#mm.writes

bedmint summer come back to me...

“I’m no good with weapons.” Wilbur isn’t sure how their conversation had lead to this topic. It’s often that their conversations seem to follow no rhyme nor reason. One moment they could be talking about their childhood, the stars, the next; doubling over in laughter over shared experiences with prickly old nobles at balls.

George frowned as Wilbur continued, “That had always been something that was more of my brothers’ nature. We’re all trained with a sword, of course, but it never felt right in my hands the way a quill or an instrument does.” He flexed his fingers lightly, grazing the tips of his fingers.

“I think I might disagree.” George, who had been laying with his back against a mossy rock, sat up, arms flexing as he propped himself up. Rid of his outer coat, complaining of the sun rays that beat down on their skin at the clearing which they found themselves in, he sat in a simple tunic which revealed lean yet toned arms and a collarbone powdered like the cream-colored spores on top of mushrooms. Due to George’s unblemished countenance and thin figure, Wilbur had once thought him to seem more elegant than particularly strong. Not once did he think that again after watching the same man who seemed as delicate as the stars take down men twice his size with ease, laughing with his twinkling smile all the while.

“Do you fathom know me better than my old swordsmanship teacher then? Who I brought to tears the last time I tried to wield a sword and nearly cut my little brother's head right off?” George smiled. He knew of the story. Wilbur had told it to him once before, miming the way his sword clumsily soared through the air and then out of his slippery grasp–he always seemed to have loose lips the same way around George–and barrelled right at poor Tommy, bright-eyed and waiting for the day he would be allowed to wield a sword like his strong big brothers.

Needless to say, Wilbur’s lessons stopped there, and Tommy’s were delayed for some time until he could trust being around swords again. Not that it hindered his natural talent for the art in any way. Perhaps it is his confidence, and Wilbur’s lack thereof, that made the difference.

“I think that they simply gave you the wrong weapon and that your strengths lay elsewhere.” George hummed.

“Yes, dear, they lay with the words on my lips and the chords at the tip of my fingers.”

George shoved him lightly, rolling his eyes. The brown and blue hues seem to twinkle. “That too, of course. You know I mean something else.” Wilbur stayed silent, so he continued. “Have you ever tried wielding a bow?”

“I can’t say that I have.” There were some bows in the armory back at home, but Wilbur had never trained with them. Swordsmanship had been the bare minimum for their curriculum, and he didn’t even pass that. He knew that Techno and his father were adept, while Tommy, though talented, had no care for it.

“Would you like to try?”

“When done properly, wielding a bow should not just use the arms, as many might think, but the entire body. Your back and your core especially.” George’s hand trailed from Wilbur’s shoulder down his back, making him shiver.

“George,” he said at length, fingers clenching infinitesimally against the string of the bow. He can almost feel George grin behind him as he pulls his hand away to move more towards Wilbur’s side, judging his stance.

“Tight here, loose here.” George’s fingers fall naturally against where Wilbur erred, correcting him bluntly with his words yet gently with his actions. He flinches as George’s hands fall on his waist, and George merely raises an eyebrow up at him. “Keep this part forward, and your feet shoulder length apart.”

“Do your people normally teach in this manner or is it just you?”

“In what manner?”

“So… touchy.” Wilbur’s used to having things demonstrated for him, or to learn simply by doing and having his errors beat out of him, more or less. Still quite tactile and hands-on, but in a much more different way.

George hummed, stepping back to look at Wilbur’s stance once more. “Which answer would you like?”

“The honest one?”

“Deep breath. Shoot when you feel ready,” George replied instead. As Wilbur felt the crisp air enter his lungs, he thought that George would not give him a proper answer. Instead, as the arrow whizzed past his cheek, George whispered.

“Maybe it’s just because it’s me, and you.” Wilbur’s arm jerked, and the both of them watched as the arrow embedded itself just slightly left of the bullseye.

“Does that feel better than wielding a sword?” A callback to their earlier conversation.

“You did that on purpose.” Wilbur huffed. Again, with no rhyme or reason.

“Maybe so.” George walked over to pull the arrow out of the target.

“I’ve found that there’s something quite more satisfying with landing a successful shot than a successful hit. It’s a lot more technical, but in a way, there’s also something melodic about the way that your body moves almost in tandem with the bow and arrow. Like the string of a violin, or the beat of a drum.”

Or two hearts writing their own melody.

“Is that why you always seem to disappear during this time of the night?” Wilbur mused, reminiscing the first time they met. It had been a starry night just like this one, and they are atop the gazebo from back then too, which has now become something of a special place for them both to get away to.

George shrugged one shoulder, but his smile said it all. It’s awkward in the way it always is when there’s something George doesn’t want to admit but has left out in the open for people to assume anyway. “Just like you never saw a reason to learn to fight-”

“I tried, still,” Wilbur interjected, though he is right. There has been enough bloodshed in the Antarctic Empire’s past to ensure that at least the dynasty of Wilbur and his brothers’ generation will pass mostly peacefully, and if they play their cards right it will hopefully stay the same for the next generation, too.

“Yes, of course. Just as you tried, and failed, so did I when it comes to dancing.”

“But you seem so graceful.” Graceful. Elegant. A number of other synonyms for the words flash in Wilbur’s mind.

“Graceful in battle, that I’m sure of. But when it comes to dancing I literally seem to have two left feet. Trust me, countless have tried to fix my wrongs. I’d say the one who’s gotten close to making me seem at least somewhat presentable while dancing was Dream, but–”

“What about me?” Out of nowhere, Wilbur blurted out. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, George’s dual-colored irises shining curiously, but he couldn’t help the words from escaping when George mentioned the countless others who have attempted to dance with him that made Wilbur realize that they have never shared such a moment.

“What about you? You want to teach me how to dance?” Despite asking it as though it were a question, George was already beginning to slide off the roof, the answer known but unspoken between them. He landed gracefully, as always, and held up his hand to help Wilbur down. Not that he needed any assistance, but he took it anyway, if not just to pull George close to him once both his feet are planted firmly on the ground, their shoes squeaking on the marble floor as he brings them to the center of the gazebo.

George stumbled a little, and Wilbur couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll step on you, on purpose,” he threatened.

“Shh,” if they were quiet enough, they could almost barely hear the music playing all the way from the ballroom. It’s even fainter in Wilbur’s ears, drowned out by his heart beating louder as George tilted his head up towards him. Their lips came together for just a moment, Wilbur allowing himself the reprieve of smiling against soft chapped lips before he moved them into the proper positions.

“You know the steps?” A nod, bashful. From the kiss, maybe, or the prospect of what’s to come. George had never liked making mistakes in front of Wilbur, though he loves him even more both despite them and because of them.

“Try leading me, then.”

“What?” George snapped, but Wilbur just smiled, ever so patient. He moved George’s hands and waited for him to move. He did, a few moments later, hesitantly.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Wilbur advised, his voice a murmur as to not break the moment. He didn’t seem too successful as George’s mouth still twisted in displeasure as he took the next step and the next.

“Easy for you to say. How many ladies, is it, that you’ve danced with just like this during balls?”

“Jealous?” George rolled his eyes, turning them. Wilbur fought back a smile.

“Like you weren’t jealous at the prospect of me dancing with someone else, either.” Wilbur couldn’t even find it in him to get mock-angry as they stumbled a little on their next turn, George’s face flushing with the mistake before they right themselves and continue on.

“I’d neither confirm nor deny that statement. Only if you tell me if I’m doing a better job at teaching you than all the rest of them so far.”

“Careful, or your feet mind end up worse than theirs.”

“I’ve never let someone else take the lead, if that makes you feel better.” George’s hand twitches where it’s situated on the small of Wilbur’s back.

“It doesn’t.” It does.

“I hope perhaps you’ll still allow me the pleasure of being the only gentleman you’ve danced with whom you didn’t ruin the shoes of.” George ducked his head but brought it back up upon the insistence of Wilbur’s knuckle underneath his chin. They smiled at each other, fond.

“We’ll have to see.”

On some other night, Wilbur’s knuckle would find itself brushing high against George’s cheekbone as his eyes flutter, both tired and bright at the same time.

“I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours.” Wilbur would murmur, into the space between their lips. Into the space between their souls. Ice blue eyes against brown and blue. George would only hum in response, and in an infinitesimally small gesture, lean closer into Wilbur’s touch.

trigger warnings: implied eating disorder, mentions of disordered eating, mental health struggles

Wilbur stumbles through the overgrowth, just one more part of the forest that seems to reject him; a bland and horrid eyesore amidst the various hues of brown and green. He understands why the forest fights back. A sanctuary and a ticking time bomb don’t often go well together. But something seems to call him further in. Not quite a voice in his head nor a feeling in his heart. Just… a calling. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t claim to, either, but maybe when he reaches what he’s hoping to find–

He brushes past a canopy of leaves and steps, nearly trips once more, into a golden meadow. The word sanctuary has never felt so right. It feels less like a clearing in a forest and more like a resting place for something too pure for the world to touch. Bright, blinding. Wilbur’s hand twitches at his side, as though his body knows something his mind does not. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong here, in this untouched and sacred place. His mere presence sullies it.

But oh, does he wish he could stay. Wilbur yearns for the times in his past when everything had been so bright, so blinding, just like this moment. He wishes the sun could burn away his sins and he could stay here, finally at peace. He moves closer, as though being carried by the breeze.

Rosewood. The name for it beckons in his mind as he catches a glimpse of it between lush green moss, grass, and various other fern and fauna. Between the daisies and the cornflowers. Dark brown locks blow lightly over a peaceful face, long eyelashes casting the prettiest shadows over unblemished sun-kissed skin. It’s as though the earth and Life itself are cradling him in its arms. It only takes a moment for him to recognize the other, even with most of his features hidden behind the flowers blanketing him.

“Wil?” George sighed, his eyelashes fluttering in the soft morning haze. The curtains block out most of the early sun rays, but even still George could sense that it’s quite early. Much too early for Wilbur to be getting up, even with his insistence of keeping a good sleep schedule.

A slender hand brushed through his messy hair, the touch so soft and gentle that it nearly lulled George back to sleep with ease. Wilbur tucked a piece of hair behind his ear and bent down to press a kiss to his forehead, humming softly.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you up, darling?” The sappy pet name almost didn’t register in George’s sleep riddled mind, but when it did, he scrunched his face up and buried it in their soft covers, eliciting a warm chuckle from his partner. “Go back to sleep love, I’ll be back in just a second.”

Even though he said that, Wilbur’s fingers did not stop running through George’s hair until his consciousness faded.

A few hours later, George is roused from his sleep once more. This time feeling much more awake. As promised, Wilbur had returned while he was asleep. Had curled up behind him, his arm wrapped loosely around George’s waist from behind. Their legs, likewise, tangled up under the covers. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get out of his hold without waking him up, even when George didn’t want to, but he eventually stumbles out of bed, leaving a mumbling Wilbur in their mountain of blankets and pillows.

He goes through the motions; washes his face, brushes his teeth, still feeling like this whole morning had just been a dream. After nearly burning himself when beginning to make breakfast, though, George is finally able to come to his senses a little bit.

It’s not often he gets to cook breakfast for the two of them, with his sleep schedule being nothing short of an enigma, even to himself. He’s someone who prefers to go at his own pace. That means sleeping when tired and waking up when less so. Unfortunately, this means that he’s usually out of sync with the other. Sometimes even working on complete opposite schedules where George falls asleep when Wilbur is just barely waking up to get the day started.

He’s just about done with the pancakes when he hears Wilbur shuffle down the stairs, and is just about to turn to greet him when he feels two arms (and their blanket) wrap around him from behind, as well as a head come rest itself against his shoulder, Wilbur’s fluffy mess of a bedhair tickling his neck.

“Good morning.” George simply replies, reaching up to pet him as he hums sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of George’s neck further. “What did you have to do earlier?” Wilbur mumbles incorregibly, making George squirm as he feels the words against his skin. Wilbur is swaying slightly, bringing George along with the motion, and George is sure he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it.

He’ll never admit it to anyone in the world, but these moments are some of his favorite. When it feels like it’s just them two in the entire world. No eyes on them. Simple, quiet. It suits them much more than any grand gesture would, though George knows Wilbur wouldn’t mind those either if that’s what gets George’s heart racing. It does as well, but not always in a good way.

“Let go. I need to finish making breakfast. Go take a nap in the living room or something.” Wilbur let out another noise again, something along the lines of ‘nuh uh’ or ‘don’t want to’ that has George sighing lightheartedly.

“You love me,” his voice is so soft Wilbur nearly thinks he imagined it, a mere little thought wondered, pondered out loud. It’s clear to Wilbur that it was not something he was meant to hear, but he responds anyway.

“You say that as if it is hard to believe.” Wilbur reaches over to tuck a piece of George’s hair behind his ear, fingers grazing against the jewel attached to his lobe. An icy teardrop, a tiny thing in the grand scheme of things, and yet it still makes Wilbur’s heart swell due to what it represents. “Are you not as beloved here, as I am in my kingdom?” George turns his head, letting Wilbur’s touch stray against the warmth of his cheek, and smiles quietly at him.

“Maybe it’s because it’s me, and you.” An echo of a former conversation that makes Wilbur’s smile turn even more honeyed, and this time he finds that he doesn’t quite hate the term nearly as much.

“You’ve not said it back,” he remarks, his tone making it clear that he’s only teasing. Though Wilbur’s strength lies with his words, he does not need them to feel secure. Not when he already knows that his feelings are reciprocated, if only from the way that George brandishes his earring so proudly and only ever seems to smile and laugh and blush as much as he does when he’s around him.

Their moonlit garden seems even more lovely in the reflection of George’s dual-colored eyes as he smiles wider, tilting his head further into Wilbur’s touch, and he once again is reminded of a cat due to his lover’s antics. “Won’t you rather me say I’m yours?”

“No,” is his pensive reply after not even a beat.

George quirks an eyebrow. “No?”

“You don’t have to be mine, though I’ll have you if that’s what you wish. What I want is your love, not you necessarily.” Wilbur captures George’s lips in his, who softly sighs into the kiss. Part fondly and part exasperatedly.

“Must you always out romance me at a time like this?”

“Well, won’t you humor me and say it? Why are you so shy?” George turns back to gaze at the roses, leaning his body into Wilbur’s side and therefore his warmth.

“My family never did any of that ‘love is weakness’ bullshit,” Wilbur raises his eyebrows at the sudden vulgarness of his words, but stays silent as George continues, “but they’ve always equated vulnerability to weakness, and I know love makes even the strongest men vulnerable. It’s hard to unlearn something that I’ve been taught since before I could even walk,” he pauses, a breath.

“But I think I’d like to try if it’s with you.”

(“you are the first person to make me speechless” :handshake: “you make me feel like it’s safe to be vulnerable” georgebur in my royalty au making me want to throw up /pos)

“Careful, dove,” Wilbur murmurs. He must be drunk on moonlight and their time spent together; he doesn’t even realize that the words had escaped his mouth until George turned towards him.

“Dove?” George questions, pulling Wilbur’s hand away from where it covered his mouth as though he could take the words back. “What is that? Not ‘love’?” He tilts his head and Wilbur pretends as though the word in the sense of a term of endearment in George’s voice doesn’t make his heart stutter. Most things, in that sense, make his weak heart tremble, but Wilbur is but a weak man himself when it comes to his lover.

“It’s nothing. Forget it, please.” A sliver of desperation to cover up his mistake. He doesn’t even realize, once again, how his words seem to mirror something from a past conversation that flickers almost dangerously across George’s face.

“We know what happened the last time you told me to forget about something,” George says remorselessly, in both a forgiving and unforgiving way that makes Wilbur wince the tiniest bit. “Don’t we, dove?” He leans towards Wilbur with a curious ‘I won’t let this go’ kind of expression, repeating the word mockingly to show Wilbur that he won’t just forget it this time. Not that he did any other time.

“It’s-it’s something my parents would call each other, sometimes. I’m sorry. It just-it slipped out.” The vulnerability that comes with admittance makes Wilbur almost want to shrivel up. The underlying meaning behind ‘it slipped out,’ the idea that at Wilbur’s most honest self, he mirrors the way his parents act is, to put simply, embarrassing. Wilbur thought that he was past embarrassment at this point.

George’s eyes soften. More like, his whole expression both melts and brightens, eyes flickering with a hint of shyness that seems to bubble and bubble until he turns away, looking back to where he had been looking before. “Don’t apologize for something like that,” he coughs, bashful. The hand that’s holding Wilbur’s tightens.

(woahh george pov moment!! not sure how i feel about this one. honestly i don't know how i feel about his character as a whole in the fic but I'm trying it out a little and what better to test it out than to write bits and bobs of george's pov of their first meeting?))

“Look, George. All those sparkling lights in the sky are the twin gods’ tears blessing you, and our land.” George cannot remember his mother’s face. No amount of portraits scattered across the castle nor remarks that he and his sister carry her countenance well would ever amount to the gentleness in his mother’s expression that he fights every single day to remember and hold on to til his hands are balled into fists and shaking. He cannot remember her face, but he remembers the sweetness of her voice and her gentle touch on his head as he cranes his head up to look at the blanket of stars that seemed so unfathomable to him, only a child’s mind at the time.

Every time he looks at those same stars, he wishes he had looked longer at his mother instead. What was her expression on that night? Had she known her fate? George does not often lie, but he will admit now that to him, it is not the twin gods’ tears that stain the night on this supposed momentous day.

Frankly, he’s not sure why he said such a thing to the boy with the beautiful starstruck eyes, nor does he know why he’d asked him to stay when normally he’d force him to leave. Maybe it’s because his eyes, if George could go back in time to see his child self, must be the same as his that night. Maybe it’s because of ‘fate,’ as his mother might say if she were still-

If she were still-

Maybe he had been desperate for a distraction. Not from the celebrations, all meticulously prepared, all meant for him when all he wanted to do was count stars til his vision was too blurry to differentiate constellations from each other, and all else that was happening just beyond the closed doors to the balcony they were in. And maybe it was fate after all, though there was something in George that somehow knew that this stranger would be the only one to humor him when he asked to pretend. Pretend. As though foregoing his name and his title and abandoning his claim to this land and the stars above would make everything that happened on this terrible momentous day only a lie and not something that George will have to live with for all his life.

Well, it works. The twin gods must truly favor George, or perhaps they pity him, perhaps they are apologizing and perhaps George simply chose well. The kind and beautiful stranger told the most vivid and alluring tales and spun life with his voice both in speech and in song and George did not forget. How could he, when he knew too well what those icy blue eyes represent? But maybe, he allowed himself reprieve; he laughed harder than he’d had in years and smiled, genuinely, eyes creasing and heart both heavy and oh so light, and for that night that was more than enough.