Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bojan takes Kris’ hand, tenderly drawing letters on the younger man’s skin with trembling fingers. w, y, a, m, t, c, b, d, t, m, n, o, t. Kris exhales shakily as he understands immediately what Bojan means. Words that were said a lifetime ago, that still ring true even now. Kris knows that the others are next door, and he doesn’t dare speak, unwilling to break the temporal bubble the two of them have found themselves in. Even so, he knows the question that he must respond to.

w, y, a, m, t, c, b, d, t, m, n, o, t.

“When you answered me, ‘that cannot be,’ did that mean never or then?”

From outside Kris’ window, a soft bird call can be heard. Kris, having his clothes adjusted by their family servants, fights the growing blush on his cheeks and dismisses his attendants, who leave in silent confusion. The bird call is distinctive, and Kris rushes to the window to throw it open with unrestricted glee. His favourite bird is hanging from the branch of the ancient gnarled tree that has rested unyielding by his window longer than his father has owned the property, and Kris grins as Bojan crawls in through the window, before shutting it quickly. 

To the world, they are Kris Guštin, son of the Prince Miha Guštin, and Bojan Cvjetićanin, illegitimate sibling of acclaimed writer Martin Jurkovič, who happens to be a close associate of the Prince. Bojan Cvjetićanin is always trying to prove that he is more than just idiotic and simple, living in the shadow of his much more noteworthy brother. Kris Guštin is trying to please his father by entering an acceptable marriage with a wealthy noblewoman, especially after the scandal surrounding the ruination of his siblings. 

Here in this room, however, the two young lovers can simply be Kris and Bojan, the weight of their family histories vanishing into the wintry breeze as their mouths crash together. Nothing else is relevant save for the way they feel when they are with one another and the fact that Bojan is taking far too long to undo the many, many buttons on Kris’ shirt. 

When Kris finds himself doing up his buttons once more, and Bojan wraps his arms around Kris from behind to ‘help’ with those blasted buttons but what he really wants is to snatch just a few more minutes from the unaccepting world around them, he knows that these secret trysts must stop if he is to be engaged this evening. 

As Bojan holds his jacket out for Kris to shrug on, the ornate double doors burst open and the woman Kris has been courting for months strides in. She takes one look at the loving look between the two of them that morphs into shock as they jump apart. They’ve been caught, and now they’ll have to face the consequences of their misguided feelings for one another. 

Or not, since Bojan scrambles towards the window and launches himself off it, hitting the very branch that aided his entry with a sickening crunch. Kris’ heart is racing, from the adrenaline of the situation he has found himself in and the fact that the other half of his heart has likely injured himself painfully. Alas, Kris cannot tend to Bojan’s wounds. Instead, he waits for her to admonish him, to run away shrieking wildly about his perverted desires, to start praying, almost anything. Instead, she rushes to him and throws her arms around him in a shocking breach of decorum.

“I feel the same way,” she whispers.

Diljá Pétursdóttir has been courted by Kris for several months now, and whilst they are not overwhelmingly in love like Kris’ parents are, they get along like a house on fire. Her vivacity and kindness remind him of Bojan, in a way. They’ve instinctively understood one another since they first met, though there was always some mental barrier between them. Now that their secrets are out in the open, however, those walls have come crashing down and they have connected on a far deeper level.

“I’ve been in love with Lady Alessandra Mele for nearly a year, since we first met.” she confesses, and something clicks in Kris’ brain. Kris vividly remembers the day that he, Diljá and Alessandra had all been introduced. While he and Alessandra hadn’t instantly connected the way that he and Diljá or Diljá and Alessandra had, he still thinks of her as a friend of his. Whenever he throws parties, she is always invited, and he’s danced with her a few times. She, however, doesn’t have generational wealth like the Guštin family, or as much newly-acquired wealth as Diljá’s family. So, at the request of his father, Kris had pursued Diljá, a decision he himself was satisfied with.

Tonight, he will propose marriage to Diljá, and they shall be married the next year. His plans were all falling into place, and with Diljá clearly sympathetic to his emotional plight, everything would be perfect.

They made their way down the grand stairs of the ballroom together, and all the guests of the ball gasp at how beautifully coordinated their clothing is - presenting a united front. They are both clad in a creamy off-white, the picture of innocence and purity. Diljá’s skirts are meticulously arranged so that they flare outwards, creating a striking silhouette. 

They lead the very first dance, moving in a much more organic manner than they typically have, finally feeling connected to one another, and Kris finds himself excited for the prospects of a lifelong marriage to Diljá. The two of them may not be in love, but they make sense. When the music concludes, Kris invites Diljá to continue dancing, and they lead the next three dances as well. They are, after all, the guests of honour; everyone in the room is aware of the fact that there will be a marriage proposal in just a few short hours.

Kris guides Diljá off the dance floor, because he knows her shoes will be pinching her feet after the last dance, a particularly fast-paced one. Kris can almost imagine that he sees Bojan across the room, but when he tries to crane his neck and get a better look, the man has disappeared. Kris feels a pang at that. He needs to talk to Bojan one final time before he is engaged, so that he can put any dreams and delusions of the other man’s to rest. 

Diljá and Alessandra are talking to one another on the side of the room, and Kris observes the two of them in a new light. They’ve always been very affectionate, but that is typical of women; so he, like most others, would not realise that there was something romantic between the two of them. It’s genius, really, the way they can hide in plain sight the way he and Bojan never could.

Alessandra walks over to him and he asks her to join him in a dance. She agrees, and as he twirls her, she mutters that Bojan wishes to see him. Their dance concludes shortly afterwards, and Kris finally manages to catch Bojan’s attention. He marches over to his lover as soon as Bojan’s older brother, Martin, finishes talking his ear off about the novel he is currently writing. 

“Parlour. Dawn.” he tells Bojan in passing. Kris smoothly grabs a drink and walks away, the rest of the guests none the wiser.

Most of the rest of the evening is a blur, Kris speaks to so many people but retains none of the information in their conversations. He catches a few further glimpses of Bojan as he dances with various women he barely knows. Midnight falls, and Kris begins to fidget with his cuffs in anticipation of what is to come. Diljá is nowhere to be seen, and when Kris thinks back he cannot recall having seen her for a few hours. He wonders if Alessandra knows what’s happened to Diljá, but he can’t find her either. 

He desperately wants to go and see if Diljá is okay, because he’s terrified that something horrible has happened to her. He pulls out the ring box from his back pocket. The ring is exquisite, having been commissioned from a master jeweller many years ago when Miha’s father had proposed to Kris’ grandmother. As he tries to prevent himself from hyperventilating, one of his attendants, Matic, runs into the ballroom.

“Kris, I found a letter for you in your room from Miss Pétursdóttir,” Matic says, brandishing a piece of paper. The whole room falls silent as Kris reads the letter to himself.

Dearest,

I am so very sorry for what I am about to do to you. 

Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to become your wife. You are a delight to be around, and I have treasured our friendship these last months, but you of all people understand why it would break my heart to marry you. 

You deserve to spend the rest of your life with someone who can love you the way I love another.

A few hours ago, I received news that my father is ill, and so I am returning to Iceland to help take care of him. I am deeply sorry that we had to end this way, but my love and I are departing shortly and I will not see you for quite some time.

I sincerely hope that you too can find solace.

With all my love,

Diljá Pétursdóttir.

Kris rereads the letter twice more in disbelief. Diljá’s just left him at a ball that was thrown to celebrate their imminent engagement. Her father may be unwell, but that couldn’t mean that they couldn’t get engaged before her departure. Everyone in the room is watching him in shock, and he clears his throat as he tries to figure out what to say.

“Miss Pétursdóttir is returning to Islandiya to take care of her father, who is unwell. The Lady Alessandra is accompanying her through this stressful time. I ask that you keep her in her thoughts and prayers as she makes her journey home, and I thank you for your attendance tonight. This outcome is certainly not what we were hoping for, but I trust that you all enjoyed the evening regardless.”

The guests leave rapidly after Kris’ impromptu speech, and his father rests a hand on Kris’ shoulder sadly with the promise to talk more in the morning.

There is a short amount of time before dawn, and before he has to sever his connections to Bojan.

Diljá may have been able to escape to a life of happiness with Alessandra, but with his family’s history, that life can never be reality for Kris. He needs to bide his time and win Diljá’s affections once again, so that they can be wed.

People are likely already gossiping about how Kris was abandoned with a ring in his hand at the ball. At least she had the decency to do it earlier than leaving him at the altar, he thinks.

As the sun peeks out from the window of his room, Kris makes his way downstairs to the parlour. Bojan is waiting eagerly for him, wrapping Kris in his warm embrace. Kris sighs contentedly, though with some apprehension for what must come. Bojan leans in to kiss Kris but Kris leans back, his heart twisting painfully as he rejects his lover’s advances.

“Bojči, we cannot do this any longer. These clandestine assignations must cease before anyone else discovers their existence. We were fortunate that only Diljá stumbled upon us, and not, say, Martin. Diljá would not report us or reveal our true selves to the world, for she is just like us in that regard. She is in love with the lady Alessandra, and that is why she will not marry me.”

“But if Diljá refuses to marry you because her heart belongs to another woman, why can’t you and I live a life of peace as well?” Bojan implores him, lifting a hand to stroke his shoulder-length locks gently. Kris stills at the touch; after all these years, Bojan still has the same effect on him. Perhaps he always will, but they won’t know after tonight.

“It is significantly easier for women to be lovers because they are typically so affectionate with one another. You and I would be under an entirely different level of scrutiny, especially given my father’s status. Diljá and Alessandra’s wealth is fairly recently acquired; my family has had money and influence for generations.”

“If she won’t marry you, nobody will. Your younger siblings have stained your family name and your last hope was a woman who loves another woman. There aren’t very many of those, so you’ll spend the rest of your life unmarried.”

“What are you trying to say, Bojan?” Kris asks, a little impatient. He is well aware of the gravity of the situation, which is why he needs to cut things off now before he does something that completely destroys his family’s already precarious social standing.

“Run away with me, Krisko. We can live on my father’s farm, far away from the living hell, this rigid, suffocating world of false niceties and unrelenting gossip that is Moscow. We will no longer have to worry what the world thinks of us, because we will never have to know them and their useless, unfounded expectations of us.” Bojan cries passionately, taking Kris’ hands in his and pressing kisses to the younger man’s knuckles.

“Bojan, I can’t do this to my family. I love them and as the eldest it is my responsibility to ensure that our legacy continues. You can’t just expect me to drop everything, to abandon my entire life to go and live on a farm in the countryside. I belong here, with the people I care about. I’m not about to leave them all for one person, no matter how much I may love him.” Kris wrests his hands back and clenches his fists as tears prick in both of their eyes.

“But I love you more than I have ever loved anything before in my whole life, and I cannot possibly leave you to marry a woman you will never love.”

Kris opens his mouth to tell Bojan that he could indeed love a woman, even if she could never compare to Bojan, but he decides against it. After all, if they are never to meet again, it would not do to give him any false hope. Instead, he shuts off the potential of any future rendezvous between the two of them with three simple words.

“That cannot be.”

Kris pivots on his heel and strides out with his back straight, emphasising their height difference. As soon as the door to the parlour shuts, he sinks against it and sobs. From his pocket, he pulls out the elaborately embroidered handkerchief his sister made him when she was younger. It serves as a sign that he’s made the right decision by ending his relationship with Bojan, and that his duty to his family is far more important than what his stupid, debauched heart desires. He dabs his eyes delicately with the handkerchief and tucks it back inside his pocket, before he rushes upstairs and grabs a pair of scissors.

If he is truly going to rehabilitate the family name, he’s going to have to look the part.

Chapter Text

The Prince and his wife are seated at the ornate dining table for breakfast when Kris enters the room with shorn hair and red-rimmed eyes. Naturally, they assume that he is devastated over Diljá’s disappearance, and it certainly plays a part in his misery, but really he is mourning the loss of the person closest to him.

Barring the initial animosity between them, a result of Kris attempting to avoid a scandal by befriending a bastard child and Bojan being jealous of his older brother, they had been practically inseparable. Even when they’d argued constantly, something they had always been guilty of, Bojan and Kris were never more than a few metres from one another. Their very souls were so utterly intertwined that people tended to forget that they were different people.

As of this morning, that is no longer the case.

His mother notices the new hairstyle he sports with concern, asking him how well he slept. They both know that his night was not filled with slumber, but with sorrow. 

Months pass, and despite his best efforts, Kris has sunk into a deep despair. He follows in his father’s footsteps and goes into government. International relations have always been fascinating to him, but try as he may, his broken heart cannot be alleviated by throwing himself into his work.

His father is proud, and Kris seeks the validation that the compliments bring him. Most importantly, he feels as if he is finally making a difference in the world. There is a war looming, and Kris is determined to make sure he is on the right side of it.

Still, he is deeply and utterly miserable, and he has not slept restfully since that fateful night where he lost both of the people he was intending on spending the rest of his life with. 

His mother seeks out different women of marriageable age for him to meet, but none of them compare to Diljá; and even she could not compare to Bojan. He meets one, whose name he can’t quite remember; but he remembers the way she manhandled him at the most recent bore he attended. The feeling of her claws around his waist, scratching at his skin through his shirt and pressing close to him until he couldn’t breathe, her hands drifting lower and lower as he tries to push her away to no avail.

Eventually, he snaps, despite all his best efforts. He wrenches her wandering hands away from his body and turns to go, his long legs confidently striding out - a sharp contrast to the panicked shaking of his hands. Kris walks away slowly, measured steps staying consistent so as not to arouse any further suspicion, but then as soon as he’s excused himself to the hosts, citing a need for fresh air, he leans back against the wall and shudders, the feeling of her unwanted caresses still lingering on his clothed skin.

He spends most of the next week locked in his room, enjoying the isolation because the alternative is far worse; coming to terms with the fact that if he cannot find a caring wife now, his prospects will only be reduced with age and so he must become accustomed to loneliness now. It took him less than a day to pick up the shattered pieces of his heart after Diljá left him and he broke Bojan’s heart; it takes him six to process the violation he’d experienced that evening. 

“Kris, what happened? Why haven’t you gone to work all week?” his mother asks on the morning of the seventh day. He shakes his head, not wanting to divulge what had happened to him. The Princess looks at him sadly and sits down next to him. She leans against him and rubs his arm softly. He flinches at the touch, and she withdraws her hand quickly. The concern in her eyes is visible, and Kris feels a tug on his heart, as well as an impulse telling him to explain everything to his mother. 

Words have never come easy to him, whenever emotions are concerned. Kris is entirely capable of writing long and elaborate speeches at work, or to present at balls, and he’s a quick thinker; but as soon as he has to talk about his feelings, it’s as if his brain shuts down. It’s probably due to the immense pressure he is under, whether that is a result of his own opinions and expectations, or the fact that his father believes that Kris is destined for greatness. Even if opening up about his mental state is incredibly difficult, Kris is nothing if not self aware, and knows that he should probably try to seek help. And what person better to start with than his mother? The woman who has loved him unconditionally since he was born, who has never had such terrifyingly grand hopes and dreams for him.

“I was not intending on saying anything to you, Mother, but I feel that it is important that I confess to you.” Kris starts. His phrases are far more stiff than he would have preferred, but as long as he is able to communicate his message, it does not matter.

“What do you mean? What happened? Have you done something wrong?”

“I haven’t, no, but someone else has done something to me. Please do not judge me for my actions, but I have been rather uncomfortable. Last week, do you recall how I was dancing with-” Kris breaks off. It hurts to talk about, and he can’t even remember her name anymore.

“With the Gagarina woman?” his mother supplies.

“Probably. I never caught her name.”

“Well, what happened with her? Don’t tell me you did not compromise her in any way. I saw her quite close to you.”

“No, it’s not like that at all. Somewhat. Probably.”

“Kris…”

“She was touching me inappropriately at the ball. I felt violated and did not wish to see people once more, lest I be treated poorly and scrutinised for allegedly taking advantage of her. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I was this upset over a woman misbehaving with me, because then that would show that I was weak enough to let her do that. And really, what sort of man denies a woman’s touch?”

“A man that has clear boundaries and a healthy respect for women, Kris. She did the wrong thing, and I am so sorry that you had this experience. However, what makes my heart truly break is the fact that you spent a week in isolation, afraid to confide in your mother about what injustices were done toward you. No matter what anyone says, I will always be here to protect you. I will be your first and foremost supporter, and if anyone dares to treat you poorly, I will deal with them myself. My beautiful son, you should not feel afraid to come to me. I will always love you, no matter what happens.” the Princess declares passionately. Kris leans down to kiss his mother’s cheek, and she wraps her arms around him in a tight, motherly hug that makes most of his worries fade away into nothingness temporarily. 

“Thank you, Moth- Mamma.”

“Always, Kris. I’m proud of you for being able to tell me what that vile woman did to you, but I believe you may need more time to recover, to take your mind off. These things happen all too frequently, and perhaps you should go to visit Germany for a few months.”

“Germany? Why?” Kris asks, bewildered.

“There is a spa that I visited once as a child. The company is highly exclusive, and it is relaxing. You will be able to recover from this and from the heartbreak you felt when that girl from Iceland left you. Miss Pétursdóttir, I believe it was.”

“That’s not- I’m not-”

“You’ve been working so hard, and I know you want to make a difference in the world, and in our country, but sometimes, you must prioritise yourself first. I know you won’t let yourself recuperate, so as your mother I am sending you to Germany immediately.”

“But Mother, I need to work.”

“Russia will find a way to manage without you. Go, pack your things. I shall write a letter for you.”

A German spa filled with gossipy married Frenchwomen is not Kris’ idea of a relaxing trip, but devastatingly, he is under direct orders from his mother to stay for three months. Middle-aged women aside, there are admittedly a few people close in age to him that he could see himself spending time with over the next several weeks. His eyes had initially locked onto one Iru Khechanovi, a travelling companion to Madame Loreen Talhaoui. 

Madame Talhaoui is incredibly wealthy, widowed twice and deeply religious. Not Orthodox, however; something that brings her great criticism from other well-to-do Europeans that run in the same continental circles. Madame Talhaoui does not care, however, and continues to spend her money at the most lavish resorts in the continent. Whether she truly is as generous as her finances would suggest is a controversial topic, and Kris recognises her immediately, despite never having met her before, simply from her elaborate clothing. 

Iru Khechanovi has a reputation for being even more sweet and kind and gracious than her companion allegedly is. When Kris introduces himself to her, she sinks into a bow at first, before remembering that women are supposed to curtsy. Kris laughs and copies her gesture, before rectifying it with a bow. Iru’s family are off on a year-long trip to the Far East, but Iru had elected to travel with Madame Talhaoui, since the climate was far more agreeable for her fragile frame.

The first week, Kris spends much of his time with Iru, listening to Madame Talhaoui recounting her scandalous exploits - though he does not particularly care for them. Still, it is fascinating to learn about the way she has managed to live life on her own terms, ignoring what everyone else around her fixates on. Kris feels rather inspired to take matters into his own hands, perhaps engaging in a casual relationship of his own whilst in Germany.

Iru seems absolutely delightful, but she is far too virtuous for him to compromise, even if they do eventually wed. No, Kris must find another man. Maybe he won’t love this man the way he loved Bojan, the way he loves him and will always love him, but this is simply a bit of fun and leisure, is it not? What better way to recover from the emotional turmoil of being molested by a woman than to tumble with a man? An ideal man for Kris’ scheme would need to obviously be attracted to men, to be far less attached than Bojan, and to be around consistently for the next three months. If only there was a man nearby that could possibly fit the criteria…

Kris is jounced from his daydreaming by Iru grabbing his arm and shaking it aggressively. She points at the entrance, where a tall and attractive man is walking in with a somewhat confused facial expression and dreamy eyes Kris could easily lose himself in if he’s not careful. Immediately, Kris knows what he needs to make this trip the best vacation of his life.

Enter Nace Jordan.

Chapter Text

Every time Nace Jordan goes by, heads turn. Kris, Iru, Madame Talhaoui, the other women in the spa… nobody is immune to his charms. Kris may be taller, but the newcomer looks so strong, as though he could snap Kris’ neck - or his back, he notes smugly - utterly effortlessly. He desperately needs to get to know this man, to know if he stands any sort of chance, but he cannot possibly get him alone.

Then somehow, by complete chance, they wind up in the sauna together. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Nace Jordan, but you can just call me Nace,” he starts, but Kris cuts him off immediately. 

“I know who you are. Iru knows everyone.”

“The Georgian woman with the long hair?”

“Indeed.”

“You two are quite close, aren’t you?” 

“Reasonably so. There are so few interesting people here, at least in our age bracket. Madame Talhaoui may make for some fascinating conversation, but she’s hardly a good listener, and to be truthful, she frightens me somewhat, with the tales of her escapades.”

“Completely understandable.”

“So, Nace, to answer your question, I would say that Iru and I have developed a friendship due to proximity and our shared grievances with most of the other clientele here, though she’s a marvellous person and I am glad to know her all the same.”

“You do intend to marry her, though?”

“Goodness gracious, absolutely not. My attention, unfortunately, or fortunately, if one is so inclined, does not lie with her.”

“And neither do you.” Nace smirks, shuffling closer to Kris.

“Getting adventurous, aren’t you? I’m Kris, by the way. Kris Guštin.”

“I know who you are too, Kris. As you said, gossip flows almost as freely as the beer here.”

“How long are you around for, Nace? What brings you here?”

“I’m here for about two months, waiting for the renovations on my family estate to be completed. I was working out in the fields, but then a wealthy uncle of mine died and left everything to me because he knew he could trust me to be responsible with the funds.”

“The fields? I’m sure you’re very good with your hands then,” Kris remarks, running his fingers slowly up Nace’s bicep. Nace freezes for a second, and Kris can feel the muscles tense under his fingers.

“Kris, you must stop.” Nace says, through gritted teeth. Kris removes his hand instantly, as if he’s been electrocuted, the phantom touch of unwanted caresses causing his skin to crawl. How could he have forced Nace into a situation like the one he’d had to suffer?

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“If you intend on continuing, we’ll have to move elsewhere. The sauna is not the ideal location for the activities I believe we’d both rather be engaging in.” Nace raises a hand, cutting Kris off. Kris looks at him in disbelief. He winks (he winks! ) at Kris and leaves the sauna, turning back to Kris to utter four magical words: “My room, eight minutes.”

Kris watches Nace strut out with great enjoyment, waits for exactly three minutes and twenty-six seconds to imagine what the next hour or so will look like, and then hurries to put his clothes back on before purposefully striding to Nace’s room as if he didn’t have indecent notions of any variety coursing through his blood. The walk is excruciating, and Kris can barely hold back his excitement. It’s been far too long since his body has known another, and this is only the second person he has ever been with. 

“Long time no s-” Kris starts to say, ever the diplomat and truly his father’s son, but as soon as he’s bolted the door shut, Nace has grabbed him and slammed him down onto the bed. He brings their lips together and kisses Kris furiously, both sets of hands grasping at one another desperately. Though Kris is usually used to being in control, he relishes being able to just go with the flow when Nace flips them both over. There is something reassuring about simply being taken care of, rather than always having to be the one watching out and making sure that everyone else is managing. Perhaps there was indeed truth to what the Princess had said about this trip to Germany being valuable for his mental wellbeing, but then Kris banishes all thoughts of his mother from his mind as Nace starts to bite his neck. 

When they split apart, panting heavily, Kris thanks Nace for an enjoyable afternoon, because he still has not quite figured out what one does in a casual relationship, especially after one has engaged in intimacy with a person after only one conversation. Nace laughs at Kris’ obvious inexperience, and he tells Kris to go talk to his friends. Kris begrudgingly puts all his clothes back on and makes a mad dash for his room so he can clean himself up; then he decides to go and see what supper has already been set out.

Iru waves at him from across the foyer, chattering away animatedly with another woman. The woman is clad in black, with gloves and a veil that are awfully out of place here, though not unharmonious with the usual attire of those such as Madame Talhaoui. She turns to follow Iru’s gaze, making eye contact with Kris. He stops dead in his tracks. What is Diljá Pétursdóttir, of all people, doing here?

She hesitates, before raising a hand to acknowledge him as well. Iru gestures for him to come over, and he is incredibly grateful that he had had time to rinse off before seeing his former intended fiancée. Iru seems rather taken by Diljá, and Kris wonders where Lady Alessandra is - he was under the impression that the two were rather inseparable.

“Hello there, Miss Pétursdóttir,” Kris says, bowing.

“Prince Guštin. How is your family?”

“Very well, thank you. How are you taking the loss of your father?”

“How ever did you know?”

“Why, Miss Pétursdóttir, you’re clad head to toe in mourning colours. I only hope the grief is not quite so insurmountable.”

“I assume it will eventually become easier, but it has only been two months.”

“That is understandable,” Kris says, and Diljá offers him a small smile from beneath her veil. 

“Are the two of you already acquainted?” Iru asks in bewilderment, looking frantically between the two of them. Kris hesitates, unsure of what to say, and so he raises his eyebrows at Diljá. 

“We were intending to be wed, but we never quite reached an engagement, because I had to leave Russia to take care of my father. Now that he’s gone, however, perhaps it could be beneficial to… revisit old friendships?” Diljá explains, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. 

“Perhaps,” Kris says. “And what of your companion, the Lady Alessandra Mele?”

“Unfortunately, she could not be here at the moment. After my father’s passing, she returned to her native Norway, and I have not seen her since.”

“That is… quite the shame. I know the two of you were awfully close.”

“Such is life. We grow, we change, and sometimes our relationships do not last the test of time.”

“I could not agree more,” Kris affirms, thinking of Nace looming over him just a few moments prior, and of Diljá right in front of him after over a year apart. 

“So, would you like me to help you sort your things, Miss Pétursdóttir?” Iru says, clearly still suspicious.

“Why, Miss Khechanovi, aren’t there staff to do these things for us?”

“Indeed there are, but when one is perfectly capable of carrying a few pieces of luggage, why wait to call someone?”

“Wonderful. Kris, be a dear and help,” Iru grins, looping her arm through Dilja’s and steering her towards the women’s wing. Kris is left standing in the midst of far too many trunks and suitcases. Whilst Kris is by no means a light traveller, Diljá seems to have packed the entirety of her wardrobe and had it shipped from Iceland. It would take quite some time to carry it all over, because it would require multiple trips.

“Need a hand?” Kris hears a familiar baritone from behind him. Nace, also in new, fresh, attire, is leaning against the wall. 

“That would be much appreciated, actually,” Kris sighs in relief as Nace picks up three trunks at once. It’s ridiculous how strong Nace is, though Kris knows well how big the muscles of his arms truly are. They make the initial walk to Diljá’s new room in a pleasurable silence, then begin making idle chatter on the way back for the second trip over. 

“So what was that I heard about you and the new girl?” Nace asks him.

“Oh, I was courting her, because our parents were quite eager for the match to be made.”

“But did you love her?”

“Not in the way one would hope.”

“Then why on earth would you marry her?” Nace stops. Kris, balancing the luggage precariously in front of him, doesn’t notice that Nace has so carelessly stopped, and proceeds to crash into him quite clumsily. Nace has the foresight and the reflexes to grab Kris and dive out of the way of the suitcases. The clang of the metal corners of the trunks hitting one another terrifies Kris, and he hopes that nothing particularly valuable was destroyed. Then he turns his head to face up, and Nace’s on top of him once again.

“...Hello.”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for saving me, Nace.”

“You’re welcome, Kris.”

“As delightful as the flashbacks to the last time we were like this are, I think it might be worth getting the rest of these to Miss Pétursdóttir before we break anything else.” Kris murmurs. Nace nods in agreement, pulling himself off Kris. He offers Kris a hand up, and Kris looks around before taking it firmly. He hoists one of the suitcases up, and picks up another, and then Nace takes the rest as they go to see Diljá. They set the luggage down and Kris knocks on the door softly, only for it to be slightly ajar - his knock dislodges it from its half-closed position, and it swings open a tad. Kris takes that as an invitation, and he kicks the door open, striding in purposefully.

“Good grief,” he mutters, walking out as quickly as he had gone in. 

“What’s going on?” Nace asks, concern reflected in his magnificent eyes. Without waiting for Kris to respond, he bursts in and takes in the sight. Kris follows him in, and when Nace swoons, Kris moves to catch him. Sadly, Kris is built like an aristocrat, and thus is not biologically capable of supporting Nace’s weight when he faints. For the second time in ten minutes, Kris and Nace collapse into a pile on the floor. The thud seems to awaken something in Iru, who pushes Diljá away and adjusts the other girl’s veil. Diljá brings two fingers to her lips absent-mindedly, seemingly unfazed. Iru, on the other hand, is rattled, threading her fingers through her hair with an expression of utter panic stretching across her face. 

“Prince Guštin, you and I really must stop interrupting one another in the middle of these things.” Diljá sighs, moving her hands to her hips. Kris takes in the ridiculousness of the situation - Nace, who he’d just spent the afternoon in bed with, unconscious on the floor, Iru about to burst into tears, Diljá still with her back flush against the wall and Kris trapped underneath a very, very, attractive man - and all he can do is burst out laughing. Diljá joins him, guffawing and taking a seat on the floor with him. 

“Please, you must call me Kris. I think we can safely say we’ve crossed that line once more.” he wheezes in between giggles.

“Very well, Kris. You may once again call me by my own first name. These societal expectations are truly stifling, are they not?”

“I wholeheartedly agree, Diljá. Iru, come join us. I am unfortunately unable to get up, by virtue of the body pinning me to the floor.”

“Do you think farmboy will tell anyone what he just saw? He did just faint, after all. I suppose he didn’t see much of this sort of thing when he was younger.” Iru says, sitting next to Diljá and leaning her head on her shoulder.

“No, I think he was simply not expecting this. He’s definitely seen things like this before.” Kris says, gesturing at the two women. 

“How can you be so sure?” Diljá asks.

“Given what he just spent the last hour or so doing, or rather, who he spent the last hour or so doing, it would be rather… hypocritical of him to judge you. He would never tell anyone what happened.” Kris smirks.

“What? What of that other man of yours? Bogan?” Diljá asks him.

“I ended things with Bojan the day you left Russia.” Kris admits.

“Is that why you got shipped here?”

“No, that was after one of the women my mother attempted to introduce me to mistreated me at a ball.”

“Oh, Kris, I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t left you, this never would have happened to you.”

“Don’t blame yourself. You needed to be there for your father, and staying with me would have just placed undue stress on both of us.”

“No, I acted irrationally and saw an escape so I could be with a woman that wouldn’t even stay with me when I needed her most.” Diljá sighs, tears welling up in her eyes. Iru kisses her cheek softly. 

“You could have left and I could have just pretended to be devastated so I wouldn’t have to go find another fiancée as soon as possible. It was my own ambition and desire to make my father proud of me that led to what happened.”

“Neither of you are to blame for someone taking advantage of either of you,” Iru cries passionately. “You had no way of knowing that people would be so horrible and violate your trust like that.”

“How ever did you become so wise, Iru?” Kris asks.

“She may make far too much noise with Spanish women at night, but spending so much time with Madame Talhaoui is truly inspiring.”

“Spanish women? Her too?”

“Sometimes Swedish men too, she isn’t particularly discriminatory.”

“Perhaps you should be, given I just walked in on you kissing a woman you’d known for ten minutes.”

“What about you and Mr. Jordan?”

“Touché, Iru.”

Chapter Text

There’s a man in the pool with Kris. He’s never interacted with this man, but he knows his name: Rambo Amadeus. 

Nobody quite knows who… or what… he is. They only know that he has spent the last eleven years at the spa because he doesn’t have anyone else in his life, and that he earned all his money through politics before denouncing the profession publicly and running away to Germany.

A lot of people at this spa run away from their problems, but some are unfortunate enough to have their problems follow them.

“Prince Guštin, I hear you’ve been quite active in a certain field, lately.” Amadeus nods, sidling closer. Kris can see the unruly chest hairs flowing in the water and he’s fairly certain they’re greasy like the rest of Amadeus.

“Are you referring to my political career or the endless parade of balls my mother suggests I attend?” Kris says dryly.

“Can both not be true? Don't be dogmatic, bureaucratic. You need to become pragmatic.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean, you are always talking to the same two women. Iceland and Georgia. But you are not marrying them? You are not courting them? They will be old, and you will be old, and then nobody will marry any of you. And you shall end up miserable like me.”

“I’m not quite sure I follow-”

“I am different organism. I can live alone. I have money and no friends, and endless worldly wisdom. You are not alone, you are lonely, and you are hiding from your problems. If you love them, you should marry them. And if not, do not try and force yourself to do so. Life is too miserable already for you to marry someone you do not want.” Amadeus waves his hand around and leans closer. Kris is now mildly uncomfortable, since he has just noticed that the elderly man is not wearing anything.

“That makes sense.” Kris says slowly, ensuring that he keeps his eyes only on Amadeus’ face rather than anything lower. Amadeus is sharper than he looks, and understands immediately. He shakes his shoulders and winks.

“Nudism. Is good for rheumatism.” Amadeus says, hoisting himself out of the pool with surprising agility and reaching for a towel. Kris averts his eyes, looking at the doorway and begging for Nace to enter immediately.

“I’m… sure it is.”

“Just remember, Prince Guštin, there are so few truly special things in life. Do not deny yourself these simple joys. But above all, live your life by these words. I only got one rule, always stay cool like a swimming pool.” 

Kris nods, speechless, and decides to continue with what he'd been doing before Rambo Amadeus had approached him. The pool is mercifully empty now, though Kris is still waiting for Nace to join him like he’d promised that morning in bed. He swims laps ceaselessly, the repetitive motions and the fatigue helping him to focus on his own thoughts and drowning out the rest of the world.

Kris certainly is not in love with Diljá, or Iru, for that matter. Does he love Nace? 

They’ve barely known each other for two and a half months; in just over a week, Kris will return to Russia and Nace will return to his newly renovated estate. They know so much about one another, yet so little. Kris knows about the light freckles dusted along the curve of Nace’s neck, the ticklish spots on his chest that he loves to connect with gentle strokes of his fingertips, the faint stretch marks on his stomach from when he’d been a lot bigger. Kris doesn’t know what Nace’s favourite colour is, whether he’s been in love before, or even if he has any pets. It’s like they’re acquaintances who jump into bed with one another because they have no options.

That’s not true, Kris mentally scolds himself as he rolls onto his back and his hands cleave through the water rhythmically. There’s nothing stopping Kris from getting to know Nace. But there’s also nothing wrong with simply having a physical relationship with one another. And they do care. Kris cares so much. Even if he doesn’t know minor details about Nace’s personal life, he knows that he genuinely enjoys spending time with the older man, and that he trusts Nace with almost everything. 

The nasty little heartsick voice in the back of his head tells him that he knows exactly what Bojan’s favourite colour is, pink, that Bojan’s in love with him and that Bojan has a pet parrot he tamed himself called Elisa, of all things. 

But that voice is stupid, and has been silent for so long that it’s impossible to know if those things are even still true - especially the second point. Bojan loved Kris. Kris doesn’t love Nace, but with time, he probably could. 

So the question still remains, does Kris still love Bojan?

His muscles are aching desperately, so he swims to the ladder and climbs out slowly. As he dries himself painstakingly, not wanting his clothes to be wet throughout lunch since it would simply irritate his skin, Nace bursts through the door.

“Sorry I’m late, I was talking to the new guests.”

“New guests? Honeymooners, perhaps?”

“It certainly could be, if you understand my meaning. Two women by the names of Lady Marinova and Miss Klemenčič.”

“Ah, of course. Perhaps I should introduce myself?”

“That would be wise, though perhaps they should settle in. We do not need another repeat of the last time we visited newcomers.”

“It was quite difficult to lift you off me when you collapsed. I wonder what they fed you as a child.”

“Naughty boys.”

“What?”

“I jest.”

“Ah, I understand.”

Kris rushes off to bathe. Nace offers to accompany him but Kris politely declines. He needs some time to himself, and to mentally scrub the image of a very naked Rambo Amadeus from every cell of his body and memory. His mind is reeling, trying desperately to process the information flooding his mind.

Lady Melina Marinova is a tall woman, roughly the same height as Kris himself, with a clear love of hats and veils. It’s eerily similar to how he reencountered Diljá in this very hallway two months ago. There’s something to be said about how history repeats itself, especially in times of import, but Kris is too busy trying to see who Lady Marinova’s companion is.

“They say she’s an opera singer, who hosts dreadfully scandalous parties,” Iru says to him. Kris jumps nearly a foot in the air, as he hadn’t noticed her behind him.

“Really? How fascinating. I’d love to be invited to a party,” Diljá says. “I haven’t been to a party since the one you threw, where I abandoned you halfway through the evening.”

“I’m not quite sure I recall.” Kris grins. It’s nice to see that they’ve reached the point in the reconciliation process where they can joke about these things. 

“You were being disgustingly affectionate with-” Diljá starts, before cutting herself off, because Nace has joined the trio.

“What are we discussing?” Nace asks them. Diljá is silent, as is Kris, but thankfully Iru is not slow on the uptake.

“Lady Marinova and Miss Klemenčič. Their professions and their wilder hobbies.”

“Oh, of course. Lady Marinova was a dancer, a prodigious ballerina. She performed across Russia, that’s how she met Miss Klemenčič. Lady Marinova was the star and Miss Klemenčič was singing in the very same show.” Nace explains.

“Fascinating. Why does she not dance now? She can’t be very old,” Kris wonders.

“Injury. She was hit by a train. She’s lucky it was only her leg that was injured, she’s terribly strong.”

“How do you know this? You spoke to them for what, five minutes?” Iru probes.

“I didn’t grow up with very much money, but my uncle took me to see the ballet for my twenty-first birthday. Lady Marinova was the lead dancer. I recognised the name, obviously. Her accident was in the news, I remember it well.”

“That’s such a shame.”

“Indeed it is.”

“And Miss Klemenčič?”

“She’s practically a child, only just eighteen and on a leave of absence after being terribly unwell. She’s from the South East, you know. Not particularly well-suited to the cold, and her voice is rather delicate. They seem quite nice, the younger one in particular is rather sociable.”

“I do love meeting new people,” Diljá says gleefully, rubbing her hands together with excitement at the prospect of making a new acquaintance. 

“Shall we?” Iru suggests, gesturing at the duo.

“Of course.” Nace says, and the two women run off to introduce themselves. Nace does not move, however, and Kris turns to him with concern in his eyes. 

“Nace, what’s happened?”

“Do you remember when you saw Diljá again? Someone you’d been linked to in the past, but it had ended badly between you?”

“I wouldn’t say ended badly, but yes, I do recall. Why?”

“That’s the father of one of my former lovers.” Nace whispers, jerking his head slightly in the direction of the elderly man behind Lady Marinova. Kris hadn’t noticed anyone was behind the four women in the first place, let alone that Nace had been agitated. He feels quite awful, but at the same time he’s intrigued. The man looks vaguely familiar, but Kris has interacted with - or is at least aware of - almost every member of European high society at least once.

“Damir Martinović. I was… involved… with his illegitimate son, Jan Peteh.”

“Martinović, the name doesn’t sound familiar. But I swear I’ve seen him around.”

“He was thrown out of a party at an embassy seventeen years ago for attempting to shoot corks out of his anus.”

“He did what?” Kris asks in shock. He hadn’t been expecting that. Nace tugs him behind a pillar, mostly out of view but still very much in public.

“Completely sober, too. Tried to expel corks from inside him. So then he moved to the countryside and eventually reconnected with his son, and that’s how I met Jan.” Nace says.

“That sounds vaguely familiar actually. Hang on a minute, is that Mrle?”

“That… would be him, yes.”

“I can’t believe someone would do that. Is Jan relatively well-adjusted?”

“I would say so, since he spent most of his teens with his mother and her husband. But Mr Martinović has so many children it’s surprising that he chose Jan to foster an interest in. Regardless, I haven’t seen him since he caught Jan and I in a rather compromising position, and he threw me out.”

“Oh, Nace, that’s awful.”

“Needless to say, I’ve learned to be careful since then. But that’s what happens when you’re young, and in love, and stupid. Kris, have you ever been in love?”

“Once, I think.”

“But not Dilja.”

“No, not her. Alas, it can never be between us again. I left him the day Dilja left me, and I don’t know where he is, or if I shall ever see him again. He was everything to me, and I-” Kris stops halfway through his sentence, feeling tears pricking in his eyes. He supposes he has an answer to the question he’s been asking himself since the swimming pool, since he packed up his things and came here, since he walked away from Bojan from the last time.

“And?” Nace says gently, clearly understanding.

“And he still is. Everything, I mean.”

“I’m so sorry that you and him cannot be together again. Surely love can find a way, can it not?”

“I could say the very same to you.”

“I haven’t heard from Jan in three years. I’m sure he’s probably moved on, to someone closer in age to him, instead of me, who’s always out of place no matter where I go.”

“But even if you do not wish to talk to Martinović, perhaps you could speak to Jan again through him. Even if he does not wish to be with you, you deserve closure. Lingering feelings are never good, for either party involved. And surely, you being the magnificent person you are, Jan’s feelings for you haven’t changed in the slightest.”

“You think it could be?” Nace asks, not daring to look hopeful, but Kris can see the feelings sparkling in his eyes.

“Of course.”

“So what should I do?” 

Kris is about to respond, but then Martinović walks over to them of his own volition. Kris takes a small step back, creating more room between the two of them as the older man approaches them.

“Nace Jordan, as I live and breathe. What brings you to this fine establishment?”

“I am currently awaiting the completion of renovations. My late uncle’s estate has been passed down to me, and I am having some much-needed work done to it.”

“Such is life, isn’t it? It’s amusing how many familiar faces one can see in a place like this. I haven’t seen you in so long, but my, you’ve changed!”

“You look young as ever, Mr. Martinović.”

“I’ve seen you with my son’s tongue down your throat. We are well past formalities. Call me Mrle.” he guffaws.

“Well, ah, Mrle, you look as young as ever.”

“Thank you, it’s the diet.”

“Kris, I would like to speak to… Mrle… unaccompanied. Perhaps you could introduce yourself to some others?” Nace says. Kris nods, bids Martinović farewell, and walks over to the four women.

Chapter Text

Lady Marinova is adjusting her long lace gloves, not talking very often, but Miss Klemenčič is chattering away animatedly with Iru and Diljá.

“And this is Prince Kris Guštin, son of Prince Miha Guštin,” Diljá says as he joins them. 

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prince Guštin,” she says, dropping to curtsy. 

“And I yours, Miss Klemenčič. I hear you’re well-known in the opera circuit. Whatever are you doing here?”

“Vocal strain, I’ve been singing too much without the proper precautions.”

“There are precautions one must take when singing?” Kris asks, bewildered.

“Indeed. One must always warm up their voice,” her voice cracks partway through the phrase, but she continues through it. 

“I was not aware that was a thing. And your companion?”

“Lady Marinova is recovering from her injury, the doctor prescribed a journey here, but the train ride from Saint Petersburg was terribly exhausting.” she explains.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, extending a gloved hand out to shake. He assumes she does not curtsy due to her leg, but he bows to her regardless.

“The sentiment is reciprocated, Lady Marinova.”

“I like trains,” Diljá pipes up. “I like trains very much.” At her words, Lady Marinova turns to her and raises an eyebrow, just visible underneath her lace veil. 

“Not for long, you won’t.” she says darkly, before nodding her head politely and departing. Miss Klemenčič, however, does not move. 

“Trains are rather difficult, since the accident, of course. And then having to take one here… it was unpleasant for her, to say the least.”

“I can imagine, it sounds horrible.”

“At least the one you love would accompany you wherever you travelled, even in hardships of any variety,” Diljá sighs. Miss Klemenčič blushes furiously, but does not move to correct her. Iru rests a hand on Diljá’s shoulder the way she always does.

“She does not matter anymore, she did not truly love you if she did not wish to follow you to the ends of the earth.”

“But love is more complicated than simply going places with people. Some journeys must be made alone, no matter how hard it hurts, because we are all our own people, and it’s unreasonable to expect someone to cater to your every whim.” Kris suggests.

“But to leave her over the death of her father?”

“Well, you do have a point, because that is cruel to do to her. But did you ever stop to consider that perhaps Alessandra had issues in her own life that she needed to process? You can’t simply refuse to ever speak to her again, especially if you do not have her side to the story.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“If I may? I don’t know you or your stories very well, but I do know this. Love is valuable and the most special thing in the world, but your own safety is more important. One cannot care for someone else until they know how to love themselves first. I was constantly running from my own desires and feelings, doing whatever my parents wished.”

“And now you’re recovering from an injury with a woman several years your senior.”

“Like you and that muscular man over there?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in the direction of Nace, who is still awkwardly talking to Martinović across the room. The gesture is oddly reminiscent of Lady Marinova.

“That’s not- I mean…” Kris starts to say, and Miss Klemenčič lifts her hand to silence him as Diljá and Iru hastily turn and walk away.

“Of course, my mistake. You do not look at him quite the same way as those two look at one another. How long has that been happening?”

“Eight weeks or thereabouts.”

“My goodness. Those two are quite clearly made for one another, there is a closeness between them that can take years to achieve. It’s quite natural when one knows where to look.”

“They are quite an excellent pair.”

“So if you are not in love with that man over there, is there someone else your heart belongs to? A tragic individual that you cannot possibly bear to reconnect with? Someone that has emotionally devastated you but you cannot be with because even though the two of you love one another dearly, love cannot overcome societal or parental expectations? Or did you perhaps break someone’s heart because of your own high standards?”

“Well- yes, but… how on Earth do you know these things?”

“I have a particular affinity for social dynamics and am quite good at discerning looks of homosexual longing where most would not.”

“Homosexual longing? You’re quite ridiculous.”

“And yet you haven’t walked away, because you know I’m correct.”

“Truthfully, I’m afraid to walk away. You’ve managed to determine the events of the last year and a half of my life after one conversation, and your travelling companion is a dancer almost as tall as I am. Also, you seem to have no shame regarding your… inclinations.”

“Look at the people around us, Prince Guštin. That man ejected corks from his anus, that woman beds everyone around her, that man is constantly taking medications that don’t belong to him. This is not a place of honour, this is where those with money go to unwind and let loose without fear of judgement, because everyone here has their secrets.”

“That’s a very astute observation, Miss Klemenčič.”

“And it looks like your lover has finished talking to the gentleman with the corks, so perhaps you should sever your ties with him sooner rather than later. I am going to unpack my belongings. Good afternoon, Prince Guštin.” she bows quickly, nearly tripping over her dress as she leaves. Sure enough, Nace is lumbering towards him. Kris jerks his head to the right almost imperceptibly, and Nace misses the cue. Kris sighs and repeats the gesture more forcefully, and this time he takes the hint and follows Kris into the coatroom.

“So what did he say to you?” Kris asks, shutting the door.

“He was saying that he’s hosting a hunting trip in the countryside next summer, and that he’d like me to join him and some of his friends. And that people my age will be there.”

“Jan? So he’s supportive of the two of you being together?” 

“I think so, Kris.”

“And you love him?”

“Kris, you must understand, I am far older-”

“Do you love him? If his father does not care, neither should you. He’s not a child, you’re both old enough to be involved. I’m only twenty-three, he can’t be that much younger than me.”

“Older, actually. He’s twenty-four.”

“That’s even more ridiculous of you then.”

“But whatever… we’ve been doing… is far less serious than being in love with someone, than living with them and committing to spend the rest of your lives with one another.”

“Nace, with all due respect, you are not royalty. You do not have the same obligations to marry that I do. You and Jan could live together somewhat peacefully, and you have Martinović’s blessing. Do not close yourself off to the idea of a future.”

“Thank you, Kris. For everything.” Nace says, tilting Kris’ head for one final kiss. It’s sweeter than the various liplocks they’ve exchanged in various locations throughout the spa in the last two months. Those in the swimming pool, by the tennis courts, in their own bedrooms and even once in Diljá’s bathroom were passionate and animalistic, but this kiss is a soft goodbye for good. Even if their paths do cross, this chapter of their lives has formally drawn to a close.

Chapter Text

Bojan loathes farming.

Bojan loathes farming, plain and simple. Sure, he has muzhiks that tend the fields for him, but he knows that one’s character can only be improved through hardship. So he tends the fields alongside them, albeit much more infrequently, and laments his romantic misfortunes. 

Though if he’s being entirely truthful, a part of him is thoroughly relieved that Kris did not agree to follow him here. Kris has a bright and quick mind, and the inherent authority to command others. Politics is a perfect career for him, and farming would have been a waste of his potential. Farming’s already a waste of Bojan’s potential, anyway. 

Though the farm belongs to the Jurkovič family, Bojan takes care of it so that Martin can spend much of his time in the city to work on his writing. “The countryside is not conducive to higher literature,” he says to Bojan. Martin comes by sometimes to gloat about how his latest novel is coming along, or how his research is so fascinating, not that a farmer like Bojan could ever understand. One day, late in the autumn, Martin returns with a friend in tow. Jure Maček, a man whose father was an associate of Martin in the city. Jure’s a military man, currently on leave for a few months after a minor injury. Jure was also a childhood classmate of Bojan’s, and though the two were never particularly close, Jure was always bright and friendly, and frankly any distraction is welcome to Bojan at the moment. 

“So what brings you here, now that everything is rainy and miserable?” Bojan asks Jure at the breakfast table one day.

“Winter will settle in soon, and so there is high demand for firewood. I’m here on behalf of my business associate, Mr Lambrou, he’s trying to sell his wood but he’s currently tied up in personal matters.”

“Lumber investments… I see. How is that progressing?”

“Are you familiar with the Kirel woods?”

“Indeed, I pass through them on my way to visit friends. How much did you sell it for?”

“We negotiated a sale of thirty-five thousand roubles.” Jure says smugly. Bojan’s face falls at Jure’s words, calculating the value of the wood in his head from his best memories of the size of it.

“I am so very sorry for you, my friend, for you and Mr Lambrou have been cheated. The wood could sell for two hundred roubles per acre, but you have only been offered seventy-five. Whoever offered you this sum and misled you to believe you were making a profit is a wily businessman indeed.”

“But surely the second value-”

“Can you explain the concept of a second value?” Bojan cuts in. Jure freezes. 

“No…”

“Exactly. People from the cities always think they know better with their university qualifications, but they lack the inherent knowledge of the value of the wood, how much it sells for. That is something that comes with time and experience.”

“Perhaps I should send a letter to Mr Lambrou,” Jure says quietly, face white as a ghost.

“That would be ideal.”

“Would you care to join me on a ride? To take my mind off this tragic result?”

“Of course. I have a horse that will do quite nicely for you,” Bojan declares, leading Jure to the stable.

“This one is Citrus. She’s a stubborn sort, but very resilient and strong.”

“And yours?”

“Luna. Quite fast, but more temperamental.”

“Wonderful. Shall we?”

“Let’s go.”

The two of them ride in silence through the beautiful countryside to the Kirel woods. With winter approaching, the weather is colder than Bojan would like, but hurtling through the forest is exhilarating and warms Bojan up somewhat.

“So how come Mr Lambrou is in possession of the Kirel woods? Has authority over them?” Bojan yells, but the wind in their ears is far too loud for Jure to hear. He resolves to ask Jure the question once they return to the Jurkovič farmhouse. Instead, they stop at a clearing, one Bojan has never actually found, but he’s confident that they’ll find their way home when the time comes.

“If I may ask, why is Mr Lambrou responsible for the sale of the Kirel woods?” Bojan asks as the two of them rest. Jure moves to clamber up a tree as Bojan falls onto a tree stump with vigour.

“Don’t you know? He’s wedded to Lady Noa Kirel.” Jure explains, as if Bojan was expected to know every detail of the life of every rich person in the continent. He was out in the countryside doing honest work, instead of lounging around at parties and balls every evening.

“But then why is he choosing to sell it? And for such a low sum?”

“This isn’t suitable for public disclosure, but since I’m business partners with Mr Lambrou, I can say that the two of them are currently negotiating a divorce.”

“Divorce? When did they marry in the first place?”

“Just under a year ago, I believe. He was quite insistent on having her hand, but she was never particularly pleased with the marriage. Her father made the decision on her behalf. She screamed all the way to the wedding, if I recall correctly. Quite nasty, she has a substantial temper.”

“If someone is that reluctant to marry, they’re likely already committed to someone else.” Bojan says thoughtfully, his gaze blurring as he stares at the horses grazing.

“Are you speaking from experience? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you yourself are not engaged to be married, or married, yet, Bojan.” Jure wags a finger at him.

“Neither are you, Jure.” Bojan sighs, scaling the tree clumsily to join him. Some conversations are best had in more private locations, despite the fact that there are no other people around them; simply the two horses, who are certainly not capable of understanding what they say, let alone spreading the sensitive information to other people.

“But would you like to? Is there anyone who has caught your eye?” his eyes sparkle as he asks. Bojan shakes his head, far too quickly, and Jure notices this. Mercifully, he chooses not to comment.

“So, the Kirel-Lambrou divorce. She was indeed seeing someone else through the duration of their marriage, and apparently for long before.”

“Oh my word.”

“And do you know who it was? Take a guess.”

“You?”

“No, it was- what?”

“Jure, I don’t know any of this gossip. I don’t even know these people. This is the first I’ve ever heard of your Mr Lambrou.”

“He is not- I mean to say, he is my business partner-” Jure emphasises the word, and Bojan is curious as to why. Of course the two are business partners, what else could they possibly be? Unless… no . There is absolutely no way that Jure is like Bojan. Absolutely not.

“So about the affair? Miss Kirel’s affair partner?”

“A woman, Bojan. By the name of Elen Yeremyan.”

“Oh.”

“Yes! It was quite the incident to hear about from Mr Lambrou.”

“Naturally. What happened to them?”

“Some woman from Iceland, I believe it was? She came to speak to them. I forget her name, but she is apparently quite close with Lady Kirel. She was trying to convince her not to leave Mr Lambrou, but then he decided to divorce her instead.”

“Ah, that makes sense. It would be rather humiliating to find out your wife was engaging in infidelity with another woman.”

“I suppose so. I wonder if the two of them will be able to live together now that everyone knows about them. The wood was given to Mr Lambrou under a contract for her father in case the two would ever divorce, and so he decided to sell it.”

“That would be nice for them. You don’t hear of too many people like… them… living happily. And perhaps you should consider severing your business ties with Mr Lambrou as well. Before he discovers that he was cheated.”

“He is the nasty sort, isn’t he? But alas, I do need him, vile as he can be. Did you know he raised his hand to strike Lady Kirel’s lover? It was fortunate that Lady Kirel’s friend from abroad was there to prevent the situation from escalating.”

“The lover from Iceland? Could this by any chance be Miss Diljá Pétursdóttir?”

“Yes, that’s the one! See? You do know some of the people in our circles.”

“Yes, I do. She was supposed to marry my closest companion, but then after her father fell ill she ran off to Reykjavik with her own lover to care for him. He was quite devastated.”

“Oh, I’m sorry that happened. How is he now?”

“I wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken in over a year.”

“Such a shame. It is always devastating to lose touch with someone you love.”

“Love? I never said anything about love!”

“Your closest companion, correct? Is it not normal to love your dearest friend?”

“I mean, of course, but-”

“Oh, did you mean… that sort of love?”

“I…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you.”

“Why?”

“I know people aren’t very kind or accepting when it comes to people like you, like us ,” Jure stares at Bojan intensely at this admission, “but know that I would never judge you for who you are or who you love.”

“I miss him ever so terribly, Jure.”

“That’s quite fair. Perhaps it would be worth the two of you reconnecting soon?”

“I don’t even know if he’s married to someone else! I’m sure my brother would have said something to me, but he might not even have known that the two of us were so close to warrant letting me know. Martin is not one for gossip, he is far too sanctimonious.”

“Who is he, might I ask? I might know of him.”

“Prince Kris Guštin.”

“You… and Prince Guštin? I would not have expected that in the slightest.”

“Well, it happened. For several years, in fact.”

“Spare me the sordid details Bojan. Oh, and he has not yet married. If my information is correct, he was at a spa in Germany a month or so ago. One of my friends was there as well, that’s how I recognised the name.”

“Oh? I hope he’s doing well.” Bojan says, scrunching his nose. A whiff of an unpleasant smell has just reached his nostrils, and he looks around to try and discern the source.

“Well, if you ever wish to take your mind off the Prince, and farming, since you apparently dislike it so ardently, I am going on a hunting trip for a week next month. It would be wonderful if you joined my friends and I.” Jure says.

“That’s a very generous invitation, which I’ll gladly accept, but I believe we have a bigger issue at the moment.” Bojan says distractedly, pointing at the cows that have surrounded the tree they’re currently in.

“Oh. Oh my.” Jure says, trying to climb up higher.

“I loathe farming.”