Chapter One

There was a saying in Westchester: the longer the winter, the sweeter the spring. Charles could almost believe it, staring out of his window at the grey, leaden skies that were threatening to burst open with much-too-premature snow. Snowfall typically arrived just before winter solstice, but this year they had all just bid farewell to summer only a fortnight ago. This was highly irregular for Westchester's temperate climate, irregular enough to send Henry thumbing through the castle annals for old weather records to see if this had happened before. Nonetheless, Charles didn't mind. A long, sweet spring would be most welcome.

"Your move," Erik said, startling Charles out of his reverie. He returned his attention to the chessboard, where Erik's rook was now threatening his bishop. Erik's playing was erratic these days, his attention often seemingly elsewhere. Some nights he could beat Charles within ten moves; others, he was as bad as when Charles had first taught him how to play when they were boys.

The thought of boyhood made Charles smile. Ten years had passed since the fateful night Charles had discovered Erik in his kitchen, after Charles had brought that frightened, scarred boy to his father and insisted that Erik get to stay. King Oliver - more than familiar with his son's habit of taking in strays - had suggested that Erik train under Sir Logan with the other squires.

Erik's mastery of metal had meant that he became extremely adept with all kinds of weapons, surpassing even the other gifted squires and leaving them in the dust. Charles had always envied Erik when they were growing up together, for Erik got to attend sword-fighting lessons while Charles was often stuck indoors with his tutors (at least his lessons with Master Grey were interesting). Nonetheless, Erik had taught Charles how to fight in secret, both of them sneaking down to the courtyard at night so Erik could impart what he had learned.

Looking up from the chessboard, Charles took in the man sitting opposite him in his solar. That lanky, awkward boy who had first shown Charles how to hold a sword was now Sir Erik, fearless and relentlessly loyal. In court Erik's place was behind the King as he watched over everything, a deadly and silent sentinel. But any other time, he would be undoubtedly by Charles' side: joining Charles in his solar, taking their meals together, arguing over their nightly chess games. Charles knew some of the nobles saw this behaviour as highly inappropriate, but unfortunately he cared not one whit for their opinions, and neither did his father or sister.

"The two of you are horrendously dependent on each other," Raven had told him once, as though she and Lady Adler were not exactly the same. "Don't you get tired of it?"

Charles had been genuinely surprised by the question. "Tired of Erik? Of course not." He'd omitted the most damning fact of all, which was how Erik's presence always filled him with a deep, nameless delight.

Like now. Even though Erik was distracted and staring off into space, a silver kroner weaving in and out between his splayed fingers, Charles was thankful he was here, steadfastly by Charles' side as he had sworn years ago.

Charles moved his bishop out of harm's way. "Is everything alright? You're leagues away tonight," he said gently.

Surprise bloomed in Erik's mind, before his eyes slid away from Charles' guiltily. "I'm fine," he said, sitting up and pocketing the kroner. From him, Charles got the faint mental impression of doors slamming shut, and swallowed the sting of hurt that Erik was keeping secrets from him. "I'm being particularly useless on the chessboard tonight," Erik added, frowning.

Charles tried to hide his hurt behind light humour. "How is that different from any other night?"

Erik's generous mouth curled up in a smile. "Don't get arrogant. I've been going easy on you only because I've been distracted by my duties."

"Fine, fine." This was more familiar territory for them, and Charles was pleased to see Erik smiling again. "Perhaps we should call it a night, since you have an early morning tomorrow."

"So I do." There was a delegation leaving for the Hellfire nation within the week, led by Raven, to discuss the new treaty. Erik's gift was always needed for such excursions, which meant Charles would not be seeing him for quite a while. Already Erik's forthcoming absence hung over them, like a thundercloud summoned by Ororo.

Erik's brows drew together in a frown, and Charles could sense his intent. "My prince--"

"Don't address me as such," Charles reminded him, a little more sharply than he'd meant to. He made his tone gentler. "I told you, I will always be Charles to you. And you'll always be Erik to me. No honorifics, no titles."

Something conflicted flitted across Erik's expression, and for the briefest of moments there was an odd light in his eyes. Charles waited with bated breath to see what he wanted to say, but Erik's shoulders simply sagged before he said, "I'll see you in the morning, Charles."

"Wait." Charles stood up, holding his arms out for an embrace. Already the weeks apart stretched long and thin between them, Charles' chessboard surely untouched night after night. Surely he was within rights to ask his oldest and dearest friend for a hug?

Erik immediately granted him one. "Good night," he said, before turning to leave. In his mind, there was something conflicted roiling under the surface, riddled with tinges of Erik's want. Charles frowned a little, withdrawing from Erik's surface thoughts. Erik hadn't put up any images of locked doors, but it was close.

Charles stared at the door long after Erik had left. Letting out a long sigh, he rubbed at his temples and cursed himself for his stupidity. What had he expected Erik to say? Erik was a man bound by duty, by loyalty. He wouldn't be foolish enough to be prone to such flights of fancy.

"Good night, my friend," Charles said, even though Erik was long out of earshot.