Rowan meets his gaze, jaw tight. “I know you’re tired. I know you feel trapped. I know this marriage isn’t what you want.”

“That’s an understatement,” Elian says, almost laughing. The sound is too close to a sob.

Rowan’s eyes are very steady on his. “What do you want?”

It’s a simple question. It knocks the wind out of him.

Elian looks down at his hands, then back up.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Wanting doesn’t change reality.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Rowan says.

Elian laughs once, humorless. “You’re infuriating.”

“So you’ve told me,” Rowan says. “Answer the question.”

Elian takes a long breath. The wine hums in his veins. The tower feels like its own world.

“I want,” he says slowly, “a life where I’m not lying every time I open my mouth. Where I don’t have to calculate who I can look at, for how long, and in what way. Where the person I… care about isn’t someone I’m not allowed to stand next to without a script.”

Rowan’s hand tightens on his cup.

“Where I can walk into a room,” Elian continues, “and no one already knows the story they’re going to tell about me. Where if I fall in love, it doesn’t end in scandal or exile or someone telling me that love is for songs and usefulness is for me.”

He feels his throat close around the last words.

Rowan doesn’t speak.

Elian looks at him. “Have you ever been in love?” he asks impulsively.

Rowan’s eyes go dark. “Elian.”

“It’s a simple question,” Elian says. “You asked me once.”

“I never asked you that,” Rowan says.

“You thought it,” Elian insists. “I could feel it.”

“That’s not how thinking works,” Rowan replies, but his voice is strained.

“Have you?” Elian presses.

Rowan swallows. “Once.”

Elian’s chest tightens. “When?”

“A long time ago,” Rowan says.

“How long?”

Rowan’s mouth twists. “Depends where you start counting.”

Elian leans forward, elbows on the table. “Did they know?”

“Know what?” Rowan asks, even though Elian is sure he understands.

“That you loved them.”

Rowan’s gaze flicks to him, then away. “No.”

“Why not?” Elian asks, frustration and something sharper spiking. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

“Because they couldn’t afford for me to,” Rowan says. The words are low, heavy. “Because it would have made their life harder than it already was. Because I didn’t want my wanting to become their burden.”

The room feels very small.

Elian’s heart bangs against his ribs.

“Maybe they wanted you to,” he says. “Maybe it would have made them feel less alone.”

Rowan looks at him then, and the rawness in his eyes is like a physical force.

“Elian,” he says softly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk enough,” Elian replies.

“You’ll regret this in the morning,” Rowan says.

“I regret almost everything already,” Elian says. “What’s a little more?”

The laugh that slips out of him is thin.

He pushes his hair back with one hand, the other still curled around his cup. The stone beneath his feet feels unsteady, though he knows it isn’t.

“Do you know,” he says, “what Isla told me? She said she doesn’t need me to love her. She only needs me to stand beside her and play my part.”

“That’s something, at least,” Rowan says.

“It is,” Elian says. “It’s honest. But it also…” He tries to find the word. “It also makes it feel like there’s nowhere in my life where love is the point. Not with my parents, with their stability. Not with the council, with their fear. Not with her, with her usefulness. Not with anyone.”

“Love doesn’t have to be the point for it to exist,” Rowan says quietly.

“Maybe not,” Elian says. “But it would be nice if it were allowed to show up in the same room as duty without being told it’s a liability.”

He laughs again, softer this time.

“I sound pathetic,” he says.

“You sound human,” Rowan replies.

Elian’s eyes burn. He swallows hard.

Without fully thinking about it, he reaches across the table, groping blindly.

His fingers brush Rowan’s.

Rowan freezes.

For a moment, neither moves.

Then Elian curls his hand more deliberately, his fingers finding Rowan’s knuckles. His hand is warm, the skin rough where Elian’s is smooth. Elian’s thumb presses lightly against a scar he’s never noticed before.

“I’m tired,” Elian says quietly. “Of pretending I don’t notice you.”

Rowan’s breath catches. “Elian.”

“If there were another life,” Elian goes on, voice unsteady, “if I were… a third son, or a clerk, or anything but this… I think I’d be in love with you.”

The words hang there.

Heavy. True.

Rowan’s eyes close for a moment, pain flashing across his face like lightning.

“Elian,” he says again, and there’s something breaking in the way he says it.

“I know,” Elian says. “You’re my guard. I’m the prince. There’s a princess and a kingdom and a thousand reasons why this is impossible. I know.”

His hand is still on Rowan’s. Rowan hasn’t pulled away.

“I just needed to say it somewhere,” Elian whispers. “Once. Before they write the rest of my life in ink.”

Rowan opens his eyes slowly.

He doesn’t say I love you.

He doesn’t say he doesn’t.

He only looks at Elian as if they’re standing on opposite sides of a river that has always been there and is suddenly, painfully visible.

“Come here,” Rowan says softly.

Elian’s breath stutters. “Rowan—”

“I’m not—” Rowan swallows. “Just come here.”

Elian hesitates, then stands. His legs feel less steady than they should. He circles the table, the room spinning just faintly, and stops beside Rowan’s chair.

For a moment, neither touches the other.

Then Rowan reaches up and takes Elian’s wrist—not hard, just enough to guide him—pulling him down to sit on the low bench by the window.

They’re close now. Closer than they should be.

Elian can see the flecks of lighter brown in Rowan’s irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the notch in his lower lip where he must have bitten it at some point.

Rowan raises his free hand slowly, giving Elian plenty of time to jerk away.

Elian doesn’t.

Rowan’s fingertips brush his temple, pushing a strand of hair back. It’s a careful touch, reverent. As if Elian is something he’s always wanted to trace and never been allowed to.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Rowan murmurs. “Not to me.”

“Why?” Elian asks. “Because they’re true?”

“Because I don’t know how to hear them and stay where I’m supposed to,” Rowan says.

Elian leans in a fraction. “Maybe I don’t want you where you’re supposed to be.”

A muscle jumps in Rowan’s jaw.

“Elian,” he says, and the sound of his name like that is—dangerous. “You’re getting married in three weeks.”

“I’m being married,” Elian says. “It’s not the same thing.”

“You’ll still walk into that church,” Rowan says. “You’ll still say those vows.”

“Will I?” Elian asks. “Do you trust me not to run?”

“Yes,” Rowan says immediately. Then, slower: “I don’t know.”

Elian huffs a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sob. His shoulder brushes Rowan’s. The contact sends a pulse through him.

He should pull back.

He doesn’t.

“I’m drunk,” Elian says. “That’s your fault.”

“I know,” Rowan says.

“I’ll probably regret this,” Elian adds.

“Probably,” Rowan agrees.

“You’ll definitely regret this,” Elian says.

“I already do,” Rowan says, and somehow there’s a smile in it. A broken one.

Elian’s hand is still on Rowan’s. Without thinking, he lifts it.

He brings Rowan’s knuckles to his mouth.

It’s not a kiss, not really. His lips barely brush the skin. But the contact is electric.

Rowan goes absolutely still.

For a heartbeat, Elian thinks he’s ruined everything. That Rowan will jerk away, stand up, put half the room between them and call him Your Highness until all of this thins into something deniable.

He doesn’t.

His fingers tighten, just slightly, around Elian’s.

“Elian,” he says, and this time it’s almost a plea.

Elian rests his forehead against Rowan’s hand, eyes closed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “Any of it. I don’t know how to be who they need me to be and still be… me. I don’t know how to love anyone in a way that doesn’t hurt. I don’t know how to stop wanting things I can’t have when they’re right in front of me.”

Rowan’s thumb moves, just once, brushing across Elian’s skin. It’s the smallest of strokes. It feels like a crack in a dam.

“I don’t know either,” Rowan says, voice raw.

They stay like that for a while. No declarations, no grand gestures. Just the quiet, charged space of two people who have finally, briefly, stopped pretending.

Eventually, the wine and the exhaustion catch up with Elian. His words slow, then stop. His head grows heavy.

He feels himself tipping sideways and doesn’t quite manage to correct.

Rowan catches him, arms going around his shoulders with reflexive ease.

“Easy,” Rowan murmurs.

Elian’s head lands against Rowan’s chest. The sound of Rowan’s heartbeat thuds steadily under his ear, faster than usual but solid.

“This was a bad idea,” Rowan says, but he holds him carefully.

“Best one I’ve had in weeks,” Elian mumbles. His words slur at the edges now. Sleep tugs at him from all directions.

Rowan sighs, the sound half fond, half despairing.

“You’re going to forget some of this,” he says quietly.

“Am I?” Elian asks.

“You always do,” Rowan says. “When it gets this far. Your memory turns kind.”

Elian frowns, eyes still closed. “Don’t want to forget.”

“I know,” Rowan says.

Elian’s fingers curl loosely in the fabric of Rowan’s sleeve. He feels safe in a way he hasn’t in a long time—not because the world is any kinder, but because for this narrow sliver of time, he has stopped lying to himself about what he feels.

He drifts in and out of shallow dreams: the tavern, the two men dancing, the balcony, Rowan’s hand on his wrist, Isla’s voice saying love is for songs. All of it tangled with the feeling of Rowan’s arms around him, holding him like something both precious and too heavy to carry.

At some point, he mumbles, “If things were different…”

Rowan’s chest rises and falls under his cheek. “If things were different,” Rowan echoes, “I’d be a coward for not saying what I feel.”

Elian tries to lift his head. “And now?”

“Now,” Rowan says quietly, “I’m trying very hard to be the kind of coward that keeps you alive.”

Elian’s lips twitch. “You’re terrible at comfort.”

“I know,” Rowan says.

Warmth swallows Elian whole.

He sleeps.

***

He wakes in his own bed.

The room is dim; someone has pulled the curtains partially closed. His head aches, but not brutally—more like it’s full of cotton. His mouth is dry.

He blinks at the ceiling for a few seconds, then slowly sits up. The room tilts, then settles.

His clothes have changed. He’s in his nightshirt. His boots are gone.

He touches his sleeve. Clean.

Memory comes in pieces.

The dinner. Three weeks. The tower. The bottle. The way the light hit Rowan’s face as he said, I don’t know who I am when you’re not there. The feel of Rowan’s knuckles against his lips. The words that spilled out of him like he’d uncorked something that had been under pressure for too long.

If I were someone else, I think I’d be in love with you.

His stomach drops.

“Good morning,” a voice says quietly.

He startles.

Rowan is sitting in the chair by the window, half in shadow, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He looks tired; there’s a faint smudge under his eyes.

“What time is it?” Elian asks.

“Late,” Rowan says. “You missed breakfast. Nearly missed lunch.”

Elian winces. “My parents?”

“Think you overindulged at supper,” Rowan says. “Which, for once, is close to the truth.”

The relief is fleeting.

“How much do you remember?” Rowan asks.

Elian searches his mind.

“The tower,” he says slowly. “The wine. Some of what I said.”

He meets Rowan’s eyes.

“Enough,” he adds.

Rowan holds his gaze, something unreadable there. Then he lets out a breath.

“You said you were tired,” he says. “Of being a symbol instead of a person. Of lying.”

“That’s not all I said,” Elian murmurs.

“No,” Rowan agrees quietly. “It’s not.”

Elian’s heart pounds.

He waits.

Rowan looks at him for another long moment. Then he stands.

“I’m going to tell your mother you’re awake,” he says. “She’ll want to see you before the afternoon meetings.”

Elian’s fingers curl in the sheets. “Rowan—”

“You were afraid,” Rowan says, cutting him off gently. “That was the truth underneath everything else. You were afraid, and drunk, and trying to find something solid to hold onto.”

Elian’s throat tightens. “And you’re going to tell me I imagined the rest?”

“I’m going to tell you,” Rowan says, “that what you feel is real. That what I feel is real. And that none of it changes what’s coming.”

Elian’s breath stutters. “So that’s it.”

“For now,” Rowan says.

“For now,” Elian repeats, tasting the words. They feel like both a promise and a sentence.

Rowan moves toward the door.

“You took my boots off,” Elian says suddenly.

Rowan pauses, hand on the latch. “I wasn’t about to let you sleep in them.”

“And changed my clothes,” Elian adds. “Without waking me.”

“You reeked of wine,” Rowan says. “It would have raised questions.”

Elian flushes. “Did I… say anything else?”

Rowan’s shoulders tense, just barely.

“You said you trusted me,” he says. “More than anyone.”

Elian licks his lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“You’re going to,” Rowan says.

“Last night,” Elian says, “did I… did I make things worse?”

Rowan is silent for a beat.

Then: “No.”

“Are you sure?” Elian presses.

“Yes,” Rowan says. “You made them honest.”

He opens the door.

“Rowan,” Elian says.

Rowan glances back.

Elian swallows. “If I forget pieces of last night, will you remind me?”

Rowan’s face softens in a way Elian rarely sees. “You won’t forget,” he says. “Not the parts that matter.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Elian slumps back against the pillows.

He stares at the ceiling, at the faint cracks in the plaster, at the patterns he’s traced a thousand times when sleep wouldn’t come.

He remembers the tower. The wine. His own voice saying, If things were different.

He remembers Rowan’s hand in his, Rowan’s fingers against his temple, Rowan’s heartbeat under his ear.

He remembers the feeling of almost.

It’s enough to make his chest hurt.

But it’s not enough to change the clock that’s now ticking louder in his head.

Three weeks.

He drags a hand over his face.

Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, life goes on: servants carrying trays, guards changing shifts, Isla writing letters to a council that will dissect every line.

Inside, Elian sits with the knowledge that he has finally spoken aloud what he’s been trying not to name.

It feels like a kind of freedom.

It also feels like a fuse that has lit something he can’t yet see.

He swings his legs out of bed and reaches for his trousers.

If the world insists on moving toward the edge, he thinks, at least he’s not walking there alone anymore.

Even if the person beside him can’t hold his hand in daylight.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But last night, in a dusty tower above a sleeping palace, they forgot themselves for a little while.

And Elian is not sure he’ll ever be able to go back entirely to the version of himself who hadn’t.