The crown gleamed like captured sunlight upon Martin's brow, its weight pressing against his chestnet hair as if the heavens themselves had chosen their new ruler. The air in the grand hall shimmered with reverence and awe; the nobles stood in perfect ranks, their voices a low tide of murmur and admiration.
Dorian stood beside him — golden-haired, quiet, his emerald eyes glimmering like dew beneath candlelight. The title of queen rolled through the chamber like thunder wrapped in silk. Yet amid the applause and solemn vows, Dorian felt the weight of a thousand stares pierce him — sharp, cold, unrelenting.
The nobles bowed to their king. But their gazes on Dorian were not bows; they were blades.
He lowered his eyes, heart trembling like a trapped bird. the heavy stares pressing down upon him until his breath caught. He wanted to look at Martin, but fear kept his gaze low. Only when Martin's hand brushed his — a silent vow, unseen by all — did Dorian dare to breathe again.
He smiled faintly. But the warmth faded before it reached his eyes.
Weeks passed.
The crown no longer gleamed as brightly. The palace corridors seemed colder, their whispers sharper.
In the dim of Martin's chamber, Dorian sat curled by the window, knees drawn to his chest. The garden outside lay untouched — roses freshly waited, fountains gleaming with water but he didn't go there. He hadn't gone there in days. The smile that once followed Martin through the halls had vanished.
He pressed his face to his knees, his shoulders trembling in silence. The tears he hid were small and soundless — pearls lost to shadows.
Outside, dusk gathered like a bruise across the sky. The first star blinked awake, soft and solitary. Dorian's eyes fluttered; exhaustion blurred the world at its edges.
Then — the soft creak of a door.
He didn't look up. He only breathed — once, sharply — before the voice he longed for filled the stillness.
"Dorian?"
He turned.
And in that instant, everything that had been breaking inside him gave way. He ran — light as a breath, desperate as a tide — straight into Martin's arms.
The king caught him with a startled sound, then held him close, the crownless tenderness of a man, not a monarch.
"What happened, dear?" Martin asked softly, his voice low with worry.
Dorian only shook his head, burying his face against his husband's chest. The scent of Martin—filled his lungs, steadying the storm inside.
"I missed you," he whispered.
Martin froze. Then smiled faintly, something fragile and aching flickering in his eyes. "I am so sorry," he murmured, pressing his lips against Dorian's hair. "I shouldn't have left you alone. I should have taken you with me."
Dorian shook his head again, voice trembling. "It's fine."
But it wasn't. And Martin saw it.
He brushed a thumb beneath Dorian's eye, wiping away the remnants of salt. "You've been crying."
Dorian tried to speak — failed. His breath hitched. He grasped Martin's hand suddenly, clutching it too tight. "Don't go," he said. Stay tonight."
Martin's brows lifted, a quiet concern deepening in his gaze. "My love, I've been in council all day. I should bathe first—"
"No don't leave me alone."
The word came out broken, a whisper between plea and command. Dorian's fingers refused to let go. "Stay."
Martin studied him — the flush in his cheeks, the tremor of fear beneath the courage. Then he smiled softly, cupping Dorian's face in his palms. "What is it, dear? Are you unwell?"
Dorian shook his head, his golden hair falling over his eyes. "No… I…" His words faltered, breath catching on their edges.
The silence between them thickened, humming with something neither could name.
Then — so quietly it barely reached the air — Dorian whispered, "I want you to hold me."
The world seemed to still.
Martin's breath left him in a rush, his eyes dark with disbelief and tenderness both. "Dorian," he breathed, "did you truly—"
Dorian nodded. Once. Quick, shy, but certain.
Something broke open in Martin then — the weight of days, the ache of restraint, the gentleness of love held too long. He gathered Dorian into his arms, slow and careful, like holding something made of starlight and glass.
Their lips met — hesitant at first, then deeper, drawn by every unsaid word that had lived between them. The kiss was not hunger but recognition — the long-awaited merging of two halves that had wandered too far.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, painting them in gold.
Martin's hands trembled as he touched Dorian's face, as though memorizing the shape of devotion. Dorian's heart thundered beneath his ribs; he leaned closer, breath mingling with warmth. Every brush of skin felt like the first word of a prayer.
No one in the kingdom would ever know how a king's heart could tremble like this — how love could strip away the armor of royalty until all that remained was a man, and the one he cherished.
Martin pulled back only enough to whisper against Dorian's lips, "I love you."
Dorian's eyes shimmered. His voice was small, fierce. "Then stay."
"I will."
The promise was soft but absolute — not spoken like a vow before witnesses, but like a truth born of shared breath.
They stood there for a long while, the world beyond the chamber forgotten. The candles flickered, bending their light toward them as if in benediction.
When at last they lay together, there was no rush, no command — only the quiet rhythm of trust. The air around them pulsed with warmth, with the fragile miracle of two souls daring to meet in a world built to keep them apart.
Martin's hand found Dorian's, their fingers interlacing as if sealing something sacred.
Outside, the night deepened. soft, silver, unending.
Within the chamber, love unfurled not as fire, but as dawn: slow, radiant, and full of mercy.
And when Dorian finally closed his eyes, his tears were gone.
For the first time in weeks, he slept with a smile — cradled against the steady heartbeat of the man who had promised to stay.
The morning crept in softly — gold first, then pale ivory — unfurling through the curtains like breath through silk. It brushed the chamber walls, kissed the polished floor, and found its way to the bed where two shadows slept.
Usually, it was Dorian who stirred first. But today, Martin's eyes opened to the hush before dawn fully claimed the room.
For a moment, he simply watched.
The light touched Dorian's cheek — gentle, almost reverent — making his skin look faintly rose beneath the white sheets. Strands of his dark hair fell across his temple, soft and unguarded. His lips were parted just enough to draw slow, steady breaths. There was something achingly young in his stillness — as if all the storms that haunted him had finally quieted for a few hours.
Martin exhaled quietly, his chest tightening with a feeling he couldn't quite name.
He leaned closer, careful not to wake him, and pressed a kiss to Dorian's forehead. A light touch — no more than a whisper — yet it felt like an oath sealed in silence.
Then, almost instinctively, he drew the sheet higher over Dorian's shoulder, tucking it close against the chill of morning.
The world beyond the window was beginning to stir — the faint call of a distant bell, the murmuring wind sweeping through the gardens — but in this room, time seemed reluctant to move.
Martin lingered for another heartbeat, his gaze soft and lingering. Then he slipped out of bed, his movements deliberate and soundless.
By the time Dorian shifted slightly, reaching for the warmth beside him, Martin was already gone — his steps fading into the adjoining bath chamber.
Behind him, through the half-open door, the room still held the echo of his breath.
Dorian turned slightly in his sleep, his face half-buried in the pillow. The morning light had reached him now — gold threading through the ends of his hair.
And softly, half caught between dream and waking, a word slipped from his lips.
"Stay…"
Barely audible. Fragile.
When Dorian awoke, the light was higher. He blinked once, twice, dazed by the stillness. Then his hand reached instinctively across the bed.
Empty.
The warmth beside him had already cooled.
A quiet panic fluttered in his chest. He sat up abruptly, rubbing at his eyes as if to erase the emptiness that now filled the room. His gaze swept the chamber — the folded robe, the open balcony, the faint trace of Martin's cologne drifting near the window. But his king was gone again, called to meetings and councils and endless crowns of duty.
Dorian pulled his knees close, burying his face against them. The linen still smelled faintly of Martin's skin.
Loneliness pressed down on him like a shadow he could not shake.
He stayed there for what felt like hours, listening to the faint hum of the palace, the distant murmur of voices behind marble walls.
Then, a soft knock.
"Your Highness?"
The maid's voice was hesitant, as though she feared to disturb something fragile.
"The Duchess requests your presence for tea."
Dorian lifted his head slowly. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "I don't wish to attend."
The maid hesitated, twisting the corner of her apron. "Your Highness… she said you've declined her invitations three times now. If word spreads, people might… misunderstand."
Dorian's eyes dimmed.
He knew what "misunderstand" meant. The court loved whispers. Every breath of scandal fluttered through corridors faster than wind.
If he continued to hide, it would not be him alone they mocked — it would touch Martin's name as well.
He inhaled softly, steadying himself. "Very well. Tell her I'll come."
---
He dressed quietly, in a pale cream coat embroidered with gold thread. The fabric shimmered faintly when he moved, though his hands trembled as he tied the cuffs.
Walking down the corridor, he kept his eyes low. Servants bowed, courtiers whispered, and their stares crawled along his back like invisible thorns.
When he finally reached the Duchess's chamber, the maid pushed open the grand doors.
The room gleamed. Light poured through tall windows, touching crystal teapots and porcelain cups. Everything smelled faintly of roses — sweet, deliberate, suffocating.
And there, seated like a queen herself, was the Duchess.
She rose gracefully, her smile sharp as a blade hidden in silk. "Your Highness," she said, curtsying, "what an honor at last."
"Thank you," Dorian murmured, bowing his head. His voice was soft, careful.
"Please," she gestured toward the seat across from her. "Sit. I've waited so long to speak with you."
Dorian obeyed. His gaze stayed fixed on the polished table, the silver tray, the steam curling from the teacup.
"Fill His Highness's cup," the Duchess ordered a maid.
As the tea poured, her eyes studied him with quiet hunger — the kind that wanted not to admire, but to devour.
After a beat, she tilted her head. "Tell me, why has His Highness avoided the council gatherings these days? We've all missed that radiant presence."
Dorian tried to smile. "I was unwell."
"Oh?" Her voice curled around the word like smoke. "So His Highness truly was sick?"
There was disbelief in her tone, the venom hidden beneath a courteous lilt.
He only nodded faintly.
The Duchess leaned back, tapping her manicured fingers against her cup. "It's a pity," she said softly. "His Majesty has been so… occupied."
Something in her tone made Dorian look up. "About what?"
Her lips curved. "About heirs, of course."
The porcelain cup trembled faintly in Dorian's grasp.
"His Grace will grow older," she went on, each word deliberate, sweetened with cruelty, "and yet… no child to inherit his throne. Isn't that rather tragic?"
The sentence slid through the air like a knife through silk — quiet, elegant, deadly.
Dorian felt it cut.
The bloodless sting reached deep, into places words rarely reached. He rose abruptly, his voice breaking. "I—I don't feel well. I must take my leave."
The Duchess sipped her tea leisurely. "Leaving so soon, Your Highness? How very fragile."
But he was already gone, walking too fast, his hands shaking though he tried to hide them. The corridor stretched endlessly, every echo of his steps sounding hollow, exposed.
---
When he finally reached his chamber, the door closed behind him with a soft thud. The world seemed to shrink.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. His reflection trembled faintly in the mirror across the room, eyes too bright, lips trembling.
The tears began quietly.
They slid down his cheeks without sound, catching the morning light like fragments of glass. He pressed a hand to his mouth, as if silence could keep the ache contained.
But it grew anyway.
He whispered to himself, "She's right… I'm worthless."
The words tasted bitter, heavy, final.
He buried his face in his hands. "I can't give him children," he murmured. "I can't give him what they said."
The thought tore something inside him. His body trembled with the effort to stay quiet, to not let the sobs escape.
"I'm sorry, Martin…" His voice broke. "I wish I could."
Outside, the light shifted again — gold fading toward dusk. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from the gardens below, a world still moving while his own stood still.
The maid waited beyond the door, her hands clasped tightly before her, listening. She heard nothing but the faint, muffled sound of heartbreak.
And inside, Dorian sat alone in the great room that suddenly felt too large, too cold, and whispered one last time to the silence:
"I am sorry."