, tugging the ribbons back into place to hold it on. After a long moment (and once he was safely hidden behind gaudy scarlet sparkles) he looked up at Shitty.

“Thanks,” he said, voice small in the expansive courtyard. “You know, you’re really good at this?”

Shitty laughed. “So I’ve been told. If guarding ever doesn’t pan out, I suppose I have a back-up profession being a supportive bench friend, huh?”

Bitty laughed at that, and the tension that had blanketed the area moved along like leaves in an autumn breeze.

Shitty stood and brushed invisible dust from his breastplate— clearly more of a habitual gesture than a necessary one.

“Look, man, I should get back to work now, but are you good?”

“I’m good, Shitty. Thanks.”

“Anytime, you incredible pie wizard, any time.”

Bitty took a few more moments on the bench to collect himself, but talking about his predicament with Shitty seemed to have shaken something loose in him, and now he was restless. If Shitty was here, surely the rest of his guard squad was as well— surely Bitty could find Jack, and maybe by then he’d know what to say.

He abandoned the bench and started walking back towards the balcony that looked over the garden, where the doors had been thrown open to allow the sounds of music and revelry to spill into the night.

When he came within sight of the balcony, though, he came to such an abrupt stop that he almost faceplanted on the flagstones. There, standing at the railing and looking out into the garden, was the prince. It was hard to tell with the mask, but Bitty was almost certain that he was looking right at him. Oh lord.

Before his brain could catch up with the situation, his legs had carried him behind the nearest hedge. The garden wasn’t quite a maze, but the paths that wound through it had clearly been designed to obscure the perspective of those walking along them— each one curved and planted such that you felt alone even when you knew, intellectually, that you couldn’t be far from the nearest couple taking quiet advantage of the evening’s shadows amidst the foliage.

Bitty wasted little time contemplating the garden’s clever architecture, though, instead devoting his attention to weaving deeper into the twisting paths— further from that balcony, and the prince’s stare. Two turns into his escape, he glanced behind him and was surprised to see the prince was following; when he saw Bitty had spotted him, he called out, “Wait!”

Was that a royal command? Was running away from this situation now technically a little treasonous? Bitty wasn’t sure, but he also wasn’t sticking around to find out. He increased his pace, grateful for the well-tended pathways under his feet as he took each turn faster than was strictly advisable. His heart was hammering in his chest, but he couldn’t lie to himself that it was from exertion— his workouts with Jack had done many things for him, but among them was certainly an increase in fitness. Even in his ballroom attire, Bitty’s breaths came smooth and even.

The footsteps behind him faded to silence, and Bitty heaved a sigh of relief even as he slowed his gait to a trot, then a walk. He took a moment to get himself in order: physically, to straighten his disheveled jacket, and mentally, to rearrange his thoughts. He still had to find Jack, and then—

Bitty turned the next corner and found himself facing the prince.

Of course the man who lived in the palace would know these gardens better than a random visitor. Of course. And now he was cornered— even if he turned back now, he’d still be in the prince’s territory. But just because there was no chance of escape didn’t mean he wasn’t tensing his leg muscles to give it an honest try.

Just before he spun off back into the darkness, though, the prince spoke up. Or, well, it was hardly speaking up, the man’s voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but it was enough to carry clearly across the narrow distance that separated them.

“…Bitty?”

Bitty froze. What? How did the prince know— why was he— why had he— what? Bitty’s thoughts tumbled over each other in a roiling mess. At a loss for what else to do, he cautiously replied, “… yes?”

A beat passed, and then he hastily tacked on a “Your highness.”

The prince, bizarrely, seemed taken aback by the formal address. Bitty watched as he schooled his expression— the parts of it visible beneath the mask, at least— into something neutral, though almost… sad?

“Are you angry with me, Bitty?”

I’m sorry, what? “I’m sorry, what? Your highness.”

There, again, the prince flinched. “No, no, it is I who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you, I just… I’m sorry, I’m doing all of this wrong.”

And then, before Bitty could muster any sort of response to that, the prince reached up and untied his deep sapphire mask, the ribbons trailing away as he pulled the elegant thing from his face.

Bitty came face to face with Jack, and nothing in the world made sense. He felt, distantly, that he ought to reply to this revelation in some way, but he couldn’t seem to find where he’d misplaced every word he’d ever learned. Instead, he stayed frozen to the spot, mouth agape like some kind of unfortunate fish, staring at the utterly un-processable sight before him.

Jack clearly took his silence (and probably his expression) as a negative sign, and he started to talk again. Bitty struggled valiantly to focus on the words as they spilled from Jack’s— the prince’s— Prince Jack’s mouth.

“Look, I know I should have told you before, and I’m sorry. It’s just— nobody ever looks at me and just sees ‘Jack’, you know? So when you didn’t treat me like I was something special… it was just nice to be a person for once, not a title. But I know I shouldn’t have lied, and I understand if you’re angry with me now. I’d get it if you didn’t want to see me again, and… and I promise to respect that, if that’s what you want. Just, please, Bitty, talk to me.”

Bitty held his hand up, cutting him off, heedless of the fact that he was being distinctly rude to the prince of his kingdom. He just needed a minute to process, okay? A minute, and perhaps a seat. Yes, this would be much easier to think through sitting, wouldn’t it? Bitty glanced around, and then, for lack of better options, sat squarely on the stone path. Jack reached for him as he did (trying to catch him?) and ended up on his knees before Bitty. With both of them on the ground, they were almost at eye level with each other. Bitty pulled his mask aside, much as Jack had, and contemplated him.

Jack sat there, eyes downcast, as Bitty’s gaze skated across his face, his elegant costume, his sapphire-studded mask. When he looked back to Jack’s face, he was surprised to see him restraining a cringe; it looked like he expected to be hit, and was preparing to take it with dignity. Dignity befitting a prince, which Jack apparently was. All at once, Bitty realized that it had been far too long since he had spoken, and that Jack— prince or not, this was still Bitty’s Jack— was bracing for the worst.

“I’m not angry,” he started, finally finding words in the revelation that Jack needed to hear them. “I’m just a little confused, okay? I just… this whole time?”

Jack mutely nodded. Duh.

“And Shitty was…”

“Sworn to secrecy. I made him promise not to tell you before I was ready. He didn’t have a choice.”

Bitty waved his hand dismissively though the air— he wasn’t mad at Shitty, either, and didn’t need the excuses right now. “And the training? The sword dance?”

“Taught to me by the head of the guards— that much was always true. I just thought it would help you, so I booked time at the training ground to show it to you, and then it became something l looked forward to, more and more each time. It was how I was certain it was you, in there.” He jerked his head towards the distant echoey music from the party.

Bitty chewed on that for a moment, turning the words over in his head, and found that he believed him. Jack had kept one thing from him— one enormous thing, to be sure, but he understood the reasoning— but had been unfailingly straightforward with him otherwise.

“Okay,” Bitty breathed.

Jack looked up at that. “Okay?”

“Okay, help me up.” Bitty offered his hand, not with the decorum of a ballroom dancer, but with the camaraderie of two men who had trained on the same field. Jack grasped it and pulled Bitty to his feet even as he stood himself, reasserting their height difference and pulling them in close.

Bitty didn’t release his hand, and Jack didn’t try to extricate it.

“Jack?” Bitty turned his face upward, meeting Jack’s eyes, their piercing blue softened by the low golden light of the garden’s lanterns. “I have one more question.”

“Yeah?” The word sent a puff of breath dancing through Bitty’s carefully coiffed hair, and he shivered despite the warm weather.

Bitty tipped his head even further back, raising himself up just a little on the balls of his feet, trying to ask his question with his body as much as his voice, as he felt the latter might abandon him at any moment.

“Would you like to—“ and then the rest of his words were lost, not to fear, but to Jack. They kissed, gentle and deep as the warm night around them, and the world made sense again.

#Pie and Prince #zimbits #omgcp #omgcheckplease #check please #ficlet #i am so excited for this!!!#i love this so much

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