To Love, Peace, and Anchors
This is nearly 8k of fluff, some mild angst mixed in with a happy ending. All the characters in this show exist in this fic and are present, but this is x reader cuz I love Kit and I write what I want lmaoooo. Hope the two people who might read this will enjoy! @pixelcafe-network
Kit was always Catherine’s; you never even imagined there was a version of Kit that wasn’t Catherine’s until you met the Kit that was Lili’s. You’d known him since you were both children, shared more passions than he did with Catherine, shared more secrets than he did with Lili, and yet, you always knew that there was no version of Kit that existed for you and only you. You never even kid yourself into thinking there was. But…sometimes, you imagined the Kit that would go horseback riding with you when there was energy needing to be expended, the Kit that would run to you when your father was sick and there were tears needing to be shed, would one day turn into a Kit whose eyes lingered on you for a second too long, whose heart beat for you just a second too fast, who met you in his dreams for as long as he could before he opened his eyes to reality. Because you were always the version of you that loved him so deeply and desperately.
If you were honest with yourself -something you had trained yourself never to be- you’d loved him since the moment you met. Since the moment you were introduced to Catherine and Kit at a social function. Since the moment you noticed his eyes drifting to a vase filled with exotic flowers that your mother had offered as a gift to the host. Since the moment you whispered in his ear when his fiancee wasn’t looking, “They’re pretty, aren’t they? I heard that just being around one is enough to make any sickness all better.” His eyes had widened, and though his feet stayed planted on the ground, hand still curled into his mother’s, you had known then that he was a boy filled with curiosity and awe. When the adults were busy exchanging pleasantries, you had climbed onto the table on which the vase sat as its centerpiece, and stolen the smallest of flowers, the flower that nobody would notice missing from its arrangement, and then rushed back to Kit’s side, eager to slip the stem into his open hand. “Are you sick? Your eyes got really big when I said it makes anybody feel better. I hope this helps.” Kit had taken a moment to admire each petal lovingly, fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to pull out his sketchbook. But then, to your surprise, he tugged on his mother’s dress, and when she bent down, he tucked the flower behind her ear instead. That was when you knew, for you, it would always be him. The boy who sacrificed an object of wonder, of value, of rarity, for a moment’s peace, for a mother’s smile, for a heartfelt wish. And it was your wish to be by his side ever since.
You had your first rude awakening after his mother died. The adults had whispered, as adults tend to do, about the fate of the Churches. About who would take on what role, about how the sons would live up to their mother’s example, about how their youngest son, in particular, was sure to disappoint. He had a tendency to run off on his own, to spend more time with the flowers and the animals than people. He never showed up properly dressed. He always had his shoes or his hair or his tie undone. He barely made eye contact with anyone at all let alone greet them with the dignity that someone of their status was owed. He doodled in his textbooks, doodled on walls, he even doodled on himself when he had no other surface available. How had a woman of such grace and elegance given birth to such a wild creature? He didn’t even cry at his own mother’s funeral. Didn’t utter a sound. What a strange child, they said.
It was then that you decided to run away with him. You took his hand, not caring who was watching, and let your feet carry themselves to the edge of his estate. Only when you were properly lost in the forest did he finally cry. You had rushed to wipe his tears away, swearing to him repeatedly that you’d find the way out if it killed you, only to realize he wasn’t crying about being lost. You let him soak your dress with tears, holding him until the sun started to sink in the sky. When the two of you finally made your way back to the main house, you got an earful from your parents about knowing your place. You apologized until your voice went hoarse. It didn’t matter that you had finally managed to get him to crack a smile when you taught him how to skip rocks in the river that day, it didn’t matter that you stuffed yourselves so silly on berries and mushrooms that you laughed to each other about your protruding bellies. Nothing mattered except for the fact that it should have been Catherine at his side.
Every day after that was a calculation. How loud could you laugh at Kit’s jokes before it became inappropriate? How long could your gaze hold his from across a room? How many dances should he have with Catherine before you were allowed to ask for one of your own? How far were you allowed to follow him?
When he left for London, you were conflicted. Part of you was happy he’d found a way to escape from that stifling life of his, even if it was only for a few years. Part of you wished to escape with him. To plop down at a desk beside him, get lost in a completely different world together, and never look back. It was for that reason that you made your excuses to visit London as often as was socially acceptable. You’d meet him for lunch, for a walk, for whatever he had the time for, for whatever he had the energy for. You’d snoop through his sketchbook, he’d challenge you to add to a page, and then he’d laugh at your lame attempt to draw his portrait. He’d ask if you were still writing, you’d give him a look that said your parents still disapproved, and then he’d ask you to write him something, reading over your shoulder even when you attempted to shoo him away until you’d finished. And then he’d praise you, like he always did, and it never failed to make your heart soar into the sky. Sometimes you’d go to a museum together; you always tried to pretend you were more interested in the art than him, but your eyes always strayed to his, to the way he gazed in awe at every piece, no matter how many times he’d seen them. But, even then, on his best days, on his worst days, he remained Catherine’s. No amount of distance between you and the aristocracy could change the fact that he was destined to be hers, and you were destined to be married off to the next best suitor.
You thought you had finally made your peace with it. That is, until you met Lili.
You met her artwork first, and knew you were screwed. To you, all she’d painted was a blue sky. Something you thought anyone could do. But to Kit, it was his whole world. You’d never seen his eyes so mesmerized, in all the years you’d known him. You always thought he was Catherine’s until he was Lili’s. You knew he wasn’t particularly fond of his engagement to Catherine but he had never been all too vocal about dismantling it either, so you thought that eventually he’d succumb to his fate. Turned out fate had a brush and was painting another path for him.
You met Lili at a bar. You’d already been to this bar a few times with Kit when he’d previously introduced you to Peter and Joffrey, but you were surprised to find that the artist of the blue sky he was so completely enamored with was in attendance this time. You wanted to question her, to find out exactly how close she was to him and what she felt for him. It didn’t take much effort on your part. She must’ve been nervous, and she was a lightweight. Within a couple drinks, she was telling you everything you would’ve wanted to know and more. But it only served to sink your spirits. She was completely ordinary. She had no thoughts of him whatsoever. And that was the most dangerous thing about her. She came with no hidden devices or motives; she came equipped with only a passion similar to his, and it was enough to unravel your entire decade of knowing him.
For once in your life, you were glad to have been ill during the ball that had gotten Catherine so completely worked up. You might not have recovered had you been present to see the way he’d looked at Lili when she’d donned the Silver Lily. You had never felt particularly close to Catherine, seeing as how you’d both been vying for the same person your entire lives, but as she described that night’s events to you, and you watched the cracks in her usually-flawless composure began to form, you couldn’t help but see her as a reflection of all the parts that you had worked so hard to hide yourself. Who was this woman who had come brewing a storm and upending everything you thought you knew? At least, with Catherine, if he married her, you knew his heart would never belong to her. His heart had never belonged to anyone but art. But here Lili was, a literal embodiment of all things artistic and whimsical and beautiful; of course he couldn’t help but fall in love. It terrified you to no end.
Even when his father died and you were there to console him through yet another death, you couldn’t help but wonder if it should have been Lili at his side. If Lili would’ve banished the look on his face, the sadness from his sagging shoulders. If Lili would’ve been a lifeline when all you were was an anchor.
But there was nothing like war to make your worries feel juvenile. All it took was one news article for you to understand that you had never truly known fear until this very moment. In the past, your biggest concern was Kit’s future. Who he’d end up with. If he’d take off running, travel the world, become a painter. If he’d stay home and uphold his family’s name. If he’d always be the Kit you knew, or if he’d become someone else entirely. Now, you saw there was a chance he might not have a future at all. You might not have one. You might not live until sunrise. The fear you’d felt in the past was a pinprick; the fear you felt now was a poison, seeping into your veins, slowly corroding away at the life you once knew, at the love you held dear. The newspaper had barely fallen from your hands, before you were rushing out the door.
Kit. Was he okay? Had he heard?
Lili. Shin. Did their country know? How would their country respond?
Kit. Where was he now? What was the fastest way to him?
Peter. Joffrey. Dorothy. Why, why, why? Why would this happen at such a pivotal point in their lives? They were so close to graduating. Would they be safe? They didn’t have the resources that you and Kit did.
Kit. Kit. Kit.
WHERE was he? HOW could you protect him? HOW could you be of use to him? WHY was he so far away? WHY hadn’t you simply moved to London, ignored everyone’s remarks, and stayed by his side? WHY hadn’t you told him how you felt? WHY was there suddenly so little time left?
You had never much liked being an aristocrat. Much like Kit, you found it restricting. If it wasn’t for societal rules, you would’ve had him in a church already. If it wasn’t for societal rules, your whole past and future might’ve looked different. But, now, as you desperately inquired on Kit’s whereabouts, you found that being a high ranking member of society had one significant upside. You were privy to information that other classes weren’t. And that was how you discovered that Kit had volunteered himself as a diplomatic assistant.
Your suitcase was packed before you even recalled clicking it shut. Your pen was moving before you even remembered grabbing it. You’d always loved writing, always wanted to be a writer. You just never thought writing would be of use to you the way it was now. You wrote the entire way to Drunnheim Hall. Richard was the only one home, but that was fine. Kit might’ve protested had he heard you were here. Richard was all you needed. You presented him with the series of letters you’d written to prove your value as a diplomatic assistant. And then, before he’d even read them, you presented him with the letters to give to your parents to tell them of your plans once Richard inevitably approved. He lectured you thoroughly on your brash behavior that was unbecoming of a lady, and the dangers you might face, dangers you’d never even dreamed of, growing up as sheltered as you had. But, from the moment you met Kit, you’d already been prepared to walk through fire and water for him. Today would be no different.
“Lord Richard- no, Richard.”
He raised an eyebrow at you, but you continued regardless. “I understand that with your father gone, you are needed here more than ever, so sending Kit alone is your only option, but I’m sure that even as stubborn and as strict as you are, you do not wish for your only brother to potentially find his demise at sea or in some unknown country without so much as a familiar face at his side.”
“He will have attendants-”
“He will have no one to truly lean on. He has never shouldered a burden like this before; please allow me to shoulder it with him.”
“You have never shouldered a burden like this either. And why would you? He is bound by a sense of duty, you are not. You should not even know about this war. You should be at home, with your pretty dresses, and your fancy teacups, and leave this to us. I cannot understand why you would willingly put your life at risk like this.”
“Richard, I refuse to utter the words to you before I have yet the courage to confess them to Kit, but you should know that I am willing to crawl through Hell and back for your brother, pretty dress or not. You talk about a sense of duty? I have a duty to my heart and that should be reason enough. If Amelia were going in Kit’s place, and I were you, would you not also be begging me to allow you to run to her side?”
Richard was silent for a moment, eyes traveling down the papers you’d given him. In truth, you hadn’t needed to convince him. The moment you’d barged through his doors, with that look in your eyes, he’d already known what you’d do for Kit. As prim and proper as Catherine was, you’d worked equally as hard to become a remarkable member of high society. You wouldn’t drop titles for nothing. You wouldn’t abandon a life of luxury, no matter how stifling it was, if it wasn’t for something of more value. Of the most value. In hindsight, Richard should’ve seen how you felt from the beginning. If you weren’t literally in wartime, Richard might’ve scolded you for your audacity. But Catherine was a proper lady. Even if she had a talent for diplomacy, which she did not, and even if she had the courage that you did, which she did not, her circumstances were more restrictive than yours. She was the only daughter of one of the most high ranking families in all of England. She could not simply board a boat and leave with Kit to god knows where. And as much sway as Lili had with Kit, she had nothing else. No useful skills for such a situation, no family pull to convince him to let her go. As far as he knew, she wasn’t even aware Kit was leaving. But here you were, knocking on his doorstep (more like banging down his door), and you had a knack for words, and you were well versed in politics. And you were one of many daughters from your household; you could be spared. And you were begging him -demanding him- to let you go. To let you save his brother from solitude. Of course, his duty told him he could not sacrifice the lives of any of his people just to ensure his brother had a moment’s company, but as hard as he’d tried, he knew he’d never been the big brother that Kit needed him to be. Maybe now was when he could start.
“Get in your car.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Richard, I’m not done tal-”
“Yes, you are. Get in your car. His boat leaves in a couple hours. And when you get to the pier, you better run like you mean it.”
Tears began to pool in your eyes. “Thank you, Richard- I mean, Lord Richard.”
He scoffed lightly, but a smile tugged at the edges of his lips. “It’s a little late for titles now, don’t you think?” He tossed you his family ring. “When you get aboard, show them this, tell them I sent you.”
You were already halfway to the door. “I understand. Thank you again.”
“When we meet again, I hope it will be to toast peace.”
Your thoughts and feelings were in such a jumble that you barely recalled your car parking, let alone you stumbling out of it. And then, suddenly, you were at the pier, running. You ran as if your life depended upon it, because it did. Your entire life, your entire world, was waiting aboard a boat, ready to set sail, and you’d be damned if you let the boat leave without you. As you ran, you wondered if Catherine and Lili had the same idea as you. If, at this very moment, they were also hoping they might sprout wings to carry themselves to him, instead of begging their legs to move faster. Catherine had always been more poised than you, more graceful. Lili had always been more creative than you, more free spirited. But, at this moment, you swore you loved Kit the most and that was all that mattered. Screw being the prettiest girl in the room. Screw being the most well mannered. Screw being the most artistic. None of it mattered if you weren’t the girl by his side when he needed it most. So you would get to the boat. And you would get to it before them. You would get to it before he even had the time to open his mouth in protest of your reckless behavior. You would get to it because you loved him more than you loved the comfort of your lungs, or the comfort of your bed, or the comfort of your own life. If you had two broken legs and a collapsing windpipe, you’d still make it onto the goddamn boat.
You collapsed on the deck, gasping out your explanation to the deckhand in between panted breaths, waving the ring Richard had given you as proof.
Kit rushed to your side in an instant. “You idiot! What the hell are you doing here??”
You didn’t answer him. Your chest heaved so much, you were worried you’d rock the boat.
He sighed, exasperated, and asked the deckhand to help him carry you to a spare room below deck. As you were about to reach the stairs, you heard Lili scream his name from the pier. You almost wanted to laugh. So she had the same idea as you after all. You wondered if she’d fling herself aboard. Then you could both collapse below deck together.
You waved him off to go see what she was saying. You leaned against a wall to catch your breath. The jealous part of you knew that you should’ve pulled him downstairs with you the second you heard her voice. You could have insisted you were too weak without his support. Maybe you could’ve even convinced him to stay by your side. But you loved him too much to be selfish. The woman he loved was calling for him. The least you could do was let him go to her. After all, the two of you might not return. Hell, the three of you might not return if she decided to jump aboard.
Letting your curiosity get the better of you, you trudged forward slightly, craning your neck to hear what she was saying. You were shocked to find that she was not, in fact, demanding to board the vessel. She was calling him an idiot. Multiple times. Screaming it, actually. You couldn’t exactly blame her; if you’d had a functioning lung left, you might’ve lectured him too. But the only thought you’d had in your mind, the only thought you’d felt was logical at the time, was to get on the damn boat with him. It was only natural when you loved him so. Even when the boat began moving, you still expected her, as your rival in love, to find her way on. At the very least, you expected her to yell that she loved him. He might have been sailing to his death. There was no way she would let her last words to him be filled with fury.
It wasn’t until the boat pulled out onto open water that you realized she hadn’t confessed a damn thing. And he was shaking. Ignoring your aching limbs, you reached out to him and grabbed his arm. He seemed to remember that you had just collapsed only moments ago and instinctively reached out to steady you, his brow creasing with worry.
“What the hell are you even doing on this boat?” He demanded.
You wanted to say, “That should be my line.” You wanted to scold him too. For not telling you. For not telling anyone. For making this decision alone. For being stubborn. For being stupid. For sheltering things alone like he always did. But Lili had already done that. And, from the sounds of it, this wasn’t the first time she’d done so. And it wouldn’t do a damn thing to change his mind, not when he was like this. There was no point in you saying it too.
So you smiled. “I’m giving you some company, of course.”
He scoffed. “Company? Are you crazy, woman? Do you even realize where we are headed?”
You tapped your chin in thought. “Tropical vacation, maybe?”
He turned to the deckhand. “Turn this boat around, we’re dropping her off.”
Before you could complain, the deckhand spoke up. “Actually, my lord, she’s here for the same reason as you.”
Looking smug, you held up Richard’s ring. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Chrissie.”
His nose wrinkled up. “You know I hate when you call me that.”
“And you know I love when you scrunch up your face like that, just like when we were kids,” You teased.
He huffed. “I will drop you. I’m not joking.”
“You won’t-”
The second Kit let go, your knees buckled and the world started spinning.
“Damnit! You seriously did a number on yourself, you idiot.” His arms found their way around you again, pulling you against him before you hit the ground. “Why the hell did you run so hard??”
“You…would’ve left…without me.” You groaned out.
“Damn right. This is no place for you.” He muttered.
You flicked his forehead. “My place is wherever you are.”
He shook his head in disbelief, but his eyes softened. He hooked an arm underneath you and began carrying you to the lower level. “Hold tight, or I will drop you.”
“You already dropped me, jerk.”
“I’ll drop you again.”
Once you got below deck, the deckhand went in search of a spare room for you only to come up empty. They hadn’t planned for a last minute addition. Whatever spare rooms they’d had, they used to stock up with supplies for the long journey ahead.
Kit cursed under his breath. “This is why you have to think before you rush ahead.”
“I was thinking about you, stupid.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have. I would’ve been fine.”
“No, you would not have. Do you think I don’t know you well enough by now, Kit? You don’t know the first thing about diplomacy.”
He glared at you. “I took the same damn classes as you-”
“Yeah, and who was always better at them? Me. Admit it, you’re just here because you feel bad for Richard and you wanted to lighten his load. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t mean you’re not scared shitless. You hate public speaking. You hate crowds. You hate sweet talking people. You hate being Lord Christopher.”
“Regardless, I am a lord and it is my duty-”
“And I’m a lady and it’s my duty.”
“No, a lady should be at home, safe and sound, right now.”
“We’re at war. Nowhere is safe.”
“Anywhere is safer than being on a ship that’s sailing right in the middle of it!”
You huff. “Will you just shut up, and say you’re really just worried because you care about me but you’re actually glad that I’m here?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’d rather you not be here. I don’t understand why the hell you’d choose to be here.”
You pulled away from him, finally tired of his complaints. “Because I love you, you thick-skulled, stubborn-headed, jack-assed, idiot!”
He froze in place.
You didn’t wait to see his reaction; you stormed off, muttering to yourself that you’d just sleep in a storage room.
“Wait…” Kit murmured quietly. Panic began seizing through his veins but he couldn’t bring his legs to move. “Please, wait…”
But you were already gone.
The moment you found a solid surface, regardless of the fact that it was just a supply crate, you hunkered down, and started writing. Writing was all you could do when you were in a mood like this. At first, you wrote diplomatic letters, trying to make use of your time. But then, eventually, you started writing anything and everything under the sun. Stories that would make Kit laugh. Stories that would make Kit smile. Stories that would make Kit blush. At some point, you passed out on top of your papers. You were so deep in sleep, you didn’t even hear the door open.
When you woke up, you were in a bed, and Kit was sleeping on the floor. You scrambled to wake him up.
“What the hell are you doing on the floor??” You hissed in disbelief.
He rubbed his eyes, groaning. “What’s it look like I’m doing? Sleeping.”
“Yeah, I know that, idiot! But why on the floor??”
“You’re in my bed.”
“I can see that!! Why aren’t you in it, though??”
For the first time today, he took a moment to truly look at you. His silvery blue eyes pierced yours as he gazed at you, deep in thought. You wanted to kiss him.
You looked away instead. “Why are you staring?”
“Do you want me to sleep beside you?”
Your cheeks burned with every shade of crimson. “I’ll just sleep on the floor!”
He turned back to curl up in his sleeping spot. “No, thanks. I’d rather you be comfortable.”
“Fine, fine! Then get in the damn bed with me!” You exclaimed, tugging at his shirt before he could get comfortable (not that you really thought he could be that comfortable on the floor).
He settled onto one side of the bed and you felt the weight of the mattress shift beneath you. You inched towards the edge of your side. This was insanely improper, even for you. You felt like sinking so deeply into the mattress that it just swallowed you whole. Anything to avoid accidentally brushing up against him. In his sleeping attire.
“The second the boat rocks, you’re going to fall off the bed.” He mused matter of factly.
“Will not.” You grumbled to yourself, crossing your arms.
“You will too.”
“Will not.”
He reached over and tugged you to him. “Stubborn girl.”
“Kit!” You hit him with your pillow.
Beneath your pillow, he’d started to laugh.
You were mortified. “What? What on earth is so funny?” You demanded, flames roaring in your cheeks.
He pulled the pillow away from his face to smile at you mirthfully. “It reminds me of when we were kids and we’d break into the chocolate stash, and then pass out together when we ate too much.” He chuckled.
You bit your lip.
“Go on, you can laugh. It was funny.” He nudged you with his elbow.
You snorted and plopped down beside him. “Whatever, Kit. You remember the strangest things.”
He propped himself up on his side to get a better look at you, and your eyes suddenly found the ceiling.
“I know you remember it too, because you remember everything.”
“I do not.” You grumbled under your breath.
He huffed, amused. “How many times are we going to argue today? I’ll have to start keeping count.”
You tensed up. “Sorry. I don’t want to argue.”
“Me either.”
You grew quiet.
“Hey. About earlier. What you said-”
“I’m tired, okay? We don’t have to talk about it now. Let’s just… talk about it later, yeah?” You knew your argument was weak, but you’d never get to sleep if you had to listen to his rejection. You were sure, as it stood now, the only person he saw was Lili. You hadn’t intended for him to return your feelings when you had confessed. You hadn’t intended to confess at all. But now that you had confessed, all you wanted was to let it sit in the air and stay in the air. At least, in the air, it didn’t have to come crashing down.
He didn’t respond, and for a moment, you thought he might have fallen asleep. And then, quietly, he murmured, “Okay. Goodnight.”
“...Goodnight.”
The next day, you made sure to leave before he woke up and come back after he’d already fallen asleep. The day after that was the same. After the third day of being avoided, Kit decided to follow you to see what it was that you were doing that took an entire day. He was surprised to find you’d already memorized the names of most of the crew, and had been helping out where you could. Sometimes, you were cleaning, sometimes, you were cooking. Today, you’d been asked to help teach writing skills to some of the less educated staff.
Kit watched from the doorway, eyes following the path of your pen, mesmerized. He’d always loved not just reading what you wrote, but watching how you wrote. You wrote so smoothly and elegantly that it was like its own artform. If he had to pick out your handwriting from a mound of letters, he’d know your penmanship anywhere. Listening to the crewmates remark to each other about your skill only made him feel all the more prideful on your behalf.
“If you think her writing is pretty, you should hear her stories,” He declared to the class suddenly, pulling out papers from his pocket, which you recognized as the stories you’d begun penning aboard the ship. “This one’s funny-”
“Kit!” You snatched the papers from his hands in a hurry.
“What? I wasn’t joking. I really do like them.”
You sighed, “I know you do.”
“So, what’s the issue? They need good learning material, you have good learning material.” He held out his hand to recover the papers you’d stolen from him.
The expectant, hopeful eyes of your students made your shoulders sag in defeat and you surrendered your stories to Kit. To your surprise, he began reading them aloud and even encouraged people to chime in. It was like a dream of yours come true, to have the love of your life showering your works with love, and to have your works read aloud and admired. Even if they were just silly, short stories, it brought you joy to bring them joy.
Once they had filed out the door, and it was just you and Kit, you made sure to thank him.
“What’s there to thank? It was your work that deserved the praise. I told you I wasn’t just flattering you.”
“I know. I’m still shocked you read it out loud though. You don’t like public speaking.”
“You said that before.” He shrugged. “I guess I figured I should get practice in before we arrive.”
Before your nerve could leave you, you blurted out, “I like having you read my stories. It sounds better coming from you.”
He cracked a smile. “It’s only because I know the emotions you intended to convey.”
“A good writer should ensure everyone understands the emotions they wish to convey.”
“A writer is like an artist. You can make a masterpiece, and some will understand it, and some won’t. It’s okay. The people who can appreciate it will cherish it long after they’ve finished reading.”
You blinked. You hadn’t expected him to say something so profound. “You think writing is like art? That must be high praise, coming from a genius artist like yourself.”
“I think if writing is an art, you’re my favorite artist.”
Your heart tripped on its own beat. You knew he meant every word that he said. That was one of the things you loved about Kit. He was always genuine, always honest, always true to himself. If he said you wrote well, then you wrote well. If he said you were his favorite, then you were his favorite. He didn’t feel the need to coat his words in sugar to make them easier to swallow. He didn’t feel the need to break himself down to fit in a box. He simply said what he said, liked what he liked.
That must be so freeing, you thought to yourself. To be able to say what you feel and mean what you say. If you were like him, you’d have told him you loved him a decade ago. You’d have told him how every time he encouraged you to write, you felt like escape from the life of a house wife might be just around the corner. You’d have told him how every moment you’d spent with him, you’d bottled up, like a firefly in a jar, to bring you light when you felt the darkness closing in. You’d have told him how you’d danced with dukes and princes, men from near and far, and not a single soul came even close to reviving you the way he did. But you weren’t him. You were just some girl who’d stowed away on a boat, knowing her love would never be returned, content to merely die by his side if death was what lay in the cards.
“How’s your drawing?” You inquired, eager to change the subject.
He shifted his weight. “I quit. Art was simply a way for me to waste time, anyway.”
You laughed, but the sound was cold, like frost from your lips. “No, it wasn’t. Draw me something.”
He straightened defensively. “I told you, I don’t draw any-”
“That’s a lie; you and I both know it. You love art.”
“I don’t have the time to waste-”
“Christopher Church, you have got nothing but time. We are stuck on a boat, lord knows when we will arrive, so you will draw me something and you will draw it now. It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece; it could be a loaf of bread, for all I care. But don’t you dare tell me that you haven’t got time when you’ve still got breath in your lungs and vitality in your hands, and don’t you dare tell me that art was a waste of time when it was the first thing you ever put your heart into. You can lie to Lili and you can lie to Catherine and you can lie to Peter and Joffrey and Shin and Sakura, but don’t you dare ever lie to me.”
“Bread it is,” He mumbled under his breath, sinking into a nearby chair to pull out the sketchbook you knew was in his pocket all along.
And then, it was just like old times all over again. You’d peer over his shoulder, entranced with his lines and shapes and shading. He drew as if he had the power to command the art to rise from the pages. You could almost smell the loaf he was sketching. And then, when you thought he was finished, he tilted his head in thought and began to draw something beside the bread.
Your brows furrowed. “What’s that? What’re you drawing?”
“It’s your big mouth, gobbling down the bread.”
You tugged on his hair with a huff.
He let out a whine of protest, but he smiled in the end.
Everyday going forward was like this. You’d find yourself immersed in differing activities- you’d write more diplomatic letters, he’d trace the ship’s map as he discussed the route with the captain, you’d clap your hands as the ship’s crew took a break to dance, and he’d stand out on the deck and watch the sun rise and fall. But at some point during every day, you’d make it a point to seek him out and have him draw something for you. And it may have annoyed him at first, but eventually, it became his saving grace. Eventually, he’d search for you to show you what he’d already drawn. He knew it didn’t matter if he’d drawn a seagull or a window; you’d encourage him the way you always did, with that smile you always had, with that tone of voice you saved for him. And he’d do the same for you. He’d tell you to write him a story. A sad one, a happy one. Anything at all. Even if the ship sank and your stories fell to the bottom of the sea, his ghost would dive into its depths and finish reading every last word. He was grateful to you. For filling his days and filling his nights. For filling him with purpose, with joy. For reminding him what wonder and awe were. For keeping him company when he needed it or giving him space when he wanted it. And he’d repay you even to his last breath.
Even once you reached the shore of a new land, though you were just as wary and anxious as he was, in an unfamiliar land with unfamiliar people during unfamiliar times, you stood your ground. You supported his proposals, and encouraged him when his spirits were low. You took over the conversation when he felt his confidence waning, and you brought him back to life when he felt his energy drained. You were his anchor. You always had been.
“You do realize that this country is even more opposed than England is to two unmarried members of the opposite gender being alone in the same room together,” He teased when he saw you slipping into his room.
“Then you’ll be a good boy and not say anything,” You laughed as you approached him. “I just had to bring you these. Can you believe they have them here? I thought I’d die before I ever tasted one again. They’re heavenly.”
He raised an eyebrow at your exaggeration, but promptly agreed with your assessment once you’d shoved the pastry in his mouth. “You should’ve brought another.”
“You’re so greedy! It was bad enough I had to sneak into your room after hours; now you wish I would’ve brought an armful with me?”
He shrugged playfully. “Something to keep in mind for a later date.”
You snorted at him, wiping the sugar from his chin, before waving goodnight. “Sweet dreams, Kit.”
You were his anchor. You always had been. You always would be.
He was never more grateful for that when the ship sank. And he was never more grateful to the gods when you somehow washed up on the same island as him. He had exhausted his limbs nearly to extinction trying to fight the current to get to you when he saw you sink beneath the waves. Despite the pain ripping through his muscles, searing into his every cell, burning itself into blood and bone, it was nothing compared to the agony of possibly never seeing you again. Of never feeling you fall asleep on his shoulder after another night of running through plans. Of never hearing you imitate his brother when you attempted to make him laugh. Of never smelling the scent of your perfume seeping into his clothes when your hugs lingered a little too long.
A mouthful of water or two later and he was waking up on a beach without you by his side.
He almost dove back in. Without a second thought of where you might be, of where he might look, he almost ran right back into the unforgiving waters. And then he heard you cough up a lung a few meters away. He’d never run so fast in his life. He was entirely unaware he even had the capability to move his feet as fast as they’d taken him to you. But he was grateful he had the strength to move at all. If he couldn’t run, he would’ve crawled to you.
“Hey, hey, hey! You’re okay. You’re okay.” He pulled you into his arms, patting your back until you’d expelled all the water that you could. He rocked you as you shuddered your way back to sanity, blinking back salt and shock. “Thank god, you’re okay.” He whispered as he rested his head against your temple.
“C-cold…I’m cold.” You murmured at last.
“Take my jack-”
“It’s wet.” You gave a weak laugh. “Come on. Let’s go find shelter together.”
How two nobles ended up making a fire, you were not sure. Maybe some god somewhere took pity on you both. Or maybe they wanted a good laugh. Either way, you’d found a cave and you’d conjured up some warmth. It was good enough for now. It was good enough to simply have him tightly pressed to you, exchanging heat and comfort and promises to get through this.
Finally, Kit spoke. “I thought you might’ve died.”
You nodded. “I thought I was going to.”
He remained silent for a moment as he rested his head on your shoulder. “I never gave you a response.”
Your brows furrowed. “Response? To what? What you wanted for dinner?”
A hint of a smile poked at his cheeks. “Not that. On the boat. That very first day. When you told me…I never gave you a response.”
Suddenly you didn’t need the fire for warmth any longer. The heat seeping into your cheeks and spilling across your neck and ears was warmth enough. “You, um, you don’t, ah… you don’t have-”
“I should’ve responded sooner.”
“It’s fine, really-”
“Do you still think I’ll reject you?”
You stilled. “We almost died. It’s natural to cling to the first person that you-”
“Then I’ll wait longer. As long as it takes for you to believe it’s not just a near death experience talking.” He declared resoundingly.
You bit your lip.
“But I should’ve told you sooner. In the past, it always felt like enough to simply have you beside me. We didn’t need words. But then I saw you disappear and I couldn’t reach you.”
“I saw you reach for me.”
“I’d always reach for you.”
Your fingers tightened around his shirt.
His thumbs traced circles along your back as he held you close. Then his nose brushed against your ear. “You’re the only thing grounding me. Reminding me who I am, reminding me where home is. You’re my anchor.”
You buried your face against his neck. “Don’t anchors just hold you back?”
He shook his head. “You can take an anchor with you wherever you go, you know. But anchors let you know where to stop and rest, where to enjoy the scenery. Anchors weather the storm.”
“Maybe you should be the writer-”
“I love you.”
Your heart clanged against your chest, like bells in a church. “I thought you were going to wait longer to tell me.”
“I’ve waited enough.”
You clenched his shirt tighter. “You idiot, Kit Church. I… I love you-”
His lips found yours like a key in a lock. With every press deeper, he unraveled all the parts of you that you thought you had to hide. All the stolen glances, all the lingering touches, all the memorized words. His warmth seeped into your very being until time itself was lost to the feeling of his lips against yours, to the feeling of his hands cradling your face, to the feeling of his heart beating to the rhythm of yours. He kissed you like you’d been the flower to save him from his ailment, all those years ago. He kissed you like he’d turn one flower into gardens. He kissed you like he was always and would always be the version of himself that belonged to you and only you.
You pulled away and his eyes searched yours curiously. You caressed his cheek encouragingly. “I know it’s not much, but I felt it might be the right time to give you this. Maybe it can be a good luck charm of ours. A promise to fulfill once we make it back home.” You took the ring off your pointer finger that had been given to you from his brother (that you were honestly surprised had endured the typhoon with you), and slid it onto his ring finger.
His eyes widened before softening into stardust. He brought your bare ring finger up to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. “It’s a promise then.”
From that moment on, it didn’t matter what he had to face. He had you with him to weather the storm.
When he nearly got attacked by a poisonous snake, you panicked and caught the snake’s tail by the bare hand, whipping it back and forth until he was sure you’d given it whiplash. He’d swallowed down his laughter, shoulders shaking, as he tried to comfort you while you wailed about how disgusting it was and how you’d forever be traumatized. When he caught an infectious disease and commanded you to stay away from him, you nursed him through it all, enduring his sickness and yours. When he stumbled upon a group of villagers who didn’t speak his language, you quickly picked up on the patterns in their writing and used it to communicate in broken sentences, encouraging him to draw out whatever else you needed to explain.
By the time you made it to the shores of England, you’d both been to the gates of death and back, hand in hand. By the time you made the trip to Drunnheim Hall, you both had the rings to match. And by the time you sat down for dinner, Richard was toasting you both to love and peace.
