He opened his mouth as he stood in the coldest shower of all time, letting it rain on his face, his tongue, even down his throat. And he swallowed it like ice to keep himself cool, his body shriveling to seek refuge from the chill. Balthazar opened his eyes after the retreat of the towel, staring at himself in the glass, his caramel skin apple-red, softening slowly as he began to thaw. It hurts. His skin buzzes and hums as it comes alive, warming, heating. It kicks off the frost of a morning hard-felt, of loss, of embarrassment, and of regret.
He clothed himself not in the armor of his station (where he is most comfortable, behind the wall of mesh steel), or in the clothes of state (that is just another cage). Instead, he chooses simple fabrics. It is a sign of vulnerability, a sign of genuine accountability, and of simply being Present. He wears caramel apple colored leathers and boots with a vanilla cream shirt, the silk raw and beyond soft. It is crumpled, rather than shiny, and it softens the strong build that lies beneath it. It is there; it is not hidden or disguised. But neither is he puffed out in put-upon show of force and strength. He is... what he is. A young man, a beautiful man, a thoughtful man, and... yes... a strong man.
His amber-colored hair is wavy and tousled, though it is kept short, and is still damp in places -- his shower not that long ago. His eyes, amber now in the color of harvest, deep and resonant with the burning resins of a darker year, are not so much withdrawn as looking inward. They look to the challenges of his own heart, his mind, his soul, as he steps into the royal corridor and toward the chambers of his brother, the future King of All.
Standing at the door, his hand hesitates a moment. But then it falls in a polite knock. It is an hour or so before the appointed meeting time. Who knows what state things might be in? But he doesn't worry about what might lurk on the other side of the doorway. He stands there in his open-souled humility, knocking and waiting to see if he will be permitted to enter.
He slept as hard as granite, with dreams of strange places and strangers with knives in their hands and smiles on their faces. He is carved up in his dreams, the way a sheep is among wolves; here, his smile, there, his integrity, there, his soul. They drew lots for everything he had and was, and waking is something almost of a relief: or would be, if the dreams were new. They are not. They are old acquaintances to him, and he comes up out of sleep with a weariness that looks like carelessness but is transparent reality that he is worn bone-thin.
He is still dressed in silk, although only half-dressed. His shoes are - he isn't sure where his shoes are, and his shirt's draped over the back of the chair the way you might fly a flag of victory and conquest. He's in the High King-to-be's bed, after all. But who is to say who is conquered? He rises from the bed and rakes his hands through his hair, exhaling as he seeks and finds his shirt, pulling it on and wandering forth without bothering with buttons. "Hey. Where're my shoes?" Pres thinks for a moment, and decides that this is an ungracious entry to conversation. He goes over to Gruffydd and winds his arms loosely around the Crown Prince and Regent's shoulders and nuzzles him from behind, eyes closed as he inhales his lover's scent.
"I hate waking up," he murmurs, taking a moment to suck on an earlobe and then forcing himself to unwind his arms. "Anything to eat? I feel like hell."
Gruffydd smiles, putting down his book -- it is an actual story, and not papers related to work or work relating to papers and he reaches up to embrace you, even as you drape your arms over his shoulders. He chuckles, ticklish, as you toy with his earlobe. "Falling asleep is much nicer, that is true. Though, I would be quite sorrowful indeed if you did not wake up."
Tilting his head back, a signal for a kiss, he makes a gesture with his other hand and supper appears. There are traditional items from the Northeast, from Boston. It seems all the more fantastical here. "There is always something to eat," Gruffydd begins.
...and then there is a knock on the door...
He pats your arm, sitting forward. It has to be a family member. The guards do not show themselves and servants never really knock, though they do announce themselves. "Yes?" Gruffydd asks, glancing to you.
Through the door: "It's Balthazar. I know I'm early. I would like to talk to you...and to Preston if I may... before uncle comes..."
Looking to you, Gruffydd relaxes back on the sofa. "Certainly, Bal... come in, please."
Balthazar enters quietly, no sign of armor or wings. There is, however, a face full of contrition. He looks to you both as he enters, then pauses to turn and quietly close the door behind him. "Thank you..."
"Not at all," Gruffydd says easily. "Want something to eat...?"
Balthazar looks to Preston a moment, then to his brother. "Thank you, maybe later. I'm pretty full on crow at the moment." He pats his stomach, then exhales. He looks at you both, then focuses his amber attention, warm, onto Preston. "I ...really want to... and really need to apologize, Preston. And I wanted to make sure you were... okay."
He sits down to begin eating with a grateful expression as you turn your attention to the door. He is surprised, really, at how hungry he is; he sits, picking up his knife and fork, then puts them down again and self-consciously buttons up his shirt. One may dine without a shirt, or with a shirt. One may not dine with a shirt unbuttoned, like some common hooligan.
His fingers pause on the buttons at the name and voice, then shrug slightly and resume their buttoning. His hair is mussed, and he's half-dressed, but he looks up to meet Balthazar's gaze. "Just woke up is all. Haven't eaten yet." Do we really need to do this? Put each other through the painful scrutiny of apologies and magnanimity? But he doesn't say it aloud, or even project it. "I'm okay." He smiles very faintly, very narrowly. "You waited until the door was closed to let go. I and my internal organs appreciate the lack of perforation."
After all, one can't get that lucky twice, can one? He picks up his fork now, spearing a buttered scallop. He waves it idly at Balthazar, then eats it. "...So what's the deal? Because I doubt you think I'm going to be sitting here holding a grudge and plotting ways of killing you. I respect my sister's temper, you know." He smiles again, just slightly, and the silver in his eyes glints. In a way, this is what he was trained for; and suddenly, it clicks into place. "Come on, sit down. Have you ever had real Boston baked scallops? I bet you haven't. You have to try 'em."
Balthazar knows the easiness is as much an act as the hatred, but he comes over anyway. It is disarming, which is the point. But he doesn't allow himself to be distracted from what he feels he needs to do. "i haven't, no. I've only been to Boston the one time," he says quietly. "Thanks." He glances to his older brother, then to Preston. "It bothers me, even if it doesn't bother you."
He exhales as he takes a seat on the chair opposite his brother and you. "I... get what you're trying to do between you and me. I don't have an issue with you hating me or pretending to hate me or whatever it is you are doing now. It serves a purpose for you, I understand, and for the ...larger picture of things." Again, he glances between the two of you. His expression is intense as he leans forward, and it shows his upset, his frustration, his doubt, his anxiety. It's all there, layers over the beauty like emotional sediment. "What ...caused me to ... explode was...a feeling of helplessness, Preston. Powerlessness. I am told that Maddie is in danger, my family," he looks to his brother, "...and I can't do anything about it? And I'm not like you... and I'm not like Gruffydd. There are things I don't see, or... I feel I don't see them well. And those things are the things upon which her safety, my brother's safety, all depends. When I said what I said about... blowing you up? That was not how I meant it. I meant to say... that no matter how physically powerful I may be, no matter how much magical potential I have, I do not have what you have. I do not have that vision and, quite frankly, I don't have the intellect. When you told me your concerns, I felt weak, stupid for not seeing them or thinking of them, or assuming, even, that they were there, and a little bit emasculated, to tell you the truth. I am sorry for saying things the way I did in that moment, and I am very sorry if I made you anxious by blowing up my own room. I'm also sorry that you are going to have to bear the burden of your guise with me. I cannot pretend to dislike you. Without truth, Preston, I am nothing."
Gruffydd remains quiet through his brother's emotional speech. He doesn't plate food. He doesn't butt in. He doesn't cast looks in either direction as if following a tennis match. He is there, open, listening, and as Balthazar admits his truth there is only compassion. He would pull his brother in for a hug, but he doesn't interrupt their conversation. Gruffydd defers to Preston with a glance.
He ignores your doubt, your fear, your frustration, your confusion in favor of setting you up with a plate of scallops and some crusty brown bread and an ear of corn, slathered in butter. "Start on this. You'll feel like a new man." Pres looks up and gives you half a smile. Go on. Eat."
He sits back, then, picking up a glass of Sam Adams. "I told you I can do it. You don't have to. Look, we all bring out own skills to the party, okay? Me, I can't go supernova," he shrugs, "and I'm going blind. But before that, my mother pretty much made sure that I learned at the knee of every congresscritter and senator and whatever you can think of. And, of course, it was always my job to protect my sisters. So certain things ... they're second nature."
He leans back in his chair, looking at Balthazar. "Or, if you want the dirtier version of the story, I can't turn it off. What I do, the way I think, the way I see things - the most I can do is affect a reticence and remove myself from the equation. He," he jabs his thumb over his shoulder in Gruffydd's direction, "is the first person to see the real me outside of my immediate family in probably ten years. Don't get me wrong, I had friends before the accident. I had," and his smile is a shiny, Hollywood-for-president smile, "lots of friends." He turns the smile off.
"If you can't be anyone except who you are and you are afforded the luxury of truth, then enjoy it." Pres picks up his beer, taking a sip. "Meh, it's watered-down horse piss, but it's my watered-down horse piss, y'know what I'm saying? - The question at this point is, Balthazar, from where I sit, anyway, how much do I tell you? Because yeah, I see all this crap, I know what could be coming down the pipeline at any given time. But it puts me in a catch-22. If I tell you, you can't pretend things. I don't know how well you'd do, how comfortable you'd be even pretending you don't know things. If I don't tell you, how much are you going to resent me if and when you find out that I solved for x and didn't tell you? Because, and no offense, but one shower of exploding glass is about as many as I expect I can reasonably figure on avoiding."
And you are not stupid, brother. The thought is conveyed in a look. It is softly put in the air, like a hand to the shoulder. Nor weak. And certainly not emasculated. There is a hint of a smile on Gruffydd's face and in the deep glimmer of violeted eyes.
Balthazar glances to Gruffydd as Preston loads up a plate. He is not going to turn down food, no matter that his appetite is gone with the glass. He gives his attention back to Preston, just starting to pick at the food a little. It does smell good. "It was fine to ...just be myself before I was with anyone else," he says. "Now, even though that's how I feel, I don't know that it's the right feeling to follow. I'm a king... I'm not a very good king yet, but then I'm still without a kingdom so it's rather hard to learn how. I'm still following my energy instead of leading it. I ... didn't see this coming. I didn't see any of this coming. And ... I appear to be adjusting poorly." He almost smiles. "I would like to change that. Now, I will never be as good at is as you or Gillian or Gruffydd or Aeron or Bran. My personality is my personality. My energy is ... what it is. It shines a light on things, not holds it in political subterfuge. But I feel I do need more skill in that area."
He tries the scallops, looking at them after a moment. He is suddenly starving, he realizes. "Is this something, do you think, that you could help me develop? Or at least begin to develop? I know you have a reputation to protect. We would have to step out of Time but...I guess what it comes down to, Preston, is the way to answer your question is to begin to develop a political sense. Until then, I don't know that I can really answer that. This is really good, by the way, thank you."
Gruffydd lets the two of you negotiate this between yourselves. He remains seated and present, but he does not interfere. He begins to help himself to some of the finest of Boston.
Balthazar looks up from the scallops to Preston. "I want to at least know what I don't know, you know?" And that makes him smile a little. "I don't want to be a hinderance to him," he says of his brother, looking to him. "I want to do whatever I can do. And for that ... I have to get comfortable, I guess. And I have no trouble not speaking, believe it or not. It is outright fabrication that is difficult for me...mostly."
He chews on a scallop, watching you through the empty mask he wears. He lets you speak, eating and allowing you to voice your thoughts and concerns. "Don't worry about my reputation. I can spin anything," Pres answers you. His tone is devoid of boast; it's matter of fact, and nothing more. "You're welcome. Thought you'd like it."
He watches you, not bothering to disguise the fact, gaze steady. "I can help you, if you think you can take it. I'm more concerned about how you're going to react to stuff. Because I don't think you're going to like much of it."
"I don't normally make a habit of blowing things up," Balthazar notes as steadily. "I am ...usually in better control of myself. The day after a great transformative experience, and coming off of five days of complete bed-rest, was perhaps the wrong time to hear about threats to the woman I love. And ... even though it was, I should have been in better control of my faculties. Normally, I sweat out the excess energy...and meditate... but... not this week."
He sops up some of the corn's butter with the bread and looks up at Preston with something of a slim smile. "I haven't liked dying. I haven't liked almost dying. I haven't enjoyed feeling every atom in my body reaching fusion at solstice... but I managed to survive these things. It's not really about what I like at this point. It's about what is important. What is needed. And ensuring that I am the best possible Sun King I can be... for me, for Madison, and for my brother's future."
"Okay," Pres answers simply. He has no idea what to say to what you're talking about - he doesn't really know what the hell you are talking about - so he lets it rattle off his skin like peas off a colander. "When do you want to start?"
He is, quite suddenly, exhausted; as drained of energy as when he first came here. But he doesn't say anything, and he hides it with a fall of eyelashes as he picks up his beer again. It's one of the first lessons you learn, in politics: how to conceal what you really think and feel. "And what do you want to start with?"
Balthazar chuckles a little, his mood seeming to lift slightly. "How about we start at the beginning, with the basics. Politics 101. I don't think I want to battle the Wests in honors courses."
Posted by rowan at December 02, 2009 10:42 AM
