“Ah, you have come.”
Jean had to skip lunch and rush his way to the Royal Palace. Yet, the man himself seemed as nonchalant and unperturbed as ever. The prince was in his usual demeanor—untidy clothes, messy hair, and drowsy eyes. And just as usual, the spot under the sunlight was yielded to the easel while he reserved only the leftover warmth to himself. There was a servant next to the prince, and Jean could not be certain whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that someone was with them. He sighed.
“...I was told that you found my tailor unsatisfactory, Your Grace.”
“Oh, my. Did I say that?”
He feigned innocence. Jean could only bow.
“Has anything caused you discomfort, Your Grace?”
“Come closer, then we’ll talk.”
His excellence at disregarding people was surely refined. Jean approached Maximillian. He tried not to, but Jean couldn’t stop himself from being reminded of yesterday’s affair. Jean kept flinching. He wouldn’t start touching himself again, would he? Jean was vigilant as he stood next to Maximillian. Then, Maximillian reached out his hand. He grabbed Jean’s jaw. Again? Jean swore inwardly as he lowered his body without any complaint.
“Did you have a good dream?”
Maximillian asked, dragging Jean’s face before his own. Jean flinched, blinking. He stole a glance at the servant standing by the door. He wouldn’t act as he did yesterday, not when there is someone watching, would he? Jean asked himself. Jean’s head ached just from thinking about how he would have to deal with the rumors. He forced himself to return the gaze. Their eyes met soon. Maximillian smirked.
“Your face is glowing.”
“Ah...”
“Or, perchance, you found the honey I fed you yesterday quite to your liking.”
Jean snapped his mouth shut. Maximillian whispered as if the words were only meant for Jean’s ears. However, Jean now knew that the prince was very much capable of saying his thoughts out loud. And before the prince did, Jean made the move first, whispering just as softly.
“There are... eyes watching, Your Grace.”
“Oh, my.”
Maximillian clicked his tongue as if they were having a conversation about someone else, not their own selves. Jean nearly bit his lip. Maximillian, watching that face, asked promptly. He took a quick glance at the servant standing far in the corner.
“What shall I do about it? Shall I pluck out his eyeballs?”
Jean was unable to stop himself from biting his lip this time. Jean turned his gaze away. And Maximillian patted Jean’s cheek. The prince inquired again, lowering his voice, his tone more intimate.
“Did you mean for me to kill him?”
His tone was so serene that Jean’s hair stood on end. Jean looked at the prince. He let go of his lip and responded.
“...No, Your Grace.”
Their eyes met again. Maximillian’s pupils were in slits, akin to those of a snake. He smiled, his eyes forming arches.
“That’s right. Look into my eyes.”
Maximillian whispered. Jean didn’t avoid the gaze, but it was Maximillian who looked away this time.
“Leave us,” he told the servant. The satisfaction was thick in his voice.
As soon as the chamber door closed with a thud, the prince let go of Jean’s face. Jean felt numb in the jaw. Maximillian was briefly silent. Jean straightened his body.
“The tailor—,” Jean began.
“The measuring tape is on the bed. I have told the man earlier to leave his tools behind.”
Maximillian did not give Jean time to finish his sentence. He gestured at the bed with his chin. Then, the prince rose. He reached out his arms to his sides. Jean was bewildered momentarily. He failed to move right away, which caused the prince’s eyes to narrow.
“I believe I am not quite skilled for the task—”
“Even a simpleton possesses the wit to take measurements, Lord Jean Erhardt.”
Maximillian said, maintaining his arms stretched out. Jean turned around and approached the bed, biting his lip. Indeed, there lay the tools that the tailor had left. Jean picked up the measuring tape and went back to Maximillian. The prince had a shameless look on his face, one that of nonchalance. Jean swallowed his sigh and began measuring from the royal’s left arm. Maximillian said nothing more.
“A moment, Your Grace.”
It was when Jean was measuring the prince’s shoulders. Jean carefully pulled the man. The numbers on the tape were worn out and faded. The chamber itself was dim too. They were also standing in a shaded spot. Jean had difficulty seeing the numbers. He pulled the prince toward the easel. Maximillian lifted his brows but said nothing as he followed Jean’s tug. Sunlight poured on the prince’s nape. The neck was thin, frail.
It would snap upon a twist, Jean thought, tutting inwardly. He lamented that the man did not train his body, a duty as the Crown Prince. Jean recalled the tales saying that the prince was a man unworthy of wariness. And so it seems, thought Jean. The neck was so thin and pale that it lacked the richness of life. Rather, what was more prominent was the shadow of the royal family heading toward its end.
“Jean?”
In a glance, it seemed that the Crown Prince was cradling the waning realm of Joachim in that brittle vessel of his.
“Yes, my Lord Prince,” Jean responded a moment late. A seed of sudden, undeserved sympathy was on the brink of taking root in Jean.
“Your hand stopped. Is your mind occupied?”
“...Forgive me, Your Grace, but I ask for a moment.”
Was it the confoundment in Jean’s tone? Maximillian gave a lighthearted laugh. It sounded like he was coughing. Jean got back to his senses. He measured the man’s back, shoulders, and arms. Next was the waist.
Jean stalled briefly. He then wrapped his arms as if he were embracing the man before him. Jean made an effort to refrain his person from touching the prince’s. But as he tugged at the tape, Maximillian let himself be pulled along, slightly stepping back. At that moment, Jean appeared to draw the prince into an embrace. It must have been the prince’s perfume, for soon, a cool scent pricked Jean’s nose. It was mint.
And it must have been Jean’s acquaintance with the scent that caused his heart to be in odd turbulence, disturbed like the surface of a lake after a stone had been thrown in. It was a peculiar sensation. Before he knew it, Jean could only bite his lip. That was when it came.
“Lord Jean.”
Maximillian called him and muttered.
“Join me for lunch.”
It was not an offer. It was an order. Jean repeated in his head the figures he had just seen on the measuring tape. He was about to mark it on a piece of paper when Maximillian turned to face him. Jean could only blink in that moment.
The rays of sunlight bent as they streamed through the window. And as they did, they shimmered like diamond particles adrift in the ether. Beneath the glow, the crimson locks alternately deepened and brightened. The eyelashes fought the radiance of the sun, veiling the eyes. The nose drew a soft line. Rosy hues graced the cheeks, colored by the chill that had penetrated and settled within the chamber. It resembled a canvas, painted by the very hand of the Creator. And an ever so slight smile was drawn in that face blessed by the sun.
“Tell the servant to set the table here.”
He was so beautiful that it was repulsive.