Archive of Our Own

Charles’ hands shook for the entirety of their first wedding.

Somehow, this image was the one that always came back to Max as he closed his eyes, in the depths of war, blood streaming down his sword and cheek: how blinding Charles had looked in white. How his lashes had fluttered underneath his saffron’s veil. How his pink lips had curled before opening, like a rose blooming, to bind himself to him. How Max’s heart had stopped a hundred times, and how he now regrets not having died right at this moment, for he was bound never to be this happy again.

The Isle of Monaco welcomes him back in a whisper. Quiet as moonlight, explosive visions of green.

First, with just a silhouette, one he had looked at until it disappeared when he left, a sharp cut of black stone on a white sky. Then, in a breeze, one that led him to it even as his arms fail to hold the oars anymore.

At last, in a scent, one that he had almost forgotten.

Everything moves slowly, as if in a dream; it repeats itself, lingers, so far and yet so close to what the past ten years have felt like.

He thinks he passes out at some point. A bird landing on his head, maybe looking for some carcasses to feast on, jolts him painfully awake in a storm of feathers and noise—and the retreating, bashful claws make him want to snarl: Not today. Today, again, he lives. Today, again, he has a body.

The bird flies away toward the forest, where Max no longer sees a green mass of indistinguishable trees but branches and leaves. Close, close, so close.

Pitching him gently, his boat stops moving underneath him when it comes too close to the sand. An old friend, whose journey is over. A brown leaf falls on the wet wood, and Max crushes it under his heel.

With great effort, Max crawls out of his shell of a boat, unbroken despite it all; grooves tracing the pattern of a lifetime. The first feeling of solid earth under his feet in months is so jarring that his head feels light, and he falls on his knees.

The beach spreading out in front of him is empty. Endless sand and small rocks that his knees sink into painfully. His weak legs are not able to help him escape the sea yet, the foam licking at his tender skin like his cats did, once upon a time. It's almost reassuring to feel his fingers getting wrinkled by the water.

Above him, the blue sky mocks him. It has been gray, it has been stormy, it has been every shade of black and white during his journey, but it has never been the pure blue that welcomes him back. Now, it crushes him with a cerulean so bright that the soft yellow of the sand looks white. 

Max closes his eyes. He sees Charles. He smells home.

Yet, something heavy chokes him—as if the dream is fading away and he knows the end won’t be to his liking. Even behind his eyelid, he’s blinded.

He does not know how long he stays kneeling. Long enough that the sea rises to his waist and his boat strays away, but when he painfully gets up, every one of his joints crying out, it’s almost as if Poseidon himself tries to drag him back in with its treacherous sea. Slowing him down, water lapping at his bare legs—those nearly unrecognizable from those who left more than a decade ago. Scarred, browned, broken. Still, they brought him home. Brought him back to Charles.

Only a few steps, and his whole body is aching from nostalgia and months at sea, while Max’s eyes start focusing on something other than the trees and the water.

A fisherman entangled in his fish net is struggling, his boat is run aground behind him, and by the time Max reaches him, he can see how beaten up it is. Max hasn’t seen a Monegasque since he had held the dying body of the last of his men, maybe in the sea, maybe on an isle. He cannot remember. What he remembers is the strong hand and the glassy eyes that held his, and what he had promised.

Before he can think about it, Max is taking the nets back from the hands of the fisherman, callused and warm—alive—and drags the heavy mass from the sea on the caked-up sand. All his limbs ache, and he is still dizzy, yet the feeling of the rough nets digging into his hands into white lines is the first real feeling he has had in a long, long time. 

The fisherman is an old man who was surely working when Max left, but he doesn’t recognize him. Still, without hesitating, he gives Max the last of his drinking water and a stale piece of bread. If he notices Max’s tears, he doesn’t comment on them.

When the water and bread are done, Max is left to watch the man finish his routine; he’s too tired to try to help him with it, so he doesn’t offer, and the man doesn’t ask.

Still, he can’t help but wonder. “Aren’t you too old to work alone?”

“Oh, my good lord,” The fisherman says, sighing. Max hasn’t been a lord in a long time. It tugs something at his heart, something he thought he had lost somewhere in the deep sea, now lying with Scylla. “Why am I fishing is the reason I am alone. My boys no longer want to help their old father, you see, for they might have a better future waiting for them.”

“And what might be so great that keeps sons away? What are you preparing for?”

The fisherman laughs. Feeling chastised, Max looks back at the skilled, callous hands of the man knotting the nets away; eroded by the sea, creased like the cliff on the shore. The sun burns his arms, and maybe it’s because Max passed out or hallucinated when the fisherman’s answer came:

“My good lord. I am preparing for King Charles’ wedding, of course.”

"You have been far away from home for a long time."

A head is a terribly heavy thing, Max has come to realize. He tries to lift his and almost fails at the task. The reward of succeeding isn't even worth it; Aphrodite had come many times to see him, and none of them were great ones.

"And whose fault is it?" Max spits out, with the last of his strength. Aphrodite scoffs.

"Men, of course."

"Of course. Never the Gods."

"I understand your anger, young man," Aphrodite says, even though she didn't. Even though her tantrum had broken so many lives, so many kingdoms, the world now feels smaller.

A surge of anger pushes Max into standing up, getting up on his feet with the help of the tree behind him. He will not kneel in front of any Olympus Gods anymore.

"Why are you here?" He asks, finally. "What do you want?"

Max has met many Gods in his lifetime. Too many, if you were to ask him. It had sparked a lot of jealousy once upon a time, and when he was but a young boy, he had dreamed of this life: of being a hero. The confident and the champion of the most powerful beings in existence. But Gods are fickle, and their presence only means that they need something—usually, to no one's benefit but theirs.

Max doesn't have much to give anymore. No one likes a liability waiting to blow in their face; no one likes a man with nothing to lose. Gods especially don't. In a sense, he should be thankful that Aphrodite has decided to show up instead of teaming up with Poseidon and finishing the task he has set his mind to; with Aphrodite's will and Poseidon's sea, the sight of his land would have only kept him company at the bottom of the sea.

Around them, the trees block all light from shining on them, but Aphrodite does not need it. She glows like a small sun on her own—a destructive one.

“I came with an offer. A cloak, no one would recognize you under,” Aphrodite whispers, her voice like the breeze running through the leaves. “What do you say?”

Nothing. "What would you get from this?" Max asks instead, indulging her with a hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Entertainment," she pouts, "It has been gloomy even in Olympus for a while."

Max cannot imagine why. There was surely no shortage of Ambrosia and bets with the silly human wars they caused.

A cloak, no one would recognize you under. The irony and timing of this gift don't escape Max. While he couldn't escape the Gods' eyes, there would have been many instances he would have loved to escape the men's. Many men, but not the one waiting for him on this island. So close, so close, so close.

Maybe she knows something he doesn't.

The question burns Max's lips, so he releases it before it consumes him all:

“Would you be so cruel as to play with your own child’s sanity?”

Aphrodite shrugs; her dark curly hair cascading down her shoulder. She is the goddess of love, the most beautiful woman on earth, and she is Charles’ mother. It’s for that last fact that Max hasn’t drawn out his sword and slashed her body open yet.

From her, Charles has inherited all the beauty and only some of her casual cruelty. Only the charming part, anyway.

But his face has none of her features. When Max stares at Aphrodite, it's not Charles' soft smiles that shine, not even his clear, intimidating eyes. No, when Max looks at Charles' mother, he can only see the entity that tore them apart and left her child without any care in the world.

“Yes, it will also let me know if you are still good enough to be his husband. 10 years is a long time,” she says, almost absentmindedly. Her perfect nails don't need so much investigation on her part.

“Not for hearts.”

“For yours, maybe. But is it the same one that left him?”

“It yearns for him all the same.”

“But don’t you want to know,” Aphrodite whispers, suddenly on his shoulder, her lips brushing his ear, “how does your husband’s heart feel?”

“I have lied enough. I—” While backing up, Max’s back hit the tree that helped him get up, and the rough bark under his skin made him stop. A decade ago, Max wouldn’t have taken the cloak. He wouldn’t have even considered it, would have laughed at Aphrodite’s face to dare even make him consider it.

Max had lived a hundred lives since then. He had killed more than he thought he could, had slept in places people died in, he had stolen, lied, murdered; and he would do it all over again because he did it to come back for one person. He did it because he had the chance of dying, and he refused to do so before holding his husband one last time. He did it because he was given the choice, and he realized how much he wanted to live.

Could Charles love a person like that?

Could anyone?

“Give me the cloak.”

Aphrodite’s delighted laughter echoes in the forest, long after she disappears.

The courtyard is full. It had been too, when Max left—full of men that didn’t come back, whose bodies were rotting away from their land, in Troy or at the bottom of the sea. If Max looked over the crowd too quickly, he could almost pretend that those men were also going to war.

Unfortunately, they are here today to marry his husband.

With their tailored clothes and painted faces, they all address Charles with a patronizing air and as ‘son of Hervé’. Never ‘husband of Max’. As if Max’s presence, even in spirit, would ruin the party; as if erasing his name would make Charles’ sour expression go away. 

It’s reassuring, if anything, to see how visibly dreadful the experience is to Charles. Even if Max hadn't shared his bed for so many years, the shape of his body must still be indented in the mattress, and he would know Charles wishes nothing more than to go back to his room. To have a nap, perhaps, because even from the other side of the courtyard, between two plants that he brought back long ago from one of his travels, Max can see Charles' dark circles—somehow never dark, but white—and unkept stubble.

It doesn't tarnish his beauty in the slightest.

When Charles entered through the high, rounded arches earlier, the world had become lighter. Black robes draping over his body like ivy on old statues, sandals clacking on the stone, even if he didn't wear his diadem, everyone would know Charles is the most important person on the island. In his steps, in his gaze, in the proud way he holds his head—barely a mortal, fully a royal. In grief and in life.

Like a starved man, Max hasn't looked at anyone else since Charles came in, eating up every one of his moves, every one of his expressions, to the point of intoxication. A buffet of Charles; of his elegant neck, of his disheveled hair, of his mouth, teeth, tongue, nose, ears, thighs, arms, back, fingers, hands, wrists.

He knows all of this, knows it so well except—

It's been ten years.

His wife is still the most beautiful man in the world.

While Charles' cousin has been the one throwing him into a war for her beauty, Max couldn't have been more relieved when he heard the Gods decided to mess with another beautiful mortal instead of the semi-one sleeping next to him.

Crafted by the most skillful artist in the world, only for Max to hold. A thousand ships couldn't have been enough even to defend the shadow of the slope of his nose.

Even across the courtyard, even as he lines up to greet his husband like a stranger, Max cannot pretend not to be bewitched.

On his throne, Charles has been observing the crowd with a disinterest bordering on rudeness. Acknowledging his suitors seems to be as interesting as getting his teeth pulled, and an impatient sigh from his pretty pout punctuates the air if they dare to linger too much.

A long time ago, Max had been sitting next to Charles on his twin seat. They were holding hands under the table, their—sometimes—naked thighs brushing against each other, stealing looks to deliver a thousand messages. Feeding each other's grapes, stealing a kiss. Playing like children, because they were.

Today, only when it's his turn, Max kneels in front of Charles and stares at the hand that is handed to him: limp and bored. Max remembers Charles’ expression for when people lucky enough to kiss his hands would make a sloppy job out of it—Charles’ hand glistening from drool, which he would discreetly swipe on Max’s skin to tease him. Remembers how they would make fun of these people afterward and how, secretly, Max had wanted to slash their throats open.

With great humility, Max only dares to put two fingers under Charles’ palm to raise it to his lips. Not even a kiss, simply a brush.

The taste of something forbidden tingles his lips like a poisoned berry. Max cannot bring himself to meet his husband's eyes and keep his head stubbornly down, even as he gets up to bow once more.

A flash of a pale ankle wrapped in leather straps makes him break in cold sweat, and he has to leave hurriedly before doing something he isn't ready for yet.

On his way out, the man behind him snorts as he runs into him and their shoulders collide, making Max slow down his pace to turn around and look at the pretentious stride of a man who hasn't yet done anything in life.

In front of Charles—beautiful, majestic, looking at his nails, Charles—, the young man doesn't kneel.

Max's blood turns cold.

Before he could even think about it, his sheathed sword hit the knees of the young man, swift and powerful, making him fall on his knees with a surprised cry. For a floating second, both Max and the kneeling man are stunned, but Max steels himself quickly and stares down at the young noble, even though the hood and cloak hide his blazing stare.

“Kneel in front of His Highness.”

An order, with no room for suggestions.

Not looking a day over twenty, the young man is dazed at their feet, looking between Max, whom he probably never even noticed in the first place, and Charles. Unfortunately for him, Charles looks more amused than offended on his behalf. A poorly hidden smile under his fingers let the rest of the courtyard know that the burst of laughter isn't going to get punished—and a few of the young noble's friends seem to be already ribbing him from afar, calling what seems to be his name and crumbling in laughter at his lost look.

"Scram," Charles orders suddenly, with a flick of the hand that vacates the young noble by two burly guards. There's only Max left. He has stood in front of royals, in front of monsters, in front of Gods; nothing has left him more frozen than to stand in front of his husband. Having his full attention is dizzying, even with the cloak's protection. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” Max answers without missing a beat.

Charles frowns. Behind him, Andrea, his advisor, whispers furiously at a maid Max does not recognize. “I do not appreciate being mocked.”

“I have no wish to mock you, Your Highness. I fear—I lost my name to the war.”

More and more agitated, Charles leans in as if to get a better look at his face, but Max doesn't budge, knowing Aphrodite's spell won't let him get a glimpse.

Feeling something amiss without being able to pinpoint it, Charles' voice doesn't tremble but rise in the middle of the whispers of the rest of the court. “The war? Which one?”

“Troy, Your Highness.”

“Troy." The city name echoes in the courtyard from Charles' mouth like a cracking whip. Even the whispers quiet down as Charles leans in; not quite up, not quite sat. A panther waiting to pounce. The yellow in his eyes takes the whole iris, a feverish tremble dictating the rhythm of his blinks and breath. "Do you know my husband? What became of him? When did you last see him? How did he look?”

“Your Highness,” Max trails off, the words stuck in his throat. “The last I saw of him, a few months ago… Your husband was dying."

It's as if the devastation of Troy traveled with Max to settle in the courtyard. No one dares to speak, not even breathe, for the world has started and stopped at the will of Charles' hand.

He looks very lonely on his throne, right now, almost small. A shadow of a forgotten king, whose fallen kingdom is lying still around him, in the ashes of its greatness; Charles' slouched shoulders carved in an ancient and heavy marble. The black toga, wrapped around him like a shroud, makes him look paler than he ever saw him.

Max resists the urge to kneel at the altar of Charles as if he were his last believer. The only God of his sky.

Finally, the smallest sound comes out from under Charles' hand. Braver than most, Andrea leans in to make him repeat, and this time, Charles let his hand fall from his mouth to be heard clearly by everyone in the courtyard:

“Leave.”

“Your Highness—”

“What did I say?" Charles snaps, standing up; the whole world suddenly freezes under his glowing red eyes—the yellow gone. The wind picks up, swamping the courtyard and making a few unprepared spectators fall, as others cry out as their togas fly around them. On his throne, in the middle of this sudden storm, Charles seems as if he's floating, his hair disheveled but his clothing intact. The head of the tempest. His voice echoes in the courtyard as if Zeus itself came down on earth. "Everyone leaves. Leave! Leave before I kill every single one of you! Leave!”

The only reason Max left for war alone was that he knew his home would be well protected. If he had died and failed in Troy, if he hadn’t been enough, he knew that at least one other person in the whole world would be able to take over and give the last blow. 

That where he failed, Charles would rise. And he would be deadlier.

As everyone rushes for the exit, limbs and fear bumping into each other, for a few moments, Max stays still. Against the wind lashing at his face, against the rage and grief of a husband left behind, he stays.

Only when a guard he doesn't recognize taps him on the shoulder with a stern look does he have to move.

One last time before leaving the courtyard, he turns around. It's even harder to leave when the collapsed figure of his husband, sobbing in Andrea's arms, is the last thing he sees.

A young servant leads Max across his palace.

Max supposes she must have been five at most when he left for the war, maybe not even born. Her small frame betrays her youth, and her steps echo in the silence like a mouse while her pale hands clutch at the tray in her arms as if it were a shield or a weapon. She hasn't looked at him since she first bowed and quietly asked to be followed.

It's only a glimpse of what life has been like since Max left, yet it's a harsh slap back to reality.

From a servant back in his chamber, with whom he had successfully started a discussion, Max had heard that the suitors began to come to the palace around four years ago. When the news from Troy and Max had stopped coming, he guessed—vultures, smelling the slightest hint of blood and power. The servant had looked relieved that King Charles decided to finally do something about them, and with the casual chaos Max had come across, he could understand why. An invasive species, the lot of them, the ones that devastated fields and only left the people with their eyes to cry.

Max's name hasn't come out once in any conversation he has had.

While it's difficult to know if it's Charles' outburst that caused this general vow of silence or if the servants were now smart enough not to mention the 'late' King to the suitors, it's obvious that Max isn't a name to be pronounced lightly inside his own thick stone wall.

The palace is just as Max remembered, and yet not at all.

As if everything has been moved from a few inches—not noticeable by naked eyes, but jarring enough to be unsettling. The tapestry has some frayed edges, and the furniture has lost some of its shine. The stone of the walls has cracked in some places, letting the salted wind brush their naked thighs, and they almost seem anew, if it wasn't for his slight limp. On his lips, Max tastes the sea. Home.

At last, the little mouse stops in front of a wooden door. Max didn't need guidance, but he thanks her warmly all the same. She squeaks something before disappearing, under Max's fond eyes. Weirdly, she reminds him of Charles—in her little hurried steps, and mistrustful attitude, with a glimpse of sarcasm. Something about her little teeth that he knew would bite deep enough for him to bleed if needed.

Max has left all of his people in Charles' hands when he left, and it's as if his husband had single-handedly raised every one of them in that time span. From the tiny mouse to his gossipy servants, there's a piece of Charles everywhere; all shaped to his likeness.

In some ways, Max is grateful not to be able to put a baby inside of Charles, for they surely would be his spitting image and the second biggest headache of Max's life. The first spot has been taken for life.

The baths were a whim of Charles when he first came to the palace. Used to his own personal pool for him and his courtiers, he had been horrified to discover the miserable little bathtub Max had been using. Only a few threats of going back home, curses of smelling like a pig, and getting a bit violent—Max had the misfortune to say he did not mind Charles' sweaty smell—Max had ordered baths to be built within a month.

The first try left Charles so unsatisfied that they had to remake one, leaving the 'failed' attempt as thermaes for the rest of the palace and guests. Failed only in name, the palace's first baths are a perfectly acceptable size, with pools deep enough to easily sit up to one's neck in the water, surrounded by white tiles and wide, ornate columns.

A few men are already bathing when Max enters, some lounging around in white towels on the side. None of them noticed Max in his black cloak yet, so he quietly hurries to where he knows hidden doors await him.

Of course, Max has never gone through those doors, even if he knew of their existence. For many years, he had watched the staff come and go, seemingly disappearing within the walls, not even a whisper to be heard when not spoken to. Being on the other side is awkward. He isn't used to making himself so small. The rough stone wall is barely lit up, and he bumps into a few walls and torch holders before his hands finally find a thin door in the dark.

His quiet cursing comes to an abrupt halt at the sight of the royal baths. This time, it's a few pools, large enough for no more than three people to sit in, scattered across the room, that welcome him. Oh, so familiar.

When he had asked for a remake, Charles took it upon himself to direct the project, refusing to spend more money and time: he could simply supervise it himself.

Clever also comes in the form of knowing when to give up, but after barely seeing his newlywed husband for a couple of weeks, Max had to put his foot down, to the great relief of the architects, and against Charles' pout. Thankfully, most of what Charles wanted to be incorporated has been put in the plans, so it was not as if he needed to attend the whole construction process—and Max probably saved a lot of yells and tears by making him stop when he did.

The royal baths consisted not only of the usual cold and warm pools, but everything had been built in two; for Charles did 'not want to share so many body fluids' with Max. Of course, Charles' bath has been desacralized on the night of the inauguration, and the designated pools have never been respected.

Until now, it seems.

Full to the brims, Charles' pools sit untouched by time and people. Behind it, where Max's pools are supposed to be, a thick red curtain stretches across the room. It makes Charles's pools look no different from the bathtub he had made Max get rid of, small and luxurious. Yet, unfinished.

Max has never noticed before how complimentary their pools have been until now—the designs on the basins reaching for something hidden, one half of something greater. Right now, it looks almost broken. Separated without any explanation.

Passing by Charles' heated pools, Max let his hand slide on their marble borders—which had touched Charles' skin so many times when he was gone, he's almost jealous of it—before yanking the curtains open. It has been waiting for him, after all.

Behind the curtain, nothing has changed. Max's baths were largely unused anyway, but it was as if stepping into life from ten years ago. Max has forgotten many things at sea, a good bath is one of them. The sweet perfume of his husband almost visibly lingers in the air, and curiously, the pools are as full and fuming as Charles'.

The opportunity is too good to pass up.

Max's clothes quickly find themselves in a pile, Aphrodite's cloak on top of it, easy to reach. The first foot in the warm water is absolving and, soon, Max slowly sinks into the warm pool.

For the first time in ten years, Max closes his eyes and lets his body relax.

The tender arms of Morpheus are about to drag him down to a sweeter place when the slam of a door jolts him right back to reality. In barely a second, he's out of the bath, knife and cloak in hand, wet and naked as the day he was born. The ridicule of the situation dawns upon him as the soft voices of two people talking echo in the quiet bath before the sound of the door shuts back in.

For a second, Max is very thankful for the curtains' existence; the last thing he wants to do is traumatize a poor servant girl with his cock and knife.

It's clear he overstayed, in any case. Not without a longing look to the steaming water, Max gathers his pants silently before the door opens back again, and this time, it's clear the person is here to stay.

Hyper aware of every noise, every scraping sound and sighs, Max is about to dash where he thinks another door is hidden before he hears the person humming. The melody is embedded deep in his bones, so deep in fact that he only registers the knife tingling on the ground when a voice breaks the silence.

"Who is there?"

Max's blood grows cold.

"Your Highness, forgive me."

"Oh. The Troy soldier, isn't it?" Charles stalls, the sound of his naked feet on the ground coming to a stop. Invisible behind the curtain. He doesn't sound scared, nor surprised. "How did you find this place?"

"I was looking for somewhere more… private."

Max cannot see Charles, but immediately pictures his eyebrows raising. "Royal baths are indeed more private than the public ones. I should have you killed for trespassing on my husband's quarters."

Well, Max cannot blame him for that.

"I will take my leave, forgive your lowly soldier, Your Highn—"

"No. It is fine, as long as you stay on the other side of the curtain," Charles sighs, and Max is almost angry at the thought of him allowing a stranger to bathe next to him so easily. "However, do not dare try to look at me, or I'll gouge your eyes out."

There is no need for it. Max could close his eyes and think about the tanned skin of his husband under his hand, the dimple on the small of his back, the mole on his chest. In truth, he's relieved he's unable to see it, as the simple knowledge of his husband's naked body being so close is enough to send him into a half-madness only contained by the cloak he has chosen to wear.

"Of course."

The sound of a towel falling on the ground and splashes of water, joined with a soft groan, makes Max a lot less relaxed. Not tense just—aware. Slowly, he sinks back to the pool, still in his pants, trying to make as few sounds as possible. This time, he doesn't let go of his cloak.

"Shall I send someone to attend our esteemed guest?"

"No. This one is happy having as many servants attending as his Highness is currently having."

The acknowledgment of how alone they are currently, how improper the situation is, makes them both go quiet for a while. Unable to go back to dozing off, Max still tries to make himself as comfortable as he can while being ready to run out at any moment—it's not an unfamiliar situation to be in, and he strangely finds comfort in it. At least, Charles is near.

With a sigh, Max leans his back and elbows on the basin's edges, his dagger right next to him, and sinks into the hot water, watching for any other sounds than the soft splash of Charles in the water. Back in what feels like another life, Charles would be right there, leaning his back on him, while Max would be wrapping his arms around his body—always too cold, always seeking his warmth.

Are you sure you don't have a Godly parent? Charles used to complain, in the middle of summer, whenever Max searched for his body in the bed.

Max's parents were many things, but certainly not Godly. Once upon a time, his mother was almost a champion for one, along with all the titles she had before Mother. In a way, Max guesses he's only doing the right thing by picking up where she left off. Diligent, he even married him.

He'd rather not think about his father. Not anymore, months at sea have left him exhausted by the enormity of the task of healing what he had never thought even wounded. Perhaps being with Charles has been the balm, the bandage to all his hidden troubles, and it has been why he has been so lost and bleeding after so much time away from him. The ice soothing his burns.

To keep Charles warm, there's nothing he hasn't been, and still isn't willing to do. Burn a village, kill Demeter and her winter, set himself on fire. Everything but revealing himself now, he supposed.

Of course, Charles speaks first. Never having been one to be able to deal with awkward silence, Max thinks fondly that his husband could small-talk a tree if it made him feel socially uncomfortable.

"Am I going to get another name than Nobody?"

"I suppose Future Husband would be a bit presumptuous?" Max can't help but jest.

"You are funny," Charles says, in a tone that lets Max know that he didn't think he was funny at all. It's the same one he used ten years ago. "But I have no use for a future husband, as I have a current one. And I do not care what you think you saw. I know he's going to come back to me."

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Charles does not answer to the placating tone by anything but a scoff. As a noble, a son of a Goddess, and now a king, there hadn't been many able to play with Charles during the years. The one he likes, he keeps furiously around him, and for many years. Max almost feels bad for teasing him so unabashedly. He can picture the flush on his cheeks, both from the warm bath and the mocking.

Since Charles has been the one starting the discussion, Max steel himself for more questions—his husband is not easily deterred, especially when he has an idea in mind.

"Did you talk to him?"

Like clockwork. Max has to repress his smile before speaking, in fear of offending Charles by letting it leak in his tone.

"Who, Your Highness?"

"My husband. Did you talk to him? What did he say? Did he… did he say anything about me?"

"He was never intimate with anyone during our travels," Max says, because he knew what Charles really wanted to ask. On the other side of the curtain, he hears his hitched breath. "He always talked about you, I— the whole troop was a bit sick of hearing about His Highness after so many months at sea together. But also, I think it helped to remind everyone of home, and who was waiting for them."

"As an allegedly dying man, what were his last words?" Charles asks, after a second.

Max burst out laughing. It even surprises himself, but he swiftly gets it together. "Your Highness, do you realize how I could lie and tell you he told you to marry me, right?"

"Yes, as you could have made up this entire thing. I just— You're the first in months to talk about him at all, and in years to have recent news. Any kind, mind you. I want to trust you, because I have nothing else," Charles says softly. Max hasn't been here for too long, but he's almost sure none of the other suitors has heard this tone from him—and he jealously keeps the moment as a sign. "Give me something."

The silence settles for a moment.

Despite being so close to death, neither of them had ever wished to approach the topic of their own mortality. If he wanted, Charles could live a few thousand years and have some to spare. Max did not have that luxury, but did not wish for it either. Charles was the one who hated thinking about it—he would scowl at Max joking about it like he was an oracle bringing bad omen. By his own claim not superstitious, Charles still knew better than anyone not to tempt the Faiths. He would scold at Max's carefreeness as if their threads wrapped slowly around Max's neck, and he was helpless.

Before leaving, Max had tried one last time to talk about it. Charles had cried in rage, and they left it at that.

But Monaco needed two rulers. At the end, they could not escape that.

"You gave our King a dagger when he left. He never used it on anyone, only to cut his beard, and only showed it to his troops. It had a red jewel on the hilt, and his blade was engraved with your name. And he did not say anything about you remarrying."

"Oh." Charles' voice sounds small—perhaps a little wet. "Oh, very well. Thank you."

Max hums. A flash of silver blinds him for an instant as he spins the dagger one more time between his fingers, and it almost nicks his skin as he puts it down.

"You can call me Wanderer."

"Fine. May we never meet again, Wanderer."

The curtains are thick, but not thick enough to hide the cutting silhouette of Charles as the sun shines from behind him and he stands up. The curves of his shoulders, waist, and hips, the teasing hint of a bulge between his legs. On an opening on the side of the curtains, a flash of skin blinds Max for an instant—as smooth as the stone of an unfinished statue, carving itself in Max's starved mind.

After that, Max runs and stays in the cold bath for a while.

Meeting with Charles is a rarer occasion than Max originally anticipated.

Intoxicated by their two conversations in the span of a few days—one so intimate he had been dreaming about the shape of his husband's body for nights—the sudden lack of his presence is making Max anxious after having him so close. Like a child who got his favorite toy taken away, he starts snapping and brooding, even at the poor servants who had begun to relax around him, which sends him into an even worse mood.

In the grave of his own making, Max finds himself suffocating.

At sea, he had dreamed of the moment he would be going home. Every one of his men did: it was one of those topics that the conversation inevitably fell back to at night. Home, wife, children. None of them lived long enough to make those fantasies a reality. Seeing Max's current predicament, maybe it was for the better—to have lived in the knowledge that you would be remembered as the best version of yourself, that the last image your family had of you was a defiant, proudly dressed soldier, ready to protect or die trying.

In his worst moments, waking up in the dead of the night with the weight of Thanatos on his chest, Max wishes he had left with them, too. It never lasts long. He's too stubborn to give up so close to his goal.

At some point, Max had paced in his room so many times that he knew it almost as much as he knew his boat or his war tent. It means it's time to go out.

Of course, the first thing he does is try to find Charles.

Charles is a creature of habit. Not by choice, for Max had been spurred into taking sudden trips more often than he could remember during their marriage. Rather, the nature of his birth and marriage had made him so that most of his moves and apparitions should be planned, if not discussed in a full council before. It always made Charles whine and scowl to be handled a full schedule, but only in the confidence of their bedroom. Outside, the heavy coat of royalty draped over him like a light toga. Born to rule.

Everything Max did not stand in royalty, he loved. The trips, the public apparition, meeting new people, the silks, the gold, the smiles. Being adored.

It's hard not to imagine Charles doing a million things, bursting with energy and ideas. Yet, for the first days of Max's hunt for his husband, something jumps to his face: Charles barely leaves his room. Their room. Of course, it's bigger than most places in the palace, with a private terrace and garden; all made around the bed Max carved in the oldest tree in the palace's grounds. He hopes Charles is still sleeping in this bed.

If Charles does leave the room, it's to shut himself away behind another closed door, in the wing of the palace Max cannot remember what it was originally made for.

In his current predicament, Max would love Charles to do anything other than his daily trips to a closed room he has no memories of, go to eat in privacy, and go bathe. He has not tried to go back to the baths, but something tells him he would not be as welcome as he was on his last visit.

So, he observes from afar.

Not just Charles, because it does get boring after a while to stare at a closed door, and Max had felt restless enough for a lifetime. The buzzing life of the palace around him is interesting—who flinches at the sound of his name, who seems suspiciously content. Which servants, some who have seen him grow, have some lingering fondness for their late King? Who has some horses in this race, and who's willing to break some legs to get them to win?

The suitors are what take most of his leisure watch time when Charles locks himself up in his mysterious room.

Max is not someone who hates easily, nor someone who takes the word lightly. Most of the time, he doesn't even hate the people he kills on the battlefield; he certainly didn't in Troy, but he doesn't feel guilty either. All is fair in war. In love, however…

With all of his heart, or what is left of it, Max hates every single one of them. A few mornings, the sun wakes him up with the urge to take his sword and drive it into their chests so that it will finally be over, so that they will finally get what they deserve. For eating his food, for drinking his wine, for sleeping in the sheets in the palace he built, for looking at his wife and not hiding their impure thoughts.

For burying his undead body, and expecting it to lie still.

The worst part is that Max knows some of them. As companions, as soldiers, and trusted friends, he had loved them, protected them, and now they were thanking him by trying to infiltrate his marital bed. The betrayal sits deep in his bones. He wonders how long they waited. Did they start preparing the moment he left? Or did they wait until the cry of The war is over has settled with no news of Max in sight?

How did Charles react? How did he feel when the arms of his husband's friends became the arms of wannabe lovers?

At the beginning of the second week, Max gets an invitation: a dinner with Charles and the rest of the suitors. Brought to him by the little mouse of the other day, she only looks slightly murderous when he absentmindedly ruffles her hair. She does not bite his hand off, so he counts it as a win.

The letter is short, impersonal, and honestly a bit rude—but Max can hear Charles' voice as clear as day while reading it: his accent, his gutturals Rs, his drawling vowels, the soft, singing rhythm of his voice. Impersonal, yet so stained with everything Charles that Max sleeps that night with the first letter he had gotten from Charles in almost a decade.

The dinner was, obviously, Andrea's idea. Not only did Charles always despise hosting banquets—attending them much better—but he did not even try to hide it; not even bothering to give his audience a small speech to welcome them. At the end of the table, he plays with his food like a sulky child under Andrea's disapproving glare.

Still, it's the highlight of Max's week.

Charles is so close he can almost taste it in the olives he rolls on his teeth and tongue. His long fingers wrap around bread and tear it apart into tiny pieces, with barely any making it to his mouth, and he sighs regularly, loud enough to make his neighbors look at him.

Around him, the suitors drink and eat like they haven't touched a meal in three days. They don't know real hunger. The wine stains their lips and their clothes, as does the grease of the pig who lies in the middle of the table—killed to be eaten by his peers—and everyone shouts to make themselves heard, to be the bigger person in the room.

It gives Max a headache, a low, pulsating thing that is slowly but surely pushing him toward the edge.

The man next to him has been chewing his food so loudly while talking to someone across the table that Max had to eventually give up on eating anything.

At Charles' side, a man has been trying to speak to him all night. His hand brushes against Charles', and his greasy lips approach his ear dangerously. Impassive, Charles let him humiliate himself without a glance, but Max feels the handle he has on his knife get tighter and tighter at each attempt of the man to get closer to his husband. He crushes the heart of the olive between his teeth.

Suddenly, Charles gets up. The room quieten. Everything else has been a facade; Charles has always been the center of attention, always the real bigger person in the room, without even trying to be.

"I am feeling unwell. I will retire to my rooms. Do not stop for me, we have no shortage of wine or entertainment," with a wry smile, he adds: "But I am sure that you have all noticed that."

Andrea looks like he wants to kill Charles and then himself, but instead, he nods, and everyone can only silently watch Charles' back as it disappears into the depths of the palace. The noise picks right back up as soon as the door closes behind him.

After that, Max doesn't linger. He's afraid he's going to accidentally kill one of them if he overhears something ludicrous about his husband.

Waiting for him outside, the little mouse is dressed nicely today. Her hair is tied in two buns, one higher than the other; the only hint of youth in her severe appearance and expression.

"You are late," she says. No one has ever scolded Max but his parents and his husband. And now, a little mouse.

"Sorry," he replies, for lack of better words. "You—" But the little mouse has taken too much from Charles, and has already turned her back on him, and hurries in the hallway without looking back.

Max's invitation had come with a letter, a little mouse, and other secrets. The first one is that Charles was going to go early—and that he should follow.

The second is that he was to have a little mouse as a guide to bring him where he was needed.

The third one…

The war room smells of blood. No one has been killed here, at least to Max's knowledge, but the stench is so putrid, so metallic, he almost retches. The only thing that let him keep his head is the lack of the scent of putrefied bodies—the ones he had to step on in the battlefield, the ones whose bones cracked under his feet and wore his friends' faces.

In the middle of the room, presiding over the empty table, Charles is looking down at a map. Still wearing his nice clothes—no doubt picked by Andrea—, he looks every part of Aphrodite's son, if the Goddess of Love cared about anything but herself. The light of the candles lit up the side of his face, casting shadows on his skin and the rest of the room. When the little mouse introduces Max, his eyes snap right on him, and Max is petrified.

If it wasn't for his impatient gesture for him to close closer, he might have stayed there for hours. Looking at his wife, ready to go to some wars.

"Wanderer. I made you come because I need you to tell me where you last saw King Max."

A stunned laugh almost escapes Max. A few rooms away, men are feasting, unaware they are playing right into Charles' hand—distracted and inoffensive.

"Your Highness, with all of my respect, I don't think—"

"I don't need or care for your respect. I need information," Charles dismisses, tapping on the map in front of him. "Now."

For a second, Max hesitates to point to the palace on the map. He could end it there. This whole charade, this play he's doing as one of the worst actors of all of the mortal realms and probably the Olympus and the Underworld, everything could stop here. Spread on the table, the map mocks him.

Charles, even if he does not love him anymore—and the thought only makes him want to drown in the sea—at least wants to find him. It scares Max, he suddenly realizes. Fear is an emotion he believed he left behind a long time ago, amid his father's first disappointment and the sea of Poseidon, but it crashes back onto him like on an eroded cliff.

He's not old, not for a man of his status, but his whole body aches as if belonging to an end-of-life king. After ten years of leaving home, he had spent almost as much time married to Charles away from him as in his arms.

Ten years is a long time, Aphrodite had told him.

"And who will you send?" He asks, and gets surprised by how strangled he sounds.

"I'll go myself."

Max's blood goes ice cold. The visions spin in his head: Charles in Troy, in the middle of the sea, against the sirens, on Circe's isle—

"Do you understand how stupid and dangerous that is?" Max snaps, and the incredulous look of Andrea and the rest of the servants makes him straighten himself. "Your Highness."

Charles dismisses him with a wave of the hand. Not even offended, already a thousand miles away. "I am not going to give the task to someone else."

"What about your kingdom?"

"There hasn't been anything to rule without him. You should know it better than anyone."

"What? Because all the men left?"

This time, Charles lifts his head, the crease between his eyes subtly changing from a focused one to an angrier shade of it.

"Because my husband left."

“Yes, and what a husband that is! Leaving you behind for ten years for useless wars that don’t even threaten your country!”

“You do not know anything about him!” Charles yells back, hitting the table so hard with his fist that a few glasses fly off it, spilling everywhere. The sweet smell of wine drenches the floor and his pristine white robe. “You'd better put some respect on his name, or I'll have you executed!"

"Let them try."

Cheeks so red they might as well start fuming like hot iron, Charles takes a deep breath as Andrea carefully touches his shoulder. When Charles let his head fall down, Max gets a glimpse of his expression and steel himself. It's not the look of a forgiving man. Still, Charles let Andrea snap his fingers, and the flow of the jittery servants started pouring around them, cleaning and sweeping the mess they had made.

"The council is waiting for you," murmurs Andrea to Charles' hunched shoulders. It's hard to know whether it's a ploy to get Charles away from here or true, but either way, Charles doesn't show his displeasure as he nods.

And just like that, it's settled. Charles turns his back on him, the hive of the servants buzzing with quiet concern around him while Max stays frozen in time, watching the hair sticking on his husband's nape. His curls are longer than Max has ever seen him with. It suits him.

With a sudden about-turn, Charles grabs Andrea's sword hanging at his side by the pommel and slashes the air in the direction of Max's throat—a flash of thunder in the night. The only thing stopping the sword from letting Max bleed out on the floor is the small knife Max has stolen from the feast, which was now doing a good enough job of saving his ass.

Charles frowns at the interruption, as if he were dealing with an annoying fly, while Andrea and the servants erupt behind him, a few yells and broken glasses joining the chaos. Under the hood of his cloak, Max catches himself smiling maniacally; adrenaline pumping in his blood as if the sound of the salpinx echoed on the battlefield.

In the middle of the storm he has caused, Charles stares down at Max; his clear eyes as icy as the sea Max crossed to get back to him.

At last, he let his blade fall on the floor before throwing it back at Andrea without even looking at him. Max feels a bit hesitant to separate himself from his small knife, but he begrudgingly lets a servant pry it away from his hands.

Once, Max had loved hunting. Charles hated it, so he would never join him and would always turn his nose up at the carcass Max brought home. Haven't you killed enough? he would ask, and Max would laugh—because it was not the same. Not at the time.

Not until the day he got split from the rest of his friends when chasing a deer. Its long antlers had caught in the branches, leaving a trail behind him—easy bait for Max and his bows, his muscles straining against the wind and the reins of his horse. He remembers it all, even years after. The sounds of leaves crushed under Rocky's hooves, the fading color of the blue of the sky into a deep purple, his own breath, panting and excited. The way everything had quieted as he had burst into a clearing, still basked in the last bit of sunlight.

How the doe had looked at him, with the deer Max had been chasing lying at his feet, almost dead. Her big eyes, not quite animal, not quite human, long lashes flustering in the wind, staring at Max. Accusing. Unbeaten, even in the face of the arrows on Max's back.

Charles has the same eyes as the wounded doe.

“I will win.” The words leave Max's mouth before he can ponder them. It's a promise.

“And I won’t forgive you,” Charles says coldly. “Maybe I'll let you have a grave, after Max kills you.”

Before, it was easy to make up with Charles after a fight.

Fighting in the first place didn't happen often; the burgeoning annoyances were getting snipped in the bud as soon as Max noticed them, a survival skill he had developed as early as he could. Happy wife, happy life, Daniel told him wisely one day. Max had left him groaning in the dust of the training ground right after—he was the only one allowed to call Charles his wife.

For everyone's good, it is better to have Charles in good spirits anyway; his capacity to light up a room by his mere presence could also have the whole palace physically darken in his gloomy days. Sometimes, Max wondered if the affair of Aphrodite and Ares had any impact on his husband.

One of their biggest fight happened because of the war, of course. Not that anything threatened their peace before, but it has been… easier. Taking turns to go to the battlefield, sometimes even going together. Sharing a tent, sharing wounds and blood. Sharing the only thing worth anything when everything around you is dying: a place to rest your head on and close your eyes.

When the news of Helen and Troy came in, there had been no questions in Max's mind. He would be the one to go.

This, of course, had not made Charles very happy. In fact, half of their tableware ended up broken as the ships were getting loaded, and Max had watched Charles destroy the palace he had made for him from a comfortable seat, two fingers on his temple, and a strong drink in the other hand.

"You are a horrible, selfish man!" Charles yelled at him in the midst of a fight. Truer words have never been spoken—Max is horribly selfish. If anyone had to die first, he would happily volunteer, jump on a boat, and take all the honors of a battle death.

Of course, Charles is the same. Two sides of the same rusty coin. Max just got ahead on this one, and Charles was simply angry at being double-crossed, but Max had learn over the years to be at least a few stadiums ahead if he wanted a small chance to outsmart his husband.

So, he allowed the meltdown for a few days.

Then, Charles was still angry at him, but he did it while bouncing on his cock, so it did make it a little better for both of them.

Don't go, don't go, Charles begged, when he thought Max was sleeping, deep one night. Don't go.

When he finally fell asleep after that, Max spent the rest of the night looking at his wife, illuminated by beams of moonlight. Of course, he did not want to go. If it were possible to freeze time, he would have stayed in this scene forever: with the moonlight, the peace, and the wetness on Charles' cheek he had kissed away.

Eventually, the rumor of Charles's plan to search for Max grows so big that Charles himself has to come and put an end to it. Not by Max's fault, he would have kept everything for himself gladly, but Charles had caused such a scene, it was bound to leak out—maybe Charles hadn't cared. He probably thought he would be out at sea by the time the suitors would have realized what had happened.

It happens in the courtyard, where no one got a nice invitation to this one, with Charles in training clothes, as black as night. His chiton is pinned at the shoulder by golden pins, with a complex pattern that Max can't see from afar, as they blind him each time Charles slightly moves under the sun. Defiant green eyes sweeping down at the field like fire on a forest, from where he's standing next to his throne, Charles is more war god than human, more gold than skin.

When he grabs the bow Andrea hands him, there's a slight movement of panic in the crowd—it's not as if they think Charles would shoot them, but they didn't think him not capable of it either.

Max recognizes the bow at first glance. How can he not?

Before something worse than a few whispers and a rising tension explodes, Charles clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is steady and strong:

"You have all abused my hospitality, eaten my bread, and drunk my wine. The owner of this house has been long absent, but he shall oversee what you all seek. Whoever can string my husband Max's bow and shoot through twelve of these hoops will be ruling Monaco by my side. Everyone else shall die."

Since there was not much to say after that, Charles leaves, and Andrea takes over to explain the actual process of the trial, which Charles had no further intention of doing: in two days, when the sun had risen, it would begin. Anyone who will be able to draw the bow—Max's bow—and successfully shoot through the twelve hoops on the court in one try will be marrying Charles.

Max can barely hear a word. The sight of his bow, left behind like his old life, is not unlike getting shot point-blank by Charles—and he would know about that.

He blinks, and suddenly the courtyard is empty around him. It's only when he catches two servant girls giggling between themselves while looking at him that he starts to move.

He doesn't even have to think about what to do next. It's like an ingrained routine at this point: Max blinks, breathes, and checks on Charles.

When he arrives in the wing, the door in sight, he falters. Max's heart physically misses a beat before racing back at full speed.

The door is cracked open.

It's the first time in all the days and hours that Max has been spending observing the door that Charles has been so careless as to accidentally allow the world to take a peek inside his mysterious room, and—Max is only a man. A bad one, at that.

No one dares to be in the hallway in this part of the palace, and Max guesses no one will be stupid enough to try any time soon. The opportunity is almost too good to be true.

Silently, he leans in to observe.

The scene looks like a fresco. Sitting on a divan, Charles glows and looks the sort of soft he only gets in private, the one that makes both his features even more unnatural yet human. Behind him, the light beams him in a tender yellow, a pulsing, gentle thing coming from the Olympus itself.

It's hard for Max to notice anything else but him, but when he does, his breath catches.

On the ground, playing with a small mirror and laying her head in Charles' lap, the little mouse beams up at his husband. Now, Max also notices the comb in Charles' hands that he's carefully running through the little mouse's blonde hair, as he seems to patiently answer her questions, or secrets that Max cannot hear.

For some reason, the most surprising thing about the whole scene to Max is seeing the little mouse smiling. She looks like a child, a real one: her chubby cheeks and big, droopy eyes, usually hidden under her scowl, now looking up adoringly at his husband. It seems like Charles found a knot in her locks, and she does not even wince when he roughly tries to untangle it, like she's used to it.

Does she look like Charles' child?

While they had known that having children naturally cannot happen—and not by lack of trying—Charles had always wanted one. The one thing Max could never give him. Surely…

Distracted by his train of thought, Max leans a bit too heavily on the door, and the treacherous thing creaks loudly, disturbing the peaceful display. Immediately, Max has two pairs of piercing eyes on him, and the little mouse jumps on her feet, as if the tender scene had never happened to begin with.

Behind her, Charles scowls at Max. This one was wholly deserved.

"Why are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Max says.

"Fine. Go to Andrea," Charles tells the little mouse, and she immediately shakes her head vehemently. "Go," he repeats sternly, his face fading from the softness of intimacy to the inflexibility of royalty.

In her eyes, it's clear the little mouse is fighting two battles: staying and protecting Charles or obeying him. Charles scowls, and the corners of her mouth drop further, the bottom of her lips almost trembling.

When she passes next to Max to leave, she runs her shoulder into him. Max can't help but smile at the display—it's really like having a mouse try to bite him with the smallest teeth he's ever seen. Max rubs his chest where his heart beat as he looks back at Charles.

"Is she your daughter?"

"Why? Are you looking for another scandal to break?" Charles rolls his eyes. "She's not. But she's under my care."

"A little spy, then," Max reasoned, trying not to let the relieved slump of his shoulder be too apparent. He had suspected it since the beginning, but he's glad to be able to confirm this theory rather than the other.

Charles doesn't look ashamed. "Having another pair of eyes and ears is never bad."

As Charles is pretending to tidy up around him—Max watches him take the comb, put it in a box, and then go back to put it in another box a few instant later—he takes time to observe the room.

He had heard through rumor about Charles trying to postpone acknowledging the suitors for what they were by any means possible. He had tried locking himself in his room, which he still kind of did, he had tried sending them on 'quests' for him, far away from the palace, and finally, he made an announcement: he would be making a shroud for his deceased father. He would not marry until it was finished.

Unfortunately, it only lasted a couple of months before it was discovered that any progress on the shroud made during the day had been undone at night. By some complicated scheme Max didn't completely understand, Charles hadn't been blamed, but was still forced to acknowledge the suitors.

The official introduction took place the day Max washed up on Monaco's beach, after ten long years.

Max guesses this is where the forever unfinished shroud is, judging by the loom in the corner. The pattern of the threads is hard to read, but one of the rumors he heard whispered that the shroud was so ugly, the servants were the ones to undo the shroud to save Charles the humiliation of showing it in public. It had made Max laugh. Charles has never been good at manual work.

Since the little mouse left, Charles hasn't looked at him once. Turned downward, his sharp nose scrunch for an instant before relaxing, and Max would give his palace to know what he's thinking about.

Rumors, rumors, rumors.

Being on the other side for the first time, Max cannot decipher if everyone talked so much when he was still actively ruling, or if the honor is reserved for Charles. Max is exhausted by it, and he has only been here for a couple of days, and it is not even about him—well, mostly not about him.

"I wasn't the one who spread the rumor," Max says, breaking the silence between them. He might be Max now, but he does not wish for his character to be misconstrued so much. At last, Charles' clear eyes land on him. They're the color of the sea at first light.

"I know. It does not matter," Charles says. There are creases at the corners of his eyes that Max never noticed before. "This marriage was unavoidable, whether I wanted it or not. If not you, someone else would have found a way to push me to it."

For the first time, Max watches and finally sees. He sees beyond the halo of godliness, the tremble of Charles' hands, the sad twist in his smile. The slow unraveling of a soldier who has been fighting a battle without any swords or blood.

Max had been more than happy to leave this part to Charles: making everyone happy, making sure no one was too offended by his lack of manners, or stupid enough not to notice it. Max spoke with swords, and Charles with thorny roses. It didn't matter; at their core, they spoke the same dialect. One of lovers, and of soldiers.

Is that one more thing Max lost at sea? His ability to read their secret language?

"You look tired," Max finally says, because he lost a lot, but not his lack of sensitivity.

"I have been having dreams," Charles admits. He's staring down at his hands, still holding the comb, his eyes almost empty. "A lion enters my home and eats all my geese. When I catch him, with his mouth full of blood, he jumps at my throat. Then I wake up."

Max blinks. Maybe it's the tension of the last few days, maybe it's the thought of Charles being surrounded by geese, but, before he knows it, he's choking and hiding a hysterical laugh behind his hand.

"Sorry, I am aware this is not funny," he tries to cough between two fits of laughter, but the sight of Charles' round, surprised eyes sends him right back into it.

When he finally calms down enough to look at his husband seriously, Charles is trying and failing to hide a smile, two dimples betraying him. The sort that sheepishly looks at you on your first wedding night, clueless about what to do next.

"Why? My geese-eating-lion dream is not funny to you? I have been hoping he choke with the feathers, it's a mess, even in dreams," Charles says, shaking his head.

"It sounds very inconvenient."

"It is," Charles sighs. Max cannot look away from the small twist of his mouth that slowly turns into a mischievous smirk, and leans toward Max with the air of a child sharing a secret. Unconsciously, Max leans in to mirror Charles. "One day, I woke up, and I was surrounded by feathers, and I thought I was going crazy. Turns out, I ripped my pillow open during the night!"

"Maybe it's the geese whose feathers were used for your pillow that are now haunting you," Max suggests, just to see the smirk turn into a laugh. He's largely rewarded.

"Oh, probably, I shall talk about it to my mother. Dearest Aphrodite, would you go and ask the goose goddess if I offended terribly one of their children?" Charles takes on a high-pitched voice, like those actors he loves to see in the theater. It makes Max's heart ache.

"You do not even own any goose."

"I do not even own any goose!" Charles repeats, exasperated, throwing his hands in the air before crossing them across his chest. "They're noisy, messy, and take up all the space." If Max didn't know him better, he would say he was pouting.

Dreams always mean something. Especially as a demi-god, especially when you're Charles.

Max has never been too good at interpretation, but he would be stupid not to understand this one.

The hole inside his chest stretches with each of Charles' giggles. He has done a poor job at stitching it, at not letting it bleed all over the place, but the taste of normalcy is tearing it all apart. A terrible beast gnaws at his bones.

Selfish, a selfish son, a selfish husband.

"Your Highness," Max says, and the tone shift makes something sharpen in Charles' attention on him. "I have lied to you. Your husband was not dying. He was—he was determined to go back to you, and I believe he is close to it."

Charles smiles at him, lips closed, like he would to an unruly child. Clear as the day, he does not believe him anymore; still, something melancholic falls behind his eyes that fades away when he blinks and looks down the window to the empty courtyard. The wind whistles a haunting melody through the glass of the window.

"I hope my lion won't be coming home too late, then."

On the day of the trial, only a quarter of the suitors don't show up. The threat to their lives was not worth a kingdom and Charles' warmth, for some. They were right not to show their faces, but the insult is almost enough for Max to wish to hunt them down.

It doesn't matter. The air of the morning is crisp; the temperature dropped significantly during the night, and now Max's cloak suddenly doesn't look out of place in the crowd. Untouched by human matters such as cold, Charles' bare legs cross and uncross nervously from where he's sitting. Next to him, Max's bow looks all his age and history yet brand new to an untrained eye. Max had worked very hard to get the bloodstains out when he first got it.

The nervous energy in the crowd overpowers poor Andrea's instructions to the noise. The building chaos almost explodes as one man gets accused of overtaking another in the waiting line—which wasn't even one to begin with—and they have to get reminded that the only weapon allowed is the trial bow.

From afar, Max quietly observes. Sitting down on a low wall, he has a perfect view of the hoops and the way Charles' hands clench on the string of the bow, as if he wants to rip it off, before he passes it down to the little mouse. She's the one to offer it to the first suitor. Her dirty blond hair catches the sun as she turns back to Charles, and it's as if she does not even need to look to know that he fails.

He does, of course. Can't even draw the string, tugging at it with such strength the veins of his forearms pop off, and yet, the string doesn't move an inch. Charles leaves him three tries before dismissing him.

Up from here, the day is long.

Not only does the string barely move, and the number of arrows stays untouched, but the few who successfully tug it don't do it for long enough to notch the arrow and shoot it. The nervousness of the suitors has slowly morphed into a monstrous beast made of frustration and humiliation. Charles has not moved. From his own Olympus, his eyes don't leave the bow, as if these men who could barely draw would suddenly break it in half.

"It's impossible," grumbles one man next to Max, and his neighbor nods in return. Probably motivated by the support, he says louder: "It's impossible! They must have given us a fake bow."

"Yeah, how can so many warriors fail? It's suspicious."

"Especially after the shroud, he—"

Charles clicks his teeth together. "Not only me, but I'm sure many of you have seen my husband use this bow. Have you not slandered his name enough? You who want to rule Monaco, how dare you pretend to this title if you cannot even draw a bow?"

After that, it's quiet. The following attempts are half-hearted, and even if it's clear that many want to protest, it's hard to do so after being beaten by an inanimate object, not even blessed by the Gods. A simple piece of wood against an army. It's almost poetic, in a sense, Max is here and not here, and even in his absence, he's a real pain in the ass.

Without any shame, Max observes the bleeding fingers and furrowed eyebrows and feels no compassion. It's a bit strange to have a cold heart. He isn't used to it yet, not in society, not when he's not alone on his boat or with dying men. A hole in the middle of the chest, which someone tried to fill with a rock both too big and too small—almost like having no chest at all. A mind without a body.

Finally, it's Max's turn.

The wood of the bow is smooth under his hands. Relishing in this reunion with an old friend, Max ignores the groans of impatience around him to take the time to check on it—whether the worms had been eating it or new scratches got onto its world-old arch. The clear care Charles had put into it warms his soul.

He's one of the last to go, and most have lost interest. Discreetly, after someone knocks a plant down and brings everyone's attention to him, Max puts his lips on the wood. It tastes like their bed.

The hood hides most of it anyway, and it seems even Charles had missed the weird moment because he doesn't say anything—even his sharp eyes have started to go glassy.

It doesn't need to be a spectacle, so Max doesn't make it one. The string goes easily with him when he tugs at it, and the arrows notch without a problem. When it finally slices through the air, it's almost as if Max can hear it whistling with joy, louder and louder with each hoop it passes through.

It's barely through the last hoop that Max has turned back to the audience of suitors, now staring at him in silence. Bemused. Not quite afraid, but they have time to be. Max doesn't dare look at Charles; instead, he reaches for the fibula on his shoulders and unpins the small thing with trembling fingers—excitement, maybe. Rage, most likely. It does have time to hit the ground, and the cape is off, waved like a war flag in front of him before being thrown to the side.

There's no time to shake anymore. He's getting rid of this cloak to wear another.

"I am Max, son of Sophie, husband of Charles, returned to my home. Doom is upon you."

The first arrow goes through the neck of a man he had decided to forget the name of. A friend, once. A dead man, now.

Blood gushes from his nostrils, and his heavy body hits the ground in complete silence, taking with it the table full of victuals. Wine and blood mingle together on the dusty ground, indistinguishable from one another; the bread, now soaked scarlet, matches the soiled roasted meat.

The scene is grotesque. Once the surprise has settled, the clever men try to search for weapons but find none—the only one is in Max's hands.

Max uses his bow for hunts. On the battlefield, he likes his sword better, feeling the blades and the leather digging into his palm, the blood and the sweat dripping down his wrist.

But this is not a fair fight. In front of him, the suitors start running amok, like a bunch of wild geese, pushing and panicking in the closed courtyard. There is no way out. The servants have already gone—probably under the orders of Charles, who has not moved, at least, from what Max can see from the corner of his eyes.

He's not the only one to notice, as one of the suitors stops before running toward Charles. He's stopped midway by an arrow in his leg and another in his waist. Barely anyone notices in the chaos, and his body gets trampled quickly.

Max doesn't like to play with his food. At the few who get close to him, he strikes them with the head of his bow, sharp and metallic, and pulls off the arrows from their bodies to use them again. The rest of them are quick business.

All these great warriors, all of those sons of good families, who have abused the hospitality of his house for so long, are falling on the stone of the courtyard Max built. In the back of his mind, Max is aware that his aim is clearer, cleaner, and the presence of Athena is guiding his revengeful hand.

Death is swift. Some of them do not deserve it, but Max is merciful enough to slice the necks of those still gasping for breath at his feet. Soon, the courtyard is quiet.

When Max looks at Charles, he expects many things: anger, betrayal, perhaps even joy.

As he looks deep into his beloved's eyes, for the first time in many decades, Max cannot read anything at all.

Charles' hands are steady during the vows. Stone-like, almost cold to the touch, as Max holds his wrist.

He's not wearing white this time. Instead, the red is so vibrant that the world has shifted to remold itself to fit Charles in it. The color of blood in a cup of wine, staining his lips after he raised his glass at the banquet. A short but only glimpse of his face; the veil is a silk crimson that hides Charles' expression from the rest of the world and even Max's eyes.

There was no proaulia and barely a gamos.

Charles got prepared by his servants; Max heard it through the grapevine—Andrea, who had come personally to check if it was truly him. He hadn't quite expected the reunion with his husband's closest servant and friend to be so emotional, but he admitted that he might have shed a few tears as Andrea embraced him like a small child.

Aphrodite herself had shown up as Max was shaving his beard with his dagger when preparing for the ceremony, and she had gasped in horror at the botched job—Max had refused for any servants to attend him once again. Naked as the day he was born, Max had no choice but to close his eyes and let his mother-in-law fuss over his terrible facial hair situation. Aphrodite has many vices, but letting one of her children marry an unkept man is not one of them; Max is unsure he even looked this good on the day of his first wedding.

Looking at the mirror, a stranger with his eyes had stared back at him. It's as if he never left. The intricately ornate cloak does not hide his identity this time; rather, it announces it quite loudly: Max, king of Monaco, son of Sophie, husband of Charles. Twice over.

It's not hard to make Charles look beautiful, but Max's breath shortens still every time he gets a glimpse of the bottom of his face. His necklace looks heavy enough to make a lesser man's head slump, but Charles stays tall, the crown on his head matching Max's garland. Bracelets shock against each other in a melody from another world.

A living statue, made of silk and marbles.

During the ceremony, the little mouse has stuck close to Charles—as close as one can be close in a wedding—and Max almost feels bad about the way she twists her hands against each other, if he were not living the moment he had been waiting for years.

Everything about this wedding is rushed, and Max cannot be thankful enough that the time was too short to invite half of the world to it. At the banquet hall, only half the tables are full. If it were up to Max, they would be all empty, and he would currently be in his bed with Charles, preferably with nothing, with grapes if Charles is hungry.

It doesn't seem the case, with the way Charles has barely eaten anything. He's still wearing his veil and hasn't spoken since they sat down. When Max had put down a plate with his favorite food in front of him, it was barely as if his finger twitched to reach it.

"Are you not hungry?" Max finally asks, but a boisterous laugh echoes at the same time. He sends an annoyed glare to the audience, who are too busy to watch the dancers in the middle of the room to care. Unsure whether Charles hadn't heard it or was ignoring him, Max let the topic drop. He will ask Andrea to send some food to their bedroom after the feast.

Despite the silence, it's not awkward. People come and go to greet Max, pretending that they missed him and are relieved he's back, but the glint of the sharp knives behind their backs is hard to hide. Max doesn't care. Not tonight. Not when Charles' clean nails finally reach for a fig, not even when Max isn't quick enough to catch him biting into it.

There will be plenty of times to deal with them. Max has no plans to leave anytime soon.

"We are leaving." Charles' singing voice has barely any time to reach Max's ears before Charles is up and already gathering his silks to leave. Pretending like he hasn't been waiting for this moment all night, heart in throat, Max gestures at Andrea something that he hopes looks like a request to bring food later, and doesn't give a single glance at the rest of their attentive audience.

In the middle of the chaos, someone whistles, clearly aimed at the newlywedded couple leaving for the night, and the following laughter tenses Max before he relaxes. All bark, no bite. No one will witness this night but them.

Until now, the dance was clear. The wedding, the feast, they've done it before. The night too. The first one. Somehow, this is the part of Max that is the most unsure about, like going on an adventure with no prior map to help him with.

He knows better than to act as if he's in conquered territories.

Ahead, Charles has been quietly leading him to his wing, the one with his secret den. He's already sat when Max enters the room, all silk and still. Max only hesitates for a few seconds before sitting next to him on the couch, the one he didn't dare touch the next time he was alone here with Charles.

They stay silent for a moment; the situation dawns on them. The absurdity of it, the first taste of silence after the whirlwind of Max's reveal.

Then, Max turns his whole body toward Charles.

"Shall I?" he asks, holding the bottom of the red veil hiding his husband's face. There's a terrible second where Max thinks he's going to say No before a slight, almost uncatchable nod moves the pile of fabric currently making Charles.

While he does not turn toward him completely, the slight acknowledgment is enough to give Max the last push.

With shaking hands, Max unveils his husband.

Sure enough, Charles is beautiful. His long lashes flutter for an instant, as his eyes adjust to the new light, while Max greedily takes him all in—his flushed cheekbones, his painted lips, his slight freckles on his nose. Each of his moles, untouched by time. His nose scrunches for an instant, and a flower blooms somewhere in the world.

With something close to desperation, Max let his hand rest on Charles' cheeks and wait for his dimples to appear under his trailing fingers. Instead, he gets a blank stare and eventually lets his hand fall on his lap when no more answers come.

It's not—

Could a reunion ten years in the waiting arrive too fast?

"I have one request," Charles says; blank, so blank like the ice in the winter.

"Whatever you want, husband." A mountain, an ocean, the stars in the sky, or his own head on a platter; Max would get Charles anything.

For the first time since Max won, some emotion flashes through Charles' face, so fast he could have imagined it. Instead, his long hand smooths an invisible crease on his robe before he asks:

"For our wedding night, can you move my marital bed to another room?"

Max feels his heart stop in his chest. "Move your bed."

"Indeed."

"Move your—who moved that bed?" is Max's first thought, other than What the hell? "Our bed, carved in the tree under which we met? That's what you're asking me to move? If this is some punishment on your part, I'd rather you hit me rather than—hurting me this way, Charles, if you cut down our tree, I don't know how—"

"It's you," Charles interrupts him in the middle of his rant. His eyes are wide, glassy, and sparkling with whole new constellations as he looks at Max. Out of breath, out of his mind; half-agony, half-hope. "It's really you! Max!"

The whiplash only lasts for a second after Charles throws himself in Max's arms, and he only stumbles backward before wrapping his arms around his waist so tight it must hurt. Burying his nose in Charles' hair—and oh Gods, Charles' hair, smelling like lavender and home—Max digs his fingers in Charles' skin like he could bury himself into it.

It's as if Max never properly breathed in the last ten years. The first gasp he takes as Charles is in his arms almost makes him collapse; air never tasted so pure, never filled his lungs as it did right now. It hurts. It hurts like a child finds his legs hurting after taking his first steps. It hurts as the ice feels itself melting in front of a brasero.

Charles is mumbling something into his skin that Max can't decipher, and he does not care about it—he's pretty sure he's doing the same, and he doesn't even know what he's saying.

There's something wet pressed to the side of his neck, and before Max knows it, it goes up, until Charles is kissing his face. He's everywhere—so fast that Max barely has time to understand where Charles is before he attacks another part of his face. He thinks he might even have had his cheek bitten at some point, but he cannot tell if the low throb on it is because of emotions or his husband's teeth.

Gods. His husband.

"You're here, you're here, you're here," Charles whispers between each kiss, and Max can't quite believe it himself.

As soon as Charles puts his lips long enough on Max's, he captures them in a searing one—maybe too rough for their first one, but just right for the violent, pent-up energy in his chest. Charles whimpers against his lips, and it's only then that Max calms down a little. His nails have dug so deeply into Charles' waist that he's unsure if he feels sweat or blood, so he starts gently caressing it as he switches to kissing Charles more gently and slowly.

The effect is immediate. If he thought he was holding Charles tightly before, it was not tight enough, as Charles practically crumbles on him. He's the most precious thing Max has ever held, and the weight of the task is crushing before making him a God.

"I'm sorry," Charles says. "I'm sorry for being so—cold, I couldn't believe it was truly you, I—"

"I can't believe I'm back either. Maybe I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

"Charles," Max tries to say, and he gets surprised at his own voice cracking. He hasn't cried in so long he thought he lost this capacity; the tightness in his throat is as surprising and strangely welcomed. In Charles' arms, he becomes human again. "I am not the same person who left," he admits, finally. He cannot lie to him, not anymore.

"Who is asking you to be? You are still my husband. You are—" This time, it's Charles who grips Max's head so hard it hurts. His eyes look almost crazed in the warm light of the candles, and Max can only watch, fascinated. His voice is firm. "Max, you are mine. If you do not know who to be, then be mine."

"Yes," Max says, releasing a breath held for too long without anywhere to go.

“What do you say to your wife?”

“Sorry, my love. I am home.”

Charles looks at him. He looks at him. He looks at him.

"Let's go to bed," he says. Close to an order, wrapped into something sweeter. Max would have listened to him even if he had barked it at him.

Waiting for them with a torch behind the door, Andrea pretends not to watch them as he shows them to their room with the light—patiently stopping when Max sweeps Charles off his feet to finish the journey and ignoring the giggles. When he leaves them at the door, sighing like a tired parent, his relieved smile is not hidden.

Like with the baths, Max's side of the bed is untouched. Bedside table sagging under all the things Max didn't have time to sort out before leaving, swords lying forgotten on the ground, the bottom of a candle, the only strange thing in the scene is the lack of dust.

Heart in throat, Max approaches the bed. Ten years is nothing for a tree. Max let his hand linger on the dark wood, feeling the cracks and ridges of it, his slow and steady heartbeat.

Thank you, he whispers. If he couldn't be here to guard Charles' night, he knew there was something ancient in this tree that would do it for him.

On his side, Charles is grumbling as he gets rid of all of his wedding attire. Some complex layering is annoying him enough that he glares at Max when he goes to help, as if suddenly being reminded of his treachery. "'I lost my name to the war,' you dramatic imbecile. And who names themselves Nobody?"

"Hmm. Long story."

Not wanting to spend any more time reminiscing about his time away from here, and with way better things to do, Max grabs Charles by the waist to bring him into a seething kiss.

Holding Charles again made something rise in his chest, something he had almost forgotten. Charles' tongue goes to search for his, and

His hand curls up around Charles' throat, harmless and possessive, and he eats every sound coming out of Charles' mouth with jealousy. Ignoring his whimpers, Max let his nose trail from his cheek to his jaw, shaved clean for the occasion. His teeth scratch the soft skin.

"What did you say about your lion? That he jumped at your throat?"

"Max—" Charles pants, his hands clenching awkwardly between fabric and skin on his shoulder as Max licks his neck.

"Shhh. My wife," Max whispers, "my beautiful wife. Only mine."

"Of course, always."

"Drove me crazy to see all these idiots lust over you. That they dared to think of lying with you in our bed, that they thought—"

"I could have been someone else's husband," Charles cuts him off, and Max blinks stupidly at him. "But I could only ever be your wife."

They stare at each other for a split second before Max half-throw Charles, half-flings himself on the bed. Charles almost hit his head on the headboard, his yelp of protest quickly shushed by Max pressing him into the mattress, his hands already undressing the rest of the clothes he didn't take off.

Their noses knock together, their teeth too, and Max bites Charles' lip too hard when he suddenly grabs his cock—his own chiton already discarded to the side, he helplessly starts to rut into Charles' hand under his kisses, burying his face in his neck.

"Max," Charles calls for him, and he has to find all the strength in the world to detach himself enough to look at him. Next to Charles' undereye mole, a drop of blood makes him wince, and Max has barely enough time to wonder where it comes from before Charles is thumbing under his nose. It comes out red. "You're bleeding."

Dazed, Max let himself be brought closer by Charles' gentle hands, and flutter his eyes closed as Charles licks it clean, as his cats did once between themselves. A slow, intimate grooming.

"Hm—You don't mind it, do you?" Max asks quietly. When he peeks at Charles' expression, the guilty flush on his cheek makes Max bark a surprised laugh. Of course. "Did you like the bloodbath I made in your honor?"

"It's going to be a pain to deal with the families," Charles mumbles, trying to hide from Max's eyes, but he doesn't let him.

"You didn't say no. I took Troy for you. Did that turn you on?"

"No," Charles says, this time more firmly. "It turns me on that you're here to talk about it."

Charles rut forward against Max's naked thigh, and the hot, wet feeling of his cock on cold skin makes them both gasp. It's hard for Max to concentrate on anything when Charles lies under him, stretched out in some obscene painting, a nymph or a siren—a creature he wouldn't mind letting himself be eaten by. A peak of a pink tongue, and an elegant arch of the back, a feast and a savior.

Charles is hot on the inside as Max's fingers, carefully oiled up, slide easily into his hole. The slow pulse around him gets intoxicating as it matches Charles' slow caresses on his face—it's the closest he's been to him in ages, and it doesn't feel enough. He wants to devour him, to feast on his inside; he wants for Charles to take him, and he wants to feel whole again.

A starving beast, and its master shepherd; a devastating sun and a drowning moon; a lion and a doe.

"Fuck, it's been so long, I think I became a virgin again," Charles groans when Max puts a third finger in him, wiggling to make himself more comfortable.

The thought of taking Charles Leclerc's virginity not once but twice pours hot liquid into Max's stomach.

With a swift move, he inverts their position, making Charles sit on top of him. If he's surprised by the move, Charles doesn't show it and takes it in stride, immediately adjusting to rub his cock on Max's stomach, as his naked ass teases Max in a brush. He's so hot, like ice you take without any gloves. Max grabs his ass, and his hands almost slip on the sweat.

Teeth grinding so hard he thinks he might be losing one soon, Max carefully observes Charles' gentle hand on his cock guides it to his hole—and misses at the last moment, letting it slide against his ass and making Max groan and buck his hip up desperately.

Almost cruelly, Charles laughs, spreading his fingers on Max's jaw and grabbing until he's back at looking at him, only him. His smile is sweet despite his slow, torturous rolls of hips. "Sorry, my love, you are just so sweet like this," he says, leaning to steal a kiss on Max's pursed lips. Afraid of what he might do, Max doesn't open his mouth, even as Charles licks it languorously, his nails scratching at Max's jaws and neck.

It's barely as if he notices when the tender warmth of Charles' palm gets replaced by a searing hot hold around his dick, and this time, he can't help but gasp, and Charles pounces on the opportunity like a predator.

Max has barely felt the touch of any human in years, and suddenly, he's drowning in it—in Charles' scent, touch, love. In his wet tongue, in his tight ass, in every nerve ending of their bodies.

Maybe it is he who became a virgin again; maybe it's their first time, for their new life.

He's almost not close enough, but Max doesn't have the patience for that tonight.

Charles is almost too slow with it, taking all the time he needs to reach the deepest part of himself—Max an object to his desire; the only thing he wants to be in the world.

Sitting back up, Max kisses Charles' chest desperately, mouthing at his nipples and biting him to be rewarded with a small slap at the side of his head; gentle in its reprimand, stern in its affection.

After that, Max doesn't last long—can't, in fact. Falling back on Charles, his husband laughs against his mouth as Max's thrusts become faster, messier, sometimes slipping out of Charles' hole but somehow always finding back it's way back inside.

When Max comes, it's sudden and abrupt, and he bites Charles' neck so violently that he can feel Charles spilling on their stomach too.

Both of their bodies, no longer as young and resilient as they were, shake with the rest of their strength they have left, so Max pulls Charles by the waist to be close to him. Everything is sticky and gross, and Charles bumps their noses together, giggling at Max going cross-eyed.

If Max has died at sea, or in his room, and if this is the last good thing he's allowed for the rest of his existence, then he'll endure torture for a million years after that.

"I missed you. I do not wish to be parted from you ever again," he says, and his voice cracks and weavers, a mast after a storm.

"Do not worry, my heart, we have a lot of time," Charles whispers, passing his fingers through Max's sweaty hair, sticking to his skin like salt in the ocean. "We have all the time in the world."

The days blend like two rivers flowing into the ocean, and Max wishes for it to last forever.

They do not leave their bed. Really, they don't need to; food appears mysteriously at the end of their bed when they sleep, and cleaning up seems unnecessary when the only thing on their mind is the body next to them, in its most primal form, and instincts. Two animals finding each other back. Naked, dirty, curling, and becoming one.

Most of their time is spent talking. More than physical intimacy, this is maybe what Max had missed the most about them: knowing that someone cared about his day, in the little details, and that he cared too. That his world became a bit bigger without crossing any seas, that he became better by his mere presence. Slipping back into the version of himself he's the least familiar with, less beast, more skin and bones, more Charles' than anything else. Getting lulled to sleep by some palace's gossip, a soothing hand in his hair.

In truth, Max could hear Charles talk about what he ate for dinner for hours, but he has ten years to catch up. Five, really, as he could recite by heart every letter he got from him while he was at the front. But it isn't the same to hear Charles' singing accent, in his own words, with all its flaws and turns.

He loves him.

It's so easy to fall back into it, it's almost scary.

Max loves Charles like he blinks and breathes. Loves him like his heart had been molded in the shape of his soul; loves him and realizes he doesn't know how to do anything else better than this.

Poets reinvent love in ways Max lacks the ability to do. He loves him like the earth loves the sky, in the ancient way that created the stars and the people.

The few times Max dreams, it's of the doe. He's back in the clearing, and the doe has a lion lying at her feet, bleeding out. The slow rise and fall of the lion's crumpled form make the ground shake, but she stands tall.

Max is bad at dream interpretations, but the doe has a mouth full of blood, and the lion looks the happiest whenever the doe kneels to lap at his wounds.

When he wakes up, Charles is lying naked next to him, his ass covered by a light linen sheet. The muscles of his back are relaxed, but strong, and Max doesn't resist the urge to let his fingers trail on his spine. Tracing down the slow slope leading to the small of his back before it rises back again with his ass, which he only brushes without truly touching, not wanting to wake him up.

Charles has always been a long, deep sleeper. At first, it even scared Max, and he had to check whether or not he was still sleeping after he had made enough noise to wake up the whole palace, but his husband was still peacefully drooling on his pillows. He didn't know real fright until he had to watch his husband leave for the battlefield—hoping he would wake up in time to reach for the blade under his pillow if needed to.

Avoiding any responsibilities does not bother Max, but Andrea has been slipping a few notes next to the food platters, and Charles is sleeping so deeply that he decides it might as well be the moment.

The stone of the ground is cold, but the air still brings some warm breeze, so Max only put on a chiton and, after some hesitation, a red chlamys. Gifted by Charles, waiting for him in his chest.

The weight of royalty feels easier to wear after days of being stripped bare and reinvented.

Max leaves a kiss on Charles' naked shoulder before closing the door quietly.

Andrea is easy to find, and if he's surprised to see Max, he doesn't show it. Knowing his time is short, he catches Max up quickly on the current concerns of the palace and isle with papers already prepared and some ready to sign.

Even if Max already knew that his husband was competent enough to run a kingdom alone, it is another thing to observe it in the reports; except for some minor conflicts and a clear slump in resources, Charles had found enough clever but short-term solutions to prevent everyone from starving. In bed, Charles had already detailed most of his plans, his failures, and successes.

No growth but no decline. It was more than Max expected.

They do not discuss the suitors, nor the pile of letters Andrea is purposefully ignoring in the corner.

Before leaving, Max takes one letter from the top of the table. Reads the first lines. Throw it back onto the pile.

"Burn it all," he concludes, his chlamys whipping the air behind him as he exits the room.

Two hours must have passed since he left his bed. Perhaps less, but Max has been having trouble with time whenever he's not with Charles—either seconds drag into hours, or he blinks and realizes he has been standing without thinking or doing anything for a while. Almost out of his body. Only with Charles, time seems manageable again.

The bedroom is empty. Bed made by servants, clothing chest closed. Where chaos is gone, Charles is too, so Max doesn't linger. He has spent enough time in rooms without his husband.

He doesn't even have to wonder about his next destination, as a little spy is lingering in front of his door when he goes out. Long wheat-colored hair let loose on her frail shoulders, with a pinning glare; their little mouse is wearing this shift of regime gracefully.

"Good morning," Max says, hesitantly. "Have you seen Charles?"

She doesn't sneer at him, but it's a close thing. "I was under the impression you're the one who saw the most of him recently."

"Yes. But he's not in our room anymore."

"And I suppose a few hours apart is already too much?" She rolls her eyes. Max hesitates to simply leave to spare himself from living through the humiliation of talking to a teenager before she adds, "He sent me to tell you he's in the garden."

"Oh, very well. Would you do me the honor of walking with me?"

The request visibly takes her aback. Unlike her previous serious attitude, she blinks and shifts her eyes from left to right as if she's going to get punished, and Max is about to tell her it's not an order when she finally nods.

"Fine."

Max himself doesn't know why he asked. He's fond of her, but it's unclear if the feeling is shared—and she had no reason to. But she's also a part of Charles' life now, and he would hate to miss yet another part of it, even if it came in a snarky child.

A snarky, prying child.

"Did you have fun spying on me?" Max asks as they turn a corner. The scene is reminiscent of the first time they met, but this time the little mouse is at his side rather than guiding him ahead. He doesn't really mind it, especially knowing everything he did was reported to Charles directly. It's almost cute, in fact.

She looks pensive before shrugging.

"Not really. You were quite boring."

"That's good, no?"

"In a boring way, yes."

It makes Max laugh. If he had been bored watching Charles' closed door, he couldn't imagine how much worse it must have been to watch someone staring at a door. His beard had grown in the past few days he spent without shaving, and as he absentmindedly scratches it, he realizes it's the first time he's speaking with the little mouse without his cloak. He's not even sure where his cloak is, but he imagines Charles will ask it to be burned as soon as possible.

Maybe the little mouse will be the one setting fire.

The young girl is still a mystery to him. He wonders what Charles had told her about him; if some lingering fondness had stained his image in her mind. If not, he would do his best to prove himself.

"Did Charles make you watch many people?" Max asks, conversationally.

"Charles didn't make me watch anything. He didn't even want me to do it in the first place," the little mouse snaps, defensive. "But it was… I didn't like how they all came and treated him the way they did. I asked for this."

"Of course you did."

After that, they do not try to branch to another topic for the rest of the journey. The day is early, but nice; the dark hallways look bigger with the beams of light sneaking by the open windows. Outside, the shrieks and noises of children playing echo on the island, and a raven croaks nearby.

In front of the garden's entrance, the little mouse stops and turns to look deep into his eyes. Her iris has some green in it.

"You have been gone for a long time. A lot of things have changed," the little mouse says, with all the wisdom of a thirteen-year-old. "I know it better than you."

"Is this a threat?"

"It is what you make of it."

"Good. Keep that up, little mouse."

Max enters the garden, leaving the little mouse behind, loudly choking with rage.

What he then sees is like an apparition. Charles is seated in the middle of a bench all alone, or if there was anyone else, Max couldn't see them, dazzled as he was by his figure.

Not only is Charles dressed for the first time in days, but he has picked one of the traditional clothes of Monaco—flowing and sheer, dipping down in a waterfall of silk on the back, showing off his strong back adorned with a small gold chain tracing down his spine.

It's easy to forget that Max had married into Monaco's ancient royalty, but he can see the shadow of all kings and queens in Charles' thin wrists and strong fingers plucking at his lyre. As quietly as he can, to not disturb him, Max approaches him, letting the song take over the whole backyard.

The melody is unrecognizable. Not to Max's ears, at least, but he hasn't heard someone singing for a while. His husband's even less.

When he pauses to listen to the lyrics, the picture painted gets clearer.

It speaks of longing. Of home being far away, even between the four walls of the house that the narrator built. Of the cruel sea, taking men not to give them back, and of the spouse cursing them on the beach. Of time, how it spills between one's fingers.

Of waiting. Of hope. Of faith.

Max crouches to kiss the back of Charles' neck, feeling the vibration of his song under his lips. It stops before he parts his mouth from his scented skin, and a hand curls up in his hair to keep him there. Needing very little to keep it on, Max switches his attention to where Charles cranes his neck to let him access more of his neck, as Max's hands sneak into the open back of his robe to feel his waist.

He's cold, as always, and as he relaxes in Max's hand, the only sound in the garden becomes his quiet pants and the whistling of a bird.

"Why did you stop playing? You got better."

"I was already good."

"Yes. Now you're great."

Charles scoffs but turns to wrap his arms around Max's neck, so he must not be too cross at him.

"I had a lot of uninterrupted time to practice," Charles murmurs against his lips. Max has nothing to say for his defense, so he goes to steal more kisses from him. For he was only a man, and seeing his wife playing and singing made him want to keep him like a bird in a cage, a pretty, golden one. Still, a cage.

There isn't enough gold in the world to contain Charles, however. Max is lucky to have gotten the closest thing to it.

"What's the name of the little mouse?" Max asks, and the blank stare he gets in return makes him laugh. He kisses right in between Charles' eyebrows, where a frown is starting to form. "Your little spy."

"Oh. Maya," Charles says, blinking like he is just waking up from a dream. The mention of the little mouse—Maya—seems to snap him right back in reality, and he drops his hold on Max to straighten up and soothe his clothes, messed up by Max's wandering hands. His cheeks are flushed with a pale pink that makes Max want to bite him to see if it tastes like peaches.

Instead, he settles for caressing it with a finger, Charles' subtle stubble scratching his fingers. If Charles doesn't want to be under Max while talking about his protege, he can respect that.

Protege is the strongest euphemism Max has thought of.

"I can't believe you basically adopted a child during my absence."

"She reminded me of you." Charles closes his eyes, leaning against Max's touch. "You were only gone for a few months, and it was as if you took the best part of me with you. I was quite horrible, honestly, and I believe Andrea would have tried to poison me if I kept going on like this.

"I never truly held a child before, you know? When they handed her to me, she was tiny for her age, almost the size of a baby. I held her, and she looked at me. Do you think you frowned a lot when you were little? I think you did. Because when she frowned, I saw you."

They kept trying to send flowers, Charles had told him. They thought you were dead, and they tried to send me flowers, and I wanted to tell them: send him back. Keep everything, take my heart, take my island, take my head, but do not grieve him before I do, and give him back.

Max isn't proud of many things, but he's glad he was able to prove Charles right.

"I am what you make of me," Max whispers, kissing the back of Charles' hand reverently. "I only truly exist within your eyes, your mind, or I do not wish to exist at all."

"Well, that's good that I am always thinking of you, then, you will live on forever."

"If you keep on writing those songs, I think I will. Should I do the same for you?"

"No, you are terrible at it. Keep on commissioning it, though. I like seeing my face in the garden," Charles teases. "Let me be the one to tell everyone about your path to the Elysium, and maybe I'll include myself in it too."

"After everything," Max trails off, looking at the sea, a strand of blue above the green garden, "I'm afraid the Elysium won't be for me."

"Then we'll go down in Tartarus holding hands. You're not getting rid of me so easily."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

When they kiss, a simple press of lips turning into a slow dance of tongue and hands, Max finally knows.

He's home.