Maximillian was in a spot not far away. He was facing Jean as if he had been waiting for him, Jean’s coat still wrapped around his person. With a white fog of breath, Maximillian’s face appeared particularly faded, clouded by the pearliness of the respiration.
“The man was much too impudent, Your Grace.”
Jean spoke in a soft tone. Maximillian lifted his eyebrows. Jean stared at the shape of the elaborate brows that drew an arch.
“Did you hear the conversation?”
“Yes, Your Grace, though it was not my intention to do so.”
Was he vexed? Jean observed Maximillian frown. The moon was exceptionally bright. Maximillian faced the light, letting it illuminate his countenance rather than his back. Jean could see him clearly.
“Did you—”
The face stirred up a strange thirst in Jean, and before he could stop himself, he had already begun speaking. Jean stopped for a moment. Maximillian watched him, his face slanted upward. They stared at each other’s eyes.
“Did you paint him too, Your Grace?”
Jean barely asked. His mouth was parched, and he heard the huff of a smirk.
“Paint him, I did not.”
With an ambiguous answer, Maximillian studied Jean, and there it was again. The gaze that seemed to pierce and see through him. It was that gaze. Paint him, I did not. Jean found himself repeating the words. He knew well himself what those who were called muses did behind the doors, coming and going the chamber of the Crown Prince.
“Some mistake the task of warming the bed as that of a lover.”
Maximillian spoke calmly. Dry leaves rustled under his feet with every step he took.
“Simpletons who believe that it is an act of submission and affection when I am merely indulging myself, seeking my own bliss.”
Jean recalled the way Matt Grisham all but screamed the words mare in heat. At the same time, he recalled the way he himself mocked the prince at Cornell’s pub with his brethren, who composed an entire song to satire the prince. Jean was at a loss for words. Just like earlier, a sultry, bottled-up sensation washed over him. It was a sensation he could not elaborate upon, but it was also a familiar one.
“And those men seem to be under the impression that it is a great shame to open one’s legs and take their member, but I disagree. I might have spread my legs, but they were the ones who panted like a dog while riding me. There is the mere difference in roles, but the nature of the action remains the same, and I am not the one to reckon such an act shameful.”
Maximillian hummed his words as if he knew what thoughts Jean had in his mind. Jean found the sentiment scandalous, and yet, he found his own face reddening. He did not know whether it was shame he felt for his own mocking of the prince, or whether it was anger for the prince’s non sequitur. In the meantime, Maximillian continued speaking.
“And by no means am I fickle in choosing those to bed.”
In short, the prince was saying that he was a promiscuous man, nothing more, nothing less. Jean had to try to quell the confusion escaping him. And then, he saw it.
“However,” Maximillian had a slight smile.
The curving lips were beautiful.
“I am quite particular about one thing.”
Aye, the man was beautiful. His eyes glinted in the darkness, his hair was red, and his face shone as though all the light adored it, whether from the subtle moonlight or the banquet hall. Everything about him was beautiful.
“I am rather particular in choosing which object of beauty to grace my canvas with.”
Jean had marveled at the princely beauty from the moment he had met the man. He was flummoxed, however, as to why the awe had suddenly grown untamable at this moment. He knew better than anyone that appearance was but a hollow shell, and yet, in this present moment, why was he wholly engulfed by a reverence so potent that it stirred tears within him? Jean could not help but ask himself. He stood still, his lips sealed tight. He could see the prince’s face, shaded by his shadow. The prince was smiling his way. Somewhere, something was wafting the faint fragrance of mint.
“Hmm.”
Maximillian studied Jean, his countenance mirroring the expression he wore earlier in the coach while looking out the window. It was accompanied by Chantelle’s voice in the pub. Jean couldn’t say anything. He knew it couldn’t possibly be, yet he found himself seeing the face he had never before seen, drawn above Maximillian’s so clearly and so cruelly. That was when Jean recalled where he had felt the emotions before, the same sultry, muffled sensation. Emotions akin to shame and humiliation, but not quite the same.
I offer you my present, your liberty. May you find it to your liking.
They were what Jean had felt once long ago, alone in the room of a luxury inn. They were the very emotions that assaulted him when he saw the first letter sent to him by his new owner, whom Jean had been vigilant and doubtful about at the time, secretly detesting.
“Good.”
Maximillian blurted out abruptly. It was sudden, and Jean could not fathom the meaning behind it. The suddenness hindered Jean from responding. Maximillian continued speaking, his manner nonchalant.
“You may kiss me.”
He spoke with such naturalness as though Jean had sought permission for a kiss. The two stood close, and the prince’s chin tilted upward as if there were no other possible course of action.
Jean’s mouth gaped, and Maximillian stepped closer. You had a look seeking leave, the prince whispered, chuckling. His humming sounded like a tune, and a peculiar sensation swallowed Jean. He felt as though Maximillian had turned into a song and flown to him in a melody. From somewhere, out of nowhere, like that someone who already had once in his life.
Before he knew it, Jean found himself tilting his head to the side. The prince’s breath tickled his cheek. His smooth, pearly skin touched Jean’s face briefly before pulling back. The hair tickled the forehead, and their nose brushed against each other.
Jean, as though bewitched, lowered his head and closed his eyes. With a tender tinge, a feverish gust of breath touched his lips. Everything felt so vivid and sharp—Maximillian’s hands pulling Jean’s face, the minty scent wafting in the air, and the unbelievably cloying lips. It was a rather ridiculous phenomenon, but when Jean was with Maximillian, none of the repulsion he usually suffered found him, as though the moon hanging above the garden had cast a spell onto him.