Chapter Text
Robin’s humming an out of tune lullaby while stocking the back wall of baskets when Eddie stumbles into the bakery a few days later. It’s a familiar tune, Eddie humming along with her as he pulls himself up onto the counter. There’s a tray of rolled caramels under a glass dome above the display case full of early season strawberry baked goods.
“Steve,” Robin shouts without looking away from Eddie. “Eddie,” she greets in a quieter voice, a weirdly sentimental smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
"Robin," Eddie says in return, quirking a sly grin as he plucks a caramel from under the dome, slipping it into a pocket. She shakes her head when he follows it up with a wink.
Steve interrupts whatever she was going to say next, exiting from behind the kitchen curtain. A sighing, "Eddie," escapes his mouth.
“Hey, Stevie,” Eddie returns, ignoring the look Robin makes in his periphery.
“Made something special for you,” Steve says suddenly, hands rubbing into the towel tucked into the pocket of his plain apron. It’s said with an edge of excitement and hesitancy. Steve ducks his head with a grin and turns back into the kitchen before Eddie can respond. He doesn’t have time to look at Robin before Steve returns with a covered dish in his hands. It’s wooden, the lid secured with a bit of twine. Eddie can already smell the sweet sugar of whatever is inside.
Steve settles it onto the counter and pushes it across to him.
“For me?” Eddie asks even as he pulls one end of the twine out of the bow it’s tied into.
Inside are lemon bars, their smell immediately filling the air between them. The crust is crumbly when Eddie plucks one from inside the nest of parchment paper they are tucked into.
“Steve, lemon ?” Eddie asks wistfully and slightly aghast. Lemons aren’t even close to being in season yet. They’re hard to come by even when they are . These would've been imported, ordered, waited for, expensive . These should be savored, not wasted on Eddie, of all people. Except when Eddie glances up at Steve from where he’s delicately holding the treat, all he sees is the soft hesitancy of Steve’s brown eyes. When his gaze drops, all he takes in is the way Steve’s hands wring that small rag between his palms.
What is this, Steve? What’s happening?
“Thank you for your craft, Steve,” Eddie says instead of anything he’d been thinking and takes a bite. And is met with the sweet tartness of lemon, the buttery crust underneath, and the dusting of powdered sugar pressing against his upper lip. It’s the best thing Eddie’s had in years . His eyelashes flutter closed, eyes rolling upward in mock prayer. The second and third bites go much quicker. The treat is gone in an instance. Soon Eddie is licking powdered sugar from his fingertips.
Eyes flickering back up to Steve, a compliment on the tip of his tongue–
The world seems to pause for a moment. Time stops in its tracks as Eddie looks up into Steve’s face. Because there–right there–as beautiful and radiant as the sun, is Steve’s smile. It looks as delicate as a cloud dissipating over the bay. It halts Eddie’s heartbeat and catches his breath. Eddie was right; he was so right. And he almost swears that he’d do anything to keep this boy smiling. Anything to feel the warmth of his happiness day in and day out. Anything to stay within Steve’s orbit.
–
Eddie can’t help but yelp as a needle pricks his stomach near his waistline. The seamstress doesn’t flinch, just readjusts the needle and continues doing her work. Her assistant makes an apologetic face from across the room. Eddie would shrug in return but he thinks Mrs. Holloway would stab him on purpose.
In his mind he’s anywhere but on the third floor of the castle, deep in a room he’s never seen before, getting a fitting for his coronation attire. He hardly sees the line of full length mirrors and the wall of windows anymore. He’s watched the sun steadily rise for hours. Watched as it changed the room from a soft blue to an even softer green. They’ve worked through lunch, Eddie’s stomach growling loudly into the nearly quiet room. Each time, Eddie had closed his eyes and prayed to be done.
First Mrs. Holloway had patted seemingly randomly at flats of fabric, pressing them to Eddie’s cheek and down along his wrist. She had Peter hold the fabrics for her as she stepped back and looked from different angles. Comparing his skin tone to the shades of red and blues and greens. She’d hummed most thoughtfully at a deep forest green swatch of velvet. Her assistant had scribbled furiously in his notebook. Had continued to as she spouted numbers aloud as she measured Eddie’s every nook and cranny.
He imagines himself instead at Harrington & Son , leaning against the front counter, Steve mumbling to himself as he kneads carefully into a batch of rolls. His voice harmonizes with the crashing of the water splashing from the fountain far away and the clatter of the townspeople outside the open doorway. Tastes lemons on his tongue. Imagines for a moment that it’s what Steve tastes like too.
Eddie ducks his head with a sigh, eyes gently closed. Another needle pokes into the delicate skin at the base of his spine. He doesn’t flinch and doesn’t let himself imagine anymore.
–
Eddie makes his way into town, the weather fair and breezy. He can smell the lake, its earthy afterscent lingering in his nose. There’s a nearly completed book of poetry under his arm and extra coin in his pocket to purchase another.
When he makes it to the fountain, though, Steve is there. His legs are outstretched in front of him, arms crossed, and face lifted to the sky. With his eyes closed Steve looks peaceful. Each breath he takes is even and soft. Eddie has to pause. Has to take in how golden he looks, how the moles that cluster on his cheeks stand out, how he's bypassed his normal clip for some type of wax that defines his waves.
"You lost, Stevie?" Eddie jokes as he settles down next to him, the nickname easy on his tongue. Close enough to feel the sun-heat of Steve’s skin, but not close enough to touch.
Steve just hums, eyes slow to open. When they do, he squints over at Eddie, sun shining enough into his eyes to swirl the different shades of brown, warm and welcoming. The smile Steve gives him pulls one out of Eddie in an obvious kind of way.
"Thought I'd run errands with you," and it's not a question, but Steve's tone dips into uncertainty at the end.
"I'm a busy guy, Stevie," Eddie presses their shoulders together quickly, and makes sure his voice says jokingly, "but I guess you can tag along."
Steve trails him for the morning. When Eddie goes and speaks with the bookbinder and laughs at her complaints that he reads too fast for her slow hands, Steve smiles kindly from the side. The bookbinder is a mother's age. She presses a hand to Steve cheek and asks over his mother, how the flowers are blooming and if the cross needs to be recarved. Steve murmurs that the groundskeeper is watching her plot closely, that the rain has been good for her flowers. Eddie purchases a poorly constructed novel.
"Suzie's just getting the knack for it. It's hideous work, but," and here she shrugs, "work all the same." Her gray eyes are warm and tender. She pats the book with a hand before wrapping it up in butcher paper. Eddie wonders back to the book Dustin was reading a few weeks back now, the stamp initialing S.Bingham on the inner cover.
They meander over to the ribbon stall, shoulders and knuckles close enough to brush against one another.
"When did your mom pass?" Eddie asks quietly, keeping his eyes on the cobblestone underfoot. He picks out the shades of brown, the shades of reds, the shades of white that exist in each stone.
Steve hums, makes a noise of thinking, "About a year ago now."
Their pace slows. Enough for Eddie to stop and for Steve to get one step ahead of him.
When Steve turns back to him, a pensive expression on his face, Eddie can't help but say, "I'm sorry."
Steve smiles softly at that, tilts his head and extends a hand out to Eddie. "Thank you," he says. The wind picks up the hair around his cheeks, causing them to whirl and for Steve's eyes to squint as they brush his eyelashes. The smile stays in place. Eddie slips his hand in Steve's.
"Would she have liked me?" bubbles up his throat, unbidden and quiet. Eddie's not sure why it matters to him, but once the words are out he can't take them back. There's an anxiety in the pit of his stomach that's rising to his throat. His palm goes clammy in Steve's.
Steve hums, directs them towards the ribbon stall. Eddie watches his profile carefully beside him. A grin quirks its way onto Steve's lips, "No."
Eddie barks out a quick surprised laugh, expression open and shocked at Steve’s bluntness. It causes Steve to duck his chin to his collarbones, laughing as his eyes look at Eddie beneath his eyelashes.
“She was the Harrington in Harrington & Son ,” Steve says instead of explaining himself. And Eddie lets him, happy for any details of Steve’s life. There’s a soft almost smile on his lips, sad but happy at the same time. A smile only a happy memory of a lost loved one can form.
“I assumed it was your father,” Eddie says back honestly.
Steve just shrugs and says nothing else about it. Eddie squeezes their hands more tightly together before letting go.
The ribbon seller looks both older and younger than they ever have when Eddie and Steve approach. Their skin glows a bit more from the sun, while their wispy white hair is sparser than before. Their smile is wobbly and genuine at the sight of Steve and Eddie.
“Hello, Mr. Harrington,” comes the raspy voice that Eddie has learned to love.
“Hello,” Steve says back politely, accepting the knobbed hand pressing quickly to his cheek. It reads like an old family friend, like a grandparent seeing their grandchild for the first time in months.
“More clips?” they ask, already shuffling a few wooden clasped boxes from beneath a whirlwind of ribbons and paperwork. Steve stays silent, but hums appreciatively at each clip that’s pulled out. A series of turquoise pieces are presented, then a practical tortoise shell pattern that the seller tuts at: plain, my child deserves more . And all the villagers must be their children, as Eddie has come to accept the term for himself whenever he stops by the stall.
When Steve seems to be struggling to say no, Eddie interrupts, “Any new ribbons?”
It sparks a renewed interest in the seller’s eyes. They pull a seemingly random drawer out from a chest beneath their stall, shallow with folded ribbons aligned in color order. It’s a series of blues and greens, rich in tones and velvet lined. Small slips of paper hold them in their folds. Eddie lets his fingertips trail across them, murmuring his appreciation to the seller. Their milky blue eyes watch him carefully, humming these would suit you, my child, yes .
"This one would suit you," Steve says, surprising Eddie. He points down to a paler green ribbon, cool toned with a short cropped velvet on one side and a smooth cotton backing. The seller doesn't hesitate to agree, nodding quickly at them both. They pluck it from the drawer, wrinkled fingers tilting Eddie's jaw into the sunlight. He's facing Steve now with the ribbon unspooled against his cheek.
When Eddie meets Steve's eyes, there's a radiant blush on his cheeks. Eddie ducks his gaze and feels his own blush heating his face. He resists the urge to bite at his lip and instead pulls a piece of his hair forward in front of his face.
"How's it look, Stevie?" Eddie says into the sun instead of looking at Steve. Doesn't think he could stand to meet those eyes right now.
He clears his throat, a croaking, "Yeah," followed by a clearer, "yeah, I like–it. It suits you." Steve's words cut awkwardly and when Eddie squints back over to him, he's looking somewhere around Eddie's collar, eyes flicking back and forth with a twisted grimace.
Eddie has a smile tucked to the corner of his mouth as he says, "I'll take it."
The frown on Steve's face evens out, curls a little into a pleased smile as he stares down at swatches of fabric.
The seller crows happily, wraps the ribbon in thin paper and a small box with Melvald's written in cursive along the side. Eddie pays and lets Steve lead them towards the fountain once again.
They settle as they were before, shoulders touching, forearms brushing as they move. Deftly, Eddie pulls his single plait forward and begins to unwind it.
“You didn’t have to buy it,” Steve says, face resting on a knee that’s been pulled up to his chest. The sun seems to radiate from him, trapped beneath his skin.
“Of course I did,” Eddie retorts. He untangles his yellow ribbon, now worn and kinked from constant wear, and begins the slow process of braiding the new green ribbon in its place. Its velvet is smooth, the cotton backing cool on his fingertips. He finishes the braid off, turns to give Steve a view. “How’s it look?”
Steve says nothing at first. Instead Eddie feels his touch at the base of his skull and trail down the twist with a feather touch. He tilts his head into it, tries not to think of how Steve’s fingers would feel in his hair. Of how tenderly he would cradle his cheek. Of how his smile would taste. Of what a braid made by Steve's hand would look like.
“I like it,” Steve finally returns, voice quiet between them.
Eddie forces his blush down, swears it warms his chest and makes his heart palpitate in a strong rhythm in his chest.
“Turn your head,” demands Eddie when he’s righted himself in front of Steve. He pulls the yellow ribbon taunt to undo the folds. Eddie shouldn’t do this. Sweat builds beneath his knees, in his palms. The tremor of fingers is slight and Eddie hopes Steve doesn’t notice. Steve doesn’t question him aloud, simply pulls his brows low and shifts his body. The wax in his hair is stiff but malleable as Eddie pulls his fingers through it, a plait coming into existence quickly, the soft yellow ribbon twined within it. It goes from Steve’s temple and around his ear. The excess ribbon pools at his collar bone.
“Now we match,” comes Eddie’s breathless– stupidly breathless –voice once the ribbon is in place. And Steve’s smile is worth him not understanding what it means for Eddie. What it means to share this moment with him, this tradition.
“Yeah, we match,” Steve whispers back, shoulder ducking into Eddie’s as he slips more into Eddie’s space. There’s nothing in the world to stop Eddie’s returning smile, as soft and obvious as it is. How desperately he wishes he could have this. How he wishes the braid in his hair was by Steve's hand.
They spend the rest of the afternoon there. Robin drops off a basket of lunch sometime midday, the sun lazy and warm in the sky. She's still wearing her apron, smeared with the colors of the bakery. Robin evades Steve's questions on who's watching the shop, who's watching the oven, Robin, answer , poking instead at Eddie's new book.
"Suzie's at it again, huh?"
Eddie doesn't get a chance to answer, instead watches as Steve huffs and shoves her by her hips back to the store. Robin cackles, winks obnoxiously at Steve, and chimes to have fun.
And they stay there together. Eddie's eyes never stray from Steve. He takes in the glow of his hair in the sun, the warmth of his hands when they brush against his, the curve of his smile when he catches Eddie staring. The dangling yellow ribbon in his hair. The heaviness in Eddie's chest grows and grows.
–
That night, burrowed deeply into his blankets and pillows in a cloud of night, Eddie feels achingly aware of where Steve would fit. The blankets feel cool without him. Heavy where his body would curve with them. With a groan, Eddie rolls onto his back, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. The feeling doesn’t abate. It spreads until the sound of Steve’s laughter is ricocheting in his mind. Until the feeling of Steve’s hand brushing against his waist is on repeat. Until that soft look in Steve’s brown eyes is pulling a blush up to Eddie’s cheeks. Until there’s a wet longing at the base of Eddie’s throat that has him dragging his palms to his mouth in concern. He blinks back the sting in his eyes. Sits up and lets the blankets pool at his waist, hands dropping to wrap self-consciously at his waist. His hair curtains his face as he ducks his chin to his chest.
“ Fuck ,” his whispers to the room. To himself.
–
It's quiet here , Eddie thinks.
It's early morning, just after dawn. Eddie is too used to the bustle of the village in the morning. Carts clattering down the cobblestone and children getting yelled at as they knick goods. He's too used to the sounds emanating from the castle kitchens. Heavy cast iron pans hitting the stove tops. Cook's voice shouting obscenities at the younger staff. The sound of uncle chuckling under his breath as he butters a perfectly toasted piece of bread.
The cathedral is quiet like no other place Eddie has been. The silence is surreal. It presses against his eardrums and Eddie swears he can almost hear something in it.
Behind him, Eddie can hear Peter murmur in a low voice with the priest, a man dressed in ornate garb with inlined gold along the seams. Eddie himself wears his mask and a black hooded overcoat that drags down to his knees. Even here in this holy place, Eddie is unknown. Three other cloaked figures are spread around him, tucked close and masked.
The cathedral is echoingly large. The walls crawl upwards and upwards with pillars splitting the nave from the aisles at the sides. They curve to a point, continuing upwards now as ribs in the stone until they melt into where the spires touch the sky. The pews are a worn dark wood when Eddie wanders through them, hand trailing along the neck of one. Smooth and warm from the sun shining blue through the stained glass windows that rise along the east. Arched shield windows depicting a religion that Eddie has never believed in shades of blues and greens. A swelling emotion takes over Eddie's chest as he hesitates at the crossing, facing the raised sanctuary. His hand drops from where it was bounding from one pew's curving edge to the next.
He suddenly feels so small. In the face of splendor of sunlight and duty, Eddie is smaller than he's ever been. His vision tunnels to a spinning floral design at the peak of one of the windows. It spirals into a purple hue. He's being sucked in, crushed underfoot, his eyes cloud at the edges in gray. His breath is loud, too loud for this space, and in a moment, he snaps his fingers, calling all his doppelgangers to his side. One of them shuffles quickly to him before interlocking their arms. It's Gareth, Eddie can tell by the scar along his hand and by the fresh scent of the mint he chews.
"I've got you," Gareth whispers under his breath, voice delicate. He directs them to the other pair of masked figures, their arms also locked together.
They end up in the courtyard outside, facing the pathway that will contain any subject that wishes to attend. Any that wish to catch a glance of their new king for the first time. It's cool out with the sun still rising.
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and paces his breath with Gareth and Jeff on either side of them. They're entirely connected now, the four of them form a small square together on the pathway. Jared across him hums a melody from their childhood.
"Fuck," Eddie whispers to them all. He doesn't apologize, knows that maybe he should, but can't get the words out from the toxic thickness of his throat.
He wants Steve, so suddenly and so blindly that he squeezes his eyes once more and ducks his head low. His arms tighten their connection to his copies. The other boys shuffle in closer, ignoring the stares of passing villagers beyond the gates.
Steve would know the right words to say, would know exactly what Eddie is feeling. He'd press a warm hand to the center of Eddie's back and hug him in close. The world wouldn't exist for a moment and they would stand there together for as long as it took, and then longer still. Eddie doesn't want to do this alone anymore. More than anything– anything – he wants Steve here with him.
" Fuck, " he whispers again, wetter than before.
–
The feeling of needing to see Steve doesn't let up. Through the day and into the night, it's a singular pulse beating through Eddie's body.
When the sun begins to rise again, Eddie slips out into the courtyard. He's donned tan pants and a loose white top, with a brown vest to keep the chill of the morning away.
There's dew in the grass that has him slipping as he runs to the hidden exit. It smells of fresh rain and overturned earth from the gardens. He tucks himself between the wall before anyone in the castle is properly awake.
He heads straight to Harrington & Son, bypassing his normal spot by the fountain, steaming as the sun begins to warm the stone.
Steve is manning the register when Eddie walks in. The redhead is piping quickly across a series of small cakes. Her brow is pulled low and the ever present scowl is there. Steve smiles his hidden smile for Eddie. It pulls a wide and obvious smile from Eddie himself. He can feel the redhead’s stare on the side of his face like soft daggers. It's like all his tension melts away at the sight of Steve regardless. With the loss of the heaviness, Eddie feels weightless. He feels lightheaded and like his sleepless night catches up to him in an instant. He sways up to the counter. The feeling grows when he sees his yellow ribbon tying up Steve's hair.
"Eddie," Steve greets, fingers dropping to the counter between them. Eddie drops his close enough to brush his knuckles into the sides of Steve's.
"Hey there, Stevie," comes Eddie's tired response. I missed you, missed you, sits on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Eddie smiles carefully and pulls Steve's palm against his. Steve shifts his hand enough to cup their hands together. "Got time for me?"
Steve laughs quietly, thankfully ignores the unsurety of Eddie's tone. His eyes crinkle though, glint with the sun coming through the window. Eddie feels both bereft and anchored in his gaze.
"Always," Steve whispers, tightens his grip once before letting go. He trails back towards the kitchen curtain. "Max, you have the counter."
"Whatever," comes the sullen response.
Eddie follows Steve back under the curtain into the kitchen. He's only seen glimpses of it, but it's cozy and warm from the clay oven set on the far wall. There's a counter sprawling along the side wall covered in tools, a drop door on the floor in one corner for the cellar. Carts half full of cooling treats, a shelf full of spices and dry ingredients that are partially used in jars and sacks. In the center is a work table, small jars and a set of bowls already set up there. Steve goes to stand by it.
"What are we doing, Steve?" It's a two-fold question. Eddie trails a hand across the valleys of each jar.
Steve just says, "We're making cookies," and so they do.
They make spiced cookies, small and easy. Yet somehow Steve still ends up with flour on his chin like always, and somehow Eddie eats too much dough and feigns nausea. Somehow the cookies come out perfectly, despite Eddie shuffling into Steve’s space, arms wrapped around his stomach, a pinched expression on his face. Steve’s hands are boxed into oven mitts, which he uses to bat Eddie away. And Eddie ducks in too closely to laugh, feels how his nose grazes into Steve’s shoulder and hears how Steve’s voice hitches as he says, “Shoo, you menace.” But Steve doesn’t push him away after that. He keeps him as close as Eddie has ever dared to be.
Their cookies are lined along the left side of the bakery, while Eddie and Steve shuffle back into the kitchen to tidy up. The air is heavy and warm from the oven and flour. Steve’s eyes linger along Eddie’s forearms and up to his neck and Eddie tries to not notice. Tries not to return the looks with those of his own. Tries not to feel the warmth of Steve’s skin in the air around them. He tries to not let his eyes linger on the curve of Steve’s lips, on the way his hair curls under his jaw as it falls from the bowed ribbon. Eddie forces his eyes downward, to where he’s collecting measuring spoons and wooden bowls.
“Eds,” Steve eventually murmurs. When Eddie glances up, Steve is close, eyes hesitant and so brown in the yellow light of the kitchen. He smells of allspice and vanilla. The air is pulled from Eddie’s lungs slowly. He watches as Steve's eyes flicker between his eyes and his lips. Trail slowly but unsteadily around his cheeks and nose.
“Eds,” Steve says again, quiet, asking for something.
Eddie reaches out without thinking. His fingers graze along Steve's forearm. The hair there is wiry but soft, and Steve's skin is dry and warm. He drags his hand back downward, grasps Steve's wrist in a gentle hold, palm searing against the thin skin and pulse it finds there.
When Eddie presses his lips to Steve's, it feels like the first time he'd stepped into the bakery– finally finally finally hums across his body. Steve lips feel right against his, like they slot exactly where they were meant to land. Eddie can feel Steve’s pulse quicken in his wrist and he brings one hand to cup Steve’s cheek. He feels the soft skin there. The fresh shave and heat of his neck. He tilts his head to take Steve deeper still.
A shuddering breath leaves Steve as if pulled from his depths. A hand presses down near Eddie’s waist, lingers at the edge of his shirt before settling into a hold. The heat of his palm is searing there. Eddie feels himself sway ever closer to Steve, pulled closer into his gravity. With a click, their lips separate. Steve’s breath brushes against Eddie’s lips. He dips in for one more quick kiss, trails them across Steve’s cheek, his nose, his eyelids, his hairline. When he pulls all the way back, the smile hidden in the corners of Steve’s lips is worth every worry Eddie has been carrying. Might yet be worth all those that are to come.
–
It rains, torrential and continuous, for a fortnight after Eddie and Steve kiss. Like the universe is crying with relief. And the ground sighs and swells with the water, but it also traps Eddie indoors. The winds rattle the glass panes in the window frames, it wails across the stone walls. All Eddie can do is wait for it to pass.
–
The calm comes after the storm. When Eddie leaves his room, the windows along the hallway cut the early morning sun in diagonal statues down to the carpet below. The sunlight looks physical, as if Eddie could reach his hands outward and feel it himself. Instead he walks through it. It's warm and dustmotes collect in the air. The carpet bleeds a sunbleached terracotta color, worn with years of tread at the center.
There's steam rising from the ground when he reaches the courtyard. He slips into it easily and soon finds himself down in the village below. He forgoes reading by the fountain, but still greets the bookbinder and ribbon seller as he makes his way into the market square.
Harrington & Son is dark when Eddie peers through the front window. The glass fogs from his breath as he shields the glare from his eyes and gets close. He can just make out the overturned chairs and empty bread baskets behind the counter. There's a sliver of light coming from between the curtains that lead to the kitchen.
The alleyway behind the bakery is cool stone and musky air. It butts up to the backend of a series of apartments, the lower home’s back doorway open. The smell of fried dough wafts from it and when Eddie peers in all he sees in a straight shot through a series of doorways. A child flickers into view, a dog on her tail yipping excitedly.
He knocks quietly on the thick wooden door of the bakery. A shadow passes by the window, which is propped open with a thin piece of wood, clippings from the newspaper pasted to the glass. The door cracks open enough for one of Steve’s brown eyes to see who’s there.
“Eddie,” comes Steve’s sighing exhalation. The door swings entirely open, greeted by Steve’s bare forearms and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon.
“Hey, Stevie,” Eddie whispers back, pressing forward into Steve’s space to tuck them both in a hug. He drags his arms up to Steve’s shoulders, his nose finds its way into Steve's collarbone. This close he can smell the yeast Steve works with and an earthy scent that’s just Steve.
“I have something for you,” Steve whispers back, mouth hot underneath Eddie’s earlobe.
Eddie pulls back, keeping his palms steady on Steve’s shoulders. Brows drawn upward, Eddie asks, “For me?”
Steve scoffs softly. With a quick grip at Eddie’s lower back, they separate entirely. Steve recedes deeper into the kitchen. Eddie steps all the way in, lets the door swing shut behind him. He’s embraced by the thick air of the oven, by the haze of flour and sugar. Steve opens a small cupboard above the washing basin.
The box Steve pulls out is small enough to fit into Eddie’s palm. Eddie imagines ribbons curled into spools, small button sweets in mint and clove, or pastel crayons to sketch with. Before he opens it, Eddie glances up at Steve, grin wide and excited. Steve smiles back, brows curved low pulling a wrinkle in between them. He shuffles a little closer as Eddie tugs off the small lid.
It is nothing Eddie imagined.
It’s a ring. Tucked carefully amongst two cloth covered pillows.
It’s beautiful and delicate. The thin band of it is just visible behind the oval head. Outlined with blackened ink in the center is a moth. Its wings are symmetrical and in bloom, the pattern of petals and two eyes each. Eddie can tell it’s made from pewter from its shine, from the small dent at the bottom that nearly blends into the design. Knows that even pewter is too much for Steve to afford.
It pulls all the air from Eddie’s lungs.
Steve takes Eddie's silence for something more than it is.
“It took me a month to save for it,” Steve whispers. Eddie feels it brush against his face. They’re both ducked to stare down at the ring.
It’s been too long. Eddie needs to say something. But this–his eyes trail back up to Steve’s, flickering to the kitchen wall like his eyes are uncertain if he’s capable of looking at Steve for too long. Like they don’t know what they’ll see when their eyes meet. What does this mean for Steve? His pulse thunders through his body, steady but harsh and rattling all of his bones. Steve’s eyes are just as brown and warm as always when looking at Eddie. That somehow cuts into Eddie even more.
“Steve,” Eddie starts. His voice fails him part way through, leaves Steve’s name as a silent oath instead of the plea Eddie meant it as.
Uncertainty flickers in those dark eyes, usually so confident in their actions. It's such an unfamiliar sight on Steve that Eddie stumbles even closer to him. Feels how Steve's knuckles brush against his own and how the toes of their shoes collide. Even with that uncertainty, with the doubt looming somewhere in Steve's mind, his eyes are soft as he looks at Eddie. They’re gentle, as if in order to look at Eddie it must be done softly.
“Steve, is this–?” Eddie goes to ask, mouth full of cotton.
And Steve must hear the wrong question, because he says, “I just–I knew you would like it, and–” he clears his throat, tugs a hand through his slightly greasy hair, “we’ve been courting for a few months now, and–and I just wanted something to–” and here he leans even closer to Eddie. He takes the box from Eddie and pulls the ring from between its cushions. The box disappears somewhere on the counter.
Steve takes Eddie’s hand, gentle and shaking, and slips the ring onto Eddie’s pointer finger. It fits perfectly. The weight of it is soothing in all the same ways it’s blindsiding. The breath stutters out of Eddie’s throat.
Courting and months are reverberating through his skull. All he can do is blink dumbly up at Steve’s worried eyes.
“Just–just something to prove to you that I’m serious,” Steve continues. He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes and sighs it back out slowly. He opens his eyes again. “I’m serious, Eds, and I’m ready whenever you are.”
All Eddie can see are Steve's eyes, a soft brown color and looking at Eddie like he hung the stars. It's how Steve has been looking at Eddie for months. How Steve's voice has sounded whenever he said Eddie's name. How his hands have felt against his skin. Eddie sees it now for what it's always been.
Eddie hears this craft is made of mine hand, overly formal and stilted in Steve's voice for what it has always been. I made this for you, with love, with love, with love.
–
When he returns to the castle, the sun is crawling back up the horizon. He feels windswept and loved. But there's an acidic taste in the back of his throat, an off kilter feeling lingering at the top of his skull. Eddie feels it in the way his hands shake and his eyes won't settle on any particular thing. He feels it in the way that when he changes into new clothes, his first thought is to see his uncle.
"Uncle," Eddie manages after he finds him. He's in his office, portraits lining the walls and paperwork lining the desk. There's a series of bookshelves framing him, filled with red and green leather-bound books. The golden filigree catches the lighting from two windows.
"Ed," his uncle greets, lilting his name as a question. He shuffles paperwork to the side and rises from behind the desk. His worn hand presses to Eddie's shoulder, steering him to the closest window. The grounds sprawl before them, green and familiar. Eddie can see where he'd slip between the gap in the wall to reach the village every morning. Knows with certainty his uncle has been watching him disappear each morning. He blinks up and meets a pair of understanding brown eyes. When Eddie blinks next, he's surprised to find his eyelashes heavy with tears.
With a sigh, a gentle come here, son , his uncle pulls him close. Eddie's face is tucked between Uncle Wayne's cheek and his chest. His arms wrap around his uncle's waist. They stay that way in silence until Eddie can hear birds chirp and the groundskeeper snipping delicately down in the garden below.
"You love him?" comes the gruff question in Eddie's ear.
"Yes," comes Eddie's wet reply, cracking partway through from his tears. The ring is heavy on his finger.
"Then so do I."
–
Eddie knows he should go to Steve directly. He knows that would be the most honorable thing he could do. But the acid in his throat is too great; the weight of how Steve might react is heavy on his shoulder. How could he speak with the taste of fear in his throat? How could he stand with the weight of this betrayal?
Eddie takes the coward's way out.
He sends a formal invitation for the coronation to Steve and Robin. He aligns a spot for them along the cathedral's courtyard fence line. He does everything to ensure they would see him.
The day comes slowly and with much fanfare. His clothes are given final touch ups, the schedule is finalized, his speech has been read over by every coordinator. Eddie has no reason to feel as nervous as he does; all he needs to do is show up.
But on the morning of, as the sun is just beginning to rise in his rooms, as it creeps along the floorboards until it slices across his bed, Eddie has never been so nervous in his life. There's already servants clamoring outside his bedroom door in the outer suite. He can hear Peter and his guard. The panicked chatter of the former, and the clanging armor of the latter.
When he emerges from his room, Peter flocks to him. He's tugged further into the suite, to his dressing area. The coronation outfit fits him perfectly, and yet Mrs. Holloway putters, primps him from every angle. Eddie patternizes his breathing. Counts his inhales, his exhales, lets his eyes focus deeply into the background behind him in the mirror. Still the shade of green fills his sight. He can see now how Mrs. Holloway had seen it; he sees now how it compliments his skin and his darker tones. He sees how his eyes seem deeper and his shoulders broader. There’s a golden inlay along the outer seam of his pant leg, giving him additional height.
Gareth sidles up to him, the rest of his doubles waiting outside in the hall, the scent of mint strong in his nervousness. He hands Eddie his blank mask, the last he will have to wear for his life. With one last look into the mirror, hair now done back into a complex braid, the pale green ribbon from Steve tucked carefully into its spiral, he puts it on. As it settles on his nose, on his cheekbones, it feels cool and freeing at the same time. His breath comes easier; the shake in his hands ceases, though the pewter ring is still spun round and round. Like this, he and his attendants are all the same. Gareth sticks by his side as they slide into the rest of the group. Ten of them all together as they mount their horses and head to the cathedral. The royal procession is officially underway.
Eddie does not lead, cannot by virtue of safety. He’s near the back, tucked between Jared and Sam, who smells heavily of tobacco. Still, the crowds flock around them. Rice and rose petals are thrown at their feet; small flags for Hawkins are flying. He sees the bookbinder, her daughter amongst a pool of six other children. He sees the greengrocer, the cobbler, the seamstress, the repairmen. He sees the ribbon seller, a small flag in their grip and a knowing smile on their face. Their milky blue eyes are trained right on Eddie. The edge of his ribbon tickles the back of his neck. He nods down to them before facing forward.
They reach the cathedral soon enough.
It all happens quickly and as slow as molasses. They enter the courtyard, dismounting in a long line of identical men. The wide cathedral doors are drawn and the crowd holds their breath in union, the weight of the moment calming the cheers. And it’s now, in this moment, amongst the men he has spent a lifetime hidden within, that he steps forward alone to be received by the priest. The remaining men trail after him, heads now bowed low in respect. The crowds beyond the gates roar with celebration. Their king-to-be is now more than a ghost.
The only thing keeping Eddie standing is the quiet humming of Jared behind him, a gentle palm pressed into his back.
Inside the cathedral is a quiet affair. Silence hangs around them, only broken by the melodic voice of the priest, of the hymns, and of Eddie’s careful repetition. The royal cape is heavy on his shoulder when his uncle places it there. It’s black, an embroidered hawk crying in gold and red. In its claws is a squirming snake, fangs drawn and tongue extended. His uncle’s palms are grounding as they press into his shoulders, at his neck when he secures the closure there. His eyes are blue, the light streaming from the glass above making them bluer. There’s pride in them. He says nothing when the priest asks him to kneel before Eddie.
“I will honor him,” comes his gruff response as the priest removes his crown and places it heavily onto Eddie. It's thin but weighted with gold-plated steel. It cuts deeply into the delicate skin above Eddie's ears. He stands tall despite it.
The orb and scepter are placed in his hands from the priest. His uncle is now standing behind him, a retired king bowing to the new. The orb clinks when it settles against his ring, a dull noise that Eddie feels reverberate into him.
The priest leads them out, the choir sounding reverently behind them, boastful and clear, in the summer morning air. The sun is rising to its fullest now. Eddie steps down from the raised sanctuary, his footsteps muffled, the cape dragging out behind him, extending the embroidered mural. The procession behind him is his uncle, his doppelgangers with their masks in place, and four women in jade toned robes carrying incense lanterns high above their heads. They smell of earth and of honey.
The cathedral doors are pulled open once more, the priest halting beside them as Eddie emerges for the first time as king.
Eddie goes out to the public courtyard, cape dragging behind him, the orb and scepter still in his grasp. The crown is still heavy on his head. The sun blinds him momentarily and he blinks rapidly into it. Slowly the wide gates of the cathedral courtyard come into focus and the village crowd beyond them. All the faces blur together in the sea of people.
There's cheering surrounding him but it's like he can't hear it. He blinks again and lets his eyes look for familiar brown eyes.
He finds Robin first. Her face dropped open in surprise, the sun radiating in her blue eyes, her hands clutching at Steve beside her. She's dressed, for the first time, in a dress, floral and yellow in color. Around her head is a crown of pink flowers, on her feet are large worn boots. Her waist is cinched by her keys.
He has to look at Steve, eventually, right now, please just look at him, why can't you do this? When Robin fully meets his gaze, his eyes shutter closed. He swallows thickly and takes a deep breath. He swears he smells vanilla and cinnamon and the clay warmth of Harrington & Son. Wishes desperately to be back there one last time, before they both knew who he was.
When he opens his eyes again, it's to Steve's shocked expression. A silent shock. A blindsided shock. He's gripping Robin back, mouthing Robin? Do you see–? Robin?
Eddie can't say anything, can't do anything. He instead holds Steve's gaze, holds his own shoulders high and hopes Steve understands. Hopes that after all these months that Steve understands why.
–
Eddie doesn't see Steve for a week. He’s immediately swept up in recognition and responsibilities. Every moment alone is interrupted too soon. All times of rest have ceased. Peter clings to his side and Eddie's guard with him. How he longs to lounge in the courtyard, to slip into the hidden entrance, to read by the fountain in the village. To see Steve. Every morning Eddie dons his moth ring, he braids his hair carefully with the pale green ribbon, and thinks only of Steve while performing his duties.
He goes to the village at night, finally, at the end of that week. Late into the night, after a long meal-turned-meeting with his uncle, whose eyes were knowing but stern. And after, the gruff “Go” whispered into his ear as his uncle turns to Peter and asks over his mother apropos to nothing. Eddie took the chance to slip away, heart in his throat, his guard's back purposefully turned. He wears his normal court attire as he scuffs through the wall
The grass is slippery beneath his court shoes. The stones of the wall are cool but dry. Eddie only has a moment to hope that the village is quiet enough at night that no one will notice him.
Indeed, when he makes his way to the village square, the only noise is the bubbling of the fountain and the buzz of fireflies as they flit around him. The night is heavy on his skin, but Eddie doesn't let himself linger for long. His shoes are soundless on the cobblestone.
The bakery is empty as he approaches, no light emerges from beneath the kitchen curtain when Eddie tucks his eyes against the glass. Pulling back, he redirects deeper into the village, further than he’s ever dared to go. The cobblestone turns rougher and uneven. The storefronts trade for houses and small front gardens. Each is clustered closely, the occasional candlelight burning from windows. Curtains and picture frames and figurines are illuminated on windowsills within.
The house he approaches is squat and matches the two that frame it on each side. It’s terra cotta in color, shutters made of windswept wood are closed across all the windows. There’s a window box below the front-most window, full of delicate blue blooms partially closed for the night. There’s a small box near the front stoop, a hand carved sign reading Bakery Orphanage and hand painted loaves of bread in several sizes. Eddie opens the small door to see a selection of baked goods from Harrington & Son that must not have sold for the day. It draws a wistful smile on his face. It gives him the bravery to knock on the front door.
Steve answers the door after a moment, a candlestick held in one hand. Eddie drinks in the sight of him. He's wearing loose linen pants and a white sleep shirt. There's creases along his cheek where his pillow had been pressed. His brown eyes are shuttered in shadow, but there's darkness below them that speaks of sleepless nights. He’s beautiful. Eddie’s missed him, can feel the empty slot inside him where Steve would've fit. The words are on his tongue–
"Guild members have to ask for a blessing before courtship."
Steve does not move. It’s like he hadn’t spoken at all, but Eddie knows he must have. He sounds tired, beyond the tiredness sleep would resolve. A tiredness that comes from learning the truth and having to face it head-on.
"I have no father," Steve continues.
– no father – echoes in Eddie's mind. He recalls a burning sunset beyond the vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall. Pinks and oranges that filled the sky as birds cut across. There’s beading at his throat again and Peter's elbow in his side.
"It is tradition to ask the king in his stead."
You have my blessings , his uncle's voice reverberates in the entrance hall and in the depths of Eddie's mind. All breath leaves his lungs. His eyes hold Steve’s carefully. Meets the molten anger that they hold.
“I shared my craft with you, Eddie,” and it's bitter and accusing. "I shared–" here Steve takes a deep breath, sways into the darkness of his house before emerging once again. "Did you even know what it meant?"
"No," is ripped from Eddie's chest. Because he can at least give Steve the truth of it. Gives back a little more when he says desperately, “I braided your hair, Stevie." He shifts forward, "Did you know what it meant?"
He can see how Steve’s face shifts from anger to confusion in an instant, “What?”
“It’s a sign of affection,” Eddie says instead of truly answering. But that's not quite true, is it? “It’s a sign of–” his mouth is thick with feeling, “of courtship.” After a pause, “For royalty. For me.”
Steve eyes pitch across his face seeking out the lie. He finds none. His brows pull low and his mouth turns down. There are questions flitting back and forth to each corner of his expression. Eventually he meets Eddie’s eyes once more. He shakes his head. Eddie's heart drops somewhere into his navel, swells acid in his throat.
“I wanted to tell you,” says Eddie around the ball in his throat. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t. I’m sorry–” and he drags a hand upwards to his own mess of a braid, shoving hand beneath it and pulling at the roots. His eyelashes are heavy. “For all of it. I’m sorry for all of it , Steve, but not that . Not for knowing you. Not for loving you.”
At that, Steve starts, pulling the doorway open a little more with a jerk. A look flashes across his face, pained but wondering. "If you had known–" Steve swallows and Eddie copies him, tastes the bitter aftertaste of his confession trail down his throat. "If I had known, would it have led to anything? Could it?"
Eddie thinks of his uncle. Of his aging eyes that somehow know everything there is to know.
You have my blessings.
You love him?
How long had he’d known?
Eddie takes a step forward, encases himself further in the warmth of Steve and his home. A step into the warmth he’d so desperately missed. Quietly, because to admit so is fragile, Eddie whispers, “ Yes ,” and takes another step closer. Steve doesn’t move. His brown eyes continue to pass across Eddie’s face. The fear and hope he must find there. The uncertainty. Quieter yet, “It still can, Stevie. It can .”
Steve is silent. The hand carrying the candle bobs unsteadily and illuminates the searching expression on Steve’s face. The contemplative flicker of his eyes and the downturn of his mouth. Eddie is mesmerized.
“I won’t give up the bakery,” Steve eventually says.
“I would never ask you to,” Eddie replies.
“I won’t leave the guild.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” Hope swoops through his ribcage.
“I cannot give you an heir,” Steve follows lastly, as if trying to convince both himself and Eddie of the worst fault.
“We wouldn’t need one,” Eddie returns. Eddie isn’t even his uncle’s true heir. What’s another bastard on the throne after him?
Steve shifts into Eddie with a nearly silent hum, the candle settled on a table just within the entrance. His fingers glide down Eddie’s forearm, cool to the touch but blistering to Eddie’s soul. His next breath stutters in his chest. Is this what forgiveness tastes like?
“You will court me properly.”
A smile pulls from the corners of Eddie’s mouth and his eyes droop to look at Steve through his eyelashes. He links their hands together by their fingertips. When he nods, their noses graze against one another. Steve smells faintly of violets and vanilla.
“I will,” agrees Eddie, wistful, already thinking of his braid in Steve’s hair once more. Of every color ribbon against the flush of Steve’s cheeks.
Steve smiles, that sun-rising smile of his that just graces the corners of his lips and shines so brightly that Eddie ducks his head.
“Well then, Eddie ,” Steve drawls in a whisper, delicate and personal, dragging the e at the end of his name, “Come inside?”
Eddie does.