L

joost stirs at the feeling of movement beside him, and then he groans from the back of his throat when his duvet disappears, and the sudden rush of cold air quietly stings his skin. 

he yawns, and starts to rub the sleep from his eyes without fully opening them first. the stiff weight of his limbs fight against him because he’s still a little sore from last night, from the last few months of sleeping on a bus and back to back festivals. but he smiles at the brief, blurry sight of you above him, rushing around his room still wearing nothing but a pair of his boxers, because he just doesn’t think that you’ve ever looked better than this, does he?

“what are you doing?”  the grin that pulls at his lips is clear in his voice as he stretches and struggles to open his eyes again. 

“don’t look.”

immediately he freezes, frowning, confused by your panic but still keeping his eyes covered anyway. “everything okay?”

“yes, just — just keep your fucking eyes shut. please.”

you’re relieved that he listens, and then refuses to even move a muscle from where he lays on his bed, on his side of his bed, unclothed and bare of any sheets. maybe if you weren’t in your current predicament, you’d laugh and poke a little fun at how obviously cold joost is. it’s only because then another cramp tears right through you, and something inside of you feels as though it’s ruptured, that you don’t. 

it feels far too soon to be doing this, to be in this situation. it’s only been a month since your brother pushed another year closer to thirty, and three weeks since he stopped speaking to you after learning that his best friend is in love and fucking his little sister. you’re still trying to adapt to all of it, to having your own draw of stuff at joost’s place, to calling him your boyfriend, and accepting the fact that you really do love him, too. enough to not even care that kaj won’t answer the phone anymore. 

because it’s just all so new for you, isn’t it? a learning curve. after all, you’ve spent the last two decades despising him, and now you’re tearing open every old wound just to practice being so vulnerable around him now. now, you love him more than you know what to do with, and it’s exhausting, so bleeding all over his pretty blue bedsheets was the very last thing that you needed. 

somehow you hadn’t felt it whilst you were asleep — the sharp, incessant stabbing that lies deep inside your abdomen. it wasn’t something that you were due to feel so soon either, at least according to your own calculations, and the rather ironic ‘your next period is due in 5 days!’ notification that had lit up your phone screen last night. you hadn’t felt it until it had woken you up, and you’d seen the sheer mess that laid between you. 

you’re still clutching his ruined duvet to your chest, standing in the middle of his room and stuck on what to actually do with it now, when another cramp almost knocks you down. you don’t mean to double over, or to cry out as loudly as you do, but you do, and the sound of it has joost flying to sit up with his eyes still screwed up shut behind his palms. 

“if i promise to not look, can you at least tell me what’s happening?” 

and you find yourself holding onto his sheets even tighter, desperate to hide the smears of blood that remain between your legs as you shake your head almost furiously. “absolutely not, no. it’s nothing.”

“doesn’t sound like nothing.” 

“joost!”  you raise your voice just enough to make him pout. “i just need you to get up so i can change the sheets and use your washing machine, can i…can i please just do that?”

it takes him a moment or two but eventually it clicks. his shoulders drop, and that cute pout of his stretches into an even softer smile this time, because you’re just not the first girlfriend that he’s ever had, are you? nor is this the first time that someone has ever woken him up by needing to wash their bedding at the crack of dawn. 

“i’m gonna look now, okay? and i’m gonna help.”

“don’t you fucking dare.”

“it’s just some blood, schat; it’s fine, it’s natural.”

“i don’t care! that doesn’t mean you need to see it.”

and it’s in spite of you, that joost then dares to drop his hands and look, anyway. 

not once does his gaze shift to the large, browning stain that sits mere inches away from his hip, seeping in further to the old fabric of the otherwise clean bedsheet. instead it stays entirely fixated on you, on your face, your scowl, unwavering if you don’t count the odd not-so-subtle glance down to your uncovered chest.  

“i’m seeing quite a lot right now.”

it only makes you scoff, shaking your head, his rather lame attempt at trying to make you laugh, and it’s seeing just how far underneath your skin he’s already gotten, that reins him just a little bit. 

“don’t be such a child.”

“i just don’t get what the big deal is, schatje. you haven’t done anything weird, or wrong, or anything that i haven’t already seen before. it’s okay -”

“- stop saying it’s okay! it’s not fucking okay! it hurts, and it got everywhere, and just because you’re so fucking used to all of this doesn’t mean that i am too.”  the furrow between your eyebrows hardens as a few hot, burning tears well up behind your eyes. it’s by the foot of his bed that you throw his soiled duvet to the floor. “since you’re just so fucking eager to clean it up — there. it’s all yours.”

and you’re already turning on your heel before he can press it, or even try to acknowledge the faint red that still sticks to the inside of each thigh. you’re turning your back on him despite how he’s calling your name, and making a mad dash for his bathroom, feet padding along the dark hardwood of his floor with every uneasy step. 

whatever lies within his reach is thrown on almost haphazardly; the new pair of supreme sweatpants that he got back in LA, and a band t-shirt of yours that fits just loose enough to sit at his belly button. his ears ring when a door then slams shut, making him stumble and trip over his own heavy limbs as he stands, almost slipping over with his odd colour socks on. despite the hair that falls into his eyes, joost makes it to the washing machine in one piece, with his favourite blue sheets bundled up his arms, and throws them in alongside some stain-remover that he didn’t even know he had until he looked.

he does it all without even thinking, really. it’s muscle memory from living with his sister so much growing up — his ex, crashing at lennie and appie’s, sharing a tour bus with marleen. he knows that this happens; he knows how to clean up after it. he knows that it shouldn’t be the end of the world, so he’s not quite sure why you think that it is.

from the other end of the hall, he hears the shower start to run. he waits for a moment, thinking about what to do next, wondering if he should try to at least find something for you in his fridge in case you’re hungry, or if eating is the very last thing on your mind right now. if maybe you remembered to grab a towel on your way through to the bathroom, and if he should pick you out something clean of his to wear and leave it outside the door. 

joost waits until he hears the clatter of half a dozen plastic bottles all hit the shower floor, and the hoarse groan that follows. it’s only then that he finally moves, trusting his legs to carry him as fast as they can across the kitchen, and only stops once his knuckles meet wood. 

you hear your name spoken from the other side of the door, urgent and a little panicked. “what happened? you okay?”

“n-no, i’m fine. i just lost my balance.”  it’s the truth, but it’s still not enough to reassure him, is it? 

because he’s still barging in without another word, shutting the door quietly behind him. he’s frowning at the sight of you on your knees and in tears , surrounded by fallen body-wash and purple shampoo, because your grip on the shelf of toiletries hadn’t been strong enough to hold yourself up. when he meets your glare, he assumes that it’s because he’s there, and not because clipping your hair up to keep it dry has turned out to be fucking pointless.

“… i can’t stand up.”  your lip wobbles as you admit it, your voice cracking. “every time i try to move, the cramping gets so much worse, and i don’t…”

he hates that you can’t even look at him right now. 

it means that you hear the slight squeak of the shower’s glass door sliding back open before you see it, and joost then stepping into the shower with you without so much as shedding a single layer.

careful hands grip your forearms as gentle words encourage you to stand — to lean on him as much as you need to. every time that you wince because your body protests the movement, he’s in your ear encouraging big deep breaths, and making you laugh when he pretends to be someone pushing through labour. once you’re on your feet and taking fistfuls of the damp cotton that now clings to his skin, turning yourself around until your face is hidden in his chest, hugging him, he only holds you closer.

neither of you seem to mind that it makes it a little more awkward than it needs to be. how he’s holding the shower-head around your hips behind you, aiming the water down but also slightly up to wash off the stains in between your thighs. it further soaks his clean clothes, and you’re still in enough pain to be crying over it, but it gets you clean and you no longer have to be drunk to believe that he’d catch you if you slipped. 

it’s by far the most agreeable that he’s ever known you to be. how for once in your life, you’re accepting help without fuss or argument, and from him, no less. because for as much as joost doesn’t doubt that you love him too, the one thing that he expected to never change was your rather annoying stubborn independence. the almost chronic need to never let anyone help you, ever.

he understood it to just be you, in the end, because in every other way, you’ve given him the privilege to watch you slowly soften around the edges. it’s just that now, you’ve become utterly pliable in his hands; dependent on him. as he watches the water at your feet fade from pink back to clear, you continue to cling onto him as though there’s a home for you inside his ribcage.

“i shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” you punctuate the words with a small, sweet kiss to his clothed chest. “i’m sorry.” 

and you’re not expecting it when joost merely shushes you, mumbling something or other about it not mattering, that it’s fine if you need to yell when you’re in so much pain, as he hangs the shower-head back up. the water switches off and he makes a reach for his dressing gown instead of the towel that you had actually remembered, and drapes it around your shoulders. it’s an act so simple, and yet thoughtful in its nature, that you just can’t help it when another frail cry escapes past your lips.

your head lifts when he steps back to let you push your arms through the thick, fluffy sleeves. that’s all he lets you do, because it’s him that’s wrapping it tightly around your middle and tying the belt together to keep it all in place. it’s him that’s gathering up each fallen, wet strand of your hair back up into the clip that now sits at the nape of your neck. he’s doting over you completely, because right now you’re letting him.

“i don’t think it’s fine; you were only trying to help.” 

“schat,”  your voice cracking is what gives you away first, that you’re no longer just crying because of the pain. then it’s the way that your lip wobbles, and that you won’t let go of his hands even after you’ve both stepped out of the shower. “seriously, i don’t ca-”

“- you shouldn’t let me get away with it. you’re so nice to me now and i’m still just…horrible. i’m horrible to you.”

“you had good reasons to be.”

but it only makes you feel worse, doesn’t? just how unbothered joost really is by all of this, by you. it’s not the same joost that you’re still so used to, that you grew up with, that you hated. six months ago, maybe he would have bitten your head off for yelling at him like that. maybe he would’ve just scoffed and walked away; made you feel small instead.

he wouldn’t be standing here smiling so earnestly at you, cupping your face in his hands and kissing your nose before turning on his heel to go get changed again. he wouldn’t be asking you what size pad you need because he’s already planning to fetch you some underwear once he’s no longer dripping water throughout his kitchen. he wouldn’t care about you too much to not care when you’re cruel anymore. 

“you know, i meant it before. i’m not used to this, joost.”

you’ve followed him just far enough out of the bathroom to see him pause from his bedroom, now shirtless, and shaking the few droplets from his hair. “i mean, it’s only been a couple weeks, if you don’t count everything before. it’s new for the both of us.”

“i don’t just mean being with you, i mean you…and being with anyone, really.”  

and then it’s from the doorway that you watch his eyebrows furrow, as he slips out of his sweats and something new and dry is pulled on in their place. “me?”

“you’re not who you were, and i don’t know if i can keep up with it. because you’re good, and you’re kind — you’re the ‘joost’ that i’ve always had to hear about from other people because i never even believed that he existed, and i’m still just me. i still feel weird when you’re nice to me sometimes, and i’m still not sure how to be so open with someone else because i’ve never had to be before. it’s all so new for me, and you’re making it look too easy. it feels like i’m already losing!”

“losing at what, schatje? tell me.”  it’s the first time that you’ve heard him sound so upset since you last tried to walk away; break his heart. “because none of this is a competition. there’s no race to see who can be the best at this relationship first.”

when you scoff and roll your eyes, it’s only to avoid confronting the tears that are welling up in his eyes. the frown that tugs at the far corners of his lips, as he takes a few steps closer to you. “you can say that because you’re winning.”

“there’s nothing to win! we’re already a team! we’re together — that’s what we wanted, right?”

“yes! of course it is -”

“- so then what’s the problem? because it’s starting to sound like you don’t know if you want this anymore.”

“i do! i just don’t know if i’m good enough for you!”

joost doesn’t miss a beat. he’s sniffs through a snotty nose as he hands you a pair of his boxers with a pad already stuck neatly on the inside. “well you don’t get to decide that for me.”

“joost…”  your voice catches on the cry that’s lodged somewhere deep inside the back of your throat, choking you.

“you spent almost our entire lives deciding that i hated you, and then that i could only ever want you for sex. even as you told me that you loved me for the first time, you tried to decide there and then that it wouldn’t work. you don’t get to try and decide this for me too; you don’t get to stand there and tell me that you’re not good enough for me, when you’re everything that i’ve ever fucking dreamt of!”

“okay!” 

the silence that follows is thin, almost hollow, disturbed by heavy, laboured breathing and sniffling. it’s with wide-eyes that you both watch the other one slowly grow still, shoulders dropping as the last of your tears start to dry. you don’t move until joost walks back to sit on the very edge of his bed; you mirror him by standing just between his legs. 

“okay?” 

he still helps you change by taking back his boxers and holding them out for you to step into. your hands find his biceps and latch on to keep you steady, because you’re still letting him help you.

“okay, i’ll believe it when you say that i’m good enough, but you don’t have to fucking shout about it.”

the way that he laughs is nothing short of pure. “coming from you? funny.”

“hey!”  and joost thinks it’s quite cute, the way that you pout then. he stands up just so that he can see it on your face a little better. “i apologised for that.”

“i know, baby.”

it’s moments like these that you honestly feel a little shy around him, isn’t it? because there’s no way to deny the look of soft adoration in his eyes now that he towers over you. the subtle heat that rushes to your face as he finally meets your lips, and you taste the salt that still lingers there. it’s yet another reminder of just how much you’ve changed him, or maybe how he’s changed you without you ever noticing. he really will love you anyway. 

“i’m gonna work on it.”  you say it without averting your gaze; you need him to know just how much you mean it.

An almost immediate wave of relief crashes over you as you step inside, greeted with the scent of your fresh linen laundry detergent, the sight of your overstuffed sofa, the teddy bear propped against the back of it. Thankfully, you got a nasty case of the cleaning bug prior to leaving for the mission, so a pristine apartment welcomes you back, encasing you in the detoxifying smell of lemon furniture polish and freshly-vacuumed carpet. 

“Let’s get you some dinner,” Leon suggests. His voice is only slightly muffled by the cotton in your ears, the pain medication you took before they set your broken arm at the tail-end of its effectiveness. “What’s the easiest thing to eat with one arm?” He mumbles to himself, instinctively reaching for the takeout menus you have stashed in a kitchen drawer like he’s done a hundred times before. He knows better than to ask you what you want to eat. He never gets an answer to that question. You’re far too indecisive to work well under such pressure, which is funny, because he’s always saying that he’s never met an agent so quick on their feet as you. Whether it’s true or not, you’ll take the compliment. 

You watch from the sofa as he navigates around your kitchen, flipping through the paper menus before settling on one, punching a number into your landline. Your eyes stay affixed to his arms as he holds the phone to his ear, speaking your usual dinner order into the receiver. They’re so, so big. So big and bulging and so incredibly beautiful, as though sculpted from marble by Michaelangelo himself. A perfect David come to life in the flesh of a corny, old-souled government agent with the haircut of a boy-band drummer. 

Speaking of, swaths of icy blonde hair fall across his forehead, framing his temples. He blows a few vagrant strands out of his eyes as he turns on his heel to face you, speaking a gratitude into the phone before hanging up the call. 

Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the way he came to your rescue during the mission, wrapping your arm in a makeshift cast before either of you could get medical attention, but you’re suddenly confronted by an internal hurricane of feelings you typically repress. Feelings far too intense to be attached to friendship. Feelings of want and need. Need to confess. Need to confront. 

You’rethemostbeautifulmanI’veeverseenandIthinki’minlovewithyou.

“What’d you get us?” You say instead. Not even the lip-loosening medication can bring those thoughts to the surface. 

Leon would never admit it to you, but you’ve occupied most all of his waking thoughts since the monet the two of you started working together. From the time he wakes up in the morning, long before his alarm even has the chance to go off (because he stopped sleeping a full eight hours many moons ago), until he lays his head back down on his pillow to do it all again, he’s thinking about you. Work, eating, breathing, BOWs–all background noise. 

No, he’d never admit it, but Leon’s been in love with you since you walked into that briefing room and shook his hand for the first time. 

And since then, he’s been attached to your hip like a lovesick puppy, the two of you sharing more meals than not, crashing on the other’s sofa when the drive back home feels impossible, and the idea of sleeping a room over is all too delicious. So, there’s nothing special about tonight, beside the fact that you’re giggling more than usual, and your feet were extra ticklish as he rubbed the ache from them, the two of you lounging together on the sofa, waiting for dinner to arrive.

Totally normal. 

He fed you orange chicken, even though you could definitely manage on your own, even with your dominant hand out of commission.

Again, very normal. You’d washed his hair on multiple occasions when a cracked rib or two prevented him from raising his arms. That’s what friends are for. 

They come to the rescue when the other is in need. 

What they don’t do, however, is kiss the other on the cheek and call him their ‘boyfriend’. 

He was in the middle of washing the dishes used during dinner when you came up behind him and pressed your lips to his face. 

“You’re such a good boyfriend, Leon.” 

Not normal. 

You slap your only available hand over your mouth, as if to shove the words back down your throat. But it’s too late. With the faucet spitting water, his hands covered in dish soap, mid-scrub, Leon freezes. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Or do that–kiss you, I mean.” 

Every last drop of that pain medication has now left your system, the situation far too sobering to keep you under a haze any longer, and you see it now, clear as day. You kissed Leon and called him your ‘boyfriend’. A good one too. And by the rosy tint spreading across his face like a bad rash, you think he liked it. 

“It’s just all so domestic, I think, and–well, I wasn’t thinking–but you know what I mean.” You swallow hard, your throat suddenly scratchy and hoarse. The bewildered expression on his face, unreadable in its blankness, makes you sick to your stomach. His eyes are as wide as saucers, his lips slightly agape, and for some reason, you think a defensive ramble is the best course of action to take. “We’re just so…close, and lines get blurred, and...I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying, I think I just–” 

He cuts you off with a kiss. A real one this time. All-encompasing and electric, tasting like wasted time and mint toothpaste. 

His hands grab your face, holding you close, not letting you shirk away, or continue babbling into his mouth. You’re completely and utterly enraptured by his touch, and although there’s no lack of passion tucked into the corners, it’s all care and affection. Three years’ worth. 

“Leon,” is all you manage to whisper when his lips detach from yours and he retreats in inch, hands still lingering to cup your cheeks. His pupils are shot, black circles eclipsing the blue of his irises, as piercing and formidable as ever.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says, dipping down to press his forehead against yours. “And you might be too woozy to remember this tomorrow, but I at least want you to know tonight.” 

You tilt your head upward to capture his lips in another marriage of love and long-earned feelings. It’s cooler this time, not as hot and messy as the first one–far more controlled in its decision. “I think I love you too, Leon. No,” you giggle, bottom lip grazing his. “I’m sure I do.”

“And that’s not the medicine talking?” His brows are cinched together in what seems like genuine concern, and it’s amusing–knowing your own feelings–to think he could even doubt your devotion. 

You shake your head, planting a soft peck on the tip of his nose. He smiles wide, flashing a set of perfectly imperfect teeth, beneath the gesture. “Nope. All me.” 

a faint streak of golden light drags you out from your sleep, your eyelids too heavy to peel open without a soft groan and a stretch. your limbs protest the movement only because for the first time in weeks, you’ve finally managed to sleep through the night without having one of your…moments, and it still doesn’t feel as though it was enough. you still have to fight the urge to drift off again as you rub the remaining sleep from your eyes and yawn. 

something large shifts besides you in bed, a deeper, more guttural groan low inside your ear. you feel the arm curved around your waist flex as it pulls you back, your spine now flush against a warm, bare chest, and a pair of lips find the back of your head. it’s a touch that you lean into without hesitation, because it’s how you’ve woken up every morning for the past three weeks now. 

“morning, princess.”

you turn gently in his hold, replacing the pillow beneath your head with his shoulder. it’s like that, that you cling to him all lazily, bringing your arms up to curl around the back of his neck as you tangle your legs together again. you just can’t help the way that you whine, either; the mere thought of getting up right now hurts, just as it always does.

“please, just five more minutes.”

it’s despite his own words, that joost wraps himself around you a little tighter, sighing, burying his face into your hair and sucking in a small breath. “you know it’s too risky; the girls could be knocking on your door any minute.” 

“i don’t care anymore, let them.”  when you snuggle in closer to him, he can only laugh and press another kiss to your roots. “they’re not allowed to enter without my permission, anyway.”

he doesn’t have it in him to try and deny you any longer. “alright, five more minutes.” 

you’ve been like this ever since, and you’re still waiting for it to get easier. 

every night, you tiptoe down the old servant passageways to joost’s room, and it’s there that you spend each hour until the sun rises, tossing and turning in his arms. most nights, you dream of your brother, of his rough hands on you, pulling at your clothes as he strikes you across your wet cheeks hard enough to leave behind ripening bruises. only, when it happens in your head, he succeeds, and you’re forced to live through what would have happened if joost hadn’t been there to stop it. 

and every time that you do, you wake up in such a fright, gasping for breath and unable to stand the feeling of any hands on you until you realise that it’s only joost trying to hold you steady. it’s your sudden thrashing that always wakes him up first, and the hollow screams that then follow that terrify him. he jolts awake to see you squirming, hitting at your own head and crying, begging for someone who’s nowhere near to leave you alone. 

even after your eyes fly open and you’re with him again, you’re in far too much of a state to still try and rest. last night had been the first time that no such memories had plagued you, which just makes it all that much harder to now leave his bed. 

just a minute alone in your own room is another minute that you find yourself stuck back there. it just doesn’t belong to you anymore; now it’s only home to what happened to you that night, and you still don’t know how to cope with the way that it makes your skin crawl. it’s why you’ve learnt to time it just right — you’re only ever beneath your covers for a moment or two before your maids are making their first appearance, tasked with helping you to get up and ready for the day. 

because that’s just another thing you can’t seem to do for yourself anymore, isn’t it? you managed to go the first week without tending to yourself before joost was pleading with you to put your pride aside and ask for help. watching you start to deteriorate right before his eyes, refusing to eat or even bathe, spending each day glued to his side just because you had an excuse now that even your father couldn’t argue with. it wasn’t something he had the heart to just ignore, not when it’s you.

you feel him start to shift again, moving to stand up despite how you’re still sprawled out on top of him. 

“it’s time, duifje. you need to go.”

it causes a thick nausea to settle unevenly inside your stomach, turning your limbs to stone as you gulp down a small, sharp gag. just because you have this new routine practiced down to the minute, doesn’t mean that it isn’t still torture to go through. if you could stay curled up in his bed for the rest of your life, with the sound of his subtle beating heart underneath your cheek, you know that you would. 

“okay, just…give me a second.”

but he’s learnt by now that you never truly mean that, do you? it’s never just another second with him that you’re after.

“what if i came with you? we can make something up; they won’t question it.”  his voice is still a little heavy with sleep as he speaks, pausing for a moment only to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"if my father hears…”

“think he’d be a little too preoccupied to mind, right now.”

and you can’t deny the element of truth to that. whilst the king has never exactly been the biggest fan of yours and joost’s codependency, now would surely be the right time to get caught blurring the lines between friendship, if any. he’s been too wrapped up in trying find your attacker, your brother’s killer, that he’s hardly even acknowledged you since that night at all. maybe it wouldn’t hurt to use that to your advantage.

it’s only once you’ve nodded that he continues to sit up, guiding you up with him, leaving you to wait still half asleep whilst he dresses. he doesn’t know it when he picks out your favourite, light blouse of his and slips it on over his head, nor does he catch the way that you watch him pull the rest of his garments on with parted lips. 

you’re still waiting for him to finally broach the subject of your first kiss…or any of the several that have come along after it. it’s only in moments like these that you’re reminded of that fact, whilst you’re too transfixed by the sheer beauty of him to now think of anything else. it’s enough to sway that nausea in your tummy because of course it is, he always is; he’s always had this way of making the air inside a room feel just that little bit easier to breathe. 

joost doesn’t speak a word when he takes your hands in his and helps you to your feet, letting the silence persist as he steps to the side and lets you lead the way out through the passageway door of his wall. it’s familiar, almost comfortable, as though he already knows that it’s his mere presence that means the most. he doesn’t need to say anything because simply having his hand to hold onto is all that it takes to keep you anchored to him.

your bedroom only starts to feel like yours again when joost is there with you, too.

he takes a seat on your windowsill, pulling his knees up high and making a reach for the notebook that he always keeps tucked away inside his pocket. with the short pencil that lives between its pages, he starts to doodle still with one eye glancing over in your direction every so often. watching; guarding. how you climbed back into bed so hesitantly, and now lay beneath its sheets with your shoulders bunched up high around your ears. 

how you still flinch at the soft knock on your door despite already knowing to expect it. 

“come in.”

one by one, each of your three maids take quiet steps into the room, bright-eyed and singing their sweet good mornings to you, with fresh, white linen draped across their arms. and one by one, they each freeze. hendrika, beatrix, aletta — at the sight of joost already in your room, rather quite at home amongst all the rest of your furniture, their jaws suddenly drop as the cogs slowly start to turn inside their heads. 

it even turns their cheeks a little pink; despite the innocence of the scene before them, they just can’t help but feel as though they’ve possibly walked in on something they shouldn’t have. 

“forgive us, princess. we didn’t know you had company.” 

you bear a tired smile, and sit up to rest against the headboard. “apology not accepted for it is not necessary; joost is merely just providing me with some early morning entertainment.”  then you find yourself pausing to meet his eyes before continuing. “i find that it’s the only thing to help me out of bed these days.” 

and just as he had predicted, none of them dare to speak another word about it.

without so much as lifting his head or dragging his gaze away from the pages of his notebook, he eyes how the three girls float around the room as though he’s not even there. arguably good friends of his, your entourage, he grew up with them too, after all, but here he might as well be invisible. it’s reassuring to see you accept being so doted on and taken care of for once. 

but despite how he struggles to tear his eyes away from you fully, even for a second, joost doesn’t quite catch the quiet glances that the maids share between themselves, and neither do you. the way that they peer at him, how he sits across from you as though he’s ready to jump in front of a line of fire at a moment’s notice. how it’s only under his watch that you ever seem to take a deep breath. 

whilst hendrika stays back to make your bed, the other two usher you into the en-suite with a hot bath already prepared for you. it’s not until the door shuts that you feel it, the thicker air around you only exacerbated by the hushed giggles of the girls as they undress you. they both appear to share a secret that you’re not in on, and you’re painfully nosy.

“what…what is it?”  

a shy smile adorns their faces, and it’s almost contagious. as the days pass, their guards around you drop a little more. 

“the jester, princess. you seem awfully close with him.” 

you raise an eyebrow in turn, feeling your muscles start to ease as you lower yourself down into the warm water of the bath. immediately their hands find you, scrubbing at your skin, ridding you of any sweat or stress from the previous few days. it feels awful to admit that you’ve grown to not mind this so much anymore —it’s another piece of who you used to be that you’ve been robbed of now.

“of course i am; he’s my best friend.” 

beatrix doesn’t miss a beat. “are you in love with him, princess?”

the word catches in the very back of your throat — an instinctive ‘no’ that you hold back simply because you realise that you don’t actually mean it. you’ve never had to think about it. irrevocably, he’s always been yours in a way that you’ve not ever thought to question before; one way or another, you suppose you’ve always considered yourself his, too.

“i…”  your eyes widen a little as you stammer, tripping over syllables, left speechless by even the mere suggestion of your heart having belonged to someone else this entire time. being in love, it’s what you’ve always dreamt of, isn’t it? and it’s been right there underneath your nose, hiding. it’s hard to accept that you’ve somehow been so blind to it all of these years. 

“we only ask because, well…we’ve heard things.” 

the subtle look of pity in their eyes is more than enough to bring about another wave of nausea in you. “…what things?”

carefully, aletta’s hands grasp yours to help you up and out of the bath, as beatrix tugs soft cotton over your head. a simple, grey blouse falls just far enough to reach above your knees, one that she had found folded up and hidden amongst your array of other day-wear. it’s pulled over the undergarments that you’ve stepped into, and tucked into a longer dress meant only to be worn on quiet, comfortable days like today. 

you wonder if they’ve noticed that it’s joost’s, the faint scent of him still clinging to the darker fabric; you don’t think to ask because then, they’re exchanging another hesitant, almost nervous glance. 

“we overheard your father talking with an adviser — he seems to believe that a cause for celebration may be exactly what the country needs after what happened to your brother.”

the air around you turns even thicker without warning. it starts small, the knowing that grows steadily inside the pit of your stomach, already forcing you to swallow down a second small gag. because you do, you know what they’re going to say, don’t you? you can feel it in the way that they move around you so delicately, fussing, walking over eggshells as they tidy up whatever mess still lies about.

it’s as beatrix gathers up your worn nightgown from the night before that aletta speaks in a near whisper, gently taking you by the hands again, squeezing them. “we’re not sure how much time you have, but they’re planning your wedding as we speak.”

a single moment of grief passes, and then your knees start to shake. 

“go. i need a moment alone.”  

on the other side of the door, joost still sits waiting for you on your windowsill. the lead of his pencil marks a new, blank page of his notebook, leaving behind yet another likeness of you — a white dove perched upon a high branch of a willow tree. it’s meant to resemble the same one that used to stand east, just beyond the castle grounds before your father had it cut down. somewhere you both used to play as kids, rolling around in the grass below and swinging from its branches as though time was just another friend of yours.

he hasn’t moved from his spot since you first disappeared into the bathroom with the girls, and he doesn’t until he hears you shout, and both him and hendrika jump. 

“i said GO! NOW!”

he’s already on his feet and rushing across the room when the door swings back open, almost colliding with the wall behind it. the two maids hurry out with their heads down low; it’s only aletta that has the courage to meet his eyes before they leave as a trio, mouthing a sincere apology to him as she does. for a moment he considers going after them, demanding to know what they’d done or what she was so sorry for, but it’s the sound of your cries that pull him back. 

joost doesn’t hesitate for another moment. tears of his own well up behind his waterlines as he finds you collapsed on the damp floor with sore, slightly scuffed knees, clutching at your heart, wailing as your shoulders jolt with every fragile grasp of breath. it’s a reaction so severe that at first, he fears that you’re hurt, bleeding somewhere that he just can’t see, tripping over his reassurances that you’re okay and that he’s got you, whilst he tries to check you over. 

soft hands cup your face, thumbs catching and wiping away the saltwater that wets your warm cheeks. he holds you as though you’re porcelain again but now laying at his feet, cracked, shattered, broken. in a way he’s no stranger to it anymore, seeing you so small in his arms as he cradles you to his chest, palms smoothing along your spine as you cry. it’s become something of a routine for him, hasn’t it? and for as much as it still hurts, he’s almost grown used to the pain of seeing you this way.

there’s just this look in your eyes now though, that he can’t ignore, one that he’s never seen on you, one that scares him only because it’s the same look of mourning that he’s worn himself before. he sees it despite how you won’t seem to meet his gaze, choosing to fixate on the bathroom wall that you face instead. when he runs his fingers through your hair, you don’t melt into the touch like you usually do. 

“duifje…”  his voice wavers as though one wrong word could ruin you. “please, can you tell me what happened?”

it takes you another minute to find the right words and then gather enough strength to speak them. it still almost chokes you. “he’s still going through with it.” and then when joost is silent, you assume it’s only because he needs you to elaborate a little further. in doing so, your bottom lip wobbles, and any chance of retaining that faintly steadier grip on your voice begins to slip past your fingers. “the girls heard it from my father himself; he’s going to marry me off to that fucking creature whether i, or anyone else likes it or not. it’s done, it’s…it’s over.”

“it doesn’t have to be.”

you shake your head as though you’re fighting to rid yourself of any false hope that he could offer you. it’s purely an act of self preservation that you do, almost trying to embrace it as your fate already, as the end of everything, the end of you. because maybe if you just let it be this time, if you accept it for what it is and joost accepts it too, it won’t hurt like this forever. the dust will eventually settle, and you’ll learn to make do with the cards that you’ve been dealt.

but it’s really not long until that tightness in your chest starts to ache, and it grows just a little too hard for you to draw in another soft breath. cradled in joost’s arms you start to whine, spluttering out another small cry because you’re trying to imagine that it’s not him holding you, but instead your ‘husband to be’. you’re picturing this future that’s already been decided for you, one that promises rougher hands gripping your skin, and harsher words commanding you in ways that you’re told a husband is supposed to command his wife. 

it’s a life that you know you won’t survive, one way or another. 

when you suck in another gasp of air, tightening the grip that you hold on joost’s blouse, he shifts slightly, shushing you. he moves to cup your face again and it gives you no choice but to meet the tearful blue of his eyes. 

“shshsh, hey, i need you to listen to me, okay? because i mean it, it doesn’t have to be that way; just say the word and we’ll go. we’ll leave and we’ll never fucking look back. you and me.”

still you continue to shake your head, though now it’s only out of habit that you do. “they’ll come looking for us, joost; they won’t just let me go.” 

“so we’ll go somewhere they won’t find us.”  it’s unlike yours that his voice doesn’t waver.

you almost don’t like it, how he dares to speak as though it could ever be that simple, that easy. as though he already has your escape from life itself all planned out down to the finest, most intimate detail. it has you sitting up and out of his arms because you know that if you try to hold his gaze for another moment longer, it’ll get your hopes up. like him, you’ll dare to believe that you have another way out.

though it really shouldn’t surprise you that he’s being so stubbornly hopeful about all of this, too caught up in his own optimism to ever see the reality staring back at him. it’s him; it’s who he’s always been. whilst you’re trying to welcome the idea of your own dissolution, joost is fighting tooth and nail for your future, your freedom. it’s what he’s always done. 

“joost, i…”  you rise to your feet with the help of his hands still clutching yours, keeping you steady. “…i don’t even know how we would…”

and then you trail off, left a little speechless by how he turns on the spot and rushes off, and out of your bathroom. you’re left to follow him with a firm furrow in your eyebrows, watching as he dashes back over to the windowsill and picks up the small notebook that he’d left behind. as he flicks through its pages, you wait for him to speak; it’s not until he’s thrusting it into your hands that he does.

“there’s a passageway that leads down to the courtyard, and those are the times of the shifts that each guard takes there. they go in groups of four and they rotate every hour, but there’s almost always a delay on thursdays when the three o’clock group swaps over from patrolling the east wing. that grants us a five minute window to make a run for it through the gap i’ve dug in the hedges.”

“thursday, that’s…that’s tomorrow…”

“it is, and i need you to come with me, duifje.”

you fall to sit on the chair of your vanity with shaking hands, your eyes a little wide and mouth agape. you don’t notice it when joost carefully pries the notebook from your hands and discards it to the floor, as he sinks down to his knees before you. gently, he takes your hands back in his and squeezes; it’s enough to draw you back into the room.

trying to wrap your head around everything — it’s only pushed you that much further into your slight state of shock, hasn’t it? because now you're trying to grasp the sheer intricacies of his plan, too. all of the thought and care that he’s put into it, all of the time that it must have taken. how it’s so much more than just another fleeting impulse of his; something spontaneous. the part of your father’s garden hedge that he’s apparently wrecked in the process.

“i know that it’s a lot to take in, and for that i’m sorry, princess. i really am. but if what the girl’s have heard is true, then we just can’t wait any longer. i can’t risk that.”

in not much more than a whisper you speak his name, lowering your gaze to meet his own. because there’s something else there, something akin to a second truth, that still lies behind his words, and you can feel it there. you can feel him pulling it back, still trying to hide it for your own sake. you know that he won’t spill a single syllable of it without your push; you know that the simple calling of his name is all that it’ll take.

“i need you to come with me, and i’ll do absolutely anything it takes to convince you of it, but…i’m still leaving no matter what you decide. tonight is my last night.”

“what?”  it comes out as more of a whimper than a question. a quiet, pathetic cry that changes the look in joost’s eyes to something so much sadder. “you would just leave me behind? just like that? after everything?”

“i promise you, liefje; i don’t want to.” 

“then why threaten it when you know that it would only hurt me?”

you watch him draw in a deep, uneasy breath, dropping his head to avoid your glare, his hold on your hands growing tighter as those few tears of his own finally start to wet his cheeks. “because you and i both know what’ll happen if you marry that man, and i refuse to stand by and watch it happen. i can’t. i won’t bury you.”

“joost…”

“i love you, and i’m begging you, please don’t marry him. run away with me and i swear to it, i’ll keep you safe, and i’ll cherish you every day that i’m still alive and breathing. please.”

“joost, look at me.”

he moves in tandem with you, carefully rising to his feet just as you do, sniffling, staring you down with such sore eyes as you tilt  gaze up to meet them. it’s the first chance that you get to drop his hands and hold his face instead, to feel the subtle warmth of his blush and the soft stubble that lines his jaw, and you take it. you hold him to you as though he’ll disappear right through your fingers if you don’t. it still doesn't quite reassure you that he won’t.

“you love me?”

he’s close enough that you feel it when he sighs. “you know that i do.”

“do you love me?” 

joost lets just a single beat pass; he needs you to see it in the way that the corners of his mouth curl upward that he means it. “i always have.”

it isn’t feverish, how you then lull him down into a kiss at his confession. instead it’s slow, almost restrained; your movements heavy because they’re carrying the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation. you insist on taking your time with it only so you can then savour the feeling of his fingers threading in through your hair, and a single breath fanning across your face in a lovesick whisper of your name.

“i’ve always loved you too.”

it’s with his gentle pull that your lips finally meet, and something inside of you finally clicks. turns you desperate; needy. your fingertips cling to the nape of his neck because it’s the only thing still keeping you steady on your feet. it’s only the soft thumping of his pulse against your palms that still keeps you tethered to the room.

a subtle moan slips past your lips. it’s light, quiet, something more akin to a whimper and something that you fight to hold back, but joost still hears it. he feels the vibrations of it, and how you push yourself a little further into him almost instinctively, as though you’re already trying to beg for something only he can give you.

he pulls back just enough to see your eyes, and all the ache that lies in them. his fingers still rake through your hair as he brings his forehead down to rest against yours, and he takes a moment just to hold you there, breathe you in. he needs it to try and settles the stirring that twists somewhere deep inside his abdomen and makes him twitch. it doesn’t work. 

“princess, -”

and you’re just not oblivious to it in the way that he hopes you are, are you? he doesn’t know yet that you’re struggling with the same heat that now pools between your legs.

“- no, i know. it’s okay, i want…it needs to be you. i need you.”

after another breath, you watch his eyes screw shut, and the corners of his mouth curl a little further up. you feel his thumbs trace smooth circles just behind your ears. “that’s…baby, are you sure?”

you don’t need a moment to hesitate like he does. whilst he worries if he’s even worthy enough to tend to you in this way, you already know that he is. “i’ve never been so sure of something in my life, joost. please.”

it’s with a careful nod that he agrees.

his hands smooth down the skin of your neck to your shoulders, the touch featherlight, and slip underneath the sleeves of your blouse. it’s not until you urge him on that he starts to push the cotton further down your arms and the straps of your dress along with it. when he stops half way, with half-furrowed eyebrows and a growing smirk pulling at his lips, you frown and almost ask if he really wants to do this for you, before he finally speaks.

“is this mine?”  he’s only asking to tease you; he already knows that it is. 

and he knows that his teasing has worked when you suddenly turn a little pinker, blushing up at him. “finders keepers, klein. you should know that.”

the sound of his giggle suddenly cuts through the thick, stuffy anticipation that has been hanging so heavily in the air around you. it’s a sound that you mimic whilst he tugs again at your clothes, until each layer of fabric finally drops to sit discarded at your feet. “it looked good on you…looks even better off, though, but hey.”

the sight of you like this— admittedly it’s something that he’s no stranger to. joost has spent far too many nights peering in through that hidden hole in your wall, gazing, admiring you in every state of dress, and palming himself through his trousers as he does so. but seeing you standing here before him, already so vulnerable and close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from you as you shake, it’s different. 

there are moles, and faint, dainty little freckles in places that he’s never noticed, because he’s never seen you so bare like this, and so up close before. beauty spots that lie beneath his fingertips as he runs his touch along your collarbones, down each of your arms until he reaches your hips. it’s there that he finds a small birthmark in the shape of a heart, and stops. he presses soft, careful circles into the flesh, just to feel your warmth within his grip. 

it’s at your sides that your own hands twitch with the urge to cover yourself. his gaze is so unrelenting in its tenderness, in its care, that it’s making you feel shy for the first ever time around him. you can’t seem to meet his eyes anymore — can’t stop shaking. you’re standing before him, unclothed in his palms and still blushing as he tries to memorise the sight of you like this, and you’re shaking like a leaf. 

“what are you so afraid of?”  his voice is low as he leans down to rest his forehead against yours again.

“think i’m scared of being scared, and ruining all of this.”  you fight to take a breath when he then hums; a gentle push to help you find the right words. “no one’s ever seen me like this before, joost. not since my brother, when he…and i don’t want to see that every time i close my eyes. i only want to see how you’re looking at me right now, forever.” 

“we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

but it’s a feeling that you still insist on fighting through; you refuse to hide yourself away from his eyes despite how instinctive it is to do so. “no, i am. i’m ready.”

and joost doesn’t dare to ask again, because he would never want to make you beg for it, would he? “go lie down for me, schat. i’ll be right there.” 

it’s as you do, that he then turns on the spot, and paces across the room to wedge a chair against your bedroom door. every step, every movement of his is a little rushed, but steady, because he simply doesn’t have it in him to try and subdue his own want, his need for this. taking such good care of you, making you feel nothing short of treasured during such an intimate act — he doesn’t know how to pretend as though it’s not everything that he’s ever wanted.

the tips of his fingers find the hem of his blouse and tug, yanking it up and over his head as he all but runs back over to you, and his grin only aches at the sight. 

how you’re all curled up on your side amongst the pillows, knees pulled up high to your chest, just enough to cover the most delicate parts of you, and your cheek a little squished from resting so heavily on your arm. a sweet smile of your own pulls on your lips as you study his every move, waiting for him, watching how his muscles jump and flex underneath his skin as though it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him undress. the smooth broadness of his freckled shoulders, the gentle curve of his waist, the softness of his small tummy.

he wonders if you know that you’re staring.

as soon as joost reaches your feet, you start to shift. as he blushes under your gaze, you’re sitting up and taking his hands in yours, beckoning, pleading with him to lay down with you. it’s not until your spine meets the mattress again, and your legs part to make the space that he does, slotting himself in between them, caging you beneath him. 

it means that you can feel him pressing against your hip now, can’t you? and the realisation of it robs you of your voice, of finally confessing just how beautiful you think he is, because instead you’re back to being all shy again, painfully so pink in the face. through only the thin fabric that still separates you, you can even feel it jump as he giggles at your wide, doe-like eyes and slightly parted lips.

“am i really making you that nervous, duifje?”  there’s a subtle apprehension to his voice that he just can’t hide. 

“would it be such a bad thing if you were?”

“well it depends…”  he sits up and starts to pull loosely at the waistband of his trousers. “if it’s a good, ‘butterflies in your stomach’ kind of feeling, then no, it’s not a bad thing. you’re making me feel that kind of nervous, too.”

gently, his own, spoken confession pulls a soft smile from you. “me? really?”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “if only you could see yourself how i’ve always seen you, princess. jij bent zo mooi.” 

then, joost starts to tug and shimmy out the last of his clothing. 

it’s involuntary the way that your eyes snap shut. the sudden imagine of a man now peering over you, pulling at his garments with the only intention of freeing himself, it’s too awful, too familiar. and you hate that it doesn’t seem to matter that it’s joost, of all men, someone so unbelievably kind and harmless, because you’re still holding your breath regardless.

with each careful shifting of his weight, you’re reminded of the time that you were last sprawled out just like this, then with your clothes torn and skin bruised, splattered with your brother’s blood. the crushing mass of his dead body on top of you, pining you down, digging the blade of a dagger deeper into your chest. 

you can even feel it now, can’t you? as joost settles himself above you, his hands planted on either side of your head and a knee between your own. you can feel the sharp tip of a blade against your sternum as though it really is there, leaving behind another faint, pale scar. it almost makes you squirm beneath him and your eyes screw up that much more. 

“can you look at me, schatje?”  

but the sadness that clings to his tone makes your bottom lip quiver, and you just don’t know if you can answer him.

“please?” 

“wait, can i just…”  you let out the single, shallow breath that you’ve been holding, and place your palm over his heart to feel the strong, steady beat of it —  to remind yourself that it’s him here with you; no one else. “…i need a minute.”

joost merely nods until he remembers that you won’t see it. “it’s okay; we should stop, baby.”

before you can protest, he’s already climbing off and falling to rest beside you. before you can shed another tear, he’s lifting you into his outstretched arms and tucking you up underneath his chin, laying you flat out against him. it’s within his hold that your shoulders fight to shake as you cry, and he frowns, suddenly holding onto too much guilt than he’ll ever know what to do with. 

“i’m so sorry. we shouldn’t have rushed into this; you’re not ready.”

as sweet as it’s meant to be, how softly he whispers to you as his fingers run through your hair, it only makes you feel worse, doesn’t it? you wanted to be ready for this. you needed there to be a piece of you able to be reclaimed from eric and what he did to you, and you would have given anything for it to have been this.

his apologies do little to comfort you, despite his efforts. they don’t dry your tears, and it breaks his heart. it makes him feel useless in a way that he’s not used to. because here you are, his precious duifje, laying bare in his arms and crying into the curled, golden hair of his chest, and for once he’s clueless as to how he can make it all better again. 

you’re still so vulnerable like this; he can only think to try and level the playing field.

“i wasn’t ready for it either, the first time.”

it takes you a moment to properly register the words, sniffling. “…you’ve laid with someone before?”  and when he hums in confirmation, you continue with a firm furrow to your eyebrows. “when?”

“since my thirteenth birthday.”

the celebration that you’d insisted be thrown for him for the occasion, the bed-chamber that the king had called him to only once your back had been turned, and the german duchess that had greeted him there. how far joost’s stomach had sunk as his new responsibilities had been explained to him, and all of the tears that he’d shed as that woman had undressed him, touched him. that first night and then each one that’s followed routinely since; he could never bring himself to burden you with the knowledge of it. 

awkwardly you twist in his grip until it’s your cheek that meets his chest, and it’s like that, that you lay facing him, studying the distant look in his eyes as a cold shiver runs achingly down your spine. it almost hurts you. 

“you never said anything — you were only a child, joost.”

the quiet sigh that follows isn’t one of any relief. “your father didn’t seem to share that opinion, schat. to him, i had become a man, and therefore i was able to provide his guests with a ‘wider range of services’, as he liked to say.”

water starts to burn behind his waterlines as he speaks; it’s the horror etched across your features that does it. 

“what are you saying? that my…that my dad has been ‘renting you out’ to his friends ever since we were kids? at his parties, at…at my parties?” 

“no, don’t do that.”

“at all those dinners, and-and those banquets that he’d throw for me -”

“- it’s not your fault, schatje.”

you struggle to sit up, or to simply catch another breath. suddenly you’re on the verge of hysteria and joost is desperate trying to pull you back from it, his thumb catching each tear that further wets your cheeks despite his own blurring his sight. the more that you push against him to move, the tighter his hold on your waist becomes. the harder you cry, the softer he shushes you.

“you didn’t know, okay? how could you have known?”

you pull away from the hand that tries to tuck a stand of hair behind your ear. “but i should have! it’s…it’s you, and it’s my father, and i just…i don’t understand how he could have put you through such terrible, terrible things. it’s evil, joostie. it’s monstrous.”  

the smile that adorns him doesn’t quite reach his eyes, does it? it’s forced, a little bittersweet, and accompanied by a warm palm that cups your jaw. “i survive it.”

“i’m just afraid that i could have stopped it.”  his smile doesn’t brighten until you finally lean back into the touch. “i’m so, so sorry.”

“it’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

it’s in that instant that your mind is finally made up. feeling the warmth of him beneath you as you lie together heart to heart, unclad of any garments; bearing witness yet again to the pure, all-consuming adoration that joost holds for you within his gaze. you know it as well as you know that the sky is blue, and the grass that grows beyond the castle walls is green — you could never live without him. 

“i’ll do it. tomorrow, i’ll leave with you.”