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The platter of roasted fowl arrived at Piotr's end of the high table already picked over.
He really didn't mind; he didn’t sit in an unpleasant position, all things considered. He was used to Master Radwan’s comfortable silences and predictable opinions, and the bowl of roasted turnips between them had been refilled twice. Radwan took the breast without asking, as was his right, and Piotr likewise helped himself to a leg and some of the meat near the bone.
The hall thundered with merriment. Torches threw everything into warmth and the lower trestle tables sat thick with ministers and their retinues: domestic courtiers and foreign representatives who had been here so long they considered Torun their home, and some who did not. Old hands at the diplomatic game called across the trestles with ease; newer ones watched more than they spoke.
Down the length of his table, past the ministers and advisors, past Lila—who laughed charmingly at a southern envoy—Anatoli leaned toward his father. Lord Arek's smile didn't waiver, but his hand paused over his wine cup. Then he drank and nodded, and whatever Anatoli had said was settled.
Piotr tore some bread and dragged it through the drippings.
"They're calling it a misunderstanding," Radwan said, speaking to the turnips. He often announced news as the common knowledge it already was. "The business at Pożarowo."
Piotr glanced up. "Misunderstanding?"
"Some men crossed the eastern marker. There was an exchange, and they withdrew." Radwan selected another piece of fowl. "They’re merely testing us. They have always tested. It is the nature of neighbors."
Piotr nodded. This wasn’t new.
Farther down the table, someone else must have raised the subject more publicly, because Lord Arek's voice cut through the din. "It's handled."
A pause, during which one advisor seemed to consider whether to press the point. Arek's frown made clear the cost of doing so.
The advisor reached for his own wine instead.
Someone made a joke about Pożarowo's appetite extending to their fondness for Krachów wine, and the tension broke into laughter. Piotr caught Anatoli's eye across the table.
His cousin's placating geniality was innocuous enough, but Piotr had watched that face long enough to read the faint line between his brows. Is he always this short about it? Piotr thought, and Anatoli's mouth twitched—just barely—which said yes, and it's getting tiresome.
Piotr never needed words when it came to Anatoli.
Somewhere down the left trestle someone had made a joke that received greater merriment than it warranted. It occurred to Piotr, as it did on rare occasion—spaced just far enough each time to press and re-inflame the bruise of memory—that he would have heard it, were he to occupy his old seat.
Anatoli looked over to Piotr again, and his smile, which had been warm and general, focused slightly. He looked around, then spoke.
"A hunt."
He said it lightly, addressing the table rather than any individual. "Tomorrow, if the weather holds. Something small, for the sport of it!"
The suggestion landed well. Lord Arek considered, then agreed.
Someone mentioned a boar sighted near the eastern edge of the wood, and another agreed the weather should hold. Lord Arek waved a hand in agreement. "See to it," he said to no one in particular, which meant it would be seen to.
The conversation moved on. Piotr watched Anatoli settle back into his seat, accept a cup of wine. His smile was already shifting to the envoy beside him who'd undoubtedly said something flattering about Krachów's falcons—everyone knew he had a thing about them—and Anatoli smiled his warm, easy, smile he gave everyone, and the envoy preened under it, not unlike his falcons.
Piotr looked down at his plate, where his meat had gone cold.
The hall emptied slowly. Piotr waited near one of the side doors while the last of the courtiers filed out. Anatoli was still at his table, speaking with two Sandomieri. Piotr didn't recognize either of them; many in the delegation had turned over recently, mostly new faces these days. He'd heard something about a death in one of the families calling people home? Lila would know—gossip was her domain.
One of them laughed too loudly and stood too straight while the other faced away. Neither looked like they warranted Anatoli’s smile.
Anatoli caught his eye, then dismissed the envoys with a slight bow and step back. Then he was crossing the hall, to Piotr, and Piotr once again became victim to the lurch in his chest that always accompanied Anatoli's attention.
"That was well done," Piotr greeted. "The idea for a hunt."
Anatoli shrugged, but he was pleased, Piotr could tell. "Father's been in a mood all week. Thought it might help. Something to look forward to tends to unstick him." He paused, then added, "Besides, Piotrek, it's been a while since you and I have been out together. What's it been—a month? Two?"
Four. "Something like that."
"Too long." Anatoli clapped him on the shoulder—brief, solid, meaning nothing. "And hunting's your territory anyway. Good to remind people what you're good for."
It was meant to be kind, Piotr knew that. Anatoli was not careless with people, not in the moment. His attention, when it was there, was full and genuine.
But then the steward called his name, and Anatoli's attention slid as water off a roof. "I'll see you in the morning," he said, already turning. "Early start."
"Early start," Piotr echoed.
Anatoli was halfway across the room before Piotr realized he was still standing there, watching torchlight catch his cousin’s hair and turn it the color of late wheat. Only a few servants remained, clearing tables.
It's been a while. He spoke like time was something that happened to them, rather than something to be endured as Piotr counted the spaces apart.
The hunt was something to look forward to. It was not nothing, and so he could have it, as long as he knew better than to ask for the rest.
Piotr arrived at the stables before most of the hunting party, which meant he had time to check his own mount's tack and help the stablemaster with Lord Arek's gray. The work settled him: leather and buckles were things he understood.
The frost had not quite left the ground by the time the party rode out, in huffed clouds of steam. Arek rode at front with two of his men, Anatoli beside him, and Piotr somewhere in the middle, flanked by Master Klemens and a younger courtier who must have found favor with him. Behind them, a scatter of others, servants with the dogs. Perhaps fifteen riders total; Anatoli had been right to call it sporting.
They passed through eastern gate and into the woods where the light through the trees barely warmed the gray of dawn and birdsong courted the thundering hooves.
The hounds found a trail inside an hour.
"Boar," the huntmaster announced, though this required little verification: the air held an undeniable muddy musk. A command, and the dogs came back. Men holstered their spears, pikes.
The boar broke cover badly.
It was young and irritable and defied the clean break a hunt sought after: the run where a set pike let the beast’s own momentum do the work. Instead it came out sideways and immediately veered toward the side riders, willing the horses to shy hard—Piotr's own mount sidled but held.
Yet off to the left, a horse screamed.
Piotr twisted in his saddle; one of the Sandomieri riders had lost control! The dark bay planted and spun and in a blink took off flat. The rider was still on, barely, hauling uselessly at the reins. He would not stay mounted long.
Piotr didn't think.
He spun his horse and kicked, and then he was in pursuit.
Left, avoid the worst of the undergrowth. Drive hard between the old oaks. Gain ground. The bay was running on fear and had no direction except away. Piotr was calmer, had instinct about him.
There! A clearing!
He urged his horse forward and angled hard right. The runaway saw him too late to change course. Piotr got alongside it, made himself large and the bay faltered, whites of its eyes barely an arms width away.
Piotr was off his horse before it settled.
He went straight to the bridle, held it while the beast shook and snorted, gradually coming to itself. The rider slid down from the saddle on the other side, caught himself against the horse's flank and stayed there.
Piotr dropped the bridle and came around.
The young man was upright but not steady, braced against the horse. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. A handsome youth, even with a scratch across his jaw from a branch still beading. He breathed carefully and when he looked up his fear was still raw.
"Are you hurt?"
"I—" The young man glanced down, needing to survey himself to know for certain. His right hand bore a red stripe across the palm where the reins had caught. "No. I don't think so." He looked up. "No."
"Let me see." Piotr reached out, waiting for permission. A faint color came into the man’s face and he extended it without a word.
He was close, necessarily so, and he looked at Piotr intentfully.
"You came around the front," he said, awed. Piotr shrugged.
"It was the fastest line."
“I have been on three hunts in my life, and I don't think any of them prepared me for that. I’m very glad you were behind me."
He seemed to process his words and dropped his gaze, flush flaring.
Piotr had no response to any of it.
Finally, the young man dared to look up again, held out his scratched hand. "Miloš, of Lord Iwo's delegation. Three weeks arrived."
"Three weeks and you’re integrating yourself into a hunt?"
"I make fast friends.” Miloš said, with only a hint of petulance.
Piotr laughed—he couldn’t help himself—and clasped his hand. "Piotr."
Miloš did not let go immediately. Instead, he tilted his head and, almost as though he had not meant to say it out loud, he sighed.
"Piotr. That fits you."
Just then, the bay nudged Piotr's shoulder, having decided the crisis was over and she would now like to be acknowledged. Piotr pushed the nose away without looking. Miloš laughed, and it might have been the most delightful thing Piotr had ever heard.
"Does she know you saved her?"
"I don’t think horses don't think about it that way."
"No." Miloš smiled. "I suppose only people do."
His smile was beautiful, and Piotr turned to check the bay's reigns, mostly to have something to do.
"Can you remount?"
"I think so." Miloš considered the horse, then looked back at Piotr. "Will you?"
Piotr cupped his hands and Miloš stepped up. Settled into the saddle, gathered the reins, looked down at Piotr from the new height, and the sunlight backlighting him was not unlike looking up at the visage of a saint.
Just then, a break through the trees: Klemens, flushed and earnest, stopping and taking in the scene before him.
"The boar's down. Is anyone injured?”
"We're fine." Piotr remounted. "Come."
They found the others in a loose cluster around the kill, the young boar smaller than it seemed during the chaos already being trussed. Anatoli looked up as the three emerged
"You're all right?" He asked of Miloš.
"Thanks to your cousin, my lord." Miloš inclined his head. "He has a good seat and better instincts."
"That he does." Anatoli grinned, and for a moment the rest of the world fell away and there was warmth and sunshine. "We'll get you on the next kill, make up for missing this one."
Then the huntmaster called for Anatoli and clouds came in.
Piotr sat there, and when he looked over, Miloš was watching him. It was an expression that Piotr was quite sure he’d never seen before.
Then Miloš looked away, color rising in his cheeks, and busied himself with his reins.
The first time, Piotr thought nothing of it.
He sat in the great hall, not long after the midday meal, lingering with a goblet of wine and avoiding Lila’s latest speculations. Miloš was also still there, further down the far trestle, talking to another Sandomieri. He looked over to Piotr, once, twice. Piotr did not know if there was a third or fourth time, as that would have made it undeniable that he, too was also looking.
Instead, he drank and steadfastly thought about replacing his mare’s bridle .
The second time was in the practice yard.
Piotr ran drills with a handful of the younger guards. His body knew this language. Feet here, weight there, don't lock your elbows or you'll break your arm at impact.
He looked up on a whim and there, on the upper walkway, stood a figure. At the edge of his vision, but still: dark-haired and unmistakable.
Piotr fumbled the recovery, not terribly, but enough to feel it. He schooled his focus back to his partner, called young Lucjan forward to demonstrate the sequence, and didn't look up at the gallery again.
When the session ended and he finally let himself cast his eyes up, Miloš was gone.
The third time, Piotr was in the library.
He went there rarely—reading was Anatoli's strength, not his—but he'd been looking for some cavalry illustrations Master Klemens recommended, Burzen tactics from the last war. A handful of scholars bent over manuscripts, adding the faint skritch of quills-on-parchment to the air.
Piotr found the section he needed and had begun his search when footsteps approached from behind him. He turned, and he nearly collided with the man standing there.
Miloš stepped back quickly, hands coming up in apology. "I wasn't trying to startle you!"
"You didn't," Piotr lied.
"I was just..." Miloš gestured vaguely at the shelves. "Looking for something. I’m…" He turned to leave.
"Wait!”
Miloš stopped, then slowly turned.
"Are you following me?"
There was a moment, then Miloš bit his lip as his cheeks went the color of autumn apples. "I… I wouldn't—"
"You lingered in the hall."
"I was talking to—"
"Then the practice yard."
Miloš's mouth opened. Closed. "I wasn't following you. That makes it sound like—I wasn't being strange about it. I just..."
He worried at his bottom lip. It really was becoming quite swollen. "I wanted to thank you. Properly, for saving me during the hunt. But every time I tried to approach you, I thought—well. I thought I'd sound foolish. You've probably forgotten about it already, and now I…” He swallowed. “I didn’t want to be foolish.”
Piotr stared at him. Along his collar ran a faint dusting of freckles that he hadn't noticed before, and his hair fell in a swoop across his forehead as he looked down.
"I don't think you're foolish," Piotr said.
Miloš glanced up. "No?"
"No." Piotr took a breath that wanted to stick in his throat. "And I haven't forgotten about the hunt."
There were many reasons Piotr would not forget
"You haven't?"
"It's not the sort of thing you forget." He didn't know where the words were coming from. "And you're not ridiculous. You're—"
The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. The most radiant thing I've known in years when you flush. The most--
"— welcome to thank me," he finished lamely. "If you want to."
A gladness surfaced on Miloš quickly. "I do want to. I just didn't know how."
"You could start by telling me what you need from the library. Is it something for Lord Iwo?"
"No."
“Another member of the delegation?”
“No.”
“Something you need?”
“No,” Miloš admitted. "I panicked and made that up."
Piotr was rarely the source of panic, merely the recipient. To experience the reverse was… nice. Better than nice.
"Do you want some air?" he asked, before Miloš frightened himself away and the opportunity was lost. "I was going to walk the eastern path."
Miloš blinked, then smiled. In the hazy light of the library, his lines were soft. "I'd like that.”
They left the library together. Piotr didn't get the cavalry illustrations, and didn't particularly care.
The walk to the eastern path took them through the covered colonnade, where Miloš walked beside Piotr. He wasn’t especially close, but when a servant with her arms full of linens passed them, Miloš stepped aside and the movement brought him briefly closer to Piotr and Piotr’s heart did some nonsense skip-beat.
And then the servant was gone and Miloš was further and Piotr felt, strangely, sadder.
" I heard you teach the guards," Miloš said eventually. "Is that often?"
"Most mornings.”
"How did you come to that? It’s usually a job for masters, not nephews of lords”
Because sweat and spears and swords make sense. I look at the men and see their lives ahead of them, bright and open. I need to be kept busy, but kept away. Drilling guards means being in the courtyard, not at council.
Too much. Too raw. He barely knew this fine man.
"It suits me," Piotr said instead. "I'm better at doing than... other things. Court matters, politics… that's not where my strengths are. But the pike, the sword, formations—that I understand. It made sense to put me where I could actually be useful."
Miloš considered the answer, and Piotr worried he'd heard underneath his words.
“And they clearly respect you. They listen to you."
Piotr’s shoulders settled in relief. "It's just drills. Basic formations, routines, nothing they couldn't learn from a skilled masters."
Miloš looked up at him, eyes wide. "I doubt that."
Piotr glanced at him. Miloš did not seem to consider his assertion contrary. If Piotr had not known better, he would have taken it as a compliment.
“Teaching’s just... teaching. You show someone the right way to do something until their body remembers it. It doesn’t really require much…” Polish. Complexity. “It’s the kind of thing that comes naturally, I suppose.”
"More than other things?" Courtly things?
It was too close. Piotr hummed neither a yes nor no.
They emerged from the colonnade into the gardens. The eastern section was Piotr's favorite: less manicured than the gardens near the great hall, with benches and a small fountain that had been dry for years.
Piotr led them down a pebbled pats, trying to think of something to say to this man who was, he realized with a startle of embarrassment, essentially a stranger.
"It's peaceful here," Miloš said. He'd stopped near the dry fountain. "Do you come here often?"
Piotr shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Oh? What do you think about, when you come?"
The question made him blink, off guard. No one asked things like that. People asked about hunts and politics, marriages and children and entertainment and feasts.
"Nothing important," he said finally.
"I doubt that." Miloš turned to face him, that small smile daring to come out. "You don’t strike me as someone who thinks thoughts are unimportant. Just… that they don’t speak as clearly as actions, maybe."
Heat crept up Piotr’s neck. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"No," Miloš glanced down, looked up through dark lashes. "But I'd like to."
Piotr's mouth went dry. He should say something normal, appropriate, and move back to safer ground.
Instead he asked, "Why?"
Miloš blinked. "Why what?"
"Why do you want to know me?"
The question seemed to take Miloš aback. For a moment he just blinked, then he smiled. It was not unlike a man being handed a present, except that was unthinkable, because Piotr was the antithesis of a gift, the white elephant that hindered more than helped. Yet still Miloš’s smile grew until there was nothing but delight.
"Why wouldn’t I? Court's full of people who calculate. You don’t calculate. You move." He stepped closer. "That’s what I’ve been searching for."
The praise was rich and heady; Piotr wanted to say something clever, something that made him seem less affected by Miloš’s words and presence than he was, but his mind refused to move beyond the blank it held.
"I should—" Piotr started, then stopped. He didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"Should what?"
"I don't know."
"That's all right." Miloš reached out the rest of the way to rest his hand upon his arm, and Piotr could have shivered. "Consider me your break from court, where everyone’s pretending they know exactly what they're doing and saying all the time. It's exhausting."
"Yes," Piotr sighed, grateful that someone finally understood. "Exactly that."
By the time they circled back toward the castle proper, the sun had started its slide toward evening and the chapel bell was ringing for vespers.
"I should get back," Miloš said. "I’m to pen Lord Iwo’s correspondence."
"Of course." Piotr tried very hard not to sound disappointed.
They stood there for a moment, neither departing. Then Miloš leaned forward quickly and pressed a kiss to Piotr’s cheek..
"Thank you, Piotrek," he said. "For the walk. And for not thinking me foolish."
And then he dashed away, looking back only once to reveal his face was red and bashful. Piotr watched him go until he disappeared through the archway, his cheek warm all the while.
Miloš was like a hidden picture, the sort of pastoral landscape that the very accomplished and daring recipients of patronage dared to take on. He was a thing that had been there before, but now that Piotr knew that he was there, could not be unseen.
In the training yard, he watched Piotr run drills with a smile. In the library, he settled into a chair across from him. Once, memorably, in the kitchens, Piotr had gone to beg honey cakes and found Miloš already there, charming the kitchen staff into letting him sample their work.
"I have a terrible sweet tooth," Miloš admitted, licking honey from his thumb and making Piotr forget words. "I’m sure you don’t have such a weakness."
And he noticed things. Small things. Things no one else had ever bothered to pay attention to. He called Piotr Piotrek more often than not, perhaps after realizing how few people used the diminutive, giving Piotr the gift of one more.
And there was the evening when Piotr learned that Miloš knew he disliked particularly rowdy meals.
He had not said so. He was nearly certain he had not said so; and yet on an evening where more courtiers than usual had forgotten to moderate their drink, Miloš appeared at his elbow with a satchel of pies tied up in a napkin poorly hidden in the fold of his coat
"There is an alcove," he said, conspiratorily, "that I have been meaning to explore, if you’d be my guide."
Piotr blinked. "You need a guide?”
“I was hoping for one in particular.”
They spent the next hour in the alcove, whispering about nothing and eating meat and potato pies, and it was one of the best hours Piotr had spent in months.
Piotr was in the solar—a mistake, really, but Lila had asked him to join her and he hadn't been able to craft a good excuse fast enough, leading to him trapped while his cousin went on about Minister Casimir’s upcoming name day.
"—and the musicians from Żalowiec are supposed to be quite good, though I heard the lead singer has a wandering eye, which could be a problem if—oh, Piotrek, you're not even listening."
Piotr looked up. "I'm listening, Lilka," he lied.
"You're staring out the window like you might jump." She laughed, "Go, then."
"My lady," Piotr nodded, already standing.
Miloš was waiting outside.
Not obviously waiting. He was examining one of the tapestries on the wall, but when Piotr stepped out, he turned with a smile.
"Escaping?" he asked, dressed simply in green, and looking... wonderful.
"Surviving," Piotr managed.
"Ah, I know that kind of survival. I once spent an entire afternoon listening to the Lady Iwo discuss embroidery. I feared an untimely end."
"How did you escape?"
"I didn't. I nodded until my neck ached and she finally dismissed me."
The very thought of the sight charted mirth through Piotr.
"I was about to tour the battlements. Would you join me?"
"Of course."
This time Miloš walked even closer, making it utterly impossible for Piotr to focus on the view. He left space for Miloš to choose their conversation. He would not be the Lady Iwo here.
"Your cousin spoke well of you during the hunt." Miloš said, after a while.
Piotr smiled, then immediately worried how Miloš might take the smile. “He elevates the good in everything."
A hum. "Many charming people do, warm with no weight behind it. Like sunlight. Beautiful, but not something you can hold onto."
The observation was so precise, so what Piotr had never been able to articulate, that he stopped walking. Miloš continued for another two paces before he realized what happened.
Piotr swallowed.
A kiss on the brow, laughed off and shrugged away. A hand on Anatoli’s shoulder, Anatoli clapping him on the back in turn and bidding another join their conversation. A poem Piotr had labored over for hours, back when he lived under the misassumption that he was not poor with words, and Anatoli’s light, delighted laughter, and his smile when he warmly said ‘Oh Piotr, you dear thing,’ and then he was gone and Piotr was left wondering what exactly he’d been told—
When had the conversation turned? Miloš had passed on a good word about Piotr, and now Piotr was defending his cousin, which was absurd because Anatoli needed no defense. Anatoli, who was beloved by everyone, who made everyone feel seen, if only for minutes at a time.
Who made Piotr feel—
"You don't know what you're talking about."
His voice was steelier than he meant, and for a moment he worried he’s startle Miloš away. Instead, the young man bowed his head in apology.
"I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that," he said. "He's your cousin. You love him."
"I—" Piotr's throat closed. Miloš did not mean it like that. "He's a good man."
"I have no doubts of that. Indeed, he takes great care to give his attention equally! He gives it to you, and to whoever calls his name, and he’ll give it to the ministers and the dignitaries and the dukes. His attention… is a gift."
Piotr could only imagine the end of that thought. But a gift given to everyone in equal measure is a different thing from a gift given to one alone.
He immediately felt sick, thinking of Anatoli as such. Selfish. That’s what he was. He had forfeited all rights to such sole attention years ago. But… the other side. A thing Miloš had not said, but Piotr hoped…
"You don't do that," he said, finally.
Miloš looked up. For a moment he looked proud, like Piotr had solved one of the jester’s riddles. "No," he said. "I don't."
The tribute from Mrocznik arrived four days late.
Master of Coin rose to inform Lord Arek during dinner that the shipment of grain and coin had finally arrived.
Lord Arek laughed. "The rains make the marshes unpredictable this time of year. As long as it's arrived."
"Perhaps administrative delay," Anatoli grinned beside him. "You know how those southern lords are: probably too busy celebrating one of their festivals. What's going on in the March this time of year? The Blessing of the Orchards? The Devotionals of the Hedgerows?"
Laughter, always laughter from Anatoli’s jests.
Piotr glanced down the table to see Miloš watching the exchange. When their eyes met, Miloš raised one eyebrow fractionally and made a jesting, exaggerated mimicry of silent laughter—teeth bared, eyes manically wide—that was so perfectly a portrayal of Sir Hubert that Piotr had to bite his lip to stifle his laughter.
Miloš, he saw, paid attention. To court. To Piotr. To the things that made him laugh. It was, Piotr was discovering, an extremely disorienting thing to have happen to him.
And he had not realized how hungry he was for it.
Much later, Miloš found him on an upper path. The moon was nearly full, bright enough to cast shadows.
“Hello there." His hand found Piotr's, fingers threading through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Tell me something," he said, just when Piotr was starting to wonder if he merely dreamt.
"What kind of something?"
"Something no one knows about you."
Piotr thought for a minute; the question spoke to an interior life he was not used to examining. "I can't swim," he finally said.
Miloš looked at him sideways. It seemed of all the things Piotr could say, that was not one he expected.
“Nobody knows this about you?”
"I found shallows to stand in, on the occasions my cousins and I went out. Then I passed the age where a man can ask to learn without seeming a simpleton."
Their arms pressed against each other, in a long, pulsing line, and Piotr had never before considered how many nerves were in his arm, with the exception of that one duel with Lord Ignacy’s son, when he’d barely avoided getting the length of his limb flayed off.
"Your turn," Piotr managed.
Miloš tilted his head, thinking. "I’m afraid of geese," he said, with great dignity.
"Geese?"
"They have no conscience. I don't trust anything that bites on instinct alone, without a good reason."
Piotr laughed, larger than intended, before he could stifle it. Miloš looked up at him, almost as if he’d been waiting for exactly that sound and was glad to have his expectation fulfilled.
Then Miloš turned, and his free hand came up to rest against Piotr's chest, right over his heart. He could have reached in and plucked the heart from Piotr, should he wished, and Piotr would only bid he be gentle in his reach.
Piotr couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All he could do was stand there, drowning in Miloš’s nearness.
The moment stretched, taut and trembling, and Piotr’s consciousness lived in those points of contact between them—threaded fingers, palm to chest—and he could lean forward. Just a little. Just enough to—
Miloš pulled back.
Just a hair, just enough to break the spell. His hands lingered for a heartbeat longer, then slipped away, and the cold spots left behind were wounds.
"Goodnight, Piotrek.”
"Goodnight."
Miloš turned and walked away. Piotr stood there long after he'd gone, breathing shallowly, fearing that taking a full breath would break whatever this was.
Touch was a language Piotr was beginning to learn. A hand at his elbow when they walked, a quick kiss to Miloš’s cheek when Piotr was feeling particularly daring. Once, when Piotr had been describing a disarming maneuver, Miloš reached out and stilled his hand, pressed his thumb against the vulnerable inner line of his wrist.
"Slower," Miloš bid. "I want to understand."
Piotr's pulse jumped under that thumb. Miloš had to have felt it. But he said nothing before releasing him, and Piotr somehow finished the explanation.
It was maddening. It was wonderful. Piotr spent his days half-focused on whatever task was in front of him and half-listening for Miloš's voice. At night he lay in bed and replayed every look, every touch, until they were sunken lanes in his memory.
He'd never felt like this before. Didn't know a person could.
It was weeks of his torturous eustacy, when Miloš found him in the stables.
Piotr was brushing Horse, mindless work that let him think without thinking. He looked up to see Miloš there, settled and watching.
"You're good with him.”
Piotr straightened, wondered if it was too late to dust off the grime coating him. "He's easy. Doesn't spook."
"Unlike his rider?"
It was gentle teasing, and Piotr smiled despite the heat creeping up his neck. "I don't spook."
"No? What do you call it, then, when you quiet and flush like this?"
"I don't—"
"You do." Miloš pushed off the door. "It's all right. I like knowing I affect you."
He said it so simply, like enjoyment was the easiest thing in the world.
What a divine man; for all the times Piotr couldn't find words, Miloš seemed the master of them. He plucked a piece of straw from Piotr's shoulder, and his hand stayed there.
"I heard someone mention the royal garden yesterday," Miloš said, apparently changing the subject. "They said it has flowers from all over the continent. Roses from Żalowiec, vines from Burzomierz, those blue things from the northern holds… what are they called?"
"The Astronomer’s Lament?”
"Yes, that! They made the gardens sound..." He paused, wistful. "I don't know. Like having the whole world in one place."
His hand slipped down Piotr's arm, slow enough that Piotr felt every inch of the journey.
"It must be something, to see all that. I’ll probably not even see anything of Krachów beyond the capitol, just go home without ever knowing what the rest of the world looks like."
It wasn’t a request—wasn’t even anything more than a desire given voice. This distinction meant nothing.
"I could show you.”
Miloš's eyes widened; his hand tightened on his arm. "Could you?"
"It's—" Piotr hesitated. "It’s only for the royal family, and a few others. But I can bring..." He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. Was it allowed? He'd never tried to bring anyone before.
What was that phrase Lila used to tease him with, a child? Better to ask forgiveness than permission?
“I’m going to bring you. Let’s go. Now!”
Miloš's face transformed, shyness to pure delight, sun through a gap in clouds. "You’d do that for me?"
It was exactly Piotr would do for Miloš, the very least he would do to see that smile again, if he could have it every day henceforth.
The garden was different than Piotr remembered.
He used to come at dawn, when the dew misted the path and the rising sun made it feel like a secret just for him. But with the sun high and Miloš beside him, the colors were brighter: roses blood red, climbing vines heavy with pretty white blossoms that Piotr apparently noticed but never really saw.
They entered through the small gate near the chapel. The main entrance was grander, but Piotr had wanted… what? Privacy? Intimacy?
"Oh," Miloš gasped, before he was turning in a circle, taking it in with wonder, fresh-eyed as a child. "It's beautiful."
"Yes." Piotr watched Miloš.
"And these? These’re the Astronomer’s Lament?" Miloš crossed to a high bed with yellow blooms—unbelievably large, frighteningly fragile—crouched down to get closer. He didn't touch them, just looked. "They're stunning."
“They used to be my mother’s favorites.”
Piotr didn’t realize he’s said something notable until Miloš stillness caught his attention.
“She tended this garden?”
"Before she died, yes." Piotr touched one of the leaves. "She would bring me here to teach me how to tend to the beds. I once pulled an entire bed of seedlings thinking they were weeds." The memory was comforting with age, rather than saddening.
"Oh, no!”
Piotr shrugged. “She didn’t scold me, just said I was the sort who sometimes requires a little tragedy to learn my lesson.” A moment, then he released the leaf. “Did you want to see more?”
"I do. But—" Miloš squeezed his hand. "I'm not in a hurry."
They walked the garden slowly, then. Miloš noticed things Piotr had stopped seeing years ago, named flowers from Sandomier to Piotr.
"You said the climbing roses were difficult," Miloš said at one point, gesturing to the wall where they thrived. "Why’s that?”
Piotr stared at him. "When did I say that?"
"Last week, in the hall."
"You remember that?"
"I remember most things.”
The afternoon wore on. The light began to slant by the time they ended up at the willow. Miloš leaned against the trunk, looked up so hair fell back as the fronds waved hypnotically in the breeze.
"I could stay here forever," he said. "Just this, and you, all these beautiful things."
Piotr wanted to laugh, to say that if the willow and the wind were beautiful, it was only because Miloš was there to shine his light upon them. Piotr looked at him, close enough that he could count his eyelashes if he wanted to.
He wanted to.
“Miloš?”
"Mmm?" Miloš looked over.
The moment was fragile, it was real. It deserved better than Miloš’s continued ignorance of the Piotr’s soiled past; it demanded to be honored with truth.
“Anatoli—” he spoke slowly, not realizing this was the honesty he was giving until it was already coming out. “You said his attention is a gift.”
Miloš’s frowned, curious about Piotr’s newfound somberness. “That’s right.”
“It is a gift. One I don’t deserve.”
Miloš didn’t respond. Piotr had no choice but to continue.
“Anatoli and Lila had… I had a cousin.”
There was no going back.
“Teodor was… light. Trusting. And I was responsible for him.”
Still more nothing.
“I should have known better. It was after that bad year, and people were hungry. But Teodor wanted to ride, and I’d convinced myself I was stir-crazy, that we’d skirt the edges of the Lord’s woods and be back before dinner.”
Piotr’s hands shook. Odd. He thought he’d curbed such reactions years ago.
"They weren't monsters, the men we startled upon. They were just—" His swallowed. "They panicked. Who wouldn’t, under the threat of hanging?"
Miloš was quiet. Then, finally, “How long has it been?”
“Ten years.”
The sadness in Miloš’s eyes nearly undid Piotr. It was not anger—justified as it had been—like Lord Arek, a raging demand to know how Piotr had not connected famine to desperate men in the forest to we should not ride today.
"That's a long time to be almost something," Miloš said. "Almost family. Almost forgiven."
He placed his hand on Piotr’s forearm.
"And I suspect almost is a very cold place to live.”
Piotr’s hand came up, rested on Miloš’s.
"I'm glad you're here," Piotr said, because he couldn't think of anything else truer than that.
He was glad he had not misunderstood things when Miloš rose to his toes, leaned in, and kissed him.
That first moment sat suspended in time, perfect, immortal, until Miloš's hand came up to cup Piotr's jaw, and Piotr made a sound of unwinding.
Miloš’s lips parted, hungry and sure, tip of his tongue dancing for just a moment against Piotr’s mouth to send heat licking down his spine. Piotr’s mouth startled opened for him and Miloš answered instantly, sliding just inside, tasting, coaxing Piotr’s affections. His fingers threaded into Piotr’s hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt him exactly where he wanted.
It was better than Piotr had imagined, each lingering touch and startling line consolidating to that single point: softer and harder at once, smooth and delicious, and outside anything he could hope to capture in sorry, inadequate words.
Piotr’s hands found Miloš’s waist then and pulled him flush, kissed back with honest, open hunger, matching every stroke, every sigh. Miloš rewarded him with a soft, approving moan that vibrated against his lips, then nipped gently at his lower lip, sharp enough to spark pleasure-pain before soothing it with another slow glide of tongue.
Time did strange things. The garden fell away. There was only Miloš's and the overwhelming rightness of them coming together.
When they finally broke apart Miloš lowered himself again so he could slot his body against Piotr.
"I've wanted to do that since you rode after me."
"I’d ride after you a hundred times. A thousand."
"Would you?" Miloš pulled back just enough to look at him, and his eyes were dark, searching. Then he softened, finding what he sought. "I think you would.”
Piotr wanted to say equally beautiful words back, but he could not, so he kissed him again instead, and Miloš melted into it with a sigh.
Three days after that first kiss, Piotr found himself in the solar again. Lila cornered him with a request: she needed his opinion on the seating arrangements for the upcoming celebrations, and wouldn't he please just look and tell her if she'd inadvertently placed anyone next to their sworn enemy?
He'd agreed because he could just as much refuse Lila as one could refuse the pox, and soon was trapped in conversation with her and two visiting courtiers from Żalowiec, nodding along to table assignments.
"—and of course Lord Stanislav's envoy will need to be near the high table, but not too near, given the grain dispute from last summer—"
“And we can’t put him by the fellows from Burzomierz?”
“God no, his second cousin is the envoy there, and the poor bastard's gone silent as a stone."
“Is that so?” Lila tittered.
"Used to send weekly dispatches, Barely writes anymore." The courtier lowered his voice conspiratorially. "They all know why: he can't keep his breeches laced, much less pen inked, in any city with a decent brothel—"
The other courtier snorted. Piotr glanced toward the door and saw Miloš.
He tilted his head slightly—an invitation—and straightened.
Piotr was moving before he'd decided to move.
"I'm sorry, I just remembered I'm to meet… someone."
Lila waved him off. "Go, go. You've been useless anyway—you haven't heard a word I've said."
She wasn't wrong.
He trailed his fingers along the back of Miloš’s hand as they fell into sync.
“Lord Iwo's hosting entertainment this evening: some juggler from the coast, supposed to be quite good. I thought you might want to come."
Piotr had zero interest in watching a juggler. "I could."
"Or…" Miloš's fingers threaded through his. "We could find somewhere quieter. Just us."
Piotr's pulse kicked up. "I changed my mind. That.”
Miloš's smile widened.
Their kisses were the extent of their intimacy, but they had changed: grown longer, full of wanting that made Piotr’s hands shake when he touched Miloš's face, his throat. Each time they pulled apart felt like tearing, and each time Miloš looked at him with dark eyes and swollen lips he became a vision that begged to be kissed, to be pleasured.
Piotr let himself be pulled down a side corridor. The moment they were hidden from view, Miloš pushed Piotr back against the wall and pressed his lips to his.
Piotr was going mad with the wanting. His whole body felt reorganized around the anticipation of Miloš's touch, and how could it not: when Miloš's hands were in his hair, on his chest, trailing down.
"I can't stop thinking about you," Miloš had murmured against his mouth.
"Yes," Piotr managed, because he couldn't stop thinking about Miloš either.
Miloš kissed him again, deeper, nipping, and the press of his body made it very clear exactly what Miloš was thinking about.
They kissed until Piotr's lips felt bruised and he was dizzy with it, until his whole world had narrowed to the heat of their mouths, the slide of their palms, the tightness in their breeches—
And then there was coldness, an absence of touch, a jolt as bodies parted—
"We should stop,” Miloš said, already smoothening his shirt. “I don’t want to… our first time rushed in some hallway."
That made sense. Piotr's body didn't care about sense, but his mind caught up enough to nod. Miloš deserved petals and oils and soft sheets and feathered pillows, not cobblestones and walls.
Piotr said as much.
Miloš smiled and stroked his thumb along Piotr's jaw. "You're so good to me."
The praise settled warm in Piotr's chest. He turned his face into Miloš's palm, pressed a kiss there. Miloš sighed.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"The castle archive—since I’m living here, I've been wanting to learn more about Krachów. It’s history, how everything works." He paused, shrugged. "I know I'm just staff, but I'll be here for years. Yet the keeper won't let me in without proper introduction."
I’ll be here for years. Years and years and years—
Piotr blinked, trying to shift from kissing to archives. "You want to read the records?"
"If I could. I know it's asking a lot—"
"It's not." Piotr's mind and body were still fuzzy around the edges, thrumming, but this was easy. Simple enough. "I can write you a letter of introduction for Master Jozef."
Miloš lit up. "You'd do that?"
"Of course. It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. It's—" Miloš kissed him again, sweet this time. "Thank you. Truly. I know you probably think it's silly, wanting to read dusty old records, but—"
"You’re not silly." Piotr caught Miloš's face between his hands, made him look up. "You want to read? That’s smart."
The kiss that followed was slow and deep, and if the previous kisses charged Piotr with desire, this one made him drunk with affection.
"I should let you go," Miloš murmured, though he made no move to step back. " Before I forget how to be good."
"Don't be good. Stay."
"But if we stay, who will write the letter?" Miloš pressed one more quick kiss to his mouth, then slipped out of the corridor
That evening at dinner, Piotr handed the invitation to Miloš. The smile he received in return was radiant.
The week after the invitation became a series of moments Piotr couldn't quite catch his breath through.
Miloš appeared at breakfast three days running with a smile that outshone the morning sun. On the fourth day he sat with another Sandomieri, glanced at Piotr once during the meal—no smile, just a look—then turned back to his companion.
Of course Miloš had duties. Of course he couldn't spend every moment at Piotr's elbow.
The bread in his mouth still tasted like ash.
“Can I see you tonight?” Piotr caught him in a rush outside the great doors, before he could go too far. “At the east gardens?”
Miloš nodded. "Tonight."
But that night Miloš didn't come. Piotr waited until the castle had gone quiet, then went to his quarters alone and lay awake trying to understand what he'd done wrong.
The next morning Miloš was at breakfast again, with a smile again, and Piotr wanted to say I waited or ask what changed? But the words stuck in his throat, and Miloš was smiling at him, and he didn’t want to make the warmth go away.
Lord Arek found him two days later by the stables, watching a supply wagon unload grain.
"Piotr." Not Piotrek. Not for a decade.
Piotr turned. His uncle stood with his hands clasped behind his back, giving approval nor disapproval, only distance.
"Lord Uncle."
"The captain of the guard mentioned you've been working the men hard lately."
It wasn't a question, but Piotr answered anyway. "I thought it wise to make sure they're sharp."
Lord Arek shook his head. "The border is being handled. There's no need to exhaust the guard over skirmishes."
"I'm not exhausting them. Just keeping them ready."
"Ready for what?" His uncle's tone hadn't changed, but Piotr got the distinct feeling he'd said the wrong thing. "We're not at war, Piotr, haven't been for thirty years. A little caution is prudent. Paranoia is not."
Paranoia. It landed like a slap and Piotr’s jaw tightened. " I'm being careful."
"Of course." Placating. Dismissive "I'm sure you know best when it comes to training. That’s where you’ve proven yourself to be wise, after all." He paused, then added, "Your cousin mentioned you've been distracted lately."
From anyone else it could have been an opening, but it was delivered with the same neutrality as everything else, and Piotr could never find the path through it to say I'm lonely or I wonder when I’ll belong here again or sometimes I think you’ll never forgive me for Teodor.
Even if he could have said any of those things, he sensed his uncle would receive them the same way he received anything else from him: with distant courtesy.
"I'm fine.”
"Good.” Lord Arek observed the workers hauling feed to the troughs. "We need an inventory of blades. Can you see to that?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Very well.” Lord Arek turned to go, then paused. "And Piotr, try to be visible at Minister Casimir’s celebration. It's important for morale. People like seeing the family together."
The family. As if Piotr were part of it.
"I'll be there.”
Piotr finished watching the wagon unload while his uncle departed, then went to find the head smithy. When he looked up, the coming evening had came and his back ached from bending over crates.
He wanted to find Miloš—wanted it with an intensity that felt disproportionate to the day he'd had; his uncle's distance wasn't new, the weapons inventory wasn't particularly taxing, and nothing had really gone wrong. But he wanted to sit close to Miloš at dinner, maybe have him kiss the day away after.
Dinner that night was venison and root vegetables. Piotr sat in his usual place, Master Radwan regaling him with an unfortunate tale of grain reserves. Down the table, Anatoli laughed with a visiting envoy while Lila held court over her ladies.
Miloš sat with the Sandomier delegation, as usual. Their eyes met once. Miloš held his gaze for a long moment, then turned away.
Piotr made himself eat and play audience to Master Radwan's monologue and not watch Miloš. When he went to the east gallery—not to wait, of course, just to take in air—Miloš didn't come.
Piotr waited anyway, then finally went to his chambers. Stripped off his dinner clothes, climbed into bed. Stared at the ceiling tried to understand what had made Miloš distant. Was it something he had done? Something he'd said?
Sleep, when it came, came thin and restless.
The next morning Miloš sat with him at breakfast. His leg pressed against Piotr's under the table and when Piotr reached for bred, Miloš’s hand brushed against his unmistakably.
"Good morning, Piotrek," he said, and his smile was said just for you.
Piotr's chest loosened. The confusion from the night before receded; Miloš was here, smiling and touching him, and that was what mattered.
"Good morning," Piotr responded.
Miloš's hand later found his under the table, squeezed, held for three heartbeats before letting go.
The mention came casually, as Piotr and Miloš sat companionably in the library. Miloš choice, not Piotr’s.
"I heard the steward talking about Minister Casimir’s celebration," Miloš sighed. "Sounds like it'll be quite the affair."
Piotr glanced up. "It usually is."
"Ah, imagine the grandness. Nobles and guests! Ambassadors and the most notable of masters!" Miloš sighed, small and whistful. "Above my station. That's all right. I'm sure it'll be talked about enough afterward that I'll get the full picture secondhand."
He said it lightly. But—
"You could come," Piotr heard himself say. "As my guest."
Miloš looked up. "Could I?"
"I'm allowed to bring a guest. I never do, but—" Piotr set his unread book aside. "I could, if you wanted."
"I wouldn't want to presume—"
"You're not presuming. I'm offering."
A smile bloomed on Miloš's face, and he leaned forward. "I'd like that, very much."
"Good. Then it’s settled."
Piotr told the steward that evening that he'd be bringing a guest to the feast. The man added Miloš's name to the list, and it was as simple as that.
The definitiveness of it thrilled him. He’d never had a guest, and now he was using that privilege for Miloš. Opening a door that was his to open; giving something that was his to give.
It felt good, exercising this power he'd forgotten he held.
He found Miloš the next day to tell him it was arranged, and Miloš's face did that beautiful, amazing, addicting thing where its guardedness fell away and left only delight.
The celebration was held in the great hall, transformed for the night. Banners hung from the rafters while musicians played in the gallery. Servants moved through the crowd with wine and delicacies on silver trays.
Piotr arrived early and watched the room fill. Minister Casimir held court near the dais, accepting well-wishes, a man accustomed to being celebrated. Anatoli and Lila, ministers, Lord Arek spoke with the Pożarowo ambassador, cordial despite the recent tensions.
Then Miloš appeared in the doorway, and Piotr forgot the entirety of the hall.
He'd tamed his hair, made it lie smooth instead of its usual slight disarray. His doublet was dark blue and well-fitted. Not as elaborate as some of the courtiers' finery, but he could have worn a grain sack and been the most stunning man in the room.
Miloš found him immediately. "How do I look?"
"Good.” Wonderful. Perfect. A vision from every dream I’d forgotten upon waking. “Really good.”
Miloš's smile was pleased and slightly shy. "You don't look so bad yourself."
"Come on," Piotr said before he fell to folly and tried to kiss Miloš in the middle of the great hall. "Let me introduce you to people."
What followed was a revelation.
Piotr half-expected to shepherd Miloš through the evening, yet Miloš moved with grace and aplomb—better than he, in fact. He remembered names after hearing them once, asked intelligent questions, told jokes that made others lean in.
And he stayed close to Piotr. Not obviously, not to draw ire or eyes, but a comforting presence at Piotr's side. His hand occasionally skirted Piotr's arm when they moved through the crowd. Small touches that whispered I'm here with him, he's here with me.
Piotr had never brought anyone to an event like this before—he’d never had someone to bring. But here it was so natural to walk Miloš up to Minister Casimir and make an introduction.
"Sandomier delegation, you said?” Casimir boomed. “How are you finding Krachów?"
"Beautiful," Miloš said easily. "Though I'm still finding my way around."
Later, they found themselves in conversation with two representatives from Burzomierz and one from the Hold of Sandomier: Lord Iwo's second cousin, Zofia.
At one point Anatoli appeared at Piotr's elbow, wine cup in hand and smile firmly in place. "Cousin! I didn't know you were bringing a guest."
"Last minute decision," Piotr said.
Anatoli's gaze slid to Miloš, who was currently listening to the Burzomierz man explain wool exports. "He seems pleasant enough. Where'd you find him?"
"The hunt. Few weeks back."
“The hunt? I thought he looked familiar! He’s the poor fellow!”
“He managed well enough.”
"Thanks to you, I'm sure." Anatoli took a drink, and candlelight caught the gold in his hair, at his collar. Purple suited him. Everything suited him. "You've been spending time with him, then?"
"Some." Piotr chest became tight. "He's good company."
"I'm glad." Anatoli's squeezed Piotr’s shoulder. "You should have more of that. Good company."
The touch lasted only a moment before Anatoli's attention shifted to scan the room. "Have you seen my sister? She was supposed to introduce me to—ah, there she is. Always where you least expect her."
"Tolya—," Piotr started, not sure what he wanted to say, only that he didn't want the conversation to end yet.
"Mm?"
"I wanted to—" Piotr stopped. What did he want? "Nothing. It's nothing."
"You're sure?" Anatoli's brow furrowed. "If something's troubling you—"
"No, I'm fine. Just... the wine, probably."
"Well, pace yourself." Anatoli's laughed. "Can't have you falling over before the night's done. Where is your guest, anyway? Don't tell me you've already lost him!"
Piotr turned. Miloš was indeed no longer with the Burzomierz man. Nor was he near the wine table, or—
There. In the far corner. Miloš stood close to a man Piotrek didn't recognize, and they looked… angry. The man's hand moved, sharp, violent. Miloš's looked… cold. Intent. He said something that made the other man shake his head, and—
"Piotrek?"
Anatoli's voice pulled him back. Piotrek blinked.
“It seemed there was something else you meant to say?”
"I…” a shake of the head, a fast glance to that corner. Nobody there anymore. “No, nothing.”
"Alright." Anatoli clapped him on the shoulder again. "Be merry, cousin!"
Tolya—
Miloš appeared at his side a moment later. "How does your cousin fare?"
"Well."
"Hmn,” Miloš hummed. “He looks untroubled.”
Piotr’s brows furrowed. Was that another way to say handsome? It would not surprise him for Miloš to notice it, too. Not with the way Anatoli’s hair shone that night, or his eyes glimmer with the start of dignified laugh lines forming around them. “He usually is.”
But Miloš tilted his head, and Piotr felt the shifting sand under his feet that he got when he sensed he must have misunderstood something. “I mean, he seems surprisingly light of heart, for the times.”
Piotr didn’t know what to say to that, but it hardly mattered, because Miloš was taking his hand and guiding him through groupings of courtiers to introduce him to Lord Iwo.
“—my aunt’s invited me to her seaside estate---”
"—still nothing, I heard. Not a single letter in six weeks."
" –man's always been unreliable. Probably drunk in some tavern, forgot his duties—"
“—but during winter, which I can’t imagine what you’d do—”
The evening wore on. They spoke with more people than Piotr could name; Miloš was charming with all of them.
At one point Lord Arek approached to greet Minister Casimir, and Piotr ended up included in their conversation’s orbit. His uncle acknowledged him and Miloš both with a perfunctory nod.
Anatoli joined them halfway through, added his own observations about the southern trade routes with the kind of glib charm that made everything simple. "Probably they're just celebrating harvest season down there. You know how those southern holds are—any excuse for a festival. I'm sure the next tribute will arrive on time with a dozen apologies."
Casimir laughed. Lord Arek pat his son on his back.
Later, when they'd extracted themselves from the hall, Miloš leaned close enough that his breath ghosted against Piotr's ear. "Thank you for bringing me."
Piotr's chest was too full for complicated words. "I'm glad you came."
They lazily wandered through the halls, only crossing the odd servant and brat running about. They didn’t speak much, which was perfectly satisfactory. It was only when they stood outside Piotr’s quarters that he realized, with great abashment, where they had ended up.
“I’m sorry,” he scratched the back of his head. “I let my feet carry me—the delegation wing is a good walk—”
“Actually, I thought I might come in.”
They barely made it through the door.
Miloš pushed it closed behind them and turned, and Piotr was already reaching for him. Their mouths found each other with what Piotr could only see as inevitability.
"Finally," Piotr breathed against Miloš’s mouth. "I've been wanting—God, all night—"
Piotr kissed him harder then, backed him toward the bed. His hands were shaking. Everything was shaking. Weeks narrowed to this moment, this man, finally being allowed to have.
They fell onto the bed together, a mess of limbs and silk, the descent barely stopping Piotr’s attempts to work at Miloš’s trousers. Miloš laughed, rolled them over so he straddled Piotr’s hips.
"Slow down," he said, shaking his head. "We have time."
But Piotr didn't want to slow down. He wanted to consume the moment before it could slip away, before Miloš could change his mind or decide he had somewhere else to be. His hands found the laces of Miloš's doublet, started working them open: clumsy, urgently.
Miloš frowned, and then his hands were pinning Piotr’s wrists to the bed—when had he moved?—and there was new steel in his voice.
“I said, slow down.”
He paused a moment, waiting for his instructions to sink in before he let go, testing.
Piotr did not move his hands.
Miloš nodded then, sternness lingering for a heartbeat before he gave a satisfied nod and settled his weight back again.
Miloš undressed himself leisurely, untying his doublet and letting it slide, unhurried, off his shoulders. His shirt peeled away to reveal smooth skin and surprising freckles. When he reached his trousers and smallclothes, he lifted his hips and looked to Piotr.
“Assist me.”
Piotr’s moved eagerly, pushing them over narrow hips then legs until Miloš kicked them away.
Then Miloš’s full attention turned to Piotr.
Piotr’s fingers twitched—was he allowed to move his hands now?—but Miloš seemed pleased with his hands where they were, so there they stayed as he evaluated each new inch of skin: t Piotr’s breeches, he mouthed along the hard line of his cock through the fabric, hot breath ghosting through linen until Piotr was shaking.
“God—Míla—”
“Miloš.”
Piotr opened his mouth to protest the correction—he was Piotrek, so why wouldn’t Miloš be— but Miloš tugged his breeches then, freeing his cock. It slapped heavy against his stomach, and names became the least important thing in the situation. Miloš dragged his tongue slowly up the underside, swirling around the head to taste the bead of precome. Piotr’s hips jerked, and Miloš hummed in approval.
When they were finally skin to skin, Miloš settled on top of him, cock sliding slick against Piotr’s belly.
“Where do you keep your supplies?”
Piotr blinked, dazed. “Supplies…?”
A flicker of exasperation crossed Miloš’s face before it vanished. “Oil. Lotion. Something to ease the way, Piotr.”
Heat flooded Piotr’s face. “I—I know how it works. I just… I’ve never had anyone in my quarters before.”
Miloš sighed. “That’s all right. We can do something that doesn’t—”
“Wait,” Piotr interrupted, scrambling off the bed. He darted across the room to the washing basin, heart pounding, and returned moments later triumphant with a small vial of oil used for after shaving. He climbed back onto the bed and unstopped it, yet before he could go further, Miloš plucked the vial from his hands with a knowing smile and poured it onto his own fingers. To Piotr’s awe and delight, he leaned forward, reached behind himself, and circled his own entrance.
Then he pushed one finger in.
A soft exhale—a moment where the world ceased spinning and lips parted—and then another finger, the two sinking deeper.
Piotr was transfixed.
Miloš fucked himself open right there above him: sliding his fingers deeper, flexing them through dull to soft stretching. The wet, filthy squelch of oil slid in and out between them. Miloš’s thighs trembled. His free hand braced on Piotr’s chest for balance as he worked himself wider, deeper, adding another finger—two?—never breaking eye contact. Pleasure coursed openly across his features: biting his lip, gasping from deep within when he hit that perfect spot inside, until he was thrusting back onto his own hand.
Piotr panted below him. He marveled. He strained, he wanted.
He didn’t dare touch.
Who was he to try to pick up the brush—to mold the clay or chisel the marble—when he was no artist, and the man above him was inking a canvas of pleasure and delights?
But then, after long, torturous minutes, Miloš withdrew his fingers with a soft sigh and looked down at him, eyes heavy with arousal.
“Feel me,” he whispered.
Piotr needed no further permission, hands flying up to roam greedily over Miloš’s back, down to the firm swell of his ass. Miloš caught one wrist and guided it between his cheeks. There, Piotr’s fingers found warm, slick, loosened muscle, soft and fluttering from Miloš’s preparation. He pushed two fingers inside, groaning at how easily they slid into that velvety heat.
Miloš rocked into his hand once, twice, letting him feel how ready he was, then pulled away. Piotr made a broken gasp—he could have wept from the withdrawal—but Miloš just shook his head.
“Peace,” he instructed, and then he rose upon his knees, wrapped a slick hand around Piotr’s aching cock, and guided it against his entrance.
Then, with exquisite control, he sank down.
Piotr’s head slammed back against the pillows with a broken groan. Inch by inch, Miloš took him in: tight and impossibly perfect. Miloš clenched and fluttered around him as he descended until an eon later—an eternity later-- he was fully seated, ass flush against Piotr’s hips. Piotr could only pant, stunned, awestruck, at the man above him.
Divine. The word echoed in his mind. Miloš was a vision above him: sweat glistening like morning dew, lips red and swollen, dark eyes locked on Piotr’s. Every roll of his hips was graceful, powerful, devastating.
Miloš was taking him. Had took him. His cock. His heart. His past, his loneliness—taken it all and transformed it into something so good Piotr couldn’t even recognize it.
Miloš’s movements sped.
He ramped up slowly at first, rolling his hips in circles, then rising and dropping to a maddening rhythm. The wet, filthy sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. Piotr’s hands gripped Miloš’s waist; he thrust up to meet every bounce, chasing that slick, mind-melting drag.
Miloš's hands were everywhere, and everywhere they went was wintering land awakening to spring for the first time.
Every drag sent sparks up his spine. Every clench of that perfect heat pulled him deeper. He could feel his own balls drawing up, the pressure building unbearably fast.
Miloš braced one hand on Piotr’s chest, the other tangled tight in his hair, forcing their eyes to stay locked. His own cock bounced hard between them with every thrust, leaving shiny streaks across his stomach.
Piotr was undone.
“I love you,” he gasped, the words ripping out of him. “Miloš—I love you—”
Miloš’s rhythm faltered for half a second, then sped again, riding him harder, deeper. His nails dug into Piotr’s scalp.
“I love you, Míl—Miloš —fuck—I love you so much—”
Piotr was not a man of words, but these words were his key, and with them pleasure overtook him. His hands gripped Miloš’s thighs, and he came with a raw, shattered shout inside him.
Miloš rode him through every shudder, clenching around him until Piotr was trembling. Only then did he grind down around the spent cock still buried inside him. He stroked himself three, four times, and came with a moan, painting stripes across Piotr’s stomach.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.
Miloš leaned down, kissed Piotr’s slack mouth, his eyelids, the rabbiting pulse of his throat.
Piotr opened his eyes slowly, still dazed, and reached up to brush sweat-damp hair from Miloš’s forehead.
“You didn’t—”
“Sssh,” Milos shushed, catching Piotr's hand and placing it against his chest, his heart. "Feel that? How fast it's beating?"
Piotr did.
"That's you. That's what you do to me."
Piotr swallowed, awed. He'd made Miloš's heart race. He did that.
Piotr pulled him down into another deep, grateful kiss, heart overflowing.
They settled, tangled together, breathing evening out. Miloš twirled his finger in the sheets meditatively. His other hand came up to card through Piotrek's hair, and Piotrek hummed, low, contented, and pressed closer into the touch.
Miloš huffed a quiet laugh.
Piotrek felt the vibration against his cheek. "What?"
"You know what you remind me of?"
"Hmm?"
"A hound."
Piotr opened his eyes. "A... what?"
"A hound," Miloš repeated.
Piotr pulled back slightly, frowning. "Are you calling me a dog?"
Miloš laughed, delighted as Piotr’s ire. "No, not a dog. A hound." His hand came up to cup Piotr's face, stroking along his jaw. "There's a difference."
"I'm not sure I see it."
"Dogs are..." Miloš clicked his tongue. "Common. Yapping things. Nervous. A hound is something else." His fingers slid back into Piotr's hair, gripping him there. "A hound is straightforward. Honest. You always know exactly what a hound is thinking because it doesn't know how to hide it."
Piotr wasn't entirely sure this was the compliment Miloš seemed to think it was, but the hand in his hair felt good, and Miloš was looking at him with such fondness that the sting of the comparison started to fade.
"Loyal," Miloš continued. "That's the most important part. A hound's loyalty isn't... complicated. It doesn't come with conditions or calculations. It just is. Simple. True. You can trust it completely because it doesn't know how to be anything else."
"Simple," Piotr repeated, and something clenched in his gut.
"In the best way." Miloš's hand tightened slightly in his hair, holding him there. "You don't waste time with pretense or games. You just... are what you are. Do you have any idea how valuable that is?"
Piotr felt his throat close. When Miloš said it like that, with his fingers gentle in Piotr's hair, it didn't sound like an insult.
"And hounds are bred for action," Miloš went on, thumb going on to trace Piotr's ear. "Not for navigating court. They're meant to do things. To run, to hunt, to use their bodies the way they were made to be used. That's you, isn't it? You're happiest when you're moving, when there's something clear in front of you."
"I suppose that's true," Piotr said.
"Of course it is." Miloš pulled him closer, settled Piotr's head against his shoulder. Piotr closed his eyes again. Miloš's heartbeat was steady under his ear and the hand in his hair kept stroking, soothing.
Piotr woke in the middle of the night to find Miloš sitting in the dark, staring at the wall.
"Miloš?"
“Go back to sleep."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just thinking."
Piotr wanted to ask what he was thinking about, but sleep pulled him back under.
Morning came gray and cold. Miloš woke first, or at least stirred first, and Piotr felt the shift of weight as he sat up.
"Good morning," Miloš murmured.
Piotr opened his eyes. Miloš was watching him, and for just a moment—before his expression settled—there was something assessing there.
Then he smiled, and whatever Piotr had seen was gone, replaced by politeness.
"How are you feeling?" Miloš asked.
"Good." Piotr's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "Really good."
"Yeah?" Miloš's hand found his face, thumb stroking along his cheekbone.
Miloš swung his legs over the side and started gathering his clothes. Shirt from the foot of the bed, doublet from the floor. He dressed with his back to Piotrek, and Piotrek lay there watching, wanting to reach out but suddenly unsure if he should.
“You could stay the morning,” Piotr suggested. “I can have a servant bring breakfast for two. We could… do it again?”
Miloš shook his head, laced his shirt. "I should go. Before people start wondering where I am."
Piotr watched him dress with growing dismay and the knowledge that once Miloš walked out the door he would be alone again.
"Will I see you today?"
Miloš paused, a beat too long. "Probably. I have some things to attend to for Lord Iwo—" He glanced over his shoulder, and his frown was apologetic but didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I'll try to find you."
Probably. Try.
"All right," Piotr said, and hated how the uncertainty already felt cold in his stomach.
Miloš came back to the bed, leaned down, kissed him again. His hand cupped the back of Piotrek's neck, warm, sweet, then let go. "I'll see you."
And then he was gone
The room was immediately colder. Piotr lay back down and stared at the ceiling, tried to hold onto the warmth of the night before, but it was already receding. He’d tasted joy and was now acutely conscious of the bitterness of its absence.
He got up eventually. Dressed. Went through the motions of his day.
At dinner, Miloš sat by Zofia and made her laugh uproariously. He did not look to Piotr
After dinner Piotr went to the east gallery out of habit and stood by the window, watching the courtyard in mist and trying not to expect Miloš to appear just because he'd said he'd try.
Finally, when the cold from the window had seeped into his bones and even the guards had started giving him curious looks, Piotr returned to his quarters. The bed still smelled faintly of Miloš, and Piotr buried himself in the ghost of last night.
Miloš found him the next afternoon in the training yard. Appeared at the edge of the practice ground with his usual easy smile, and when Piotr dismissed the guards he was working with, Miloš crossed to him.
"Sorry about last night," Miloš said, but his tone was light. Casual. Like the absence had been nothing important. "Lord Iwo needed me for something that ran late. I wanted to find you but by the time I was free it was past midnight."
"It's all right," Piotr said, and watched a flicker in Miloš's smile.
"Good."
Indeed, Miloš arrived late the next night, knocking softly, and the smile on his face was warm and wanting and everything Piotr had been hoping for.
"Hi," Miloš said softly.
"Hi."
Miloš crossed to him, already reaching.
Miloš… was everything.
Unfortunately, he was not also everywhere.
If Piotr had his way, Miloš would sit at his side at meals, walk along the paths and trails with him, sleep in his bed nightly and hold court on the training grounds while Piotr worked with his men.
And indeed, there were evenings when Miloš found him after dinner and led him somewhere private—Piotr’s quarters, an alcove, or an empty corridor—and shared in pleasure as though his thoughts were filled of nothing else all day. Those nights Piotr would lie in bed feeling complete.
Then there were other days: the ones where Miloš’s affections eclipsed, and Piotr would struggle to hold himself back from hunting Miloš down before finally succumbing and seeking him out, would begin to kiss him, work at laces, when Miloš would pull back with a not tonight, I’m tired, or someone might be looking for me.
Piotr never knew which was the case until it was already happening.
He tried to read the signs: Miloš’s bearing at his table, whether he made eye contact immediately or took a moment, the distraction or presence of his smile. But the signs were inconsistent. Sometimes Miloš would be friendly and tactile through a walk, then pull away the moment they were alone. Piotr couldn't find the pattern, and thus couldn't predict the waves of Miloš’s mood. All he could do was watch and adjust accordingly, dream about what the day might bring.
It was consuming.
It was exhausting.
And then, ten days after Minister Casimir's celebration, Miloš went cold.
His touches turned brief, then disappeared. His distant smiles failed to reach his eyes. And when Piotr tried to find him after dinner Miloš could not be found.
He couldn’t be found the next night either.
Or the night after that.
When he could take it no more, Piotr went to Miloš’s quarters, aching for the want of him.
"Hi," Piotr said quietly.
Miloš stood at his door "Oh. Hi." He smiled, but it hung like a bad portrait: on the surface and not quite straight.
"I've been looking for you."
"Have you? Sorry. I've been busy."
Piotr stood there, uncertain. Miloš hadn’t invited him to in; he just stood in the door, the message clear. I'm occupied. This isn't a good time.
"Is everything all right?" Piotr asked.
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
"You've just been—" Piotr struggled for the word. "Absent. The last few days."
"I told you, I've been busy." Miloš's tone was mild, but something floated in the lower layers of it. Irritation? Not quite. Disinterest, the conversation already boring him.
A chill. "Did I do something wrong?"
"Wrong?" Miloš tiled his head. "Why would you think that?"
"I don't know. You just seem… different."
Miloš sighed. “Piotr, I also have other things in my life. Obligations, friends. You understand that, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Good." Miloš’s grip shifted. "I'll find you when I have time. All right?"
It wasn't all right-- nothing about it was all right. But Piotr nodded anyway as the door swung shut.
Sleep, when it came, was thin and restless. And when he woke in the morning the first thought in his head was when he would see Miloš again, and the awareness that the time between now and then would feel like waiting.
Piotr spent the next two days replaying every interaction before the freeze to find the moment he'd done something wrong. Said something wrong. Been too much or not enough.
Had he been too eager? Too demanding? He couldn't find the mistake. But there must have been one, because Miloš had gone from warm to cold so quickly, and there had to be a reason.
Once, Piotr saw him talking Zofia in a courtyard and the ease of it made him ill.
He'd had that warmth. He’d basked in it. And now it was gone, and he didn't know how to get it back.
On the sixth day, desperate and slightly unhinged from lack of sleep, Piotr went to the royal garden.
It was early morning, dew still heavy on the grass like he remembered. The Astronomer’s Lament were in full bloom, and he stood there for a long moment, remembering Miloš wide eyes upon seeing them.
Piotr reached out and picked one. Then another. Another, another, until he had a full bouquet of them.
The garden's flowers were not supposed to be picked. That had always been the law, and Piotr had never broken it before.
He carried armful of blooms to the delegation wing, hoping no one would see and ask questions.
Miloš's room was small—servants' quarters, really, though nicer than most. Piotr had only been there that one, unfortunate time before, and the memory of it discomforted his nerves. He knocked and waited, core buzzing.
Miloš opened the door. Saw Piotr, the flowers, and cycled through several expressions too quickly to name.
"What—"
"From the garden," Piotr said. "I thought—I wanted—" He couldn't finish the sentence, just held out the offering.
Miloš stared at them for a long moment. Then at Piotr. Then he changed: softened, warmed, became the Miloš that Piotr had been missing desperately.
"You brought me flowers!”
"Yes."
“Are you… allowed to?”
“No.”
Miloš took the flowers, brought them to his face, breathed in their scent. When he looked up it was with invitation.
"Come in," he said.
Relief flooded through Piotr so intensely he went dizzy with it. He stepped inside and Miloš closed the door behind him, set the flowers on the small table by the window.
"I've missed you," Piotr said, and hated the rawness of his voice. He hoped Miloš wouldn’t find it despicable
Miloš crossed back to him, one hand coming up to cup his jaw. "I've been right here."
"You've been—" Piotr searched for the word. "Distant."
"Have I?" Miloš's thumb stroked along his cheekbone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be."
"It's all right.”
"Is it?" Miloš leaned in, pressed his forehead to Piotr's. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." Miloš pulled back enough to look at him properly, and his lips pressed together. "You really missed me that much?"
Piotr nodded, not trusting his voice.
Miloš's smile was slow and pleased. "That's… sweet. You're sweet."
He kissed Piotr then, and it was like coming home after being lost. All the warmth that had been missing for four days came flooding back, and Piotr sagged into it with relief so profound it was almost painful.
"Stay," Miloš murmured against his mouth. "Just for a while."
They ended up in Miloš's bed, Piotr thrusting desperately into him, trying to channel all his longing and love into that place where the two of them became one. After, Piotr buried his face in Miloš's hair and made a vow in his mind to never give cause for Miloš to withdraw again.
"The flowers were a good idea," Miloš said. "Romantic."
"I just wanted to see you."
"I know." Miloš tilted his head, looked up at Piotr with some sort of odd smile that was difficult to parse. "You'd do a lot to see me, wouldn't you?"
The question felt loaded. Piotr nodded anyway.
"Good," Miloš said softly, and he kissed him again.
Because that was love, wasn’t it? To care so deeply about another that everything else arranged around that single question of their nearness.
The nearness lasted for a score: weeks where Piotr could breathe properly again, and the ache in his chest loosened enough for him to live.
And live, according to Miloš whims, apparently including partaking in all the vices and elations that made life worth living.
On that night he’d stolen Piotr away on an adventure, leading him down less-trafficked halls where nobles rarely ventured and servants scurried about on rare hours until they were tucked in a quarter hall near the postern gate. It was twilight, sky coloring purple overhead, and only distant footsteps threaded through the quiet hours.
"Here," Miloš announced, pulling Piotr into the shadow of an old buttress.
"Miloš—" Piotr glanced around. It was less protected than their alcoves, and while servants didn’t really count, the thought of someone stumbling upon them was enough give hesitation.
"Come now," Miloš pressed close, hand sliding up Piotr's chest. "That's what makes it exciting, doesn't it? The danger!"
He kissed Piotr determinedly before he could respond. His other hand found his hip, pulled him closer, and Piotr decided it was no great concern.
"The thought popped up in my head the other day, how fun this would be: getting you somewhere where we have to be careful."
"Just popped up?" Piotr groaned, head fallen against the wall.
"Mmm." Miloš's hand slid lower, teasing. "We'll have to be quiet. Quick. Make sure no one sees."
“I can be quick.”
A bark of laughter, not soft. “I know you can be.” Another kiss. “Don’t want the servants or guards to catch us.” Another kiss. Two, three. “Will they?”
We’ll be fine, as long as we’re quiet" Piotr assured Miloš, but then his breeches were open and Miloš was sinking down.
“I think you mean, if you’re quiet.”
Piotr’s brows furrowed at the correction, but then Miloš opened his mouth, and thought departed entirely.
Miloš swallowed him down, taking him deep in one slick motion. Piotr choked on a moan, hands flying to Miloš’s hair. The wet heat was overwhelming, Miloš tight throat and clever tongue coming to do something extraordinary.
He worked Piotr masterfully, long, slow pulls followed by quick, filthy bobs of his head. Every time Piotr thought it couldn’t get better, Miloš took him deeper, forcing moans down his throat. With a wet pop, Miloš pulled back, lips shiny.
“When do they come by?”
The question penetrated Piotr's haze slowly. "Huh?"
"The guards. When do they come through?" A nip to the crease of his thigh. "If you don’t want to get caught by some scandalized captain."
Piotr blinked, gasped when Miloš took him back in and hollowed his cheeks.
"We don’t have to worry," he managed. "Evening rotation happened an hour past. They patrol the walls, but they don't come down unless they hear something."
"And inside? The postern passage?"
"The two there? They check anyone crossing but stay at their post.”
Miloš rewarded the answer by taking him to the back of his throat again, nose brushing against the curls at Piotr’s base. His throat fluttered, eyes watered but he never broke contact. One hand cupped Piotr’s balls, rolling them gently, while the other squeezed his base, the last inch Miloš couldn’t reach.
Piotr trembled, fighting the urge to thrust into that perfect mouth. His thighs shook. Pleasure prickled tight and vicious in the depths of him. All the while Miloš sped and slowed, swirling hand and tongue in wrenching harmony. The soft wetness of it echoed off the stone, punctuated by Piotr’s increasingly frequent gasps.
“Miloš, I’m—I’m going to—”
Miloš hummed encouragement, and that was all that was needed for Piotr to come with a stifled cry, spilling down Miloš’s throat. Miloš swallowed; his hand continuing on a slowing course until Piotr whimpered enough.
Only then did Miloš pull off, eyes keen and lips glistening. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and looked deeply satisfied. Piotr cupped Miloš’s face, guided him up. He felt the same.
"That was—" Piotr grinned, let out a soft, laughing huff. "God. That was perfect." He reached towards Miloš's trousers but Miloš took a step back. For a split second something flashed across his face, but it was gone before Piotr could ask what it was.
"We should go," he demurred. "Before someone does come through."
They made their way back through the castle separately, Miloš insisting on it. Piotr went first, slightly drunk on their transgression.
The feeling sobered as he lie awake in his bed, realizing Miloš would not be joining him.
He found Miloš the next day in the library, deep in focus with his book, much as he was during cold spell. The memory of that dismissal still stung enough to make Piotr's approach cautious.
"Can we talk?"
Miloš looked up, and he was warm, thank God. "Of course. Something wrong?"
Piotr shifted his weight back and forth. "Last night."
"What about it?" Miloš's smile turned teasing. "Having regrets?”
"No, not—" Piotr struggled to find the words. "It’s what I said.”
Miloš's smile didn't falter, but something was lost at the corners of his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I just—" This was harder than Piotr had anticipated. "When you asked—" No, this wasn’t going well. Rephrase. The fault was with him. “I said some things--- in the heat of the moment, I mean, I shouldn’t have…” No, wrong, wrong, it was going wrong and it was Piotr’s fault, “Maybe in the future we stay among places not so… sensitive.”
The words came out clumsy, wrong, and Piotr’s heart sank as he watched Miloš's close off in disappointment.
"Sensitive," Miloš repeated. He set his book aside. "Are you saying you don't trust me?"
"No, that's not—"
"Because it sounds like you don’t trust me." The words were those of an observation, but they were wrong, because it was a scolding.
Piotr wished Miloš would just yell at him. Yelling would be so much easier.
"I'm not saying that. I just—"
"You just what?" Miloš leaned back in his chair, all warmth receded. "You thought back to last night and my pleasuring you and—what?—decided my mind must have been on security? "
Put like that, it sounded absurd. Of course it did.
"No," Piotr said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I wanted to be with you somewhere exciting and new. I thought you’d appreciate it."
"I'm not—Miloš, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it?"
Piotr didn't have an answer. The unease that had seemed so solid an hour ago was crumbling.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm being—I don't know what I'm being."
Miloš was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Come here."
Yet Miloš did not stand, and before he knew what his body was doing, Piotr had fallen to his knees. His arms came up to wrap around Miloš, his head buried in his lap . Miloš patted his back, cupped the back of his head.
"I know you’re not used to tenderness," Miloš murmured, petting Piotr. "You’ve had it withdrawn for so long. You’ve never been worthy enough of earning it back."
Piotr's throat tightened. "Yes."
"But that’s not my care." His soothing hands continued. “You work so hard to earn it, when all you need to do is trust me.”
"I know. I trust you."
"Do you?" The hands stopped. "Because if you're just going to question me, then maybe we need to—"
"I do," Piotr said quickly. "I trust you. I'm sorry. I was being foolish."
A pause, then Miloš’s blessed hands resumed.
"Okay. Good."
He bent over, pressed a kiss to his temple, and the warmth and safety returned; a contrast so immediate, a relief so profound it made Piotr dizzy.
"I don’t want to lose you,” Miloš murmured into his hair. “Don’t make me lose you."
"I won’t. You have me."
"Yes. I have you."
They stayed like that for a long time, and when they finally broke apart Piotr felt steadier, a sailor who’d navigated difficult seas and come out the other side intact.
The pike felt good in Piotr's hands. Familiar weight, natural balance. It was straightforward action: the kind he'd been missing lately.
"Again," he called to the line of guards. "Step forward on the thrust, weight on your front foot. If you're leaning back you've already lost."
They tried again. Better, though young Lucjan still tended to drop his shoulder. Piotr moved down the line, making small corrections as needed. Here, he was the master. Here, life made sense.
Master Klemens stood at the edge of the ground, arms crossed, watching with a critical eye. When Piotr called for pause, he approached.
"They're improving," Klemens said. "The drills are helping."
"They needed it." Piotr watched the guards drink and catch their breath. "Some of them have gotten lazy, going through forms without effort."
"Can't blame them entirely. Been a long time since anyone needed to think about them." Klemens paused. "Though I suppose that's changing."
“What’s changing?”
“The world.”
Piotr huffed. “You’ve been saying that for thirty years.”
“And I’ll say it for thirty more. The realm is always changing, Piotr. That’s why a man must be prepared to change with it.”
The next day, there was an audience for the training.
It surprised Piotr, to arrive and see a small, anticipatory crowd.
“Your cousin mentioned it, last night in the hall,” Klemens explained. “He encouraged anyone who questioned our might to witness you leading the drills, see if they held any doubt after.”
Piotr shook his head, but put his men through particularly demonstrative work that day, a relentless pace that had them sweating rivers and downing flagons by the end of it. Pożarowo's lord was known to be bellicose but ultimately pragmatic; it was wise of Anatoli to ease the minds of more paranoid courtiers in such a way.
And certainly, the visibility of the training worked. Over the next few days, Piotr noticed as people paused to watch, noded approvingly, and moved on with their shoulders a little straighter.
His men hated it of course; they were guards, not display ponies. But first and foremost they were men of Krachów, and so they did as he led.
Piotr and Miloš ended up in Piotr's quarters after dinner, as they had more nights than not of late. The good time between them was holding, and Piotr had stopped waiting for it to break.
Maybe that had been the mistake, Piotr wondered after Miloš made his farewell and left: letting his guard down.
He’d thought them talking about nothing of import, easy conversation that Piotr treasured. They’d been joking about the new litter of puppies in the stables, the thought that for all their lovemaking they’d remain free of the complication of basterds, the hope that those increasingly towering bouffants wouldn’t become the latest fashion.
Or maybe Piotr had said something wrong at dinner the night before. There'd been that moment when he'd mentioned the Casimir’s celebrations and Miloš seemed to glare at him for a moment before turning away.
Or maybe Miloš was getting bored. They’d walked the trails and battlements twice the past week. There was only so much walking a man like Miloš could probably take, especially with a man like Piotr for company.
He needed to pay better attention. That was all. Just needed to be more present, more aware of Miloš.
At dinner he'd make sure to sit where Miloš could see him easily. Make eye contact but not too often: he didn't want to seem like he was staring. Smile when their eyes met. Keep his own mood light, pleasant. Nothing heavy or needy.
If Miloš approached him afterward, Piotr would let him set the pace. He’d wait for clues about what Miloš wanted—conversation or company or release—and match it. Last week when Miloš had seemed like he wanted to talk, Piotr had been too eager to move things to his quarters, and Miloš had pulled away. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
And if Miloš didn't approach him...
Piotr ran his hands through his hair.
Then he'd give it a day, maybe two. Not seek him out immediately like he'd done during that awful cold spell, because that might seem desperate, and Miloš didn’t like desperation. Or would it? The flowers had worked, after all; Miloš had warmed up.
But that had been a rare case. He couldn't repeat special things or they'd lose their meaning.
Maybe he just needed to be more thoughtful in general. More attentive to what Miloš liked. Miloš liked sweets; maybe he could ask the cook to make some.
Or would that seem like he was trying too hard?
Piotr started pacing; it was hard to know what was too much and what was too little. The balance kept shifting, and he couldn't find the fulcrum.
Piotr just needed to plan better so he didn't keep stumbling into these moments where he said the wrong thing or did the wrong thing. Maybe carefully, gently, Piotr could ask if everything was all right, if he'd done something to upset him.
Though asking that last time had made things worse before they got better. Miloš was hurt that Piotr thought he would play games.
But not mentioning it might come across as accepting the distance, and maybe that was wrong too. Maybe that made Piotr seem indifferent, like he didn't care whether Miloš was close or not.
Maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe Miloš had truly just said goodnight and everything was fine and Piotr was working himself into a frenzy over nothing.
He just needed to be good. That would keep things good.
In the great hall, a troubadour performed to appreciative applause. Wine flowed freely. The atmosphere was lighter than it had been in days, troubles fading into the past with Lord Arek declaring them handled.
Miloš sat away, laughing again with Zofia said. He caught Piotr's eye once and smiled, and there was nothing more complicated than affection in it.
At the high table, Lord Arek was in good spirits. Anatoli was charming a cluster of dukes with a story about a hunting mishap that had actually happened to Piotr, but for which he’d given permission for Anatoli to use. Lila was giggling with her ladies over one of their scandalous comments. Everyone was happy. Miloš was happy
Piotr watched it all. He was happy, too. Everything was fine.
The troubadour finished his ballad.
Miloš appeared at Piotr's elbow. "Walk with me?"
Piotr went.
The walk’s destination made Piotr’s heart and body sigh in relief, and as he and Miloš lay in bed together everything was right, and Piotr's chest ached with gratitude. This was what all his work was for.
Miloš was quiet for a long time before he stirred slightly, rolled to his side.
"I need to as you something.”
"Oh?"
Miloš was quiet again, and something in the wait made Piotr's contentment start to curdle.
"It’s something I have no right to ask.”
Piotr's heart beat faster. "What is it?"
Miloš sat up properly, pulling the sheet around his waist. "I've made a friend here at court. I can't tell you who—they made me promise I wouldn't, and I won't break their trust. But they're—" He stopped, choosing the word. "They're sick."
Piotr sat up too, trying to follow. "What kind of illness?"
"The kind people whisper about." Miloš's hands twisted in the sheet. "It's not fair. But if people knew, if the court knew, they'd be ruined."
"That's terrible," Piotr said, and meant it. He'd knew the cruelty of court when it turned on people.
"But there’s a treatment," Miloš continued quickly. "A physician in Sandomier who specializes in this sort of thing. He's willing to send medicine, but it has to come through quietly. If it’s inspected then everyone will know what it's for."
"You want to… bring in medicine for someone?
“Without it being inspected, yes."
"That's—" Not allowed. Deliveries through the castle gates were always inspected, especially anything hailing from another domain. “That’s not possible.”
“It is, with your seal.”
Piotr’s eyes widened, meeting Miloš’s intensity. "You could authorizing a delivery through the postern gate. Just this once. Just to help someone who's suffering."
Piotr’s mouth opened—
"I know it's asking a lot," Miloš continued. "But my friend—they're desperate, Piotrek. They're in pain and they're terrified and I can help them but only if—" He stopped. "Only if you help me help them."
Piotr's throat felt tight. Someone was suffering. Someone Miloš cared about. And there was a way to help them, and Miloš was asking for his help.
But his seal. That… wasn't something he was supposed to do.
"I want to help," Piotr said slowly. "But I'm not—there’s rules about vouching. I'm not supposed to—"
He couldn't finish, because Miloš went very still.
"I see," he said quietly.
"It's not that I don't want to help, it's just—"
"No, I understand." Miloš was already moving, gathering his clothes. "I shouldn't have asked."
"Miloš, wait—"
"It's all right." Miloš's responded, clipped. "I understand. This is—it's too much. I shouldn't have asked. Our relationship clearly doesn't..." He trailed off, pulled his shirt over his head. "It doesn't reach this level of trust."
"That's not—" Panic was bubbling, rising, drowning in Piotr's chest. "That's not what I meant—"
But Miloš was already dressed, final in his movements. "I should go."
"Miloš—"
"Goodnight, Piotr."
The door closed.
Piotr sat there in the sudden silence, sheet twisted around his waist, and the coldness stung with such a pain he’d rather Miloš had struck him.
Miloš was gone.
Piotr's hands began to shake. His chest felt tight, compressed, like he couldn't get enough air. His body was wrong. Too hot and too cold at once. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The bed that felt so safe minutes ago now felt cavernous and empty.
He lay back down, curled on his side, and stared at the wall.
He couldn't lose this. Couldn't lose Miloš. Couldn't go back to the loneliness, to being the black sheep nephew who trained guards and carried his old shame in silence.
With Miloš, he'd been more. Been wanted. Been his.
Without him—
He rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow that still held the indent of Miloš’s head, and tried not to think about anything at all.
Two days passed. Piotr went through the motions as an automaton while his mind stayed tangled in the same circular thoughts.
Finally, he reached a wall. He knew his limitations; he couldn't make this decision alone. He needed someone else's perspective. Needed—
Anatoli would know. He understood these sorts of things. And… he was Anatoli. If Piotr couldn't talk to him about this, who could he talk to?
He found Anatoli in the solar after midday, standing by the window with a sheaf of papers in hand. He looked up when Piotr entered, and it was home: familiar and family.
"Cousin! What brings you here? Don't tell me you missed me."
"No, I—" Piotr closed the door behind him. "I need to talk to you. About something. If you have time."
"Of course." Anatoli set the papers aside, and yes, there it was, the safety and comfort of nothing else in the world mattering except this conversation. "What's wrong? You look terrible, if you don't mind me saying."
"I didn't sleep well."
"I can see that." Anatoli gestured to the chairs by the fireplace. "Sit. Tell me what's bothering you."
They sat, and Piotr tried to find the words. How to explain without explaining too much? How could he ask about the seal without revealing why he was being asked of it?
"If someone came to you," Piotr started slowly, "and asked you to help them with something that was—technically against protocol, but for a good reason, would you—"
Someone knocked at the door.
Anatoli's gaze flickered toward it, back to Piotr.
"Hold that thought." He raised his voice. "Yes?"
The door opened and one of Lord Arek's secretaries—the youngest among them—stepped inside, bowed slightly. "I apologize for the interruption. But there's a matter that requires immediate attention. The representative from the eastern holds has brought concerns about—"
"Can it wait?" Anatoli's tone was pleasant but firm. "I'm speaking with my cousin."
"I'm afraid not, my lord. Lord Arek is occupied with the Pożarowo ambassador, and the representative is quite insistent.”
Anatoli sighed, stood. "All right. Give me a moment."
"Anatoli, please—" Piotr stood too. "This is important to me. I need—we have to talk about this."
"I know." Anatoli shook his head, a placating gesture. "And we will. Just let me handle this first, and then—"
"Please." Piotr reached out, desprate. "There's nobody whose opinion I value more than yours. There's nobody I—" No, not that word. "Nobody I trust more. Please, Tolya."
There was—what was that? A flicker of discomfort, there and gone? Anatoli’s smile was gone, and what was that fear in his eyes?
"Piotr." His voice went gentle, the voice of a handler, wearing sheepskin gloves. "I understand. I do. But we're not boys anymore. I have responsibilities I can't set aside just because you’ve always followed me." The eastern holds are important. More important than—"
He didn’t finish, caught himself just in time, but even Piotr could follow the words to their conclusion.
"I'll find you later," Anatoli said, already turning toward the secretary. "I promise. We'll talk then."
He left. The secretary followed.
We're not boys anymore. Piotr was hardly childish, asking for things that could wait while Anatoli attended to real, adult concerns.
More important than you. Because Anatoli, kind and charming, couldn't bring himself to say it directly.
Piotr sat back down in the chair, and the old shame settled over him. That was what he was: someone postponed, a problem who’d caused an accident years ago and would never stop being that person, no matter how much time passed.
When it became clear Anatoli would not return, Piotr left the solar, alked through the corridors without seeing them, mind numb and racing at once.
He couldn't talk to Anatoli about the letter. Couldn't risk laying himself that bare again only to be dismissed again.
He couldn't talk to Lord Arek—that was laughable.
Lila would listen, maybe, but she didn’t understood the complicated things. And this was complicated in a way Piotr couldn't even fully articulate to himself.
There was no one he could ask, except Miloš.
But Miloš was the one asking. Miloš was waiting for an answer, the one who left with disappointment in his eyes and with Piotr drowning alone in the dark.
Piotr found himself back in his quarters without remembering the walk there. Sat on the bed and stared at nothing.
Someone was suffering. Miloš had found a way to help them. The only thing standing in the way was Piotr's hesitation.
And Piotr couldn't go back to being nobody.
He needed to sleep, that would clear his mind and banish his exhaustion.
But sleep, when it came, brought no clarity; merely more circling thoughts and the ghost of warmth gained and lost.
Piotr woke in the morning and knew he was going to write the letter.
He hadn’t reached any moral or definitive clarity; he was just… tired.
He picked up the quill. His hand was steady, which surprised him. He’d expected it to shake.
The delegation quarters were quiet so early. Piotr knocked on Miloš's door and waited, heart drowning out the confidence he’d tried to summon on the way there.
Footsteps. The latch lifting. The door opened.
Miloš stood there in shirtsleeves, still rumpled from sleep. When he saw Piotr his expression cycled through suspicion, uncertainty, then surprise in the span of a heartbeat.
"Piotr."
"Can I come in?"
Miloš stepped back. The room was cool.
"Have you decided?"
"I have." Piotr held out the letter. "Here."
Miloš's eyes went wide. He reached out slowly, took the letter like Piotr might snatch it away at any moment. Turned it over, saw the seal, ran his thumb over the wax.
"You—" His shook his head. "You actually wrote it."
"You asked me to."
Miloš continued to stare at the letter, and Piotr watched his throat work as he swallowed. When he finally looked up, his eyes were too bright, his smile not just disbelief, but an awe Piotr couldn't quite parse. It was the fiercest Piotr had ever seen his eyes, and it was all the more beautiful for it.
"I can't believe you—" He stopped, shook his head slowly, solving an equation and marveling at the answer in the same stroke. "God, Piotrek."
He surged forward and kissed him, hard and sudden. Piotr kissed back, finding Miloš's waist automatically, and the contact after the absence was almost painful in its balm.
"I'm sorry," Piotr said when they broke apart. "For hesitating. For making you think I didn't trust you."
"No." Miloš's hands came up to cup his face, and while the touch was gentle his eyes were eyes were sharp behind the tenderness. "You have no idea what this means. This changes everything." He held up the letter. "This is everything.”
"I just want to help."
Miloš laughed, Piotr’s insistence funny in a way known only to him. "You're amazing. You know that?"
The praise settled in that empty spot inside, pushing out some of the gray numbness that had taken residence for days.
Miloš set the letter on the table, turned back to Piotr. "Stay tonight.”
This time there was no slow seduction. Miloš was ravenous.
He slicked them both quickly and sank down onto Piotr in one headlong, greedy motion, not even giving Piotr a moment to adjust before riding him hard, hips snapping with deep, harsh thrusts, chasing it like a man possessed.
Piotr groaned at the tight, scorching heat around him.
“Fuck— Miloš—” Piotr gasped, hands gripping his waist.
Miloš was magnificent above him. A beauty, a vision with his head thrown back, lips parted, fierceness in his eyes, and Piotr was lost in him as their bodies slammed together again and again.
When it crested, when Piotr was suspended in that space where thought dissolved into pure release, the words flew out once more.
"Miloš, my Miloš—God, I love you."
The silence after was a heartbeat too long. Piotr's eyes flew open, found Miloš looking at him with a countenance he couldn't read.
Then Miloš smiled. "I love you too."
Had he hesitated? For just a moment, had there been a pause before the words came?
No. No, Piotr was imagining things. Miloš had said it back, with joy in his voice and certainty in his eyes. The hesitation was just Piotr's own disbelief that, after so long, someone could say it back.
Miloš kissed him again, murmured it against his mouth. "I love you. I love you."
The repetition had the flavor of testing the words, seeing how they sounded. How deeply they might sink.
They sounded destined to Piotr, wrapping around him like the finest silks, like belonging.
And then Miloš straightened again, braced both hands on Piotr’s chest. His rhythm changed, no longer focused on rocking back, but chasing the angle that made him leak and twitch, using Piotr’s spent cock for his own pleasure. He ground back once, twice, before gasping, hands flying forward to grab Piotr’s.
“Touch me. Here.”
He pressed Piotr’s palms to his chest, and Piotr obeyed instantly, thumbs brushing over the muscle, the nipple the way he knew Miloš liked. Sure enough Miloš moaned, loud and unashamed, eyes sliding half-shut in bliss. He dragged one of Piotrs hands lower, ghosting the plane of his stomach, then lower still, until Piotr’s fingers brushed the base of his cock where it bounced between them. Piotr grabbed, twisted, and Miloš keened, head falling back.
And yet he fucked Piotr harder.
He wasn’t looking at Piotr anymore; his eyes were closed, lost in sensation. Every roll of his hips, every clench of his body, was for himself alone, and Piotr could only work his length and stare up at him in helpless awe. Miloš looked glorious like this—commanding and utterly abandoned to lust—and when he came, he was a demigod from a myth: powerful, graceful, transcendent in his pleasure.
Afterward, while their breathing settled and Piotr covered them with the bedding, Miloš lay on his side. His eyes kept drifting beyond Piotr to the table, and each time they did, satisfaction crossed his face before he caught himself and looked back at Piotr with softness.
“Tonight... can I… stay?” Piotr caught his jaw the next time Miloš’s attention wandered. “Stay and wake up with you?"
"Alright."
So Piotr held him, content in the certain knowledge that he'd made the right choice. This—this closeness, this love—was what mattered.
The day passed as a dream. The night passed as a serenity. Piotr woke before dawn to find Miloš already awake, propped on one elbow, studying him in the grayscale world.
"Hi," Miloš said.
"Hi." Piotr's voice came out rough. "How long have you been awake?"
"A while."
Piotr covered Miloš’s hand with his palm. “I love you.”
Miloš barked a laugh, grabbed his fingers. “You remember that?”
“How could I forget?”
Piotr pulled him down into a kiss and Miloš went, settled against him.
The light grew stronger, pink and yellow. Outside the castle stretched and woke: footsteps in the corridor, distant voices.
For the first time in a long time, Piotr felt deeply, utterly at home.
The accident, the shame, the loneliness—now he knew: that was all something he was meant to endure, to bring him here. Each unpleasant act had just been a paver, a path to Miloš saying I love you, to waking up to his guardianic gaze.
Piotr’s joy must have been apparent, because Miloš scoffed, rolled his eyes.
"What are you thinking?”
"I'm… God, I’m so happy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Piotr pulled Miloš close. "Really happy."
The days became a sort of fever, the kind that made Piotr aware of the skin he lived in in a way he'd never been before. It was not the unreality of fever—the opposite, actually: everything was vivid and sharp, near-visceral in its tangibility. Like Piotr had been living his entire life slightly out of focus and had only just now learned what clarity was.
Because Miloš was there. Fully, consistently, and without hesitation.
He stayed with him the first night, then the second, and by the third night it had stopped being a question. Piotr would finish his obligations and return to his quarters to find Miloš already there, reading by candlelight or sometimes just waiting, and the sight of him never stopped making Piotr feel blessed beyond measure.
"You don't have to ask anymore," Miloš said on the fourth night, when Piotr had hesitated at the door to his own chambers like he needed permission to approach. "We're past that now. Aren't we?"
If Miloš said it was true, then it was, and the truth made its home in his bones.
Once Miloš came to visit Piotr while he trained the guards. He stood in the shade of the western wall and watched Piotr lead drills. When the men were paired off, Miloš had meandered over, picked up a pike from the pile. When Piotr reached him, Miloš gave a playful smile and settled his feet into stance, hands gripping the staff.
“Is this right?”
He was close enough that Piotr could see the afternoon light reflect off the cedar of his eye.
Yes, he’d said.
He still wasn’t certain if it was true.
Sometimes they make love, slow and unhurried. Other times they'd just lie together. A few times Miloš read aloud from a book, sending Piotr off to sleep.
There was nothing to ask for. They simply were.
One night, Piotr woke in the deep dark of early morning to find Miloš curled against his side. The window showed only black sky, not even the first hint of dawn.
Piotr lay very still, not wanting to wake him, and tried to memorize the feeling.
He must have moved, though, because Miloš stirred slightly, made a small sound, and burrowed closer.
"You're awake," he mumbled, not opening his eyes.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"'Go back to sleep.”
"I will."
But he didn't. He stayed awake in the dark, holding Miloš, and decided that if he could have one thing—just one thing—to keep forever, it would be this.
Morning came eventually—it always did. Piotr went to the training yard and sparred well—the best he ever had. The guards noticed—young Lucjan commented that Piotr seemed in good spirits, and Klemens gave him a knowing look, likely having guessed at least part of the reason.
It made it all the worse when the news arrived during court, carried by a mud-splattered messenger who’d rode his horse half to death.
"My Lord," he gasped, dropping to one knee. "My Lord, there's been an attack. Czerwony, its surrounding villages. Armed men. Buildings burning."
The shock was too great for whispers.
Lord Arek stood. " Bandits?"
"No, my Lord. Men with banners, organized. They hit the granaries and the posts first."
Someone made a sound of dismay.
"How many?"
"Hard to say, my lord. Five hundred? Maybe more. They were—" The messenger swayed, depleted. "They were well-armed."
Lord Arek raised a hand, summoning General Oskar to the side. The last still living from the last war. "How quickly can we mobilize?"
"Capitol forces can be ready to march within the hour, my Lord. But that's less than two hundred men. If we want real numbers we'll need to call up the regional militias, and that takes—"
"We don't have time for that." Arek commanded. "Send the capitol forces. Now. And send runners to the regional commanders telling them to muster and follow as quickly as they can."
"My Lord—"
"Now, General."
The hall erupted in noise: courtiers talking over each other, questions shouted toward the dais. All the while, Piotr's mind could process only one thing: his guards. He'd run drills with them just this morning. They'd be deployed.
Young Lucjan. Klemens' nephew. All those names and faces he knew.
His stomach heaved.
Lord Arek was calling for order, cutting through the chaos. "We will handle this. The forces responsible will be found and dealt with. Krachów does not bend."
Strong words, yet faces around Piotr still wore fear, poorly masked by the desire for reassurance.
A bustle: Anatoli spoke quietly to his father, turning to address the hall when he received a nod.
"My father is right—this will be handled swiftly and decisively. But tonight, let's show that we're not cowed by this. The musicians shall play. We shall dine together as we always do! Let Krachów show we do not cower to fear!"
Some people nodded. Someone called out agreement.
Piotr opened his mouth—a performance, while guards rode toward the battlefield?—but courtiers were nodding, already making to disperse. Piotr pushed through the crowd toward the doors, needing air.
The castle was already transforming. He could feel it in its movement: urgent, clipped. Servants hurrying through corridors while guards were summoned from their posts.
Mobilization.
Piotr found himself in the armory without planning to go there. Watched weapons distributed, armor fit. Lucjan stood among others, steel set in determined lines.
Stay safe, Piotr wanted to say. Be careful, and don’t drop your shoulder.
But there were too many people and far too much noise and Lucjan disappeared into the crowd before Piotr could reach him. And then there were inventories to update, stableboys to mind, and a dozen more realities to confront in a castle that was newly wrong: to quiet in some places, too loud in others. Guards at posts that usually went unmanned. Empty spaces where there should have been people.
And obligations, obligations, obligations. At least at the end of the day there would be rest.
Evening fell. The promised entertainment was delivered: musicians, wine, cheerful conversation like nothing was wrong. Some people seemed soothed by it. Others just looked tired.
Piotr couldn't stomach it. He left before the meal was half-finished; wandered the corridors with no particular destination, just the need to move and to be anywhere but that performance of normalcy.
He was near the master’s quarter, thinking vaguely about finding Miloš, when he heard it.
Shouting. Then metal on metal—prolonged, harsh cacophony that didn't stop.
Piotr's blinked. An accident? Someone’s carelessness cascading out of hand?
But the sound was coming from inside the castle. Deep inside. And it wasn't stopping—it was getting louder.
He started running.
Miloš. Where was Miloš? The delegation quarters, certainly—he hadn’t been at dinner. But the noise—
Piotr ran faster, heart pounding. Turned a corner and nearly collided with a servant running the other way, face white with terror, eyes wild.
"What's happening?"
She didn't answer, didn't look at him, just kept running.
Another corner. The sounds resolved into the unmistakable: steel against steel, men shouting, the wet heavy sounds of something—someone—hitting the ground.
Piotr grabbed a sword from a display and winced: decorative, too light, balance all wrong. Better than nothing. He burst into the main corridor and stopped dead.
Blood on the stones. Bodies. Castle guards, men he'd trained himself, fighting desperately against soldiers without insignia. They looked different—some with the tight cuts preferred by Żalowiec, others with the beards of Mrocznik, and even the darker men of Burzomierz—but they moved forward as a unified, uncrashing tide.
An attack.
How?
No time. One of the invaders saw him, turned, blade already rising.
Piotr raised his sword.
They met with a crash that sounded up his arm. He'd trained for this, but this wasn't practice. This was a man trying to kill him, and the man was good.
Block. Strike. Block. The invader pressed forward. Piotr gave ground.
More soldiers flooded the corridor, more guards fell. Someone screamed, low and gurgling, and then it ended.
Miloš. The thought was a manta. I need to get to Miloš.
He tried to disengage, but the invader wouldn't let him, kept forcing him back, blade whistling past Piotr's head—
THUD
The world exploded.
Pain—Blackening, obliterating!—split his skull. Sounds muffled as the world plunged into spots of black and gray. His legs buckled. Knees hit stone but he didn't feel it, his entirety was the nauseating spin of the corridor tilting sideways, floor becoming wall becoming ceiling.
Voices. Shapes moving above him.
"—not this one—"
"—he was fighting—"
"—his orders. This one lives—"
Rough hands on him, dragging him by the arms, his head rolling. He tried to speak—where is Miloš, don’t hurt him—but words only came out as meaningless sounds
Lights passed by in flashes, corridors in a blur. The sounds of combat fading, then surging again and glimpses of bodies, more blood, a tapestry shredded.
His door. They were at his quarters.
He tried to resist, bis body was nothing more than marionette with cut strings, limbs heavy and useless.
He hit the floor hard and tasted copper. The door slammed, and the sound was another shattering blow.
Piotr lay there on cold stone, vision swimming. Tried to push himself up. His arms trembled and gave out.
Sounds from outside: fighting, screaming, running.
He needed to get up. Needed to find—
The name wouldn't come. Everything was slipping away, oiled and dark, like the hands pulling him down, down down…
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Piotr woke to screaming. Pain? Terror? Both? He couldn’t decide; it was too far away.
He tried to sit up, but his head swam and he heaved. He made it to his knees, braced himself against the floor.
How long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours?
The light from his window hurt his eyes, though he knew enough to know it wasn’t actually that bright.
He got to his feet, swaying. Made it to the door. Tried the latch.
Nothing.
He was a prisoner.
Piotr slumped against the door, pressed his forehead to the wood, and tried to reason through his pounding head and the rising tide of neausea.
Invasion. The castle was under invasion. And they'd taken him alive.
Why?
Miloš. God, where was Miloš? Was he safe? Was he hiding? Was he—
Piotr couldn't finish the thought.
He sank to the floor, back against the door, and listened to his home being torn apart around him.
Time stopped meaning anything.
Piotr woke and slept and woke again, all the while his head throbbed with a steady, nauseating pulse. Sometimes he could think clearly for a few minutes. Sometimes the room spun so violently he had to press his face to the floor and wait for it to stop.
He tried the door periodically. Still locked, but now with guards: he could hear them outside, low voices and thudding boots.
Food appeared sometimes: bread and water left just inside the door, though he was never conscious to see who left it. He forced himself to eat though his stomach rebelled, knowing he needed strength.
Even if he didn't know what for.
The sounds from outside changed. There was no more clanging of metal to metal. The screaming became less frequent, then stopped. What replaced it was worse: silence punctuated by occasional shouting. Jeers. Rough laughter.
Piotr sat on his bed and tried not to imagine Miloš dead in some corridor. There were too many terrible possibilities he could not allow himself to spiral into.
It was perhaps two days after the nausea left when there was a commotion outside.
Raised voices. The guards arguing with someone. A voice Piotr recognized saying "I demand—" and then being cut off.
The door opened.
Three guards game in, dragging someone between them, and Piotr's heart stopped.
Anatoli.
His cousin looked… wrong. His face was bruised and swollen, one eye nearly shut. His clothes and his hands bound. But his valor was there; he held himself upright still, glaring with fury at the guards.
"This is outrageous!" Anatoli spat. "Why am I here? I demanded to see—" He stopped, eyes darting, processing, as the guards maintained their silence.
Anatoli stood there, breathing hard. Then slowly, very slowly, he turned to Piotr.
And Piotr saw something terrible happen in his cousin. Saw a thought occur to him, saw it settle, saw horror dawn in his eyes.
"Piotrek," Anatoli said, and it was low and terrible. "What did you do?"
Piotr didn’t understand the question. "Anatoli, are you hurt? Your face—"
"What did you do?"
"I don't—I don't understand. What's happening? Was there an attack? The fighting—I heard fighting and then they locked me in here and I couldn't—"
Yet the more Piotr spoke, the more confused he became; Anatoli’s horror was deepening, but surely he knew what was going on—
"You don't know.”
"No! Tell me! Where's—" Piotr stopped himself before he could say Miloš's name. "Where's Uncle? Where's Lila? What's—"
"Dead."
Breath caught in Piotr’s throat.
"What?"
"Father is dead. Executed." Anatoli's voice was eerily flat. "Lila too."
"No. That's not—that can't—"
"It can. It did." Anatoli took a step closer, rage seeping into his voice. "And you're asking me these inane questions, like you don't know exactly what’s happened."
"I don't! I don't know anything! There was fighting and they hit me and I woke up here and—"
"Stop!" Anatoli's voice cracked like a whip. "Stop lying! Even now, even after everything, how can you stand there and lie to my face?"
"I'm not—"
"Or are you this blind?" Anatoli shouted. "How can you not see what you've done? Or—God, Piotr, did you know? Did you do this on purpose?"
"Do what?" Piotr was on his feet, swaying, head pounding, but he had to stand, had to know what was happening. "Anatoli, please, just tell me what's happening!"
Anatoli stared at him for a long moment. Then something in his face shifted. The rage receded, replaced by a replacement that wrenched despair from the pits of Piotr’s core: pity.
"You really don't know. You can’t see it."
Piotr shook his head back and forth, desperate, despite the churning this summoned in his guts. "See what? Anatoli, I don’t—"
"The castle fell three days past. A coalition force came straight in while our men made their way to Czerwony.”
"And you?" Piotr's voice cracked. "They’re keeping you prisoner too?"
A bitter laugh, a shake of his head. "I'm next." Anatoli said it simply. " Soon, probably. They made that clear."
"No." Piotr lunged forward. "No, you can't—they can't—"
"They can. They will."
Piotr reached for him, hands finding Anatoli's face with the instinct of two decades of love. "You can't die. Please. You can't."
Anatoli's jaw clenched under his hands. "Don't."
"Anatoli, please—" and then Piotr was crying, hot, flowing tears. He kissed Anatoli's forehead. His swollen eyes, his bruised cheeks. Desperate kisses that he knew were futile but couldn't stop.
"Please," he whispered against Anatoli's skin between kisses, barely coherent. "Tolya, Tolya, please don't die. I can't—I can't lose you—"
He kissed Anatoli's mouth, tasted salt and blood—
Anatoli shoved Piotr away, sending him stumbling.
"Don't you dare." His voice shook. "Don't do that. Not now."
"I love you, Tolya! Please don’t leave me! I’ve always loved—"
"I know!" Anatoli shouted. "God, Piotr, did you think you were subtle? Did you think I didn't notice?”
The words staunched Piotr’s outpour, a terrible coagulant. "You… knew?"
"Of course I knew! I thought you’d outgrow it! And when you didn’t, what was I supposed to do with it? Say no and have you follow me around like a kicked hound?”
"You…” Pretended?
Anatoli shook his head, scoffed. "Is this your revenge, then? For me not loving you back? Did you decide to destroy everything because I didn’t give you what you wanted?"
"No! That's not—"
"Was it not enough to kill my brother?" Anatoli was shouting again, advancing on Piotr. "Did you need to take everyone I loved just to make it fair?"
"I didn't—this was an attack—"
"No." Anatoli’s anger ran its course, exhausting him. He backed toward the door, weary with disgust and grief. "I don't want your excuses. I don't want your tears. I don't want anything from you except to die without seeing your face again."
He turned to the guards. "Let me out. I'm done here."
Anatoli allowed himself to be escorted away without looking back. Piotr lunged forward, reached for him.
"Tolya, wait—"
One of the guards shoved Piotr back; he fell hard, hit the floor. By the time he scrambled up again, the door was closing.
The last thing he saw was Anatoli's face: no grief, no love, not even anger anymore.
Just a final coldness to a stranger he wished he’d never met.
Days passed. Maybe a week. Piotr stopped counting.
Food appeared. He ate. The sun coursed through the sky. He slept when exhaustion overtook him, woke when it didn't. His head stopped throbbing eventually, the dizziness fading to leave clarity he didn't want.
Anatoli was dead by now. They wouldn't have kept him alive long.
Piotr tried not to think about it. Sometimes he succeeded. Mostly he didn't.
He was sitting on the bed, staring at nothing, when the door opened.
Guards first. Then a woman.
Piotr looked up and familiarity stirred in him; recognition, but not quite. He'd never seen her before, he was certain of that, but something about her was familiar anyway. The shape of her face? The set of her bearing?
She was dark-haired, dressed in fine traveling clothes that had been hastily paired with jewelry that Piotr knew; it used to be Lila’s. Her eyes were cool and assessing as she surveyed his room.
When she surveyed Piotr himself, she sighed. Disappointment.
"I preferred the blonde one," she said. "The tall one. Why couldn't I have that one?"
"Because people organize rebellions around known figures, dear."
The voice came from behind the guards, from the doorway. Piotr's body went cold and hot at once.
"The son was a known figure, beloved by the court and principality despite his flaws. You can't keep someone like that alive. People rally around names they know. Piotr here is the wiser option all around."
The guards stepped aside.
Miloš walked in.
For a moment—one terrible, wonderful moment—Piotr felt nothing but relief so intense as to rival his pain.
Miloš was alive. Miloš was here. Miloš was—
Different.
Everything about him was different.
He was dressed severely, all dark colors and sharp lines. His hair was styled differently too, back in a way that made his face look harder. He moved like a stranger: confident, except not confident. Possessed.
And his voice. God, his voice was wrong. Still Miloš's voice, but drawling, bored even, as he explained why Anatoli had to die.
He had not looked at Piotr; all his attention on the woman.
"Not to mention, Ilona," Miloš continued, "his virility is a… known quality. If you're having trouble spawning—" He rolled his eyes at the word even as he said it. "—then I can certainly lend a hand. I know what he likes, after all."
Piotr blinked. His mind was still slow, sluggish, unable to reason with what he was hearing.
"Who—" Piotr's tried to speak to the woman, but his voice was hoarse. "Who are you?"
Miloš finally looked at him, and his smile was nothing like the smiles Piotr remembered. This one was sharp and satisfied.
"Piotr!" He beamed. "I have wonderful news. Krachów is under new rule: the Sandomier lordship." He gestured to the woman. "In a truly magnanimous display uniting political expediency with legitimacy, my dear sister will be wedding a member of the royal family. Someone the people might accept as a figurehead while the real work of governance happens around him."
He paused, let that sink in.
"That's you, in case there were any doubts."
Piotr's mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.
"You and Ilona will marry," Miloš continued, still in that damned expositionary tone. "Produce an heir. The child will have a legitimate claim through your bloodline, all very proper, and until they’re old enough to ascend, Ilona will sit as queen regent. You'll smile and sign things when told to."
"I—" Piotr looked at Ilona. She was watching him with the same, steady assessment. "I don't understand."
"He's a bit slow," Ilona said to Miloš, rather unkindly. "Is he always like this?"
"I’ve been told he has a head injury," Miloš replied. "He'll catch up eventually."
"Good. Because I need to know if he's capable of basic comprehension. I can't work with completely useless."
Miloš turned back to Piotr. "She's capable," he said, and it almost sounded like reassurance. "Unsentimental, but not cruel. Really, it’s just for an heir. You could do worse for a wife."
"You make me sound cold.”.
"Are you saying you're not?" Miloš asked, and there was something almost affectionate in his mockery.
"I don’t care beyond his utility. Once an heir is secured, he’ll be a loose end, and you know how I feel about loose ends. My preference would be an accident. A riding mishap, perhaps?”
Piotr's vision was doing something strange, narrowing and expanding in harmony. The room felt very far away.
Miloš was watching him with what could possibly pass for sympathy.
"I've intervened on your behalf," he said, as though the wrongness in the situation was the eventuality of Piotr experiencing a riding mishap. "Ilona wanted you gone as soon as you'd served your purpose, but I convinced her otherwise. You won't die, Piotr. You'll be mine instead."
He smiled, conferring a gift. "Mine to take care of. Mine to keep. It's the best outcome for everyone, really. You get to live. I get—" He paused, seemed to consider his words. "Well. I get to have what I want. Which is you."
Piotr stared at this person who looked like Miloš but was in all other ways a stranger. At the woman who wanted him dead once he'd given her an heir. At the room that was his but was now a cell.
"Who are you?" The words came out barely above a whisper. "Who are you really?"
Even as he asked, he knew. It was undeniable the moment Miloš had said dear sister, but he needed to hear it said.
Miloš gave a small, mocking bow.
"The bastard son of Lord Izidor of Sandomier, my Lord. The sort of son barred from inheriting, barred from titles, so we became useful in other ways." His mouth curved sardonically. “I was clever, picked up things well. People tended to like me. And my father always did find intrigue in spycraft.”
He stepped closer, and Piotr's body responded, leaning slightly in, old habits still there.
"My first major mission, after years of petty jobs, and I find you immediately. Isolated. Lonely. Desperate to be wanted! I saw it the day of the hunt: the way you looked at your cousin, the way no one looked back at you. It was—" He paused, tilted his head. "It was almost too easy, if I'm honest. The only question was the best way of getting a force into Krachów."
The seal. Piotr's vision blurred.
"They came in through the postern gate."
"Yes." Miloš affirmed. "Czerwony drew your forces outward, left the castle vulnerable. The coalition lords and their knights were already here. The undermanned guard couldn't hold against our combined numbers."
Another step. Those eyes were so close. Those eyes that, damn it all, were still the same, still enchantingly cedar.
"Czerwony at large is fine, by the way. It's hardly building goodwill with your new subjects to start a regime with mindless bloodshed."
"People died," Piotr managed. "My uncle. Lila. Anatoli. The guards."
"People die in regime changes," Miloš shrugged, and Piotr could see it then: the calculation behind every word. It wasn't kindness or mercy, but strategy. Miloš would have done whatever gave him the best odds of success. If burning the capital had been strategically sound, he would have burned it. If slaughtering thousands had served the mission, he would have done that too.
The fact that he'd chosen a cleaner path didn't make him good.
"You used me," Piotr said, and his words were hollow. "Everything was—you were just using me."
"Yes." Miloš didn't flinch, didn’t so much as blink. " I did my job. Identify the weak point, exploit it, enable the invasion."
And that—more than anything else—made Piotr break.
A sound wrenched out of him: too raw for a sob, too rasped for a scream. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face.
Faces flashed behind his eyes. Uncle. Lila. Young Lucjan practicing his pike forms. Klemens' knowing look. All of them dead or dying or betrayed because Piotr had been lonely and desperate to be wanted and had trusted someone who'd never been trustworthy at all.
The weeping came hard and uncontrolled: great, wrenching sobs that tore him apart from the inside. He couldn't stop them, couldn't breathe through them, just curled forward and let them come.
Anatoli's face. God, Anatoli's face in those last moments, disowning Piotr with a glance.
Was it not enough to kill my brother?
Piotr sobbed harder.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Ilona's voice cut through, exasperated. "Is he always like this?"
"Grief," Miloš said. "He'll settle."
"He'd better. I can’t have children inherit this weakness."
Footsteps. The rustle of fabric.
"Get him under control. He needs to be capable of speech tomorrow for the priest."
"He will be."
"See that he is."
More footsteps. The door opening and closing.
Then Miloš again. "Leave us. I'll call if needed."
"Sir, are you sure—"
"I'm sure. Go."
The door closed again. The lock clicked.
They were alone.
Piotr couldn't make himself stop crying. His whole body shook with it: grief and horror and self-loathing all tangled together into a disgusting, wretched mess.
He felt Miloš kneel beside him, then hands on his shoulders: familiar arms that knew how to hold him.
"Come here," Miloš instructed.
And despite everything, Piotr let himself be pulled forward, gathered close by hands that had orchestrated his destruction.
Miloš held him while he wept.
Strong arms around his shoulders, one hand in his hair, the other steady against his back: the same way he'd held Piotr a dozen times before. His body called this home, even as his mind screamed that it was anything but.
"Shh," Miloš murmured against his hair. "I know."
Piotr sobbed harder, face pressed into Miloš's chest.
Miloš's hand moved in slow circles on his back, soothing.
"Let it out," he said. "You're safe. I have you."
The words were obscene. Piotr wasn't safe. Would never be safe again. And Miloš didn't have him in any way that meant protection or care—he had him the way of a possession, a tool, a thing acquired through patience and transaction and calculation.
But his body didn't know that, because truth didn’t unteach his heart’s belief that this closeness meant relief, or that those hands could make everything feel bearable.
Even now, knowing what those hands had done.
Miloš tilted Piotr's face up, thumbs wiping away tears. His expression was… not quite tender. Satisfaction mixed with pride or affection, if affection could coexist with domination.
"Look at me," he said.
Piotr looked. Couldn't not look.
Miloš kissed him.
And Piotr—God help him—kissed back.
It was drowning and breathing at the same time, tethering him to the world even as it destroyed him. Miloš's mouth said lean into this. Take comfort from this. Let this make it better.
When they broke apart, Piotr was still crying, but silently.
Miloš guided him to sit on the bed, settled beside him threaded their fingers together like he had every right.
"Let me tell you what happens now," Miloš said, a man moving forward. "So you understand."
Piotr nodded mutely.
"You'll marry Ilona. Produce an heir or two—preferably quickly, she's not patient about these things. You'll appear at official functions when required, smile when told to smile." Miloš's thumb stroked along Piotr's palm. "You'll be a symbol of continuity and legitimacy. Breeding stock and pretty decoration. Nothing more. And Piotr, think about how freeing it'll be!"
He leaned closer, gleeful.
"You don't have to perform anymore. No more sitting with the weight of your family’s disappointment. No almost while you aren’t trusted with anything that matters."
Miloš's hand tightened on his.
"The black sheep is gone, because the family is gone. All those exhausting obligations, all that pretense—it's over. There's nothing left to prove and no one to prove it to."
Piotr sat with those words as they settled into the hollow crevasse deep within.
No more high table. No more watching Anatoli's attention slide away. No more wondering if it would be another year of his uncle looking at him and seeing the gap that Teodor left.
Quietly, terribly, the hollowness became… lighter.
It could be rest.
"You belong to me now," Miloš said, and his hand came up to pet Piotr. “Ilona needs you for a spell. But after that?" He smiled. "You're mine to have. My wonderful, loyal hound."
Horrible, horrible, wrong.
But Piotr's treacherous heart seized on it anyway. Miloš would keep him. Miloš wouldn't let him die. Miloš wanted him enough to intervene with his own sister, to claim Piotr as his own.
Miloš was watching him with those dark eyes, reading him-- oh God--reading him the way he'd always read him. "You understand what I'm offering you?"
"You're not offering," Piotr said hoarsely. "You're telling me what you've already decided."
"True." Miloš grinned. "But you could make it difficult for everyone." He leaned closer. "Will you?"
Piotr looked at him. This man destroyed everything but was also, impossibly, the only familiar thing left. The only warmth in a world that had gone cold and strange.
"No.”
"Good." Miloš pet his hair again. "Besides, I think you’ll find that being mine is not unfamiliar."
He pulled Piotr to the bed and Piotr went, helpless against the tide of surrender. Let himself be undressed with hands that knew exactly how he liked to be touched. There was no hesitation; only the pleased, luxurious pleasure of a conqueror taking his spoils.
Miloš took his time. He had the same skill as always. Maybe more—there was victory in it this time.
He slicked Piotr, straddled him and took him, drawing broken moans from Piotr’s throat and shudders Piotr couldn't suppress. It was triumph.
Piotr wept through it, even as pleasure built and crested and broke. Comfort and violation together; the need for connection to the only person left who knew him, even if he was the architect of his ruin. Miloš kissed the tears away and kept going, kept touching, kept pulling responses from Piotr's body until Piotr didn't know anymore what he was feeling or why.
Afterward, Piotr's face pressed against Miloš's chest, listening to his heartbeat, and some distant part of him recognized the obscenity of finding comfort here.
But there was nowhere else to find it.
His eyes drifted around the room—his quarters, except they weren't his anymore. Nothing was his anymore.
“Ah,” Miloš stirred under him. “I nearly forgot.” He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled.
A moment passed, then the door opened and a guard game in, bearing a vase filled with—
"Illona thought it foolish. But I can’t help but look at them and smile, to think how this all started.”
The Astronomer’s Lament nearly welled tears again with their cruelty. Or… perhaps it wasn't cruelty. Perhaps Miloš thought it would please him, that the gesture would carry the same meaning of months ago.
Maybe it did carry the same meaning; only it was different than Piotr believed back then.
Miloš's hand moved lazily through his hair, fingers surprisingly gentle against his scalp.
"Sleep," he instructed. "You're exhausted."
Piotr closed his eyes.
It wasn't love as he thought it before, back when he thought many things. But it was still wanted. Owned, but chosen. Controlled, but kept.
He breathed in the scent of flowers and his consciousness grew heavy.
Miloš's hand stayed in his hair, and Piotrek—like any loyal creature—took comfort from the touch.