Chapter Text
Tom
The banquet hall is nothing short of royal extravagance. Fitting, since it’s nestled in the wing of the Palacio Real del Madrid. The all-encompassing gold decor—if not carved and shaped in the genuine article then gilded within an inch of its life—makes the room so bright it hardly needs the several low hanging chandeliers. Tapestries drape over the walls, murals reach across the domed sections of the ceiling. A great dining table runs the length of the room, swathed in flawless white linen and playing host to over seventy chairs. Stepping inside is like slipping back in history several hundred years, this being one of many rooms in the Palacio that has been preserved rather than accommodated to modern times.
The people filling the seats are equally regal to their surroundings, with titles like Knight, Duke, and Prime Minister prefixing their names. They sit straight, speak at the precisely correct volume level, and not a single utensil is picked up too soon or put down too late. The King and Queen of Spain sit at each end of the table, engaging their guests in whichever language is required of them (and calling a translator to their side otherwise).
Somewhere around the middle of the table is one of four princes in attendance, who possesses the easiest name to pronounce out of everyone present: Tom. Not that anyone calls him that. Ever.
Smile forced and shoulders tense, Tom focuses on the French head of state sitting to his left. The other guests within conversation distance speak Spanish. This prince doesn’t. Given the level of depth he’s currently engaged in with a graying Frenchman, he rather wishes he did. It would offer more options for topics than exchanges like—
“Comment est votre pays cette période de l'année, votre altesse?” the man asks.
(“How is your country this time of year, your highness?”)
Tom replies in full before reaching for his wine. “J'ai peur, beaucoup de pluie et de nuages pour l'automne au Denmark. Et vous?”
(“A lot of rain and clouds for autumn in Denmark, I’m afraid. And you?”)
This is, evidently, a favorite subject of Pierre Rousseau’s, and he launches into a rambling, detailed, enthusiastic speech on autumn in the major regions of France. It suits Tom just fine, gives him a chance to eat the salmon and asparagus in front of him while nodding politely and trying to catch the eye of an attendant for more wine. He can do all this and Mr. Rousseau will never feel ignored. If Tom has a talent, it’s faking his complete attention. An entire country’s resources behind him and this is the ability he’s cultivated.
He pushes the thought into a dusty corner of his mind and leans back to allow an attendant room to fill his glass. His third. Any minute now, his assistant will quietly lean over his shoulder and pretend to whisper something important, only to inform him he has reached his polite alcohol limit for the evening. For everyone else at the table that kind of personal note would be an anomaly in a day otherwise full of pressing, important bits of information. For Tom it’s likely to be the most vital message given to him tonight, and he already knows about it.
Once he pushes that thought back into the same place he’d stashed the other, he laughs easily at the ending of some anecdote Mr. Rousseau tells about rain, puddles, and Bolvaint dress shoes that cost northward of thirteen-hundred Euros. Tom suppresses a wisecrack about how French taxpayers must be thrilled with government expenditure these days. That’s when he knows he has to try for at least somewhat substantive conversation before he implodes.
“Votre élection présidentielle est pour bientôt, oui?” he asks.
(“Your presidential election is soon, yes?”)
“Oui, nous sommes très confiants,” Rousseau replies, brightening.
(“Yes, we’re very confident.”)
Tom nods. “Ça fait plaisir à entendre. Vous savez que le Danemark est un grand partisan de votre premier ministre. Nous serions impatients de continuer à travailler avec lui .”
(“That’s good to hear. You know Denmark is a great supporter of your Prime Minister. We would look forward to continue working with him.”)
Rousseau looks at him with the kind of fondness one gives a eight year old who experimented with a big, impressive word. He pats the back of Tom’s hand. “Ne vous inquiétez pas, votre altesse. Je vais en discuter avec ton père.”
(“Don’t worry, your highness. I’ll discuss it with your father.”)
Tom looks down at where his hand has been touched. It takes him a half-second longer to look up with a smile that is strictly polite.
Rousseau goes on to analyze which cyclists have the best odds in this year’s Tour du France . He drones on for quite some solid, dragging minutes without bothering to ask for a reply or opinion. The lecture is interrupted only briefly by someone appearing over Tom’s right shoulder . Familiar red hair tells Tom who it is before she speaks quietly into his ear.
“That was your third glass, your highness,” she says. “That’s your limit until the dessert wine is served with the crema catalana.”
He begs Rousseau’s pardon and turns to her. “Thank you, Britta. I am aware. Please go make a phone call to create the illusion I have just told you something important.”
“Yes, your highness.”
She steps away to sit with the rest of the assistants on the outer edge of the room, cell phone pressing into to her ear. Tom gives Rousseau a pleasant expression and motions for him to continue.
Perhaps he has some extra space to think because he has no interest in competitive cycling. Perhaps it’s due to a lifetime of dealing with the Rousseaus of the world that he doesn’t have to listen. But as Tom watches him, takes him in, he wonders if Rousseau actually cares about cyclists and the patterns of rain across Europe. Weather and sports are the topics you save for the inconsequential when you’re unfortunately seated next to them at a banquet, are they not?
He remembers the patronizing hand on his. That kindly, dismissive look tugging at the corners of Rousseau’s eyes and mouth. The theory solidifies into a hard knot of certainty. Tom, nevertheless obligated to grin and bear it, nods encouragingly while feeling ill.
His dinner, dessert, and final glass of wine go untouched.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The hotel lobby befits the prince it promises to keep for the next five days. A chandelier hangs from the pristine, circular ceiling of the lobby. A staircase carpeted in rich red greets clientele to the left of great revolving doors. Marble columns provide security and intimidation, exotic blue flowers rest in tasteful-yet-grandiose arrangements on a center display table. Crisply dressed staff wait at the entrance and behind the main desk, hands folded behind their backs, wearing pleasantly neutral expressions.
Instead of staying at a palace or presidential manor, certain diplomatic arrangements allow a prince of thirty-one to go on a rare excursion. Given the royal splendor of the hotel it’s obvious, then, why royalty made reservations. Tom hadn’t made them himself, of course. Britta got everything sorted during a nine minute phone call that accomplished twenty minutes of business. No, the prince himself does what he does best: he shows up.
Tom enters the hotel flanked by Britta and his nighttime bodyguard, Isaac. Hands in pockets, eyes to the floor, he holds back a yawn. Landing in Madrid had seen him straight to the banquet with no time for respite in between, and now he’s completely exhausted before ten o’clock at night.
They stand in a loose triangle, nobody bothering to look at the main desk except Isaac. Britta, ever absorbed in her phone, gives Tom a pointed nudge with her elbow.
“You didn’t finish your dinner,” she says.
“I lost my appetite,” he replies.
“Didn’t touch your dessert, either. Were you trying to offend your hosts?”
Tom pretends to admire his surroundings. “They won’t notice, believe me.”
Britta makes a small, nearly imperceptible sound of disapproval in her throat and moves on. “Next month is that peace summit we’ve been talking about. “I’ve finally gotten them to agree to let you sit in.”
Tom looks over at her, eyebrow rising. “On the summit?”
“The dinner afterwards. Your father is in the summit itself. But that’s neither here nor there, cameras are only allowed at the dinner.”
“Right.” Another banquet to look forward to already. He goes back to studying the floor, shoulders a little more wilted than they had been before.
“It’ll put you in a good position for the French tour in the fall, with a little help from the seating arrangement I finessed tonight.” She finally lifts her attention and glances around the lobby. “The owner should be here to greet us—oh, there he is.”
A slender man in a well tailored Oscar de la Renta suit strides toward them. Slick hair, white teeth, dimples. Tom still has on his resplendent coat and tails from dinner yet manages to feel underdressed somehow.
The owner smiles a little too wide to be genuine. “Mr. Hiddleston, welcome to Ritz Madrid. It is an honor to host your party for your visit to our city. I am the owner and manager, Mr. Flores, and I will be personally escorting you to the presidential suite this evening.”
“It is my honor to stay here,” Tom replies. He offers his own too-wide smile. “This is a remarkable hotel. Stunning.”
“That is high praise from you, your highness. Let me show you to your suite.”
They take the staircase single file up to the hidden elevators. One is held open by a dutiful bellhop and they’re ushered inside. On the way up, Mr. Flores provides hotel history and supposedly fascinating stories. Tom, as per usual, makes appropriate sounds of interest in order to retreat into his head without consequence.
Not that his head is a pleasant place to be.
Rousseau, Britta’s wine reminder, the “windfall” of getting into the summit dinner—evidence of Tom’s inefficacy is piling up in spectacular fashion tonight. A sour mood starts settling under his skin, one he can typically avoid with a little effort. But if a few choice events line up in a row and take their swings in rapid succession, he’s known to slip rather easily into a vicious cycle of thoughts that sounds something like this:
You are painfully useless, aren’t you? Which in turn inspires a righteous sort of anger, but it’s reactionary at best. In reality, you’re relieved to have no high expectations. Less pressure that way. All benefits, no drawbacks. That would be wonderful if it didn’t make you a traitor to your people. Ah, now you’ve landed at guilt over shirking your responsibilities. And how many times have you wound up here? It’s pathetic. Boring. A bunch of well-worn thought processes churning about in an empty vessel, over and over and over. Because that’s the real problem. Your life is empty and you lack the backbone to change it. Hardly makes your uselessness a mystery, then. And doesn’t that just piss you off…
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
The only son of a king, sole heir to the throne of Denmark, is relegated to the status of glorified diplomat by said king and his entire country. So ineffectual is he that a coup in his favor is a spot at the dinner table instead of the summit itself. The elevator ding brings Tom back to the world. They step onto the top floor, and he realizes he’s missed the entire ride.
“Our kitchens and in-house restaurant are four stars,” Mr. Flores explains. “Anything less is unacceptable. Would your highness like to try our filet mignon? Evening flights can cause quite the appetite.”
Tom starts to shake his head when a discreet elbow nudges his side. Britta. He corrects himself, saying, “Filet mignon sounds excellent. I’m in the mood to indulge.”
Mr. Flores lets out a small, canned laugh. “Very good, your highness. I’ll send one up for you. And here we are.”
Slipping a plastic card into a vertical slot near the handles, Mr. Flores pushes open the double doors to reveal a suite that would send most people into a rapturous fit. The reception area sports Russian blue walls accented by the cream cushions of two sofas around a dark wood coffee table. Every door is open to allow glimpses of a circular sitting room and two master bedrooms, made seductive by the warm lighting from strategically placed lamps and sconces.
The only person who outwardly appreciates the suite is Mr. Flores. Britta makes a beeline for the bedroom beyond the sitting room to make sure the bellboys put the prince’s bags in the right place. Once confirmed, she will unpack them herself. Isaac takes a short trip through the entire suite, making note of the layout. Finally, Tom wanders into the reception area without a glimmer of fascination. Turning back to Mr. Flores, however, he remembers his duty.
“It’s flawless,” he says. They shake hands again. “You have my utmost gratitude. I won’t keep you from your business any longer, sir. ”
“Thank you, your highness. Your dinner will arrive shortly. If you have any questions, any at all, the front desk will put you right through to me. Have a good night.” Mr. Flores bows his head once and takes leave.
Tom slides his hands into his pants pockets and blankly studies the reception area. Britta returns from unpacking in record time, phone chirping twice in a row.
“Give me five minutes, I need to check on my bags in the room down the hall,” she says, already halfway to the door.
“Oh, just stay in the other bedroom,” Tom says for the tenth time that day. “This two suite business is ridiculous.”
“When you come up with a reason for sharing a suite the paparazzi will believe, I will.”
Isaac follows her out to take his post, closing the double doors behind them.
Alone for the moment, Tom doesn’t have to hide his rolling eyes. Britta overestimates his appeal to the press—his movements are barely worth page six. A scandal may get him to page four, page three if particularly salacious, but that would be the worst of things. Nobody cares about obscure royalty taking tours to glad-hand their allies and enemies. Only the British royal family makes headlines anymore. Christ, most people think that family is the last of the monarchs. Any article about Tom usually involves at least one reassurance that there is a Prince of Denmark, and at least two jokes about Hamlet.
Tom goes listlessly to his designated bedroom, parts the curtains, and peers out over downtown. Madrid, elegant city of stern spires and European commerce. From an elite hotel room twenty stories in the sky, set aglow by streetlights, it’s comparable to New York City in terms of glamour and populace. But after decades of visiting royal palaces and capitals throughout the world, these views and these suites look shameless to him. Gaudy. It’s that very horrendous, entitled outlook which further poisons his gut against any sort of food.
Like a punchline waiting for the cue, there’s a knock at the main door. He answers it, though not without dragging his feet. The bellboy rolls in a cart hosting a covered tray and announces that dinner has arrived. Tom scoffs to himself in response, but proves a touch too loud when the bellboy gives him an odd look. Rather than try to explain, Tom hands the man a handsome tip in apology. The bellboy leaves confused and thirty euros richer.
In the dining area, he lifts the silver dome off the tray to find a cut of filet mignon and roasted potatoes. Next to the plate, a sixteen-hundred dollar bottle of champagne. He knows what the food will taste like—meat soft as butter, potatoes infused with rosemary, the champagne a complex, fruity Krug Clos du Mesnil—and it doesn’t sit with his current convoluted mood any better than the banquet dinner he abandoned two hours ago. He leaves the cart and hides himself away in the bedroom again.
He sits on the edge of the tightly made bed and looks around. There is no right to be miserable in a place like this, with a standing like his, meeting the people he's met, and he’s miserable anyway. Unhappy, ungrateful, unhappy, ungrateful, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Okay then, do something about it. Take on a more substantial schedule, offer opinions and commentary on topics more controversial than improving relations with countries already allied, call the King of Denmark and insist that his extensive training and education has prepared him for a significant role in state and international affairs.
Or sit here, stagnate, and rot.
So far, this kind of energetic phase to get up and go has resulted in exactly nothing. He’s been rotting for over a decade.
Tom loses focus enough to sense someone else is in the room, talking hurriedly. Britta is rattling off the latest developments.
“...moved it to nine p.m. to compensate. The president of Brazil is in town and wants to give you a gift of some kind, a scepter or a spear. Anyway, I’ve squeezed in a meeting so you can thank him and graciously decline. It’s a domino effect from there. Long story short: tomorrow’s schedule has been bumped up anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half hour, we may have to play some meetings by ear. That also means the press conference in the morning—”
“—don’t tell me—”
“—has been moved from eight to seven-fifteen to get a running start. Wake up call is at five forty-five. I know you hate early mornings but—”
“—the concession was unavoidable.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we do this over breakfast? I’ve an awful headache.”
She pauses her phone tapping. “Are you eating well?”
The dining cart, and his full plate, are en route to the bedroom.
“Please, Britta, just my sleep aid and something for this migraine. If I hurry I might sleep for an hour or so before addressing twenty reporters who would rather be talking to someone from reality television. Please. I beg of you.”
On this rare occasion, the sincere appeal works. Britta nods once and leaves, presumably to return with his requested items.
Tom pulls off his tie and ambles to the closet, yawning fully now that no one can see him. He disrobes down to his designer boxers, an absurd expense if there ever was one, folds his dirty clothes and places them in the bottom right-hand dresser drawer as he’d been taught since boyhood, and goes into the blinding white bathroom.
He’s barely finished shaving with his electric razor, the last step in his brief nightly routine, when he hears Britta re-enter the bedroom. She sets a small tray of water, aspirin, and sleeping pills on the writing desk in the corner before hovering in the bathroom doorway.
“A quick note about tomorrow's conference—”
He waves her away with one hand and turns the buzzing razor off with the other. From the corner of his eye he catches one of her trademark reactions: a small huff followed by a hard look to the right. He imagines the satisfaction tugging at his stomach is similar to a little brother aggravating his older, more responsible sister. Though he hopes real siblings are closer than they are; not once has she asked about his increasingly dour disposition, and damned if he knows the first thing about her personal life.
“Right, I'll save it for breakfast,” she says, turning to leave. “Goodnight, your highness.”
He mumbles a thank you and goodnight in return. The bedroom door closes gently, this time with an extended period of privacy to follow.
Tom exits the bathroom and heads straight for the pills, downing them with one small gulp of water. He climbs into bed between three-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and a duvet that must have been fashioned from the clouds themselves. He stares at the ceiling.
It’s tangible tonight, the carefully engineered reality around him. His staff back in the capital of his home country, Britta down the hall in her own room, Isaac standing guard in the hallway, his phone on the nightstand at full volume. Everything in place, and for a prince who would make more of a difference as a concierge.
God in Heaven, he really is the Melancholy Dane.
The covers warm him slowly, doing their level best to ease him deeper into relaxation. His thoughts aren’t having it. The heat makes him squirm a little, fingers drumming at his sides against the sheets. This restlessness happens every few months, but he can’t remember the last time his entire body itched to do something, quite literally anything, so long as he’s the one making the decision.
The need to move wells in his chest and presses his heart into the mattress. When he asked Britta to arrange for a hotel stay rather than Madrid’s Royal Palace, he thought that would be enough to bolster his sense of independence. For a while after the arrangements were finalized, it did. Alarming, how fast the feeling fades.
When he was a teenager, his favorite plan involved sneaking out of the room in whichever palace he was visiting and spiriting away into the nearest library. He couldn’t risk turning on a light to read, instead running his fingertips over the rinds of countless books and making himself comfortable in every chair. His security detail wouldn’t say a word or even follow him. No telling what they assumed, but their discretion was the only thing that mattered. Now he’s asking for even less. Any kind of unscripted moment feels like it would be enough.
Isaac has been part of his security for the better part of three years. If the man had an ounce of awareness in regard to his charge, he’d know Tom needs a minute or two on his own and leave him be. The problem is pretext; they were in a hotel. Outside the suite, the hotel itself isn’t secure. If he tries to sneak off to the bar, or anywhere else, it’s too far out of his sphere of protection and Isaac has to follow. Since that’s the case, what on earth can he do for a second of pea—
His eyes widen. Out in the dining area, a tray of cooling food sits untouched. The steak sits abandoned, the potatoes lay ignored, the champagne remains uncorked, and the ice melts pitifully in the bucket. A champagne of that caliber doesn’t deserve to grow warm overnight. It demands fresh ice at regular intervals.
The idea is small, pathetic even, but nobody else will know. He has to move quickly, faster than he can talk or think himself back to bed. If he does think, even for a second, he’ll stay. Get comfortable. Go to sleep.
The duvet flies off of him as he gets out of bed. Padding into the closet, he dresses quickly in his most casual clothes—dark Burberry trousers and a blue cashmere pullover he rolls up to the elbow.
The dinner tray is right where he left it, full ice bucket and all. He sets the champagne to the side, grabs the bucket, goes back through his bedroom, dumps the ice into the bathroom sink, and makes for the main doors.
Isaac stands calm and alert right outside the room, turning as the prince exits.
“I’m off down the hall for some ice,” Tom says naturally. “Only be a minute.” He heads off without waiting for a response, though he hardly expects one. Man of few words, Isaac is.
He remembers loving this part of his escapes, the walking away bit. The last time he took a walk was in Germany, right after a row on the phone with father over universities. It gave him an opportunity to turn his back and leave, even for half an hour to explore a library, and somehow that supplied him with the energy to return. He doesn’t have that kind of time tonight, but it needs to be enough.
The journey down the hall straightens his spine with every step. He draws in deeper breaths, the string attaching him to his usual life stretching, pulling taught. Then he turns the corner to his destination and snap. Freedom. Not a bodyguard in sight.
The satisfied thrill twisting its way up his spine brings the flicker of a grin to his mouth. He hasn’t felt like this in far too long, and resolves to figure out how to get back to this sensation more often. In an a rare moment of optimism, he believes he might.
A top-of-the-line ice machine waits for him, stoic and humming at a whisper’s volume. Ice can be cubed, crushed, or a mixture of both. Small, medium, large cubes. Small, medium, large flakes. His stomach gives a mild turn. This is not the first time he's seen an ice machine so over-equipped.
Tom rests the bucket on the receiving pad and deliberates over his options. If the manufacturer went to the trouble of offering this many choices, it would be rude not to stand here for however long it takes to decide. When he finally does, he takes his time pressing the appropriate buttons before putting his thumb on the one that reads EMPEZAR, which either means ‘start’ or ‘begin’ in Spanish. He isn’t completely sure. The ice machine discreetly whirs to life.
A calm, unobtrusive ding sounds from somewhere behind him. He looks over his shoulder. Elevator doors open and an old woman piled to the neck in fur exits with her luggage-laden bellboy in tow. She doesn't spare even a glance at Tom, which is for the better considering the irrational level of shock displaying on his face. After a patient beat of silence, the doors slide closed.
He turns back to the ice machine. The same thought that pulsed through his brain at the sound of the ding rushes through his head again, and with more force:
He could leave.
The thought stuns him so perfectly he jumps when the ice gently deposits itself into the bucket. Fresh, glistening ice waits for him in a perfect ratio of cubes to flakes. He breathes through the thrumming electricity in his chest.
Tom has never, not a single time, tried to ditch his security detail. Library trips aren’t the same thing. Those took maybe thirty minutes and he was always under the larger blanket of the palace’s outfit. The thought of escaping all forms of protection has been too frightening to even consider. Granted, he’d probably been a teenager when he first shot down the idea, sheltered and never having traveled to a country that wasn’t in some way landlocked with his own.
With the opportunity staring him dead in the face, the fact that he hadn’t dismissed the idea the second it hit him is a mystery unto itself. He’s not sure why tonight is different, because it isn’t. He’d experienced depression and self-loathing on almost every continent. This antsy bout of feeling sorry for himself isn’t new.
Then again, he hasn’t been a teenager in a long time. Maybe he needs more than ice.
His left foot inches forward, then stops. Pulls back. He casts a wary glance at the corner leading back toward his room. If too much time goes by, Isaac will come looking. The window of opportunity is slim, the odds of success emaciated at best. Poor little rich boy should go back to his suite and slide under the comfy duvet.
‘Ne vous inquiétez pas, votre altesse. Je vais en discuter avec ton père.’
‘Don’t worry, your highness. I’ll discuss it with your father.’
Tom strides three steps across the hall and jabs the call button. The rumbling of gears and pulleys are muted, and he listens intently as he keeps his eyes fixed on the corner. His tongue turns dry in his mouth. His throat tightens. He convinces himself there are footsteps thumping gently against the plush carpet. Any second Isaac’s face will crest the corner.
Another ding, and the elevator doors pull open before him. He enters smoothly, presses the L button to be taken down to the Lobby. A heavy second passes, then another, and Tom watches the full ice bucket disappear from view as the sliding doors seal him inside.
His earlier ride up had passed in a moment, while the ride down shaves years off his life. Bright red numbers above the doors dwindle into the mid-teens at a snail's pace. Twice all progress halts to let more passengers on, a middle-aged couple and a young brunette who looks vaguely like some actress he’s seen somewhere. As they descend, so does his stomach.
Tom wills himself still when the doors open on the ground floor. He allows the other passengers to file out rather than pushing through, because he’s both a gentlemen and in dire need of keeping attention away from himself. He descends the staircase into the lobby as leisurely as he can manage. The revolving door appears, still and patient with not much to do at this hour. One perfunctory nod to the bellboy standing at attention, a moment to dry his palms on his trousers, and he’s pushing through the exit into a thick Madrid night.
A wall of noise—talking, honking, high-pitched car breaks—hits his ears like he’s never heard sound before. The lights of downtown cast a glow over the streets, a protective swathe of comfort that keeps darkness at bay. People and taxi cabs come and go, and a thread Tom has never felt before pulls tight.
With time against him, he sets off down the sidewalk. His pace is oddly sluggish given the fireworks shooting through his body. He crosses the street to a new block, then crosses another. At the next major intersection, he turns.
Snap.