This was, inexcusably, a very, very dumb idea. But he already had a foot in the door, no, actually, he had smashed straight through the door by chopping his hair off. He might as well make himself comfortable.

So.

Here he was, snooping in the spare clothes storage that was generally only accessed by the servant staff.

He was stuffing waistcoats and trousers and tunics and shirts and shoes into his bag, taking the place of his poofy dress he abandoned on the floor of his room when he changed into his nightgown.

Being anywhere in the mansion aside from his room, alone, at night was already foolish. But stealing from the household was another layer of idiocy. And the cherry on top was that he was stealing men's clothing.

He was a ginormous idiot. And he knew it. But it was like his limbs were moving on their own. And he didn’t have much will to stop them. A smile beamed on his face, and it left his cheeks feeling ever so slightly sore from neglect.

After he gathered a considerable haul, he disappeared back into his room and spent the remaining hours of darkness trying on clothes, designing his appearance so immaculately that he forgot entirely about the existence of Ophelia.

Now, he was only Oliver. Even if there were bags under his eyes. Even if his hair was messy and terribly styled. Even if the clothes did not fit him entirely well. It was still Oliver.

He curled up in bed that night warm and cozy, his arms wrapped around himself as the first loving hug he'd ever truly received.

His ecstasy faded once he regained consciousness the next morning, as he groggily greeted his reflection with a pair of wide eyes. A concoction of fear and adoration swirled within him, the golden glint in his irises flared at the sight.

“Oh, oh no…” He muttered under his breath, heaving himself toward the mirror. “Oh gods no, what have I… what did I do?” His fingertips brushed the glass gingerly, and he found himself caressing the face in the reflection. The warmth grew. The pit shrunk.

He looked to the ground, finding the long tendrils of hair surrounding his feet and he paused, the warmth travelling from his chest out to his balcony and disappearing over the horizon. It sang promises of home, of love, of life. Of waves and sun. Of piracy and smiling faces. Of people like him.

He found that the hair beneath him circled in bundles, almost making a nest around him.

He clenched his jaw and slowly turned towards his bag.

With a shuddering breath, he stepped over and out the nest and toward it.

Oliver stepped out of his room, notably earlier than he usually did. He dusted off and straightened his waistcoat, which was a pale blue, adorned with silver embroidery. He wore a grey tunic beneath the waistcoat and a shoulder cape on top. The entire ensemble was pinned together using the same pieces of silver chain and jewellery that Ophelia had pinned around her waist the night before. The thick gem held the cape to his chest as the silver chains secured it around his back and chest like a baldrick. Around his waist was a set of thick leather belts that held his new trousers in place, which were black - or perhaps navy - and tucked into a pair of dark boots.

Perhaps it might have been inspired by the way the prince had looked the night before. Well, no, Oliver knew it had been. But if you want a man to look good, might as well follow the Prince of the empire.

He surprised himself with his reflection, and could barely recognise it. He looked like a man. But - like... a real man. He could hardly believe it.

His grin grew.

Despite the unfamiliar reflection, he felt closer to this sight, which was as clear and real as the still sea, than the sight he bid adieu to the night before, which had always stared at his distantly from across the room his entire life. Blurry and ominous.

He strutted down the halls, cape billowing past him as he tried to ignore the stares of the servants. He passed by his ladies-in-waiting as they hurried to his room, readying themselves to wake the young lady.

At first, they didn't even see him. And then they stopped, stunned and talked amongst themselves.

It was almost eerie how different Ophelia and Oliver were.

Ophelia walked with dainty steps, small movements that made her float. She spoke in a soft sweet voice and moved with a slow elegance that caused her to exude a captivating energy. She held a monotone, blank expression, sometimes replaced by a small, absent smile, and not much else.

But Oliver... Oliver walked with heavy, fast steps. He hadn't spoken yet, but he imagined he was boisterous, he imagined he moved with a fast decisiveness that demanded attention. He grinned. He smiled. He held a cocky pride. He got angry and frowned. His face grew red and he bared his teeth. He expressed. For the moment, there was not much else to him. It was a list of things for him to find out.

But above all else, Oliver knew he was the same person as he was the night before.

He just stepped out of his dream.

With a flourish, he pushed open the doors of the banquet hall, watching as the King and the Duke's booming laughter halted suddenly, the mothers at the table lowered their glasses and the Prince's jaw fell.

Oliver almost fled. He almost shook his head and ran at the sight of his father's furious gaze. Instead, he wandered in and took his seat next to his mother, whose eyes were wide themselves. He made eye contact with her.

There was no spark of love.

There was no cold rage.

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There was only fear in her eyes. Pure, unbridled fear.

He saw the look of recognition, and the semblance of that distant pain as her eyes trailed the markings on his face that he left openly on display. But all of that was overshadowed by the pure essence of fear.

The King and Queen exchanged glances. Knowing what they meant, they turned toward the Duke, an elf distinctly devoid of the markings.

Oliver picked up his cutlery.

Vittorio sipped his glass, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

Oliver's mother cut her steak into minuscule pieces.

Oli began to eat, completely disregarding feminine grace.

"Ophelia." The gruff voice said. Oliver stopped. He did not look up at his father, but he sat still, waiting. The voice made his blood run ice cold. It was not enraged screaming or an aggressive tone. It wasn't the usual anger that signalled an oncoming barrage of insults.

It was calm. It was empty. It was emotionless.

It wasn't anything at all.

It scared him.

"What is this." It wasn't a question. It didn't sound like one. It was a demand. Or, perhaps he was lecturing. Oliver's eyes met his father's neck. He wanted to stare unfeelingly into those harsh eyes. He wanted to stand strong and unbothered in front of him. But his eyes wouldn't raise any higher. He watched the bottom of his father's jaw move as he spoke and clenched as he ground his masked rage between his teeth.

"What is this." The Duke repeated, his tone growing harsher. "A grasp at attention? A rebellion?"

He set down his cutlery and pushed the plate from him. He wiped food away from his mouth and even the Royals were held breathlessly in the silence.

"I let you have your last taste of rebellion last night. I suppose now it is clear that was a mistake."

He stood and walked around to stand between Oliver and his mother, resting an eerily gentle hand on the back of Seraphina's chair. He peered down, glaring.

"What are you intending to achieve?"

The silence that followed was expecting an answer this time.

Under the table, Oliver clenched his fists, gripping the cloth of his pants. He raised his head and stared into the man's eyes.

"Freedom." His gaze shivered at the sight. The pure rage captured in the Duke's eyes, hidden so masterfully behind a mask of indifference; of apathy. "I- I want... freedom. I want to be this." He gestured to himself, his hair, his clothes. "This. This is me. All I want... is to be this. I don't care about rebellion or attention. You could leave me on a street somewhere; I don't care! As long as I can be Oliver."

Silence. Always more silence. He had a habit of quieting rooms.

The Duke let out a huff of a laugh, his gaze sharpening as a scowl marred his lips.

"Oliver." He tested the word. Oliver almost hated the way it still sounded sweet coming from such a rotten mouth.

"Ridiculous."

The momentary flutter of hope in Oliver's stomach dropped suddenly, pulling his breath and his heart down with it. The pit in his stomach grew quickly, gnawing and clawing at his ribcage, freezing his lungs still. The biting chill begged to be released, begged to manifest as a torrent of violent words from his lips.

Oliver swallowed.

"I don't care what you have to say, Duke Guerriero. I'm a human, and an adult at that, I have enough free will to choose my own path for myself." His hands shivered under the table and he shifted his eyes away from the duke, landing upon the soft warm face of Prince Vittorio whose cheeks were slightly tinted red.

He told himself that depriving the Duke of his attention was to prove he didn't care. But he knew it was because of the shiver in his body, and the quivering in his stomach, and the clawing cold in his chest. He would have bowed and apologised if he did not look to his best friend. Merely the sight of the golden son of the empire calmed it all. He wasn't cold or shivering or quivering anymore. He was simply basking in the golden light.

Vittorio stared on in disbelief in between awkward, avoidant sips of his wine. Oliver wondered if the alcohol was the cause of his flushed face.

Oliver let loose a sigh and returned to his meal, forcing the shaking of his limbs to cease. Eventually, his father's shoulders dropped and the grand Duke Guerriero returned to his seat, silent. The table did not return to its laughter or pleasant conversation.

Once he was satisfied, Oliver left his empty plate and cutlery neatly on the table and stood. He bowed to his king and queen and locked eyes with Vittorio, a silent signal.

He stood up straight, hands planted behind his back and left the room.

The moment the doors shut, he fell back on them, a hand clutching his chest and deep breaths pounding through his lungs.

A quiet murmur floated from behind the doors, meeting Oliver's ears and dragging his curious gaze through the keyhole. He peeked an eye up against the small peephole, only to see Vittorio's wide torso approaching the door in time to his heavy footfalls.

The sound of his usually purposeful and prideful steps sounded oddly... light today. Perhaps hollow was a more fitting word. It left Oliver's stomach churning and his thoughts racing.

He bounded back from the door, scuttling forward ever so slightly to make it look like he was casually, and nonchalantly, walking away from the dining hall.

Oliver managed to hold in the flinch caused by the sound of the echoing, heavy doors made when Vi stepped through them. He turned a head over his shoulder, meeting the prince's eyes.

Vittorio still held a glass of wine as he stood silently gazing at Oliver.

A golden bubble rose and popped on the surface of the glittering liquid. Vittorio's hands shook and he looked down at the glass.

"You... uhm." The prince began.

Oliver couldn't help the downward tug at the corners of his mouth. He may have been playing it cool but his stomach was in knots, especially about Vittorio and his response. Oliver began questioning which response he was more afraid of; Alistair Guerriero's or Prince Vittorio's. He didn't reach an answer.

"You look..." Vittorio continued, his voice growing quieter, softer. "You look great." It was barely above a whisper, and he turned his head away from Oliver, his cheeks growing redder by the second.

Oliver's own pale face exploded in a vibrant blush. "Really?"

The prince nodded, his eyes trailing the tiled ground back up to Oliver's face. He took a step closer, then stopped. Then he took another, and another until he stood right in front of Oliver, gazing down at him.

Oliver felt his shoulders tense as he slowly raised his head to look at the prince's gorgeous amber-brown irises. Vittorio lifted a hand to Oliver's cheek, brushing the back of his hand over it. He curled a stand of Oliver's hair around a finger, caressing it with his thumb. His eyes were soft, half closed, running smoothly down each line of Oliver's face, as if painting a copy in his mind, finding the similarities of the face he danced with the night before, diving into the deep eyes and drinking in the golden splashes the made Oliver's adoring gaze look radiant.

The prince stared for a moment longer, his smile growing slightly. The pair hadn't realised they were inching closer by the second and were almost chest to chest when the Prince spoke again.

"Did you cut this yourself?" Vittorio asked, a cheeky tone sneaking its way into his voice. He flicked the strand of hair out of his grasp, causing it to almost slap Oliver in the face.

Oliver blinked and suddenly retreated away from the prince. "I- um..." He cleared his throat and turned his flushed face away. "Yes. I- uhm yes I did." He spoke with a lower voice, though it was nowhere near the masculine sound he desired. That alone sent an icy pang across his heart.

Vittorio smiled and grabbed Oliver's hand, leading him off down the hallway. "I can tell." He said with a laugh before taking another sip of his wine. "Come on, Oph- Oliver. I'll show you how I style mine."

Oliver stared at his best friend, trying to ignore the hot tears welling up in his eyes. The icy pain retreated and gave way to the warmest, fluffiest, coziest sensation he had ever felt. It sent tingles through his body, down his spine, even to his toes, and his fingers. Especially his fingers, which were pleasantly intertwined in the warm, strong hand of the man he had just now definitively decided to marry.

It was love. And he was being loved. Unconditionally.

The only thing that left him afraid was if Vittorio even felt the same.