âONE HEART, TENDERLY BEATING.â
based on:Â the prince ( snow white and the seven dwarves ) / added inspo:Â tba.
STATS:
full name: florian fredrick ferdinand charmont. faceclaim: callum turner. gender (pronouns): cis man (he/him). age: thirty-five. zodiac: tbd. orientation: here for a good time not a long time. occupation: nuisance, problem, and disappointment. birthplace: kingdom of ulstead. song: tba. temperament: tba. mbti: istp-a. enneagram: tba.
CURRENTLY:
coping very badly with his grief, spending a lot of time gambling, drinking, and finding fun new kinds of self-destruction
PREVIOUSLY:
bio
To understand Florian you have to go back to the beginning. Before heâd lost anything, when the world was made of fairytales. To look at him in the present, you wouldnât immediately guess what he was like as a child. He was sweet. He was gentle. He was starry-eyed. He was a mamaâs boy through and through and the only trouble he got into was when heâd sneak out to the gardens when he should be learning about warfare and etiquette. He was a fairytale prince and he believed in magic and love and hope with his entire little heart.
Then his mother got sick. And then nothing could make her better. No kiss of true love on her forehead or wish on a shooting star or even a monster to slay. Reality wasnât gentle. It wasnât a fairytale. You couldnât love someone back to life, not even if you were a prince, and Florian was just some stupid kid whoâd been naive enough to actually believe he could. What a joke.
His mother died and Florian grieved badly (though could anyone be expected to grieve well? Could any child?). He wasnât quiet and dutiful about it. He had a gaping wound in his heart and he hurt and was angry and upset and betrayed by his mother, who had left him, and his father, who carried on regardless and expected his sons to do the same, and the world, which kept on turning as if nothing was wrong. He withdrew. He snuck out on his own. He bristled at the disappointed looks. His cynicism flourished. He didnât want to be that stupid little kid who had believed so much, who had cared so much.
Maybe he couldâve pulled out of the downward spiral, if things had been different. But by the time the grief had loosened its grip, he found himself caught in a self-fulfilling, self-destructive cycle. Everyone expected him to be a mess, to be trouble. Everyone had responsibilities to attend to. Concern never seemed to come without a lecture or a backhanded comment. When no one expects much from you, when everyone is waiting for you to screw up, what's the point in trying to change? To get better? Kit was the one everyone cared about, anyway. He was the son that mattered. The one that couldn't be seen making a mess of himself splashed across tabloids. All anyone wanted from Florian anymore was him staying out of the way or, at most, a conveniently timed scandal.
(Of course, he used to adore Kit. He used to chatter on about how he'd help his big brother rule, about how they could share that burden the way they shared everything. He used to pester Kit until he stopped looking so uptight. He used to think that bond was unbreakable. Stupid. Childish.)
Mostly, Florian saw everyone's dismal expectations and wanted to sink to meet them just out of spite. And it didnât make him feel any better, so he would drink and party and make everything worse. And that wouldn't help either. And every moment would be caught on camera for the nation to gawk at and shake their heads in disapproval as if they weren't watching him like a slow motion car crash. Whatever. He'd rather be the asshole playboy prince than the sad little boy they tried turning him into every time they remembered his motherâs death.
Maybe he wouldâve continued that way forever, except reality dunked another bucket of ice over him. His father, sick and certainly dying and sending his sons away to save them from a magical threat. Florian wanted to be better, maybe, except then the darkness encroached as it always does. There was no safety, not really. He knew that. He knew the world wasnât kind. It wasnât a fairytale. His little brother didnât - or maybe just didnât care. Philip was always the hero, the idealist Florian had tried to quash in himself.Â
Maleficent came, and then his little brother was dead. HIs father was dead. His big brother is gone, to rule the way he was always meant to. Part of Florian knows he should be there, knows that Kit does need him (at least so theyâre not both alone). Instead he stays in the city that killed Philip and tries to dig past rock bottom as if it will ever bring relief. Nowhere to go but down.
CONNECTIONS:
tba
