Lear despised this will every ounce of his being. He thought this trip would be worth something, maybe... meeting someone and falling in love with them over time and perhaps marrying them in the next few years.

Instead, he was meeting someone he just met. The motives weren't exactly clear, but it was likely a result of some child she was carrying and that body upon that table in the hall.

When he looked up to the young woman again, she still had her arms crossed, and her face was all screwed up with mingled anger and grief. She wanted to do this less than he did.

Lear pulled at his collar. Maybe it was time for small talk — maybe he could initiate a conversation. He pulled a smile and stared at her.

“Um, you have to... you have to understand...” The sheepish smile that appeared on his face died when she glared down at him. Normally, such a glare wouldn't have been intimidating, but with his short stature that barely met the woman's shoulder, it made even him shiver a little inside.

He screwed up his face. “No small talk, huh? Funny, innit?”

She did not reply. Lear chose not to press on. He groaned and crossed his arms — he knew he had to look mature for this, however small it was.

The creak of the door came almost as a relief to him. Lear relaxed upon a low lying dresser in the small dressing room, draping himself dramatically over it.

“Small talk. A person should be knowing who they marry, so why won't you talk to me?”

The woman only introduced herself by name — Elvira — and pulled a partition around a mirror opposite from Lear. Even she didn't like him.

That was fine. He hardly knew her too, and it was very unlikely that either of them were going to warm up to each other anytime soon.

“Could you... maybe... at least talk to me?”

“No.”

“Listen. I get it. Grief is hard. It affects people differently.” Lear felt a whine die in his throat as her irritated growl came from behind the partition. “I'm sorry for being an insensitive bitch. I was dragged here on a long trip to find a wife against my will.”

“Wasn't there some other asshole he could drag along instead of you?”

“Someone else?” Lear asked. “Like my brother? Oh no... I don't think he's that... interested in... anyone. He did have this one friend though. I don't think he liked her that way, if you... know what I mean.”

Elvira pulled back the partition and stared at him with such a strange curiosity that it made him blush. “Did he ever say what her name was?”

Lear covered his face with a hand. “No, I don't think he ever did. He hardly speaks about his university life.”

“What was his —” Elvira cut herself off; Lear removed a hand from his face and stood from the dresser.

He supposed it didn't matter what she was going to ask. Even if he could answer the question, the words would die in his mouth. There was an answer in his brain, but not on his lips.

There was a knock on the door.

“Are you guys ready now?” The voice was male — a servant, perhaps? “Um, the guests are... waiting.”

“Well, you have barely given us time to prepare. Five more minutes, won't you, just to talk?”

“Al... Alright, my Lord.” The servant's footsteps retreated away from the door. Lear could hear grumbling from their mouths — clearly they were impatient and ready to get this done and over with.

“Time to prepare?” Elvira glanced back at the mirror. “Oh... time to talk. Right.”

A smirk crossed her face and Lear felt his heart jerk up to his throat.

“You're the President's son. Why did he drag just you here and not your brother as you mentioned, hmm?”

“Because I'm a hopeless romantic and fall in love too easily. Get me?” Though meant to be a joke, Lear felt her gaze staring upon him, brimming with questions. He didn't want to answer but he not his tongue and say through his teeth, “His name was Peter.”

She is chuckling now, and grabs his hand. For once, he is glad that she didn't press him on the subject.

“Johann?” She calls; footsteps ran back to the door, which was followed by a knock.

“Yes, my lady?”

“We're ready!”

“That's great!” Johann clapped his hands — or at least Lear thought he did — from behind the door. “I'll go inform your mother!”

His footsteps retreated away again. Elvira shot a sideways glance at Lear and her smirk widened.

Lear internally groaned.

Nobody suspected a thing. The wedding went on as normally planned. Lear saw forced smiles and fake faces among Elvira's family, and among his father. He knew why his father wanted him here.

Can't I just love somebody without your intervention?

That's how it has been going with him and Peter, a young guard, before Enmilia noticed. He was quick to give Lear a lecture on the bloodline and tear him away from Peter in any way possible. Lear knew this trip's purpose.

Once they got back, Peter would see what had happened.

I'm going to cry at a wedding... Lear sniffed. I can't cry at my own wedding, no matter how much I despise it.

It was over quickly, thank God. He didn't want to spend another minute being stared at by people who were so fucking oblivious to other's opinions and the real world.

He was led to a bedroom after, where he only threw off his shoes before he collapsed into the bed.

They wouldn't even let him share a room with anyone, which... wasn't exactly bad, but being left alone with your own thoughts wasn't exactly the most satisfying experience.

He wanted to go back home. He wanted to go back and be with his mother, his brother... with...

Fuck, your father ruined that chance, didn't he? Because you're such a fucking fuck-up?

He laughed silently to himself.

Shouldn't I just be sleeping? I'll be fine if I just sleep and not dream. I'll be fine.

God fuck. Fuck me.

Lear turned and buried his face in his pillow. Instead of crying, he laughed... well, then he cried. He laughed and cried, scolding himself for being such an idiot. He didn't regret his actions, truly. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't.

Then why did he choose to do such a thing?

Lear turned back over.

Sleep, you idiot.

He pulled the pillow next to him and covered his face as though to smother himself. Sleep, goddammit. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Stop thinking. Shut up. Shut up about Peter. You're married now. You can push this all behind you.

He chose not to think of anything else that night. He pulled the thick covers over him and curled into a fetal position.

I don't want this.

He sighed and shut his eyes tight.

This was going to be awhile.