“Why have you come, Your Grace?”
No answer was made to Jean’s question. The skin in his grip felt cold to the touch. Jean, with much challenge, managed to curl one end of his lips into a sneer.
“Are you going to tell me again that all you did was wonder when I would find you?”
If there was anyone who ought to tremble, it ought to be the man. Yet, it was Jean’s hand upon the man that trembled. The man still did not speak, and Jean yelled.
“Answer me!”
His voice sounded so rough that it seemed like a stranger’s even to his own ears. It resembled more the cry of a beast than the voice of a man. Jean could not fathom why he was making such a sound. Everything was in the past, and everything had been a simple occurrence, the twisted, convoluted consequence of his misunderstanding and fantasy. There was no reason for Jean to go this far. It would have sufficed for him to simply ignore what had happened and let go. Simply ignore and let go...
Jean was thinking to himself when he heard a laugh, perhaps a sigh, come under him. The mask shook a little, and the man brought his hand to hold onto the tip of the disguise. As the mask was tilted slightly to the side, the pale skin underneath revealed itself.
“It was you who had sent me an invitation.”
The man said, showing his right eye partially. He was not wrong, but neither was he truly right. Jean growled in response, offering his counterargument.
“’Twas merely a formality, a sign of courtesy. You know it better than anyone.”
“And? Are you reprimanding a guest for honoring that formality?”
The prince was panting slightly as well—a consequence likely of the chase. His voice, ordinarily composed, now quivered ever so subtly, unlike his usual calm demeanor. Jean did not relax his grip on the prince.
“You must have been greatly curious about my betrothal, Your Grace.”
Jean could not fathom the anger surging inside him. Wrath. Betrayal so great that it brought him disgrace. Such emotions were what had taken hold of Jean since he had been dismissed from Maximillian’s chamber. Emotions that could not possibly be explained with reason.
“You speak as though I am not allowed to be curious about it. Perchance, you hoped for my absence.”
The words Maximillian said to Jean may have been cold, yet they rang true. It was Jean’s own misunderstanding. That was all. And thus, even the opportunity for Jean to lament the termination of their service agreement was denied to him. If the prince indeed proved to be the Little Pearl, Jean would claim him; otherwise, he would abandon him. Was this not his intention when he took the man in his arms?
“Yes—”
It had been his intention all this time...
“—you should not have come.”
A drop of water fell onto the prince’s right eye. He blinked as Jean looked at him through blurry vision. Jean couldn’t bring himself to speak further. Instead, he simply seized Maximillian and observed a look of surprise passed across those ashen gray eyes. There was nothing he could say to the prince.
“At the very least, you should not have shown yourself to me!”
All Jean could do was roar while clutching onto the man’s shoulders. Jean bit his lip. His heart pained as if someone were gripping and releasing it, over and over. All the while, the mask had been slowly descending from the face, like a fortress crumbling down. A face as fair as a polished pearl was revealed. The robe that had been concealing the hair had slipped down, and it had been long since the red locks had been visible.
“Maximillian,” Jean moaned his name, then breathed the following words, “Damn you...”
If he proved to be the Little Pearl, claim him; if not, abandon him… Aye, that had been Jean’s initial intention. The prince surpassed even the most brazen harlots of the streets in his lechery, not to mention lacking the noble demeanor and grace expected of royalty. In the forefront, he eloquently spoke of art, yet behind the scenes, he would seize upon the weaknesses of others, strangling them with their own weaknesses. He did present some unexpected side to him, but those moments alone did not endow him with excellency.
“Maximin.”
And yet, the prince was the most beautiful specimen Jean had ever had in his entire life.
“Maximin...”
Jean knew why it had been so easy for him to have believed that the prince was the Little Pearl. It was simply because he did not want to face the truth. He wished it, so he believed it. Otherwise, he could not accept the reality—otherwise, he could not accept the truth that he had fallen in love with the prince. The very Crown Prince that mocked him in the garden. The very man who exploited Jean, commanding him to undress himself and lie on the bed.
“I ought not to have lied on your bed from the beginning.”
Jean wished him to be, for then, the feelings he harbored would be justified.
“From the beginning.”
‘Joachim, Maximillian.’
From the moment he had heard the prince’s name roll off a tongue, Jean thought it was beautiful. The graceful movement of his hand, his elegant voice, the sound of his laughter that was neither too light nor awkward—to Jean, everything about Maximillian seemed to teem with grace—and words unfit for a revolutionist began to dominate Jean’s thoughts: he had been marked as different from birth. That was simply how it seemed.
“Did you enjoy trifling with a man of a lowly birth, Your Grace?”
“...”
“Indeed, you must have. Oh, how amusing it must have been to witness a man lost in his own anticipations, seething with frustration at his own mind, only to come running after you like this.”
Jean’s voice was brimming with anger, and he could no longer discern the target of his wrath. He resented the prince for stirring back the turbulence inside him, which he had barely calmed. And Jean feared the man for his power to do so. He despised himself for relentlessly pursuing the prince, as if he couldn’t bear to let him slip away. He had been turned into that man in the fable, the fool who heeded the voice, even though he knew it to be the devil’s whisper.
“...Jean.”
Yet, at the same time, the briefest of elation would find him.
“Perchance, be not so angered with me.”
The elation that he saw the prince again, albeit for the briefest of moments.
“For it was truly not my intention to appear before you.”
The elation that the prince was speaking to him, reacting to him. The elation that the man was still alive at this moment came as a blessing to Jean, consuming him in the sheer joy of it all. Jean sensed the deep-seated resentment and anger within him dissolve, carrying away the curses and condemnation it had fostered. His grasp on reason had been fragile, rooted in guilt and duty toward Ariel, sustained by fleeting vengeance and a wavering determination to walk away. Now, in this moment, even this precarious foundation of his reason was crumbling.
The devil whispered.
“Out of the blue, I missed you.”
The words were truly shameless. However, Jean imbibed the words as though he was drinking from a poisoned goblet. Ecstasy had found him—the very ecstasy that would damn him to hell. Jean kissed the lips that were murmuring. The lips he had not savored for some time tasted like the fruit of temptation plucked from the Garden of Eden.