Rebel Red Carnation {Kiribaku}

V

The assholes in this palace seem unable to find an end to the chores and shit they want me to do. For the first week or so, I'm on courtyard duty, cleaning up after their millions of plants and shit. I have to find and take down wasp nests, make sure the fucking seven birdbaths are clean and full, and even scrape out the gutters on the goddamn roof. The giant ball of fire in the sky is relentless, too, seeming to refuse to let summer just be a memory at this point.

Oh-fucking-well, I guess. At least that means the people in the slums—my friends and mother—will be warm a little longer before the bitter cold inevitably rolls in and takes some fingers and toes, maybe even lives.

My thoughts often stray back to them. It's been several days since the day I promised Ochako I'd return. She's probably opened her big, stupid mouth to my mother by now, and they're probably starting to arrange something akin to a funeral for me, even though they don't have a body to burn. On the chance I do manage to get the fuck out of here and back home, I can't wait to see the looks on their shitty faces when they see me still ticking.

But that day still seems far away, as they've moved me indoors after my "good behavior" has warranted a "promotion," as the fuck-faced prince had put it. Instead of doing outdoor work I get to scrub bathrooms and floors—already spotless floors, at that. Regardless, it's not that disgusting compared to The Outskirts and at least now I'm out of the sun.

The prince seems like he's got a lot to say, too, because in his company it's hardly quiet. As annoying as it is, I'm internally thankful since the ringing in my ears seems to get worse and worse after every dead silent night in my cell in the basement, secluded except for a guard posted outside my door.

I'm not surprised to find out he hasn't forgotten the shitty scar thing, either. He seemed to believe my lie about the origin of mine enough, but that doesn't stop him from talking about soulmate bullshit. He tells me about how his parents are soulmates, that his mom—the Queen—bears surgery scars that aren't her own from Miyako's transition to being a woman, which fucking figures. Of course bitches here have surgeries like that, altering their shit like it's nothing while I know people who are dying from lack of medical care—never mind those who need to transition.

"It was kinda this whole thing," the prince says, "before she got her first surgery. She was worried about marking up the queen with scars of her own and thought she was being selfish, but Mom didn't think twice about letting her do it. In fact, she practically made her since she could see how much Miyako was suffering."

"Why the fuck d'you call your parent by her name, anyway?" I mutter.

"She prefers it," he says with a shrug.

I hold back my snort and eyeroll. Not like it matters to me, anyway.

As the days continue on, I find my thoughts straying back to that one little scar on the prince's eyelid. The more I see it, the more I see just how identical it is to mine and it makes my fucking stomach churn. Try as I might not to think about it, to think about anything else, it's almost impossible when Prince-fucking-Eijirou won't talk about anything but soulmates, with no shortage of stories about the damn phenomenon.

The longer time goes on, the more I wonder if he doesn't actually believe my story. He rarely comments on it anymore but I find him gazing down at the palm of his right hand, rubbing it gently with the opposite thumb as he speaks. I don't look. I don't, because if I find what I think I will there, I'll lose my fucking mind. I already know what he's wondering about it, too, without saying it.

Ugh.

Regardless, our dumb conversations fill up the days as I'm doing my shitty slave work. It's inevitable that I get to know him more than I ever wanted to, and vice versa. I find, though, that he isn't a complete assface the way I pegged him to be at first. In fact, more often than not he's surprised me, especially on the occasion when he helped with little things, like changing a lightbulb or holding a dustpan when I'm sweeping.