It was ten minutes before noon when Jean arrived at the Royal Palace the next day. The Crown Prince must have given his orders, for the guards did not search Jean. The coachman knew to take him to the establishment the prince resided in. To be precise, Jean was dropped off at the garden of the establishment. Several royal servants approached him. They gave him simple reminders and warnings as to how to carry oneself before the Crown Prince and quickly disappeared.
Jean slightly pressed the tip of his hat. The sunlight stung despite the winter winds. With the appearance of the grand garden before him, a sigh was the first thing to escape Jean’s lips. Each tree in the garden, each drop of dew dangling on the leaves, seemed to be glistening and piercing his eyes. He began walking with heavy steps. Jean was told that the palace of the Crown Prince was at the end of this garden. The first chamber on sight was the one the prince stayed in, one of the servants had told him.
After ten minutes of walking, there came a fountain with no water. At the end of the path that laid before it, indeed, there stood a regal structure. It was heavily shadowed, but the shade failed to hide its age, its façade faded from the passing of time. A wolf, the sigil of the Royal House of Joachim, was largely engraved on each of the doors. Jean turned around to look at the clock tower. It was noon. He moved on.
The Crown Prince’s chamber was immediately by the entrance. Jean grabbed the door knocker shaped in the mouth of a beast. He knocked several times. There was no response. Jean waited for a little. He then pulled on the door. It was not locked. He slowly stepped in. He smelled a nasty scent. It was not a scent he was used to, but he knew what the source was. The scent of paint. Jean lightly tapped the tip of his nose with his finger.
Sunlight was beaming on the prince’s chamber through the windows. The one under the light happened to be not a person but an easel. Below it, a tapestry was laid like a carpet. It told the founding tale of the Joachim Empire. Jean stood still where he was. He held his hat in his hand as a sign of respect to the prince.
The bed was not in the center of the chamber. It was pushed to the right wall, a shaded spot the sun touched not. Jean could see the silk blanket that had fallen off the bed. It was a mess.
“Your Highness.”
Jean did not move. He knew well that aristocrats did not enjoy someone looking down on them in bed.
“Who is it?”
A stuffy voice responded. It sounded hoarse, followed by a groan. Jean could see the prince’s porcelain hand protruding out of the bed. It looked so fair that one might mistake it for having dipped in lime powder. Jean answered calmly.
“Your Royal Highness, it is Jean Erhardt, the heir to the Duke of Erhardt.”
The servant Jean met at the entrance of the palace told him to head straight to the prince’s chamber. Did the servant not know that the Crown Prince was still in slumber? Or was he given an order to show Jean to the chamber whether the prince was sleeping or not? Whichever it was, both were quite preposterous, for it was the Crown Prince who had insisted they had tea at noon.
“Erhardt?”
The prince asked, almost moaning. He slowly lifted his arm. Finally, his upper body came into sight as it moved out of the bed. Jean could see the man’s upper garment, untied, his whole chest visible. The robe was hanging by his shoulders. Jean averted his gaze. Ah. Jean heard the voice. The Crown Prince whispered.
“Erhardt.”
The voice seemed to be of affirmation, following a realization. Soon, he rose to his feet, swaying. The red hair was a mess, spiking in every direction. His eyes were lazy, still drunk in sleep.
“We were to have tea. Right.”
The Crown Prince, Maximillian, murmured, looking into Jean’s way. He smacked his lips. He was still lost in slumber. The prince then moved to sit at the small table by the easel under the sunlight. Jean held his position, staying still. Maximillian yawned. He looked like a sleepy bird.
“Take a seat.”
The prince gestured at the chair across from him with his chin. Jean alternated between looking at the prince and the chair. The Crown Prince in an utterly inappropriate attire and a seat across from him. Jean wanted to laugh.
“I’ll have them serve you tea.”
Most of all, this was the Crown Prince’s chamber. The prince had called a guest into his most intimate place, and now, he was serving tea with his skin bare to see. This was too rude even for a Crown Prince. He was belittling Jean.
“It seems to be ready, Your Grace.”
But Jean was in no position to get mad. He simply took his seat and spoke quietly. A teapot and cups were on the table. The pot was still warm to the touch. Maximillian threw a glance at Jean’s words. He smirked.
“Oh. This tea is...”
The prince looked down at the teapot. His finger lightly tapped on his lips. His gaze slid upward. Jean felt the eyes studying him. Finally, Maximillian’s lips drew an upward curve.
“It’s the royal tea.”
Jean was stomped. All he could do was blink. Whether Maximillian was aware of Jean’s state or not, he simply continued speaking.
“I ought to ask for yours. I heard that good tea from the south had been brought into the kitchens.”
He rang the bell for a servant. Jean waited for his tea to be served, feeling quite dazed. He had to hide his face with the teacup as huffs of laughter kept escaping him. Royal tea he could not dare drink. Jean knew well that there were certain colors and ornaments that only the royal could wear, only the noble could wear, and the common people could wear. He did not know that such distinction prevailed in tea.
The damned class. Jean lightly smiled, sipping the tea that was served. He was so sick of it. Maximillian poured his own cup of tea. His one leg was crossed above the other. His garment was still not buttoned. Jean could see the man’s skin between the slipping fabric. Moving his gaze away, Jean carefully began speaking. It was to say what he had been preparing on his way here.
“Your Grace, I heard that... my late brother was honored to have been in your royal presence in the academy.”
Maximillian was looking at the garden out the window, his finger locked on the cup handle. He turned to look at Jean’s words. His face looked particularly fair. Perhaps it was the sunlight shattering on his face.
“Your late brother?” the prince asked.
His tone was mocking. Jean felt his throat drying. His mouth was parched. Did the prince know how Jean was feeling? The man smiled.
“Lord Jean Erhardt.”
The smile melted as a cube of sugar would in hot tea. Jean gulped.
“Objects of beauty do not escape my memory.”
Jean recalled what the prince had said the evening before. He remembered the way Maximillian slowly walked backward and the sentence he did not quite complete.
‘I wonder how many are there who would remember a boy from a decade ago. I wonder who would remember a boy who wasn’t even in their own household, or recognize the man he had grown to become...’
Jean felt it in his bones. What the prince just said was the very words he chose to hide last night. It was a chilling warning. Objects of beauty—the catamite and his face—do not escape my memory.
“Objects of my desire, all the more, do not escape my memory.”
Maximillian slightly slouched forward. Jean watched the man’s finger lazily trace the edge of his teacup on the table. Jean’s gaze was scrutinizing, gauging the opponent.
Soon, their eyes met. Maximillian’s gray eyes stared at Jean as if they would swallow him whole. Every time the man blinked, Jean felt like he would be engulfed by that ashen color. It was a peculiar sensation. Jean found his lips slightly parting.
The finger that traced the cup climbed up fluidly and stroked Jean’s jaw. It moved as if it were touching a fine china. It started from under the ear and drew an intimate line all the way down to the jaw. Jean felt his hair stand where the finger touched him. He licked his lips. Maximillian was looking at him, his head slightly cocked to the side. The prince continued speaking.
“Never do I forget any of them.”
The finger dropped from the tip of the chin. Jean couldn’t say anything. Maximillian clasped his hands together. He rested his chin on them, curving his lips upward. Silence reigned for a moment. Jean slowly closed and opened his eyes once. He then looked at the man straight in the eye.
“What do you,” Jean began.
His voice was low.
“...desire, Your Grace?”
Jean ended his question. His heart had been beating fast, but now, it was calm.
“What do I desire...”
Maximillian gently closed his robe. The man was briefly lost in his thoughts. He moved his gaze to the window, where the sun was beaming. His eyes were looking at the easel standing upright in the sun.