#patreon asks

The table stretches endlessly across a divide of plates, food and ambiance. There’s a splash of melted butter across tableware, sticky fingers pulling apart fowl in tiny pieces as a younger sibling eats in small, oblivious bites. Next to them, a woman straight-backed and prim, her mouth flat but her eyes are wry, she eats quietly, barely taking any bites, not messy like the child at her side. She’s like a figure from a painting. Across from her is a figure who is seems to dwarf the chair he sits in. His beard long, his eyes hard, more wrinkles than frowns on his face. His dark eyes are glaring across the table to the other side, where a future ruler sits. Their voice is loud but charming, their hands always moving, quicksilver mouth and quicker hands. They don’t sit still, knee hopping, toe tapping, slouching and then sitting, and then half standing as they move and move and move, never stopping.

It’s hard to look away.

You stand behind that figure, who is talking and talking and moving and almost dancing in place as they command the room, even though they are yet to be crowned, their charisma outshines the King seated a few paces down from them.

They lean back every now and again to catch your eye, smiling turning just a bit wider at every caught and held eye contact. You think you see the Queen smile just the barest inch when she catches a not-to-subtle shift of glance from her stepchild. You have to keep yourself from reaching out.

Their story becomes more fantastical, more outlandish, as the dinner drags on. The King is scowling harder now, but you can’t read his anger. Is it the fantasy his child is weaving that irritates him, or is it the quick and frequent looks that the Heir sends your way after nearly every sentence? Is it because the Queen, and even Francis, know that the story being told has a different audience from the three individuals seated at the table?

The King, in your experience, has never been a patience man, though speaking those words aloud could end badly for you, your thoughts are not privy to him. His fist thunders first against the tabletop, spooking Francis only slightly as their project of stacking cups topples.

“I cannot sit here any longer listening to this.” He says, and stands to leave.

The heir has stopped moving, frowning darkly at their father as the King stands. Their fingers are still, their knee no longer jiggling, their foot no longer tapping. It’s like a song that’s been abruptly turned off.

“What?” The heir smirks in response to their father’s retreat. “Was my story too silly?”

The King doesn’t answer, leaving without a word. The Queen moves then, taking a napkin and cleaning up Francis’ face and shirt, delicate even as she does dirty work. You could offer to do the work for her; one of the servants hovering by the door seems ready to leap to her aid, but the Queen waves the both of you away. She forces you to catch her eye, and her smile then is pitying, as she excuses herself too to, with Francis’ hand in hers.

You can never tell if you can count her as an ally, she holds her cards to close to her chest, but though she does not quicken her steps, you have a feeling she may have left to quickly catch up to her husband.

The heir stands then, moving once again, and it is better seeing them like this, even if they are no longer smiling. Two hands immediately reach for you, ignoring the eyes of the servants still remaining in the room, moving closer to the table to start to clean up. Their hands slip around your waist, hugging you tight as a chin dips to dig into your shoulder blade. “I hate that he acts like a child about us.” They complain, pressing their mouth to the cloth of your robe.

“Is that where you get it from?” You can’t help but tease, even if you agree with them.