He’s not quite strong enough to be a knight, but clever enough to be almost anything else. Where he lands is somewhere in between a royal scribe and a court jester -- a raconteur-in-residence, if you will. It’s survival as much as enjoyment that has him bleeding wealth and privilege from the court’s many distinguished guests. That’s the plan: make a little money, gather a few secrets -- and then snip the threads, letting himself fall without the promise of a soft landing.
On to the next one.
Gentaro’s lived this way for as long as he can remember. It’s a matter of survival that brings him in proximity to power. It’s a lack of self-preservation that brings him to Dice.
“What are you writing?”
“A royal edict,” Gentaro replies, serious look crossing his face, “Anyone who is born on the seventh day of the lunar phase must be put to death.”
Dice’s face pales, “What! I never gave you permission to do that!”
“Of course not,” Gentaro smiles, flashing the blank pages of parchment at Dice, “It was a lie.”
Teasing the Prince shouldn’t be so easy (so… fun?) but Gentaro can’t bring himself to stop. It’s not like Prince Dice keeps his distance, either. They seem drawn together, inextricable as they walk the halls of the castle during dull days. A tradition evolves, to help Dice wind down after royal business: Dice will point to something -- a painting, a parapet, a strange carving -- and Gentaro will spin tales for him, about a history that only could have been.
In that way, the days melt away, the weather turns, and it’s a snowy twilight when Gentaro realizes he probably should have moved on by now. Isn’t he getting too close, too… attached?
“How about this?” Dice gets Gentaro’s attention by tossing a snowball at him, which whizzes past Gentaro’s shoulder as he ducks out of the way. (Dice is always a bit too excitable to have the best aim.)
When he turns, Gentaro sees Dice pointing at himself, eyes wide with mirth, cheeks ruddy with the cold. He’s never looked regal, per se. He’s never acted very princely. That’s what Gentaro likes about him.
“About what? You are pointing at yourself.”
“Yeah,” Dice steps closer, prodding his own chest insistently, “Tell me a story about myself.”
Gentaro bats his eyelashes, “How very egotistical of you, Prince.”
“Come on, you know what I mean!” Dice laughs, swatting at Gentaro’s shoulder, “What about in another life? Or when I am King? What do you see for me, oh Royal Storyteller?”
“You flatter me,” Gentaro says, reaching to smooth the lapels of Dice’s winter coat, dusting off the white powder. He struggles to meet Dice’s eyes, “In another world, you are nothing like a Prince. No money, no power, no castle to call your home. Just your luck.”
Dice raises an eyebrow, “I do consider myself a lucky man.”
“You are,” Gentaro smiles, small and soft, “And kind, and loved. That is all, and that is enough.”
He trails off, voice lost to the breeze. Has he ever been more transparent than is right now? Gentaro feels clear as glass, and breakable as ice. He finally meets the Prince’s eyes.
“Will you be there?” Dice levels Gentaro with an uncharacteristically serious gaze, “Or are you already preparing your escape?”
Gentaro sucks in a breath of air, holds it there until his lungs burn. Dice is smarter than he pretends, wilier than anyone wants to admit. Of course he would never let Gentaro whisk himself away in the middle of the night -- not without a fight.
“I might be… if you are lucky,” Gentaro says, voice brittle in the winter air.
Dice’s face breaks out into a grin, wide enough to warm the air between them. He brushes a finger across Gentaro’s cheekbone. Something small -- a beginning.
Perhaps there is a soft landing in store for them after all.
no subject
He’s not quite strong enough to be a knight, but clever enough to be almost anything else. Where he lands is somewhere in between a royal scribe and a court jester -- a raconteur-in-residence, if you will. It’s survival as much as enjoyment that has him bleeding wealth and privilege from the court’s many distinguished guests. That’s the plan: make a little money, gather a few secrets -- and then snip the threads, letting himself fall without the promise of a soft landing.
On to the next one.
Gentaro’s lived this way for as long as he can remember. It’s a matter of survival that brings him in proximity to power. It’s a lack of self-preservation that brings him to Dice.
“What are you writing?”
“A royal edict,” Gentaro replies, serious look crossing his face, “Anyone who is born on the seventh day of the lunar phase must be put to death.”
Dice’s face pales, “What! I never gave you permission to do that!”
“Of course not,” Gentaro smiles, flashing the blank pages of parchment at Dice, “It was a lie.”
Teasing the Prince shouldn’t be so easy (so… fun?) but Gentaro can’t bring himself to stop. It’s not like Prince Dice keeps his distance, either. They seem drawn together, inextricable as they walk the halls of the castle during dull days. A tradition evolves, to help Dice wind down after royal business: Dice will point to something -- a painting, a parapet, a strange carving -- and Gentaro will spin tales for him, about a history that only could have been.
In that way, the days melt away, the weather turns, and it’s a snowy twilight when Gentaro realizes he probably should have moved on by now. Isn’t he getting too close, too… attached?
“How about this?” Dice gets Gentaro’s attention by tossing a snowball at him, which whizzes past Gentaro’s shoulder as he ducks out of the way. (Dice is always a bit too excitable to have the best aim.)
When he turns, Gentaro sees Dice pointing at himself, eyes wide with mirth, cheeks ruddy with the cold. He’s never looked regal, per se. He’s never acted very princely. That’s what Gentaro likes about him.
“About what? You are pointing at yourself.”
“Yeah,” Dice steps closer, prodding his own chest insistently, “Tell me a story about myself.”
Gentaro bats his eyelashes, “How very egotistical of you, Prince.”
“Come on, you know what I mean!” Dice laughs, swatting at Gentaro’s shoulder, “What about in another life? Or when I am King? What do you see for me, oh Royal Storyteller?”
“You flatter me,” Gentaro says, reaching to smooth the lapels of Dice’s winter coat, dusting off the white powder. He struggles to meet Dice’s eyes, “In another world, you are nothing like a Prince. No money, no power, no castle to call your home. Just your luck.”
Dice raises an eyebrow, “I do consider myself a lucky man.”
“You are,” Gentaro smiles, small and soft, “And kind, and loved. That is all, and that is enough.”
He trails off, voice lost to the breeze. Has he ever been more transparent than is right now? Gentaro feels clear as glass, and breakable as ice. He finally meets the Prince’s eyes.
“Will you be there?” Dice levels Gentaro with an uncharacteristically serious gaze, “Or are you already preparing your escape?”
Gentaro sucks in a breath of air, holds it there until his lungs burn. Dice is smarter than he pretends, wilier than anyone wants to admit. Of course he would never let Gentaro whisk himself away in the middle of the night -- not without a fight.
“I might be… if you are lucky,” Gentaro says, voice brittle in the winter air.
Dice’s face breaks out into a grin, wide enough to warm the air between them. He brushes a finger across Gentaro’s cheekbone. Something small -- a beginning.
Perhaps there is a soft landing in store for them after all.