Chapter Text
Lance slams into the kitchen without much finesse, grace, or propriety. The kitchen door rattles on its hinges, but it’s too heavy to actually hit the wall behind it. A shame, really. That would have been satisfying. However, it still manages to startle the servants nearby. He catches them jumping, a few dishes clattering to tables, and whipping around to gape at him—
But as soon as they see who it is, they look down and away. Backs hunched and shoulders stiff. Going about their business with a frantic due diligence.
The hush that falls over the room crawls across his skin, brows pinching and scowl settling heavy on his lips.
It’s not right. Kitchens are supposed to be lively, filled with chatter. The din of gossip and conversation. The half-hummed, half-sung melodies as they go through the motions of chopping vegetables and kneading bread. Kitchens are supposed to be warm and welcoming, the heart of homes and castles.
The sound of dishes clanking, the dull thud of knives hitting cutting boards, the sizzling of oil in pans… it all sounds eerie without the accompaniment of voices.
He hates it.
He hates how everywhere he goes ends up like this. Stiff and strained, uncertain on all sides. He hates how people get quiet when he walks into a room, conversation dying on their tongues in his presence. He hates how no one has been able to meet his eye ever since he moved in officially as the royal mistress.
Nobles and servants alike. No one seems to know how to act around him, how to address him, or how to deal with his presence.
And for someone as naturally charming as he is— as someone who thrives on social interaction— as someone who prides himself on his ability to make conversation with and friends with anyone— as someone who considers himself a man of the people— it’s infuriating.
He’s suffocating in this strained atmosphere. The awkward uncertainty that surrounds him is so grating that he’s certain that his skin is losing its smooth, lustrous shine. His own smile has become so tight that his jaw constantly aches.
And above all else, he’s tired.
He’s spent four weeks at the castle, under the official title of royal mistress, and it’s felt like an eternity.
After standing there for a moment in the open doorway, eyes drifting around the room to take note of all the servants who refuse to look at him, he finally finds someone who will make eye-contact.
Shay. Bless her, honestly. She meets his gaze with bright, honey eyes. A grin stretches her lips immediately, her posture perking up as she sees him. It’s a relief. His entire body relaxes, tension leaking out of him in a surge that he hadn’t expected. Is he really that starved for a little camaraderie?
He smiles, trying to silently communicate his gratitude. She’s currently manning a large iron cauldron that’s settled over a fire in the hearth, stirring continuously and keeping an eye on the contents. He knows she won’t be able to leave her post, and he doesn’t really want to weave across the entirety of the kitchen to reach her. So instead he mouths a silent question: “Hunk?”
She nods to the side, gesturing to one of the joining rooms. Specifically to the door leading to the secondary kitchen used for baking.
He gives her a small wave and a grateful smile before inching his way along the edge of the kitchen, trying to stay out of everyone’s way as he hurries to get out of their space.
Heat rolls out of the room as soon as he opens the door. With as many ovens as there are, it’s easily the hottest part of the kitchen. Even with all the windows open to help circulate air. It’s not too busy at the moment, but he does notice the shift in atmosphere as he enters and people take note of him. He ignores them, heading to the corner where his best buddy is covered in flour, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he kneads huge mounds of dough.
He’s humming softly to himself, a lazy and content smile on his face, brows furrowed slightly in effort and concentration as he puts his whole body into kneading.
Lance grabs a stool from the side of the room, ignoring the way the rest of the servants silently vacate the baking kitchen. He appreciates the privacy as much as he hates the fact that they give it to them without being asked.
“You look right at home here, buddy,” he says, unable to help his tired smile.
“Lance!” Hunk whips around, a grin spreading wide as he immediately abandons the dough and steps toward him with arms wide.
“Whoa whoa!” He holds up a hand, half lifting the stool as if it were a shield. “As much as I miss your hugs, buddy, you’re covered in flour.”
Hunk pauses, eyes wide as he blinks. Then his gaze drifts downward, and he huffs out a short laugh. “Oh, right.” He makes a couple swipes at his flour stained clothes, but the attempt is futile. Instead, he just shrugs, going back to kneading as Lance settles on the stool next to the table. “Wouldn’t want to dirty up your fancy new clothes.”
It’s said as a tease and with a playful wink, but Lance feels something heavy solidify in his chest. He sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table— safely out of the flour— and propping his cheek up with a fist. “Right,” he says, words twisted in sarcasm and tasting bitter on his tongue. “Wouldn’t want the royal mistress to look uncouth. Not that it matters when no one will look at me.”
Though he continues— setting aside the mound of dough he’d been working on and grabbing another— he does spare Lance a sympathetic look. “Oh, man… that’s still going on?”
“Have you looked around, Hunk?” He gives a lazy sweep of one arm. “Your baking buddies vacated the kitchen as soon as I arrived.”
“Oh.” He glances around, a furrow to his brows. “I just assumed they liked giving us some privacy—“
“People who live in castles thrive on gossip. They didn’t leave to give us privacy. They left because— I don’t know— they’re scared of me or something.”
“Lance, they’re not scared of you—“
“They are! Everyone is!” He throws his hands in the air as his voice crawls to a higher pitch. “Their king has never had a mistress before. They don’t know how much power or influence I have. They don’t know how to treat me or how high up on the social ladder I am. But I’m not just a pretty face. I’m a known bandit! They don’t know what I’m capable of, or what I’m doing. They don’t know what to make of me— fuck, I don’t even know what to make of me.”
He groans, folding his arms on the table and burying his face within the safety of them.
“Oh, buddy…” Hunk says, voice all low and comforting, lacking any sort of pity and emanating only empathy. He hears Hunk shuffle around before a heavy and familiar hand comes down on his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder-blades. “It’s that bad, huh?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Hunk,” he groans, voice muffled in his arms.
“Sure you do. You’re mistress’ing.” The hand on his back pauses, followed by a thoughtful, “Can that word even be used that way? Mistress’ing? You know, like… to mistress. Anyway, you’re doing that! Wait—“ He gasps, dramatically enough that Lance tilts his head to peek up at him, one eyebrow raised. Hunk gapes at him. “He’s not— you’re not—“ He leans in close, hissing lowly. “Are you actually mistress’ing?”
“What?” He squawks, sitting up to slap at Hunk’s chest, sending a puff of flour into the air. “No! No— Hunk, not like that. We’re not— We agreed that wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Oh.” Hunk heaves a sigh of relief, running a shaky hand through his hair and leaving remnants of flour and small pieces of dough. “Okay, good. For a second there I was afraid I was going to have to fight a king— no, the warrior king, and I don’t think that would work out so well.”
Lance huffs a short laugh, unable to help himself, lips curling into a wry smile. “Aww, buddy. You’d beat up a king for me?”
“You know I would.”
“Thanks, man.” He sighs again, dropping his chin to his folded arms. Hunk’s hand starts rubbing circles on his back once more. And you know what? He doesn’t even care that his clothes are probably a mess. Fuck it. “Keith said I would be able to help people in this position, but I don’t know how when they won’t even look at me.”
His head tilts to the side, cheek smushed against his forearm. His other hand reaches forward, finger drawing idle patterns in the flour smattered along the table’s surface.
“It’s just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what he expects of me or what my limitations are, you know? And to make everything worse…” He huffs, eyes squeezing shut and turning his head to hide his face. “Every time I try, I somehow manage to fuck it all up. I swear, it’s only a matter of time before they either kick me out or lock me up.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mess up that bad—“
“Trust me, Hunk,” he deadpans. “It’s that bad.”
It’s been a week and a half since he rode back to the castle with Keith and officially took up the mantle of royal mistress— which, by the way, he only refers to in his head with a heavy dose of attitude and sarcasm— and he still gets lost in here.
The castle is huge, filled with a plethora of twists and turns, but he’s determined to memorize each and every one. He might be here under the king’s personal invitation, but he’s not a fool. Despite what he might think, his word alone doesn’t ensure Lance’s safety, and he’ll feel a lot better about being in enemy territory— as he lovingly calls it— if he knows all the ins and outs of the castle.
After all, the only reason he’s survived this long is because he knows the Western Woods better than anyone else.
So he spends most of the first couple weeks merely walking the castle. Getting lost and then finding his way back. Trying to get to know the corridors like the back of his hand and all the secret passages like the lines of his palm. Because while it would certainly be easier if he only bothered with the main halls and rooms— as he’s sure most nobles do— he’s also intrigued by all the lesser used hallways.
The servants halls. The rooms where they live and spend their free time. The small spiraling staircases and the cramped corridors. They twist and turn all around the castle, allowing the servants to slip around without sharing too much of the same space as the nobles.
And that is far more useful than the grand halls with rich rugs and hanging tapestries.
Besides, it’s not like he has any duties to attend to. Keith hasn’t given him any sort of direction as to what he should be doing. And it’s not like he’s making any friends with the way everyone refuses to get within ten feet of him. Might as well spend his time being productive in some way.
It’s on one of these excursions that he overhears a conversation that gives him pause.
He hears plenty of conversations as he walks around, though they usually get quiet the moment they spot him. He’s learned to ignore them, and most of the time, it’s either idle chatter or the same piece of gossip he’s heard rolling off dozens of tongues already, with varying changes to details.
But while he usually tunes out the voices, there’s something about these that have his steps slowing. His ears perk up, head tilting toward the source of the sound. Peering around the corner, he sees no one in the hall, but he follows the din of conversation to a closed door. Pressing his ear to it carefully, he listens.
There’s two voices, both masculine, but the words are muffled by the door. No matter how hard he tries— breath held and eyes closed— he can’t make it out. They keep their conversation hushed in the privacy of the room.
But there’s definitely something familiar about them.
He shouldn’t stay like this— pressed against a door and clearly eavesdropping. It definitely wouldn’t look good if they came out or if someone turned down this corridor. It would be clear that either the king’s mistress is using him, a spy for him, or can’t be rid of his outlaw habits. And none of those options are good outcomes.
But he stays there for just a few more strained minutes, feeling every second tick past in agonizing slowness as he wracks his brain for any sort of memory with those voices—
When he remembers.
The night he broke out of his cell in the tower— sneaking through the halls with Hunk amidst the anniversary ball— stopping in a dusty music room to find something to pilfer— hearing two nobles whispering in the hall—
It’s the same voice. He knows it. He can’t hear a word they’re saying, but he knows it’s them. Faces often escape him, taking longer to fix in his memory, but voices. He’s good with voices.
It’s the same two nobles. The ones who were scheming. Who want to marry Keith to their daughter and take him out once they have an heir.
Lance’s eyes narrow, stepping away from the door with pursed lips, scowling at it like it might hold the answers. Because while he recognizes their voices, he still doesn’t know who they are. Doesn’t know their names or faces.
And… this is a hard choice to make.
See, the thing is, there’s some kind of fancy dinner tonight. Something with visiting nobles— or royalty? He’s not quite sure. But it’s the first official thing Keith has asked him to attend. He’s supposed to be Keith’s arm candy for the night. Supposed to flaunt his charm and solidify his position.
And while that’s important, especially to keep up the facade and power of his position… he also really wants to figure out who these guys are.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
1. Burst through the door to confront them
2. Hang back and try to sneakily follow
3. Go to the dinner obligation with Keith
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Fuck. Lance heaves a sigh, heavy and quick through his nose. Frustration furrows his brow, twisting his lips up into scowl.
He has to go to the dinner. It’s the first thing Keith has actually asked of him since he agreed to come back, and if Lance wants this new position to work out— which he does… right?— he should probably make a good impression…
His lip curls, bearing his teeth as he points a stern finger at the closed door. I’ll figure out who you are and what you’re plotting, he silently vows. There’s no information the Blue Lion can’t find.
He begrudgingly hurries away, speed-walking through the main halls to get back to his rooms faster— pausing briefly and embarrassingly outside of the door to Keith’s suite to give it a lingering and curious glance. Once safely inside his own suite, he leans back against the closed door, eyes falling shut and a sigh slipping past his lips.
Right… Refocus. Regroup. Tackle the immediate problem.
Those noble goons will probably be around for a while since they haven’t already left after the anniversary festivities were over. So… he’ll get a chance again, and then he’ll be able to figure out who they are and warn Keith. Besides, the danger isn’t immediate as long as Keith doesn’t get married tomorrow—
A hand goes to his stomach, sliding to his side to wrap around his middle. That… was a weird feeling. A wave of nausea that… doesn’t make sense.
Must be nerves for his first official dinner.
Fuck. His first official dinner as Keith’s mistress.
He pushes himself off the door, squaring his shoulders and making his way across the sitting room, towards his bedroom— it’s still hard to believe that he has a royal suite. Never in his life, not even when his family was still of noble status, did he think he’d be in this sort of position. He never thought he’d even see royal chambers, let alone live in one.
His suite includes a sitting room, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Each one more lavish and decadent than the last. Though it had been clear that the suite hadn’t been used in a long time, the servants had spruced it up tenfold, making it sparkle and shine.
He makes his way through his bedchamber to stop in front of the large, intricately carved wardrobe. Throwing open the doors, he narrows his eyes on the vast array of fine silks, expensive dyes, and well-cut designs. None of them are tailored to him. There are seamstresses working on creating more personalized pieces. For now, the collection has been hobbled together by…. actually, he’s not sure. He’s not certain if they were bought pre-made, taken in as donations, or if they were merely here… left over from when Zarkon purged the castle.
Some of them Lance suspects might even be from Keith’s own wardrobe… He’s steered clear of those pieces.
What he picks is simple but elegant. He thinks it speaks to his humble lifestyle while also proving that he can dress and look the part of a mistress. Show them that he can do this. That he looks good, and there’s no reason to doubt why he was chosen for this role.
Plus, okay, maybe he’s indulging in the blue silks with gold trim. What can he say? It makes his eyes pop and accentuates his skin-tone.
He leaves his suite feeling like a diamond in the rough, confident that he had made the right decision.
That, however, was a fleeting feeling.
“The dinner was a disaster, Hunk,” he mumbles into his arms. At some point during his tale, Hunk had pulled up a second stool and is now sitting next to him, leaning on the flour coated table. Enraptured. His baking forgotten. “I should’ve just followed those nobles and figured out who they are. It would’ve been a better use of my time.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t—“ Lance tilts his head enough to shoot Hunk a sharp look, at which point he bites his tongue, giving a full body wince. “That bad, huh?”
“It was the most awkward dinner I’ve ever had to sit through!” He pushes himself back, sitting upright, giving himself room to swing his arms around to emphasize his frustration. “First of all, he didn’t introduce me, like, at all. I kind of took the seat next to him, which I assume was the right one, but no one indicated it was, so who the hell knows? He barely looked at me the whole time— like, seriously? I’m supposed to be his mistress. His first mistress, mind you. The man who supposedly was so devastatingly handsome to have smitten the king and earned himself a full pardon. And yet he wouldn’t even meet my eyes! I even kicked him under the table a couple times and all he did was scowl at his peas.”
“Oh,” Hunk winces again, this time in sympathy. “How’d the nobles react?”
“With either strained smiles, weak attempts at conversation, or to flat out ignore me. That last one was a popular choice.”
“That sounds… really awful, man.”
“It is!” He crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched as he scowls at the mounds of dough. “I know one thing for certain. You won’t catch me dead at another little royal dinner party.”
“I mean…” Hunk pauses, idly running a finger through the flour as his brow furrows. “You’re supposed to be his mistress right? Isn’t being arm candy just part of the job? You know, seen and not heard?”
“I’d think that if it weren’t for the fact that Keith offered me this position specifically not to be arm candy, but to help him figure out how the hell to rule his kingdom. How am I supposed to have any influence if he won’t even acknowledge me? The people are just going to follow his example!”
“Maybe what he meant was for you to just… advise him in private? Not actually be, you know, openly entangled in politics.”
“Maybe,” Lance huffs in begrudging acknowledgement. “But maybe this whole thing would be a lot easier if he would actually tell me what he wants me to do.”
“Don’t get mad,” Hunk says warily. Lance turns to look at him, eyes narrowed and one warning brow raised. Hunk sighs, running a had through his hair and leaving trails of flour. “Have you tried… I don’t know, talking to him? Asking this directly?”
Lance scoffs, a loud bark of a sound, doubling down with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “You think I haven’t tried talking?”
Despite himself, a short huff of a laugh escapes Hunk, his lips curling into a small smile. “Okay, fair point, but you also get stubborn sometimes and will refuse to speak directly about something that’s bothering you.”
Lance’s brow furrow, lips pursing into a pout because, honestly? Hunk’s got him there. But that, however, is not the point. “I’ve tried, Hunk. I’ve actually tried.” He sighs, voice lilting with a bitter, mocking edge. “But our all mighty savior, the strong and brave warrior king, isn’t exactly great at talking.”
“Are you serious?” In all honesty, Lance can definitely tell that his voice is crawling up in both pitch and volume, so he can’t exactly blame Keith for wincing. But that being said, he’s far too shocked and frustrated to really care.
“Do you have to shout?” He grumbles, brows furrowed as he rubs one ear. It’s an entirely dramatic gesture. He’s not that loud.
He narrows his eyes. Hands on his hips. Hip cocked. Shoulders squared. Head tilted to the side. He lifts his chin, holding Keith’s glare in nothing short of a challenge of his own. “Yes.”
There’s a tick in Keith’s jaw. Grinding his teeth, probably. The pinch between his brows deepens for just a moment before he sighs, collapsing backwards in his chair. If it weren’t for the scowl tightening his features, he’d look like he was lounging. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Don’t see— the big deal?” He throws up his hands, twisting on his heel to pace. Past Keith’s desk and back again. There’s not a lot of space in Keith’s office, but he makes do. “The big deal is that you’re allowing the southern lords to increase taxes on their subjects and you approved sending out armed reinforcements! You’re providing them with armaments!”
Keith’s glare narrows just a fraction, jaw tightening as the muscle in his temple twitches. His hands flex on the arms of his chair, fingers rubbing together in a way that Lance is starting to realize is a nervous tick. His jaw works, lips pursed and parting— before snapping together once more.
Lance has learned that face, too. Once, he might have seen that fierce scowl as the look of a powerful man angry to be opposed and chastised. Once, he might have feared a look like that and back-peddled spectacularly. He can definitely see how Keith has gotten the reputation that he has— fierce and wild, sharp angles and a sharp tongue.
But Lance has learned.
This isn’t Keith angry. This is Keith uncertain. Unsure, frustrated, and irritated. And all of that doubt coils up behind a defensive shield like a cobra backed into a corner and hissing.
So, knowing this, Lance expects the snap back before Keith even settles on the words to use. Because gods forbid a king tackle this problem head on and ask relevant questions. No, clearly it’s better to fight with Lance.
(Despite what Hunk says, Lance refuses to admit his own part in this. It’s Keith who instigates their fights. If the verbal spars can be called that.)
“Well, it’s not like you were there to advise me otherwise,” he finally says, with a subtle lift to his chin and a fire in his eyes.
He wants to play the blame game? Fine. Lance can play, too. He whirls around, pointing an accusing finger. “It’s not like you asked me to be there!” He stomps back toward him, stopping with nothing but the large, oak desk to separate them. He crosses his arms, leveling Keith with a look and daring him to look away.
He doesn’t. He holds Lance’s gaze, and Lance allows himself to sigh, shoulders slumping.
“Look, Keith. Seriously, why am I here?” He doesn’t mean to sound so tired, but that’s definitely how it comes out.
Keith stiffens, breath hitching as his entire body tenses. When he speaks, it’s soft and carefully even. “I told you. I need you to help me— to help the people—“
Lance cuts him off with a groan, head rolling back. “But you never told me how to do that!” He falls forward, hands coming down on the desk. He stares at Keith through narrowed eyes, voice soft, serious, and pleading as he says, “Just tell me what you want me to do. Please.”
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Keith’s Response:
1. Find information
2. Talk to the people
3. Advise me
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Keith’s eyes finally dart away from his own. To the side. To the desk between them. Brows furrowed and lips pursed, working together as his jaw clenches. His arms are crossed over his chest, but Lance can see the way his posture tenses, hands flexing.
Finally, he looks up, eyes narrowed and gaze intense. He says, sharp, short, and sure, “Advise me.”
A breath slips past Lance’s lips in a rush. One he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Advise you,” he repeats. “That’s what you want?”
Keith nods, quick and definitive.
“Fine.” Lance lifts a hand, jabbing a pointed finger down at Keith’s desk, making noise against the papers scattered across his desk. “First bit of advice? Put this order on hold. We need to look into it more thoroughly and figure out why the southern lords want to raise taxes, and why the people aren’t paying them. Odds are, the fault isn’t in the people, but in the lords themselves. Sending armaments is just going to add fuel to a fire you don’t want burning in your name.”
Keith’s lips work together, small micro-expressions that are coming through despite his efforts to remain impassive. Finally, he huffs, shrugging casually despite his generally defeated slouch and defensive glare. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Lance says, sardonic sarcasm dripping from the honey of his voice. He steps back from the desk to give an overly dramatic, sweeping bow. And from the lowest point of his bow, he lifts his head, giving Keith a glare through his lashes. “My second bit of advice? Ask for it.” He straightens, making a show of adjusting his sleeves and tunic. “It’s much easier to advise you before decisions are made.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t look for whatever constipated expression Keith wears. He’s tired. He’s done. And he’s making a point.
So instead he turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and letting the door swing shut none too gently.
“Well,” Hunk sighs, rubbing soothing circles on Lance’s back. He’s pretty sure his tunic is now covered in flour, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth it for the comfort Hunk provides. “At least you tried, right? And you got an answer.”
“I got an answer, but I can’t really do anything to advise him if he doesn’t communicate about when he needs it,” Lance huffs. He’s started drawing in the flour, and throughout his rant, him and Hunk have started a game of X’s-and-O’s on various crosshatched boards drawn over the flour covered table. “It’s not like I’m attached at his hip, ready to offer my wise words at the drop of a coin.”
“Well… why not?”
“What?”
“I win,” Hunk says with a smile, drawing in a circle to create a row of three. “Wanna go again?” Lance nods, and he starts drawing a new board. “I just mean, like… you’re his mistress? Officially and everything. Why don’t you just… hang out at his side? Attach yourself to his hip or whatever. No one would question it, and then you could be there to advise him when he needs it.”
Lance heaves a heavy sigh, making an X in the flour. “It’s not that easy…”
“Why?” Hunk asks, making an O. “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
“It would be in probably literally any other circumstance,” Lance huffs. “But this is Keith we’re talking about.”
There’s a brief pause, and when Lance glances at Hunk, his brows are furrowed. His lips purse out in thought, eyes narrowing as he looks at Lance.
Lance narrows his eyes right back. “What?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you calling the king by his first name,” he says with a shake of his head.
A surprise laugh bubbles out of him, and just that simple act has some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders. “Well, he doesn’t like it when I call him your majesty. He scowls like it’s an insult.”
Hunk gives him a pointed look, tapping a finger in the flour. “I think that’s a pretty good indicator that you’re… you know, on good terms?”
“We are.” His face pinches, lips curling into a half formed grimace. “At least I think we are. It’s hard to tell sometimes.” He sighs, shaking his head as he marks an X on their new board. “I used to think he was stuck up. Just another royal up on his high horse. The strong silent type.” He leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm and scratching his eyebrow, smearing four across it. “But now I’m realizing that he’s not some cool, mysterious, royal enigma. He’s just awkward as all hell.”
Hunk hums thoughtfully, drawing out an O. “That’s definitely how you make him sound, but just personally, man? I still think he’s intimidating, mysterious, and definitely an enigma.” He shudders, shaking his head. “You won’t catch me getting on his bad side.”
“That’s just because you only see what he wants you to see,” Lance says, reaching out to pat Hunk’s shoulder.
He’s not surprised. He doubts many people get close enough to Keith to see what he’s really like, and the king probably prefers it that way. Lance is sure that if they hadn’t crossed paths in the woods that fateful day, he would be in the same boat as Hunk.
“Honestly, sometimes I wonder how he managed to win the war. I thought the famous Warrior King would be more decisive, especially after he hunted me down in the woods and practically demanded I help him, but… he’s just so hesitant.”
“What’d you mean?” Hunk asks with a raised brow.
Lance’s lips twist into a grimace, looking away. “I can’t really play the doting mistress role and stay attached to his hip when he’s just so damn awkward with physical contact.”
“The southern lords aren’t happy,” Shiro sighs, leaning back in his chair behind the desk. One hand taps heavily against the arm rest, his brow furrowed in thought.
Lance scoffs, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed over his chest. “I doubt the people of the southern lands are very happy either. Otherwise there wouldn’t be an issue to begin with.”
Shiro hums, and when he speaks, though his voice remains neutral, Lance swears he can hear the lilting edge of wry amusement. “I suppose that’s true.” He sighs. “Still, the lords aren’t happy with being promised support and then having it taken away. While I do agree with the decision, it might prove… difficult to pacify them.”
“They’re just going to have to deal with it,” Keith says, a scowl heavy on his features. He sits across the desk from Shiro, arms crossed over his chest and lounging low. Not very kingly, if you ask Lance, but very Keith.
“They will,” Shiro agrees. “But now we have to deal with them.”
Lance rolls his eyes, dramatically making a face to show exactly how he feels about the southern lords. Shiro, thankfully, can’t see it. But Keith can. He hadn’t meant to entertain him, but when he catches the king’s eye, he sees the shadow of a smirk forming on his lips, eyes gleaming—
Then there’s a knock at the door, and the three of them freeze.
Being the royal mistress, Lance has no reason to be in Shiro’s office. Not unless he’s accompanying the king. And if he’s accompanying the king, they definitely have to be a lot more intimate than standing three feet apart and barely looking at each other.
So Lance acts on instinct and quick wit, moving towards Keith in three easy strides and sliding into his lap as the door opens.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Keith’s Response:
1. Fight
2. Flight
3. Freeze
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Lance catches wide eyes and parted lips that do nothing to muffle the sharp inhale, but it’s too late to back out now. He’s committed to this action, and it would look worse to pull away now. Keith came into his woods and practically begged him to be his mistress. If he can’t handle a little intimate touch for show, the whole farce will fall through.
Keith is stiff as stone as Lance settles on his lap, plush of his rump on one thigh while his legs drape over the other. He leans against Keith’s chest, one arm falling over the back of the chair and around his shoulders. The other rests palm-heavy against his lapel.
It’s… awkward. Incredibly so. Keith’s body is tense, rigid, and oozing discomfort. It’s like sitting on a statue, hardened muscles having absolutely no give. Not to mention his arms are still crossed over his chest, now locked in place, boney elbows digging into Lance’s ribs where he’s trying to be a doting mistress.
It doesn’t help that the look of surprise has also hardened, shifting into his signature scowl. Brows furrowed. Lips pursed. Tense lines etched deep around a tight mouth and narrowed eyes.
Lance half expects Keith to shove him off or at least snap at him. He can sense the venom-dipped words right on the tip of his tongue— and yet surprisingly, he does neither. He merely remains frozen, glaring at Lance but otherwise… nothing.
Unfortunately, nothing is just as bad. What sort of man looks like this when he has the ass— a very nice ass, thank you very much— of his beloved mistress in his lap?
The door unlatches, swinging open just enough for a guard to poke their head through. Lance can only hope that from behind and across the room, their position looks somewhat normal.
“Sir Shirogane, Master Iverson is here with reports on the new knights.”
The man behind the desk sighs, lifting a hand and absently crooking a couple fingers. “Send him in.”
And still, the king has not moved or relaxed an inch.
Lance… will admit that he’s a little put off. He’s had his fair share of romps. He’s known to be a charmer and a flirt. And yet… he’s never had someone freeze so fully at his touch. He expected at least flustered. He can deal with flustered and uncertain. But this? This is just… awkward.
As the guard dips back out of the room, Lance turns to cast a questioning and pleading gaze at Shiro. He’s met with a smile that speaks of sympathy but eyes that are alight with wry amusement.
It’s clear that while he sees the pain Lance is in… he won’t be of any help.
Great.
It’s up to Lance to fix this. What else is new?
There’s a murmur of voices in the hall, and he’s pretty sure they only have a few precious seconds. So Lance wastes no time in turning back to the king, sitting upright to grab both his arms where they’re crossed over his chest. As he tugs, there’s a firm resistance, biceps flexing and fists curling tight enough to turn his knuckles white as he instinctively fights back.
Lance meets his glare with one of his own. “Stop being so stiff,” he hisses.
“What are you doing?” Keith snaps back, thankfully keeping his voice at a harsh whisper, hinging just barely in the direction of frazzled panic.
Despite his frustration, Lance feels just a hair of sympathy. So he sighs, rolling his eyes and giving Keith’s arms another light tug. “I’m your mistress. At least act like you’re okay with me touching you.”
“Why are you in my lap?” Did his voice just break? No. No, Lance has to have been imagining that. His own panic at their precious seconds ticking away has his ears ringing.
“Because,” Lance gives another tug, and finally— finally— there’s some give. Keith is still stiff, but he allows Lance to maneuver to his arms, wrapping one around his waist and laying the other so his hand rests on Lance’s knee. “I have no reason to be here, in a meeting between you and the head of your king’s guard, unless I’m your lap buddy. So just— stop being so stiff.”
His request goes unheeded as Iverson, master of knight training, enters Shiro’s office. Despite his hands now being in appropriate places, Keith remains stiff as ever, his touch so uncomfortable and uncertain that it nearly makes Lance’s skin crawl.
Still, Lance leans into the part he agreed to play. He lounges against Keith once more, one elbow resting on the back of his chair as he cards his fingers through Keith’s hair. It’s an impulsive gesture. One born from Lance’s need to fiddle with something and his innate desire to convince Keith to relax.
It works, if only minutely.
As Lance runs his fingers through his hair— which is unfairly thick and soft, by the way, leaving Lance earnestly transfixed by the sensation of it sliding between his fingers— he can feel some of the tension start to slip away. Not all of it. He still remains unnaturally stiff. But there’s some give to the thighs beneath Lance’s legs. The fist resting atop Lance’s knee opens up, fingers resting at a far more normal angle. Beneath his other hand, Lance can feel Keith’s chest rise and fall with deep, steadying breaths.
His face remains fixed in that impassive scowl, but he’s come to associate that look with one of emotional constipation. If Keith is feeling something he’s uncertain of or doesn’t want others to see, he wears that scowl. If he’s lost in thought or contemplation, he wears that scowl. If he’s determined and stubborn, he wears that scowl. It’s his mask, fierce and piercing. One that the Warrior King has become known for.
This one might be a result of Lance’s foreign touch, but at least its place on his features isn’t abnormal or unheard of, especially in royal dealings.
Yet despite his scowl and stiff posture, Lance doesn’t miss the way he leans his head into Lance’s touch, seeking out the steady stroke of his fingers.
And perhaps it’s just about getting himself into the role of mistress, but Lance allows a small smug smile to settle upon his lips.
Iverson eyes them both as he comes to stand at Shiro’s desk. His brows can’t seem to settle on being furrowed or raised, but it’s clear by his pinched expression that he’s not sure what to make of Lance sitting so casually in his king’s lap. Keith refuses to look at him, but Lance meets his gaze boldly, tilting his head with a casual smile.
Nothing to see here. Move along. Just a man and his mistress. What of it?
Shiro clears his throat, snapping Iverson’s attention away from holding Lance’s gaze— which might have been more challenging than intended. He clears his own throat, straightening and giving a stiff half-bow with a mumbled, “Your majesty. Sir Shirogane.”
Lance doesn’t miss the fact that he’s left out of the greeting, nor does he miss the fact that Iverson seems to now be pointedly ignoring him.
“Your report, Master Iverson?” Shiro prompted with a lifted brow and an easy smile. There’s tension around his eyes— fuck, there’s tension sizzling around the room. Charged and uncomfortable, putting all four men on edge.
And Lance isn’t an idiot. He’s well aware that his actions are what’s causing it. A ricochet effect that bounces Keith’s discomfort to Iverson to Shiro.
“Right,” Iverson says, voice gruff and stilted. “Forgive me, sir, but I was hoping to speak with you and his majesty in… private.”
Lance can sure as fuck tell when he’s not wanted. Still, he’s not about to go without making a show of it.
“Well,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, letting his head flop to the side until it rests against Keith’s, ignoring the way the man stiffens once more. His hand tightens in Keith’s hair, a gentle tug out of sight of the others, reminding him to relax. “Far be it from me to invade your privacy, Master Iverson. If you all will excuse me, I’ll make myself scarce before you get into the dry and drab paperwork of squires and knights,” he drawls, bored and yet barbed.
He lifts his head, turning to face Keith, who tilts his head just enough to cast Lance a curious, side-long glance. One brow raised. Lips pressed into a small frown that Lance can’t quite read.
Acting on impulse, with a dash of defiance and stubborn pride, Lance sweeps forward, pressing his lips to Keith’s temple.
His sharp inhale is soft, but it echoes in Lance’s ears as he slides off the king’s lap, hips swaying as he saunters leisurely toward the door.
“To be honest, I thought he was going to chew me out for pulling that one on him,” Lance leans back against the table, arms crossed over his chest as he frowns at the floor. “I was all ready to defend myself and give it right back, but he just… avoided the subject all together. I don’t think he looked me in the eye for three days.”
“Wow,” Hunk breathes, hushed and marginally surprised. He’s abandoned his spot at Lance’s side, covering the table once more with a fresh powdering of flour as he goes back to kneading dough. “He sounds…”
“Like a pain in the ass to deal with, yeah.” Lance huffs out a breath, halfway to a laugh.
Hunk hums thoughtfully. “I was actually going to say shy.”
Lance tilts his head back until he can see Hunk upside down, narrowing his eyes. “Shy?”
“Well, yeah…” He shrugs, setting aside the dough he’s been working to grab the next. “Think about it. There’s not a lot of time for socialization or romance when you’re fighting a rebellion to regain your crown.”
“Hunk,” he says flatly. “There’s plenty of time for fucking during war.”
“For soldiers maybe, but like… Keith was a prince raised to fight, wasn’t he? And if he had romances or like, literally any tendency to sleep around, we definitely would have heard gossip about it by now.”
“You… have a point…”
“What if he’s—“
Lance gasps, straightening and whirling around to slam his hands on the table. “What if he’s a virgin.”
Hunk gives him a flat look. “I was going to say what if he’s never been intimate with someone. Or maybe it’s just been a while. Or maybe he’s like me and he’s only really comfortable being physical with someone once he knows them really well.” Hunk shrugs, leaning his weight forward to grind the heel of his hand into the dough. “There are a lot of reasons why the close intimate contact makes him… uncomfortable.”
“I guess you’re right,” Lance admits with a sigh, shoulders slumping. His brows furrow as he stares at the dough taking shape under Hunk’s hands.
Hunk has a point, of course. Given the king’s reputation for being devilishly handsome and swoon-worthy— combined with the fact that yes, he really is as handsome as the rumors say, Lance has eyes— he hadn’t really considered the fact that Keith might… have never actually been intimate with anyone. He definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to go around seeking out bed partners. And Hunk’s right, if he had, there would definitely be rumors about it.
No wonder the whole kingdom is watching Lance with a close, speculative eye. For a man who never takes lovers, something must be really special about Lance.
Too bad Keith is terrible at keeping up the charade. What kind of man can barely stand to touch his mistress?
One who—
“Or…” Lance says slowly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Or it’s just… me.”
“Lance—“
“No, it makes sense, right? The only time people are that uncomfortable is when they really don’t like the person that’s touching them.” He shrugs, nonchalant to counterbalance the pit forming in his stomach.
Hunk huffs. “He wouldn’t have asked you to help him if he didn’t like you at least a little.”
“But that doesn’t mean he has to like me physically. He may not even like men… Oh gods, and I went and draped myself all over him.”
“He kind of asked for that much when he asked you to be his mistress,” Hunk sets his dough aside, picking up another mound of it and slamming it to the table with enough force to snap Lance out of his spiraling thoughts. He startles, jumping as his eyes snap to Hunk, blinking rapidly. Hunk sighs, giving him a steady look. “I get why you’re worried. He’s not exactly making it easy for you. But you’re Lance! The Blue Lion! You’ve been making the best of uncertain and not easy circumstances your whole life. If you deal with my uncertainty all the time, you can definitely handle his.”
Lance smiles, small and wry and so incredibly grateful. “You making a good point…”
Hunk grins, leaning into his kneading. “And, you know, for the record, I think you’re right.”
“You do?”
“Of course, I do. He asked you to be his mistress, so you’re doing your best to do that. He just might, you know… need some time to relax into it. If anyone can put someone at ease, it’s you.”
“Don’t you mean you?”
Hunk rolls his eyes, affectionate as he leans over and nearly shoves Lance off his stool. “Stop that. You’ve been helping people for years. Now it’s the king’s turn.”
“Okay.” Lance takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he straightens up, the shadow of a confident smile daring to form on his lips. “Okay. Okay. But… where do I start?”
“I dunno,” Hunk says with a shrug. “He asked you to advise him, right? Like he actually said, advise me.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“So… advise him. Whether his advisors like it or not. The whole point of you acting as his mistress is to have a little bit of power. If they don’t like you at his side, so what? What’re they going to do? Tell the king no?”
“You know what…” Lance says slowly, already slipping off his stool, getting his feet under him as his heart picks up speed, eyes and grin widening as an idea forms. “You’re right.”
“Oh no,” Hunk says, but it’s with a smile. “I know that look. What’re you going to do?”
Lance straightens, lifting his chin as he brushes off his tunic. “I’m going to get changed into something more suitable,” he says as he saunters across the room, glancing over his shoulder and shooting Hunk a wink. “There’s a council meeting soon. I don’t want to be late.”
If you ask him, the outfit he chooses is modest, but he’s also fairly certain the members of Keith’s council would argue that it isn’t appropriate for the occasion.
But Lance has a reputation of the king’s arm candy to uphold, and uphold it he will.
The shirt he wears is little more than a vest. Form fitting, tailored, and perfectly snug to his torso. The neckline is a deep V, leading right down between his pecs, showing off a good among of prominent collarbones. It accents his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The sleeves are a translucent material. Shimmering and transparent. From shoulder to wrist. Slitted on the outside, as if one can’t already see his defined arms in perfect clarity.
The pants he wears are little more than leggings, stretching tight over his thighs and cupping the curve of his ass.
And the boots— gods above, he loves these boots— they fit snug to his calves, riding all the way up to his knees. The heel on them isn’t much, short and thick, but it’s just enough to give his bottom an added lift.
He’s modest, alright? Everything is just… very tight and leaves very little about his body to the imagination.
Everything is in various shades of blues, whites, and golds. A perfect contrast to the darker violets, maroons, and blacks that Keith and his people wear. It makes him stand out in all his glory.
He wears a gold choker to draw attention to his throat, as well as a couple gold bracelets and rings. He might have pilfered Keith’s royal jewelry, but he never wears it and the effect of wearing the king’s jewels is an important one.
After all, he is the king’s prized gem.
Beautiful and handsome, wrapped up tight in expensive fabrics and decorated with gold.
He spends a fair amount of time simply admiring himself in the mirror, musing his hair in just the right way. He’s never had access to such finery, and truthfully, he never thought he would. He looks damn fine, if he does say so himself.
Chin held high, he gives his reflection a decisive nod before spinning on his heel and marching out of his suite.
He loses track of the double-takes he gets on his way there, and he revels in the attention. He’s not shy about meeting the eyes of servants, guards, and nobles alike. Offering them a wink, a wave, a little sassy salute, before sashaying his way onward. He’s a man on a mission, after all.
He pauses only once he nears the council’s meeting room. He stops around the corner from it, out of sight of the guards who keep watch at the door. His eyes flutter closed, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Steadying himself. Allowing himself the confidence that he knows he holds.
He’s the Blue Lion. He was a noble turned peasant who crawled his way up from the muck to protect the people. He has stood up to men and women like this on a daily basis. He’s seen much worse than those who sit in that chamber hall.
And… despite his faults, hesitations, and awkwardness, Keith— the Warrior King— is his ally.
His ally who brought him here to advise him and help him learn how to navigate ruling a kingdom under the guise of being his mistress. Someone who can sit at his side and look benign all the while listening to everything. A pretty face to hide a cunning mind. Eyes and ears to the king himself.
And Lance intends to do just that.
When his eyes snap open, he feels the fire burning behind them. He feels it right down to his very core, smoldering in his chest, bright and hot behind his ribs.
It simmers beneath his skin as he rounds the corner and heads toward the meeting hall in steady, confident strides.
It sings in his veins as he stops before the large double doors, lifting a brow at the guards who step forward to block his path with a gruff, “Halt. There’s a meeting in session.”
It sparks on the tip of his tongue as he says— haughty, confident, and sure— “The king is expecting me.”
It flares in his gut as the two guards exchange wary glances before hesitantly stepping aside.
It roars in his ears as he takes three strides forward, plants his hands on the doors, and throws them open with silent but grand fanfare.
It blazes behind his grin as he takes in the startled stares of everyone around the long meeting table. Surprised. Irritated. Furious. Aghast. Confused. Baffled. Scandalized.
And it heats at the tips of his ears as he meets Keith’s gaze from where he sits in a grand chair at the head of the table, dressed in dark, rich velvet attire, violet eyes wide and startled— before they trail slowly down Lance’s body darkening as he swallows thickly.
Lance lets the silence stretch just to the edge of tense. Just long enough for the doors to swing shut behind him. And then, light and airy, he chuckles. “Apologies,” he says easily. “Don’t stop on my account.”
It takes a couple beats more before one of the nobles finds his tongue. A man that Lance doesn’t yet have a name for. He’ll have to learn all of them. Keep tabs on each and every one. “What is the meaning of this?” He asks, sharp and petulant.
“What are you doing here?” Demands another. “Who let you in?”
“These meetings are private,” One of them sputters as Lance ignores him, making his way to Keith’s side.
“I’m just here to accompany my king,” he says lightly, bowing deeply towards the man in question, but holding his dark gaze through his lashes, eyes lidded and smirk coy. “Apologies for being late, your majesty. I simply wanted to look my best. I do hope you can forgive me.”
Keith stares at him, shocked and struggling, eyes that had previously not-so-subtly roamed his body— which, Lance notes, is a good sign that he might fancy men after all, and definitely looks good for keeping up appearances— now lock onto Lance’s.
Something passes between them. Silent. Challenging. Understanding.
And slowly, Lance watches Keith’s body relax, tension oozing out of him inch by inch. Watches as his face slides into that familiar, unreadable and impassive scowl. He nods once, and— after a moment of brief hesitation— he reaches out a hand.
“Unfortunately, your grace,” one of the noblemen says, cutting in sharp and quick, voice dripping with false pleasantries and even falser apologies. “We don’t have any seats to spare for your…” His lip visibly curls before he wrangles it back down, “Mistress.”
Lance turns to find the speaker, eyes narrowing minutely with the smug smile that slides across his lips. “That’s quite alright,” he says sweetly, allowing the fire in his chest to burn away his irritation. His fingers curl around Keith’s, squeezing gently in warning and shooting him a quick, challenging glance.
Holding eye contact, he steps up to the king’s chair, sliding gracefully into the man’s lap.
And for a brief second, Lance fears for the worst, breath held— but Keith is only stiff for a moment.
Under the watchful eyes of his council, Keith wraps an arm easily around Lance’s waist, hand warm and possessive on his hip, making an unwarranted shiver run down his spine. He adjusts them both, leaning back and spreading his thighs a little wider to accommodate the weight, shifting Lance to lean against his side.
When Lance meets his gaze once more, there’s a similar fire burning behind them. A mirror of what’s ignited in his own chest.
Determination. Confidence, in himself and in Lance. Camaraderie. Understanding. A challenge received and taken.
A spark of something new.
He then rests an elbow on the arm of his chair, leaning his chin in his palm as Lance takes it upon himself to run his fingers through Keith’s hair. He stares down his council, that hardened scowl on his face, daring any of them to say a word.
None of them do.
And with an idle wave of his hand, Keith merely says, “Continue.”