Marco lit another cigarette under the star-speckled tropical night and suddenly scrambled for his phone as an idea struck him. "Johan. Listen, I need info on someone. Name's Nate Barton. Macronesian national. Dossier transferred to Falcon One with a hard copy waiting on my desk when I get back. ASAP. I want to know everything about this guy down to his middle school grades and his hat size. You know where you can shove your official channels. Get on the Garda for an all points advisory, too. I want the whoreson cuffed in the back of a Benz before he even gets a chance to fart in this country, understand? Granted, I don't know where he is or what he has planned, so best-case scenario this is totally unnecessary. No, I'm not fucking scared of the guy," he snorted. "It's my brother he's pissed at. Something over a woman they were both interested in, apparently this guy had serious issues and he just kinda snapped after Paris got to her first. I assume it was worth it but you'd have to ask him, I'm hazy on the precise details. No, I didn't. I know it was stupid, Belán's tits, I do have that much self-awareness. Give me credit for that if nothing else. I took a calculated risk and lost. We were promised local protection, and look where that got us. Shit happens. Now quit with the damn lectures, Father's bad enough. Right. Good man. Thanks."
"Who was that?" Paris emerged from the house silhouetted in an amber glow from the lights inside, looking like he'd aged five years and smoothing down a shirt rumpled by rolhugs. "GIR. Covering your ass for you." Shaking his head, Paris moved upwind of his brother's cigarette as his brother muttered "shit, sorry" and took a step further away. "Great, now they'll probably have this man's face plastered in every post office & train station in the damned country. Thanks a lot." Marco ground his teeth.
"I'm thinking three steps ahead, Paris. Proper planning and contingency procedures in the event of even one iota of uncertainty are how you operate in a life like mine. Half the people you meet want to kiss your feet, the other half want to stick an ice pick through your skull, and you can never be 100% sure about who's which. First thing Father taught me. Friends close, enemies closer." His brother laughed bitterly.
"Funny, I was never taught that. Perhaps I missed school that day."
"Paris, listen to me." Marco sighed. "Asking me to apologize for what my father's said and done regarding us is like asking me to apologize for my existence. I can't do anything about a relationship dynamic that was practically carved in stone from the moment of our birth. I can't control what he thinks about you and I. But I can apologize for my part in it. Brother, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for calling you weak, I'm sorry for thinking you're an effeminate jerk, I'm sorry for making fun of your clothes and your hair and your mannerisms and the way you talk. And even though I don't say or show it much, I love you."
"How's it going with Patyu, anyway?" Marco yawned and stretched as the jet lag started to come back a little.
"Could be a lot better, but definitely improved nevertheless. I'm hardly comfortable with mendacity, so I have to admit that I invited her back with us for somewhat selfish reasons in addition to charity. There's no way in hell that she and I are going to patch everything up one random diplomatic event at a time, we need the ability to work things out face-to-face for a long period of time and that's what this gives us." Paris craned his neck at the ink-blue sky. "What a view. You don't get anything like this in the city."
"How do you want to handle Father? I know it's a big place, but they're going to meet sooner or later." Marco had just posed a question that his brother had deliberately failed to think about, resulting in the usual sigh and polishing of glasses before a response came.
"Oh, hell. Make sure she knows how to act around him, tell him she's a friend I made from the party in Western Fartlefuck or however you pronounce it who I invited here out of the kindness of my heart after she told me she couldn't go home, and pray that he doesn't immediately dislike her."
Marco gave a short bark of laughter. "Creative interpretation of the truth, I must be rubbing off on you. Listen, I'm going to go and give our feline friend the scoop." He left Paris alone, alone and lost in himself.
"Patyu, hey. Just wanted to give you an idea of what tomorrow's going to be like." Patyu looked scared of him, but it was probably just his size. Well, that and the scar. And the eyes. Ice-blue wasn't a friendly color. "We're leaving at exactly 9:00 tomorrow morning with or without you, you'd better pack pretty warm since it's the middle of winter back home and colder than an empty whorehouse, and you're going to want to bring a book or whatever else to keep yourself occupied since it's probably going to be a 20-hour flight or thereabouts. We have to fight the trade winds from here to halfway across the States, but it's a big plane so the turbulence shouldn't be too bad. Touchdown in the capital's probably going to be around seven on Sunday night. Oh, and Helena sends her love. She's pissed off at me for giving her such short notice to get stuff done in preparation for your arrival, but she says hi and that she's excited to see you again. See you at the air base tomorrow, I hope." Leaving Patyu with more questions than answers but feeling like that had on the whole gone well regardless, he went to go borrow a rubber mallet, a roll of duct tape, a stout chain and a couple ratchet straps from Ross' garage and see about getting the Benz back together enough to limp it to the hotel and not have to bribe the rental guy too much in the morning. "Hey, Ross? I was going to give this to Ari personally since it's my Christmas present for her, but she's sort of disappeared." He handed the older man the knife, having almost forgotten to stick the little label on the sheath reading "for Ari, from Marco' in a somewhat untidy blue Mont Blanc ballpoint cursive. "Thanks for the party, by the way, it's been good. Sorry about your wall, and uhh... sorry for tearing you a new one earlier. I've been working on my anger issues, but you didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of my failure with that. Hope you enjoy your Christmas, and I'll hopefully be seeing you at the wedding."
After giving both catgirls a ride back to the hotel Marco locked his room's door, slipped into something a lot more comfortable, made himself a Jack and Coke from the minibar, cued up some Joy Division and flopped resignedly into a chair. It wasn't that he begrudged Patyu the journey back home or that he didn't like her, far from it, but it just...complicated things a bit. He'd still be able to put in the legwork as His Majesty's personal hatchet man, still be able to keep grounded with workouts, Maja, Rohan, and getting his hands dirty in the palace garage, but everyday domestic stuff was going to be difficult. Modern life, Father, learning a third language, those were going to be issues. What was Patyu even going to do, anyway? He certainly didn't want her to rattle around a huge palace mopey and bored out of her little rolmind. He brushed a mop of silvery-blond hair out of his eyes and checked his phone: status update from Helena, [warned for PG-13 violation] from Rohan, and a reminder that he had an appointment to renew his driver's license. Nothing too special. "Ugh, what a fucking day," the Crown Prince muttered to himself before finally hitting the shower and settling in for what would turn out to be a surprisingly great night of sleep.
Meanwhile, Paris was next door packing his suitcase with a level of neurotic organization that would have put the fear of God into Marie Kondo and trying to calm down. Patyu was going to hate the country and everyone in it and hate him and hate Marco and hate Helena and hate their dad and be bored out of her mind and hate the language and hate the weather and be depressed and sad and lonely and miserable and cry all the time and look tiny and pitiful and crushed and maybe have another panic attack or three and oh gods oh gods oh shit what about the laser that was still here she couldn't be herself without that and she'd be so fed up and feel so horrible and blame herself for everything that she'd run away and slip and fall and hit her head and knock herself out under a motorway flyover on the east side of town and freeze to death in a snow drift or maybe she'd get hit by a bus or get kidnapped or fall victim to a serial killer or get sacrificed by a cult and everyone would hate him for that and blame him for her death and yes as a matter of fact it would actually be all his fault and then Khensu and Ari would beat him up for being a useless sickly femboy weakling nuisance idiot asshole who couldn't even take care of an adult like Patyu properly and betrayed everyone's trust and oh gods this was going to be the worst decision he'd ever made in his life wasn't it of course it was going to be the worst decision he'd ever made in his life you stupid stupid stupid stupid bastard why did you have to be so nice earlier and tell her she could come home with us why did you have to get lasered in the first place why did you have to even go to Western Fardelshufflestein in the first place why did you have to give her cinnamon rols and compliment her and flirt with her and give her champagne in the limo and buy the dress and the jewelry and the lingerie and [REDACTED] okay she definitely enjoyed all that but still just why why why why why why why why why Paris you stupid fuck oh gods was this what a panic attack felt like okay this was definitely a panic attack calm down calm down calm down calm calm calm calm calm just breathe breathe breathe breathe one two three four five six seven eight nine ten it's not helping it's not helping it's not helping-
Love may have already come for Marco, but it was sure as hell trying to tear Patyu, Paris and Paris' mind apart again.
"You look like an unmade bed. Bad night?"
"In a manner of speaking. I have eaten, by the way, I just got room service. The idea of people didn't sound appealing. What the hell is this?" Marco swatted his brother's hand away from the Benz's radio. "The Who."
"Who?"
"No, the Who. Please don't tell me you've never heard of the Who or I will actually fucking commit you to an insane asylum."
"No, I haven't. Rock-"
"-is simple, tasteless music for simple, tasteless people, yes, I know, you've said it before and I still think you're a soulless elitist with no appreciation of talent for saying it. Just let people enjoy the things that make them happy- actually, Paris, tell me something. Does anything make you happy?"
"I don't know. I haven't gotten back into painting for years, Lisanne was a mistake, and I don't go out and socialize unless I absolutely have to. So, no, not really. I just don't really do happy, I guess."
There was silence apart from an expensive-sounding gronch from the front suspension as Marco nailed a pothole.
"Listen, why don't you get your old shrink to refer you to a psychiatrist and see if you're clinically depressed?"
"Why?"
"If you'll allow me to shoot from the hip, it's because over the past eleven years you've slowly turned into the saddest, grayest, mopiest, most obstinately miserable bastard I've ever known and I'd like to know why."
"Fair enough."
Falcon One had already been refueled to the brim by the time they got to the airfield after a further 15 minutes of awkward silence, so there wasn't much left to do except for Marco to tuck the Benz's key up in its sun visor after ditching it next to the hangar (after all, it wasn't going to be his problem in about a quarter of an hour) and for both men to simply stand in the shade of the stair truck and wait for their passenger. Patyu looked even smoller and more vulnerable than usual, a floofy little speck with a big rucksack dwarfed by the taxiways' shimmering expanse drawing closer, and closer, and closer, and finally letting out a scared but also oddly defiant "I-I'm ready to g-go" that Paris had difficulty hearing over the huge jet's auxiliary power unit. Instead of asking her to speak up, he merely put a protective arm around her, helping her up the steps and into her new life. "Welcome aboard, Patyu." The catgirl looked around in awe as a kindly flight attendant escorted her to a big, comfortable brown leather seat next to Paris. "Make sure you've got your seatbelt on." A solid hiss-whumpf sounded as the door closed, sealing off their air-conditioned cocoon away from the outside world. Away from Ross, away from Nate Barton, away from her ateghn Ari, and away from what remained of the little stability she had in her life.
This wasn't going to be pretty.
"Who was that?" Paris emerged from the house silhouetted in an amber glow from the lights inside, looking like he'd aged five years and smoothing down a shirt rumpled by rolhugs. "GIR. Covering your ass for you." Shaking his head, Paris moved upwind of his brother's cigarette as his brother muttered "shit, sorry" and took a step further away. "Great, now they'll probably have this man's face plastered in every post office & train station in the damned country. Thanks a lot." Marco ground his teeth.
"I'm thinking three steps ahead, Paris. Proper planning and contingency procedures in the event of even one iota of uncertainty are how you operate in a life like mine. Half the people you meet want to kiss your feet, the other half want to stick an ice pick through your skull, and you can never be 100% sure about who's which. First thing Father taught me. Friends close, enemies closer." His brother laughed bitterly.
"Funny, I was never taught that. Perhaps I missed school that day."
"Paris, listen to me." Marco sighed. "Asking me to apologize for what my father's said and done regarding us is like asking me to apologize for my existence. I can't do anything about a relationship dynamic that was practically carved in stone from the moment of our birth. I can't control what he thinks about you and I. But I can apologize for my part in it. Brother, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for calling you weak, I'm sorry for thinking you're an effeminate jerk, I'm sorry for making fun of your clothes and your hair and your mannerisms and the way you talk. And even though I don't say or show it much, I love you."
"How's it going with Patyu, anyway?" Marco yawned and stretched as the jet lag started to come back a little.
"Could be a lot better, but definitely improved nevertheless. I'm hardly comfortable with mendacity, so I have to admit that I invited her back with us for somewhat selfish reasons in addition to charity. There's no way in hell that she and I are going to patch everything up one random diplomatic event at a time, we need the ability to work things out face-to-face for a long period of time and that's what this gives us." Paris craned his neck at the ink-blue sky. "What a view. You don't get anything like this in the city."
"How do you want to handle Father? I know it's a big place, but they're going to meet sooner or later." Marco had just posed a question that his brother had deliberately failed to think about, resulting in the usual sigh and polishing of glasses before a response came.
"Oh, hell. Make sure she knows how to act around him, tell him she's a friend I made from the party in Western Fartlefuck or however you pronounce it who I invited here out of the kindness of my heart after she told me she couldn't go home, and pray that he doesn't immediately dislike her."
Marco gave a short bark of laughter. "Creative interpretation of the truth, I must be rubbing off on you. Listen, I'm going to go and give our feline friend the scoop." He left Paris alone, alone and lost in himself.
"Patyu, hey. Just wanted to give you an idea of what tomorrow's going to be like." Patyu looked scared of him, but it was probably just his size. Well, that and the scar. And the eyes. Ice-blue wasn't a friendly color. "We're leaving at exactly 9:00 tomorrow morning with or without you, you'd better pack pretty warm since it's the middle of winter back home and colder than an empty whorehouse, and you're going to want to bring a book or whatever else to keep yourself occupied since it's probably going to be a 20-hour flight or thereabouts. We have to fight the trade winds from here to halfway across the States, but it's a big plane so the turbulence shouldn't be too bad. Touchdown in the capital's probably going to be around seven on Sunday night. Oh, and Helena sends her love. She's pissed off at me for giving her such short notice to get stuff done in preparation for your arrival, but she says hi and that she's excited to see you again. See you at the air base tomorrow, I hope." Leaving Patyu with more questions than answers but feeling like that had on the whole gone well regardless, he went to go borrow a rubber mallet, a roll of duct tape, a stout chain and a couple ratchet straps from Ross' garage and see about getting the Benz back together enough to limp it to the hotel and not have to bribe the rental guy too much in the morning. "Hey, Ross? I was going to give this to Ari personally since it's my Christmas present for her, but she's sort of disappeared." He handed the older man the knife, having almost forgotten to stick the little label on the sheath reading "for Ari, from Marco' in a somewhat untidy blue Mont Blanc ballpoint cursive. "Thanks for the party, by the way, it's been good. Sorry about your wall, and uhh... sorry for tearing you a new one earlier. I've been working on my anger issues, but you didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of my failure with that. Hope you enjoy your Christmas, and I'll hopefully be seeing you at the wedding."
After giving both catgirls a ride back to the hotel Marco locked his room's door, slipped into something a lot more comfortable, made himself a Jack and Coke from the minibar, cued up some Joy Division and flopped resignedly into a chair. It wasn't that he begrudged Patyu the journey back home or that he didn't like her, far from it, but it just...complicated things a bit. He'd still be able to put in the legwork as His Majesty's personal hatchet man, still be able to keep grounded with workouts, Maja, Rohan, and getting his hands dirty in the palace garage, but everyday domestic stuff was going to be difficult. Modern life, Father, learning a third language, those were going to be issues. What was Patyu even going to do, anyway? He certainly didn't want her to rattle around a huge palace mopey and bored out of her little rolmind. He brushed a mop of silvery-blond hair out of his eyes and checked his phone: status update from Helena, [warned for PG-13 violation] from Rohan, and a reminder that he had an appointment to renew his driver's license. Nothing too special. "Ugh, what a fucking day," the Crown Prince muttered to himself before finally hitting the shower and settling in for what would turn out to be a surprisingly great night of sleep.
Meanwhile, Paris was next door packing his suitcase with a level of neurotic organization that would have put the fear of God into Marie Kondo and trying to calm down. Patyu was going to hate the country and everyone in it and hate him and hate Marco and hate Helena and hate their dad and be bored out of her mind and hate the language and hate the weather and be depressed and sad and lonely and miserable and cry all the time and look tiny and pitiful and crushed and maybe have another panic attack or three and oh gods oh gods oh shit what about the laser that was still here she couldn't be herself without that and she'd be so fed up and feel so horrible and blame herself for everything that she'd run away and slip and fall and hit her head and knock herself out under a motorway flyover on the east side of town and freeze to death in a snow drift or maybe she'd get hit by a bus or get kidnapped or fall victim to a serial killer or get sacrificed by a cult and everyone would hate him for that and blame him for her death and yes as a matter of fact it would actually be all his fault and then Khensu and Ari would beat him up for being a useless sickly femboy weakling nuisance idiot asshole who couldn't even take care of an adult like Patyu properly and betrayed everyone's trust and oh gods this was going to be the worst decision he'd ever made in his life wasn't it of course it was going to be the worst decision he'd ever made in his life you stupid stupid stupid stupid bastard why did you have to be so nice earlier and tell her she could come home with us why did you have to get lasered in the first place why did you have to even go to Western Fardelshufflestein in the first place why did you have to give her cinnamon rols and compliment her and flirt with her and give her champagne in the limo and buy the dress and the jewelry and the lingerie and [REDACTED] okay she definitely enjoyed all that but still just why why why why why why why why why Paris you stupid fuck oh gods was this what a panic attack felt like okay this was definitely a panic attack calm down calm down calm down calm calm calm calm calm just breathe breathe breathe breathe one two three four five six seven eight nine ten it's not helping it's not helping it's not helping-
Love may have already come for Marco, but it was sure as hell trying to tear Patyu, Paris and Paris' mind apart again.
"You look like an unmade bed. Bad night?"
"In a manner of speaking. I have eaten, by the way, I just got room service. The idea of people didn't sound appealing. What the hell is this?" Marco swatted his brother's hand away from the Benz's radio. "The Who."
"Who?"
"No, the Who. Please don't tell me you've never heard of the Who or I will actually fucking commit you to an insane asylum."
"No, I haven't. Rock-"
"-is simple, tasteless music for simple, tasteless people, yes, I know, you've said it before and I still think you're a soulless elitist with no appreciation of talent for saying it. Just let people enjoy the things that make them happy- actually, Paris, tell me something. Does anything make you happy?"
"I don't know. I haven't gotten back into painting for years, Lisanne was a mistake, and I don't go out and socialize unless I absolutely have to. So, no, not really. I just don't really do happy, I guess."
There was silence apart from an expensive-sounding gronch from the front suspension as Marco nailed a pothole.
"Listen, why don't you get your old shrink to refer you to a psychiatrist and see if you're clinically depressed?"
"Why?"
"If you'll allow me to shoot from the hip, it's because over the past eleven years you've slowly turned into the saddest, grayest, mopiest, most obstinately miserable bastard I've ever known and I'd like to know why."
"Fair enough."
Falcon One had already been refueled to the brim by the time they got to the airfield after a further 15 minutes of awkward silence, so there wasn't much left to do except for Marco to tuck the Benz's key up in its sun visor after ditching it next to the hangar (after all, it wasn't going to be his problem in about a quarter of an hour) and for both men to simply stand in the shade of the stair truck and wait for their passenger. Patyu looked even smoller and more vulnerable than usual, a floofy little speck with a big rucksack dwarfed by the taxiways' shimmering expanse drawing closer, and closer, and closer, and finally letting out a scared but also oddly defiant "I-I'm ready to g-go" that Paris had difficulty hearing over the huge jet's auxiliary power unit. Instead of asking her to speak up, he merely put a protective arm around her, helping her up the steps and into her new life. "Welcome aboard, Patyu." The catgirl looked around in awe as a kindly flight attendant escorted her to a big, comfortable brown leather seat next to Paris. "Make sure you've got your seatbelt on." A solid hiss-whumpf sounded as the door closed, sealing off their air-conditioned cocoon away from the outside world. Away from Ross, away from Nate Barton, away from her ateghn Ari, and away from what remained of the little stability she had in her life.
This wasn't going to be pretty.