Page 30 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)

Leonardo took a deep breath and sat down on the bed again, perched on the edge as if prepared to jump up quickly. As if prepared to flee. "Give me a moment, please."

Favian did, and, unsure what to do with himself, slightly turned away from the prince, studying the images in the book instead.

“I don’t mind that people talk about me like I’m masculine," Leonardo eventually explained. “I know what they see when they look at me. I don’t mind being called the prince, and sometimes, it doesn’t feel wrong to think of myself as my parents’ son.

Most days, I wish I could just be their child .

Somewhere deep down. . .” A pause. “I don’t know how to explain it, I just know that I’m not really a man. ”

Now it was Favian who could only say, “Oh.”

Leonardo wasn’t looking at him, hands fidgeting nervously in his lap.

Favian had questions.

“Do you want me to say she when I talk about you?”

Leonardo shook his head no, but Favian noticed a degree of uncertainty in the prince’s twitching eyebrows, the quick movement of his pupils.

The next words were slow, almost wary. “Nia said she would like to change part of her body if she could. And she would also dress like a woman if she felt like she could. Do you,” Favian carefully asked, “feel like that, too?”

Now that he thought about it, this revelation no longer felt all so strange.

Leonardo’s clothing had always been feminine.

The patterns, the embroidery, the lace, the frills—Favian had come to think of them as his prince, as Leonardo.

It was, Favian realized in the silence, perhaps the most significant reason why the clothes the prince wore to The Moonlit Sunflower felt wrong on him; they were masculine.

He had never actively considered Leonardo’s clothing and suddenly wondered if the prince had ever discussed these choices with his valet—he must have.

For years, Leonardo must have made an effort to have clothes tailored to him that not only represented his status but that also suited him .

In a voice so unsteady Favian had to remind himself that he was talking to Leonardo, the prince eventually responded, “Yes and no. I don’t think I want to change anything about my body. I’m fine with. . .what I have.”

Another pause.

“Except…” Once again, Leonardo’s fingers found his jaw, tips wandering over the smooth surface he had shaved every day, sometimes twice if they were going to the tavern at night. He didn’t speak the words out loud, but Favian got the idea—Leonardo wished he did not grow a beard, after all.

“I wish I could dress more freely,” the prince continued instead. “I’ve always wanted to wear some of my mother’s jewelry. . .But I don’t think I would want to wear dresses. Corsets, maybe, or a tight-fitting doublet.”

Leonardo’s cheeks were red, brightly so. Favian couldn’t recall the last time he had seen Leonardo blush, much less to this extent.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Favian repeated.

He felt stupid. Leonardo’s words still didn’t entirely make sense to him. He tried to wrap his head around the idea—someone being neither man nor woman—and came up short.

“Something about my gender is just. . .strange.” Leonardo shrugged. “Maybe you don’t need to understand it. I barely understand it myself.”

Silence, again.

Favian followed the prince’s gaze to his fingers picking at his cuticles.

“Does that change the way you feel about me?” Leonardo’s voice was shaky, his teeth chattering like he was freezing.

“I don’t think so. . .” Favian pondered, and he believed it to be the truth.

What he felt for Leonardo would not be shaken by such a simple fact.

What he liked about the prince was not that he believed him to be a man.

Yes, the way Leonardo looked played a significant role in his attraction—denying that fact would have made him nothing short of a liar—but it were not the terms attached to his body that were responsible for those feelings.

It was Leonardo’s laugh. It was the sparkle in his eye.

His freckles and his dimples. It was the way he made Favian feel, all soft and vulnerable and valued .

It was the fact that no matter the kind of day Favian was having, Leonardo managed to make him smile.

Favian reached for the prince’s hands then, interrupting the picking motion.

“No,” he affirmed. “It doesn’t.”

Leonardo had been holding his breath, a deep exhale leaving him as Favian spoke.

The prince’s fingers were still now, underneath Favian’s.

Painfully slowly, Leonardo turned one of his hands around until his palm was facing the servant’s.

One by one, Leonardo threaded his fingers in-between Favian’s.

Favian’s heartbeat was frantic. Was it his, or Leonardo’s?

Was it both?

“We should go,” Favian choked out. He stood up, overcome with emotions that he neither knew how to communicate nor how to feel in the first place.

He rushed to the door without looking back, hoping the knowledge that they would be sharing a meal in only a few minutes could soothe the inevitable irritation his abrupt departure must have caused Leonardo.

The hallways were busy, servants running around back and forth between the different storage rooms to finish the preparations for the two simultaneous meals.

Chest heaving hard, Favian slowed his frantic pace before stopping around an empty corner. He rested his forehead on the wall, the cold, bumpy surface a stark contrast to the smooth, warm hands he had felt on his skin a mere moment ago.

One deep breath, two.

He allowed himself five before collecting his bearings and heading for dinner.

When Favian eventually entered the smaller dining hall, Leonardo was already seated, and so was everyone else. Nia shot him a look, but Favian sat down without comment and reservedly began spreading butter on the slice of bread already served on his plate.

Throughout the meal, the prince was uncharacteristically quiet.

Neither of them ate much, Favian’s appetite stifled by the emotional journey this day had taken him on.

Leonardo’s cries, his words, his questions— being a man doesn’t feel right, corsets, does this change the way you feel about me ?

The prince’s tears on Favian’s tunic, hands underneath Favian’s, fingers between his—Favian flexed his digits on his thighs.

His hands were empty.