Summary:
Harry is a prince that is about to be forced into marriage against his will and running away to sea seems like a much better option. Louis is the captain of the infamous pirate ship The Rogue and he has a thing for helping defenseless creatures. Especially when they're as pretty as this one.
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Chapter Text
Harry is fairly certain that he could wake up every morning for the rest of his life with his cheek pressed against silk sheets and never, ever get tired of it.
There are a lot of drawbacks to being a prince; people only like you for the power, constant parties to attend with people you don't like, constant talk of duty and propriety and what's appropriate for one of his standing. But if there is only one bright side, it would be silk sheets. Pure indulgence, and Harry loves every minute of it.
It's one of those lazy mornings where he has nothing to do all day and he knows it, so lying in bed and letting the hours pass by is as easy as breathing. Maybe later he'll go swimming in the sea, or play polo with some of the less detestable nobles hanging around the castle. For now, though, he's content to just lie between his nice sheets and relax.
The only problem with this plan was that even half asleep, Harry can recognize the antsy rustle of clothes as his manservant, Zayn, sits across the room and waits for Harry to wake up. It's his job to be at Harry's beck and call from sunup 'til sundown, and the sleepy ache in Harry's limbs says it must be past noon. Zayn is likely going crazy with boredom just watching Harry sleep, and that more than anything has the prince propping himself up on his elbows and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Your highness, you're awake," Zayn says quietly, and yes, there is barely concealed relief in his voice. "I was beginning to worry you might have been poisoned by a rival or something."
There's a teasing lilt to Zayn's voice that makes Harry smile sleepily. "If anyone had poisoned me, it would be that idiot Justin. He's always had it out for me."
"I think perhaps he's jealous, sir, of your status."
"Or of the fact that none of the women flirt with him any further after I walk into the room." Harry's eyes have drifted shut once more, but he knows that if he looks, Zayn's expression will be just as amused as his own. They both know that there is no reason for the women to flirt with their prince. He's less the type of man to be enchanted by the dainty hands and rosy cheeks of a lady than he is the type to be enthralled by the muscular arms and a strong jaw of a lord. A knight in shining armor certainly never went astray.
Zayn doesn't bring that up though; the castle is full of listening ears and the heir apparent's preference for men is technically a secret, albeit a poorly kept one. No matter how many people whispered, the king insists that nothing be confirmed. He claims it's to prevent scandal, but privately Harry believes that his father is still holding out hope that one day Harry will wake up and fancy a maiden or two sent to his room.
But this morning is not that morning, and Harry sits up and stretches the sleep from his joints just as gay as he'd been the day before.
"Forgive me, sir, but you ought to be getting dressed soon," Zayn says with a clear of his throat. "It's now half noon, and your presence is required in your father's quarters at one."
"'My father's quarters?'" Harry repeats in confusion. "I asked you last night what was on today's agenda and you said the day was free."
"It was, sir, forgive me. But this morning one of the castle messengers brought a note requesting an afternoon audience."
He holds out a small square of paper and Harry takes it with his brow still furrowed. It's the familiar scrawl of his father's scribe, simply stating that he should come at one for a private audience with the king. It is not, as Zayn had politely euphemized, a request. This is an order that Harry could not weasel his way out of, no matter how ardently he wishes to do anything but visit with his father.
