Chapter 237: Chapter 237: I want to. [Win-Win]

Cecil took the shirt but made no immediate move to put it on. "You’re showering too."

"Yes."

"I thought you intended to suffer nobly and remain dressed in ruined dignity."

"I intended not to re-enter an academy hall smelling like a private scandal."

Cecil’s mouth curved. "A pity. It might have improved the faculty’s focus."

"It would have killed the weaker ones."

"You underestimate academic resilience."

"I do not. I’ve met academics."

That pulled a quiet laugh out of Cecil just as Frederik stepped past him and into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly enough to signal that this phase of the afternoon would proceed under military timing, not princely improvisation.

His shower was exactly what one might expect from a man with Gregoris for a father and an active grudge against wasted minutes: fast, efficient, and brutally practical.

He left no room for the kind of distraction Cecil specialized in manufacturing out of steam, proximity, and a complete lack of shame.

By the time he stepped back out, hair still damp but already combed back with his fingers, Cecil was halfway dressed and watching the clock with visible disdain, as if time itself had personally insulted him. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

"You really were fast," Cecil said.

Frederik took his shirt from the garment case. "I said I would be."

"You make hygiene sound like a tactical operation."

"It is when I’m working around you."

Cecil leaned back against the edge of the console table while fastening his cuffs. "That could be interpreted romantically."

"It should not be."

"It will be by me."

Frederik ignored that and pulled on the fresh shirt, his movements economical and precise. The spare set was a perfect match. That was the point of carrying them. Imperial schedules, diplomatic visits, and court life in general had long ago taught both of them that the day could turn stupid without warning.

Today had merely chosen a more predictable variety of stupidity.

Cecil finished with one cuff and stepped closer before Frederik could reach the second. "Hold still."

Frederik stopped.

Cecil took the sleeve with cool, deft fingers and fixed the fastening himself, his expression composed enough to be mistaken for idle neatness by anyone who did not know him. Frederik, unfortunately, knew him very well.

"You’re enjoying this," he said.

"A little."

Cecil moved to the other cuff, correcting it with the same calm exactness. Then his hand rose to Frederik’s collar, smoothing the line of it, adjusting the fold, and straightening what did not strictly need straightening simply because he wanted to place his hands there and no longer needed an excuse delicate enough to be deniable.

Frederik let him.

"I want to mark you," Cecil said, his fingers sprawling over the side of Frederik’s neck.

The words were quiet in the way truths became when they had been true for so long that neither of them needed drama to give them weight.

Frederik did not move.

Cecil’s hand remained where it was, warm against his throat, and his silver eyes fixed on him through the mirror with an unsettling steadiness that had only grown stronger with age.

At twenty, Cecil no longer needed to play at possession the way he had as a child. He no longer needed tantrums, cold silences, or the raw, furious jealousy that had once made six-year-old imperial servants panic because the prince had seen Frederik give a toy to another omega child and responded as if treason had been committed in his nursery.

He had grown out of the methods.

Not the feeling.

That, if anything, had only become more elegant and dangerous. Frederik knew it better than anyone.

He knew it because he had been there from the beginning. Because the silence people mistook for aloofness had never really been silence at all. It had been a choice. At six, after that absurd, incandescent tantrum over a wooden toy and one smiling girl, Frederik had looked at Cecil - furious, red-eyed, and possessive in the wild irrational way only children and royals seemed capable of - and understood something important.

Cecil had chosen him long before either of them had language worthy of it.

And once Cecil chose something, he did not let go.

Frederik had stayed after that.

At first because it seemed easier than letting the palace drown under repeated emotional disasters.

Later because it was no longer duty, habit, or convenience. Later, because Cecil’s orbit had become so natural to him, imagining distance felt like structural damage rather than freedom.

And later still, when Cecil understood that what he felt was not childhood attachment, not princely preference, and not friendship sharpened by obsession, but love in its own fierce imperial form - he had never hidden it again.

Not from Frederik.

Now Cecil’s fingers pressed slightly more firmly against the side of his neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to make the intent unmistakable.

Frederik met his gaze in the mirror. "No."

Cecil did not flinch.

He only studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable to anyone else and perfectly clear to Frederik. Want. Annoyance. Patience stretched but was not broken. That old, bright possessiveness banked under silk and training and imperial polish.

"You didn’t even hesitate," Cecil said.

"I don’t need to."

That earned him the smallest narrowing of silver eyes.

Frederik turned just enough to face him, then reached up to remove Cecil’s hand from his neck with a calm finality that could not be mistaken for uncertainty.

"I know you want to," he said.

Cecil’s mouth moved at one corner. "That is a very diplomatic way of describing it."

"It’s an accurate one."

"It’s a restrained one."

Frederik released his wrist. "Someone has to be."

Cecil made a soft tsk of disappointment, the sound low and elegant and entirely genuine.

Frederik had no problem with the idea itself.

That was the more dangerous truth. If this were only a matter of personal reluctance, Cecil would have worn him down years ago through shameless persistence, strategic affection, and sheer imperial confidence. Frederik was not shy with him. Never had been. Cecil knew that better than anyone.

But personal desire and political reality were not the same thing, and both of them had been raised too close to power to pretend otherwise.

A mark on Frederik would not be private.

Not really. Not with Cecil.

Not with an imperial son whose every movement attracted scrutiny. Not with families like theirs. Not with a court already half-starved for symbols and the other half built out of people who knew how to weaponize them.

Cecil knew that too.

He simply disliked it.

Deeply.

"I hate politics," Cecil said.

"That’s a lie."

"I hate politics when they interfere with me."

"That," Frederik said, "is much more believable."

Cecil’s gaze stayed on him, openly dissatisfied. "You would look good marked."

Frederik’s brow lifted. "That is not the angle likely to persuade me."

"It should be."

"It isn’t."

Cecil clicked his tongue once against his teeth in renewed disappointment, then stepped closer again, until the distance between them became narrow enough to feel but not narrow enough to scandalize the outer corridor if someone opened the door at the wrong moment.

"You know," he said, "most people would be flattered by this level of devotion."

"Most people," Frederik said, "would not have had you attached to them since childhood like a territorial natural disaster."

Cecil looked almost offended. "That is an ugly metaphor."

"It’s the truth." Frederik placed his hand at the small of Cecil’s back and guided him to the door. "Now, let’s finish with the academics."