#corden

Corden sits opposite you, arms folded, pretending not to notice what you've been doing with it for a few hours now. the flower ornament takes you a while, but you know it's worth it. His sharp tongue has fallen silent for now, but you can tell his curiosity by the way his eyes rest on your hands, and you can't contain a smile.

Finally, he asks, “What's it for?” His tone is gruff, but his interest is betrayed by the hint of curiosity that raises his voice a slight octave.

You don't answer immediately, concentrating on putting the last flowers in place. When she's ready, you lean forward and, before he can protest further, place the delicate wreath of flowers on his head. His eyes widen in surprise, and his mouth parts, but the usual remark you'd expect doesn't come.

Instead, he remains silent, staring at you in disbelief.

“What…are you doing?”

“I'm crowning you.”

You stroke his cheek, and place a soft kiss on his forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. When you pull away, his face is flushed, a rare vulnerability visible in his expression.

“It's a human custom,” he retorts, gently brushing the petals of a snow rose.

“So?” you retort, staring at him.

He swallows. “Don't look at me like that,” he murmurs, obviously troubled, but his voice cracks just enough for you to know how much this means to him. His fingers brush over one of the flowers, awkwardly avoiding your gaze. “I'm not a king…”

“You're right, you're not.” You nod emphatically. “You're much more than that. You're Corden, my friend, my confidant, the one...” You trail off, afraid of seeing his walls go up again if the words escape you. You gently slip your hand into his and he flinches. “You may not rule a kingdom, may not lead your people, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve a crown.”

For a long moment, the silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things unsaid. He wants to reject this, the vulnerability you're offering him, but he can't because deep down, he craves it more than anything. And you both know it.

“You…” His voice is rough, low, as he struggles to find the words. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You think I deserve this?” He gestures vaguely to the crown on his head, but you know he’s talking about more than just that. He’s talking about everything—the affection, the care, the love you're offering him.

"I know exactly what I'm saying." Your grip on his hand tightens slightly, as if to reassure him. "I see you, Corden. I see every part of you, and that’s exactly why you deserve it."

He swallows hard, his gaze falling to the ground, pressing his lips together. You can see the conflict in him—the desire to believe you, battling against the years of pain and self-doubt that have shaped him. His voice, when he finally speaks again, is quiet, barely more than a whisper.

"I'm not good enough for that."

"You are," you insist, your voice steady and filled with certainty. "You've always been."