I summoned you, please come to me
Don't bury thoughts that you really want

In the middle of the night, oh
These burning flames, these crashing waves
Wash over me like a hurricaneI captivate, you're hypnotized
Feel powerful, but it's me again...

⚜️⚜️⚜️

WPOV

Track: MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Elley Duhé

⚜️⚜️⚜️

The Ninth of September...

I don't really have the right to complain, anyway.

Considering how privileged I am to live in a palace like this, and how lucky I am to know that I will never have to worry about finding a job or providing for myself, I really won a sort of lottery when it comes to quality of life. And, really, I'm happy that I'm the prince—it means that one day, I might finally be able to put my ideas into action to try to help the kingdom.

Unfortunately, there are just a couple of...snags.

The snags usually come in the form of violent outbursts that remind me that although I might be a prince, I am by no means powerful—I have, in fact, no power at all to stop any of it.

I'm not sure what drew me to the kitchens that first time so many months ago, but it is now a routine that keeps me going throughout the day.

I don't often see Nico—I learned his name a few days after he started inviting me to work with him—during the daytime, so I assume he mostly works the night shifts. When I do see him, we very politely pretend not to know each other.

I've been preparing for my coronation for the last year or so, and today is no different. (Really, I've been preparing my whole life, but only recently has it been labeled as for my coronation.)

My tutor, Athena Wisely, was a lonely woman. Her husband had run off with her daughter several years ago, and rumors have spread about the troublesome groups that her daughter has been seen hanging around. Athena, however, was a staunch advocate of following the rules, which is probably how she was promoted so easily to the position of royal tutor in the first place.

"Recite it again," she orders me, so I rattle off the words of the constitution—I have it memorized so well that I don't even really have to think about it when I recite it anymore. It's muscle memory.

Athena hums her approval, and we move on.

"Recite the laws on travel in and out of the country," Athena tells me, and I scowl.

"That's ridiculous," I tell her. "There's, like, a thousand laws about that."

"Two thousand three hundred forty-four," Athena corrects. "Better start listing them, unless you'd prefer to be here all night?"

I groan, but for the sake of being able to get out of here before next year, I start talking. I talk as fast as I can, trying to list them in the order that they were passed for the sake of not losing track of which ones I've said already.

This is the good part of my day—the part where I feel like I'm working toward something, toward a future where I can make things better at last. Athena likes to tell me that every king believes they are making the kingdom better, but I like to tell her that not every king actually cared that much so long as the coffers never ran dry.

And because this is the good part of my day, I put my all into it, throwing myself into the texts I have to study in the hopes that perhaps they might help me keep my sanity in the confines of this castle.

"You skipped one," Athena interrupts. "The Law of XX32 on immigration of expecting mothers from hostile nations."

"I am pretty confident I said that one," I argue, sitting up in my desk and giving her an annoyed look. "Like, really confident."

"False confidence does not make a good ruler," Athena informs me. "Start again."

I groan even louder and let myself fall forward until my forehead is resting against the wood of the desk.

And then I start again.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

The Twelfth of September...

I wake up in a cold sweat.

It happens every night. You would think I would stop being so surprised to be awoken by some terrible nightmare after so many restless nights, but I fear I have never really grown used to it.

What I have grown used to, however, is attempting to calm my breathing again in the darkness of my bedroom, alone. I given myself a few minutes to calm down some, and then I reach up and touch my face. As usual, the tears are there.

I don't bother trying to go back to sleep—when the dreams are too vivid, there's no use. Instead, I grab a set of clothing—whatever I can find that's not too snobbish—and put it on quickly, and then I head out to go find Nico.

Several months ago, I would have told you I was setting out to go find the kitchens, and it would have been the truth. A couple of months after that, I would have told you I was setting out to go find the kitchens, and it would have been a lie. Now, I don't bother lying—the kitchens are not nearly as calming to me as the man inside them.

So I walk through the corridors with dark brown eyes in mind. The castle is mostly quiet at this hour, so if I walk quickly and carefully enough, I don't have to run into anyone, and no one other than Nico and I have to know that I so frequently break down in the middle of the night.

The corridors are long and winding, lined with portraits of my family lineage. There's one of my mother somewhere among them, but I hardly remember her. My father's is in his office—and I'll get a portrait on the day of my coronation.

The picture frames alone must cost a fortune, I muse as I take a staircase down and down and down into the lower levels of the castle. I wonder how much they're worth—though, in the grand scheme of the decadence of the castle, the picture frames are probably not our biggest problem.

The lower levels aren't generally as lavish, so long as you stay away from the hallways visited by most guests. If you take the stairs even farther than that, into the absolute lowest level, then there are no decorations at all, and the lighting isn't as good—many of the flames in the torches on the walls have gone out, and there are no lanterns.

I push open the heavy kitchen door. The kitchen is more well-lit than the rest of the floor, thanks to Nico. He keeps candles around the room, casting the whole place in an orange-ish glow. There's a window, too, that lets the moonlight in, which also helps.

Today, Nico is wearing his gloves. I hate those things. I keep trying to convince him not to wear them, but he always reminds me patiently that he cannot disobey the law.

"Hello," I greet. "What are we working on tonight?"

He nods at me and then gestures at the table—he's arranging breakfast items on a tray. "Hello. I'm finishing up breakfast right now. You're early—I haven't even started the rolls yet."

So I sidle up next to him and help him arrange pastries on the platter. "You know I would never report you for taking off those gloves, right?"

"I cannot—"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, shaking my head. "I know. But...if you ever want to, don't even hesitate, alright? I would never hold that sort of thing against you. It's a stupid law, anyway—and misinformed."

We finish the tray quickly with the two of us working; Nico gives it a quick once-over to make sure it's ready for tomorrow, and then he covers it and places it in a storage cabinet where he always puts the breakfast items for the next day.

"Do you think my dad would notice if we just, like, used the rolls he didn't eat yesterday? I mean, so much of this food never even gets eaten..." I trail off as Nico hauls a sack of flour onto the counter and begins measuring it out. He glances at me and then toward the salt, so I take the order to go grab some.

"The food gets eaten," he tells me. "The extras go to us—the nekos."

I measure out the salt. "Oh, really? Is that...a good thing or a bad thing?"

Nico does that terribly passive aggressive thing where he shoots me an extremely judgmental look and then tells me he would never criticize royalty.

"So, a bad thing then," I deduce. "I mean...at least the food doesn't go to waste though, right? I would have assumed it would be worse if it all just got thrown out."

"It is good that it doesn't go to waste," he agrees. Then he pauses, and I know he's trying to come up with a clever way to say this without it sounding like he's critiquing my father. I roll my eyes—I don't know why he even bothers with these formalities anymore when I've made it clear that I despise my father, too.

"Sometimes," he says slowly, and he pauses sifting the flour into a large bowl, putting extra care into ensuring he doesn't say the wrong thing, "there are nekos who become very sick, as they have nothing to eat except for the same foods every day; without proper nutrients, it can become very difficult to ensure that we are strong enough to serve Your Highness with as much vigor as we would like. And...sometimes, there is not enough of the leftovers to sustain all the lowest-level servants of the castle...or we might get very old scraps which make us sick from mold or rotting. Without other options, many decide to eat it anyway, but this means we are often falling ill and therefore become unfit to work for Your Highness." He pauses again, and then quickly adds on: "However, it is generous of His Majesty to provide us with any sustenance at all, and we are most grateful for it. We are loyal to him even in sickness."

I make a humming sound to show I understand. "So, it's a good thing that it doesn't go to waste, but there's not enough variety, so it's not good for your health? I probably should have seen that coming—I studied the human body long enough to realize that eating dinner rolls and my fathers' least favorite vegetables every day wouldn't really be enough to sustain all the servants. I wonder if I could request that some large amount of food be imported to the castle, and then maybe I could leave it in the servants' quarters? Do you think that could help?"

He smiles at me, and it makes my heart beat faster. I try not to swoon. The main problem is that he's attractive—which is, unfortunately, one of the very things which I am trying not to fall for right now.

"I think all of us would be very grateful for any gifts which you are inclined to leave for us," he tells me, and I think this time he's not just saying that out of a sense of self-preservation, because he's giving me a look like I just saved him from an awful fate.

"Do you like salads?" I ask. "They have a lot of nutrients—I could get all the ingredients for them shipped over if you think it might help."

"I like salads," he agrees, so I make a mental note to put in an order tomorrow.

He continues sifting the flour now, so I opt to shut up so that I don't bother him. When he finishes with that, he gives me another look that says, 'Why are you just standing there? We need oats.'

It's not a verbal order, but this is how our relationship has progressed—he uses expressions and intentful looks when he needs something from me, and I interpret it to the best of my ability. I'm sure I don't always get it right, but he's not willing to risk his safety by outright ordering around a member of the royal family, so we never really get to try out more efficient means of communication.

I grab him the oats and measure out four cups—normally, Nico makes more than is strictly necessary of nearly every recipe he cooks. He says it's because he wants to ensure the king is able to eat his fill without feeling limited, but now I wonder if it's an effort to provide more food to the nekos getting the leftovers.

I glance up at him when I finish pouring out the oats, and he is giving me a disgusted expression.

I roll my eyes. "I know you don't like this kind of oats, but it's what we have the most of—you can't ban me from cooking with these just because you don't prefer them."

He makes an over-the-top effort to roll his eyes back at me, as if to say: 'You are the worst; please never cook with me again.' What comes out of his mouth, though, is, "Whatever nourishment makes Your Highness happy makes me happy as well."

I snort. "You're the biggest liar I've ever met, you know that? You can give me all those pretty words, but you're not fooling me at all. You enjoy bossing me around, I think."

As if just to spite me, he gives me a meaningful look toward the honey pot.

I scowl. "Very funny."

He does look quite pleased with himself, actually, and his eyes sparkle a little in the silver moonlight. He really does like bossing me around—and to be honest, I really don't mind it. Helping him get his work done at least helps me feel useful—it's a great improvement over having a panic attack in my room over nightmares that I can't stop thinking about.

I grab him the honey pot and set it on the counter next to him. Next he glances toward the basin, so I grin, shaking my head at the fact that he's making me do so much of the work tonight. He really is a little shit sometimes.

(He seems to understand that I need the distraction, so he rarely gives me much time to myself. If it were anyone else, I would have accused them of not leaving me alone—but seeing as I keep actively seeking him out to do this more, I really can't complain. He's doing it because he can tell as much as I can that it's helping me. And also, perhaps a little bit because it helps him to have an assistant.)

"You're a pain," I inform him as I fill up a measuring cup with water.

He just hums a response, but I get the feeling it means something along the lines of, 'Perhaps if you were faster with the ingredients I need, I wouldn't be such a pain. Be better, prince.'

I return the water to him. He's wearing an apron over his usual uniform. He makes it look nice somehow—I think he's because he's strong enough to fill out the uniform. He looks tired, though. I bet I look tired, too. I suppose that only makes sense—we only ever really see each other at ridiculous hours of the night.

He adds yeast himself, likely not trusting me with it as I have a history of killing the yeast by heating the water too much. While I wait for another order, I lean against the counter and decide to continue talking his ear off.

"You know, we've never, like, properly hung out. Like, just to do something fun together."

"I am dedicating to serving you; I would never set aside time in my day for fun when that time could be dedicated to work." He's giving me a very unimpressed look, and I'm pretty sure the translation for all of that combined is: 'Perhaps if you told your father to stop overworking me to the point of exhaustion, then we could go have fun together somewhere—until then, it's not an option.'

"Would you be happy or frustrated about doing something fun, if it was added to your to-do list?" I ask, watching as he monitors the yeast mixture.

"It won't be added to my to-do list," he tells me, as if he isn't picking up on what I'm trying to say. "I have too much to do—"

"You're ahead of schedule, actually," I tell him. He stills for a second, surprised that I know his chore schedule. "If you don't want to do something with me, that's fine. But...no one would be suspicious if you did take a break for an hour or two tonight. I could make it an official order if that would help build safety for you—then, if people asked why you're not in the kitchen, you could tell them it was an order from the prince."

He pauses, and I think for a second that he's trying to come up with a polite way to tell me no. I've pushed him too hard—he barely communicates with me; I should have known that trying to convince him to skirt his duties for an hour or two would be a big no. He's too careful—

"If it were an order from the prince," he tells me, "then that would outrank orders from the servants who put together the to-do list. I would be able to do something fun, in this hypothetical scenario."

"After the bread is done, I order you to come with me to do something fun, then," I tell him. "I'd tell you to go with me right now, but I'm afraid you'd be too distraught over leaving dough ingredients out."

And for some reason, that is the moment I finally get him to laugh for the first time—perhaps it was my effort to do something nice for him, or maybe I was just a little too accurate in my assumption that he might have lost it if I asked him to abandon the bread-making task entirely.

To be honest, what I said that prompted the laughter was much less important than the sound itself—I swear my heart stopped for a second. It's so rare that anyone laughs around me—I'm not sure I can recall the last time it happened. The staff would never do anything to appear unprofessional, my father is not exactly a laughing sort of man, and I've never been allowed outside the castle in order to make any real friends.

I know my cheeks are pink—I'm a little flustered that I'm capable of making him laugh. It was a beautiful sound—I want to hear it again.

When he finishes with the dough, I help him knead, though I can't quite seem to form words anymore because my brain is stuck in a short-circuiting loop of Nico's laugh.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

Soon Enough...

By the time the bread is done, my head is swimming with ideas about where I should take Nico. At first, I thought the gardens might make for a good place for him to relax, but then I worried that perhaps he's worked in the gardens before, and he might not feel relaxed as much as he feels reminded of the work left on his to-do list. Then I think about the high towers of the castle, where I could show him where the nobles look out across the kingdom—a beautiful view. But then I fear we might run into someone there, as they are popular spots for guests to wake up early to visit to watch the sun rise over the kingdom.

Nico finishes covering the rolls and then turns toward me, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for me to follow up on my promise to him.

I rack my brain for a good place to take him that would give him a moment of reprieve, and finally I get an idea that might work.

"I'll lead you there," I say with a smile, and I reach out a hand toward him for him to take.

He glances at the gesture, then turns to the counter to get his gloves. He puts them on quickly, and a pang of guilt hits my chest. Then, he gently takes my hand, very careful not to hold on too tightly.

I lead him out of the kitchen, through the poorly lit lowest level, and up the stairs. We ascend multiple levels before turning out of the stairwell and into a hallway, and Nico gives me a curious look. I feel a bit like I'm inviting him into my world, though I'm sure he's been here before for some duty or another. If his offer to let me work with him on kneading dough that first night was him inviting me into his, then when I finally push open gilded doors, the trade is complete, and we are intertwined into each other's worlds. This feels much better than me simply being a visitor into his.

Behind the doors I opened is a dark and empty ballroom. There's a window looking out upon the kingdom, but the curtains are currently closed. I let go of Nico's hand to shut the door behind us to prevent any wandering guests or servants from finding us here, and then I set off around the room to light the lanterns. Nico takes the cue and throws open the curtains, spilling moonlight onto the ballroom floor and casting him in a brilliant glow.

He doesn't bother helping me with the lanterns. Instead, he leans against the window and watches with an amused smile as I light all of them. He makes a small gesture at me that could perhaps be dismissed as shooing away a gnat, except that I know better—the gesture means 'I've been working all day and night, prince. You get to do the lanterns yourself, if this is meant to be a break for me.'

I roll my eyes at him again. "One day, I'm going to make you admit that you're bossy."

He laughs again. I shiver—the sound sends a spike of excitement down my spine and shooting across my nerves.

So I finish with the lanterns, and then I approach him again now that the room is no longer so dark. My footsteps are audible across the marble floors, and each step makes my heart beat a little faster.

"Do you know how to dance?" I ask him.

"No," he says, still sounding like he finds this entire situation very funny. "I don't dance. It is a shame that all of these lanterns are now lit for no good reason now." Translation: 'idiot, you should have asked me when we first got here whether or not I dance, because now you've lit all these lanterns, and I am laughing at you.'

I reach out to take his hand anyway. "That's alright—I'll teach you. There's no one here to see, anyway—if you're bad, the only one who will know is me. It'll be fun. Promise."

He lets me take his hand, but he does not seem thrilled at the prospect of being pulled to the middle of the dance floor. He looks, in fact, extremely displeased at this. I'm pretty sure the translation for that is 'Prince, this is not my idea of fun. Try again.'

"Unless you're scared," I taunt.

Immediately his entire posture changes from displeased to deeply offended, and his grip on my hand tightens. He huffs and walks more quickly with me to the center of the ballroom, and I laugh at the back of his head. I hadn't expected that to work.

We reach the center of the room, so Nico stops and turns toward me. His remaining free gloved hand reaches toward mine, and now I am holding both of his hands, and I don't really know how to handle that—my face heats up.

Nico raises his eyebrow at me, and I wish I hadn't lit all those lanterns—perhaps then he wouldn't have seen the blush taking over my face and neck.

"Ah, um, right. So," I say. Except I can't really think of dancing right now—his thumb is sliding across my fingers, and I'm not even really sure he's aware that he's doing it. For a hysterical moment, I wonder if he's like me—another anomaly of love. Am I crazy for even considering it a possibility?

"Your Highness?" he prompts. "I'm afraid I can't follow an order which is only half-complete." Translation: 'Prince, are we doing this or not?'

I scowl. "You are really the worst."

"My apologies, your Highness. Seeing as I am the worst, perhaps I should take my leave."

"Don't go," I tell him quickly, and I tug him a little closer to me to emphasize that. "Please. Just...okay. Do you not know any dances at all? Maybe we should start with a waltz—they're slow and pretty simple, so it shouldn't be too bad."

"As you wish," he agrees.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, and place one hand on Nico's waist, keeping the other in his hand. "Alright, follow my lead," I say, my voice a bit steadier than I feel. "The waltz is all about timing and flow. We'll start with the basic steps."

Nico's eyes are fixed on mine, and I can see the flicker of determination behind the amusement. I count softly, "One, two, three," and we begin to move. He follows, hesitantly at first, his steps awkward and uncoordinated.

"Relax," I tell him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Just let the music guide you."

"There is no music," he points out dryly.

"Right," I laugh, very aware that this is a bit silly. "We'll have to imagine it. Close your eyes if you need to."

He doesn't close his eyes, but he does take a deep breath, his shoulders loosening slightly. We try again, and this time, his steps are a bit more fluid, though still far from perfect. As we move around the room, I can feel him gradually falling into rhythm with me, our movements becoming more synchronized.

"Not bad," I say after a few more rounds. "You're getting it."

"Hardly," he mutters, though there's a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Remember, it's all about connection," I tell him, tightening my hold on his waist. "Trust me, and follow where I lead."

His dark eyes bore into mine, and for a moment, the world outside this ballroom fades away. It's just the two of us, moving in relative harmony, the lanterns casting a warm glow around us. The moonlight adds an ethereal quality to the scene, and I realize how intimate this moment feels, despite our lighthearted banter. My face heats up again, and Nico grins.

As we continue, I notice the subtle changes in Nico's posture and movements. His confidence is growing, and he starts to anticipate my steps, moving with a grace I hadn't expected. He's still a little bit stiff, working hard to figure out where to step next. It's almost as if he's treating this dance as a chore he must learn to do perfectly—but he's still smiling a little, so I think perhaps he is genuinely enjoying it.

"You're a quick learner," I remark, genuinely impressed.

"Or, perhaps Your Highness is a good teacher," he counters, a smirk tugging at his lips.

We fall into a comfortable silence, the sound of our footsteps and the rustle of our clothes filling the room. The dance takes on a life of its own, and I find myself lost in the rhythm and the closeness of Nico. The warmth of his hand in mine, the way his body moves with mine—it's intoxicating.

"See? This isn't so bad, is it?" I say, breaking the silence.

He chuckles softly. "No, it isn't. This room is pretty, too—I don't normally get to spend any time in here. Not on my chore list."

We continue to dance, time seeming to stretch and bend around us. I can't remember the last time I felt this at ease—I can't even remember the last time I danced with someone for fun instead of an attempt by my father to marry me off. The worries of the day, the weight of our respective burdens—they all seem to vanish in this moment.

As the final imagined notes of our waltz fade away, we come to a slow stop. I find myself reluctant to let go, but I do, stepping back slightly.

"We could...try another," I offer. "And I'm serious about you not needing to wear your gloves. Why don't you take them off for the next one?"

His smile dissipates, and he stiffly shakes his head, letting go of my hands entirely. "Your Highness, I can't."

"No one would have to know—I don't want you to feel like you have to wear them when we both know it's a messed up system."

He doesn't answer that. Instead, he just shakes his head again and walks away, heading to the window. Probably he wants to get some distance from me—I think it upsets him when I suggest he does anything that could, in other circumstances, get him in trouble.

He stops at the window and pretends to suddenly be very interested in the view outside. I sigh and follow him over, careful to leave plenty of space between us when I join him.

The city is dark. There are a few lanterns here and there, and a few windows lit up by dim candles, but overall it is difficult to see very much. I wonder if Nico has ever been out into the capitol, or if he's spent his whole life in the castle just as I have. I wonder if it's too much of a personal question—we normally avoid asking each other too many questions about the past.

He raises a hand slightly toward me in the way he does when he has a question but is afraid to speak first.

"Yes?" I ask.

"How long do we have before your coronation day? It's coming up soon, yes?" he asks, and it catches me off guard. But I suppose to him, it's not a non sequitur. We were talking about the king's corrupt laws regarding the nekos, and now he's asking about the one thing he's hoping might be able to save him from it.

"About a month away," I say, and it sounds like a promise. "We're getting closer—almost there."

"Will I stop seeing you when you become king?"

He fiddles with the edge of his glove as he says it, though his eyes remain trained on the capitol city. It's a loaded question—because yes, there is a question about whether or not we will grow out of these nightly conversations in the kitchen, but there is also a question about whether or not I will forget about the things he's told me when I become king. As far as he can tell, there is no proof that I will not turn into my father the moment the crown is placed on my head—there is only a very hesitant hope that perhaps he will continue to be able to show me the problems that he sees and that perhaps I will continue to listen.

"Definitely not," I tell him confidently. "You've taught me a lot about what sorts of things need to change—it would be foolish to throw away a connection like that just as I'm finally able to make a real difference."

He gives me another small smile, and it feels like I've won something.

Word count: 5228

It's been like seven months and finally Nico laughs lmao

I love slow burns but also can't stand when they're boring, so we're using time skips to cut out the excessively boring parts. Who knows what scandalous things might happen next? Maybe Nico will even dare to take off his gloves

Anyway next chapter is the "uh oh things are going terribly wrong" plot ploint to set off the rest of the book, so look forward to that lmao

Yours,
Sunny