Chapter Text
To say that the council meeting went poorly would be...an understatement.
Which isn't to say that Clover would say a word about it. It wasn't his place. His place was to stay silent and ready at James's side, which he had done, despite the angry indignation thrumming through him at every insistence that James must take a wife.
There were many neighboring kingdoms full of unmarried duchesses, the council insisted. Certainly one of them was lovely enough to catch the king's eye, they speculated. It would have to happen inevitably, they prattled, if the king was to have an heir and leave his kingdom in sound hands as he aged. Insufferable bastards. Clover could swear that each hearing made him bristle more than the last. Standing in silence as James grew visibly distressed and irritated is, typically, the greatest test of willpower his role can put him through.
Still, he would mind his place during talks of politics (which is all it was, really, a simple and simply infuriating discussion of which marriage would benefit trade the most) if it meant he could keep that place.
Never mind the jealousy that burned in his gut whenever the topic of marriage came up. That he could never voice, even within the confines of James's chambers. Especially not there. He thinks briefly on the idea that James might send him away if he knew, and the mere thought of it makes his throat close up. James isn't his and never could be, but he'll remain steadfast in his devotion anyway...even if it means that one day the inevitable will come, that because leaving James unguarded would leave him open to assassination, he will have to stand outside James's door while—
Clover shuts and locks said door behind them, turns his back to James just briefly to closes his eyes and exhale all of his longing. "Highness..." he murmurs, knowing James must still be incensed.
James pinches the bridge of his nose, his other hand on his hip. “If I have to sit through one more of those damn meetings,” he grouses, patience wearing just as thin as Clover had expected. “I don’t see why it matters. Plenty of kings before me ruled unmarried.”
As Clover recalls from history lessons, reigns following those kings were typically preceded by periods of violence as noble cousins and bastard princes scrambled for the throne, but he already knows full well that it isn’t the idea of an heir that bothers James, or even marriage itself. The problem lies in the fact that he’s been at James’s side for 12 years now, and he’s never once seen him come to fancy a woman.
“It can’t be so difficult to understand that I don’t set out to find a wife based on trade routes,” James goes on, gritting out the words as he starts to pace across the room. “We’ve had this conversation four times in the last month. Next thing I know, they’ll be walking suitors into my throne room. They must think I'm a fool if they believe I’d just accept someone they put in front of me, when for all I know—!” He stops, shuts his eyes and exhales hard through his nose, then continues pacing.
The more James talks, the more Clover's chest aches. He wants to comfort him. Really comfort him. He wants to hold James to his chest, to smooth his hair and tell him that everything will be fine, that the Atlesian Court was merely another thing Clover would protect him from.
But it wasn't, and he couldn't.
It's not that he and James weren't close after all this time. It's just...Clover can't afford to be terribly intimate with him. He would start thinking about things too much. He would start considering where such intimacy might lead, or rather...he'd start considering it more deeply than he already does, which isn't his place. Such thoughts are above his station, and it's his duty to ensure that their relationship remains just professional enough to never venture past platonic.
Clover sighs and moves closer, taking James's arm and turning the man to face him. “Majesty,” he says gently, meeting James's eyes in the hopes of grounding him again. “All they want is their own security. Your capability is the last thing on their minds. Never mind your happiness.” His throat tightens. “As long as they know you're aware of that, there's hardly anything they can do but advise.”
James bristles a moment longer, then, as Clover lifts his chin to take a noticeable deep breath, sighs in exhaustion. They both close their eyes, Clover’s budding headache lessening here in the quiet, just him and James and the privacy only afforded in a king's chambers.
After a beat of silence, he opens his eyes and reaches up to smooth the silken collar of James's robes, rumpled slightly in the furious march back to James's room. Fondness and a bit of mirth graces his features then, humor in his voice. “They're only words, Highness. The complaints of rich old farts who aren't long for this earth anyway are hardly worth your notice.”
James huffs in half-hearted amusement, which is all Clover can hope for after a meeting like that. He smiles, then briefly drops his gaze with a bittersweet smile. “You’ll find love genuinely in time,” he reassures softly.
There’s a long pause where James goes still as stone, then murmurs, defeated, “Even if I did, I couldn’t marry.”
Clover blinks, then frowns. “You’re the king,” he reminds. “I realize that sort of scrutiny isn’t…desirable, but no one could tell you that a man isn’t—”
“It’s not—” James starts, then sighs again and looks away. “It’s not that it would be a man. It’s class.”
Clover’s heart jolts in his chest. “Oh,” he says.
Silence falls again. Clover realizes he is standing too close. He tries, “I…I’m sure there must be some noblemen who court men.”
James still doesn’t face him. “I’m sure there are.”
“You could dance with a man at a ball,” Clover says, rushed. “Any man. So the ones present would know. If men from other kingdoms are there—”
“I don’t want them,” James says sharply. Then, softer, “I wouldn’t want them.”
He’s looking at Clover with those eyes again. The subdued fondness, the longing resignation. He wants, and it’s not the first time that Clover has caught him wanting, but the tension from the council meeting has left it all burning out in the open. It’s enough that his mere presence feels suffocating when Clover knows he must say no.
Don’t look at me like that , he thinks. Please don’t look at me like that. He says helplessly, “You could meet someone. You could get to know someone.”
“For what?”
“You could learn to love them,” Clover pleads, then, desperately, “James,” as James steps closer and grasps his elbow.
“I don’t want them,” James insists quietly. “Tell me to stop.”
How could he? How could he? The evening light from the window frames James’s raven hair in the faintest hue of purple, his eyes deep blue in the coming dark. He looks ethereal. He is always elegant, always so beautiful that only familiarity saves Clover from gawking. James presses closer, reaching his free hand up to brush lightly at Clover’s jaw, and Clover doesn’t dare breathe.
“James,” he begs.
“I don’t want them,” James repeats, which is the same as saying something entirely different, something terrible and aching and dangerous. His eyes flit over Clover’s face from beneath his lashes before he leans in close, breath ghosting over Clover’s mouth for one hesitant second before their lips meet.
James’s mouth is soft and pliant, asking instead of taking, and the two of them fit together in such a way that Clover’s stomach bursts into flutters. James’s mouth moves again his, soft and bittersweet and he can’t, this is his king, he can’t, even if he wants and wants and wants—
Something thin and hungry snaps in the back of Clover’s mind. He suddenly needs and tightens his fists in James’s clothes, kissing him so hard he could drown in it. James wraps his arms around Clover’s waist, and Clover’s hands find his sharp jawline from memory; he’s buttoned James’s collar gods know how many times. James is warm and broad and solid, tall enough that Clover has to arch his back when James leans over him, heavy breaths slipping between parted lips along with little flashes of tongue. Clover steps back as James presses forward, unbothered by the way his boots skid backwards over the soft rugs so long as James’s arms keep him steady. His back hits the wall, the sharp shock of it racing down his spine, James’s hands roving over his hips and belly before their weight even settles. Clover gasps as James breaks away from his mouth and nips lightly along his jaw, his own fingers scrabbling over James’s satin-clad shoulders and James’s slipping just beneath his belts—
“Your Majesty!” he blurts urgently, breathless, and James stills.
They stay like that for a moment, panting, sweat just barely forming at their temples. Heartache bursts beneath Clover’s ribs, one hand sliding down James’s chest in defeat and the other curling at the nape of his neck with longing.
James says nothing. He’s loosened his grip, but his arm remains around Clover’s body, like it belongs there.
“Your Majesty,” Clover whispers. “If someone caught me—”
“I know,” James interrupts. Then, quieter as he smooths his thumb over Clover’s bare shoulder, “I know.”
Clover’s throat tightens. He feels the need to explain. He has to explain and he can’t say much. “If I was found unfit to protect you…” he starts.
James exhales. The room grows darker with the approaching night, and after a moment, he withdraws and crosses the room, disappearing behind the dressing screen to strip out of his fine and ruffled clothes.
Clover lingers where James left him, where James touched him, until James exits in silk pajamas and sits on the bed, facing the grand window and the stars sparkling over the mountains. After a too-long moment of gathering whatever scraps of willpower he has left, Clover pulls off his boots and sets them by the foot of the bed. James glances over his shoulder, watching as Clover begins drawing the canopy curtains before he pulls back the sheets and climbs into bed.
Clover steadfastly doesn’t look at him as he closes the final curtain, for his own sake. James lays with his back to him, either for the same reasons or to avoid the air of awkwardness.
He unbuttons his vest and drapes it over his chair next to the bed, pulling off his under armor and pants until he’s left in an undershirt and leggings. He glances at the drawn canopy once more, listens for James’s breathing (too shallow, still awake) before climbing up the rope ladder that hangs from the ceiling and dropping into the hammock that hangs just above and to the left of James’s bed. He draws the ladder up and straps it into place, reaches up to rap his knuckle against the water skin hanging from the hammock strings to make sure it’s full before settling down into the blankets and shutting his eyes.
He tries, very valiantly, to forget the shape of James’s mouth.
Clover wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of armor-clad bodies dropping to the ground.
It’s quiet, not something loud enough to disturb most, but Clover has long schooled himself into being a light sleeper. James still sleeps soundly beneath him, breathing deeply and blissfully unaware.
Clover reaches up, opens the cap on his water skin and waits, body coiled tight like a spring.
A thin column of light falls across the floor as the door opens, just wide enough for a person to slip through, a tall, lithe shadow cast there briefly before the door shuts and the room goes dark again. There’s a long, cautious pause, and then light, muffled footsteps glide smoothly across the carpet; Clover just barely catches the expertly quiet scrape of a drawn blade, and the soft rustle of the canopy’s heavy curtains.
Clover rolls out of the hammock and drops.
He lands in a crouch just in front of the intruder, hears them gasp, “Shit!” before reeling backwards, but Clover already has water flowing over his hands and at the ready. He casts it over the floor, the water shooting over the intruder’s boots and solidifying in thick chunks around their ankles, freezing their feet to the floor. The intruder shouts in surprise and falls backwards with a heavy thud, their dagger clattering to the floor.
“Wha—!” James cries, bolting upright and ripping the canopy curtains open.
“Be at ease, Your Majesty,” Clover reassures, caught somewhere between pride and fury. The last bit of water left in his water skin glides to him with a wave of his hand and comes to float over his palm in sharp shards of ice. “You’re safe.”
James groans and runs a hand down his face in exasperation. “Safe, my ass. Where the hell are the guards?”
“Either dead or knocked out, I imagine,” Clover answers. “I heard them drop before he came in.”
“Fantastic,” James mutters, climbing out of bed. There’s the sound of fumbling by the nightstand, the strike of a match, and James’s tired face and mussed hair is warmed by candlelight. “Who is it?”
Clover stares too long. He knows he does. He can’t help it, sometimes. James notices, holds his gaze for the barest moment before dropping his gaze back to their attacker and holding the candle up to get a look at him.
It’s a man, slender in build but muscular, dressed all in black, the lower half of his face hidden by a mask and everything else besides the tiniest peek at red eyes hidden by his mop of dark hair. He’s preoccupied with trying to pull his boots free from the chunks of ice, though what that’d get him, Clover doesn’t know.
He steps closer. The man jolts and leans back, grunting as he tries to kick the ice apart and raising his arm to shield his head when that proves fruitless. Clover draws his arm back in preparation to let his last shard of ice loose; when he’s close enough, he snatches the man’s wrist with his free hand and drops the shard before pulling the mask from his face.
James pinches his brow and swears. Clover blinks in shocked silence. The man lets out an annoyed but defeated sigh, then asks, voice low and raspy, “Don’t suppose I could get a drink before you decide to execute me?”
In the candlelight, the notorious face of Queen Raven of the Branwen Isles—or rather, that of her twin brother and crown prince—meets their gazes with a look of exhausted resignation, fully aware that he has just started a war instead of a coup.