@beautiful-mischief sent “🤼♂️” for my muse to pull theirs away from a physical fight
The general public were respectful of the affairs of the royals, at least to their faces--when Phaesal and Loki would go around town together, there were nods and curtsies, small smiles and averted eyes, or quiet well-wishing's for their health and coming marriage. It was quaint and kind, and always met with thanks and well-wishing the other way as well. No matter how kind the pair were, however, that didn’t mean that everyone received them so kindly or respectfully. There was a usually quiet portion that had strong feelings about the royal family and their behaviors, and a romance between two princes was nothing short of a scandal for that group, who would look down their noses at such a thing and had been known to make less than kind remarks towards the coming nuptials.
Phaesal grew used to these people, their behavior a familiar titter behind gloved hands or referral as the ‘faggot prince’--a moniker as untrue as it was unwelcome, but was let to pass when Phaesal was alone, seeing no use in making tensions worse among a group that cared little for his bloodline. But it was a challenging thing to prepare a partner for, when their forays would usually come accompanied and the tender minority wouldn’t risk their smug projections. In fact, Phaesal had nearly forgotten this group entirely in the bliss of Loki’s welcoming, so much time spent darting around on foot or horseback and stealing themselves away for laughter and the telling of tall tales. Rarely was it that they found themselves unaccompanied in town but, as it happened to be, one of these days the inevitable occurred.
“Loki! No-”
The offender was a hulking teenager, who stood to the side of the square in the shadow between buildings with, what Phaesal would assume, were his friends. It was hard to tell though, the way they scattered when Loki had used some form of magics... or had tried to, at least. All Phaesal saw was the moving of lips in an angered flurry and the teen stalking over and shoving Loki back, interrupting whatever Loki had been saying by drawing back a great fist.
He’d tried to shove his way over to them, but in the tight-knit square made only closer still by the attention drawn by the two men fighting. Not to mention, one was a prince, and about to marry into the line for the throne. Phaesal had tried shouting over the crowds as he elbowed his way through, hollering for someone to grab both men, but no one seemed interested, or could hear. It was he who finally laid hands on Loki and tore him back, nearly getting caught straight in the nose by a rogue fist.
It was awfully hard to look noble when you were breaking up a fight between a ruffian and your husband-to-be.
“That’s enough,” was his attempt, a hand extended peaceably, but also as a warning, should the teen continue forward. “Loki. We’re going.”
