This wasn’t the first time Lucas found himself out of breath and barely clothed in a side closet of a magnificent palace. It definitely wasn’t the most memorable, but that could very well be the copious amounts of tequila erasing both the last few minutes and the name of the girl stepping back out into the hallway, fixing her smudged makeup and messy hair. Trysts like this haven’t felt quite as fulfilling as they used to, but hey, pleasure is pleasure. This girl had green eyes, he remembered once she was gone. Lucas had liked the way they glistened when she made eye contact as she took him in her mouth — but he can’t for the life of him remember if she was called Lydia or not. Lia? Or maybe her name was something else, like the name of a bird. Peregrine?
An impatient cough brought him back down to earth, where that green-eyed girl had apparently left the closet door open, and now his bodyguard was stoicly staring at Lucas leaning up against an empty wine rack, still half naked. “You really always catch me at my worst, Sean,” Lucas said. He was proud at how clear it sounded in spite of the drugs and eight — nine, tequila shots?
“Put your clothes on, kid, you look ridiculous,” Sean said.
Lucas could hear the slightest hint of amusement and affection behind that stern facade Sean liked to put on. Wait, no. That wasn’t spoken out loud, he just heard all that in Sean’s thoughts. Gods, keeping that straight gets difficult after a third round of shots. Lucas had also heard how good he was doing in that girl’s thoughts… Robin?
“King Marius will likely have some opinions about his youngest son’s physical relations with a duchess from Barith,” Sean continued. “Especially when she’s already very publicly betrothed.”
Lucas dismissively waved his hand before buttoning his pants. “Betrothed ain’t married. It’s fine.”
“For your sake, I hope we can count on Duchess Lydia’s discretion.”
Lydia! That was her name! Maybe he wasn’t as wasted as he thought. This simply won’t do. “So, are you here to collect me,” Lucas said, fiddling with the last buttons of his billowing dress shirt, “or am I free to go?”
Sean crossed his arms, his posture softening slightly. The half-orc’s muscular frame always comforted him, felt safe, but this was different. It didn’t feel like protection, so much as a crumbling dam holding back flood waters. Lucas could hear the tone of the Sean’s thoughts shift. The discordant notes of amusement and disappointment resolving into something melancholic. Is that reluctance? Reluctance and affection do not sound good paired together.
“The king and queen have requested your presence for a brunch meeting tomorrow in Costa Brava,” Sean said, slowly. “I talked them down from an early breakfast, so you’re welcome.”
He was holding something back. What is going on? “I can hear you keeping something from me, Sean. You know I can,” Lucas said. “If it’s bad, please just get on with it so I can drink myself to sleep.”
It wasn’t like Sean to withhold information. That wasn’t the kind of relationship they had. And Sean made it a point that Lucas, as his charge, was completely and excruciatingly honest about everything. And there it was, sneaking through Sean’s tone: pity.
“Arrangements are being made for your… betrothal. Both your father and brother have agreed it’s high time for you to settle down.”
Lucas couldn’t stifle his surprised laugh of disbelief. “Wardo was part of that decision?”
“The king believes the crown prince should be practiced in these kinds of arrangements,” Sean went on to explain further but Lucas had already tuned out. So his prick of an older brother and his asshole father have decided that it’s time for him to settle down? Lucas wasn’t even twenty years old! Wardo wasn’t even married until he was at least in his mid-twenties, and his wife sucks! Okay, maybe she wasn’t actually that bad — but who would say yes to marrying a cold, heartless stick-in-the-mud like Eduardo? With that forehead? What a fucking nightmare.
“Does my mother know about this?” Lucas asked.
“She is aware,” Sean said.
Fuck, this is not good. He had to tell Liam about this.
That thought made him freeze up. He couldn’t tell Liam, actually. Liam hadn’t returned his messages in weeks.
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As with most Cuarón family meals, the noise was a spectacular symphony of competing tones and voices. Lucas was already in a shouting match with his father before the amuse-bouche was served. This was typical, as the Cuaróns were a notably loud and boisterous bunch, made worse by the fact that Lucas and his father had starkly different worldviews. And now that Eduardo was taking on more responsibilities, he irritatingly became more like their father with each passing moment. Now with Lucas’ imminent betrothal, this brunch was a particularly spectacular meal in Cuarón history, his brother joining the fray during the appetizer course, with his mother chiming in soon after to distract with talk of event planning.
Lucas found arguing with his father enjoyable, depending on the context, of course. Something about the way Marius’ head tilted when he was angry always warped his father’s tone into something wobbly, like uneven vibrato. His personal tone of anger and disbelief had a musical quality to it, which Lucas had tried to explain to his father before he had the right words for it, calling his anger ‘fun’ and ‘interesting.’ Marius had never much liked Lucas’ abnormal ability to hear other peoples’ thoughts to begin with, but hearing his own thoughts described out loud was the last straw. Marius the father never liked to talk about it, but Marius the king found some use in the espionage of knowing the courts’ thoughts and hidden agendas.
Isabella, his mother, had tones that, to Lucas, were always pleasant. Everything about her thoughts was melodic, possibly from her upbringing as a musician, like she understood the world as a piece of music. No matter what happened, she could see and understand where the melody was going and how to resolve it. She was the perfect antidote for his father’s grating tones. Though, he hadn’t been around much the last couple of years to hear how quiet her music had become.
As for Eduardo — well, there wasn’t much musicality in any of his tones. Or any notable qualities to it. They simply were drones of thought, like bellowing ship horns. His wife Bronwyn wasn’t much better, though he felt sorry for her being dragged here to hear his family talk about marriage like it was a duty and nothing more. Love be damned.
“Why must you be so flippant about your duties as a Cuarón, Lucas?” his father asked furiously, his tone wobbling in that funny way. “You are a part of this family, and so you will do your part for this family!”
“This is ridiculous! I won’t ever be the king. So, I don’t need to marry anyone,” Lucas pushed. “My part is to live in the Montura and be charitable. That’s it.”
“Your part is to be a Cuarón, that’s all. Our money pays for you to do whatever it is you do, and you pay us back by doing what the family asks of you. And now, that duty is getting married,” Marius’ tone stabilized. It betrayed him, because he didn’t really mean any of it. His tone was more disappointment, with no edge of authority. Like someone telling half-truths to a kid to get them to shut up.
“Oh fuck off, dad,” Lucas leaned forward in his chair. “You and I both know you can’t make me do shit.”
Lucas reached out towards his father’s mind, feeling the bite of that cold wall surrounding it, built over many years with careful planning. Reading his father was difficult, but not impossible. Something was bothering Marius to make this sudden arrangement, and Lucas wanted to know why.
“Watch it, boy,” Marius’ tone shifted to something dark. Lucas immediately pulled back. His father’s tone was harsh again. This wasn’t fun anymore.
“Complain all you want,” Eduardo chimed in, his discordant drone pulling a solo in this dinner symphony, “but it’s literally what all of us had to do! Suck it up and be a man about it.”
“Ed…” Bronwyn’s pathetic warning against her controlling husband.
“Oh, ‘be a man?’ Like how you cried for two hours after dad said you had to get married to get the crown?” Lucas shot back.
“If you hadn’t come along, Lucas, I wouldn’t have to question if I got the crown or not!” Fear and jealousy, in his drone.
“Seriously? Like dad would make me king. You wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself without it.”
“Oh, you’re so sure of yourself, Lucas,” Eduardo scoffed. Was that satisfaction in the drone? “Which time getting institutionalized did you figure yourself out?”
“Boys…” his mother’s attempt at cutting tension, a melody lost in the noise.
“The same time I realized how much of a narcissistic asshole you grew up to be,” Lucas wasn’t going to back down.
“Maybe if you weren’t such a pansy we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Eduardo said.
“Enough!”
Marius the king stood at the head of the table, hands white knuckling a linen dinner napkin and a fork. The Cuarón symphony quieted into soft tones of fear and anger. The king was tall, and pulled himself to his full height to look down at Lucas. Despite his age, King Marius kept the muscle and build of his youth as a swordsman and athlete, a man of physical prowess forced to be a tradesman and deal broker in a court of liars and sellouts. Lucas realized that he didn’t know what love sounded like, in his father’s tone.
“Your marriage is not a request, Lucas. Understand that it is a duty you will fulfill,” his father spoke the words slowly, his tone a quiet, commanding anger. “Your mother and I will attempt to find a suitable woman for you, should one arise. If your input is wanted, it will be requested. Otherwise, you will do as your king commands.”
Rising through the soft tones was a sweet note of sorrow. His mother’s voice mirroring her internal melody, “We would not be doing this if we didn’t think it was best for you, Luca.”
He could feel Eduardo’s mind reaching out to him, wanting to continue the fight, but Lucas pushed it away. The fight was over if his mother was on board. Lucas said nothing, but slumped back into his chair and projected resentment into everyone at the table.
The meal continued in silence, with Lucas deflecting every attempt to connect with his mind and continue their conversations or whatever excuses the Cuaróns wanted to toss his way. This was the way of things or at least how they used to be. Lucas wasn’t a person to these people, his family. It was like this before any telepathy manifested, before his mind became a receiver for every errant thought or feeling his maladjusted family or courtiers or attendants or handlers or nannies or whoever was around at any given time because for how small the castle could be it was always chock full of the nastiest people the country of Catalan could attract to its golden shores and the noise made it to where every single moment was a futile attempt at quieting a bullhorn constantly being projected into his head. Lucas was either his ability or a political pawn, not a brother or a son.
Lucas ached to send Liam another message, but he was too tired to try again today. What would Lucas even say anyway? He could hear Sean walking down the hall, a refreshing note of contentment peaking through the awkward quiet of the Cuarón brunch winding down. Sean’s tone had the same feeling as Lydia of the Closet last night. Lucas made a note of that.
If Lucas was going to be forced back to Costa Brava, he was going to have to brush up on his espionage skills.
If Lucas was going to be forced to marry, he was going to make it everyone’s problem.