Chapter Text
"Has anyone seen the prince?" Eddie hears from behind the statue he's plastered himself behind. The alcove he's tucked in barely fits him and his breaths are coming out short. There's water dripping from somewhere above, splashing wetly on his shoulder. The cheaply spun cotton clothes Eddie swiped are damp where they cling to his knees and back.
Footsteps descend in the corridor. First the patter of his advisor’s leather soles, then the clanging of his personal guard’s armored boots. Eddie sucks in his breath and elongates his body. His eyes flutter upward to the cloudy sky he can see along the edge of the alcove awning. The footsteps cease just to the left of his hiding spot.
"No sign?" his advisor Peter asks. Eddie can see how he would be wringing his hands along the hem of his doublet.
The guard grunts in response, elegant as ever. Eddie's almost tempted to roll his eyes. Instead he squeezes them shut and thinks walk away walk away his pulse pounding behind his eyelids until they both do. The courtyard echoes with Peter's worry and the guard's armor.
With a great exhale, Eddie slips out from behind the statue. The rain is dripping lazily with no sign of stopping. Eddie pulls on a waxed cotton overcoat, the hood big enough to pull over the quick braids he's set his hair in.
The clouded shadows are easy enough to slip in and out of. When voices echo along the stones, he scurries into whatever darkness he can find. Eddie remains unseen, escapes into the village without notice.
–
The village is both familiar and new for Eddie. These people, their faces and their worries, are so easy to place from his times beside his uncle. They would ebb in and out of the entrance hall for grievances. They'd speak their sorrows, their accusations, and their hopes onto their king. Eddie would observe from the side, stationed amongst his confidants, masked. Within them he is hidden and his identity unknown to the public. He is known, and yet unknown to them.
With that secret Eddie steps into the village, the morning sun trying to cut through the clouds and failing. The cobblestone streets are uneven and clean. Carriages and wagons pull through with loud clattering wooden wheels, their drivers blurry eyed for the day. Children make ready the shop stalls and storefronts, opening windows and propping up signage.
The cobbler, the bookbinder, the repairman, the seamstress, the market square with the fountain in the middle. Two large twining stone flowers grow from the center, weeping water to the pond below. Beneath the surface glitters coins and goldfish.
Eddie settles at the waters' edge, the curved stone cool through his borrowed pants. He sits there for nearly an hour, watching how the fruit stall organizes their apples. Watching how the bookseller reads while trailing her finger along the words. Watching children knick handfuls of rice and stray oranges. Watching the fabric stall's ribbons wave in the wind like miniature sails.
It's here that Eddie can't help himself. The colorful lacework, the silken edging, the velveteen sheen. The ribbons wind through his fingers.
"Anything in particular, dear?" asks a croaking voice. The seller is bent at a ninety degree angle starting at the center of their back. In their hand is a cane made of time-worn oak. They're of an indeterminate age, but Eddie can see old from all angles.
"They're beautiful," Eddie comments. Carefully he rubs a soft yellow strip between his fingertips.
"Only ten silver a piece, dear," the seller says back at nearly a whisper. Eddie smiles down at them, takes in their crooked back and wrinkled form. Their eyes are a milky blue and yet they follow Eddie's shifting body with ease.
"I'll take this one," he decides, pulling the pale yellow one down from the wobbling rafter display.
–
Eddie returns to the market square nearly every morning for a week.
Every day he changes into a new variation of cotton and leather and sneaks his way across the courtyard. Some days Peter could be heard somewhere nearby, while Eddie's guard lumbers beside him. Other days, Eddie swore he could feel eyes on his back as he crossed to his hidden exit. When he'd look back up at the castle, foot partway through the barrier, all he could see was a flutter of a curtain in the upper windows.
His uncle had not spoken to him about these expeditions, but he must know of them. Every dinner had knowing eyes and purposeful statements on how the coronation preparations were coming along.
And the fitting yesterday morning?
How is your speech coming along?
Any thoughts on marri–?
Eddie shook his head in exasperation, a sharp exhale of anger blowing from his lungs. He rubs both hands through his hair, stretching his temples back until it hurt at the roots. Pushing the thoughts away, down where they can’t be heard, Eddie continues the walk across the market. His leather shoes patter softly on the stone.
The sun returns, weak and cool despite everything. He buys no more ribbon, but he does purchase a thickly bound book of poetry. He stays by the fountain and reads from it. It's a terrible copy, full of misspellings, but the bookseller was kind and flushed red when Eddie had smiled at her. And so Eddie purchases another some days later, after finishing the first. It too is full of misspellings.
It takes him this entire week to find the bakery. It's tucked behind the cobbler, but next to the grocer. It's brick and mortar, whitewashed from time, with wooden trimming. There are pit-marks in a few bricks, stray hooks where hanging plants will go come summer. The windows are warped single-pane glass with the words Harrington & Son written in red and gold paint, empty boxes below each sill. From its doors emanates warmth and tartness; the smells of fresh bread and early season berries.
When Eddie ducks through the open doorway, he's greeted by the sight of a redhead girl angrily kneading dough along the left side, flour across her pink cheeks. She's behind a counter, with a line of greased bread pans surrounding her. Behind her sprawls ivy clinging desperately to exposed brick, shelves of hand thrown pottery, the vines crawling from pitchers and wide-mouthed bowls.
“Welcome,” she greets without enthusiasm and without looking up. Eddie says nothing, leaves her to her kneading. It was like the bakery was pulling him deeper in, like it had been waiting for him and was whispering finally finally finally in a hushed reverent tone .
Along the front window is an array of uneven tables of various heights and designs. The sun is glittering along the mosaic of one, a mismatch picture of the ocean, shooting cut light across the front display. There’s a window ledge full of more plants, each more different than the last, all of them in shades of green and yellow. Healthy and loved and filling all the spaces in between.
Light shards of blues and greens trace across the newly baked goods. Loaves of still steaming bread are in a neat row cooling along the counter, while cooled ones are in labeled baskets stacked along the back wall. A tray of cookies sits next to a small clanging metal register. Scones and biscuits are evenly spaced behind a glass display case. Eddie approaches it silently, notes there’s a boy sitting perched on a stool in the back left corner, obscured by a bookcase littered with cook books and dusty framed photos, his nose buried deeply into a book of its own. There’s another boy, closer to Eddie’s own age, smiling and returning change to a mother with a swaddled baby strapped to her chest at the register. There’s a loaf of paper-wrapped bread balanced on the baby’s head as she accepts her coin.
“Thank you, Steve,” the mother says.
Steve just smiles, murmurs a soft goodbye to her and the baby.
Steve turns to him, smile wavering when he meets Eddie’s gaze. Eddie must stare too long. There’s suspicion in Steve’s eyes as he takes in Eddie’s appearance: rough spun cotton pants in a deep brown, a matching cotton shirt in a dirty cream, stains at the pits. His shoes are a tanned leather, laces nearly too short to tie. His long hair is braided neatly and tight against the nape of his neck. Eddie looks as though he has no money. He looks as though he isn’t meant to be here.
“Hello,” Steve greets politely regardless.
“Hello,” Eddie manages to echo back.
"What do you want?" and the tone is almost rude. Eddie would be offended if it weren't for the grimace Steve makes once the words come out.
So Eddie smiles and presses his palms along the edge of the counter. He blinks up with the most passive expression he can manage.
"What's your favorite?"
"I like everything," comes the unimpressed reply. Eddie hears a snort from the redhead girl behind him. He feels the grin on his lips grow. There's a cluster of moles on one cheek, a few that trail down his neck. His eyes are a deep, cold shade of brown. Eddie can't help but notice he's beautiful.
"Your finest chocolate scone, sir," Eddie says quickly, drawing five silver from his pocket and stacking them up on the counter.
Steve just huffs, rolls his eyes, and tucks the five silver into the register with a clang. Eyes never really leaving Eddie, he deftly pulls a bit of brown paper and folds a perfectly baked scone up. The edges are tucked so that it won't unfold. Instead of setting it in Eddie's proffered palm, Steve drops it onto the counter just to the side.
"Have a wonderful morning," Steve says with a bland smile and blank eyes. Eddie just grins back at him and heads back to the fountain.
It's the best scone he's ever eaten.
–
The second time Eddie goes to Harrington & Son it’s a beautiful day for early spring. Eddie easily escapes to the village, book in hand from the castle library, hair braided back with the yellow ribbon he’d purchased last time. The air is still chilled and puddles mark dips in the streets. There's an excitement in the air, the onset of spring making itself known and all of the people reiterating it.
When he makes it to the bakery, the smell of rosewater lingers alongside cinnamon and something earthy and spicy that Eddie doesn’t know. The redhead girl is nowhere in sight, instead Steve stands to the left, portioning what look to be biscuits. Behind the counter is a lanky stormcloud of a boy, eyes shards and frown permanently in place.
“Welcome,” he mutters when Eddie makes it to him.
“Mike,” Steve scolds in a perfect impersonation of Eddie’s uncle when Eddie was younger. Disappointed and demanding in one fell swoop. It makes Eddie grin Steve’s way, ignoring the soft scoff that Mike gives at the reprimand.
“You again?” Steve asks without looking up from his work.
“Me again,” Eddie replies, diverting his entire body to face Steve. Lounging an elbow to the counter and tilting his head into it. He can feel how the ties of his ribbon tickle against his neck. Eddie smiles easily at him, and all the other boy does is frown heavily down at his round cutter and rolled dough. “How could I resist such warm welcomes?”
Steve doesn’t respond. His eyes trail up and down Eddie’s form, lingering somewhere along his shoulder and his jawline, completely unreadable. He shakes his head, frowns deeper, and meets Eddie’s gaze head-on. Those brown eyes are full of a resolution. Something swells behind Eddie’s ribs in anticipation.
“A chocolate scone, Mike,” is all he says.
A poorly wrapped scone is dropped in his palm. He pays Mike a tenpiece and gets no change in return. Eddie salutes Steve on his way out, the other boy’s gaze burning between his shoulder blades, the yellow ribbon still tickling the back of his neck.
–
The third time Eddie goes into Harrington & Son , Steve asks, “Are you new to Hawkins?” before Eddie can even form a thought. The question is blunt and by the looks of Steve’s face–brows dipped low, mouth downturned, and eyes focused on where he’s wiping down the counter–he hadn’t intended to ask. When Eddie looks around, there’s no one else in sight. There's a row of cookies cooling behind the left counter, loaves of chocolate bread interspersed between each dozen. The entire shop smells of chocolate.
So Eddie leans into Steve's space, hipbone on the cool wood. He draws a spiral in the moisture from Steve’s washcloth. He stares too long at how a blush is stealing across Steve’s cheeks and how a simple brown clip is drooping down his crown, a pencil wedged underneath it.
“You could say that,” Eddie replies vaguely. He can practically feel Steve roll his eyes.
He chucks the rag somewhere underneath the counter before asking, “And what would you say?”
Eddie can’t contain his grin at that. Watches as Steve eyes flicker down to his mouth. Grins wider. He shrugs.
“Yeah, sure, I’d say I’m new to Hawkins,” and it’s very clearly a lie by how Eddie tilts his head and stretches down onto the counter’s surface.
Steve doesn’t look convinced and it makes Eddie lean deeper onto the counter in glee. He slides his tongue across the front of his teeth as he smiles. Feels as his fingers curve to the underside of the counter across from him. He can see how much not knowing is bothering Steve, who eventually asks, “What’s your name?”
“Eddie,” Eddie says, boldly continuing, “but you can call me whatever you want.”
Steve just stares back at him blankly, but the blush that forms over the tops of his cheeks gives him away. Eddie feels a flash of warmth through his chest, taps his fingers in a quick rhythm on the counter surface. Steve’s brown eyes drop to them; he shakes his head downward and rolls it back up, his eyes annoyed.
“Well then, Eddie ,” he says, enunciating the ending e sound of Eddie’s name, “get off my counter.”
–
The fourth, fifth, and sixth time that Eddie visits Harrington & Son , Steve greets him neutrally with, “Eddie,” before wrapping up the usual chocolate scone. Some days the redhead girl is there, frowning down into her project. Other days Mike is lingering somewhere, seemingly never working but will greet Eddie with a bland “welcome” that makes Steve sigh without fail.
The bakery is never quite the same between each day. It’s full of a rotation of new scents, of new baked goods on display, of new sounds emanating from the kitchen. The light always cuts through the front window at a new angle. Seems to cast a different glow on the residents when Eddie crosses the threshold. It’s like the weight of what if today, what if today pounds on his shoulders.
The only constant, it seems, is Steve.
Each time he visits Eddie tries desperately to pull a smile from Steve’s lips. Knows deep in his gut that it’ll be like a rising sun: golden, day-making, and beautiful.
It starts with leaning too casually on the counter. Arms sprawled into Steve’s personal space, fingers hooking to the underside near Steve’s hips. And like with Mike, Steve will sigh and sternly say, “Off.” Eddie will always comply. Will always grin softly up at the other boy, watch as a delicate blush blooms, unlatch his finger and lean back to his side. And each time Steve frowns like it wasn’t what he wanted at all.
It follows with Stevie dropping too easily from his own lips. And even if it doesn’t make Steve smile, it does make his eyes drop pleased, fingers picking furiously at the edging of the counter. It makes something too heavy settle in Eddie’s chest. Feels heavier than it ought to yet. Makes how Eddie looks at Steve change. Makes him want too much from Steve. Makes him want anything at all.
“I like the chocolate scone,” Eddie manages on the seventh day. His braid is loose down his back, the yellow ribbon twining between the plait.
"I hadn't guessed," Steve says back, unimpressed, as he wraps today’s version.
When Steve goes to hand it off, Eddie lets his hand linger against his. Their fingers tangle for a moment, warm and dry and soft together. The breath in Eddie's chest stutters and his heart beats a strong steady rhythm. He swears for a moment that Steve’s breath does the same.
“See you, Stevie,” and his voice comes out too soft, too heartfelt. He flees to the fountain, heart somewhere near his tonsils.
–
Eddie stumbles into Harrington & Son , the wind something fierce against the thinness of his overcoat and stinging as it hits his cheeks. He’d bypassed braiding his hair which is now decidedly a mistake. It’s a nest on top of his head. Eddie ducks his head and yanks his fingers through it until they run through by force. He rubs his eyes, dry from the wind.
"You again," comes a sarcastic voice.
Eddie looks up, is met by a tilting and enquiring gaze full of blue eyes and a wave of cherries. She’s unfamiliar to Eddie, after all the weeks he’s been hassling Steve. She’s petite, with a cropped bob to her chin, a thin braid pinning it back from her face. Elbow to the counter, her eyes rake up and down Eddie’s body with feigned disinterest. There’s no one else in sight in the front. Eddie can hear the clattering of pans from the kitchen. Imagines Steve back there, a dusting of flour perpetually on his jaw. Feels a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Do I know you?” Eddie asks. As casually as possible, he sidles up to the counter and tilts his head to match hers. The girl raises up from her elbow instead. Eddie takes in her linen button down cinched at the waist with a braided leather belt, a string of keys dangling off of one hip.
The question makes her smirk, half turned to the spool of brown paper under the counter. A song of clanging follows her from the keys.
“Nope,” she answers with a laugh, mouth wide from her grin. Her teeth are white and even. “Chocolate scone?”
Eddie can’t help but grin back and settle his palms on the counter. It’s cool to the touch. He rises himself up onto his tiptoes, leaning across the barrier.
“Has Stevie been talking about me?” Eddie whispers loudly, teasing and happy. A warmth pools in his chest. He thinks about Steve saying his name when he’s not there, how his lips would form it. How his face would pinch in fake annoyance. The grin on Eddie’s lips grows and his cheeks sting.
Instead of replying, she moves to the display case, plucking a chocolate scone from a silver plated tray.
“Steve!” she shouts. Her movements are slow as she wraps up Eddie’s usual.
“Robin!” Steve shouts back, followed by, “shit,” as something clatters noisily. It’s silent for a moment, the only sound is the crinkle of parchment paper.
The curtain draws and Steve steps out in a rush. He’s flicking his hands across his chest, where flour sticks to his blue apron.
“What, Robin?” Steve asks without looking up from his mess, voice frustrated and out of breath.
“Hey Stevie,” Eddie greets, dipping his chin into his palm and gazing through his eyelashes at the other boy. Watches as Steve morphs from annoyed to embarrassed and caught off guard.
“Eddie,” he exclaims, a hand dragging through his hair and the other patting uselessly at the remaining flour. His eyes dart back to Robin, expression twisting into something Eddie can’t quite read. Robin shoots back a responding look, shoulders shrugging before throwing her hands up in mock defeat. She disappears behind the kitchen curtain, winking Eddie’s way beforehand.
“Hey,” Steve says, and when Eddie glances back to him, it’s to a perfectly wrapped scone being held out to him.
Like with the previous day, Eddie lets his fingers linger as he accepts the scone. Steve’s hands are covered in powder, and are hot to the touch compared to Eddie’s windswept chill. Steve returns the favor by doing the same thing as Eddie drops the five silver into his palm. Eddie tries to school his expression into something neutral and purposeful and knows he fails miserably. Steve’s eyes are a warm and hesitant brown when he meets them.
“See you around, Eds?” he asks, voice careful and hopeful in one swoop.
The smile that flickers quickly across Eddie’s is too honest.
“Yeah, Stevie,” and here Eddie takes one slow step backwards, “see you.”
–
Steve isn’t in sight again when Eddie drops by on a rainy afternoon. There’s just a boy tucked into the corner between the bookshelves. Eddie can only see his shins and a book propped on his knees from his vantage point.
“Where’s Steve?” Eddie asks. He leans against the counter, feels how it cuts into his waist. The kid comes a little into view.
“Guild meeting,” comes a distracted response. He’s got a slight lisp, tapping up at the end of guild .
“Steve’s in a guild?” Eddie asks back. He picks up a pencil from next to the register, crudely cut back with a knife and with bite marks in the middle. Eddie’s seen Steve drop it between his teeth, tuck it behind his ear, poke it underneath the clip in his hair.
“Hawkins Guild of Cookery and Bakery. Just finished his apprenticeship last year.” There’s the distinct sound of a page being turned.
"Are you Steve's apprentice then?"
The question sparks a bark of laughter and for the boy to tilt all the way forward on his stool. A head full of brown curls and a grin missing two front teeth comes into view.
"Steve wishes ," comes the reply. “Who are you ?”
“Eddie.”
“Eddie?” The stool slams dully back to the ground and two rubber soled shoes slap onto the tile. “ The Eddie?” the boy asks as he comes more into view, book closed and dangling from one hand.
“Depends who’s asking,” Eddie mutters.
“Steve won’t shut up about you,” the boy exclaims, voice perhaps too glad to reveal one of Steve’s secrets. He drops the book he was reading to the counter and begins unspooling a length of paper. When Eddie glances at the book, he sees a messily bound book titled The Great Wyrm.
"Who, me?" Eddie asks, flicking open the cover to see the same stamp that the bookbinder presses into her work, initials along the edging slightly different from hers.
" Dustin, did I tell you about Eddie? " the boy continues as if Eddie never spoke, puffing his chest out and standing taller, his mimicry of Steve nearly spot on despite the lisp. "Eddie this, Eddie that. I think I know everything about you."
Eddie huffs a laugh under his breath, closes the book back up and twisting it back around. Under his breath he murmurs, “Let's hope not,” before raising his voice to say, “Tell Steve I stopped in?"
Dustin shrugs.
Eddie raps his knuckles down on the crudely bound book, the sound hollow and dull, "This is a good one," he says, before leaving.
It’s only as Eddie’s leaving, scone in hand, that he realizes he never told Dustin what he wanted. Like with Robin, Dustin seems to just know. It makes Eddie duck his head and settle down quietly at the fountain. He eats the scone slowly, hardly tasting it. Thinks of only how Steve’s eyes feel on his skin and how his voice sounds saying his name.
–
Weeks later, Robin has become an expected sight at the bakery. Eddie would be jealous if it weren’t for how very obviously her relationship with Steve is rooted in friendship and kinship . Eddie sees it in the way Steve will pester Robin, in how Robin teases Steve relentlessly, in how they flow like two cottonwood seeds in the wind together. It’s in how Steve sighs and places his hands on his hips, reminiscent of Mike and Dustin and the redhead that Eddie has yet to meet. Robin will always snort a laugh, duck her head, and joke, whatever you say, boss .
Eddie feels welcomed on those afternoons. Wanders in to grab his scone, to watch a blush drag across Steve cheeks, to feel that flush of warmth flash through his chest in return.
“Have you heard?” Robin asks apropos to anything, on one such afternoon, as Eddie yanks himself up onto the front counter. Steve’s hands are hot on his back when he pushes him off immediately.
“Off,” Steve scolds, the usual smudge of flour on his jaw. He smells of vanilla and cinnamon.
Eddie lets himself imagine dragging his nose up the column of his neck. He cackles instead, dragging himself over the counter to sit in Dustin’s cubby-hole seat. Here he’s encased between two bookshelves, another just above his head. The stool wobbles on three legs, the fourth slamming down to the ground loudly. Eddie clacks it up and down mindlessly, storing away all thoughts of the taste of vanilla on warm skin.
“Heard what?” Steve finally asks Robin back. She’s kneading what looks to be cinnamon buns for the next morning. They’ll be kept cool in the cellar overnight before rising a final time.
Steve’s sorting coins quietly at the register, hair from his forehead pinned back with one of his usual hairpins. The coins click softly as he plucks them into his palm and back into small piles on the worn wooden counter.
“About the prince’s coronation,” Robin continues. Eddie bristles, feels how all of the muscles tense along his spine. The stool slams into the ground once more, louder than all the other times.
“What about it?” Steve asks. Neither of them look up at Eddie. He flicks his eyes back and forth between them both, a scorching fear zinging from his throat down to his stomach. When he swallows, it sticks. There’s sweat already clamming up his palms. Eddie grips the edge of the stool and starts clacking it up and down like nothing happened.
“They’ve set a date,” Robin confides in a mock whisper. Her motions remain consistent and habitual. The cinnamon buns begin to take shape in her hands. They march along in even rows on the baking sheet where she places them.
Steve looks up, blinking in surprise, “Oh?”
Robin nods, still not looking up from her work. “Dustin heard from Suzie who heard from–well, I don’t know who, but at the beginning of summer, apparently.”
A look of questioning passes across Steve’s features, drawing his brows low. Eddie thinks he could press his thumb there to smooth out the wrinkles. Smooth out Steve’s worries. Steve returns to counting the coins.
“It’s considered the season of new beginnings,” Eddie finally manages. “A chance to start anew,” and his voice is quiet and purposeful. It had taken him a long time to settle on a date. Hadn’t wanted to in the first place, but knew his uncle expected it. Eddie had felt the choice settle into his bones like a lead weight. His future was in front of him–this time with a deadline.
When Steve and Robin look at him, their eyes bore into him. Robin’s blue eyes are curious and probing. He watches as she nods seemingly to herself, her gaze roving up the ceiling as her hands continue their work. Steve’s brown eyes linger on him, trailing across his cheekbones and down the curve of his jaw. He tilts his head with a question that Eddie can only guess at, but feels the heat of his gaze all the same. Eddie just shrugs back.
–
Peter finally catches up to Eddie one afternoon, after he’s returned from town, clothes already changed, but still avoiding any responsibility he might have. Peter’s out of breath and his dark blue eyes are wide in worry. Eddie can practically see the gears turning in his head. How long it would take for Eddie to change into his court dress, how much effort it would take to redo his hair from the double braids Eddie had done earlier, yellow ribbon trailing down one side.
“Your Highness,” he gasps in between panting for breath. Eddie is wedged deeply in a back corner of the courtyard gardens. He’s half underneath a stone bench, face in the shade, but body soaking up the rest of the evening sun. The clouds are just visible beyond the stone. The air is cool, birds are chirping, and sometimes a butterfly or bee will land gently onto his knees.
“Yes, Pete?” Eddie lulls his head so it rolls out from under the bench fully.
“You’re needed for grievances, Your Highness.”
Eddie sighs and stares upwards at the clouds once more.
“Does it make a difference if I’m there, Pete?” he asks, already knowing the answer. He wishes instead he’d stayed in the village. Can imagine how an afternoon with Steve and Robin would go instead. How there’d be warm bread for them to break together as an evening snack before their dinner, when Eddie would inevitably disappear. Can imagine how Steve would look in golden hour, a halo of sun like a crown illuminating him–
Eddie rubs his eyes.
“His Majesty has asked that you are present.”
Who is Eddie to refuse a king?
–
Eddie’s collar digs uncomfortably into his throat. There are beads along the seam at his inner elbows and armpits that poke distractingly. It’s all Eddie can focus on. He’s wearing the usual blank mask, alongside Peter and nine other men of similar build and height as Eddie is. He’s lost amongst this crowd.
The eyes of the townspeople stray on them, faceless men along the edges of the entrance hall. All they know–all they've ever known–is that Eddie is one of the faceless men. One by one they approach the king at the throne, bearing their grievances, asking for advice. His uncle remains even-keeled through it, when Eddie finds himself staring up at him.
Eddie begins to flag halfway through the line. He lets his eyes linger upwards to the vaulted ceiling with single paned skylights at the very top, curving into a decorative dome. It's in-laced with gold plated weaving metal, depicting geometric motifs of leaves and budding flowers. The sky above it is licked with pink and orange, spreading out into an ocean of blue. The clouds from earlier glow molten yellow from the setting sun.
Eddie holds in a sigh, overhears a gentle voice say–"Your Majesty"–as the next in line approaches.
Instead Eddie thinks of Peter, of his uncle, of the itch of beading at his neck, of his upcoming coronation. He'd begun his speech, for all it's worth. And though every attempt falls flat, he keeps writing it. It feels insincere, awkward, unlike him. Eddie has never felt like royalty. He's never needed to, having been hidden from the public eye his entire life.
"–no father–" eases into his ear. A seagull glides across the sky. "I ask instead for your blessing–"
Eddie knows he'll have to visit the cathedral soon. He knows that he'll have a fitting for the robes and cape. He can already feel the weight of them on his shoulders, his arms outstretched to hold the orb and scepter. He can hear the choir in his mind, crescendo and crash against his ear drums.
"You have my blessings," his uncle murmurs, voice echoing across the hall.
Peter gently nudges an elbow into Eddie's side. He sighs and the warm air steams his face behind the mask. When he focuses his attention back to his uncle, there's now a woman approaching, bowing low and greeting him.
–
The braid isn’t cooperating as Eddie tightens it together. His image is clear in the mirror in front of him, pale and haggard. There are splotches of red high in his cheeks. His lips are torn. The dresser is digging into his stomach as he leans forward into it. The wave of its edging cuts at his hip bone, heightens his mood.
He’s already frustrated, feels it like a rotten weight in his stomach. There’s already an inkling in the back of his mind telling him the day will be off-footed until he lays down for the night. He dressed purposefully in loose pants and an even looser shirt, the ties still undone on his chest.
With a sigh, Eddie drops his hands, letting the half done braid unspool at his nape. He presses both palms into his eyes, feels the pressure and watches the swirling kaleidoscope of pink and yellow hues blend into black. A stinging pain is radiating from the corners of his eyes. His next breath stutters when he inhales.
“Ed,” comes his uncle’s voice from behind him. His reflection is like a ghost in the mirror. Eddie’s eyes are tinged red now, the tears obvious along the edges.
“Uncle.”
Eddie drops into the vanity chair, shifting to sit sideways in it. His uncle settles carefully on the trunk at the end of Eddie’s bed. He’s weary, uncomfortable as he refuses to meet Eddie’s gaze. His uncle sighs and rubs a hand along his short beard. Eddie can hear the scratch of the bristles on his palm.
“Ed, I know you’ve been missing your coronation meetings–”
“Uncle,” Eddie interrupts desperately, a swell of guilt burning the back of his throat.
“No, no,” and with the next sigh his uncle looks years older. “I understand, I–” His uncle looks to him, his eyes watery with age and understanding. “I do. But it’s time to take responsibility, son.”
“I’m not ready,” Eddie admits in a whisper.
His uncle smiles at him sadly, less king and more uncle in this moment. His hands remain passive in his lap, the golden hue of his clothing dull in the lighting. The crown circling his head is thin and heavy. They’re just Eddie and Wayne for a second. Eddie’s chin wobbles dangerously. He bites his lip to make it stop.
“Neither was I,” Uncle Wayne admits in return.
Eddie doesn’t make it to the village that day.
–
The sun is high by the time Eddie makes it into town. He's exchanged his brown pants for dark linen pants better suited for the warmth of late spring. A flower stall is added near the entrance of the market square. Most shops now feature purposeful bouquets along their sills and in vases on their counters.
Like most days, Eddie rests by the center fountain for the better part of an hour. He flips through his newest edition of poetry, barely taking in any words and no longer bothered by the misspellings. Some part of him finds the misplaced letters endearing now. He closes the book against his chest and lounges down onto the stone edging. It's cool against his back, a breeze ruffling the hem of his pants and shirt. The air smells of flowers, of horse shit, of freshly baked bread, and of newly caught fish. Eddie's never been more at peace in his entire life.
It's with great regret that Eddie sits up, letting the book drop to his lap. He'd promised Steve that he'd visit this afternoon.
Harrington & Son is no exception when it comes to flowers. Two boxes frame the underside of the front window, pink and purples in full bloom. When Eddie walks in, the array of tables all have small jars filled with delicate arrangements. Robin is carefully kneading off to the left, a crown of yellow haloing her hair.
“Steve!” she calls without looking up. “Eddie’s here!”
There's a clatter beyond the opening to the kitchen, where a wide mouthed clay oven takes up the majority of the room. Steve emerges with flour dusting his cheeks and leaving his hair a powdered brown.
“Eddie,” Steve says, voice light and out of breath. If Eddie were a different man, he'd say that it was awed.
“In the flesh, Stevie,” Eddie says back, taking a dramatic step back, bowing at the waist and waving his hands out at his sides. Steve merely fumbles with the rag he’d been twisting between his hands.
With a grin, Eddie presses up against the counter, pushing away an empty tray, and invading Steve’s space. The wooden surface is cool when he sprawls his elbows and forearms on it easily. And usually Steve would bicker at him, but instead he blinks unsteadily at Eddie with his honey brown eyes and flushes a deep pink across his cheeks. Eddie can smell the strawberries and yeast on him this close.
“Thank you for coming,” Steve blurts suddenly. A breath and a step backwards seems to have built some type of resolve in him. His hair waves like it’s caught in a breeze when he nods to himself, eyes glued somewhere near Eddie’s collarbone. Steve takes another purposeful step backwards, away from Eddie. Something settles ugly in Eddie’s gut and for the first time in a long time he feels awkward around Steve. He lifts himself from the counter slowly. Takes a step back. Steve takes another breath.
Eddie can’t help but squint at him. Takes in how there’s a tremble in his hands, how he’s swaying in place, eyes bouncing between Eddie’s face and then returning to his collarbone. In one instance, Steve steps back up to the display. There’s a crinkle of paper and Eddie traces Steve's every movement in silence. It seems that the entire shop is hushed, like there’s a fog surrounding them, misplaced and heavy. Eddie pulls on one of the loose strands of his hair where it curls around his jaw.
“This craft is made of mine hand,” Steve continues after the pause. In his hands is a wrapped baked good. From the shape, Eddie can tell it’s his usual scone.
Eddie should laugh, because what was that, Steve? In such a formal and stilted voice, Steve is offering Eddie his usual order. Except the tilt of Steve’s brow. Except the way Steve’s hands are still shaking. Except how serious he looks. It holds Eddie’s tongue.
So Eddie smiles, because Steve is–well, because this is Steve . When his hand settles underneath the scone, fingers brushing the delicate part of Steve’s wrist, Eddie meets eyes with those honey eyes. They’re nearly golden in the afternoon light cutting through the front window.
“Thank you for your craft, Steve,” Eddie says on instinct.
It almost feels like the entire shop sighs in unison. When Steve smiles in an honest and relieved way, Eddie can’t help but wonder what just happened.