Sky knows he is a good boy. He tries hard in all of his classes, does what he's told, and never complains—even when a girl he has never seen before is brought in for their official engagement. Sky is complacent, Sky is obedient, Sky never disappoints.
Sky lived for sixteen years excelling in being good, so why does he feel so unsure of himself when he steps into the grand throne room the day before his departure to Red Fountain? The weight of duty sits heavy on his chest, stitched into every gold-threaded seam of his formal attire. But all of that—the carefully pressed collar, the rigid posture, the weight of expectation—slips away when he notices the brunette stranger pacing the marbled floor.
The boy turns around, his sharp movements precise like a soldier’s, and Sky's breath catches in his throat. For a brief moment, he forgets everything: the throne room, the carefully constructed future laid out for him, the engagement—gosh, what was her name again? He can almost feel every cog in his mind rewiring itself around one thing—the person before him.
Sky knows who it is—or, well, he knows of him. The son of some noble family, plucked from Eraklyon’s Military Academy after a grueling selection process. His father’s search for the perfect squire spanned months, with representatives sent to every prestigious school on the planet, demanding excellence, endurance, and loyalty. Sky remembers hearing his father speak the boy’s name once or twice in passing, but names rarely stick when spoken by King Erendor. They are just obligations waiting to be fulfilled.
The boy approaches and bows, his voice steady despite the tension etched into the corners of his mouth.
"...Brandon, your highness."
Sky doesn’t hear the whole sentence. In fact, he’s not sure he hears anything at all. But he sees it—he sees the name form on his lips, and it sticks to Sky’s brain like thick fruit syrup.
Brandon.
Sky mouths the name, testing its shape against his tongue. It feels solid, dependable, like it belongs carved into stone. Sky barely realizes Brandon’s hand is extended until he almost misses it, fumbling to meet the handshake.
Brandon is taller than him, broader too, with shoulders that look carved from granite—what do they feed them at the academy? His hand is rough and calloused, evidence of endless hours with swords and shields, yet it trembles slightly in Sky's grip. His smile is rigid, stretched thin, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Sky recognizes the look instantly—the desperate need to impress, to meet impossible standards.
"Nervous?" Sky manages to produce, his voice as soft as he can make it, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a crooked smile.
Brandon laughs, but it’s thin and sharp, like glass about to crack. "Is it that obvious? Your father is an intimidating man."
His voice is low and warm, a sound Sky wants to wrap himself in. Sky swallows, suddenly aware of the dryness in his throat.
Before he can respond, the heavy doors swing open, and King Erendor enters. Brandon straightens so quickly that Sky swears he grows an extra inch. His posture snaps into place, his voice shifts into something deeper, sharper—a soldier’s voice. Sky watches the transformation with wide eyes, his pulse a frantic rhythm in his ears.
The conversation between his father and Brandon floats around Sky like mist, barely entering his brain. Words pass in and out of focus, phrases about duty, loyalty, and service. Sky knows he should be paying attention, but all he can concentrate on is the way Brandon’s throat bobs when he swallows, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the way he seems to hold his breath between sentences.
Somehow, the audience ends, and Sky finds himself leading Brandon out into the palace gardens. The air is pleasantly chill, floating into Sky’s shirt and cooling off his burning, sweaty body. The scent of night-blooming flowers is heavy in the air, tickling his nose, and the stars are just beginning to scatter themselves across the darkening sky. They walk side by side, speaking in soft tones, voices melting into the gentle hum of the evening.
Sky is aware of the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his throat, and while it’s still highly uncomfortable, it no longer obstructs his speech. Brandon relaxes too. His laugh grows louder, his shoulders loosen, and there are moments where his smile is so wide, his eyes squint as if to make more room for it on his face.
They talk for hours on end—about duties, school, and excited plans for when they get to Red Fountain. As time passes, Sky slowly pulls himself back together, carefully reconstructing the perfect facade he always wears, piece by piece. But just as he’s about to set the final part into its place, Brandon, without hesitation, tears it away once again.
The joke isn’t that funny, but Brandon is laughing loudly, struggling to hold himself upright as he slaps his palm against Sky’s leg. The touch is light, but Sky feels as if he was punched on his back instead, making all the air leave his lungs with one swift exhale. The warmth of Brandon’s hand lingers, penetrating Sky’s very soul, and spreading across his body like wildfire.
The moment passes, Brandon retracts his hand, and the laughter continues. But Sky doesn’t laugh with him.
Sky knows he is a good boy. But when he goes to bed that night, as the silken sheets itch against his skin, making him toss and turn until the next morning, for the first time in his life, he wonders how much longer he can stay one.
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I've finished mapping out the plot for my next Winx fic, yippee! It will be a BL one-shot this time, a prequel to my medieval Blicy story :0) White Mourning took me on a long and exhausting journey that spanned around 4 months, but this time around, my goal is to finish the fic before May ends. We'll see what happens, I suppose. I can already envision it being at least 12k words.
The last story had a strong emphasis on dream significance and paganism, but this one will be focused on faith and religious guilt! I don't want to say too much, though, but I'm excited to play around with a different relationship dynamic from what I've written before.
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Artist Christophe Pilate's latest project, dubbed Brandsky, is being called controversial by many. Why? Because he's added the logos of some of the world's biggest brands to Banksy's famously anti-capitalist, anti-government work. What do you think? Is Pilate's work disrespectful?
