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Suffering the Stockholm Syndrome
-
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far, away, there was a Prince.
Of course there was the rest of the royal family as well, but they aren't important. Trust me on this; no-one is less insignificant in this story than the rest of the royalty. What matters is the Prince.
He was almost seventeen summers old, and he was hot.
-
... People tell me that he was not, in fact, hot, and that this idea is just an Idea of mine.
-
Nevertheless, the Prince was one of God's great gifts to mankind.
There was just one problem; he was always so terribly nervous.
Every time he had a speech, or was at a social convention, or had to open his mouth in general, it'd go like this:
1.The Prince would open his mouth.
2.The Prince would not make a sound.
3.The Prince would turn a most endearing shade of red.
And then he'd flee the room. It was sweet. Not a good thing when you're supposed to become the ruler of the nation, but still sweet.
A problem is still a problem, however.
-
“I think we should kidnap the Prince,” I announced.
It was a lazy afternoon in May, and we were sitting on a bench in a park in Ardoory, enjoying the feeling of sun on our skin. (We had just had a period of truly god-awful weather.)
Ping gave me his patented Glare 27#, (the what-have-you-been-smoking-this-time glare,) and said, “really,” in That Voice. However, I was not easily deterred.
“Really,” I said, “it's simple! We need money, they have money, and the Prince is pretty to look at.”
Ping – he's from the East. Everyone from the East is called Ping. This is a fact of life. – made a noise low in his throat, which meant, “oh dear Lord, not again.”
I'm pretty adept at Ping-speak.
The third member of out crew, Carmine, looked up and grinned.
“Sounds awesome.”
Carmine thinks everything sounds awesome.
Ping narrowed his eyes in Carmine's general direction, like he'd been betrayed somehow, and then at me. “How will you do this, then?”
His voice was poison. I was used to it. “We will take him at the next Royal Ball – that's his birthday – and store him at the HQ. Simple.”
Ping made that noise in his throat again. I cheerfully patted him on the shoulder.
“Awesome,” said Carmine, smiling blissfully.
-
The Prince turned seventeen on the twenty-second of June.
Of course, this was a big occasion – it's not every day that the Prince turns seventeen – and a big ball had been arranged. I used to believe that “big ball” is simply an elitist way of saying “whooping big party”, but that day, I was proved wrong.
“Big ball” means “really boring party with uncomfortable clothes and lack of places to sit down or do the nasty, should you be so inclined.”
I was disappointed. Ping had dressed me up in a really fancy and uncomfortable suit-thing. It was fiery red and embroidered with golden thread and pearls, and it looked really good.
You couldn't really breathe while wearing it, but it looked good.
And I was wearing a funny half-mask-thing with feathers on it, for obscurity.
I hate obscurity.
-
“Um, e-excuse me.” The voice was timid and soft and really familiar. I grinned like a great big cat who has located its prey, and turned around, slowly.
“Ye-es?”
The Prince was obviously unnerved by the smile on my face.
“You're, ah, you're standing-in-my-way-andcouldyoupleasemovejustalittle?”
Precious.
“Are you the Prince?” I asked, and of course I knew that. He stared at his shoes and nodded. I waited for him to say something, but he
didn't, so I decided to take things in my own hands.
“I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me?”
“Uhh. Sure?”
“Brilliant.” I beamed, and dragged him with me through the mass of people.
The Prince was getting suspicious about then, I think. “W-wait, I didn't –”
“It's about something outside,” I lied smoothly.
“Oh, right,” he said, and gave a half-hearted sort of laugh. The kind that says, “I'm such an idiot.” I wished he wouldn't laugh like that.
-
We got to the parking lot without incident.
“So, uhm, what's the question?” the Prince asked, really nervous now. I grinned confidently and pulled him over to our car. I could see the vague outline of Carmine through one of the sooted windows. I think he was giving me a “thumbs up”.
“Tell me, dearest Prince,” I said, moving closer to him. “Do you like men?”
His eyes opened unreasonably wide, and his face flushed bright red.
I smirked, and pressed my lips against his. The Prince was frozen for a moment, and then he melted into me. Figuratively speaking, of course. It was delicious.
And then Ping hit him so hard he lost consciousness.
-
“You didn't have to hit him that hard, you know,” I said. We were on the way to the headquarters, and I was cradling the unconscious Prince in my lap.
“Don't sulk,” Ping chided, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I'm not,” I said, and it was sort of true. I was just ... annoyed. Sexually frustrated. “But you could have waited. We were just getting to the good part!”
“It was the Plan.” Ping always works after the Plan. He hates deviations with all his heart. (Although sometimes I doubt he has a heart.)
“Still.”
“If you want to exchange spit with the Prince, you can do it later, when we get to HQ.”
There was a shuffling sound from the back seat, and then, “awesome!”
-
I've heard once that when people sleep, you can see the soul on their faces. The Prince had a beautiful soul, even though it drooled a little.
It was the first day after the Prince's kidnapping, and Carmine was out posting the Generic Threat Letter. I didn't know where Ping was, but this wasn't unusual. Besides, I was occupied.
The Prince was really, really pretty up close.
-
When the Prince woke up, I was petting his hair. Then he panicked and I had to subdue him. Which I did. With my mouth.
Of course, then he bit my tongue. It was about that time Carmine came back and wrestled him down for me, so that I could do something to stop the bleeding. I didn't know how to stop it, though, so we ended up waiting it out.
When Ping came home and saw us – Carmine was firmly seated on the Prince's chest, and I had gone back to petting his hair, while the Prince himself had given up fighting, and was staring at the ceiling – he simply rolled his eyes and went to make himself some food.
-
The next week was troublesome.
After his third attempt on escaping, we had to tie the Prince to the bed. Of course this started a whole new train of thought on my part, which might have caused me to smile lecherously whenever we were in the same room. It probably didn't help. For one thing, the Prince would get all stiff and quiet when he saw me. And he never, ever spoke.
I suppose that the whole “scared to death” thing might cause a fellow to sober up a bit, but there are limits.
-
On the seventh day, I'd had enough.
The Prince gave me the “ohshitIknowhe'sgoingtokillmethistime” look – it was the two hundred and eighty-first, and I know that because I counted – and swallowed. It made me really annoyed.
“Have I ever hurt you?” I snapped. The Prince didn't say anything, but I'm pretty sure that he was mentally rolling his eyes at me.
“That's right,” I said, and sat down on the bed beside him. He stiffened, but I ignored it, and went on, “I haven't.”
The Prince scoffed. I cuffed him lightly over the head.
“Stop that.”
“Wh – what do you want with me?” he asked, and his voice was rusty with disuse. I wondered absently if he'd gotten anything to drink today.
I shrugged. “Ransom, mostly.”
He blinked, and looked almost disappointed. Then again, that might have been wishful thinking on my part. “Oh.”
There was silence, long and painfully drawn out. I hate those kinds of silences, so I decided to break it.
“You're making this harder than it needs to be, Prince-boy.”
The Prince stared at me. I recognised it – it was the “are-you-insane?” stare I knew from Ping. “I am making this harder than it needs to be?”
Hmm. It seemed like anger made his stutter disappear. The thought made me grin, which unnerved the Prince and turned him back into the meek creature he usually was. I sighed and petted his hair, and he glared at me again.
“It's really very simple,” I told him, “if you don't try to run away, then we won't have to tie you down. And if we don't have to tie you down, you get a bit more freedom.”
“There's not a lot of difference,” he muttered, not looking at me.
“There's a world of difference,” I said.
“Li – like what?”
“It's about freedom,” I said, “and principles.”
“I won't be able to – to leave anyway,” the Prince said. I petted his hair and said nothing.
“Please stop that,” he said, voice tinged with annoyance.
“Don't want to,” I said.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Stop touching my hair!”
There was a stunned silence. I don't know who was most surprised, because the Prince looked just as baffled as I was. Then I smiled, and stroked his cheek instead.
“See,” I said cheerfully, “if you hadn't been tied up like this, you could have locked yourself in a bathroom or something to make me stop.”
The Prince glared at me. “Fine,” he said, after what seemed like a couple of aeons, “I'll be a ... a good boy, then. Untie me. Please.”
'Happy' is too weak a word to describe my feelings right then.
“Okay, then, Prince-boy.”
“Aren't – aren't you going to ask me to give my word that I won't escape?”
“No,” I said, (the thought that he'd try to run away again hadn't really crossed my mind,) “because you won't. And you don't have to sound so incredulous about it.”
Then I untied him. He sat up and rubbed his wrists, and the look on his face was very odd. I frowned.
“Is there a problem?”
“N-no,” the Prince said. It sounded like a lie, so I reached for his wrists and took a moment to study them. They seemed to be in a reasonably well condition, if not slightly chafed. Nothing that wouldn't be gone in two days or so.
“It'll be fine,” I told him. He was staring at me, and his face turned a funny sort of red.
“You're not going to, ah, try anything on me, are you?” His voice was really small. I shrugged.
“I'm not into that sort of thing.” If things had been different, though...
I can almost make believe that the look on his face is disappointment and not relief.
-
Five days later, we realised that Carmine had managed to post the ransom letter wrong, which explained why no-one had come with money yet. It didn't explain the rumours of the Prince's elopement to the Nair Isles with one of the chamber maids, but it's my experience that most rumours are like that, so I didn't bother wondering about it.
Besides, why would the Prince bother with a chamber maid, of all people?
-
After Carmine had reposted the letter, we decided to break out the beer and get truly pissed.
I had momentarily forgotten that I don't drink beer, but after the first mouthful of golden brew, I remembered again, and spat it out. Some of it hit Carmine's left shoe.
“Oh, man, sick!” he whined. Of course, two minutes later, he had forgotten, being fully on the way to drunken oblivion, or whatever it's called.
He wasn't the only person who got drunk that night.
-
Ping has zero tolerance for alcohol. This meant that, after his first pint, he threw an arm around Carmine's shoulder and started Talking Philosophically about Life, The Universe and Everything. And that girl he'd seen in an emergency room five years ago and fallen head over heels in love with, also. Carmine quickly became inebriated enough to make sense of Ping's rambling, nodding enthusiastically and adding a slurred, “awesome,” in all the right places.
-
It was about then that I removed myself from their presence, devoting instead my attention to the Prince. He was sitting at the kitchen table and nursing his own pint with a slightly far-off expression.
“Aren't you going to get drunk?” he asked, quietly. I grinned, because he didn't stutter.
“Don't like beer,” I said, “it tastes like piss.”
“Hmm,” said the Prince, and drank some from his glass.
It was an hour and several pints later. (Not on me, obviously.)
Without warning, the Prince grabbed my arm. I turned to stare at him.
“You have pretty eyes,” he said. There was something warm and fuzzy in my stomach.
“You are very drunk,” I countered. He smiled impishly.
“That I am.”
“You should get to bed, Prince-boy.”
“'S Ayden.”
“What?”
“My name. 'S Ayden.”
Pretty name for a pretty boy, I thought, but didn't say it, because then he'd think I was a pervert. “You should get to bed, Ayden.”
“Hmm. Don' want to.”
“Doesn't matter.”
“Not tired.”
“Irrelevant.”
“You're mean.”
“A little.” Then I got hold of him and lifted him up. He made a noise like a cat being stepped on, and clutched at me.
“Wh – what are you doing?”
“Taking you to bed.”
“But-”
“Shush.”
And then I carried Ayden into the bedroom we were keeping him in, and dumped him on the bed.
Only he wouldn't let go. Which made me both very happy and a bit frustrated.
“Look-” I said, but he cut me off before I could get any further.
“I want you to kiss me again,” Ayden said, and passed out.
-
I couldn't sleep that night.
-
“We're found out!” someone yelled in my ear. I blinked dumbly. Closer inspection revealed one frenzied Ping. It was two days after the Drunken Incident. (Ayden, it seemed, had forgotten all about it, which was a crying shame.)
“Repeat that?”
“They've found us, Angel!”
“And who would they be?”
He hits me with Glare 35#, “is-it-even-possible-to-be-this-stupid?”.
“It's – ” I checked the clock on the wall. “– five thirty in the morning. I'm sorry if I don't seem quite up to speed.”
“The Royal Guard, you bloody halfwit,” Ping hissed. I was surprised – Ping isn't one to swear. “The Secret Police. They've found the HQ.”
I got out of bed. “Well, that's bad.”
“Yes. We have approximately five minutes to clear out.”
“What about Ayden?” Carmine rarely spent the night at the headquarters.
“Who?”
“You know, Prince-boy.”
“There's no time,” Ping said, “we have five bloody minutes.”
“Give me two,” I said, and left the room.
-
For some reason, Ayden wasn't asleep when I got to his room.
“What-?” The confused look was really quite adorable on him.
“They've found us,” I said, “we're getting out of here about now-ish.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, eyes wide.
“You are staying right here, actually.”
“I thought this was about the money,” Ayden said.
“Sort of,” I said.
“Wha – what do you mean, 'sort of'?”
I sighed. There really was no time. “I mean, 'sort of'.”
“But-”
I did what seemed like the most logical thing to do at the time – I went over and kissed him. Ayden had a bad case of morning breath, which was somewhat nasty, but it was still a nice kiss. He did the melting thing again, and that was terrific. Then Ping's hand was on my shoulder.
“If you're finished exchanging spit, I would like to get the hell out before they get here.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling a bit dazed, and we left the room before Ayden had the time to say anything.
-
We took the car and drove to Carmine's place.
Well, technically it was Carmine's place. He's living with some mad scientist woman and a prick whose name is Anthony. (The first – and only – time we met went like this: “Hey, I'm – ” “My name is Anthony. Keep out of my way and don't touch anything and I won't castrate you.”)
Anthony isn't in the apartment much, though, which is a blessing.
-
When we knocked on the door, the mad scientist woman opened.
She squinted at us. There was silence. Then, “You were found out, weren't you?”
I nodded weakly. It's not that we ever told her anything, as such, it's just that she's creepily observant.
“We have space. Ant is on a business trip.” And then she smiled, slowly and with bad intentions. “You can have his room while you're here.”
“Thank you,” Ping said.
There was a shuffling sound from inside the apartment, and then, “awesome!”
-
There are two things I hate about autumn:
1.Everything dies, and
2.things get all soggy and wet.
That year, there was one more thing to add to the list:
3.There was no Prince.
Under ordinary circumstances, this wouldn't have bothered me, but after the kidnapping an unusual amount of my time had been spent thinking about Ayden. So I got a particularly bad case of SAD.
-
“Angel.” That was Ping. “You are being pathetic. Get over yourself.”
“No,” I said, and sighed. I'd been doing an awful lot of sighing for the past two weeks.
“Your depressive behaviour is driving everyone around the bend,” Ping said.
“Why should I care?” If I couldn't be allowed happiness, why should anyone else?
“Gaia's sake,” he growled, and socked me in the face.
“Y – you hit me!” I whined, touching my cheek gingerly. It stung. “You could have broken my jaw! Bastard!”
And then I hit him back, which was not the smartest thing I could have done. Ping is two heads taller than me and really broad and muscular.
-
Long story short, there was pain.
-
When the mad scientist saw my predicament, she laughed. Then she handed me a magazine and told me to read. So I did.
It was a tabloid. The most prestigious tabloid in Ardoory, but still a tabloid. I was about to put it down and tell the mad scientist that gossip about nobles mattered fuck-all to me, when I caught sight of one of the headlines.
Prince Looking For Love – exclusive interview
Well, now I was interested. Hastily, I riffled through the magazine until I found the right page. A picture of Ayden smiled shyly at me. I ignored the warm feeling spreading in my chest, and read the article.
That the Prince of New Breva is handsome is a well known fact. Another, lesser know fact is that he is single. We have gotten an interview with the elusive man.
So, tell us, what are you looking for in a girl?
The Prince blushes prettily. - I like a girl who can stand up for herself. A girl who isn't afraid to fight for her opinions.
Do you have anyone in your sights?
-There is one, actually. I think I love her, but –
I stopped reading and put the magazine down. My hands were shaking. The mad scientist was studying me intently over a cup of coffee.
“What. The fuck. Is this?” I asked quietly. A slow smile stretched across her face.
“Go,” she said, “make things right.”
So I went, still clutching the magazine in my hand.
-
As it turned out, entering the castle when there were no parties was harder than I'd thought it would be.
“Let me in.”
The guard in front of me rolled his eyes. “Look, sir, I can't let you in just like that.”
“Let me in, you bastard, I need to see the Prince.”
“I'm sure you do.”
I gritted my teeth. “I. Need. To see. Him.”
“Oh, really?” His voice was practically oozing sarcasm. I wanted to punch his lights out. Instead, I waved the magazine in his face.
“This needs an explanation,” I said, almost calmly. The guard sighed.
“Look. I don't mean to be rude, but maybe you should just go home?”
“No! I need –” I swallowed. Pestering the guard didn't seem to be working. I decided to use a different approach. “Ayden!” I yelled, “Ayden, you bastard, I need to talk to you!”
This did not lead to a confrontation, as I had hoped, but caused the guard to hit me over the head and tell me to “go away and don't come back, if you know what's good for you”.
-
What I needed, I realised, was a better plan. I spent the walk back to Carmine's apartment trying to come up with one, but it turned out to be much harder than I had anticipated. This was mostly because I was too annoyed to think straight.
... I've been told that “annoyed” isn't strong enough. Vexed, then.
The extent of my vexation had reached new heights by the time I got to the apartment. To make this known, I made sure to slam the door hard enough for the walls to shake.
“Now, now,” said the scientist, “let's not destroy any doors today, hmm?”
She was doing some strange experiment by the kitchen sink. I decided that I didn't want to know.
“Whatever you say,” I muttered, and sat down in one of the chairs.
“Things didn't go the way you planned.” If it were anyone else, it would have been a question.
“They wouldn't let me in,” I said, “I need a plan.”
“Yes, that does tend to make things easier,” the mad scientist said. Her tone grated my nerves.
“I'm really quite annoyed,” I said. It was meant as a warning.
“I can see that,” she said, with a slight nod, “the way you constantly clench and unclench your fists would serve as conclusive proof.”
I blinked, and looked down; it was true. Oh, I thought, that's odd. I hadn't really noticed.
Then there was a knock on the door.
“You get it,” I said. Of course I didn't need to say it, because the mad scientist always opens the door, but it felt nice to pretend that I had control over something.
“But of course.”
-
Under normal circumstances, it takes the mad scientist 2.5 seconds to identify a visitor, as well as an additional 1.3 to figure out the visitor's reason for visiting. That day, she used 1.4.
-
“You are looking for Angel.”
Silence. Perhaps a nod. My back was turned, so I don't know. Who...?
“You have fallen in love and you want him to do you.”
I got to my feet, upending my chair in the process. Without wasting time to put it back up, I hurried to the door and pushed the mad scientist out of the way.
-
It was him. Of course it was him.
He was wearing a dark, hooded jacket that partly obscured his face, but I'd recognise him anywhere.
“Hello,” said Ayden, and smiled.
Fin.
(Sort of.)
And! First official slash story!
... Wish I didn't fail so hard when it comes to romance, but oh well. Concrit good. Bring it on. Please.
And Undead Alive is a much better read. ((Notice my sneaky-ness: P))