Page 18 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)

The next few weeks cemented this dangerous truth.

The advisors would, from now on, stay for two full days, then leave for five, only to return again on the first day of each new week.

When Leonardo visited the stables or he and Favian went to the tavern, they paid particular attention to Leonardo’s schedule—his expected presence at the advisory meetings—even though the council yielded no new results.

They were dull, Leonardo frequently lamented.

Except for the occasional back and forth about the likelihood of servants rioting based on the forms of punishment they were subjected to, the council meetings were largely concerned with Livenza’s relationships with its neighboring kingdoms.

Sometimes, Favian wished he could eavesdrop on them, listen to Leonardo’s contributions to the discussions, and find out how the prince acted when he was not paying attention to Favian.

Instead, Favian made due with the time they spent together at The Moonlit Sunflower.

Every four or five days, the servant and his prince would spend a night at the tavern by the cliff, one of them assuming a role far from his truth while the other pretended that nothing felt wrong about this game.

Favian had become an expert at subtly asking around if any other member of the palace staff would be making their way to The Moonlit Sunflower tonight.

They talked to more people, frequently sitting with Amina and Levera, sometimes Yannos.

A few times, they found themselves in conversations about the palace, but each time, they managed to dodge the more delicate topics, excuse themselves, or simply remain quiet while around them, Leonardo’s parents were slandered, insulted, threatened.

Favian grew increasingly tense on their rides, yet the prince appeared mostly unbothered unless he himself became the discourse’s subject matter.

They developed a routine, Leonardo jumping in whenever Favian needed help escaping an argument about the majesties’ treatment of their subordinates, and Favian alleviating some of the stress Leonardo would feel whenever his behavior was questioned.

Though it was Favian’s impression that the challenges to the prince’s morals bothered him more than anything else.

The rational part of Favian’s brain screamed at him to be more careful, to stop the foolishness that had become habitual.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself to delve into the why , instead overthinking the how .

How might the king react to these journeys, how would Leonardo defend them, how would Favian be punished?

What would the council say about their indulgence?

Despite the risk, he continued going, continued taking Leonardo to The Moonlit Sunflower. Continued pretending that nothing had changed between them. That he did not eagerly await their trips.

The moment by the woods: unaddressed, unacknowledged.

Had he dreamed it?

After one of these nights, Favian was exceptionally tired.

A shift had taken place in the court, the king’s retributions having resumed, transformed.

Instead of corporal punishment, the most frequent forms of discipline now related directly to their responsibilities: more tasks, harder tasks, more labor-intensive tasks.

Cleaning up food and drink that the majesties were suddenly unable to keep on their plates, in their cups.

Scrubbing grout out of individual floor tiles.

Making lone purchases in town so large that one person was barely able to carry the load.

Attending to personal hygiene to a degree that even the King and Queen of Livenza had not been vain enough to demand prior.

These, it seemed, were the punishments the council deemed appropriate.

It meant less time to sleep, to eat, to mingle.

To rest.

Favian could barely catch a break on any given day, running one errand after another.

No longer did he get to enjoy some peace and quiet at the stables.

It wasn’t that he was frequently punished—after all, he had spent years learning to walk on eggshells around His Majesty—but with frequent full stables and the disproportionate amount of discipline, he found himself picking up duties that were at risk of being forgotten—those cleaning tasks that had once been part of the palace’s every day routine or moving deliveries from the carts to their expected places within the palace walls.

Still, they needed to be done. There was no way he would find time to visit his mother now, the guilt he felt over neglecting their relationship increasing every day, but Favian would risk his own health, his happiness, over Nico’s, Rodrigo’s, Lelia’s, or any other of the barely adult servants at the palace any day.

No matter how much he wished he could see her, hear her surely reaffirming, supportive words, he knew his mother would understand—it was she who had instilled him with a sense of responsibility for his peers, after all.

Even if Favian’s relationship with Rodrigo was strained now, the boy did not deserve to bear the brunt of His Majesty’s ever-growing repertoire of penalties. Each day that Favian did not seek to finally clear the air with Nico was a day that Rodrigo grew more distant, too.

It was exhausting.

As a result, the visits to the inn left him more and more tired, and being tired meant being less focused, meant a higher risk of slipping up.

It also meant that he was less careful when he retreated to the chambers he shared with Nico, sometimes forgetting to knock, catching Nico in various situations that embarrassed them both.

Today, Favian had spent hours catching water from the well, moving bucket after bucket to His Majesty’s bath, Her Majesty’s bath, His Highness’ bath. Summer in Livenza had reached its zenith, the days as hot as they could be, and the majesties had discovered an interest in daily baths.

Favian was sweaty when he returned to the servant quarters, desperate to clean himself off before dinner, soggy shirt sticking to equally soaked skin.

Bright spots were dancing in front of his eyes, and when he opened the door to the bedroom without announcing his return, he found himself wondering if he had come down with a heatstroke.

Sitting on Nico’s bed to the left, Rodrigo was mid-laughter, abruptly breaking off the moment the door opened. He seemed comfortable, one leg dangling over the side of the mattress, like he was used to the position.

Nico himself was twirling around in the small space between the two beds, similarly giddy, until he noticed Favian in the doorway and tripped over his own feet, toppling to the floor in a whirl. Rodrigo was on him in the blink of an eye, helping him up, asking if he was alright.

Favian’s legs were frozen in place, his body a distant reality. He heard Rodrigo’s voice, Nico’s insistence that he wasn’t hurt, but it barely registered.

He could only stare at his brother.

His brother, whose shoulder-length brown hair was woven into two braids dangling on either side of his head.

His brother, whose eyelids were covered in a colorful powder, whose lips were red.

His brother, in a dress. One of their mother’s dresses—Favian remembered it from when he was a child. Front-laced, sleeveless, and light blue, chemise all scrunched up underneath the outer layer, the pleated skirt flowing around Nico’s legs.

“Damn it,” Rodrigo swore. “Shut the fucking door already, will you?”

Startled by the curse, Favian did so as if in a trance, barely processing that Rodrigo aided Nico onto his bed, checked his feet for injuries, and quietly reassured Nico that he was fine.

What Favian did process were Nico’s hands in front of his face, the tremble of his shoulders. The barely constrained sobs.

“I don’t understand,” Favian stated. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. Only stared at his brother, hugging his arms around his legs in the corner of his bed, face buried between his knees, making himself small.

Nico was not, had never made himself, small.

“What exactly is it you don’t understand?” Rodrigo asked without looking at Favian. His voice was strained, and he was kneeling in front of the bed, hands caressing Nico’s forearms.

Favian didn’t know how to reply. Too many thoughts were fighting for dominance in his mind, too many questions he didn’t have the words to pose. “Why didn’t you lock the door?”

Rodrigo’s laugh was bitter now. “That’s what you don’t understand?

” He got up, properly facing Favian now.

The boy was not quite as tall as Favian, yet, his presence was imposing.

“You see your sister as herself for the first time, and the only thing you want to know is why we didn’t lock the fucking door? ”

“Rodrigo,” Nico quietly interjected at the same time as Favian asked, “My sister?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Rodrigo was back on Nico now, taking his hands. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Can you leave us alone?” Nico asked. The make-up around his eyes was smudged, some of it running down his cheeks, but his— her? —voice was soft.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I—I need to talk to him. Alone. I have to do this by myself.”

Rodrigo nodded. He squeezed Nico’s hands, brought them to his face, and pressed a delicate kiss onto each of them. “I’ll wait outside for as long as I can.”

As he moved to the door, Rodrigo shot Favian a glare that could have burned a village, and unceremoniously shoved past him.

Nico gave a soft pat to the bed sheet, indicating that Favian sit down. He did, the mattress soft underneath his legs, his eyes never leaving the person in front of him.

Once Favian was seated, Nico moved, crossing his— her? —legs, the pleated skirt bunched on top. Eyes still avoiding Favian, the person in front of him took a deep breath, then said words that confused him even more than the entire situation already had.

“My name is Nia.”

Favian blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the statement. “I don’t understand,” he repeated.

Nico— Nia? —took another deep breath, hands fidgeting nervously with the hem of their mother’s skirt.

“I was worried you wouldn’t. That’s why I didn’t tell you for so long; I was scared.

” Eyes briefly passing Favian’s, then quickly returning to their lap.

“When Ma named me Nicholas, she did what she thought was right. She saw my body, thought I was a boy, and gave me a name that reflected that. But she was wrong. She couldn’t have known.

I’m not mad at her or anything. But I—I’m not a boy. I don’t think I ever really was.”

The spindles in Favian’s head were spinning so fast he feared they were going to catch fire.

“I know how this must sound to you, but I need you to believe me. I’m a girl. This—” Nia gesticulated towards himself— herself? “Is how I feel most comfortable. It’s not the dress or the make-up that makes me a girl, but it helps me feel like one, like me .”

Favian’s lips parted, but Nia shook her head.

“I’m not done yet.”

So he let her continue.

“I was going to tell you eventually. I don’t know when, but I wouldn’t have been able to bear this forever.

It hurts every time you call me your brother, every time you call me Nico .

But it’s going to hurt even more if you keep doing that now that you know, so please—” There was a crack in her voice.

“Please, at least try. When we’re alone, anyway, and when you’re talking to Rodrigo.

No one else knows. I’ll tell Ma eventually, I think, but not yet. Please, Favian.”

Without hesitation, Favian whispered, “Of course I will try.”

And it was the truth.

He did not understand everything he had just been told, needed time to process. But his brother— no, my sister— just told him that she was hurting, and he would do anything in his power to make it stop.

He collected his words. For once, they came easily. “I don’t want you to be in pain, ever. Even if I don’t really understand why it hurts, I never want to make you feel that way.”

A tentative smile appeared on Nia’s lips, and her hands finally stopped fidgeting. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

They looked at each other, then, and Favian saw his sister for the first time.

She was luminous.

“So, when you say Rodrigo has been helping —”

Nia chucked a pillow at him.