She looked at him, really looked, blushing prettily, and it took considerable effort not to hop off the stable door and kiss her then and there. He was sure she looked better with her hair pulled back, everything a little out of place, than she did in her court finery. Her neckline was higher though, which was the only real disappointment. Tristan’s grin widened.

“Promises, promises,” he teased, her laughter fluttering in his ear.

Steady brain, come back. Tristan reeled in his thoughts before they could wander too far along the road she’d set them on. Everything felt good today, for the first time in the long time. He wanted music, he wanted to dance, to joke, to talk too-loudly in the hot buzzing of a room full of people, a drink in his hands, his cheeks flushed. He wanted to run, to ride, to move.

“I’ll order more,” he swore tugging smartly on the lapels of his coat, “if that’s how you feel.”

He ran his hand down the side of his face, along the now-alien smoothness of his cheek. He’d grown so used to his unkempt state, he still sometimes didn’t recognise himself when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his shave close and his hair cut. He’d made sure his barber, who he had inherited indirectly from his father, had been properly briefed on how to strike a balance between well-groomed and becomingly windswept. He’d had no desire to look like a mini-Arthur, and the barber had spent the entire haircut muttering about it.

“What do you think of the rest?” he asked her, “I’d almost forgotten what my chin looked like. I missed it.” And I missed you even more, he should have said. But he didn’t. For any other girl it would have been easy, even as a half-truth or silky smooth lie, but that risked so little, and this so much. One was the work of the restored king, revelling in youth, in his reclaimed pleasures, in the show of monarchy, the other was Tristan, not entirely sure he really wanted to be seen as he was. The other image was so much more appealing, easier to get drunk on.

So instead he smirked at her and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’d say guess,” Tristan said, holding her eye as long as he dared, “but given the coat, I’m not sure where your mind would go.” His eyes shone. “You know, I’m a man of delicate sensibilities.”

With that, he hopped down off the stable door, landing inside the stable, just in front of her.

“I need you to come with me,” he explained, “and for you bring your excellent taste with you. I’m determined to redecorate, but they’ve brought me wallpaper and fabric samples and books of furniture, and I am out of my depth.”

Tristan took her hand, beaming.

“And besides,” he added coyly, “I reckon, like a lot of things, it’s more fun with two.”

you were never born to quit

TristaN

you gotta stand up, you weremade for this