as it usually does , confusion is settling in theodoreâs bones , worry a delicate string of tightened muscle âcross youthful ivory of his face. theodore knows he could look worse , could be less fit or have worse teeth or an array of other societally - imposed false negatives to make him feel hideous and distrustful. he thinks he looks quite alright , now that he thinks about it , but being in the presence of this man ? more than belittling. adonis , reincarnated ; warm skin and winding planes of muscle as evident under his shirt as a neon sign in the middle of a deserted highway. his beauty sticks out like a sore thumb , and theo finds himself taking a small step back at the intensity of it all ; a move that might look more like fear of levi than flattery to his attractiveness.
    thereâs a tiredness in this ( hopefully ) future king' face. theodore finds it fitting , as even an englishman of low status such as himself has felt the pangs of sympathy tugging at his heart for such a displaced nation. this man , lumbering like a lighthouse of respect and beauty and sheer , unmatched power , could command an entire continent if he saw fit. exterior - based trust is needed for rulers , and theodore is sure the haughty prince in which he has given his quiet affection to will attest to that. for that reason , he bows to a king , to a ruler. Â
   â no , your majesty , iâve stained your clothes and everything. would you like me to help you change or run you a bath or â iâm sure prince frederick would understand. â english accent remains thick under soft breath of a voice , eyes alight with the need to aid , to repair , to join the pieces of that which he has broken. shirt sticks to the toned breadth of theoâs abdomen , somewhat uncomfortable but he has certainly experienced worse things than a few minutes of red - soaked shame. the question of his wellness brings a delicate rose to his cheeks , an incredulously humored smile splitting alabaster visage.
   â me ? iâm perfectly fine , sir â youâre much more important than a work shirt , trust me. â gorgeously soft gratitude paints his eyes , nevertheless , an acknowledged âthank youâ flickering between the deep mahogany of his irises.
leviâs cheek pits a little, teeth pulling at the soft inside of his mouth. he chews his cheek a moment as he peers down at the kid - he canât place the face, at least not with a name. between his accent and his manner levi can pretty well figure the group of royals he served under. that was a start, at least. he tugs his tie a little looser, beginning to pop open the buttons of his shirt - he did not mind, really. he had planned to toss it in the sand and jump in the ocean, anyway. now it just meant heâd take a detour to the laundry before he hit the beach.Â
the little step back the kid takes draws levi from his pondering, brow bending a little. he always felt awful when a staff member was cowed by him, whether it be by his size, his position or a mixture of the two. he did not have the same comfort in his place as many other royals did - he had not been born into it. even when his father became king, things did not change all that much. his father had always been a big believer in the come up, an alumni of the school of hard knocks. mostly levi appreciated it, even if his father was a little more grating than he liked. levi wanted to keep his head straight - his fatherâs influence had definitely helped.Â
levi almost winces when the kid pulls out a proper title - that was also something he still wasnât used to. âno, no. just call me levi,â he rushes to say, smoothing out his expression from a grimace to something more friendly. âand donât worry about it. seriously. itâs just a shirt. i was probably gonna ruin it anyway.â he shrugs it off his shoulders as he speaks, stuffing it into a bunched up ball, along with his tie. he stood now in his undershirt, the chest of his tank still flecked with red wine, but far less stained than the shirt. it was passable, at least. he might look a little funny to other folk, but he generally did, anyway.
leviâs free hand lifts, scratching through his messy thatch of hair in a sheepish sort of gesture, pushing dark locks back from his face. he was certainly a little scruffy - the nice clothes helped to disguise that somewhat, but it was still quite clear. his daughter, bless her heart, often tried to talk him into a cut. or at least into a stylist - sheâd not yet been successful in either of those endeavours.Â
âyeah? youâre okay?â he continues. âi was worried i mighta almost knocked you on your ass.â it wasnât that he was that much larger than a young man - he just happened to barrel along a little quicker than he probably should. a bit of speed behind his two hundred and something pound frame tended to ruin the day of whoever he happened to bump into.Â
âah, well. good. sorry about the shirt, though. and the spill.âÂ
