[AU][C][M] Festivities

A part of him hoped his slave would pass some sort of fruit. Maybe bypass his hand and into his mouth. let his tongue capture the juices then ran down tanned fingers.

Cheeks rosy, he thanked the red-headed slave. Then curled back up on the chair to eat. He chewed slowly, cool eyes on the slaves. More specifically, his slave.

Fleck sat perfectly still as he waited for an order to be given to him. He couldn't do much else this way.

The redhead bit his red lip and moved back to Fleck's side, reaching out to give his thigh a little squeeze before his hand returned to his thigh.

And together they say, still and waiting for their orders.

This silence. The slaves sitting there, waiting. It was driving him up the wall.

Finishing the figs off he took another large gulp of wine. Then another and another. Until he had completely drained it.

A familiar buzz rang through his head and the deep red drink stained his lips.

"My wine, please."

He held out the goblet.

It was Fleck that moved forwards this time, picking up the jar the wine had been bought to them in, and pouring it slowly into the outstretched goblet.

When he righted the jar, a drop streaked down the outside and ran over his fingers. He set the jar down and raised his hand to his lips, sucking the sweet alcohol off his finger.

Then he sat back in his place again, hands resting on his thighs once more.

He didn't mean for his lips to kick up as his slave moved, but they did.

Like with the red-head, he thanked him. He didn't bring the goblet up straight to his lips. Instead, he watched a deep red droplet run over the slave's tanned fingers. They were brought up to his own lips. He wished they were brought to his.

His sight didn't leave the hand until it rested on his thigh.

Then he drank.

He knew he should stop while he can. Last time he was drunk - only last night - resulted in a split lip and his slaves almost death.

But this situation was so horribly awkward for him, he had to.

"You know," he began, "that was the first time I only had one drink at a party like that."

Cool eyes were on his slave, willing him to look at him.

"I enjoyed it. At least some of it. Not all of it. I didn't feel completely out of my depth."

His gaze turned up to the Prince as he spoke, and he smiled at the words. That was a thank you, without actually speaking the words.

It was a good compliment.

Though he wasn't happy with the fact that he couldn't reply.

He just settled with his smile and bowing his head graciously.

Richard watched the little bow of his head and his little smile. He wanted more than that. He wanted to hear him speak.

He sent the red-headed slave a glare.

Off the drink, he knew it wasn't his fault. Lord Diegon had offered him to the Prince. He didn't have a choice in the matter. But right now, he was an easy target to let his frustration out on. Even if it was through only a glare.

He fell back into silence again, watching the red wine swirl in the goblet.

"Can either of you sing? Jeff can sing."

He nodded to the door.

Fleck shook his head. "Nothing sweet on the ears, my Prince."

He knew warriors chants and drinking songs from across the kingdoms, but he only knew a few sweeter songs, and none of them were ones that he wanted to sing to the Prince.

But the redhead perked up. "I do, Prince Richard."

Richard felt disappointment sink in him. Cool eyes lingered on the tanned slave. He hoped he would.

His attention saw snatched by the red-headed slave.

Of course the pretty doe-eyed slave could sing. Not that he fancied hearing it.

But he couldn't dismiss him now. He wasn't that far gone that he would become cruel. The wine may be strong but he only had two large glasses.

"Go on."

The boy began to sing a jaunty little tune about a pretty maid and a cunning fox. His voice was light and crisp and cheerful.

Fleck smiled at the song, and before long found himself humming along with the tune.

He knew the song, he just didn't want to sing the lyrics like the boy was happy to do.

He didn't know whether to be annoyed or not that the boy could sing. he will give him his dues, his voice was pleasant on his ears. And his slave seemed to be enjoying the song.

The Ecrutezian song was lost on him a little. Some phrases sounded confusing and there were words he didn't understand. But he got the gist of it... somewhat.

His frown was on his face the boy finished singing.

"I don't understand. Why did the maiden keep singing when the fox licked her fruit?"

Fleck snorted. Loudly. He raised a hand to his mouth to try and muffle the sound, but the sniggering just couldn't be stopped.

The redhead, too, tried to hide his reaction behind his hand. His was just a little smirk, but it was clear enough that they both had the same thought.

Prince Richard hadn't had his fruit licked so well he sang.


Or he was too innocent to understand. Either away, it amused the two sexually charged Ecrutezian males.

In his tipsy haze, he liked the two slaves were laughing. Breaking free of their obedient holds.

Then he realised.

They were laughing at him.

Cheeks stained with humiliation, he sat up, boots hitting the floor with a clap.

"Why is it so funny?" He snapped in Aldish rather then Ecrutezian.

The redhead fell silent as soon as the Prince snapped, and he flinched as the clap of heels meeting marble sounded through the room.

Flekc didn't though.

His lips curled upwards slightly. "The maiden's fruit in Ecrutez," he explained in Aldish, "is the same as the Aldish maiden's flower."

Fleck bit his lip teasing it through his teeth as he waited for the Prince's realisation.

Richard blink. Then turned to the red-headed slave in opened mouth shock and distaste.

"You sang a song about it?" He still spoke in Aldish.

It wasn't the worst he had heard or seen here. But in Alden, those type of songs were kept strictly in brothels and the army. They weren't sang for nobles or royalty. He certainly didn't expect to hear a song about it today.

"It is a very popular song. One of the nation's favourites."

The Milk Maid and the Fox was a song almost as well-known as the language itself. Everyone knew some version of it, but so few knew the entire song like the redhead did.

Fleck's lips quirked upwards again and he settled back down into his submissive position.

Richard looked between the two slaves.

"Of course it would be," he said, disgust evident. A vulgar song for a vulgar kingdom.

He took a long sip.

"Are there any songs you know that aren't about, well, sex." His tipsy flush became more prominent.

"Our culture is different than yours," he reminded gently, not pleased with the sharp, insulting tone.

The redhead thought on the question, but after a few moments shook his head. No. Ecrutezian songs were all pretty narrow-minded in that aspect.

Fleck also shook his head.

Richard looked at the two slaves.

"Obviously."

He drank, but there was no more wine to drink.

Standing, he swayed and looked at the goblet in betrayal.

"Why is the wine so strong?"

He staggered to the table and settled down in front in an ungraceful flop. Then he poured himself another glass. Some of it spilt onto the table and onto his hands.

Fleck didn't answer the drunken Prince's question, and when he stood, he noticed the redhead flinch immediately.

Fleck's hand reached out to rest on the redhead's knee gently in reassurance. 

They both knew that drunk Masters could sometimes be cruel Masters. They'd both suffered it. But Fleck was certain that Richard wouldn't be as cruel as some drunk Masters, and he wasn't going to let the redhead fret like that.

Richard didn't take notice of his sticky hand, his eyes dawdled over to where the tanned hand rested on the pale knee. He frowned, oblivious of the redhead's fears.

"We're the same shade."

He began to tug on the laces on his arm with one hand. Then cussed in Aldish. This was a difficult thing to do one handed when sober, let alone drunk.

After some struggling he threw his arm at his slave, wrist up, waiting.

The redhead blinked up at his temporary Master at the comment.

They weren't the same shade. They were both paler than the full-blooded native in the room, but the redhead had grown up in the sun, working on a farm. He had a light tan to his skin that made it a few shades darker, and quite a bit less fine and smooth than the Prince's skin.

He flinched back when the arm was thrown out suddenly, resisting throwing his hands up to protect his face.

Fleck patted the boy's knee gently, then reached out to start unpicking the finely tied laces of the outfit with his trademark patience. When he'd pulled the pace from the first piece, he draped the lace over his own shoulder and held out his hand for the Prince's other arm.

Richard didn't give his other arm. He slid the now free arm out on the table and encouraged the redheaded slave to do the same. So he could inspect the two side by side.

Now comparing, it was obvious. His skin paler and only lightly dusted with freckles. He ran his free hand over both of their arms, inspecting. The boy was thinner than him.

Then he encouraged the boy to turn his hands over so he could compare it with him. The boys were calloused. While his hands were soft in a way that only wealth and staying indoors could afford.

His gaze turned up on the tanned slave, eyelids low in his drunken haze.

He wondered which he preferred.

"Lay your arm down as well."

The redhead did, grimacing slightly at the feel of his wrist laying down in a puddle of wine. The cool wine wasn't unpleasant against his skin, but it certainly wouldn't be nice when it started to dry.

Laid together, there was a distinct difference between the two.

Though that difference paled when Fleck's arm was laid out on the other side of the Prince's. His skin was a deep olive tone, a handful of shades darker than both pale foreigners. His arm was corded with muscle, and when he turned his arm palm-up, lots of little scars and heavy calluses were revealed. Lighter than his base skin tone.

Richard studied the tanned arm. His hand running over it as he did with the redheaded slave. It was larger. He could feel strong muscle underneath.

When the hand turned over he wanted to kiss the tiny scars he could see. Each and every one. He didn't. Instead, he kissed just the one over a prominent tendon on the wrist.

"For the scars," he explained, the tips of his hair that had fallen free soaked with wine.

A blush high on his cheeks. Kissing the wrists was an intimate act. Especially in Alden where clothes normally covered them.