Cinderelo {A Queer Cinderella Retelling)

Chapter 8

Charles was fussing over him more than usual, caught between which would be better for the young man's safety; sticking around or keeping away. He knew now that the latter was a choice that made him much too miserable so he allowed himself to show up much too often as the man recuperated, even as the sight of the injury made him grimace. Lins had to shave Elo's hair so its healing would not be disturbed.

Elo's fluffy, pretty hair.

Charles felt like a monster.

Elo always dodged with the dexterity of a snake every time Charles attempted to apologise yet again. Always told the Prince it was all caused by a simple misunderstanding. Always muttered in passing that he wished that outing had continued, happy when Charles would nod in agreement. What was a small cut to him when he'd had to deal with living with those brutish cousins of his for a decade? Elo even held his friend's hand once to distract the Prince from spiralling deeper into his guilt and shame, hastily pulling away once Charles looked up at him with a smile.

He'd been so shy and downtrodden when he first came to visit Elo after the incident that the boy had ended up laughing hard enough to give himself a headache. Ridiculous, really. Charles was grateful his thief was too blind to his faults to send him away. As the ball neared, as did his anxieties of having to force a wife upon himself. Having Elo near was like a soothing salve to his aching heart. The Prince only hoped he could offer a modicum of the same when he brought a book to read with or to Elo, flowers accompanying with every visit as well since this was their new safe space away from the library.

Of course, quite a few people in the Palace had noticed the Prince sneaking about with these items each day. Luckily, because Elo's room was close to Gwendolyn's for her convenience, Lins manages to convince her subordinates that he was simply trying to patch up his relationship with his sister. It was disappointing, to say the least, since they had never seen the Prince in love and hoped he was courting the future Queen but the head of domestic staff was thankfully believed by most.

As time whittled away, Charles had to spend more and more time apart from his friend, not at all by choice. Elo felt absolutely starved of his attention and the moments of intensity or affection, as few and far in-between as they might've been. The wound was only a scar now but he'd hoped the Prince would still sneak into his room for hours of banter. His desire to simply see the man again made him feel like an idiot but what could he do? His mother had always told him love was as difficult to control as a wild horse; to be tamed and kept forever or set free.

He wasn't ready to let go. Even as he knew there was no other option.

The pretty creature flopped onto Gwendolyn's bed after yet another day without spotting Charles, despite practically searching the whole castle. He'd hoped the Prince would come up to him and brush his chin over the crook of his neck to look at the book he was reading, as he sometimes did. Yet, when he'd finally managed to finish this new one, the man on his mind was nowhere near to congratulate him.

He felt guilty for thinking so selfishly. The Prince was not his own. He was a stallion in the wild on the look-out for mares alone. Who was he to want to monopolise the time of the future King? He was just a glorified servant. He meant little to the man. Nothing at all, perhaps. His mind was so flooded with darkness that he didn't notice Gwendolyn was staring at him, watching his expression become murkier and murkier until she threw a dress into his face.

He looked up at her, meekly apologised much to her annoyance and stared at the gorgeous fabric. He then drew his fingers over the material to assess it, assuming she wanted his opinion on this one as she had all the others. She'd been so pleasantly surprised when he actually had things to say about what matched her skin tone or what jewellery fit each dress' neckline best but his interest in fashion was one of the rare enjoyable lessons he'd picked up from his aunt. Her books and magazines had taught him much, as did the piles of clothes she'd order him to mend through the night since he was nothing more to her than free labour.