Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will had been drawing for quite some time when he spotted the frog.

There was nothing remarkable about it, really – just a common frog, small in size with large black eyes and body of a deep green, speckled with dark spots. It stood perfectly still, crouched on one of the many lily pads that covered the surface of the pond; its weight not heavy enough to sink the large leaf but enough to cause a small dip where the animal sat.

Will got the uncanny feeling the frog was staring at him. Which was rather silly of him – because what about it, if the frog was actually staring? It’s not like it would cause him any harm. Still, he couldn’t stop the spark of irritation from flaring in his chest. The whole reason why he was currently hiding in the gardens was, indeed, not being stared at .

Being a prince – even if not the crown one – came with unsettling amounts of staring and excessive loads of attention; and a busy, busy schedule which left him exhausted by the end of the day, with no energy left to pick up a paintbrush or sneak out to meet his closest friends.

It was rare for Will to manage slipping away between an etiquette lesson and a political strategy one, to grab his sketchbook and some charcoal and retreat to the most secluded area of the palace gardens – a small circular clearing surrounded by tall hedges, with a quaint little pond and elaborate stone benches.

It was pure bliss to steal away those moments of solitude and just draw, breathe, be; the only times Will could truly be at peace and unwind, away from the privy eyes of his preceptors and servants. 
Few and precious scattered grains of sand stolen from the hourglass of his life, one that had been turned without his consent – Will was not that naïve nor that ungrateful, he knew what a privilege it was to be born into royalty and what an honour to serve his kingdom and ensure the safety and prosperity of his beloved subjects. It was for him an unlimited source of pride to be so well-loved and respected by his people, but it came with a price and a weight Will often found too much to handle. 
It was only in moments like these he could truly feel like himself: when he was alone with his thoughts. And when he was alone with Mike.

Will wondered where his best friend could be now – likely on the training grounds or patrolling the Castle. Maybe Will could go look for him, perhaps in a minute, though, he didn’t feel like leaving the quiet of the clearing just yet.

Although he missed Mike. It had been a while (two days to be exact, not that Will had been counting) since they had a quiet moment to themselves to talk and joke around; or just enjoy the other’s presence as they laid sprawled in silence on the soft grass of the gardens, or on the hard floor of one of the many unused chambers of the Castle, hands mere inches apart but never touching. No matter how fiercely Will wished to slide his trembling and clammy hand in Mike’s, he never did. Never dared.
Those few inches separating them when they were alone – or the lack thereof, when Mike pressed himself to Will’s side, shoulder to thigh, with no respect whatsoever for court protocol or for Will’s poor, frantic heart – felt like an uncrossable distance when Will thought of words like rank, duty, politics, alliances or marriage.

The weight of it all threatening to crush him. Even so, if Mike as much as smiled at him while he was in the throes of such murky waters, he would suddenly feel like he could breathe again, his heart and throat constricting for entirely different, and much sweeter reasons.

Will shook his head, attempting to clear his mind of the pleasant daze that enveloped it like mist anytime he let his thoughts wander too close to Mike, to what it could be like, feel like to – to do anything with Mike. To enact any of the scenarios Will loved to torture himself with, like tracing the column of Mike’s fair throat with the tip of his finger, rather than with black tip of his charcoal sticks on parchment. Or following the outline of Mike’s lips with more than his eyes, running his finger gently on his best friend’s mouth, feeling the warmth and softness of it beneath the pad of his finger – better yet, caressing Mike’s lips with his own . Kiss the corner of his mouth Mike raised higher when smiling, drag his lips across his cheek – never leaving the skin and inching closer to those two darker freckles just beneath Mike’s right eye. Let his eyelashes flutter against Mike’s face as if they were leaving butterfly-kisses on their own.

Will cleared his throat and shook his head again to regain some composure, a warm flush already spreading on his cheeks and up to the tip of his ears.

Will and El’s etiquette preceptor had spent more than enough words on the importance of monarchs to be capable of controlling themselves and their thoughts, to never let the mask of composure slip from their faces, both in public and in private. Discipline, the little posh man would declare in his high-pitched voice, while marching back and forth in front of Will and his sister, a monarch cannot demand discipline from their subjects if he or she is incapable of disciplining themselves first. 
And although Will always made a point never to mention that neither he nor El would become monarchs unless tragedy struck Jonathan first, he had to agree on the need for discipline. 

Will had had enviable amounts of practice over the years in keeping himself in check whenever his thoughts would leave their path and wander in the darkest part of the forest, where he knew Mike awaited him. Or when Mike would kneel in the throne room together with the other high-rank knights and much to the King’s horror and the Queen and Princess’ amusement he would impudently wink at Will.

It was a miracle his father had not yet had Mike exiled or executed for contempt of the crown.

It was even a greater miracle Will had not yet burst into flames in front of the whole court, managing to straighten his back and scold his features everytime Mike declared himself above etiquette and common sense. Although Will could nothing against the violent lurch of his heart against his ribcage, nor the flush that would creep on his cheeks.

Fortunately, Mike was rarely that shameless, as he was well aware he had been walking on thin ice with the King since he was seven and had hidden in the kitchens pantry for a whole afternoon with Will, both giggling and snickering as the servants turned over the whole Castle looking for the young Prince.

Will smiled at the memory and lowered his eyes on his sketchbook. He frowned.

Where there had been a drawing of the pond – the large lilypad leaves surrounded by small curving marks to capture the ripples of the water; one large, beautifully open water lily, each petal carefully traced – was now a pair of dark eyes staring back at Will, crowned by delicately arched black eyebrows.

Will rubbed his face, resisting the urge to tear away the page, crumple it into a ball and toss it into the pond.

“So much for discipline,” he grumbled to himself.

It was so hard at times to not think of Mike, not when it came so easily, so naturally to him; like the thought of Mike was a river, trickling drop by drop through the crevices in Will’s mind and heart to run down his arm, flowing onto the paper when Will wasn’t paying attention to his own treacherous hand. He had a whole leatherbound sketchbook – hidden beneath a loose floorboard under his bed – filled with various sketches of his best friend. A collection of details and full portraits, different expressions and profiles; detailed drawings of Mike’s hands, slackened on one knees, gripping the handle of his sword or entwined with Will’s own. 
Will had made whole studies on how sunlight played with Mike’s features, lightening the colour of his eyes and darkening his freckles; how moonlight sharpened his cheekbones but softened the curve of his mouth.

Despite having a whole sketchbook devoted to Mike, too often portraits of him would find their way in Will’s other drawings, whether Will wanted it or not. Mostly he didn’t.

But why fight the current? Why throw away the sketch when he could just hide it beneath his bed with the others? It’s not like anyone would know how foolish and lovestruck Will was.

He was used to hiding his feelings, experienced at averting his gaze just before Mike turned to him and caught him staring; trained at resisting words like rank duty politics alliances marriage which swirled in his head like a riptide, threatening to pull him under. 
Yes, Will was good at pretending. No-one would know – not his family, not his etiquette preceptor, not Mike – how undisciplined Will could be when left on his own, how unashamedly and willingly he gave up the reins of his thoughts, just happy to see them run free and vulnerable.

Admittedly, pretending in front of others would have been less hard if Will didn’t already know what Mike’s lips felt against his. It was too easy to recall their warmth, how slightly chapped they were but still oh so soft against Will’s mouth, even at the lightest of touches. It was too easy to recall those few feather-light kisses and fill in the picture from there, imagining to gently card his fingers through Mike’s unruly black curls; to run one hand down Mike’s neck to hold him still and press his thumb on Mike’s jaw to angle him perfectly for they lips to slot together in a proper kiss – pressure and heat and movement instead of those childish caresses their lips had exchanged until now.

Will let out a long breath, his cheeks aflame.

The charcoal eyes he’d drawn were still relentlessly staring at him, not helping the redness on his face at all . Will cursed his own skills at capturing Mike’s intense gaze a little too accurately.

Maybe it was for the best that his moments of solitude were so sparse and rare if this was the outcome.

Except he wasn’t truly alone in the garden.

Will tore his eyes from the paper and looked over at the frog: it had not moved an inch, all the while Will had filled the page and got lost in his thoughts, found his way out and got lost anew.

The frog blinked slowly at him. Will lowered his sketchbook. It was definitely staring.

Perhaps he was being ridiculous, but the little amphibian’s large, black eyes were undoubtedly fixed on him. Will fought the need to slowly move left and right just to see if the creature would follow his movements.

A thought, rapid and sudden like lightning, crossed his mind but Will pushed it aside almost immediately, scoffing to himself. Now, that would have been truly ridiculous.

He looked at the frog a moment longer, searching for any tell-tale detail while the frog looked back at him, seemingly unbothered by his scrutiny and assessing Will in return.

Will shut his sketchbook, pocketed the charcoal sticks in his breeches and stood up from the stone bench, tired of the silly staring match and willing to return to the Castle to look for Mike or his sister, confident he could easily distract them from their duties and convince them to spend time in his company, instead.

He was about to turn on his heels when the frog jumped once, twice on the lily pad, croaking loudly. Will froze mid-step, following the animal as it leaped from leaf to leaf and jumped into the water, swimming rapidly and landing on the grass around the pond with a wet thud. 
It croaked again and jumped thrice more until it landed at Will’s feet, where it couched again, round eyes fixed on Will expectantly.

“Gods above,” he muttered, kneeling on the ground and putting aside his sketchbook “ not again ”.

Will cupped his hands in front of the frog which leaped immediately towards him, croaking happily as it crouched comfortably between his hands as if domesticated. Will got to his feet and looked around for a suitable spot while carefully holding the animal, afraid to accidentally drop it. Although it might serve him well , Will thought irritatedly.

The bench seemed like the obvious choice, but the first time he had miscalculated the proportions while sitting on a windowsill in a deserted hallway, causing both of them to topple down onto the hard stone floor. So the ground it was, then.

Will kneeled down on the grass, farther away from the pond, just in case. The frog had not moved from his cupped hands, seemingly perfectly content with the arrangement; it was a small weight to hold but wet and slippery and Will really looked forward to washing his hands in the pond and getting rid of the unpleasant slimy feeling against his skin.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, heart dancing rapidly in his chest as he stared in the frog’s eyes, readying himself for what needed to be done.

“Thrice in a month – unbelievable! El will hear me this time, this can’t keep happening. She shan’t be let near a grimoire ever again, I don’t care how much stronger her magic is becoming if she uses it for such childish antics – ”

Will took another breath, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears like freshwater. His hands began to tremble, shaking the animal, which croaked in indignation. “And I have some words for you, too,” he told the frog, “don’t think I’ll believe in your innocence. That is if – if it’s you, after all.”

Doubt crept in Will’s chest: maybe he’d been mistaken, maybe this was just a regular frog (albeit overly friendly with humans) and Will was making a fool of himself.

A small, sharp thorn of disappointment prickled at his heart at the prospect. Will bit his cheek, lost in thought.

Well, he was no expert on amphibian behaviours but the frog had behaved oddly: it had stared at him intently and followed him when he had tried to leave, willingly jumping into his open palms. No wild animal would ever behave like that. Moreover – 

Will dropped that logical line of thought like a stone in the water, letting it sink to the bottom of his mind.

Why lie to himself? Why pretend, even now, that he was blessedly alone and free to feel whatever he was feeling? He couldn’t keep himself in control at all times, it was wearing him down and Will feared soon or later he would crack in the worst circumstances – likely in front of the whole court, leaving his seat to run into Mike’s arms and kiss him breathless there in the crowded throne room, possibly giving his father a heart attack and thus handing the crown to Jonathan before time, all because he couldn’t keep his feelings to himself, exhausted by so much pretending .

So Will took mercy on himself and let the tattered barricade around his heart and mind shatter – just for today – and accepted that of course he hoped it was Mike in his hands; of course he longed for that brief, innocent press of Mike’s lips against his, for those few precious seconds that would keep him awake the whole night, staring at the canopy of his bed and wondering, hoping, wanting .

Crumbs are better than starving, Will decided as he stilled his hands and attempted to still his heart, too. “This better be you Michael, or I swear –”

The frog croaked. Will lowered his hands, gently shaking them to signal the frog to leap on the grass. The animal didn’t budge.

Will groaned. “You need get off my hands or you’ll crush me once you turn back. Have you forgotten last time? How you –” Will cut himself off, his stomach sinking delightfully at the memory of how he had found himself with a sudden lapful of Mike.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, as you wish, you stubborn amphibian. I expect your gratitude afterwards, I should really leave you in this state longer; teach you a lesson.” The firmness of his words clashed with his wavering voice.

Will loathed this part. How could he picture himself boldly taking Mike’s face in his hands and bringing their mouths together in the breath-stealing kiss he constantly dreamt of, when the thought alone of holding Mike’s hand and pecking his lips had him trembling like a willow branch in the wind, even when Mike looked like that ? Wishful thinking, Will had always exceeded that.

He needed to be careful and concentrate, lest he hurt Mike and himself. It was just a matter of speed: kiss the frog, then swiftly let it go of his hands before it turned back into his best friend, lean back so as not to end up on top of Mike. Will was getting worryingly good at this.

“If I fall ill with some disgusting disease one of these days, it will all be your fault. Yours and El’s.” The frog croaked in response, as if telling Will to just get it over with.

He sucked in a breath and leaned in to kiss the animal’s thin mouth, focusing on anything but the cold, wet, slimy feeling against his lips.

Mercifully, it was a short-lived discomfort. Will felt warmth on his face and hands as the kiss worked its magic.

It was a mesmerising feeling, to feel El’s magic course from his lips down to his feet, taking time to swirl into his chest like a warm drink on a winter night. It was the first timid ray of sunshine on his chill-bitten cheeks; the first furtive leap in the still freezing waters of the lake at springtime; the first exhilarating reel at the Midsummer Festival; the first crisp bite of apples stolen from the orchard, right beneath the gardener's nose. 
It was hiding in cupboards as children to avoid bath time, finger painting the halls and being scolded for it, sneaking in each other's chambers to hold hands after a nightmare.

It was unbelievable to think El could hold all of that inside her – so much warmth and marvel and light, all wrapped up in her small frame. Her magic was nothing but an extension of who his sister was, a portentous manifestation of El’s kindness and good-heartness which made the fire burn a little brighter and flowers smell a little sweeter in her presence.

And Will loved her so much . Even when he felt like strangling her for using her gift to take petty revenges on Mike, causing damage Will had then to mend.

Lost as he was in the feeling of El’s magic washing over him – inside him – like a gentle tide, Will forgot what he was meant to do.

The small weight in his hands grew heavier as Mike returned to his human form, warmth and light enveloping his body. Will closed his eyes against the golden hue that accompanied the transformation.

Beneath his lips, foul frog skin was replaced by the barely-there pressure of Mike’s soft mouth; Will’s mind going pleasantly blank at the tingling feeling that spread from his lips to his toes, taking hold of his entire chest and tightly gripping his furious heart before it beat out of Will’s chest.

When he realised he should have removed his hands from under Mike, it was too late: the sudden weight tipped him over, Will’s hands landing on the grass to steady himself and his lips pressing harder into Mike’s: not the delicate peck nor the feather-light touch Will was used to – but a proper kiss , gentle still, but firmer.

Will committed to memory as much as he could with his eyes still shut, collecting all the details his other senses could gather: the warmth of Mike’s mouth, the plushness of his lower lip against Will’s own, the small crease that cut across it, the way the tip of his nose brushed against Mike’s. Mike’s steady breath on his overheated face. The faint smell of water lilies and pond water still clinging to him, mixing with Mike’s scent and the honeyed traces of El’s magic still lingering around them.

Will’s stomach sank, coiled onto itself and jolted all at once as though the ground had given up below him and Will was falling, falling, falling –

He pulled back hastily, resisting the urge to press a trembling finger to his lips – how could they feel so cold now, after mere seconds of being pressed against Mike’s? Had it been seconds, though? How could Will be sure? It had felt like an eternity, a century. A whole hourglass and yet a single grain of sand.

Will fisted his hands in the grass, gripping it tightly and ripping a few green blades as he gulped air in his troubled lungs, scolding himself for being so careless.

He took two more deep breaths, his heartbeat seemingly slowing down to a more dignified pace, and opened his eyes.

That was his second mistake: not putting some distance between them before looking at Mike.

Breath stuck in Will’s throat.

He felt spellbound, unable to move though he wished to – the more logical, panic-stricken and disciplined side of him screaming at Will to get to his feet and run away as fast as he could, go back to the Castle and hole up in his room, board it up, even, and  never come out until he was summoned for life or death matters and life or death matters alone. 

What would Mike do if he opened his eyes and found Will like that? Longing and guilt written all over his blushing face? Guilt for having kissed Mike – a proper kiss! accidental, but still. Guilt for desperately wanting to do it again, because Mike was right there in front of him, too few inches to separate their faces.

Temptation to lean back in and close the distance seized Will almost painfully, heart frantically knocking against his ribcage, begging to be let out.

Guilt and desire battled in Will’s chest as he stared at Mike, until slowly, like water sliding off a barely-tilted surface, all traces of shame for what he’d done – an accident! –  and what he so achingly wished to do again and again and again, silently melted off him, leaving Will in a blessedly quiet state.

Silence reigned around him. All Will could hear was his humming heart and the steady rush of blood in his ears; the shaky exhale of his breath and his best friend’s slow breathing. 

Will’s entire vision was filled with Mike – he could barely register the sliver of blue sky above Mike’s black hair or the green hedges that framed his face. If Will could paint him in this moment like his fingers itched to do, he wouldn’t bother with a background, letting Mike’s handsome face be the protagonist of his canvas.

Will imagined taking a brush in his hand, always so quivering around Mike but ever so steady when holding his paint brushes, and pictured portraying those painfully familiar features like he’d done hundreds of times in his sketches – and admittedly, a few times on a proper canvas; finally giving Mike all the colours he deserved, instead of the usual  monochrome black and white of his smudged charcoal drawings.

He’d trace the contours of his face first: the sharpness of his jaw and the hollow of his cheekbones, where shadows collected and caressed the skin in a way Will didn’t dare to but too often dreamed about doing. 
He’d dip the tip of his brush in a rich black – the colour he used for crow wings and the comforting cloak of darkness when painting moonlit landscapes – and get to work on Mike’s hair: brushstroke after brushstroke, dark wave after dark wave framing his face and hiding his forehead. He’d paint his arched brows the same colour, and below, Mike’s eyelids, closed and relaxed as they were now. 

The transformation back to his human form, Will had come to learn, was the worst part; it left Mike dizzy and dazed. It took him time to clear his mind from the haze of El’s magic and come back to his senses, often fatigued and lost about his circumstances – which Will never complained about, relieved at how little Mike could recall of what happened to him while he was a frog.

Will studied Mike’s slack expression, how peaceful he looked, almost if he were asleep. Will ravelled in those few precious moments in which the hourglass of time seemed to stop just for them, just him to take in Mike’s beauty; for him to stare, for once, unhurriedly, unashamedly, unafraid at the one he loved above anyone else. Will’s heart felt so full of light he thought it might burst in a thousand translucent shards.

Mike had his own peculiar kind of magic he worked over Will, it was warmth and light and comfort – so alike El’s own magic and yet so different.

Loving Mike was staring at the decorated ceilings of Will’s chambers as they laid on the hard floor at six years old, making up stories of fearsome dragons and lost treasures, of valiant knights and wise warlocks; Mike spinning his tales with grand gestures and bright eyes and Will staring, awestruck. 

It was stealing Jonathan’s horse at ten and running free across the valley, wind slapping his cheeks and Mike’s hair falling in his open mouth, screaming gleefully as he held tight onto his best friend. 

It was learning by heart the guard’s rotation during nightwatch at fourteen and learning how to slip from his room unseen and unheard to sneak out to meet Mike, when training and lessons began keeping them apart for too long. 

It was the spark that ran down Will’s spine when their hands met at fifteen, lighting a fire in the pit of Will’s stomach that would never die out. 

It was watching sunlight filter through the shaking branches of the willow tree as they laid by the lake at sixteen, light dancing on Mike’s features, freckles darkened by the summer; it was pushing Mike into the lake in a fit of nervous giggles to mask his clammy hands, his tight lungs and stumbling heart when Mike had gotten too close.

Close enough he could have seen the truth reflected in Will’s hazel eyes.

( I love you. I love you; you, only you. Always you.)

Loving Mike was constantly walking on the jagged edge of a precipice; the exhilarating, frightening feeling of being weightless while falling. 

It was the first, unconscious brushstroke of a red heart on a painted shield. 

It was the haunting litany of rank duty politics alliances marriage ; it was constantly keeping himself under control, holding the reins so tight for fear of slipping. 

It was the sudden swoop of his stomach when Mike smiled at him and spoke to him in that soft voice he never used with anyone else; it was spying on Mike while training, following the gracious movements and the determined expression while his hands dampened and his heart leaped in his throat. 

It was digging his nails in his closed firsts to stop himself from reaching out, touching, holding, kissing, taking, taking, taking –

It was the most beautiful and terrifying feeling and Will knew one day it’d consume him, and he knew he couldn’t bear to live one day without that fire burning inside him.

Mike’s eyelids fluttered lightly and Will was torn from his thoughts, hastily resuming his imaginary painting before Mike opened his eyes.

He figured a smaller brush – one for details – to trace the long flicker of Mike’s black eyelashes; then, the same brush dipped in light brown for the smatter of freckles on Mike’s nose and cheeks, a few between his brows, paying close attention to the two beneath is right eyes Will always felt drawn to.

He followed the slope of Mike’s nose down to his mouth.

Will swallowed.

Carefully, he traced Mike’s cupid bow, filling with a light pink the fullness of his lower lip, shadowing in dark brown the corners of his mouth. His eyes took in all that his own lips already knew – the softness, the shape, the faint traces of Mike’s taste.

Will’s hands gripped the grass tighter, fighting the urge to lean in again and forcing his eyes to continue their descent down the column of Mike’s pale throat, taking the black-tipped brush back into his hand to paint the unruly strands of hair that curled around Mike’s throat and shoulders. A quick sketch of Mike’s patrolling gear – his white shirt and leather chestplate –, more dark brown for the divot of his throat and the faint shadow beneath his peeking collarbones.

If he thought that averting his gaze from Mike’s lips would keep temptation at bay, Will was gravely mistaken because Mike’s neck was as tantalizing as the rest of him, drawing Will in with the promise of stretches of soft, pale skin beneath his lips. He’d leave a trail of light kisses all along Mike’s exposed throat, enjoying the feeling of the knight’s pulse thrumming beneath the skin, telling Will he longed for this as much as Will did.

Will lifted his gaze, desperately searching for a spot to land his eyes on that didn’t make him feel like his skin was suddenly too tight and his heart leaped in his throat as his stomach sank to his feet.

Mike’s eyes were wide open.

Of course , Will scolded himself, he was bound to come back to his senses, sooner or later .

Much to his horror, Will realised he had no idea how long Mike had been staring at him, how long he could have been watching Will intently watching him . Since Will’s eyes had landed on his lips? His neck? That could have been an awful long time given the way time had seemed to stretch on just for them.

He looked into Mike’s eyes and immediately the painting in his mind changed: gone were the closed eyelids, dark lashes now framing Mike’s deep brown eyes. 

Will had gotten good at capturing his intense gaze, but he still struggled with bringing on paper the softness of Mike’s stare: irises so dark they were almost indistinguishable from the pupil, so much so that when drawing with charcoal Will did not even bother with separating the two. 
There was a sharpness to Mike – his features, his manners, at times – that his gaze completely lacked; his eyes almost liquid – no doubt still affected by the transformation –, small creases appearing around them as the corners of his mouth tipped upwards in a dreamy expression, as if opening his eyes and seeing Will first thing could be an extension of his dreaming, some sort of leftover spell.

A delightful blush darkened his freckles as Mike finally took in their position: Mike, sitting on the ground, his hands and boots planted firmly on the grass for balance, the hilt of his sword tied to his waist and digging uncomfortably in his side; his legs wide open in a way reminiscent of a frog. It would have been funny, something to laugh about if Will hadn’t been still kneeling in-between his legs, fists gripping the grass and face hoovering too close to Mike’s – despite all the time Will had had to lean back, or get off the ground. Or run to the moors East of the country to never return. He had drunk enough of Mike’s face today to fill dozens of sketchbooks while in exile.

Mike’s lips parted slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. Will’s eyes tracked the movement, his own mouth falling slightly open, lower and upper lip no longer touching. A shaky breath left Mike, his adam’s apple bobbing hurriedly.

They had found themselves in worse predicaments following Mike’s transformation, Will’s mind supplied him, rather unhelpfully.

“My Prince,” Mike murmured, as if by raising his voice above a whisper he would disturb whichever time-stilling spell had taken hold of the garden. 

“My Paladin,” Will replied in kind, relishing in Mike’s pleased smile at the name – echo of a five-years-old child proudly raising his little wooden sword to the sky as he proclaimed himself Will’s knight, vowing to protect him from all evils.

Mike opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out; he closed it silently as his eyes wandered around Will’s face, moving from his lips so his eyes, down to his fisted hands and back up to sweep across his reddening cheeks.

He let Mike’s eyes roam freely. Will had done his share of staring while Mike was – hopefully – unaware, it was only fair. Nevertheless he subtly lowered his head, casting his eyes on the ground and letting a few strands fall from his bangs into his eyes – not enough to prevent Mike from taking him in fully, but enough to limit the damage to his already burning cheeks.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Will could feel the obnoxious shrieking of his etiquette preceptor, reproaching him for bowing his head even so slightly in front of someone of a lower rank than his. Will dispelled the voice angrily. He was alone with Mike now, there was no need for protocol nor for pointless guilt.

He focused on the heady feeling of Mike’s eyes tracing his features, the slow, warm caress of his eyes on his brightening skin; wondering if Mike had felt the same itch to crawl out of his own skin when Will had been staring so intently at his lips. He hoped Mike didn’t. He wholeheartedly hoped he did.

Will cleared his throat and lifted his head, unable to bear such torture any longer without doing something reckless and unrepairable – like spilling his heart to Mike right there in the gardens and begging him to steal a horse from the stables; run away with him and settle down somewhere far, far South where no-one knew Will was a prince and forget about rank duty political connections alliances marriage . It didn’t matter neither of them knew how to cook a meal, Mike knew how to start a fire and could fly an arrow straight enough on a good day. It was good enough for Will.

He opened his mouth but his voice came out strained, airy. He cleared his throat again, “Are you well?”

Mike’s eyes snapped to his, wide and bright like a fawn caught by a huntsman. “Y-yes. Yes, thank you.” His voice was rough from disuse and Will wondered how many hours ago Mike had been turned. Which reminded him,

“What did you do to offend my sister this time, pray tell?”

Mike averted his gaze, focusing it somewhere on his far right, a frown pinching his brows and a pretty pink dusting his nose bridge and cheeks. “I’d rather not say,” he mumbled under his breath.

Will huffed, finally releasing the grass from his tense grip and crossing his arms over his chest, kneeling back and putting some much needed distance between them – although not enough to prevent him from catching the pink on Mike’s cheeks turn a shade darker.

“Was Max involved?” Will tried again.

“Perhaps,” Mike replied, folding his lips into a thin, crooked line, eyebrows raised and eyes downcast.

Will frowned. He could recognize his best friend’s lying face anywhere; not his smug “I’m lying to your face because we both know I caused mayhem, but let’s pretend I did not, shall we?” face he would often sport when dealing with unwanted authorities – such as Will’s father . No, this was Mike’s most honest kind of lie, the sort that told Will he was getting too close to an unwanted truth Mike wasn’t willing to share, perhaps not yet.

He couldn’t help but wonder what Mike might be hiding. But friendship, Will had come to learn, demanded plenty of patience and trust; so he didn’t press on, confident that Mike would come to him willingly when he felt ready to do so, as he’d done so many times before.

“What were you thinking about while drawing?”

“Uhm?” 

“While drawing,” Mike repeated, finally focusing back on Will, “I saw you stare at your sketchbook – you know, the precious collection of drawings you refuse to share with your best friend until they’re finished and polished to perfection …”

Will snorted, nervously eyeing the sketchbook still lying on the grass barely two feet from them. It was just a pair of eyes, Mike wouldn’t be able to recognize them as his, framed by lily pads and a single, white waterlily, would he?

“Will?” Mike called him. He tore his eyes from the book with a questioning glare directed at the knight, silently asking him to repeat his question. “Distracted much, my liege?”

Will could feel his cheeks heat up. Very, and it’s all your doing.

Mike smiled at him, a quick apology despite his amused face. “I was saying, I saw you staring at your sketchbook and shaking your head at least twice. You kept staring onto the paper without drawing. You seemed lost in thought.”

Mike looked at him expectantly. Will dragged his bottom lip against his teeth, scrambling for a plausible answer.

“Were your drawings that vile?” Mike, ever the knight in shining armour, coming to Will’s rescue even though he was the one to pose the troubling question.

Will smiled sheepishly at him, resisting the urge to run his hand over the nape of his neck, giving away how nervous he truly was. “The most wretched.”

Mike hummed in thought, stifling a laugh, “I highly doubt that, but who am I to dispute His Royal Highness artistic vein.”

“You’re insufferable.” Will huffed, tearing his gaze away but still admiring from the corner of his eyes the pale line of Mike’s throat as he leaned his head back, letting out a hearty laugh.

Will smiled quietly to himself, pleased at the sound. How could he blame Mike for keeping truths from him, when Will had been hiding his feelings for years ?

“Wait – you remember what you saw while under El’s incantation?”

The light shake of Mike’s shoulders ceased abruptly as the knight’s eyes widened, flush creeping back onto his face. “Very faintly,” he stammered quickly – lips thinning, eyebrows raising, eyes avoiding Will’s.

“ Mmmh, ” was all Will let on as his thoughts began to scatter anxiously around his mind. Did Mike remember more than he had led Will to believe? All the things Will had mumbled to himself, sure that Mike wouldn’t recall a thing once he was human again? Had he been aware of Will losing his balance and crashing their lips together in a so long-awaited proper kiss ?

Will took hold of his unruly thoughts, making his preceptor proud for the first that day. Patience and trust , he reminded himself, patience and trust.

He got to his feet, his knees cracking unpleasantly after holding their position for so long. He dusted his breeches of any dirt and grass and approached the pond, kneeling back down to wash his hands into the clear water.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing my hands, of course. Getting rid of that dreadful feeling of holding a wet, cold frog.”

Mike snorted. Will didn’t spare him a glare as he dried his hands on the front of his gold-embroidered shirt.

“You were slimy, too. I forgot to mention that.”

“Ehi!”

“Are you getting up? We should return to the Castle.” The sky was slowly losing its brilliant blue, soon to be replaced by warm pinks and oranges. Will suddenly longed for his paints and more time.

“Mmmmh,” was Mike’s only reply as he stretched his arms above his head, his shoulders popping pleasantly and a sliver of skin peeking through his raised shirt.

Will very pointedly ignored the shiver that ran down his spine.

He planted himself in front of Mike, extending one hand for the knight to take. And Mike did, except he didn’t follow Will’s pull as he tried to hurl him to his feet, but tugged towards himself, causing Will to almost lose his balance a second time. Still clasping Will’s hand in his, Mike manoeuvred himself on one knee and straightened his back in the position Will recognized as the one the guards and knights had to assume when greeting the Royal Family.

Will was about to slap his best friend’s hand away and mock him for being so pretentious and dutiful, when Mike lifted his bowed head and fixed Will’s eyes with his dark, dark eyes beneath his dark, dark lashes.

Will froze, caught like a bird pierced by an arrow. Unable to breath and unable to move, silently waiting for his raging heart to quieten.

“Thank you, my prince,” Mike’s voice was pitched low, smoother and softer than a rose petal; Will blushed just as pink, “you saved me once more. I owe you my life.”

Mike lowered his head, releasing Will from the firm hold of his eyes. Air flowed back into his lungs in a trembling breath. Whichever mocking remark was on the tip of his tongue to dilute some of the tension that thickened the air around them, died there when Mike refused to let go of Will’s hand, still clutched in his – miraculously still and dry.

Mike carefully slackened his grasp, sliding his long, pale fingers beneath Will’s own, exposing the back of Will’s hand as one would when kissing a lady’s hand of the King’s. Except Mike’s gentle grip was too firm for what protocol demanded; his fingers pressing into Will’s palm where they should have been barely grazing it.

Mike lowered his head and raised their hands, his mouth meeting Will’s skin midway. Where they should have hardly touched the skin, Mike’s lips pressed intently into the back of Will’s hand.

He felt everything – the pressure of Mike’s lips, their warmth and softness he had so quickly grown accustomed to; the hot exhale of Mike’s breath as the tip of his nose brushed against Will’s skin. 

Mike held the kiss significantly longer than any etiquette manual recommended – but again, he had never been one to follow rules too closely. Still, he broke the contact way too soon with a gentle smack of his lips that echoed too loudly in Will’s head, in his chest.

He stood there, unmoving as lightning travelled from the back of his hand straight to his heart, seizing it for an entire beat and then restarting it twice as fast.

Mike rose to his feet, still clasping Will’s hand and restoring those hateful few inches that separated them in height.  He was so close, too close – his chest almost touching Will’s and he was still holding his hand .

Will cleared his throat. He must look ridiculous, laughable: his cheeks aflame, his breathing short, his hand trembling and his heart beating like a thousand war drums. 

Mike didn't seem to find him so amusing, his soft eyes still pinning Will in place with barely any less intensity than before. He just stood there – so close, too close – a faint pink on his cheeks. 
It reassured Will somehow, to know he wasn’t the only one affected by Mike's complete lack of respect for his fragile heart and nerves.

“You truly owe me,” Will squeezed the words out, never leaving Mike’s twinkling eyes for fear of what would happen if he as much as lowered his gaze to Mike’s lips, “one day El’s power will grow strong enough I won't be able to reverse the spell and you’ll be stuck forever as a frog. Or something worse.”

He didn’t dare look, but he knew Mike was smiling from the way the corner of his eyes crinkled.

“And what would you do?” Mike asked softly, his eyes lowering somewhere above the left corner of Will’s lips, where his beauty mark sat. Will’s mouth felt frightfully dry.

“I could keep you as a pet, have the woodcarver and glassworker build you a suitable home. Or you could come and live by the pond or the lake, and I’d come visit you.”

“So you’d still love me even if I were a frog, or worse?”

Will fought the need to shut his eyes or pinch his arm. He saw Mike’s hand jerk with the corner of his eyes, his movement stilling as if he’d wanted to reach out and then thought better of it.

“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t touch you again. It’s disgusting.”

Mike hummed in response, as if Will’s reasoning made perfect sense.

Will imagine what it would be like to stand up on his tiptoes and kiss Mike’s mouth right now, when it was still warm from Will’s overheated skin instead of dancing around, wasting time with such trivial and silly matters. Of course he would still love him, what a foolish question.

Once, Will had caught sight of himself in the mirror of his chambers as he daydreamed about Mike. He had been shocked to see the rose-petal blush sitting high on his cheeks, his slightly parted lips. Most of all, he’d been amazed at what his eyes had held in that moment. 

It was like looking in the clearest, most crystalling lake: he could see the blue sky and soft white clouds reflected on the water, and if he just looked a little closer, the green algae and rocks that littered the bottom of the lake. And among them – like a long lost treasure resting in the mud, twinkling in the light that shone from above, so close anyone who dared to plunge into the water could reach it; it laid Will’s most precious truth, his deepest secret. The best part of him.

I love you , he had thought then.

I love you , he thought now, letting Mike’s black eyes stare right through him, baring his soul and pointing a trembling finger at the golden thread at the bottom of the lake.

I love you. Why can’t you see it?