We sat on the floor by the King's bed, as if two picnickers, drinking wine and eating tiny fruit tarts Charles the butler brought in.

The wine was rich and sweet, dark in my glass. My mouth tasted of cherry and lemon and strawberry, and soon my stomach was heavy and straining against my tight vest.

I watched Philip through drooping eyelids, bathing in his sensual innocence. I was mesmerized by him, his hair like soft flame, his skin like smooth porcelain. His full lips were stained dark from the wine. He looked to be something out of a classical painting, a work of art crafted by God Himself.

"You know, people like me," I said as Charles refilled my glass. "We don't really get... waited on."

Philip grinned while I eyed the butler nervously, as if the older man would suddenly realize my poor economic status and retract the pitcher. "Come and visit me more," the King said. "You can have all the wine you want." He pushed the platter of tarts in my direction.

I was already quite full, but overeating was not a luxury I could often boast. Obligingly, I pushed two more into my mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of wine.

"Shall that be all, my lord?" Charles asked, positioned in an odd half-bow.

The King gave him a coy smile. "Yes. Unless Mr Murray should enjoy some other refreshment."

Charles gulped and turned to me. "Refreshment, sir?" A line of perspiration lined his brow.

It took me a few moments to process being referred to as sir and not you there or simply boy. "Uh... I'm alright."

"Then I shall bid you goodnight." He bowed deeply and swept across the marble floor, gloved hands locked behind his back.

Philip remained silent until the door clicked shut, his face stoic. Then, all at once, he smirked, as if the sun had reappeared after a thunderstorm. "Good, he's gone. I don't want him reporting every little thing I say to Beauregard."

"Beauregard keeps a pretty close eye on you, don't he?" I asked, hoping I sounded nonchalant.

"He has always been... overbearing," Philip said. He adjusted the glass in his hands. "But as of late he has worsened. As my father's health declined, he sort of... took over everything."

"His health?" I repeated, picturing that morning in the courtyard. "I thought he just-" I made a whistling noise and a motion with my hand like something falling through the air.

Too late, I realized how insensitive it sounded.

"He was drinking himself to death." Philip's voice was hollow. "And spending every last copper in the treasury, to no surprise."

I knew Philip III was a hated king. Fat and frivolous, flaunting his name with grand statues of himself in the countries he devastated. He taxed his own people half to death and when the men could not pay with coins, they paid with their daughters.

"Beauregard's always been more of a father to me than him," Philip continued, his eyes distant. "The only problem is he cannot accept that I no longer need one."

"A father?"

His jaw set. "Never did me any good in the first place."

I considered this. I realized I was starting to care less and less whether Philip actually had a hand in the late King's death. Whatever his truth was, it couldn't be any worse than my own.

"I need a drink," he murmured, and got to his feet.

I leaned back, allowing my shoulder to brush the corner of his mattress. The King's bed was huge, likely wide enough for five men across. The canopy curtains were drawn open to reveal silky sheets of deep violet.

Philip padded to the sideboard, where a flickering candle was placed, and shuffled through the cabinets for a moment. At last he drew from the lowest one a small glass bottle and popped the cork.

I looked curiously at the clear liquid inside as he made his way back to our spot. "Oh, splendid, water. Can I have some?" The wine was alright, but nothing beat a cool glass of water.

Philip gave me a strange look, but poured some in my glass anyway. I took a swig.

I choked suddenly as the liquid burned down the back of my throat, overpowering my senses. It was as if I'd drank liquid flame. I coughed and set the glass down.

"Christ's bones. That's horrible."

"It's vodka." He tipped his head back and swallowed a mouthful. The glass clinked against his rings.

"Do you, um-" I cleared my throat. "Do you have... regular old water?"

Philip raised a brow. "Water? To drink?"

"You don't drink water?"

He seemed confused. "Water is for... bathing and... cooking. We drink wine."

I watched him down the vodka in his glass. Reluctantly, I reached over and took another sip of mine. "Wine's expensive. Water's free. The lake is just a short walk from my house."

"Where's your house?" he asked, his lips hidden by the glass.

I rolled over and pointed out the balcony doors. "Way, way out. Three-hour walk from London."

"It's not far on horseback."

"Never had a horse," I shrugged, trying to subtly push the glass of vodka away from me. "Been walking it just about every week for eight years."

His eyebrows rose. "Eight years?"

"Got to trade the eggs somewhere," I muttered.

I remembered once, my mother had bartered for a bit of sugar to make me a cake on my birthday. The sugar cost her five more eggs than she normally would've traded, and so for five days, she had no eggs with her breakfast.

When I asked why, Westley answered: "On account 'a you, you dolt." It was months before I figured it out.

"What are you thinking about?" Philip murmured.

Things you would never understand. "Just old memories." Bitterly, I downed my glass, wincing as my throat burned.

Philip sat with his cheek pressed to the bed frame, one fingertip tracing the rim of his glass. "I want to be a King the people like," he murmured. "I want to be remembered for good things. Not war and-" He gave a dry laugh. "Taxes."

"Well, perhaps you could-" I struggled with the words. I wasn't cut out to be an advisor like Beauregard. "Just talk to them."

"Talk?" he said.

"Go out and..." I tried to picture him inside a royal coach, waving out the window to a field of cheering farmers. "Visit the people. Bring them gifts. Ask them how they are. And don't go to war."

"But all great kings win wars." He tapped his toes together.

I frowned. "Right, but we really don't need a war right now."

"Auden," he said, "what do the people think of me?"

"Uh..." The words boy-king and simpleton came to mind. "Dunno, I suppose they think you're sort of shy."

"Shy?"

"Well-" I coughed. "You haven't given any speeches or-"

He shook his head fast. "Oh, I'm not good with speeches."

"How much of this country of yours have you seen?" I asked.

Philip flushed. "Very little. My father... he always said I was... a waste. He thought there was something wrong with me." His lower lip trembled. "He hoped to have another son who might rule." Before I could speak, he lifted his gaze. "I want you to know I appreciate your perspective on these matters, Mr Murray. Being a young man of the working class."

Take that, Geoff, I thought.

"I'm sure the people would like you if they only knew you," I said slowly. "I mean, anything would be better than..."

"My father?"

My head felt foggy, as if I were lost inside a dense cloud. I blamed the third glass of wine I was on, still trying to wash away the burn in my throat. "Look, I'm sorry. I've said so much my tongue should be cut out." I winced. "Please don't take that literally."

He smiled softly, a warm tint lighting his cheeks. "Your tongue is safe with me. For now."

I laughed nervously.

"Alright, suppose-" he began. "Suppose you were... King." His voice lowered as if it were a dirty word. "What would you do?"

I knew my answer immediately. "Boot some rich man off his land and give it to my mum. Make sure she'd never have to work another day in her life. Never break her back in the fields my father should have sown. Never worry about putting food on the table for six ungrateful boys." I forced my tongue to still before the lump in my throat could grow too big. "And then I'd kill everyone that's ever crossed me, one by one."

His amber eyes grew wide. "Oh."

Careful, I warned myself. "Or perhaps- perhaps a prison sentence, I haven't exactly worked out the details."

The faces of unlucky London peddlers filled my mind, some missing fingers, others without a nose, a harsh punishment for pickpocketing or selling rotten meat. A horse thief might be branded upon his cheek, a follower of the devil lose his ears.

If I was King, it would be up to me to decide those things. I could ban horses entirely and make everyone walk everywhere if I wanted to.

Make them live like I had to.

"I'd let you stay on," I assured him. "You could advise me on Kingly ways."

"Oh, no." He finished off his glass with a short laugh. I'd lost track of the number. His fourth? Fifth? The pitcher was nearly empty. "I would leave in a heartbeat. Travel. Spend my days sailing."

"Sailing?"

"I've always wanted to go sailing." He smiled dreamily. "The sea is so beautiful, don't you think?"

"I don't know," I said. "I've never seen it."

Like a stricken match, his eyes lit up. "Someday you and I must go together then. Wouldn't that be divine? Oh-" He reached forward and clasped both my hands, the cold metal of his rings pressing to my worn knuckles. "You must forgive my excitement. For years I have longed for a companion. A boy my age to go on adventures with. And now I have one!"

Companion. Go on adventures.

We were so close - his radiant smile facing my eerie, forced one. And I wanted, I wanted...

I wanted to do it again. Reach out, tilt his chin up, kiss him. I didn't care that he was royalty and I was a street rat. I didn't care he sat in his mansion all day and watched my people toil away for scraps of food. He was as close to Heaven as I would ever get and I wanted him.

I inched closer, my lips a breath from his.

Philip pulled away all at once, cheeks flushed a rosy pink. "You look tired," he whispered, his voice light as a feather. "You should rest."

My eyes fell to my lap. Was he disgusted by me? He should be. "Shall I go back downstairs?" I asked.

"Downstairs? Oh goodness, no." He frowned. "Unless... you want to."

I shook my head. "It's terrible there. We sleep on filthy, smelly cots- and there's rats," I added, despite still having never spotted a rat.

Philip looked horrified. "Have you informed the steward?"

"Like he'd care," I muttered. "No one cares about us. No one. It's every man for himself down there."

"Take the daybed," he offered.

I followed his gaze. The daybed was a half-bed, half-sofa pushed against the wall, abalone in color and bordered by a footrest and small table to the right. I narrowed my eyes, then tilted my head at him. "Philip, why did you call me up here?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He blinked. "Why... because you told me to."

"But I thought-" I shook my head. How he could possibly not know what I was implying in the garden?

"I wanted to see you again." The innocence in his voice was unsettling. "You're never in the stable anymore."

"So you don't-" I started again. My head was spinning. I couldn't tell how much of it was due to the drinks and how much my own spiraling anxiety. "I mean, how it sounded-"

He sat on the floor, his bare feet tucked beneath him. He looked more beautiful than ever, his cheeks pink, his face lit by the moonlight. My breath caught just looking at him. "How did it sound?"

"Jesus." I gripped the wine pitcher and poured myself a fourth glass. No- sod it- I reached for the vodka. "Fine. I'll go sleep over there."

"Would you rather sleep somewhere else?"

I gulped the liquid down with a dry cough. I thought about the men downstairs and their jokes about kings and lords being above sin. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps Philip only wanted me for my poor man's perspective or whatever. Perhaps it was all in my head. I was the one that kissed him, after all.

But he kissed me back.

Alright, think. "Do you... do you often call servants into your chambers at night?" I asked.

His expression was unreadable. "I suppose if I require one."

"And... what do the servants do for you... in your chambers at night?"

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked suddenly. "I do fear you've had too much to drink. You should lie down, Mr Murray." He stood quickly, gathering the glasses and tart platter like a fussing mother. I watched him carefully, noting the tremble of his hands as he carried them to the table.

Simpleton, my arse.

"Alright," I said. "I'll sleep in your bed, then. I'm sure it's more comfortable."

"You can't." He spun round, his back to the table. The loose nightshirt dipped between his thighs. "No one sleeps in the King's bed."

I raised my palms in surrender. "Daybed, it is. Might I beg your assistance in standing? I am awfully sore from the day's work."

With a sigh, he stepped closer and offered his hand as I made the weary journey to my feet, as slowly and painstakingly as a man thrice my age. Upright, I stumbled drunkenly and clutched at him for balance, my arms sealing around his waist.

A gasp escaped him.

"'pologies," I mumbled.

He guided me across the marble floor and gave me a little push onto the thick cushion of the daybed, standing back as I stooped to unlace my boots. I felt his gaze on me, a force with all the heat and power of the sun.

I kicked my boots aside, opting to leave my socks on. Whatever hell was festering under my toenails was best left there.

He was still staring when I looked back up.

"May I help you?" I asked.

"I shall be retiring now," he informed me.

I kept silent, waiting. He made no move to return to his bed. And it was in that way we stayed, our eyes locked in an agonizing Purgatory.

He squealed sharply as I grasped his hips and pulled him down onto my lap.

"What game are you playing?" I demanded.

His hands found my chest, fingertips pressing to my collarbone. On his lips grew the tiniest smile, so subtle one might miss it. I thought about the morning his father fell. That same checkmate smirk.

"I don't know what you mean," he whispered.

"You do. I know you do. Why did you call me here?"

"Mr Murray, if you should rather leave-"

"Stop calling me that," I snapped. He smirked again, eager for my next move. Entertained the way one would be watching an opera. "When we're alone, I call you Philip, you call me Auden. Alright?"

"It's late." He pressed on my shoulders to push himself up. "Go to sleep."

I watched him walk away, my teeth grinding down on my jaw. "Philip-"

"Goodnight, Mr Murray."

With a brooding huff I threw myself onto the daybed, intending to toss and turn until dawn.

The soft cushion drew me in with a loving embrace.

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

🦢•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢

The hours ticked by on the wall clock.

I slept soundly, undisturbed by shouts or prodding elbows. The King's daybed was like a cloud. I would've been content to spend the rest of my life sleeping there.

My blissful slumber was cut short at the sensation of a warm body moving above me, grasping at me.

Deliriously, I imagined I was back home, having to fight my older brothers for a spot in the bed. "Get out," I mumbled.

"Help me." A hand clutched my arm. "Help me."

My eyes flew open, landing on the King's. He had wedged himself in the corner between the cushioned gray headboard and the wall. His red curls stuck straight up as if he'd been struck by lightning and his eyes seemed to double in size.

I struggled to sit up, panic blooming in my chest. "W-what?"

"I am plagued by evil."

"What the hell are you talking about?" My voice was hoarse.

"I felt the Devil crawl over me in my sleep." He swallowed harshly. "Try as I might I could not wake. I was... trapped... paralyzed... and he- the presence- it was the Devil, I know it." He broke into a shudder.

Slowly, I peeled my gaze away and looked to his bed, half expecting to see Satan crawling around upside-down, all black eyes and red flesh.

The room was empty.

"Philip, it was just a night terror," I muttered, my eyelids growing heavy. "Everyone has them."

"I felt him!" he shouted at me. "I felt him!"

"Alright, alright." I raised a hand and wiped my bleary eyes. The candles had burned low in the chandelier, and through the balcony doors, the sky was pink. "The sun's coming up. It won't be night much longer."

"It felt so real." His arms fit tightly around his chest.

Wordlessly, I shifted over and gestured to the empty space beside me. His eyes softened as if I had just offered him a lifetime's worth of riches.

"I shouldn't," he murmured.

I yawned. "Oh, come on. It's rather nice over here, you'll see."

The King crumpled beside me, his cheek sinking into the pillow. He looked small, soft. Nothing like the cruel oppressor he held the potential to be. I looked him over, my heart tugged by an odd instinct to protect him.

"Philip."

He looked up, his eyes drowsy and peaceful.

"If I see ole Satan creepin' up on you, I'll pop him one, aye?"

He smiled and shifted closer, his breath warming my shoulder.

I told myself I would stay up and keep watch, but the dull throbbing in my temple grew sharper and my eyelids sank as if they were the weight of boulders. I lay beside the King, far enough away as to not accidentally touch him.

His steady breath and gentle perfume beckoned me under the curtains of sleep with ease. At our sides, Philip's soft palm grazed my calloused one. I slipped our fingers together and smiled as his hand tightened around mine.

"Don't worry," I murmured, my smile darkening. "There's only room for one Devil in this room."