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He sat, stoic, in front of the vanity in the guest room ( he still hadn’t stepped foot inside his bedroom, so far no one had said anything about it ) as servants moved around him like bees to a flower. He knows they were presenting options, knows that he must have been making decisions ( although it was more likely that Zazu, who had been fluttering around him non-stop since he woke up this morning, had done all the choosing for him ), because he realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had changed into a suit at some point.
Someone slid a watch over his wrist, while another pinned a miniature version of the Kiburi family crest, set in gold with tiny diamond chips dancing along its surface, to his lapel. He allowed them to poke and prod at him as much as they needed, too distracted by the ringing in his ears to offer any kind of real help. He could feel his hands, dangling uselessly in his lap, begin to shake and, as if it was a reflex, he felt his eyes slip closed as everything he had fought to keep bottled up inside seemed to wash over him at once. He couldn’t hear anything, not the concerned voices of his servants, not even the sound of his own breath, over the sudden roaring in his ears.
The featherlight touch of hands on his face seemed to ground him back in reality, and when he slowly opened his eyes again he was met with Zazu ( fucking Zazu ) staring down at him, concern openly etched across his face. It took a moment for Simba to understand that the other man’s mouth was moving, and one moment more to focus on the sounds coming out of it.
“Please, your Highness, please – Simba, please, it’s almost time.”
He took a shuddering breath eyes locked on Zazu’s ( god, as if he could afford put the poor man through anymore shit ). Apparently he had been hyperventilating.
A moment later ( Or ten minutes later? An hour? It had all begun to blend together ), Simba was standing at the top of a grand staircase, sandwiched between Zazu and his best friend. It was the first time he had seen her since everything that happened, and the thought made him suddenly, violently nauseated. He shoved it down, swallowing thickly as he turned to look at her properly. Everything about Nala, from her dress to the tiara resting atop her head ( and god, he couldn’t look at that for too long without feeling like he was staring into the sun ) was perfect and proper, because of fucking course it was, and he couldn’t help but tell her so.
“You…..you look beautiful, Nala.”
She had asked for more time. After the smoke cleared, after Scar was sent away Mufasa returned, after they had realized that everything would grow again, that the kingdom could live, she asked for some time. Not a vacation, she knew better than that. Just...fewer duties in public, and none so symbolic as a ball. Just weeks ago, she thought she’d be forced to marry Scar, and Simba...They just needed time, was all. Her mother had stood in the gardens on their estate and chastised her gently. Rebuilding the kingdom was a matter of urgency, and Nala was to play an instrumental part in it. You are learning now, her mother said, this is how you be a princess. But Nala knew what she really meant. This is how you be a Queen.
Nala stood at the top of the staircase, wishing she could run. There were all kinds of spells: magic to turn commoners into royalty and the other way around. Maybe it wasn’t true, perhaps it was just pretend, but at this point she would take it. It may be as easy as a spell, but she could never do it. This was her life now.
She heard a small frenzy behind her (if she had a team always fussing over her, then for Simba it was an entire crowd) and gazed at her best friend. It didn’t matter how carefully he had schooled his featured, he looked miserable. More than miserable. Nala thought he might throw up, which may not be a terrible thing since at least then he could go lay down in bed for awhile. It was no surprise of course, but Nala felt herself frown.
There were plenty of things to fear: the reunification of the kingdom and the politics that went with it; the friends of Scar who had grown confident that they too would be able to grasp power; a lioness tiara, a marriage. But she decided then and there that she would not be afraid of her best friend. Not now, and not ever.
So she took his hand, ignoring his comment (she didn’t know what to do with that, his voice and his vacant eyes didn’t match). A deep breath, head held high, and she began to walk down the stairs.
“You don’t have to speak,” she said lowly, only for him to hear. “I’ll handle it. Just stay close...” she paused. “It’ll be easier if you smile.”
