Chapter Text
The first time he kisses her, his body is bent like a broken branch and he is yearning.
The second time, she kisses him, and the sun washes sparks of blue into her hair.
The third time he kisses her, he is taking the portrait down with his mask stowed like contraband in his pocket. She does not kiss him back.
The wind whips around the gazebo and wraps her in its cold embrace. Her hair lifts from her shoulders and rises like a dark halo into the air. The stars are singing. His eyes are bleeding passion, as his lips would do if they were not frozen open in awe of her. The strength of his longing is so acute that she can feel it towing her toward him.
They dare not speak its name.
But his eyes say it, and his hands say it, the broken posture of his shoulders and the uneven shifting of his feet. And they cannot do this, not now and not ever. And his love has ruined them.
He turns and bolts before he can make the same mistake again. Before he knows it, his body is colliding with the sea and he is floating, the motion effortless. He dips below the surface and swims until the air has run out, which is soon. His lungs contract as they had during that terrible, awful moment only hours ago. He crawls out onto the shore with throat burning and arms decimated by cold and lies there, watching dawn.
She finds him in hot water when the morning is ready to begin. The coat of office lies on the washroom floor, smelling of the sea. His chest wears too many scars but not nearly enough clothing, and his eyes are still closed.
Stupidly, foolishly, impulsively, she steps forward. He starts to wakefulness, hesitates for a moment before beginning to stutter and curl into himself as if to hide his nakedness.
“Your Majesty, please—I’m not decent.”
And she is caught in time and his eyes are large and confused and frightened. His voice grows muted as she stares, and the details blur around the edges as if she is waking from a dream.
She disappears without even shutting the door.
He does not appear at her side that day, the cold Serkonan shadow affixed to her shoulder. She explains to the busybodies of the tower that he is ill, though she will not tell them what his ailment is.
Love, she tells herself. He is lovesick, and there is no cure.
Word of the plague comes that day, and there is nothing that she wants more than to turn and bury her face in the sandalwood scent of his shoulder and let the universe fade away.