Page 11 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)

The prince had never wanted to accept the reality of their relationship, of what it could and could never be.

He believed not only that Favian understood his own wishes but that he was able to communicate them.

To him . To the prince, his superior. For all those years, Leonardo had believed that if he wanted to, Favian would be able to say no to him.

He has really come back from five years at war with the same kind of naivety he had when we were children.

“Favian,” the person in front of him breathed, his voice dry. “Of course it matters what you—”

“I would appreciate it if Your Highness could let me return to my work now. Unless Your Highness wishes to put me even further behind schedule, risking His Majesty’s anger.”

The expression on Leonardo’s face was unreadable to him. Was he hurt by Favian’s harsh words? Insulted?

Once more, Favian’s fingernails dug into his palms.

Leonardo blinked a few times before he reacted, the silence leaving Favian to contemplate once more.

Both of them knew that, by the current state of the palace, by King Amondo’s pause on their usual proceedings, Favian would not be beaten for not fulfilling his tasks, but corporal punishment was not the only form of discipline His Majesty employed.

The private touches had similarly ceased for now, and while the king’s hands on his body were an extraordinarily disgusting tool to keep him in line, Favian wasn’t stupid enough to believe that just because that particular tool had ceased for now, His Majesty would not retort to one of the numerous other forms of punishment at his disposal.

He could still command Favian to do tasks he was physically ill-equipped to take on, withhold food, or send Favian to the dungeons—the options were plentiful, none of them foreign.

Goosebumps appeared on Favian’s arms at the thought, at the memory of the cold and dark underneath the palace.

He almost forgot about them sometimes, punishment in the form of a night in the dungeon far from the worst he had experienced, but distressing nonetheless.

“Of course,” were the words that eventually left the prince’s mouth.

They were still staring at each other, the first time their eyes had properly met since the day the prince had returned.

“Thank you,” Favian said, formal and stiff, then he turned around and returned to grooming the steed.

The sound of the gate falling into frame let him know Leonardo had actually left.

Physically, Favian continued grooming, but mentally, he was barely present.

The prince usually spent roughly the same length of time outside on Azure each day, and when that time frame was nearing its end, Favian made his way to the pasture. He intended to ask Rodrigo to switch places with him.

As he had expected, Rodrigo’s proficiency in picking up new tasks had already resulted in a productive division of work between them, which Favian greatly appreciated.

He was surprised, then, to find the pasture empty but for the horses, no Rodrigo in sight. He checked in the shed, along the perimeter and the border to the flower beds, and waited another five minutes, but the boy was nowhere to be found.

Exasperated, Favian returned to the stable. He would ask Nico as soon as possible if he had seen Rodrigo, but for now, he had to manage another encounter with Leonardo.

Re-entering the barn’s main corridor connecting the individual pens, he found the prince struggling with Azure’s saddle. He had foolishly attempted to take it off by himself, but lacking experience at the task, the saddle had slipped from the mare’s back and landed on the floor.

When he heard Favian, the prince turned toward him, finding Favian’s gaze averted once more.

“I thought I’d help you get this done faster,” Leonardo said quietly as he fumbled with the leather straps of the saddle before him on the ground.

Favian took a deep breath, then he moved to help the prince. His instincts were screaming at him to tell Leonardo to drop it, to let him do it instead, to go back to his royal chambers. But somehow, he knew that after their altercation earlier, Leonardo would insist.

They unsaddled Azure in silence, Favian motioning to Leonardo whenever he did something egregiously wrong.

It took significantly longer than it would have had he done it by himself; the prince was more of a hindrance than an aid.

But Favian could not deny an unmistakable warmth sprouting inside him, and it kept him going.

Once the task was finished, Leonardo timidly moved towards Favian, stopping shortly before the closeness would have sent shivers down Favian’s spine.

“I apologize for earlier,” Leonardo gulped.

“I have to admit I’m unsure what I did wrong, but I clearly upset you, and I never want to do that.

I keep trying to—” He took a quick breath.

“It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is, I didn’t mean to upset you, and I apologize that I made you uncomfortable. ”

Favian hesitated. The openness in the prince’s voice was painful; it hit him right in the chest.

“Thank you,” was all he could say.

“Favian…Is everything alright between us?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he breathed. “Everything is alright .”

What did that even mean?

In desperate need of a break before lunch, once he was done with his work at the stables, Favian hastily made his way to his chamber.

Pressing on the door handle, he was surprised to find it locked. While in the evenings, they both would occasionally use the room for their alone time, Nico rarely demanded this space for himself when he knew Favian was in between shifts.

The worry that began to spread through him was quickly stifled, however, when he recognized the voices coming out of the room. Nico’s was high-pitched as if he was nervous or embarrassed, but Rodrigo’s was confident.

“How does this feel?” Favian heard the boy ask, followed by giggle from Nico.

Oh.

Favian shrank away from the door immediately and, not wanting to interrupt the intimacy going on behind it, took a few steps down the corridor, bright brick walls enclosing him.

Only when he began moving toward the vegetable garden did Favian’s mind begin to process what he had just witnessed.

Nico was. . .like him?

He had always known his brother to be accepting of the way he felt about other boys, now men; Nico had not once judged him for his feelings for Leonardo, had encouraged them, even.

Still, Favian had not thought his brother to be of the same inclination.

He remembered Nico talking about wanting a family, wanting to have kids, one day marrying someone he loved.

It was the latter path that was truly impossible.

Wandering the halls, boots echoing off the stone floor, Favian found himself contemplating Livenza’s rigid belief in marriage.

While physical attraction and sexual dispositions were performed quite freely, marriage came with different expectations.

The promise of offspring, of continuing one’s bloodline, left little room for the prospect of romantic love, and none for a long-term romantic encounter with someone one was unable to have children with.

Few people were bothered by casual sexual encounters between men or between women, yet it was understood that once the fun was over, one would either seek out or return to one’s husband or wife, likely a partner of convenience, with at least one child waiting at home or in the future.

Nico’s desire to father children had always led Favian to assume that he was attracted to women.

Maybe he was. Maybe he did not care about gender at all—Leonardo had told him something similar once, many years ago.

That for someone to win over his heart, little mattered less to the prince than what they had between their legs.

This felt foreign to Favian. He had attempted to develop more than platonic feelings for women, to get hard at the thought of girls he found beautiful, to get off thinking about what was between their legs—but it had never worked.

Then again, the same could be said about most boys—men—that he had encountered.

His feet had carried Favian out of the castle walls, into the vegetable garden, and a wave of fresh air ruffled his hair as the ground under his feet became softer.

The more he thought about it, the more the truth of the matter became clear to him: it was not even men he was attracted to.

Of all the people he had met in the twenty-three years of his life, Leonardo was the only one who had ever woken in him a desire to touch, to be touched, to touch himself.

While there had been several men he found attractive, the only sexual longing he had ever felt was directly connected to the prince.

And: despite what he had been wanting to tell himself, his aversion to physical touch had not begun with the king’s unwanted hands on him.

He had always preferred to keep his body to himself.

This realization struck him harder than the previous one.

The sun was shining on his face now. He had been wandering around the tomato beds for a while, barely registering time passing. His hat was in his hands. When had he taken it off?

Favian stopped, took a look around, and—noting he was alone—cursed. He brought his hands to his face, pressed them into his eyes.

What was he supposed to do with this knowledge?

A wetness on his hands made him remove them from his face. As he held them out in front of him, staring at his fingers, he realized he was crying. He followed a drop on his finger in disbelief, watching as it slipped from his hand.

Favian could not remember the last time he had shed tears.

No, that was a lie he needed to hold on to so he could pull himself together, so he could keep it together, day after day.

Tears had been shed the day Leonardo had left. Not immediately after. Not out of sadness at the prince leaving. Not because he had left without a farewell.

The scene comes back to him like a dream, unprompted, some details as sharp as knives, some as blurry as the line between him and Leonardo itself.

Leonardo is gone. His carriage is no longer visible on the horizon. Favian still stands on the wall above the gates. Not only has he left his post, but he has remained here, away from it. He has abandoned his task.

He waits for someone to call on him, tell him His Majesty demands his presence. He waits for reprimand.

It does not come.

When his body begins to itch, he unfreezes, tears his gaze away from the spot where Leonardo disappeared.

When he turns, he meets the king’s eyes.

Whatever he thought he would see in those eyes, he was wrong. It is not disappointment, not anger, not disdain. His Majesty’s lips are curled, the smirk on his face sending a shiver down Favian’s spine.

What he sees on the king’s face is this: malice. Pure, stripped, malice. Like he has been waiting for this day.

“Follow me,” the king says.

They are in His Majesty’s chambers.

His Majesty’s hands are under Favian’s clothes.

His Majesty’s fingers slide between Favian’s legs, grab at Favian’s most sensitive parts. His front, his back, his crotch.

His Majesty is in Favian’s mouth.

Favian cries.

His Majesty does not care.

His Majesty slaps the boy once, tells him to be quiet.

He is. The tears are silent now.

Hands wrapped around his neck.

Salty liquid at the back of his throat.

“Favian?” His Majesty asks.

He does not react.

“Favian?” he is asked again.

He blinks.

In front of him, Nico.

Around him, the vegetable garden.

His cheeks, wet.

His hands, in Nico’s.

Skin on his, unwanted skin.

“What happened?” Nico’s voice was frantic, his grip on Favian’s hands too tight. His grip—

His hands—

Wrong, all of it.

Favian tried to pull away, but Nico wouldn’t let him. “Favian, Gods, what happened?”

“I—” Favian croaked, but no other words came.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Nico said quietly and placed a hand on the small of Favian’s back. He immediately shrank away from the touch, violently jerking himself out of Nico’s hold now.

“Alright,” Nico relented and held up his hands, “no touching.”

Favian didn’t reply, only wrapped his arms around his waist, shielding his body from the ghost of touches he still felt all over his skin. Without another word, Nico led Favian through the garden, through white corridors, until they reached their room.

“I have to—”

“You’re doing shit,” Nico asserted. “I’ll take your place. I’ll tell them you’re sick.”

Everything in him screamed to oppose, to talk Nico out of this ridiculous plan, to get up, to serve His Majesty’s lunch himself, to serve His Majesty, to serve, to serve, to serve—

When had he sat down?

Nico refilled his cup, placed his hat on its hook, and gently draped a blanket around his back. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Favian made one last attempt at speaking, but Nico shushed him before even a single word could escape his dry lips.

“It’ll be fine. Just rest.”

But he didn’t want to. He was afraid of sleep, of the images that might return.

His eyes closed of their own accord.

For once, he was lucky. All he saw as he drifted off was black.