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When Philip was a child, Richard was always invading his consciousness -- first as a visiting princeling who scoffed at toys, then as a swaggering braggart who always had other soldiers at his back. He stormed about King Louis VII's castle as if he was its rightful prince, and Philip was beneath his notice.
Philip's father watched Richard with wistful admiration, but his mother watched Richard with hostility, pressing Philip back against her skirts every time Richard passed by.
From the birds-eye view afforded by the turrets and parapets, Philip observed Richard stumble his way through a clumsy adolescence, achieving a new milestone on each visit to King Louis' domain. First, the application of brute force on the sparring grounds, nothing more than anger driving each thrust of the sword; next, a sliver of finesse as he took some of Philip's fighting instructors to task.
Philip leaned out over the land he would rule someday, eyes narrowed in eager tutelage as Richard learned grace and poise, and then abandoned it, as blunt a weapon as any the soldiers gave to Philip with which to practice.
“Royal politics, my son, are the one thing you must master, and must never for a moment neglect,” Philip’s father said, as they discussed the neighboring kingdoms, and the dangers of sudden war. There were so many ways the game could be played, and Philip devoted himself to learning all of them, to defeating all the subtle tricks which might be employed against him.
“Do not be easily manipulated, my son. A king must stand independent, and others must not perceive him to be swayed with mere words,” Philip’s mother said, as she watched her husband holding court. The expression on her face was not easily forgotten. It was the way one might look in the presence of men with rotting wounds, surrounded by the unbearable stench of inevitable decay.
At night, Philip imagined Richard on his knees, paying obeisance to Philip‘s kingship, and that satisfying vision sent him to sleep with happy dreams.
When Philip turned fifteen, his father deemed him proficient enough to join the battle-hardened knights at their practice. He joined Richard in the open air while Richard stabbed his broadsword at convenient targets: knights, squires, and servants foolish enough to pass through the training grounds.
Philip could already feel the pressing weight of the crown on his forehead, the hammered gold biting into his skin. He imagined Richard felt the same weight, had striven and bled for the right, and would do so again if given the chance. It was time to lay the groundwork between them.
Richard strode forward, his chin lifted as he assessed his likely opponent. Philip was glad to be regarded so frankly, to be seen as a potential threat; conquests could not come without war.
"Prince Philip," Richard said, with a bow barely respectful enough to be called proper.
"Prince Richard," Philip said, for he was nothing if not polite. The broadsword hung heavy in his own hand, but he had learned a trick or two unrelated to soldiering. He sheathed the sword and pulled a ripe plum from his sleeve. "Shall I put myself in the way of your sword?" he asked, biting into the fruit carefully. A slender trickle of juice ran from the corner of his mouth. "Do you need something to strike toward?"
"No," Richard said after a moment, his eyes fixed on Philip's mouth. He heaved a great sigh, his gaze snapping up to Philip's. "I have all the targets I require."
Richard‘s tiny lapse in attention emboldened Philip, who pressed his advantage. "Do you imagine France on her knees? My father's neck beneath your blade?"
"You've a sharp tongue for such an untrained boy."
"Not untrained," Philip said, tossing the plum aside. "Nor am I untried. Unless of course you mean in battle." He took a moment to suck the juice from his fingers, and to watch the flush creep across Richard's cheeks. "But let us pretend for a moment you are right, so you may indulge me with your expertise. What do you substitute, in your mind's eye, for the neck of your enemy?"
The tiniest of smiles flashed across Richard's face. "I've no need of imaginary targets. My brothers line themselves up before the throne, begging for battle."
"Spoken like a man who expects to be king someday."
"Perhaps. My father hates your father," Richard said, changing topics with unceremonious candor. He twirled his sword with an entirely unnecessary flair, waiting to see if he'd struck true.
"So it would seem, which merely serves to prove that your father understands the nature of love entirely."
At that, Richard raised his eyebrow, and the sword stopped spinning. "Have you come to practice, or to prove what a clever boy you are?"
"Both," Philip said, "since they are inevitably the same thing." He took up his sword then, and it took Richard only moments to disarm and straddle him, chest heaving, the point of his sword at Philip's neck.
"If you harm me, my father will have you killed," Philip said, pressing up into the sharp edge.
"He'll try," Richard said, eyes narrowed. "I'm hard to kill."
"You take after your father after all, then," Philip said, gratified when Richard's sword arm jerked and a trickle of blood slid down Philip's neck.
"I take after my mother," Richard said, wiping his sword clean of Philip's blood by using Philip's very expensive tunic. He dragged a finger through the rivulet of blood, tracing its route back to the cut he'd made.
For many hours after, Philip felt the phantom touch of Richard's callused fingertip against his skin.
---
The king tried to be a gracious host, but in Philip‘s eyes, most of his conversation with royal guests took the form of unsubtle interrogation. Louis seated Richard at his right hand, and proceeded to ask him questions about the uprising against Henry, the state of affairs with Eleanor, and much more. Richard's jaw line grew more and more rigid, until finally Louis gave up with a shrug and turned to flirting with a pretty serving girl.
"My father means no offense," Philip said, leaning closer to Richard with a goblet dangling from his hand. "It's just that he so rarely has the opportunity to demonstrate any capacity for intellect or backbone. I suspect he wanted to impress you."
"You would speak ill of him?" Richard's expression spoke of a family accustomed to drawing blood from one another, but less willing to allow outsiders their fair chance.
The fire at the center of the great hall flared, then sputtered, and Philip took a moment to look into Richard's eyes -- glittering blue jewels, cold and full of curious flame. "Insulting one's family is the particular sport of kings, wouldn't you agree?"
"If you say so." Richard leaned back on one arm. "Though what you'd know about being a king, boy, would barely fill that cup you're holding."
"It's a small cup," Philip said, pausing to take a sip. "Easily filled." The light caught in the fastenings of Richard's tunic, casting shards of gold across the table. "I'll have a larger one soon enough."
"So you shall." Richard's gaze traveled a slow path down Philip's face, charting across his chest, lingering on Philip's fingers, and desire bloomed sudden and hot in Philip's belly. All the coiled strength in Richard's body, the way he shifted his hips to bring his dagger closer; Philip wanted to touch it, to have it in his hands, to do with as he liked. The longer Richard looked, the more Philip felt the foundations of power shifting gently beneath them, a slow-pulled tide favoring Philip.
"They say you are a poet, Prince Richard." Philip tilted his head back, holding Richard's gaze with his own. "What has a warrior to do with the romance of delicate minds?"
"Passion is the province of warriors," Richard answered. He leaned in suddenly, taking Philip's goblet in his own hand to sip from it. "Fighting, fucking, it is all the same. We put pretty words around our conquests like victory wreaths so all may know and remember them."
"And are you writing those pretty words now, late at night, in your chambers?"
Richard flashed his teeth; it could not properly be called a smile. "First there must be something to conquer, little prince. Then there can be verse."
"War has made you cynical.”
"I'm a realist," Richard said. "I prefer to see things as they are, not as I wish them to be."
"And who writes the verse, the conqueror, or the conquered?" Philip asked, smiling away the threat.
"One's perspective may shift on the matter," Richard said, passing the goblet back. "Depending upon whether he holds the sword, or is at the point of it. But the verse is largely the same."
When Richard turned his attention back to the king, Philip held his goblet out to be refilled with wine, the better to drown this sudden, shivering fire in his heart, before it consumed them all.
---
The hunt was of no consequence as an event in and of itself. It was the joy of being free in the forest that attracted Philip, the thrill of being clad in simple breeches and tunic, of riding without restriction for as long as he wished. He could be anyone, a simple peasant, a huntsman looking for game -- anything but the future king. If only the power could come without the onerous restrictions.
When his horse decided to end his pleasant fantasy by tossing him to the ground, Philip was quite sure it was some sort of punishment for disregarding his father's wishes to remain with the main party, looking as kingly and capable as befit Louis' heir. Darkness took him, and he woke to the sound of a voice crying out his name. "Philip!"
Of course, it would be Richard; of all people who might see him unhorsed, this was the least attractive option. Richard pulled up alongside Philip where he lay and dropped from the saddle to his side. "Are you injured?" Richard asked. Fallen leaves crackled as he knelt in the mud, his hands on Philip's shoulders.
Philip glanced down at those large hands, startled; they trembled where they rested on Philip's muddy coat, and where his fingers rested against the leaping pulse at the side of Philip's neck.
"Nothing broken," he said, trying to smile, and Richard exhaled a soft breath of relief before crushing his mouth to Philip's, a biting, bruising kiss Philip was helpless to control. He let Richard pull him into his arms, let the simmering fire inside him roar and rage in response, and buried his hands in Richard's hair, soft and wet with the misting rain.
When Richard released him, he looked not like the confident prince who had killed a boar not an hour before, but more like a startled deer caught in a hunter's trap. For long moments they stared at each other, until finally Philip said, "Help me up, will you?"
Richard said nothing, only stood and pulled Philip to his feet, but did not release his hand. They stood in the foundering twilight, hands twined, until the sound of horses approaching made Philip step away.
"My chambers," Philip said. "Tonight, after the men have retired."
"Yes," Richard answered, even as the hunting party thundered into the clearing, Philip's horse in tow, fresh kill strapped in the empty saddle.
---
The interminable evening dragged on, and Philip had time enough to wonder what he was playing at, risking everything for a stolen touch, a kiss without tenderness. His body yearned toward Richard, tilting his direction as he stood in the center of the great hall, dogs underfoot, playing at swords with two of the king's guard. He'd begun to make a study of Richard's methods, the way he turned, parried, thrust. Once he had it, he made a game of catching Richard's eye to watch his concentration falter.
Soon enough, he would test his knowledge; he would spread open all Richard's secrets and learn them, just as he had learned the patterns of his battle maneuvers.
The soft knock came at Philip's chamber door well after the moon had begun her descent in the sky, and Philip opened it to find Richard standing there, still dressed for battle. He could not help the smile that crept across his face, and took note of Richard’s annoyance.
"You find something funny?"
"Come in, and don't rouse the entire castle," Philip said, standing aside while Richard swept in. He barred the door behind him and turned to look at Richard, who stood awkwardly in the dim light from the fire. "It's just that you always seem ready for assassins to come upon you in the night."
"Is that what you are?" Richard asked. "Should I have worn my sword, then?"
"You should not have worn anything too difficult to divest you of," Philip answered, dropping his cloak to the floor.
From there it was a simple matter of finding the fastenings, the buttons and laces, and pulling apart the garments to expose all that was hidden beneath. Richard's body was scarred and broad where Philip's was smooth and slender, but he matched Richard's strength, and his will of purpose.
"A year of marching in your father's army would put more muscle on you," Richard said hoarsely, kissing his way down Philip's spine.
"I have hundreds of good men, waiting to lend me their strong sword arms," Philip asked, the words harder and harder to find as Richard's hands made a study of his skin. “Who are you to say what it is I need?”
In answer, Richard cupped Philip's hard cock in his hand. When Philip surrendered to his desire, head tipping back, Richard marked his neck with sharp teeth, then soothed him with a rough tongue.
It was not until Richard was seated inside him that the shame began to eat at Philip -- shame at his wanton noises, at the way he had given himself over to his lust. It was not kingly; it did not become him, but he could not care, not with the pleasure burning through his body and Richard's voice soft and persuasive in his ear, begging him -- "Let me have you, give yourself to me" -- as if there was anything else Philip could do.
They slept fitfully, wound about each other, until the night turned grey with the approach of morning. Richard took his leave, stealing one last kiss before shoving his dagger back into his belt. Philip pressed a hand to the marks on his body, and wondered what the price might be for such pleasures, for those bred to be kings.
---
The nights and days passed more quickly, after. There were lessons, tutors, all manner of subjects to occupy Philip's days, and Richard was often gone to his nearby lands, France's friendly neighbor. Evenings were spent in the pursuit of pleasure, and in the understanding that time would not be kind to them, in the end, as they embraced all they were to become.
Philip lay sprawled in his bed, his prince's circlet in one hand, heavy and cold. "It's so dull here in the firelight," he mused. "Shouldn't gold capture the fire? Or at least reflect the brilliance of the sun?"
"I should like to see your skin in sunlight," Richard said, nosing at his cock. "All of it, bared for me."
"And so you reveal yourself to be a poet after all." Philip propped himself on an elbow. "Many a knight has come back with tales of it."
"Many a knight would not know," Richard said, rolling to his back. "Though I have spun a verse, from time to time. But there are others with greater facility for romance."
"I cannot believe it," Philip said, his arm stretched to the side, leaving so much room down the length of his body that the invitation could not have been more clear.
Richard's beard was rough against his chest, but his hair was soft as ever when Philip's hand sank into it. The urgency of Richard's attentions had long since turned to tenderness, and in their wake, Philip could feel an aching sadness.
"I have heard Henry brought your mother to court," he said, combing his fingers through Richard's hair. Quite suddenly, Richard pulled away, tension clear in all the lines of his body. "Does that not please you?"
"It does not."
"I would have thought the news of an ally set free would be welcome."
"Nothing about Eleanor is welcome."
"She must have loved you very much, to go against Henry."
"My mother loves viciously, like a boar kept caged without meat for too long."
Philip hung his circlet on the bedpost. "All love is very much the same, wouldn't you agree? It begins soft, and kind, but in the end it develops a bite, and one is hard-pressed to stay clear of its gnawing teeth."
"You sound as if you know Eleanor," Richard said, and the wry amusement behind his words stung Philip, who could not help but hate her for proving his point.
He looked at Richard, laid open and vulnerable before him, eyes closed, no weapon at hand, and marveled -- that they should not see each other as a threat. They had come to know one another so well that even their need for one another would not be an obstacle to their future.
When he drew his hand down Richard's body, watched him shudder and wanted him in equal measure, he was forced to hide his face against Richard's shoulder, lest all his truths be known. And when Richard took him again, forcing panting, eager cries from his lips, Philip bit his lip, creating pain to interrupt the flood of feelings -- this helpless, dangerous desire which sapped his control; this bone-deep fear of being consumed by that which he should regard with caution.
In the final rush of ecstasy, Richard's body covering his own, Philip caught the words which threatened to tumble from his lips -- caught them, held them, kept them close to his heart, because to let them free was to lose all that was left of his soul. It was no use, no use at all. Everything would be subsumed by who they were -- two future kings in the crucible -- and no simple sentiment could arrest that unstoppable tide.
Even as Richard took Philip in his arms, Philip's eyes filled with unshed tears.
"I love you," Richard said quietly. He did not say: I do not love you the way Eleanor loves; I do not love with teeth. But Philip heard all that was unspoken. He was becoming a warrior prince under Richard's stellar tutelage. Warriors were bred for battle, and their teeth were ever sharp. "Tell me truly, do you feel the same?"
Philip cupped his hand over the steady beat of Richard's heart. So odd that this strangely fragile thing, which could fill the world and fit in the palm of one's hand, was nothing more than an instrument of war.
"I do love you," Philip whispered, cheek pressed to Richard's chest, "and I find you beautiful."