This first year, the gardens would be simple. He did not have the time to have more exotic seeds procured and shipped to him. Only native plants would be available, but that was fine. It would be a lovely garden and a great deal of use. There were many native flower types, the kind usually overlooked by gardeners, which attracted bees, butterflies, moths, dragonflies, and a variety of other insects.
Speaking of bees, he should begin planning for the transfer of his hives and perhaps plan for enlarging his swarm. He had enough room here that he could probably maintain a large one. Just thinking about it made him smile in anticipation. He had never understood why butterflies were the insect chosen to represent the finer things—love, beauty, the artistic or romantic spirit—not when bees were so much more lovely and complex.
It made him think of the summer when they'd been fifteen or sixteen. Nearly a man, he'd thought at the time, although looking back he was nothing of the sort. It would still be almost five years before he came of age and almost a full decade before anyone would kiss him or make love to him.
They'd been in the garden, of course. Gilbert had been rambling on about plants and which attracted what insects while Marcel relaxed on a bench underneath one of the flowering fruit trees.
The weather was hot, but not unbearably so, the air full of the scent of flowering plants and fresh earth. Gilbert's knees had dirt on them from where he'd been crawling amongst the flowers in the beds, and Marcel had taken off his jacket so he was only in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
Halfway through his lecture on the use of wide flowers in attracting winged insects, Gilbert realized Marcel had gone still and rigid where he sat, eyes wide.
"Marcel? Are you all right?" Gilbert turned and looked at him more closely.
"There is a bee on me," Marcel said, voice low and controlled but still with a note of real panic underneath.
"You know it won't hurt you unless it feels it must." Gilbert peered at him and could make out the bee after a moment, small, fat, and yellow, crawling along side of Marcel's neck right above his collar. "I've told you about bees, their anatomy and habits, many times."
"I know." Marcel's grip on the handle of his cane had gone white-knuckled. "But I've never been stung by a bee before, Berti, and I had an aunt, Papa told me about her, who died from being stung by a bee. I could die if it stung me."
"It's very rare for people to die that way," Gilbert said, trying to reassure him. "No, don't!"
Marcel's hand spasmed as if to come up and hit the tiny creature, and Gilbert leapt at it.
"It will almost certainly sting you if you try to crush it. Let me. I can remove it without anyone getting hurt."
At least he hoped he could; he had only just started to work with the royal beekeeper, learning to care for and handle the hives. Already he'd been stung more times than he could count, although he knew it was from his own carelessness and inexperience, not the fault of the bees. What if Marcel really did die, though?
He walked over to where Marcel sat and leaned over. Marcel was shaking ever so slightly, his eyes still wide with fear, which Gilbert had really never seen before. Gilbert was the one who fretted and worried about everything, while Marcel was never afraid.
This close, he could see how long and delicate Marcel's lashes were, and the way his pulse fluttered under the fragile skin of his throat. His hair fell in waves across one shoulder. It smelled good, and looked warmed by the sun.
The bee continued its slow, steady climb up Marcel's throat towards his jaw, and Gilbert reached out, ever so carefully, encouraging the bee to climb onto his own hand instead.
After a gentle nudge, it did so, and Gilbert turned, holding it out towards the sunlit garden, and waited until it spread its wings and took to the air.
He turned back, smiling with triumph, and sank onto the seat next to Marcel. "There." He reached out, putting his hand on Marcel's shoulder. The angle was a little strange since Marcel was taller than he was, even sitting down, but he gave Marcel's shoulder what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze anyway.
Marcel turned towards him, his breath caught, and he leaned into Gilbert a little. "Thank you."
"It was nothing." Gilbert squirmed, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden under Marcel's intense gaze. "You shouldn't be so nervous of bees, you know, they won't hurt you intentionally. Just stay calm and they should leave on their own. But if you're afraid, I would understand you avoiding them, and if you need to I can … you know," he waved one hand, "help you with your bee problem again."
Marcel's lips quirked up into an amused smile at that, which went a long way to make Gilbert feel much more relaxed. Marcel smiling and amused was something he was used to, something he might have been taking for granted.
"I'll keep that in mind," Marcel said.
"They remind me of you, actually," Gilbert blurted, blushing when Marcel looked at him strangely.
"Really? Why?"
Because they make me happy. When I'm around them, working with them, learning how to care for them, they make me feel safe, and like I'm worth something beyond just being the youngest prince. They don't judge me or want me to be anything I'm not, and they are beautiful and complex and brilliant in their own way.
He could feel himself blush even more deeply and looked away. "I don't know," he mumbled. "They just do."
Marcel laughed then and put his wooden arm around Gilbert's shoulders. His movements were a little stiff and clumsy, but he still managed to pull Gilbert into a hug.
"Oh, Berti," he said, voice slightly muffled against the top of Gilbert's head. "What will I do with you?"
Don't leave me,
Gilbert thought desperately, although he couldn't think of a reason to say the words out loud.
You are the best friend I have, never leave me.
Someone knocked on the door, startling Gilbert out of his thought, and then the door opened and Marcel stepped in.
"I'm sorry I am interrupting." Marcel's gaze went to the papers spread out across the floor. Gilbert became aware that he was seated with crossed legs, surrounded by his work, a very cold cup of tea by his knee, on the hearthrug. Feeling his cheeks flame scarlet, Gilbert scrambled to his feet, and Marcel gave him a quizzical look.
"Not at all." Gilbert dusted himself off. "Are you more rested? I was afraid you'd taken ill when you did not join me for breakfast."
"I am more rested, thank you." Marcel inclined his head a fraction. One dark curl had escaped the ribbon Marcel had tied his hair back with, and it brushed across his face, making Gilbert want to reach out and touch. "I'm sorry for not joining you, but I wanted to put my study in order and forgot entirely to pause to eat once I had begun."
Gilbert nodded in understanding. That was one of the things they had always had in common, he and Marcel, their dedication to scholarship. Even if what they studied was very different.
"Would you like to come up and see?" Marcel asked. "You said you wanted to see the progress I'd made."
"Oh, yes, please." Gilbert did not try to hide his eagerness. He followed after Marcel back into the hall and up the steps to the second floor. The maids had been in and set the sitting room up nicely with a fire in the hearth.
Marcel led the way into the study. There were bookcases lining the walls of course, but Gilbert himself had requested a good many of them be taken down to make room for the blackboards that were now crammed with equations in Marcel's elegant hand. There were several standing chalkboards also covered with mathematic equations, and what looked to be symbols for spells chalked onto the floor.
"See here." Marcel tapped the symbols lightly with his cane. "It has long been thought, as you well know, that theoretical mathematics, well, mathematics in general, is too abstract for any magical application. I, however, believe this not to be true and have for a long time. Magic is just a tool, a kind of power, like fire or wind. And as such it can be harnessed to any idea or concept. Historically, in our country, this has always been to the more literary branches of scholarship, but there are many other countries aside from this one."
"Which was your purpose in going to the University of al-Karaouine in the first place."
Marcel smiled at him. "Yes, indeed." He stepped between one of his standing chalkboards and the markings on the floor and began to speak softly, low enough that Gilbert could not quite make it out.
Tension rose in the room, creeping along his arms like a static charge. Marcel braced himself against the edge of the chalkboard, tucking his cane in the crook of his arm, and brought his hands together and then slowly parted them.
Floating between his palms was a shape in warm yellow light. It reminded Gilbert of a sunbeam.
Marcel let his hands fall, bracing himself with his cane again.
The thing hung in the air as Gilbert moved slowly toward it. He could not even describe what it was, something that reminded him of the delicate complexity of the inside of a snail shell, or a moth's wing under a microscope's lens. It was beautiful, intricate, geometric shapes folding in upon themselves yet still utterly organic. As if it had always just been there in the world and it was they who had simply never noticed until now.
"Amazing." He reached his fingers out, touched it ever so gently; it was warm as if made out of sunlight. "Quite astonishing."
"Don't get too excited," Marcel said with a small, self-deprecating smile. "It's just a fancy party trick at the moment with no useful application at all."
"It is still an extraordinary breakthrough." Gilbert turned to Marcel. "One which will no doubt change the way magic is thought of here."
Marcel waved his hand. "Please don't flatter me over much, there are still mountains of research to be done yet, more than I will probably be capable of in my lifetime."
"But this is …" Gilbert waved his hand towards the shape still hovering in the air. "It will inform the scholarship of so many. Be proud, Marcel, I am proud of you."
They stared at each other, and Gilbert longed to … Well, he was not sure what. To cross the space between them and press himself to Marcel's long lean body, perhaps, kiss him—
"Thank you," Marcel said, breaking into Gilbert's thoughts. "You know your regard means more to me than anything."
Gilbert looked down, instantly feeling awash with shame for his own thoughts. Of course Marcel would speak from pure romantic emotion while Gilbert's own mind seemed to be enslaved to his more carnal urges.
This had not been the nature of things when he was involved with Tristan. If anything, he had been the retiring, naïve one who had wished for a level of devotion he could not have. Tristan had been the one with all the passion, or at least that was what Gilbert had believed …
The thought of Tristan and how their affair had ended soured his mood and made him draw into himself a little bit. Perhaps it was easier for Marcel to keep his thoughts noble because he did not truly desire Gilbert that much. Marcel had spoken to him of love and devotion, but never passion. Gilbert had a hard time believing that anyone would feel passion for him, especially when he had been so mistaken with the last person he believed had.
Marcel had kissed him and embraced him, yes, at the Christmas ball, but Gilbert's dreams had been filled with much more than kisses of late. Would Marcel wish that with him? Would anyone?
"Berti?"
Gilbert looked up, shaking off his thought to see Marcel watching him with open concern. "I am fine." He tried to make his tone as reassuring as possible given the disquiet nature of his thoughts. "I have only ever held you in the highest regard, you know that."
He reached out and clasped Marcel's shoulder, and Marcel gave him a smile so achingly beautiful, all the more so for the sadness underneath. "I know."
Gilbert wanted to kiss him so very badly.
"I must leave you for a little while," he managed to get out. "I had meant to make arrangements to have my bees brought here."
"Of course." Marcel's gaze dropped away, back to his work spread out across the chalkboard. "I will attempt not to forget to dine with you again this evening."
Gilbert nodded, backing away a few paces. "We will speak again, later," he said and then turned and made for the door as fast as he could without running.
He didn't stop or slow his paces until he was once more downstairs, the library door firmly shut behind him.
Only then did he stop and sink down into one of the armchairs, head in his hands, totally unsure about what to do.
*~*~*
Marcel made sure the last of the preparations were in place for the party that evening. True to his word, it was a small affair, close friends only, not one of the large social functions open to all of the court. He'd chosen the guest list himself, as he'd promised Gilbert he would. It included Gilbert's sisters and all the usual people who traveled in their more scholarly circles, as well as one particular guest.
It had taken Marcel much careful thought to decide, but in the end, there was only one man he could see himself feeling secure with Gilbert loving.
He'd known Elliot Roux since they were in their teens. They'd been drawn together by their mutual love of numbers and sums. Although Elliot was brilliant and his family as rich as any in the empire, they were not titled, so when Marcel had gone off to the University at Colline, Elliot had joined the navy.
Once there, he had made quite a name for himself rooting out fraud. Many of the merchants who provided the navy with goods had been scamming the crown for years, charging three or four times the amounts the goods were worth. They were in league with clerks who were more than happy to cook the books and siphoned some of the extra money into their own pockets.
He had led the investigation himself, going over all the accounts painstakingly, rooting out the corruption.
In the end, the crown had been hailed Elliot as something of a hero.
He was a handsome man too, tall and broad-shouldered, with a fine muscular body, sweeping chestnut curls, and mismatched eyes, one hazel and one green, that the ladies found quite striking and exotic to look at. He cut a dashing figure in a military uniform. Marcel had no doubt he was just the sort of man Gilbert would like in bed. He was also a fine man, kind, quick to smile and slow to anger, fair and gentle. He would not hurt Gilbert, break his heart, nor treat him badly. Marcel was sure.