prodigal.

              your heart is beating,  isn’t it?       you’re not in chains,  are you?

𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝  𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜  𝚊𝚗  𝚎𝚡-𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏  𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠  𝚘𝚏  𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎  ?     admittedly,   not very much.   he knows he’s outmatched,   near-constantly,    and carrying a warmth in his chest that has never wavered since that first day in the tower,   and he knows that he feels lighter now than he has in so long,     in  forever.     eugene,   he knows of love,   yes,   but,   of parental love?   the kind that’s he’s only ever    𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍  𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝,    the kind that’s supposed to be full of old,   worn-in lullabies,   the warmest hugs,   kisses atop foreheads,   of a kindness that is gentle and stubborn and unconditional,   from the very start?   from the first moment of beginning?    eugene     [    .  .  .    ]      eugene knows nothing about that kind of love.

the world has been a cold place from the beginning of remembering,    and for     𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛  𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝚎𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎  𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚣𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚝,   there was no time for grieving.   there was no time to mourn for the things he was not given freely,  as others were.   this  was  his  life,   whether he chose for it or not,   that he now has to go and  win  that kind of love,   has to claw for it,   beg for it,   bat his eyelashes and stand perfect and still and silent,  tall and brash,   just to be seen,   to be even considered for a love like that.   but it was never enough.    𝚑𝚎  𝚠𝚊𝚜  𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛  𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.    he thinks rapunzel may know something,   of a feeling like that.  

one day i’ll weep for this,   a young boy thinks to himself as he looks out at a city far from corona’s walls,   candle-lit windows of families shining like beacons in the darkened distance,  signaling homes,   kids tucked away warm and safe into their beds inside them.   one day i’ll cry,    he swears.   𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢.

now,   older and with  significantly  more aches and memories to remember,   that same boy runs a soft-gentle thumb beneath rapunzel’s eyes,   wiping away her tears.    he thinks of all of that time between them,   of all of their shared young dreaming,   but then he thinks of her years in that false-warmth,   of honey’d lies and warm exploitation,   and finds himself wishing he’d gone for the crown months,   years earlier,   as if he could only have known sooner.      ❝     i’m sorry,   rapunzel.    ❞

𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗,    𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝,    𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝.    that was the short of tonight’s game plan,   and eugene had gone over it more times than he could  keep  track  of  before arriving at the castle,  except that it was less that  simple  and a little more:   hope the faked papers granted him access into the party,   somehow  manage to stay under the radar for the hours until it ended,   find a good place to hide out while everyone finally vamooses,   and when it’s clear,   𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕  𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚝,   slip out of town unnoticed,   find a nice and cozy underground market in the next kingdom over to sell it,   and finally,    rather,     deservedly,     𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚝.

the  good  news  ?   the papers cleared!  thanking every lucky coin he’d ever stolen,  eugene gratefully strikes off   step  one   of his mental to - do list for the evening as he tugs on the too - tight collar of his suit,  sauntering into the castle’s ballroom.    𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚋𝚊𝚍  𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜  ?    there were  twice  as many guards as he’d been informed of.   sliding quick to sweep into the crowds of mingling guests,  he starts re - evaluating,   like,   sure,    he’d spotted a few wanted posters of himself among the hotspots around town,   but not enough to be recognized on sight,  right?   he hadn’t done  that  much in corona,   a few misdemeanors here,   a few stolen priceless artifacts there,      [   .  .  .   ]      oh boy.   where were those lucky coins again?

he’s watching the guards’ paths for repeated patrol routes to then very actively avoid,   when his line of sight catches,  and the whole room melts to a standstill,  band fading away into something soft,  serene.   eugene prides himself a sensible man,   but this woman      [   .  .  .   ]     was  blinding.    watching her undoes him,   a little.   she laughs at something someone near says to her,    and he’s sure he stops breathing,   watching the way she catches the light like sunshine,  folded gold on gold,   𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝚊𝚗𝚢  𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎,   any sunset.

the thief swallows hard,  very aware that he’s just spent the last   however  long   staring at a woman like he’s supposed to stare at something sensible,   like  an  island  full  of  stolen  treasure,   but something soft has unfurled in his chest now,   restless and itchy,   and suddenly all he wants to do is know her name,    to  say  it,   to know the weight of it on his tongue.   decision  made,    he begins to work his way through the room towards her,   looking to not cause a scene by stepping on some foreign dignitary’s toes,   but he finds himself glancing back to her,   her eyes,   like now that he knows she’s there,    𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚘𝚏  𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐,   and everything else is just privy,    orbiting around her.

𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎,    he writes,    in a soft messy scrawl on worn folded paper,     it has been just over a month now,    since our party has left corona and i don’t think i have  ever  wanted to return to a singular place so badly than before right this moment.     life on the road is      [   .  .  .   ]     different,    now,    than before,    when i was on the run.     knowing you are there,    and i am all the way out here,    unreachable,     makes the distance feel so far.     i wish i was with you.

i think of you,    often.      i  think  of  us,    often.     i find myself turning to see you,    next to me,    only to find you not there.     𝚒   𝚜𝚎𝚎   𝚢𝚘𝚞   𝚒𝚗   𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.     i think of what you would say to the different things we come upon in our travels    –    the changing colors on the trees,     the dew collecting on the morning fields,     the warm wind coming off of the sea in the late evenings,    and not to mention,    the many    drunken    verses of an old barmaid’s many songs. 

(who,    in fact,    when i told her how much you like to sing,    said     she’d  really  love  to  meet  you,      and blondie you have just  got  to try her sweet pies,    they’re nearly as good as atilla’s!    i saved one for you,    but i don’t think it’ll last the night,   𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚒𝚗  𝚖𝚢  𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎,   i don’t think it would have fit in the envelope anyway.     the recipe will,   though!      let me know what you think.)

when i think of the world of how you might see it,    it’s almost like you’re here,    next to me.     i find myself thinking about you as i try to fall asleep,    to spend time with you,    in my dreams.     𝚝𝚘  𝚜𝚎𝚎  𝚢𝚘𝚞.    the other night we were under the lanterns again,    do you remember?     of course you do,   i know.     but it was nice to see you,    there,    again.     with that signature golden glow of the world so   startling  bright   in your eyes.   i  miss  you  more  than  anything.

funnily enough,    though,    it’s not as lonely as i thought it would be?     these letters were a good idea,   on your part      [   .  .  .   ]     for a moment i can pretend you are here,     talking with me.    like the only thing different is that it just takes your words a little longer to reach me.      and   i’d   wait,      you know,    however long it took.     𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝  𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎  𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝  𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 

but right now,    at this very moment,   i think of all the time this letter will take to reach you.    i think of how many hands will hold it,    on it’s journey,    retracing our steps,    and where you will be when you receive it,    how you will be feeling,    what your day might have been like.     if it is late in the evening,    or early in the morning.     whichever it is,    𝚒  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚊𝚛𝚎  𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕.     i hope you are not hungry,    and that nothing worries you.    i hope the day ahead will be kind to you,    and if you have a spare few minutes here and there,     i hope you are thinking of me.  

i miss you,  sunshine.     i can’t wait to hear your voice again.

❝     is this your,    uh         [   .  .  .   ]       𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕  𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 ,     goggles?     ❞

varian’s current workspace is     ––––     to put it  not  so  generously,    it’s.     alright,    look,    the place is a  mess.    and eugene was just in here  yesterday,    and it did not look like     .   .   .     like  this.     from what he knows,    the kid was working on some new machine,    but there’s barely any open space left in the room;    books are everywhere,    all opened to various chapters of subjects  too  scientific  for his tastes,    beakers are placed precariously in what feels like  every unsafe place:    the edges of various tables,    the highest reaches of bookshelves,    even scattered among the floorboards like glaringly glowing trip hazards.     and that’s not even  mentioning  the strange smell that seems to be coming from a row of nearby test tubes that eugene does not even want to think about.  

but if the kid is ignoring it,    it should be safe,    right?      right?

❝      well just make sure    𝚒𝚝’𝚜  𝚗𝚘𝚝  𝚏𝚘𝚛  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐,    alright ?     some of us will miss you,    around here,    and by  some  of  us   i mean rapunzel,    obviously,    and maybe,    maybe,    friedborg.     ❞      there is something  too  soft  here,    like the feeling of sitting alone in the firelight,    or watching the sun set after a long day.     𝚒𝚝  𝚒𝚜  𝚊  𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐,    a feeling like that,    so of course,    then,    there begins the attempt to jest  around  it,    but it’s stilted,    falling more awkward than teasing.     eugene,   never one for goodbyes.     never one to be the one staying behind,    but there are all different kinds of  new  beginnings,    he’s learning.

❝       scream   ?      ❞        𝚑𝚎  𝚒𝚜  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎,    suddenly,    like he has been caught in the act of stealing    ––    an old fear that worms it’s way into his exhausted brain until there is just  adrenaline  alone,    just the pounding of his heart echoed in his hands,    in his chest,    in his ears,    that has been going on for far longer than rapunzel has been standing in his doorway.

❝      ha,    no   !     no screaming here,    absolutely  no  loud  sounds  have been called out from this  lovely  chamber,    because as much as  cassandra  loves to spread that kind of reputational slander,    i do  not  snore      [   .  .  .   ]       ❞      the sentence softly trails off,    because he’s looked up now,    and met her eyes,    and looks at her,    really looks,    like he’s seeing through her,    like she’s seeing through him,    like she always does,    somehow,    different than anything.     and he breaks,    ever so gently,    performance falling away,    just like that.