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Let it Go

He should have been more contented. Happiness was too much of a stretch and honestly, no one could ever be truly, blissfully happy. At least, there was the possibility-or there should have been-of him reflecting back on his life with some feeling of accomplishment. Here he was, an established Duke of Ramsford, the highest and most noble aristocratic family in Cordonia. Certainly, not anything to sniff at. Bertrand Beaumont stared listlessly at the sheaf of papers on his desk, waiting to sorted through, read and more often than not, crushed and chucked away in a frustrated fury.

He was discontented. Unhappy even. One could even label him miserable beyond belief. His father always bemoaned the curse that his elder son was so inclined towards random bouts of depression but now at this stage in his life, Bertrand swore it could become a regularity. He was already in his thirties and living the life of a true blue blood, with all the boredom, the stifling responsibilities and the many forever watchful eyes of society laying into his back. He rests his chin on his palms and lets the text blur into streams of black scattering insects. Eventually, he had reclined all the way in his chair and stared straight up into the ceiling. When was the last time he did something truly interesting or exhilarating?

Skinny dip for the hell of it? Eat ice cream straight out of the tub while dancing as though no one was watching? Hell, he could barely remember the last time he laughed so hard, so long and so loud that his sides hurt. Along that note, when was the last time he had a pulse-pounding, ecstatic and breathless orgasm....that wasn’t by his own hand? He reached a hand up to finger his thick hair, always slicked back and hugged closely to his head and frowned.

And great. A grey hair already. Just perfect.

Outside, somewhere in the lounge, Bertrand could hear rollicking, careless laughter. He sneered. Of course, at least he was having fun. Maxwell always had fun. He never needed to aim for valedictorian in finishing school, go for etiquette lessons or watch his every move lest he were to ruin the name of the house. Bertrand was the heir, Maxwell was the darling of the family. How his parents fawned over the little puppy who cooed back in return with his haphazard crayon scribbles and hideous attempts at cartwheeling. Oh, and what was Bertrand doing? Learning how to play Mozart because “you would want to impress your guests when you hold your soirees. Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Bertrand! Maxwell is too young and he is already so naturally charming. You need a special talent to make sure you don’t bore your guests to tears.”

Rage coursed through Bertrand’s veins as the memory and he sits back up, gripping tightly at his arm rests. It was not fair to Maxwell to be so angry, so resentful. Maxwell loved him and had been through the thick and thin with him; defending him when their father never saw any good in him, sometimes crawling into his room and imitating the old bastard for a laugh and always there to force him to look on the bright side. In return, Bertrand knew he needed to look out for his excitable and often too flighty little brother. When their parents died, he truly needed to be the man of the estate and that meant ensuring Maxwell would grow up right as rain. However, the boy was as stubborn a boy as always. They were just too different. Bertrand was cold, reserved and apathetic. Maxwell was warm, exuberant and a live wire over everything. It was no wonder the latter always had friends.

Bertrand groans as he remembers their respective sixteenth birthdays. Maxwell’s was teeming with guests from all over and he watches from the sidelines, shadowed over by balloons as his little brother break dances on the floor and gets applauded and blown kisses by the girls around him. His birthday was his parents, his little brother and the towering pile of presents sent from all over by relatives and other noble families. He received about eight of the same set of suits from that pile of “gifts”. This was his lot in life; he never was the type to socialize so whatever. He was a grown man. He reaped what he sown. He just was not Maxwell. He was thirty-four to Maxwell’s twenty-five. He was old. Over the hill. Used up. At a standstill.

He slams a fist on the desk and stands up, determined. He could still do something. Anything. He gazes at the hanging wall clock; the short hand at eleven and the long hand just past one. He rummages through one of the desk drawers and removes a small box with a lock. Fishing out its companion from his lapel, the box snaps open to reveal a ring of jagged keys and a key chain that bore their family crest of crossed tentacles and topless sirens.

With his new bounty in his pocket, the duke marches out of his office and down the stairs and was nearing the door when he hears the voice he really did not want to deal with right now.

“Bertrand....where are you going?” It is Maxwell of course, in a simple pajama set of Crown and Flame shirt and boxer shorts wrapped up in a blanket. Oh Christ, was the boy really having a marathon at this time of night?

“Out.” The reply is short, curt and unfortunately, unsatisfactory. Maxwell’s brow furrows as his brother reaches for the doorknob ready to unlock it and leave. He grabs onto Bertrand’s jacket.

“Bertrand, it’s 11:10 pm. It isn’t like you to go out so late for no reason. Is something wrong?”

“Maxwell,” Bertrand’s voice was cold and heavy, his brow creased with a sternness that made the boy shudder. “You’re the younger brother. You don’t need to keep tabs on me. I can take care of myself.”

“I know...I just...you haven’t looked really happy nowadays. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid alright?” Bertrand sighs at his brother’s thoughtfulness and softens, placing a hand on Maxwell’s shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. I...I just need to go for a ride. To clear my head.” Maxwell smiles up at him and nods. “I understand. Just be careful alright? And don’t come back so late...wow, it feels weird sounding like you.”

Bertrand snorts and shoves at his brother’s head but cannot help the smile spreading on his face before he is finally out the door. Maxwell holds the front door ajar and peeks out, staring at his brother as he heads for the gates and pushes them open, locking them behind him afterwards. Convinced and satisfied that his brother could take care of himself and was admittedly, more responsible and cautious than he was when he went out on late night partying escapades, Maxwell retreated inside to continue on season 3 of The Crown and Flame and was certain eventually Sei and Dominic were going to fall in love.

Bertrand was not going to take the limo. Nor a horse. His choice of ride tonight was going to fit his mood. He enters the garage at the far back of the estate, surrounded by their plantation of Cordonian rubies and white roses and sidesteps around the array of their expensive, vintage cars before considering the vehicle at the far end, covered unglamorously with a silver tarp. He tugs it off and smiles in nostalgia as he takes in the polished exhaust pipe, the buttery leather seat and the handlebars ergonomically designed to be gripped tightly when the bike would take to rougher terrain.

It had been his one moment of teenage rebellion; saving up his hefty allowance to get himself his own motorcycle; a Harley Davidson no less and he remembered tearing down the highways and pavements with the wind whipping his face and hair as he laughs in virile triumph, scraping the bark of an apple tree here and there. Obviously, that phase never lasted and his father had confiscated the keys, given him a good tanning with the rod and Bertrand had been sent to a commune to think over his indiscretions. Maxwell was given the bike as a last minute birthday gift on his nineteenth birthday but oh, the sweet lad could never dream of enjoying the fruits of his brother’s labor and merely kept it clean and running before giving it a home in their garage under that silver tarp.

Bertrand traces the sleek body of the ride with fond affection, smirking when he got to his initials that he had spray painted on the side in violet indigo, a stark contrast to the iridescent silver of the paint job. It was settled. Tonight, he was not going to be Duke Bertrand Beaumont. He marches towards the metal lockers lined parallel to the wall and opens one to reveal a duffel bag hanging on a hook. He takes it down, unzips it and removes the articles of clothing inside along with a pair of aviator sunglasses. He makes quick work of his suit, first the jacket, that awful sweater vest, his tie and shirt and folds them up neatly, stuffing them in the bag. He catches sight of his half-naked form in the mirror in the locker and smirks. Maxwell may be limber and flexible but he had nothing on him.

On goes the deep blue, almost midnight black shirt that drapes against his broad firm chest. The leather jacket slips on snugly afterwards. His sensible pants were next to go and were replaced by some well-fitting-thankfully, still fit-black jeans and lastly his Oxford shoes were tucked away as he slipped on some ragged, sturdy boots, as soft and rugged as his jacket. All that was left was to ruffle his usually put together hair (fuck that grey strand) and slip on the aviators. He finds a pack of Menthol cigarettes too in the bag and lights up, knowing it was positively foolish to smoke in a garage with flammable objects just within reach but he honestly could not care. He blows out a stream of the tobacco fumes and breathes in the intoxication he was going to immerse himself in tonight. Letting it carelessly fall to the ground, he snuffed it out with his heeled boot and kicks up the stand of the bike, wheeling it out of the garage and positioning in the driveway.

Key in the ignition, Bertrand gives it a few turns till the engine was putting and purring like a jungle cat that had come out of induced tranquility. Bewildered, confused but raring to pounce at any minute. That was him right now. He straightens his jacket to fit tightly onto him and mounts the ride. He revs it up and soon enough, he was tearing up the paved road, leaving his castle, his home and his prison for this one night and oh how he laughed. He laughed. He laughed. And he laughed.

The stars were winking down on him as he whoops, getting on the expressway and weaving in and out of traffic, finding that empty lane where he could just go at full speed, let the wind mess up his normally neat coif even more and truly let it all go. The wind billows out his leather jacket and the sunglasses keep it from getting in his eyes but they are still watery. He had never remembered feeling this alive, this free and as he gets on the shore road and gazes out to the expanse of the deep blue sea that surrounds Cordonia, he realizes that he had been missing out for far too long.

This could be a nightly ritual. No one would find out. He just had to keep in disguise. He could go out to the slums of Cordonia, the seedy nightclubs and brothels and drink till he fainted, do lines of imported drugs till his blood was set alight and actually remember what it felt like to fuck a woman.

He had been hiding, been forced to hide since he was young. It was high time he let go. The night air was getting chillier and the wind picked up. Above him, thunder roared but Bertrand could only laugh in the storm’s face.

The cold never bothered him anyway.

(( Written out of pure randomness and also, cause we KNOW Bertrand is the Elsa of The Royal Romance. I like to thank @ladyashtonofcordonia and @smartlillian. Their fanfics have been inspirational. Also, this goes out to @ohmymaxwell and @mochimicho who also absolutely adore Bertrand (and think he is hot like me) so yes, you beautiful people, thanks so much))

#because I love him #was inspired by fanfics i found #bertrand beaumont #bertrand needs love #maxwell beaumont #maxwell doesn't know #elsa parallels #let it go