Page 13 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)

This time, Favian slowly shook his head. “There is no need. I have arranged for clothes to be provided to Your Highness. Just meet me behind the stables when the time comes. I will make sure everything is ready.”

The prince’s giddiness was palpable, manifesting in a buzz of energy around him. The enthusiasm in his eyes was a golden shimmer, an explosion of joy. “I’ll be there! And I’ll make sure that you don’t regret it, I’ll be good, I promise!”

Favian was already beginning to regret his decision.

Fortunately, there was more than enough work to keep him busy until dinner. He found Rodrigo refilling the inside trays and called for him so they could divide the tasks that were yet to be fulfilled.

Rodrigo appeared by the gate a few minutes later, wiping sweat from his brow.

They had fallen into somewhat of a routine as Rodrigo continued familiarizing himself with the everyday duties at the stables, and most days, they intuitively fell into their most comfortable tasks each, leaving those neither was particularly fond of for last. They worked it out, neither of them eager to fight over things as trivial as this.

They agreed on shoveling the manure together so it would be finished as quickly as possible.

Favian tried to keep his brain focused on the lavender he had smelled just a few moments ago, but it was no use—the sharp, nauseating odor of the excrement wound its way into his sinuses with the first heap.

“Have you been talking to Nico recently?” Rodrigo suddenly asked.

Favian hesitated. “Has he asked you about the clothes?”

“He has, but that’s not what I mean.”

Favian tilted his head. “What do you mean, then?”

The boy stopped scooping and leaned onto the shovel. “I mean, have you talked about how you two have been doing lately? Have you checked in with him?”

“We talk to each other every day,” Favian replied, confused.

“Yes, but about what?”

Favian glared at Rodrigo, bewildered by his tone.

The boy tended to be critical, maybe even a little cynical, but his judgment was usually reserved for the monarchs and their snobbish friends, the lords and ladies bound to visit the palace regularly again whenever the council was in session.

Favian felt himself growing agitated. “Why does it concern you?”

A groan left Rodrigo, then. “It concerns me because I care about your sibling, and I wish you two would talk more. About things that actually matter. ”

Everything about that phrasing confused Favian, but he was in no mood to turn this altercation into an actual fight.

He just wanted to understand what Rodrigo was getting at, where he was coming from.

Was he mad that Favian had allowed Nico to get hurt?

“He made the decision to take my place at lunch, I didn’t—”

“Yes, I know,” Rodrigo interrupted. “That’s not what I have an issue with.”

“Then what—”

“Did you ask him how it made him feel?”

“He didn’t want me to.” Favian’s voice was reserved, almost defensive. Why was he getting defensive?

Rodrigo groaned again. “What makes you think that?”

Favian didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how this conversation had arisen, what Rodrigo wanted from him. He had talked to Nico earlier, hadn’t he? Tried to talk to his brother, but Nico had been so focused on Favian, he hadn’t seemed like he wanted to talk about the situation.

“He deflected when I asked him about it.” Now he definitely sounded defensive.

“And have you considered,” Rodrigo challenged, taking a step towards Favian. “That he might be mirroring your behavior?”

Favian had not.

Did he have a negative influence on his brother’s emotional well-being?

The clang of a shovel dropping to the floor.

“Excuse me.” The words sounded like they were being spoken by someone far away, not by the body Favian inhabited.

He left the stable without another word, head spinning. Rodrigo didn’t call after or follow him.

Favian was grateful for it.

It was true that he didn’t ask his brother about his doing as often as Nico asked him, but that was simply because having to decipher his emotions was such a challenge to Favian, he did not want to put it on anyone else.

Perhaps that was precisely the problem, though—the brothers’ ways of approaching their emotions were wildly different, so maybe the approaches to reflecting on them needed to be, too.

Maybe he needed to ask Nico directly, allow him to explain to Favian how he wanted to talk about his feelings.

He only had to find the rights words first.

It took Favian every last ounce of restraint not to let King Amondo feel his hostility. He had never been more grateful for the self-control he had trained himself to possess, a habit His Majesty had as good as forced onto him.

So Favian served goat cheese-stuffed dough, tomato soup, polenta drenched in olive oil, a variety of fish, and whatever else His Majesty called for.

He poured red wine into the sapphire-embedded golden cup.

He stood by and kept silent, grateful that the palace guests were taking their meals separately.

Once more, he wondered not first and foremost about the king, whose objectives were as clear to him as they would ever be, but about his wife, her face a blank sheet, revealing nothing.

Leonardo may not have been present at the midday meal—but she had. Favian longed to have seen her expression when her husband had struck Nico. Had she been surprised? Elated? Unbothered?

Her silence, the nescience, was insufferable.

Only the prince’s presence at the table kept Favian grounded enough not to drown in circles of thoughts, keeping him focused enough on the tasks at hand not to slip up.

Favian could no longer deny it: if he was being honest with himself, really honest, he was quite eager to spend a night away from it all. And if Leonardo managed to keep him from spiraling, then all the better.

Perhaps it would be alright if Favian, too, benefitted from their time together.