THE KING IS DEAD

03

III. The Boy
° • ♚♛♜♝♞ • °

❝YOUR HIGHNESS.❞
*ృ༅*. 𝕾𝖆𝖎𝖉 hedgehog turned his head upon the calling of his title, and upon meeting eyes with the Sir Shadow Lancelot, he stopped.

Sonic hated—despised, loathed—how terrible his heart skipped, his stomach flipped, and his lungs tripped.

He damned Shadow for being this beautiful.

He damned himself for falling in the first place.

"Yeah?" His aching hands were quivering and he was trying not to grimace in his agony; trying not to show his irritation, his thinning patience.

"You are wounded," the dark knight said, stating the obvious. "And that is not the direction of the infirmary."

Sonic felt his cheeks ripen. Was he really going the wrong way? Or, the better question: Why was the palace unnecessarily enormous and labyrinthine? Who decided that this was a brilliant idea?

"With your permission, I would like assist you, my Prince."

"Please."

The knight bowed, then nodded his head in the correct direction, leading the way. Sonic followed, silent. He ignored all the gasps and wide eyes as servants passed him, startled by the state of his hands.

Of course, their whispers could not be ignored.

Oh the poor Prince, they were saying. He has harmed himself in his grief.

Sonic was wise not to correct them, as much as he wanted to. He resorted to scoffing quietly to himself.

After all, for his plan to work, he needed gossip and lies. For his plan to work, there could be no mistakes.

Let them believe he was grieving his father's death, and not because his dumb brother wore the crown.

Sonic smirked down at the floor. The floor smirked back.

"Here we are, my Prince."

Sonic skidded, for he had almost ran into the back of Shadow. Which would have been both elating and embarrassing for them both. But, for a moment, Sonic wondered how warm and soft Shadow might be, should they brush against one another, or embrace . . .

. . . His cheeks ripened again. Damn them.

But Sonic was all right with it this time. He realized that this was fine.

Shadow was a beautiful distraction.

And Sonic wanted a distraction.

"Thanks." Quiet, mumbled; but not ungrateful.

"Of course." Another polite bow, a left hand—since when the heck was Shadow was left-handed?—to his chest. "Be well."

"Yeah, same to you."

Shadow nodded his head once, then took his leave. Clink-clink went the silver armor he adorned. It shimmered as a stroke of sunlight kissed the visor.

It took everything in Sonic not to ask him to stay.

But the Prince had nothing to offer, nothing to talk about other than The Plot—which would not be breathed at all, anywhere, outside his bedroom walls.

So he let Shadow go; the knight had to patrol the halls, anyway. Sonic watched him go, staring at his cute ass.

. . . Well, until someone cleared their throat.

"How may I help you, Your Highness?"

Sonic's face soured as he faced the head nurse. She was an ancient thing, a ram who had nothing better to do but boss everyone around. He said nothing to her, merely lifting his hands to show their sorry state.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I see."

"You'd be blind not to." But Sonic's ears flattened at his own retort. It was an old habit, replying with snarky comments. His father attempted to train him out of it, but alas, habits tend to be immortal. He knew it was not at all princely—let alone kingly.

But when he was King, he could talk and say and do whatever the heck he wanted.

There would be no one to scold him.

He did not apologize for the comment. He simply waited for her to do something aside from staring at the mess.

(He should have gotten medical attention last night, but oh well.)

Eventually, she did, asking him to follow, and follow he did.

♚♛♜♝♞

❝STUPID.❞
*ృ༅*. 𝕾𝖆𝖎𝖉 the sour hedgehog prince as he lay awake in bed, trying to ignore the dull, dull throb of his poor, poor hands; they were salved with stinky stuff and wrapped in linen and set with splints. It was evening now, and he had yet to sleep. He had spent the entire day resting and in great pain; he shouldn't expect the night to bring relief.

Sonic wanted to blame it on himself for breaking his fingers and knuckles in the first place, but it was pretty Shadow who was keeping him awake, not his pain.

It had been a few months since Sonic last saw Shadow—even more since he interacted with him—and still his heart pounded and dizzy daydreams flooded his head like he was some depressed and lonely devotee with nothing better to do but to daydream moments of intimacy with the person whom they adored.

The both of them were busy, occupied with royal tasks. Sonic, with his princely chores, his boring meetings. Shadow, with his morning patrols, his afternoon lessons with the knaves. Not to mention, Shadow was often called away to aid those fighting the war—the meaningless, fifty-year war—against the humans.

For someone so young, Shadow was a vital soldier in this stupid war. He had unfathomable strength, as it had been said.

Sonic took a moment to admire Shadow (even though, if Sonic was brutally honest, there was never a moment where he did not admire some part of him). Shadow, dubbed Lancelot—a century-old tradition; the tradition of the King naming his best warriors after the Knights of Legend. Shadow, a boy no older than Sonic himself, scarcely seventeen, but just as powerful and talented as an elite soldier, and a personal trainer to boot.

. . . A light bulb went off.

He needed a distraction. He wanted to spend more time with the pretty, pretty boy. Who knew—maybe it would help with The Plot. Sonic needed all he could get his broken hands on.

(Maybe Shadow could distract him enough that he abandoned the horrible idea altogether.)

(But that was wishful thinking.)

Sonic pulled the blanket over his head, careful of his condition.

He fell asleep with a wicked smile on his face.

His dreams were just as wicked.