#tlol

No amount of self-procured lies that lulled the prince to sleep at night, enticing his heart to blind itself to the truth, could dissuade Oikawa’s predetermined destiny.

“She’s brilliant, Tōru, and kind; she’ll make a proper queen for you--for your kingdom.” His mother’s words were tender, cautious as she placed a lithe hand over his, “I understand that this may be difficult for you, I do, but you are the crown prince and you must put your duties before your own wants and desires.”

It was moments such as this that Oikawa wished he hadn’t met you.

Maybe then he wouldn’t have fallen for a love that could never be his.

Oikawa remained silent, his blithe eyes dulling in apathy as they focused on the grain of the wooden table. It seemed that everything in his life was treated with a formality he’d grown to loathe, even during these personal conversations, discussing his soon-to-be betrothed.

“What was her name again?” It was the first time he had spoken since he walked into this familiar yet cold room, his voice broken and low.

Seated at the head of the table, the king steepled his fingers, leaning forward, “Isadas. Her name is Isadas, so make it a damn priority to remember it.”

When Oikawa was younger, he used to flinch at the sharp tone of his father, bracing for the inevitable lashing of words. But now, the prince had grown numb to its cruelty, meeting his father with an impassive stare--empty and withdrawn. 

Beside him, the queen’s lips pressed into a distasteful line, hissing her husband’s name in warning. Oikawa heard the unmistakable sound of his mother’s nails scratching along the oak in fury, her fingers retreating to form a fist on the table while her other hand held tightly to her son.

The prince wanted to laugh.

He wanted to snicker and cackle and tear this room apart bit by bit. He wanted to set this palace alight and watch it burn.

What would they do then?

Confine him to chains and sentence him to a public beheading?

Let them.

Let them try.

And those same people, those same ignorant fools who whisper of you behind secretive hands, calling you ‘cursed’, would finally understand what a true curse is.

Padding along the servant’s hall, you held the candle in front of you by its holder, illuminating the dark pathway to Oikawa’s chambers. Your meeting with Voulgaris had ceded hours ago--from what you garnered, you believed you did well--but when you tried to find the prince afterwards, you were told by a passing maid that he was speaking with his mother and father.

You waited then, spending your time watching Iwaizumi train with Sofos, before finding yourself in front of the prince’s chambers, asking the blatantly new guard that roamed this hallway if Oikawa had returned. And when the man shook his head, you walked back to your own rooms, patiently letting the time trickle past until the sun fled the sky and the moon followed its pursuit.

Once you reached the small hidden door at the end of the servant’s hall, you knocked gently in consideration in case Oikawa wasn’t in a decent state. 

It’s happened more than you would like to admit--to the point where you started believing he was doing it on purpose when you would walk in on him near bare of any clothing before you whirled on a heel, spewing apologies.

When no one answered from the other side, you tapped your knuckles to the wood once more, calling out his name. There was no response. Slowly, you pushed the door open, ducking beneath the cramped threshold before entering Oikawa’s chambers.

“Tōru?” You repeated, peering around through his rooms until you recognized the faint sound of labored breaths coming from somewhere on the other side of his chambers. Crossing the room to the bathing chamber located inside of his bedroom, you avoided the wooden planks that often creaked when stepped upon, soundlessly moving over antique rugs and furs.

You lifted your hand to knock on this door when you heard a shaky inhale come from Oikawa within, and your arm faltered, instead choosing to voice your arrival, “Tōru, are you alright?” Your ear was pressed against the door, all of your weight leaning on the wood when you folded your arms across your chest.

The prince said nothing, instead the sound of shifting clothing was his simple reply.

Exhaling unsurely, you wrapped your fingers around the metal knob, “I’m gonna come in, okay?” Once again, Oikawa offered no answer, leading you to turn the knob and allow the door to open on oil-slicked hinges.

Slouched on the pristine white tiles, Oikawa hunched over his chamber pot, his chest heaving in uneven breaths as weary umber eyes slid to you; a sheen of sweat covered his body from what you could see of his unbuttoned tunic.

“Tōru.” His name was weak on your lips as you slid to your knees at his side, holding his pale face between your hands, brushing his hair aside with your fingers and feeling for a fever with the back of your hand against his slick forehead.

Sitting here with you like this reminded him of when you rubbed his back while he retched in his mother’s favorite roses after the beheading of that woman. But that memory in and of itself only brought about another that he would choose to forget if he could; it brought forth the memory of his father, gritting under his breath for Oikawa to ‘watch’ as the woman’s head was severed from her body, the king’s hand gripping his arm painfully. To anyone below the platform, it would’ve only been seen as the king supporting his sole son, too young for such a burden as being an heir to a kingdom, but old enough to understand brutality.

The resurgence of the past caused Oikawa to hurl into the chamber pot as he had done many times before you arrived to offer him your help.

Watching you from the floor, lips parted as his body trembled, Oikawa wished he had the strength to push your wrist away while you reached for a cloth and ran it along his face, tracing the outer edges of his mouth with such care and attentiveness. Even if he had the will to ask you to leave, to stop giving him reasons that validated his affections toward you, he wouldn’t.

Oikawa noticed the movement of your brows as they lowered in worry before you spoke, “What happened?”

The prince breathed in as if to speak, but it was unsteady. His jaw clenched shut, nostrils flaring delicately when his throat began to constrict.

You nodded tentatively, understanding that Oikawa likely didn’t want to talk about it, “Okay, okay, did you want me to draw you a bath, or--or I can leave if you need some space, I just need--”

“No.”

Near instantaneously, your limbs became rigid, the damp cloth slipping from your hands as you saw Oikawa’s eyes widen in terror once he realized what he had done. In the prince’s state of desperation and haste, he’d accidentally used his compulsion on you.

The spell released immediately, the nerves in your body writhing to move as you fell forward, hands bracing on the chilled tiles. Oikawa was grasping at you, pulling you to his aching body while he kept repeating your name like a prayer he refused to forget, apologizing over and over and over until his words melded to broken sobs that he pled against your skin. His quivering hands held you to him; one at the nape of your neck, and the other around your waist while you clung to the prince.

He would never forgive himself for this, for using his compulsion on you. Be it an accident or not, he should’ve kept it under a tighter leash. He should’ve told you to leave.

And yet, Oikawa found himself pressing you closer, letting his head fall to the crook of your neck where the junction met with the shoulder, “Please, don’t go...don’t go.”

You stayed that night with the prince, sitting against the wall of his bathing chambers while he rested his head upon your lap, too weak to bathe himself and too indifferent to care where he laid, so long as you remained with him. Oikawa slept peacefully, your fingers gently combing through the curls of his hair, following the shape of the horns that adorned his head before stopping at their sharpened points.

His horns were beautiful, a ferine type of elegance that lured its beholders to look, to prick the pad of your finger along their tapered ends to see if beauty truly is pain.

Beneath you, Oikawa shifted slightly, adjusting his position. Even in his slumber, the prince could feel where you traced along him, along his horns. It was a strange sensation, a dull one the farther along you traveled to the ends, and more distinctly the closer you trailed to the base of the keratin structure. He remembered when you had asked him many years before whether he could feel if someone touched his horns or not; it had been a bit difficult to explain, and when he compared them to the horn structure of a bull’s, you had merely laughed. But now, you mapped them with your touch as if entranced.

You beheld them as if they weren’t a representation of all that is sinister, all that is wicked and evil.

If only you knew--if only he could tell you.

Sworn by the cruel mistakes of his elders, however, the prince was forbidden.

In the early morning, when the rooster’s gave their first crows, you slipped away from Oikawa, setting a plush towel beneath his head and neck to ensure he wouldn’t wake. You couldn’t risk the possibility of being found with the prince like this--not when the rules forbade it.

The rest of your day followed suit, Oikawa offering you tired smiles in class when you glanced at him as your professor droned on. Iwaizumi had noticed his friend’s oddly fatigued composure, asking if you knew what plagued the prince. You answered truthfully, you didn’t know because Oikawa had seemed disinclined to talk about the matter, and you were careful to understand the boundary. The olive-eyed boy had sniffed in vexation--a usual habit of Iwaizumi’s when something nitpicked at his thoughts for proper answers that you were unable to give.

You had been sitting in your rooms later that evening, your pen scratching along the parchment as you took notes from the spread textbook in front of you, when one of the queen’s personal servants knocked at your door. With her hands folded in front of her, the woman had relayed the queen’s request to meet with you in the drawing room and you had followed at the heels of the servant, asking if she knew what the queen may have wanted.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. Her Majesty did not include details, only for me to retrieve you,” said the servant woman stiffly, as if she had repeated this same phrase to others before and it became routine. You hummed then, walking with her silently until the two of you reached the drawing room where two guards surveyed the entrance, one of them opening a door for you and allowing you in.

The queen sat inside, ankles crossed politely as she sipped the jasmine tea from her porcelain cup, “My dear,” she called to you, patting the arm of the empty chair beside her, “come sit with me.”

Obligingly, you settled yourself in the winged armchair, your fingers wrapping around the matching tea cup a servant handed to you, the thin man bowing before retreating from the drawing room entirely. The porcelain was warm--warm enough to prickle the nerves of your fingertips and lead you to rest the foot of the cup upon your clothed thigh.

“You’re probably curious as to why I called you here,” the queen chuckled almost lightheartedly, but her gaze remained void of ease as it caught every slight roll of your shoulders, your thumb tapping anxiously on the lip of the tea cup. “There’s no need to fret, darling, but this conversation was bound to occur at some point or another. I tried to put it off--truly, I did--and now I fear it has only made the situation more damning.”

A muscle in your jaw tightened, roiling tension tugging at your throat and stomach, “Your Majesty?” The question was one of concern, a request to repeat her words because you were sure you hadn’t heard the queen correctly.

The older woman’s lips pressed together, nearly trembling; a great contrast to the wondrous gown and crown that she wore on her body. Cowardice decorated by jewels and stitching of courage.

Regarding you now, no more the crying babe she had helped to deliver, no more the child who chased after leaping frogs by the river bed, no more the young lady who proved herself against the odds with a mouth fouler than a sailor--well, the queen thought with a bitter smile, maybe that still did remain to be true--you had grown into a beautiful woman.

One that had stolen the heart of her beloved son.

“I…” The queen faltered in her words. She adored you as she did her own daughter, even helping your mother raise you at times.

It was moments such as this that the queen wished love could never be an agonizing thing.

“My son--he’s set to marry a woman from across the seas, a princess of another land.” She paused, raising her cup with quivering hands to set on the table that sat between the two chairs, “I’m also aware of his affections for you which will prove to be an issue if not taken care of immediately.”

You inhaled through your nose, lips parting to speak before closing altogether when you looked upon the queen’s expression: regret, sorrow, forlorn.

“Break his heart, dear, for the better of this kingdom; because he will love you like a flame loves a wick, and he would rather watch himself burn than ever dain to hurt you.” Rising, the queen stepped toward you and lowered a hand to cup your cheek tenderly, placing a solemn kiss on the crown of your head, “Break his heart.”

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