Princess and the Popstar

I'm just like you, you're like me

They traipsed back into the castle dripping in sweat and dirt and laughing and talking and he and the princess were on opposite sides of the room, and Fitz was really nice and funny and kind.

And then, as always happened, whenever life actually felt okay, he ran into his mother.

The laughter that had been bubbling out of his mouth shut down in his throat.

So now he was in his bedroom, still coated in a fine layer of dirt and grass and mess. Listening to his mother's latest lecture about what he ought to spend his time doing.

"I was looking for you all afternoon--"

"Why?" he asked, his head already beginning to ache.

"You had work to do, idiot-- and instead I find you screwing around with the princess and her friends like a dirty little beggar and coming inside dripping in grass clippings and filth, and stinking like a pair of sweaty gym socks, not that you ever smell good, anyway."

He shrank.

"How dare you, Keefe, it took you so much work to get here, and you're throwing it away for what? A chance to roll around in the grass like a beggar? What is wrong with you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well," she snapped. "You need to figure it out, and fix it. I can't keep covering for you forever. Eventually you're going to have to deal with the consequences of your actions."

"It's just a little dirt..."

"And if someone had had a camera? If someone had cared enough about you to take a picture? It could be all over the tabloids, and you'd be the laughingstock of the world."

"I'm not that big of a celebrity, Mo--"

"Don't you dare call me your mother. I can't be your mother right now. So, because I'm a professional, I'm your manager. I try so hard to protect your image, and you just insist on doing idiotic things like this," she gestured over his body, and her lips curled in scorn. "Contrary to what they say, I actually think you could be worth something, someday, make it in the world! But, no, you're out to prove me wrong, constantly."

Keefe felt sickness settle in the bottom of his stomach.

"You're a stupid child," she snapped, and her eyes felt like blades, raking over his skin, splitting it into pieces, cutting his body and his skin apart from each other, peeling everything away. "A stupid, worthless waste. I didn't need to carry you around in my womb for nine months if you were simply going to waste every opportunity I give you."

He dragged a hand through his hair and came out with a dry leaf. He twirled it between his fingers, listening to her voice fluctuate between caring and angry. Sad, caring, angry, angrier, angriest-- sad. Caring. Gentle. If he paid too much attention, it felt like being dragged back and forth on an innertube behind a boat that was going so fast that the amount of time the floating tube was actually on the water and not skittering through the air was very little.

He usually tried to tune her out.

"--you even listening to me?"

Her eyes flashed at him, and he swallowed, his throat dry. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"You ought to be," she snapped. "You're such a problem, child."

He winced, curling in towards himself.

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Just, get out of here. I can't stand to look at you."

Keefe fled like all hell was at his heels.