#both eddie and buck are princes from neighbouring kingdoms

[seekeurs]

In every part of you, I drown.

a short plotless medieval royal!buddie au .

also known as a week of mind-numbing work and buck has been on my mind. trigger warning: mentions of blood, depictions of dysfunctional families & low self-esteem.

Water under his tongue, salty and it burns seconds before he chokes, lump caressing the strained flesh of his throat and it drips down his lips like the ghosting teardrops.

“Evan,” there’s a low sigh, he doesn’t need to look to see those pinched lips but he does anyway. A creature of habit. “Manners , please.”

He inclines his head in apology, between the shadows that flutter on their silver plates and the soft clink of his father’s goblet on the wood. A small sheepish smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, as the candles flicker against the wax, and his skin itches beneath his sleeves ( it’s salty , mother , his lungs scream , just like before ). 

Silk, a deep blue flattening against his chest, a birthday gift from his sister for his nineteenth and it still fits , eight years passing as it still crinkles the same way, a thin thread hanging from the edge of the cuff. It was also not the outfit that had been chosen for him, requested by his mother, but her voice did not share the brittle edge it might have done if they didn’t have guests. At least she was seeing him, caught in the low glow of the flames, it could not shine through him here. 

A brush over the tip of his shoe, his leg almost jerks, a flinch that rolls through his muscles and pools away with the tension as it becomes a pulse pressing down on to his foot. His palm descends to his thigh before he has even registered the grip, fingertips pushing into the thrumming nerves, and he swallows hard. 

A hesitant glance up over the long, but blessedly thin wood and platters of fruit, those eyes are watching him. Dark brown,  Eddie's eyes, soft, and furrowed, and the pressure on his foot falls away with a gentle nudge. 

( two households both alike in dignity, and all that ) 

“I must say, Prince Edmund-”

“It’s Edmundo,” his fork clicks against his teeth, murmuring softly, and his mother’s eyes narrow, as Queen Margaret brushes over them like the glaze in wine-soaked eyes. But a mistake it was not, no fumble of her tongue no matter how her wrist gestures lightly to her goblet, like an airy joke she never quite says. 

Dark brown, they're back, like ripples on his skin. Drawing the air from his lungs in every capacity and his palm splays further across his thigh, jaw tightening. He’s not angry, now, neither seeing or seeking judgment beneath them ( ‘ you know, we’re not here to be enemies, that's the whole point of this trip.’ like he didn’t know that, like it was easy ), not since the flood, and the river, and little Christopher. 

Before then too, if he’s willing to admit it, when they rode out to to help Sir Robert. 

“I had not expected your Madre to be so agreeable.” 

Eddie blinks, a line of tension working its way between his shoulders, and seems to straighten a fraction more. Evan didn’t think it could be any straighter ( always proven wrong ). 

“Agreeable?”

There’s a hint to his tone that King Phillip catches. A sharp flicker up from the bones of his plate, slowly, methodically working through the meat with a precise number of chews, letting the idyl conversation slip by from the other end of the table. Until he wasn’t, like a needle finding a pinpoint, he jumps in. 

A brilliance in diplomacy, damage control. 

“Indeed, it is a mother’s instinct to protect their children, we only thought she might have preferred you home, rather than to venture out so soon after that disastrous flooding.”

 Eddie’s eyes jump down, glancing between the two with an unreadable expression. 

Evan doesn’t buy it, he knows exactly what his mother was thinking, and a small vindictive part of him dearly hopes that Eddie too, sees behind the washed-out fabrics of their politeness. But then, he's not supposed to buy it, they spare little time caring for what he knows. 

“I did not bring my son for that very reason.” Eddie offers, leaning back in his chair, letting the tension smoothen out from his muscles, balancing the fork delicately between his middle and forefinger. 

Redirect. Smart. 

Manners of conversation always win out. He wasn’t afforded that civilness. 

He remembers being younger, wondering if everyone could feel their tension, like bruises painted in the air around their skin, always feeding into the wrong things - he never said the right things. Could they feel it too? Their eyes were discarded to their plates or shoes, never to comment on the inner workings of the royal Buckleys. did they laugh in their homes about the shattered visage they could clearly see through, or was it just Evan who felt so exposed between the cracks? 

“How is the dear one?” Margaret falls for the bait, and Eddie falls back into his comfort zone.

“Good, he’s been obsessed with horses lately,” a small, fond smile peeking at the edges of his lips as the pressure returns to his foot, a faint push down, and then it withdraws, and Evan relaxes his fingers. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Let it be said by him first, Prince Edmundo has such nice eyes. And if that is one thing history remembered him for, Evan could live with that. 

“Thank who?” Philip asks politely, brow furrowing. 

“Evan. He’s the reason Christopher is interested in them, and honestly, I can’t thank you enough. We took him out riding the other day.”

The light on Eddie’s face is enough to make his chest swell, a warm blush flooding along his cheeks. 

“We’ve seen Christopher ride before?” 

‘Not on his own.”

The air leaves his lungs. First, its every scenario under the sun, ever fall, ever crack, ever possible reason Chris could have bled leaps across his mind. And then, then it's the look, slightly wet, crooked smile, like the whole world tilts just before him, and it’s Eddie keeping him in balance. 

( it worked . he did something right ) 

He exhales, a low shudder in his chest. 

“On his own?”

Almost a whisper, leaning forwards, desperation licking at his heels, and for once he does not care that his mother would most definitely disagree with his display of emotion, the rawness clawing up in his throat. But Eddie, Eddie just grins, this frazzled, goofy smile, like he’s been waiting to tell him that all day. 

And it strikes him in his chest that, knowing Eddie, he probably had. 

“We were all there of course, he didn’t do much more than trot, but he was so happy Evan.”

Another shuddering breath, as the candles flicker warm flames over Eddie’s glowing face, blurring just slightly at the edges with water glistening under his eyelashes. For a second, it was just them and their gaze in the room. 

King Phillip clears his throat, and he falls back into his chair, pretending not to notice his mother’s frown as he swipes a hand over his eyes. 

Faint music drifts from the other side of the doors, braced against the balcony not hiding not hiding not hiding.

“Hiding?”

He almost jerks, fingers tightening on the stone, neck aching as his head swings round and oh. 

It's (just) Eddie. 

Prince Edmundo with his warm smile, like a soft summer breeze and a touch of dawn, like dreams, and ghosts in his eyes that smoothen out as the stars in disarray gleam in the evening air. Prince Edmundo, whose thumb brushes over his knuckle, a slight hesitancy as he rocks back on the balls of his feet - is this okay?

Evan presses his knuckle up, just a little, bumping against the palm of Eddie’s hand, as it smoothes fully over the thin scratches still healing on the back of his hand. The heat of blood, and the cool balcony, smothered under stars and yet not, out from the looming shadows of the castle.

“I..”

Lips heavy, throat dry, a thousand words flooding into his mouth and fumbles over themselves to answer. But they’re so close, two open wounds pushing up against each other to keep the pressure on, closing each other up until the blood stops flowing, faded bruises of restless winds and soft kisses. 

Soft kisses. God he wishes . 

“I’d hide too.” Eddie murmurs knowingly, lips twitching, breeze ruffling his hair. They’re so close, he could touch it. 

“I’m sorry,” Evan breathes instead, looking away, over the ridges of the two splayed out below and the treeline, to the moon just peeking in the distance. 

“For what?”

‘Them.”

Eddie’s fingers disappear, a soft vacant cold left in their wake and he squashes the lurch of disappointment from his chest. 

“They aren’t your mistake to make up for, Buckley.”

Warm breath ghosting his ear, and a graze, slightly ticklish, grinds his teeth as his skin thrums strangely, and that same warm palm circles around his elbow. 

“And you are not theirs, either.”

Was he that obvious?

“Still,” he swallows, carefully shifting his eyes back to Eddie, just below his chin, nothislips, lump burning in his throat. “Sorry.”

There’s a soft sigh, and a squeeze against his arm. 

“I leave tomorrow at noon.”

He knows this, it was just a short visit, one night nothing more. Evan still didn’t quite know why, but he liked it, that buzzing in his chest because Eddie wanted to visit him. Not just see him in passing like so many others. He leans in, tipping his head forwards pressing against Eddie’s, skin yearning for the heat of contact, and closes his eyes. His breath catches. A nervous whisper cowering in his throat, it's a wonder Eddie even hears it. 

“Stay.”

A palm cupping his cheek. 

“Carino, I can’t.”

He hates the water prickling behind his eyes more than anything in the world. 

“But,” his breath stutters in his throat, lips brushing over his, he dare not open his eyes. “You could come with me?”

“They’d never allow it.”

“Don’t ask.” Eddie’s soft whisper, and then, even softer lips, gentle, like fallen petals catching in the wind, and cinnamon, a pleasant taste of chance ever bottled in that moment. 

“I won’t.” He takes the leap.