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“Maybe she’s not actually a—“
“Cardboard cutout of a person? A stuck up, know it all b–”
“She’s boring, sure,” Jenny says quietly, shooting her a warning look, “but she’s British fucking royalty, what do you expect.”
“O-ho, just you wait,” King taps a gold nail against her champagne flute, eyes the crowd, the flare of women's skirts, ridiculous hats, loafers and brogues skidding over shiny floors, Edith Payne twirling Niko around the ballroom in a deliberate path, counts down— “one, two—”
Right on time, cameras flash over Niko's shoulder. King’d bet her wig collection it'll be in the papers tomorrow, a tasteful aside in the spread of wedding photos, “Edith Payne seen dancing with close male friend of the President’s daughter– is a young romance blossoming?” God, King is gonna puke.
It’s one thing if Edith is a stone cold, manipulative bitch, but Niko Sasaki is one of the few people on earth King’s met with no agenda at all, just a bleeding heart and a gay smut collection that would make Catherine the Great shed a proud tear. King likes them, and she likes maybe four people on earth, total.
“There you go,” King says, to Jenny’s raised brows. “Join the Edith Payne hate train.”
Hmm. Defending Niko’s honor would be a two for one special; good, honest revenge for sweeping her sparkly eyed, bleeding hearted friend off his feet just for paparazzi pictures, and pissing off her nemesis.
“Excuse me,” King turns a shiny grin on a waiter— damn, incredible ass— who stops in his tracks, plucks a champagne flute from his tray and downs it in one go.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jenny mutters under her breath, massaging her temple. “Here we fucking go.”
King twists, turns, and eventually loses her long suffering bodyguard in a crowd of posh fucks talking about bitcoin- ew. She picks through a small army of tea cakes and sandwiches, two glasses of champagne, gold dusted eclairs, and things she’s informed are called pomponettes as she watches Edith make the rounds, smile perfectly polite, never reaching her eyes, longtime friend Charles at her elbow. Her smile’s a whole lot more convincing, practiced, as one of maybe five brown people in the room, and the only girl with a buzzcut and a crushed red velvet suit. King hates her fucking guts, but she’ll admit the girl has balls of steel.
She waits until the package deal separate, and pounces, sidling up to Edith on the edge of the dance floor.
“Hey, Princess,” King bats her lashes.
“Not gonna ask me for a dance?”
Just for a second, Edith looks at her like she’s a rancid banana peel her shoe has slipped in, and then the placid mask is back on.
“Tamsyn King,” Edith says, every syllable crisp, dripping with muted condescension. “What an.. unexpected pleasure.”
God, she’s such a fucking bitch. King wants to eat her out until she cries.
“Aw, the pleasures all mine,” King grins, looking her up and down— tasteful pale blue summer dress, artful bow at the collar, a single row of pearls dripping from her long neck, dark strands slipping from her elaborate braid to curl against sharp cheekbones, her square jaw. Picture perfect, carefully arranged, not so showstopping she distracts from her brother’s bride’s big day.
Edith’s eyes narrow slightly. “I see you’ve found our champagne agreeable.”
“I see you've met my friend Niko.”
Edith blinks, thrown. “I- yes. He is an excellent dancer, and a better conversationalist.” It sounds like an honest, bemused compliment, but King knows better.
“Uhuh,” King sips her glass. “What did you two little lovebirds chitchat about, before the cameras started flashing?”
There it is. Twin spots of color, high on Edith’s cheeks. A twitch at the corner of that pretty mouth. King’s gut twists, hot and tight.
“If you must know,” Edith says blandly, “we spoke of our friends, and while I think their character of the highest degree, I am beginning to question their taste.”
Holy shit. She knew Niko was a badass, but asking the source of his little RPF fixation about her side piece to her face? Well, it was Niko, so it was probably polite, tasteful questions about how the princess and the pauper became bffs for life, and poor, sweet Edith probably didn’t pick up on any of it.
“Close friends, huh?” King slides a look at Edith’s shadow, doing crowd work a careful distance away, keeping Edith in her line of sight, even over a baronesses shoulder. “You have a lot of those?”
A barely aborted eye roll, her voice lowered. “Somehow, I thought the President’s daughter would be above schoolyard bullying. My mistake, it seems— there is no low bar you would not happily do a limbo underneath.”
King guffaws. “Oh, no, sweet cheeks. I meant—“
“Sweet cheeks?” Edith’s nose wrinkles like she’s smelt something foul.
“— are you two,” King wiggles a finger at a red figure in the crowd, “you know, special friends?”
Edith goes still.
Bingo. King feels a slow, satisfied grin stretch over her lips.
Across the room, Charles Rowland goes subtly tense, glancing at the line of Edith’s back, like a dog's ears pricking up at the sound of danger. King watches her grin, make excuses, extricate herself neatly, kiss women's cheeks in the french style and pat a few men on the arm in good mates camaraderie, weave her way through the crowd to them. She almost wants to start clapping, throw roses, celebrate a beautiful performance.
“You are intoxicated,” Edith says, low, measured, sharp enough to draw blood, “I do not know what you think you are implying, but this is not one of your sordid little clubs. I know you are liable to make a scene, throwing one of your little tantrums, so I’d thank you to remove yourself from my vicinity before you say something you will regret.”
Charles ducks around a waiter, steadying a wobbling tray with an apologetic, boyish smile, not stopping once in her stride.
“And believe you me,” Edith says, vicious, “You will regret it. I have no qualms about squashing an upstart, foul little cockroach like yourself under my heel.”
King’s skin goes hot, tingling taut. Her blood sings in her veins. Yeah, so what, she’s got a brat kink a mile wide— self awareness, and all that crap.
Edith’s eyes are blazing with fury, every line of her body humming with coiled tension. King wonders if they were anywhere else, if she’d throw a punch. She wants to take a bite out of her, wants to kick Edith to the ground and tear until they’re clawing at each other, see who comes out on top, to kick her legs apart and push inside and feel nails take down her back, curses spat as teeth sink into her shoulder.
“Promises, promises,” King sighs, fanning herself. “Who knew you stuffy English girls had it in you?”
King isn't a complete piece of shit— she’s not gonna actually do anything about the information, except jack off at the earliest opportunity, holy fuck— was it a teenage romance, hidden in plain sight? Girls practicing for the right guy? Kissing until they were panting into each others mouths, hands shoved down underwear? Does Edith thank Charles for keeping her sane at these things by sinking to her knees in supply closets, or by opening Charles up on those pretty fingers, legs spread on satin sheets? Or does Charles fuck her, strap sliding slick into that tight little cunt, fingers stuffed in her mouth so Edith can’t wake the guards —
Charles slides into place next to Edith, all smiles, dark eyes assessing King in one quick swoop, calculating.
“Dunno if we’ve met before, I'm Charles, this one’s best mate.” An elbow lightly nudges Edith’s side, a subtle check in. “You gonna introduce me to your new friend?”
”I believe you have met,” Edith says, flat, "Excuse me, Tamsyn. Many guests to greet, and so on.”
And then she’s gliding away, back straight as a ballerina, Rowland shooting a look at King over her shoulder as they disappear into the crowd, like she’s trying to place her face. Like she doesn’t even fucking remember.
King’s problem, as Jenny loves to remind her, is that she cant “let things the fuck go.” She doesn’t just nurture a grudge; she coddles that shit and feeds it caviar and fancy feast. And this grudge, King’s been spoiling like one of her cats, ever since a tender hearted, baby faced, acne riddled King ripped the candid photo out of her brother’s teen celebrity magazines– Edith Payne, stockinged legs crossed demurely at the knee, book open in her lap, half turned to greet her beaming, sweat-shiny best friend, cricket bat mid twirl. Backlit by the sun. Edith, wearing a rare smile and a pleated catholic girl skirt. Charles' gold chain glittering, her corded arms flexing, tanktop soaked through, hand just brushing Eith’s shoulder in greeting– teen King never stood a chance.
Never, ever meet your heroes. Fuck this. Fuck them. No one, not even hot secret dykes, gets to make her feel small. Karma is a cat, or whatever. King downs her drink and goes hunting.
She finds them tucked in an alcove by a massive fuckoff wedding cake, out of reporters line of vision, heads bent together, arguing in whispers.
“Room for one more, girls?” King leans against the wall, grinning.
“Nah, not really,” Charles bares her teeth in a smile.
“Relax,” she rolls her eyes, “Im not going to the fucking papers. Your little secret’s safe with me.”
“Don’t know what you're talking about, mate,” Charles says, easy. “Did you need something?”
She can think of a few things. She grins, suggestive.
Charles stiffens, puts her body subtly between her and Edith, like she’s a threat, and god, she knows she’s a lawsuit walking, that she didn’t make a great first impression, but they’ve literally met three fucking times, so–
“What the fuck is your problem? Did I piss in your cereal?” She flicks a hand at Edith. “Is it because I'm not, what, obsessed with you like your creepy royal fan club? Lining up to spit shine your shoes?”
“Right, we're done here,” Charles says, flat, guides Edith around King with a hand on her back, grim, jaw set, like a bodyguard.
It's not King’s best look, turning on her heel, stalking them into open space, full view, but she isn't known for smart decisions, she’s known for fingerfucking supermodels in their homophobic politician husband’s bathrooms. She wants a fight, she wants a fucking show, something to sink her teeth into, not this bullshit, all those gorgeous sharp edges folded away.
“Hey, I was talking to you—“
King’s hand around Edith’s wrist is the only excuse Charles needs— she whips around, like she’s gonna take a swing at King in the middle of a thousand dollar wedding party, just for touching Edith.
King plants her feet, spine tingling, fingers itching, but Edith gets there first.
Edith raises her spare hand in a cool gesture that makes Charles stop in her tracks, jaw ticking as she grinds her teeth. And oh, what a jaw it is, muscle flexing, gold earrings swaying with aborted movement. Were they a gift from the princess to her favorite, loyal dog?
”Do you know what?” Edith steps into King’s space, icy calm, blocking Charles from view. “I think you are.”
”Are what?” King slides a thumb under Edith’s cuff, over silk smooth skin, the hot thrum of her pulse. Rabbit fast, despite her even voice.
Edith leans in, just slightly, studying her, lashes flicking up, down. King finds herself swaying close, eyes falling to her lips.
“Obsessed with me,” Edith whispers.
King sucks in a breath like she’s been punched in the gut.
“Its rather embarrassing, truthfully.”
Behind Edith, Charles snickers.
Edith’s mouth curls, satisfied as the cat who got the cream. This, King realizes, was the entire point of leaning in with that sharp little smile, twisting the knife. A joke just for two– and she’s the punchline.
Edith removes her hand from King’s grip with a hard tug, straightens her cuffs. “To be perfectly clear, I do not care for it. Clean yourself up. Hopefully, if we have the misfortune of meeting again, you will have better table manners.“
”What the fuck did you just say to—“ King reaches for her, and something smacks her fingers away. Charles, stepping between them in one neat move, getting a wide eyed Edith behind her with a hand on her waist. People are starting to look, now, brows raising, voices lowering to whispers.
“Keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Charles whispers, hissed, “Didn't they teach you that in grade school?”
She’ll show her grade school. King shoves that pretty, perfect shoulder, hard, sends Charles staggering back. There are gasps, a gap in the crowd forming as people step back.
“Think you should lay off the champagne, mate, yeah?” Charles says, hands raised, placating. She darts a glance behind her at Edith, whose shoulders are drawn tight, at their growing audience. “Let’s take a breath, talk it out.”
It’s been years since reporters got wrist cramps writing clever little puns about King’s extravagant tastes– a rotating line of glamorous celebrity friends, how she can't choose between cherry vodka or blow, boys or girls, fur coats or leather, ruining her Mother’s reputation by slow death or fire. There's a tiny, reasonable voice in her head saying maybe it wasnt meant like that, that not everyone keeps up with tabloids– King tells it to shut the fuck up, and swings.
Charles sidesteps, ducking– they careen into expensive hardwood, table banging painfully into her hip, and above them the $75,000 cake wobbles ominously. King is too busy trying to fist a hand in Charles' hair, tearing, and fending off Edith, who’s clawing at her, shouting, trying to hoist her off Charles, to notice the shadow looming over them until it's too late.
“Fuck,” she and Charles swear in unison.
An avalanche of buttercream, strawberries and sugar glass roses knocks them to their knees, taking casualties with it, splattering the crowds' expensive clothes as it goes down to the screams of the rich.
King coughs, starfished on the ground, blinking frosting out of her eyes. Edith sits up first, gaping at herself, a smashed frosting rose sliding from her hair to plop into her collar. Charles slips getting to her knees, crashing into Edith’s arms. She’s trying to scrape cake off Edith’s dress like that’ll fucking help, stop people from taking fucking videos.
King, for her part, runs a finger through the ruined fabric of her fur coat, sucks frosting into her mouth with a pop. Pretty fucking good, for a thousand dollar disaster.
Charles wobbles, getting Edith to her feet, hair plastered with cake chunks, loafers slipping in buttercream, and Edith grabs her, staggering. Charles arms pinwheel.
God, she’s had a hundred embarrassing moments televised– but none of them have been so completely, pathetically funny.
This is nothing. This is— fucking looney tunes shit.
In the following months, King will look back and think, this is where it started, why I cant regret a thing out of the whole fucking mess— before the state and country enforced get along shirt, before vicious text chains and emails devolve into stupid jokes about all the bullshit of politics, before late night calls where King’s “princess” and “sunshine” become more fond than sarcastic without her fucking say so, before they get shoved into a hospital closet and Edith has a panic attack she refuses to call a panic attack not because Jenny heard gunshots but because Edith can’t do enclosed spaces, Charles guiding her hands to her own heart, “look at me, Im here, love, Im here,” like they’ve done this a hundred times before, when King catches on that Charles entire glittering, smiley performance is to keep eyes off Edith and on her, and when somewhere in the entire mess, they decide, bafflingly, to trust her, to fold them into their weird little world—
“Why do you do it, if you hate royalty so much?” King flicks a bit of ash off her cigarette, irritated. She doesn’t know why the fuck she’s asking, why this idiot’s constant fucking smiling has started to itch.
Charles shrugs. She’s watching Edith’s stiff shouldered path through the crowd of bloodthirsty, bored socialites beneath them; King’s watching her.
“Cause when someone saves you just by being, like.. themselves, you spend the rest of your life finding little ways to pay them back.” Face half in shadow, a quieter confession— “Cause you know the world eats people like that alive.”
King swallows around a shard of..something. Just when she wanted Charles to stop smiling.
“And cause you’ve got a white knight kink a mile wide, sugar lips.”
Charles rolls her eyes, snorting. “Why’s it always about sex with you, mate?”
”Well, am I wrong? You’re telling me the whole princess and her loyal knight thing doesn’t turn you on?”
“Oh my god,” Charles buries her face in her hands, her laugh half groan. King preens a bit— real laughs are hard to draw out of her. “Edith’s right, you're a menace.”
King puts on a shitty British accent. “And I’m—“
“Always right,” they say in unison, the same shitty Edith impression, devolving into snickers.
But now, the first humming note of an orchestra—
In sync, Charles and Edith turn to stare incredulously as, in the flash of cameras and clamoring reporters, King tips her head back and starts to laugh.