Ardaik 8th - Central Ocean

When first roused from a light sleep, Artus was surprised to discover he'd even drifted off. All he'd been able to think about through dinner was the intense focus that Rowan had worn before they'd been called to dine, as the blond had ever so carefully smoothed a razor across his skin for him. Artus had asked him if he was nervous between swipes, and the Baron's son had only replied with a wry smile.

Then, after they'd bid each other a soft "goodnight" amidst the backdrop of Prince O'Conar's thunderous snoring, Artus had laid there with his eyes wide open, despite his inability to see anything within the black bow of the ship—waiting. Waiting on either himself or Rowan to muster up the courage to slip out from under their stiff blankets and fit themselves onto the other's narrow cot. Exhaustion must have caught up with him, though, because he had begun to doze despite the anticipation of something he didn't necessarily know would happen.

So when he heard what he knew had to be the shifting of Rowan rising out of his bed, Artus's pulse began to race, and his breath caught in his throat, and he'd been wide awake again.

Only instead of the sound being followed by the explorative brush of fingertips finding him and the edge of his bed in the dark, Rowan withdrew past the hanging canvas. Artus didn't hear the door open or close, not that he heard very well from a distance anyway. But after agonizing there alone, in the dark, he became all the more certain that Rowan wasn't going to be joining him.

His disappointment and embarrassment held him captive for several more minutes until his frustration finally overtook him. Artus threw the blanket off as if it had been the one to commit to him an offense and sat up.

O'Conar was still snoring. The ship was still rocking as it cut through the waves, but the space felt different, and once Artus finally found a flint to light the small oil lamp in the cabin, his suspicion was confirmed. Rowan was gone.

A peek into the other side of their room, past the canvas, revealed that the Serellian guard was gone as well. Artus scrunched his nose as he rubbed his arms through his thin, billowy sleeves. Did the Serellian leave first? Perhaps Rowan had heard her trying to slip out and followed her. Or did she follow Rowan? And why? To what end? She clearly had left Flann unattended, and Rowan had left him...

Artus's anxious mind produced far too many possible scenarios far too quickly, ranging from the completely innocent to awful, heart-cracking thoughts. Ideas he didn't at all want to be alone with.

Before even considering how potentially foolish his decision could be, he was firmly shaking the slumbering Serellian's arm. "Prince O'Conor, wake up. O'Conor! Do you know where your guard or Rowan is?"

"Ey-yahyah!" Flann roared to life abruptly, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the canvas sling before his eyes were fully open or he truly understood what was going on. "What happened? We'ben attacked a'gen?" he wondered, looking for his boots.

"What? No, no—Rowan. Do you know where your guard or Rowan went?" Artus reiterated. "They aren't here."

"Hm?" Flann paused a moment as his brain awoke further and processed Artus's words, his gaze passing over his half of the room to find that Artus was correct; Edna was indeed gone. "Eh, I'm not sure...she wouldn'tave gone faar." Flann sounded confident in that much. "Might have had trouble sleepin. After everthin that's happened, I wouldn't blame 'em."

Artus huffed out a sigh, rubbing the space just between his eyes. Flann's reasoning made sense...for his guard, at least. But Rowan had specifically expressed concern over whether Flann and the woman could be trusted, and yet...he'd left him alone with the Serellian prince.

Artus's heart sunk like an entire cannon—never mind the round shot. Had Rowan lied to him, then? Taken advantage of knowing how Artus felt for him? He glanced up at Flann, realizing that he'd yet to say anything.

"Right...yes, you're probably right. Apologies for waking you so suddenly," Artus said, placing his hands behind his back. "I'm not exactly used to being...unattended, I guess."

"Heh, me neither!" Flann snorted. "Suppose that comes with inheriting a kingdom. No privacy!" He chuckled before the thought occurred to him. "Oh, sorry...I suppose I just assumed that e'ryone would prefaar independence over being hounded by guards every moment of the day. It'll be alright, Aartie, we'll get'all this business sorted and ya back to La'Trest in no time."

Flann's empathetic words forced a smile across Artus's lips. "It is nice to have a bit of freedom...I'd have preferred it under different circumstances, of course." Artus paced a few steps closer to the lantern as he spoke, bringing his arms in front of himself again to rub them before looking at Flann. "You're not cold at all?"

"Aartie," Flann said, cocking one brow in a smug manner. "Serellians naturally run hot. How else do you think we survive the harsh northern winters?"

Artus's brows raised briefly before a slight flush tinted his face, and a grin surfaced. "I suppose I thought you kept drink and fine company close," he teased. "Or perhaps nuzzled up to one of those dire bear I hear about."

His answer received a hearty laugh from Flann. "Oh, aye! We do those too!"

A genuine laugh escaped Artus, but by habit alone, he was quick to subdue it. A foolish glance toward his and Rowan's side of the space lanced his chest again, and he struggled to keep it off his face. Surly, Rowan would be back soon. Probably at any moment, really, and then Artus would need only to worry about the embarrassment of being caught speaking to Flann without either of them being fully dressed and how he would justify it. A thought which directed Artus's gaze to his own undergarments. He'd at least elected to keep his stockings on, so none of his legs nor arms were exposed... The same couldn't at all be said for Flann, however. In fact, now that he consciously took note, Flann was dressed only in some very short underpants—looking at which only further inflamed Artus's face.

"Ya keep staring like that, and I'm gonna start think'n that yar nervous ta be alone with me," Flann teased. "Or maybe ya don't mind at all," Flann added in a more suggestive tone.

This time the laugh that left Artus was pure nerves, but he turned toward the Serellian anyway. "It really causes you no concern at all to joke of such things, does it?"

Flann tamed his grin down to a smile before speaking. "There are a million terrible things I could concern myself with, Aartie, far worse than bedding a pretty lad." He rested his weight back on the hammock, letting his knuckles support the side of his head as he spoke. "That's what I noticed about Lorellia. Ya have such pretty things, but ner'allow to enjoy 'em."

Artus wasn't cold anymore. He wasn't sure if he was even breathing, but he knew he wasn't cold. Shifting his weight, his eyes flicked toward the door before retracing Flann's stocky outline in the warm glow of the lantern. "You'd...uhm." Another concerned look was cast toward the door before Artus swallowed thickly and forged ahead with his question. "You'd enjoy that?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "...Bedding another man?"

"Aye, I've had a couple befer," Flann answered casually.

Flann's easy admission sent a tidal wave of emotions through Artus. Flann fancied men. Flann had shared a bed with one before. And he admitted so freely—seemingly fearless of Artus telling anyone else. The relief that came with suddenly feeling much less alone clashed with intense envy of the fiery-haired prince.

How liberating it must feel to be a Serellian... To be able to wear the burden of being your father's posterity—next in line to inherit an entire kingdom—and not feel ashamed of whom your heart ached for. "...I wish I knew what that was like."

"Well, it's like—hmm...being with a lady, only...different," Flann said in a thoughtful tone as he rubbed the coppery stubble on his jaw but paused as his gaze flicked back to Artus.

Artus's brows lifted as he realized what his own statement had unintentionally implied—his ears flushing fiercely. But his statement hadn't put Flann off...nor was his implied meaning necessarily inaccurate.

"Ya have been with a lady befer?"

"Of course not." The Lorellian prince shook his head. "My reputation would be destroyed if I were to sire a child out of wedlock...and I've given my father enough headaches over the years to at least spare him from that one."

"Hah, mine too! But that never stopped me," Flann said as he adjusted his weight. "So, is it just your father's disapproval, or is it that you maybe fancy lads rather than ladies?" Flann wondered.

Artus's lips twitched. "I don't fancy ladies, Flann," he admitted, barely loud enough to hear himself while making the mistake yet again of letting his gaze fall on Flann's nearly naked form.

"Well, that explains why ya ner had one then," Flann reasoned. "Makes faar more sense because I ner' seen anyone pass on a pretty girl unless she had no interest, and I can't imagine a girl having no interest in a pretty prince," he finished, snickering to himself.

The sound of that heavy accent, coupled with those warm expressions of amusement, was getting to Artus. He felt lightheaded—drunk almost—and he didn't know what to do with himself. Things weren't supposed to be this way. How fortunate he'd be if he could only disregard every roll of Flann's syllables and the bulk of his freckled shoulders. It was bad enough that he daydreamed so often of Rowan's touch, but now he felt his illness had taken the form of a reckless fever, threatening to consume him whole.

"You needn't keep flattering me," he said, clearing his throat immediately after.

"Who's flatter'n?" Flann asked in mild offense, which appeared only to hold as long as water might stand on a duck before falling free. "All I'm saying is that when two people get to liking each other, they find ways of being together, regardless of whether it's a good idea. In fact, sometimes it being a bad idea makes it more fun."

"Have you ever fancied anyone like that?" Artus replied, his gaze finally making it back to Flann's handsome face.

"O'course I have, though none of 'em ever lasted fer long. It's hard ta tell who likes you for you and who is just dazzled by the idea of bedding a royal brat for fun or a good story. But that didn't matter to me in the moment."

Artus sighed, glancing back down at his hands. As clouded as his head was, he couldn't keep from stumbling over the question that cut through his heated haze. "Do you believe...Rowan would bed someone just for prestige or position? ...Or a good story?"

"Row? Hmm..." The Serellian prince paused a moment to think about it as though he either wasn't sure or had never given much thought to it. "If ya go off what he says, then maybe, but saying somethin and doing somthin are two very different things."

"I see." Artus's disappointment was only thinly veiled. It wasn't that he'd truly expected a different answer, but...perhaps he'd very much been hoping for one.

Seeing that his reply had caused some discomfort, Flann continued, "Faar instance! He'll condemn me far eyeing a pretty lad, and then I'd catch him doing the very same. Or, he'll speak of finding a wife with a good pedigree, on the rare occasion the conversation turns that way, and then flirt with a sweet bar wench. Row's a hard one ta read, but perhaps that's because he doesn't know what he wants."

Artus allowed himself a smile at Flann's attempt to smooth the ripple that he'd undoubtedly become aware he'd caused. Say what they would about the rowdy redheaded king-to-be; Artus was becoming more convinced by the day that Flann was far more than most gave him credit for. A point that should likely stand as a warning as well. Flann seemed charming, sensitive, and considerate...but that hardly meant he wasn't dangerous.

"Perhaps he doesn't," Artus mused. "While foolishly, I've spent many nights hoping he'd want me...but I suppose you've already reasoned that out."

"Aye," Flann said as he got a little more comfortable where he was. "I also suppose you're worried that's where he and Edna have gone off ta?"

Hearing Flann give breath and sound to what Artus very much feared stole the air from Artus's lungs—too painfully for him to form words, even. A short nod was Artus's response.

"Well...if he's not interested, I wouldn't be opposed to warming yar bed fer a while," the redhead remarked as he tucked his arms behind his head.

Artus's heart was pounding so hard within the confined, dark space that he was certain he could hear it over the sound of the waves against the hull. Over the creaking of the wood and over the dim flame dancing on the end of the wick within its glass confines.

He didn't feel like himself as he replied, "I'd welcome you." But he reasoned that he was content with that...

For now, at least.