Love Blooms... Part I

Love Blooms
               Or ‘How Italy became a Communist Country’

     “Italy tends to follow the lead of other countries, regardless of whether their decisions are just. It is more or less a case of the blind leading the blind. If Germany says jump, and England jumps, Italy, too, will jump…”
     Princess Maria sat with her hands folded delicately in her lap. Her nails were painted a cherry red and manicured to perfection. Her dress was the color of pink lemonade, with a bow tied prettily at her waist. Her chocolaty eyes were staring straight ahead, locked on the map towards which her father’s head advisor was gesturing. It was a map of the world, and there were red pins stuck into some of the countries; America, France, England, Poland, China, and Japan.
     “This policy has kept our country out of trouble for over six hundred years,” the advisor, Sir Cal, continued. He was a tall, stocky man with his hair combed back professionally and his moustache left to grow in a commoner’s manner. It made him look suspicious, deviant, and redneck, yet somehow he managed to keep his job. “However, it has not been economically effective, due to our dependence on the actions of our allies and our unwillingness to do anything new on our own.”
     Princess Maria’s hair, a brown not much deeper than that of a teddy bear’s fur, was brushed down around her jaw, curving out ever so slightly. Her ears peered out from between strands. She sat in the briefing room, pretending to pay attention to the depressing news which Sir Cal felt it was his duty to deliver.
     “We feel that an ideal solution to our impending monetary issues is to hire foreign help. We will be taking help from these countries.” He stepped to one side and pointed with long fingers to each of the pins in turn. America, France, England, Poland, China, Japan. Italy’s royal palace had never hired help outside of Italy before. It was an insult to Princess Maria’s Italian pride. Why, for goodness’ sakes, should she have to lower herself to speak Germanic tongues to men who weren’t worthy of her presence?
     She huffed and rose from her seat, holding her head high as she exited the room in a twirl of dress skirts. Sir Cal, who had been in the middle of a sentence when she’d risen and fled, could only watch her go.

     Princess Maria actually didn’t have a say in the matter. Even though she was the princess of Italy and the rightful heir to the throne, she was only 17, and her mother, the queen, believed firmly in stemming off problems before they sprouted. Therefore, she had no choice but to endure the foreigners lurking around the castle grounds.
     She watched from her high window, the silk blue curtains tied back and the edge of the bed beneath her supporting a dozen or more pillows, all filled with the softest cotton from the farthest reaches of the world. So, too, were the men and women Sir Cal had hired. There was Ricky, the groundskeeper from America; Jean, the guard from France; Amant, the stable master from Japan; Erezbetta, the cook from Poland; and Tunsung, the general help from China. All five of them were walking around out there, and not one of them knew Italian as his or her first language. She had to admit to herself that not all foreigners were that bad—Sir Cal, who had been there for only a few months, was from England. He, however, spoke Italian fluently and stayed out of her hair.
     The others, though…
     Jean Girard spoke French first, English second, and Italian third. As his third language, it was his worst, and his accent was absolutely horrendous. She barely believed that he could speak French. He wore his uniform well enough, but had the unwholesome habit of pinning French flags to the sleeves and drinking Perrier instead of cappuccinos while on duty. As one of the castle’s guards, he worked in the guardhouse all afternoon long. In the mornings, he stood outside, his back to the towering wooden door. At night, after his long day was over, he retired to his room inside a castle annex. He flirted with every male he met on his way, and that, too, got on Princess Maria’s nerves. He was 35—couldn’t he conduct himself like a royal castle guard instead of like a high school student?
     Ricky Bobby was worse. He spoke southern-American English and wretched Italian. He worked as the groundskeeper everyday, wheeling barrows full of dirt around, carrying heavy pots, cutting firewood, cleaning, lifting away anything that might get in the way, and various other details. He had perfect muscles, striking brown eyes, and duel obsessions with horses and his sexuality. Luckily, the latter had nothing to do with the former. Regardless, he was, at least to Princess Maria, obviously in denial about his sexual orientation. He insisted he was straight, but none of the staff’s females ever made him so much as watch her walk by. And the horses were kept in a stable on the far ends of the grounds. Some were beautiful, powerful, dangerous animals, and others were beautiful, powerful, domesticated animals, but he loved all of them the same; he visited them every chance he got. All he had to do was break the lock on the stable doors and sneak inside. He was a pain in the stable master’s neck.
     And the stable master was a pain in the princess’ neck. She was a Japanese woman who looked just like an American boy; her first language was English and she was uncommonly androgynous. She wore men’s pants and striped shirts, her short blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Huge brown gloves made of fake leather hid her hands and forearms from disease and dirt and any clue as to whether there were actually any effeminate parts of her. Her very presence irritated the princess. Not to mention the way she always bitched and complained about that ‘bakayarou Ricky’ always breaking into her stables, ‘kuso’! Amant was not worth her time; she was so uptight that the only reason the princess suspected her father kept the other girl around was that she was the best damned horse trainer in the world.
     Erezbetta was a handful, too. She’d come straight from Poland with no knowledge of Italian, and so for the weeks and weeks before she learned the language, she didn’t understand when the princess demanded she stop making kilbassi for dinner. She was an excellent cook, Princess Maria had to admit, but she was a little eccentric and enjoyed making jokes about Jean and Ricky. The princess didn’t understand the interest in such humor and made a point never to laugh at it, even when everyone else found it entertaining.
     And then there was Tunsung. He was described simply as ‘general help;’ he held no specific position in the castle. He could be made to do any chore or task, because nothing was outside the realm of ‘general.’ Usually, he brought the princess her meals in her room, fetched her things from other floors or areas of the castle, delivered messages, or cleaned. He had short, shaggy black hair and deep brown eyes to reflect his Chinese heritage, of which he was immensely proud. He often wore ratty pants and t-shirts because he usually found himself dirty or sweaty by the end of the day and didn’t feel like ruining any butler’s outfits. Secretly, he simply refused to wear Italian clothing. It was his way of protesting both the country and the princess, whose gender was also something he held against her. Evidently, he believed that men were better than their counterparts. Who had fed him that nonsensical garbage, Princess Maria would never know.
     As if on queue, a knock sounded on her bedroom door. The princess looked away from her window, her illuminated square of the outside life.
     “Yes?” she called out.
     “Your lunch is ready, Princess Maria.” It was Tunsung.
     “Come in, then,” she replied. The door eased open and the Chinese boy, wearing his usual jeans a black t-shirt, wheeled in a cart behind him.
     “Today, we have a mushroom sandwich and vegetable soup,” he announced. He lifted the lid off her meal, revealing the bowl of steaming soup and the toasted sandwich beside it. A glass of orange juice sat just behind her food. The princess inspected each item in turn. The soup broth was a solid red, as if made from tomatoes, and pieces of carrots, celery, and peas were bobbing around along the surface. It smelt delicious—Erezbetta had outdone herself yet again.
     “Did you poison it?” she demanded of the boy, sniffing as though she suspected something. Tunsung raised an eyebrow at her, pushing up his glasses disdainfully.
     “Why would I poison your majesty?” he questioned, and his facetious tone set her off.
     “Oh, I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe because I’m an Italian female and you’re a Chinese male? Maybe because I’m liberal and believe in human rights and you would rather subjugate anyone who isn’t you?”
     “That’s not true!” he protested immediately. His dark eyes shifted off to one side. “Well, the second part’s not true.” She rose from the edge of her bed and stormed forward, shaking a finger below his nose. Her opposite hand rested on her hip and she stood confrontationally before him in a powder blue dress and all the fury of a woman.
     “Listen here! If women are lesser than men, why is Italy’s ruler a woman? Why is the heir to the throne a woman?” Tunsung smirked.
     “Italy is weak,” he replied simply. Her eyes narrowed at him dangerously.
     “If Italy is so weak, why is it prospering? If Italy is so weak, why is it one of the few countries not to have been destroyed in wars for the past 600 years?”
     “If Italy is prospering, why do you need to hire foreign help?”
     “It’s a preventative measure! To stave off future trouble!” Princess Maria cried. Tunsung merely grunted.
     “Sure, okay,” he said scathingly. She wrinkled her nose at him.
     “Should you really be mocking Italy’s economic position? China is China, after all.” His jaw dropped.
     “China has the biggest upcoming conductor dam on the planet! Soon enough, we’ll be completely self-reliant and independent!” She smirked.
     “‘We’?” she repeated. “Why would you say that? You’ll never see China again.”
     Tunsung stiffened, his face turning stony. With ice in his voice, he begged her leave, and excused himself. The door slammed violently shut behind him.

     Ricky grabbed the root with both his hands, wedged one boot up against the tree, and yanked with all his might. He gritted his teeth together and pulled and pulled but the damn thing just wouldn’t come loose. Letting go, hands red inside his gloves, he stormed across the lawn. He passed by the front gate, grabbed the ax stuck into a second tree, and stormed back.
     “Ricky Bobby!” Jean Girard called from where he was standing guard. Ricky froze.
     “What, Frenchie?” he demanded. He held up the ax menacingly, ready to swing it in a loose arc at the slightest provocation.
     “What is the Viking weapon for?” Jean nodded towards it. “Are all Americans so violent, or is it something kinky?”
     Ricky scowled and marched off.
     “Damn weird Frenchman,” he uttered under his breath. “Filling the front gate with gayness. It’s enough to make a guy faint.”
     He continued with his job of chopping away all the overgrown roots, making the trees that lined the castle walls look somewhat respectable, and finished just before three in the afternoon. He hid the ax behind the last tree he worked on, just in case he needed quick access to it in the event of a French invasion, and snuck off towards the stables.
     The stables were located along the farthest reaches of the castle grounds. The Queen had possession of one hundred of Italy’s finest black horses, all of which were groomed daily. Jean, Ricky remembered with a sour expression, was the personal rider of the eight gay ones. They wore golden saddles with gay pride triangles branded along the leather. It made Ricky sick to think about it.
     Regardless of those eight, Ricky went to the stables every day. He loved horses because they were like big muscle cars, fast as hell and beautiful to watch. They were like sex with four legs. And a tail. The other reason Ricky visited the stables so often was that his own four-legged beast was housed there—his cougar. She was a gorgeous creature, made of solid steel and roaring death that slept like a kitten. A kitten with homicidal tendencies, but still a kitten.
     He glanced over his shoulder one last time before slipping into the stables. Jean’s horses whinnied at him truculently. He hurried past, jogging down to the last few stalls, and ducking down and around a ladder that led up to the loft. There, sleeping in a pile of hay and mauled chew toys, was Karen.
     “Hey there, Angel,” he cooed, crouching down before her. She opened one round brown eye, dotted with yellow-gold, and purred darkly as he scratched her head. “How’s my baby? Huh? How is she?”
     Suddenly, there were footsteps. Ricky’s spine went cold and he turned his head to listen. Softer than the stamping of the horses’ hooves and louder than the wind quietly brushing against the side of the stables was the distinct sound of human footsteps. He could tell by the way the person’s weight shifted first from solid heels to steel-toed tips that it was the stable master. And she scared the hell out of him.
     He remained perfectly still—if she found him there, he was a dead man. Every single day, that crazy Japanese chick kicked him out of the stables. She came to brush the horses at twelve and feed them at five, and he’d come right in the middle of those times—why was she even here? He pulled a face—to terrorize him, no doubt.
     The footsteps stopped and suddenly he fell backwards, a thick lock of his hair nearly yanked from his head.
     “Ow, ow, ow!” he cried, landing at her feet. “You crazy gypsy!”
     “If you try to say that gypsies are from Japan, I’ll have on of Girard-san’s horses trample you and spit on you!” she snapped. The she shook the fistful of hair she still held. “What the hell are you doing in my stables again?!”
     Karen roared in protest, but it didn’t seem to bother Amant in the slightest, who continued abusing her owner undeterred.
     “Why can’t I be in the stables?! I’m just visiting Karen!” he protested. She leaned in towards his ear and hissed warningly.
     “I will ask Maria-hime to transfer Girard-san to the stables. Then you’ll stay away!”

     The sun rose on the crappiest day of the year. In fact, even though the sun rose, the weather was so crappy, that no one knew the difference. The sky was a solid grey, enormous potbellied birds huddled together as they flew by. It was too cold for rain and not cold enough for snow, and so when something fell from the heavens, it ended up as unmeritorious slush.
     Princess Maria was slowly pacing down the aisles of her family’s royal library, browsing the romance novels in search of something sweet to read. She had already stolen some chocolate from the kitchen, and was ready for a day of reading and candy curled up in bed. Her fingers traced the spine of each book, gently tapping the titles as she tried to decide which would make the best read. Her sneakers made no noise on the carpet as she went. That day was a casual day for Maria, who was wearing Capri pants and a burgundy t-shirt, open at the collar.
     She paused briefly at a book entitled Valid Arguments Supporting the Fact that Men are Objects, but decided to pick that one up at another time. Right then, she wanted fairy tale romance—not non-fiction. Maria knelt down to peer into one of the lower shelves. There was a thin volume called The People’s Republic of Secret Passions. Her eyebrows rose and she slid the book from its slot. The cover was blank except for a single flower petal. She flipped to one of the inside pages, the beginning of the seventh chapter, ‘How to Tell if you’re in Love.’
     Do you ever think that maybe your feelings for someone are confused? Do you ever feel as though you are wrongly labeling your emotions, calling something “love” when it isn’t, or worse yet, calling something “hate” when it isn’t? Do you ever wonder if your feelings for someone are… changing? Progressing, maybe, from friendship to admiration to I-can’t-live-without-you?
     Perhaps, dear patriotic Chinese reader, you need some pointers. Here are some ways to tell if you’re in love with someone… Firstly, do you notice them whenever they’re around? Do they walk into the room and you immediately know they’re there? If this person can come into your general vicinity and it takes you even a few moments to notice, then you probably aren’t in love. But, if you’re aware that they’re somewhere nearby from the moment they appear until the moment they disappear, then you are in love. You might be saying—“Wait! She enters the room, but it’s not like I care that she’s there…” It doesn’t matter! You noticed—now ask yourself, why did I notice?
     Secondly, do you hold grudges against them? You might not think this is relevant, but it is. If you remember every little thing you argue about, and bring it up so you can argue some more, that’s also a form of love! Why are you going out of your way to get into battles with this person? Why are you so intent on winning and on bringing it up so often? If this person isn’t some object of affection for you, why is it so important to you that they know how you feel?
     Thirdly, do you fight all of the time? This is the biggest indicator!! Can you see each other without arguing over something?! Can you exchange some kind words and walk away thinking ‘My goodness, did we just behave… civilly?’? Did you then shout something dirty over your shoulder to negate the effects of your civil greetings? Are you polar opposites? The cliché that opposites attract is absolutely true. Many great couples have been known to have nothing in common—different political views, different religious views, different national origins, different social standings, and even different genders!
     “What the hell are you reading?”
     The book fell from Maria’s hands and landed sloppily on the floor, the spine whacking against her shoe.
     “And why are you dressed like this?” her intruder demanded further. She rounded on him frantically.
     “Tunsung!”
     He arched a dark eyebrow at her, standing there with his filthy hands on his hips, mud streaked across his arms. A smudge of dirt ran down his right cheek.
     “Well, Princess Maria?” he pressed. Flustered, she turned a bright red and balled her hands into fists.
     “Shut up! It’s none of your business!” she insisted. She folded her arms over her chest and with head held high, she marched past him and out of the room. The Chinese boy shook his head, watching the door slam shut behind her. Then he bent down and picked up the book she’d dropped, closing it gingerly and reading the title. Hesitating a moment, he glanced behind him before opening to the first page and reading it from the beginning.

     Much to Ricky’s chagrin, that crazy Japanese girl had gone to Princess Maria after all. Jean had been reassigned to guard the stables. Sucking in a deep breath, he marched down to the stables and presented himself with his hands on his hips. Jean, wearing a black and green winter jacket to protect himself from the cold and slush, smiled at him amusedly.
     “I’m afraid you aren’t allowed inside, Ricky Bobby,” he told him flatly. Ricky didn’t lose heart.
     “My cougar, Karen, is in there. I’m allowed to see her. I won’t go near the horses.”
     “You’re a liar. Amant told me you’d say that.” The corner of Ricky’s mouth twitched. He tried again.
     “It’s her lunchtime. She needs to eat, or she’ll get vicious and attack one of your precious pansy ponies.”
     “Amant fed her twenty minutes ago. And they aren’t ponies.” Ricky wilted.
     “Can you pretend you never saw me? Please? Come on, Girard, you’ve got me saying please. It’s like saying ‘with all due respect’ before calling you an enormous prick with a horrible accent.” Jean paused.
     “I’m afraid… I’m afraid that any headway you were making by saying ‘please’ was just reversed by calling me an enormous prick. Unless, of course, you meant to tell me I have an—”
     “No!” Ricky snapped. “That’s not what I meant! Even if it would get me inside!”
     “I know something else that would get you inside.”
     Before Ricky could inquire as to what it was, or even immediately refuse because he was suspicious of Jean’s tone, Jean grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He boosted himself up on the tips of his toes and kissed Ricky on his mouth, holding him there for what seemed like hours but what was actually only five or six seconds. When he finally pulled away, Ricky looked like he’d seen a ghost, and Jean had a smirk on his face that made him more obnoxious than he was before.
     “You were never here,” he said, and stepped out of the way of the stable door. Ricky threw himself inside before Jean could change his mind.

     Erezbetta frowned down at the note Princess Maria had left for her on the counter. It was written in Italian. Always with the Italian! Couldn’t they meet halfway? Couldn’t the princess leave her notes in Polish? The cook shook her head and read through the note slowly.
     Use—non-dairy—cheese—in—the—pasta.
     Erezbetta hummed to herself contemplatively. She lifted one hand, twirling a strand of light brown hair as she thought to herself. Well, she didn’t know what ‘non-dairy’ meant. So… skipping over the unimportant words…
     She snapped her fingers and grabbed the block of cheese out of the fridge. She used her nails, painted a tin-purple, to slice open the blue and yellow wrapper that read “100% whole milk.”
The door to the voluminous kitchen creaked open and she turned to see the groundskeeper storming inside. He shut and locked the door behind him, rounded the stainless-steel-topped island, and headed straight for the industrial-sized fridge that squatted just beside the industrial-sized meat locker. He yanked open the door so fiercely that the magnets stuck to it’s face shook and some of the pictures slid an inch closer to the glistening linoleum floor.
     “What’s the matter?” Erezbetta questioned, watching him as she dipped a finger into the sauce she was preparing and sampled its taste. Approving, she dumped the pasta into the pot on the stove and thrust the bowl of sauce into the oven to keep it warm.
     “If I tell you, will you swear not to tell that crazy Japanese chick friend of yours?” Ricky demanded, lifting a bottle of beer to his mouth. Erezbetta picked up a clean spatula and whacked him sharply on the back of his hand. He winced, nearly dropping the bottle, and smacked it down on the table so that he could nurse his newly acquired injury.
     “Don’t drink beer before dinner or you won’t be hungry!” she snapped. He merely huffed. “And no, I won’t tell her.”
     “Fine. I went to visit the horses, even though she told me not to.”
     “Even though she told you not to a hundred times.”
     “Even though Girard is guarding the horses from me…”
Erezbetta returned to her cooking. Now she was making garlic bread. There was another note from the princess saying that she wanted non-dairy cheese on her garlic bread, too. The Polish girl decided to learn what ‘non-dairy’ meant as soon as possible. After dinner, without a doubt. Tomorrow at best. Maybe.
     “What’s so bad about that?” she inquired, carving through the pieces of bread and arranging them in two long lines on an empty tray. Ricky leaned his elbows on the cold steel of the counter, sighing and pushing his fingers through his hair.
     “He made me kiss him before he’d let me inside.”
     Immediately, the knife fell from Erezbetta’s hand and clattered against the tray before her, knocking aside pieces of bread as its blade wobbled along. Her hands clenched into fists in excitement, her eyes widening into circles.
     “He made you kiss him? How fantastic! I must tell Amant!” she cried, and with that, she was gone, merely a blur left her previously occupied space. Ricky melted into a puddle of self-pity and depression on the floor. Firstly, if she told Amant, Amant would kill him for going into the stables. Secondly, if the cook was out of the kitchen, who in the hell was left to look after the food?
     He could picture it even as he sat there; the pasta boiling over, black smoke floating past overhead, the sauce suddenly exploding in the oven… He sank his face into one hand, the other reaching back to grab his beer. He didn’t care about his appetite so much as his sanity—he would just have to prioritize while in this time of crisis.
     But he couldn’t stop thinking about Jean’s mouth.

     Princess Maria shut her book and set it down beside her. It was almost dinner time. She could smell the pasta and garlic from her bedroom. The sky outside was still a threatening black, still lumpy like mashed potatoes. The only reason it looked any different than it did hours upon hours before was that it was finally raining—pouring. The temperature had risen just enough for the slush to diminish and the rains to come through. Now Jean’s armor was soaked through, but he remained diligent, standing erect at the entrance to the stables. Now Ricky’s clothes clung to his body, but he kept working, dragging a new shipment of white roses from just inside the front gate all the way down to the guards’ quarters—quite a trek, especially in the rain. The stable master was supposedly camping out in the stables that night, just to make sure Ricky didn’t come anywhere near the animals. Sleeping inside a loft, on nothing but hay and straw, without a hint of light or fire, couldn’t be enjoyable. Not to mention that smell and all that noise. The princess heaved a sigh. Yes, the luckiest foreigner on her grounds was the cook, who would no longer find herself lucky if the cheese used in the pasta wasn’t non-dairy. Oh, but her dinner smelt delicious. Maria shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. It had been such a long time since she’d had homemade garlic bread. Of course, that was as much the cook’s fault as her charm. She had no idea what Maria was asking for when she “meshed nouns” together, or so she’d told her.
     She collapsed back onto her bed and sighed lightly. Rainy days were boring. Part of her actually wanted to get into an argument with that Chinese hired help—at least it would be entertaining. And, as if on queue, once again, a soft knock sounded at her door.
     “Yes?” she called out, sitting up.
     “Me,” Tunsung replied simply. Why was it, Princess Maria wondered idly, that whenever she thought of him, he was there? She shook her head roughly, as to dispel the mere thought of it.
     “What do you want?” she demanded more roughly than usual. It made her feel only minimally better.
     “…I want to come in,” he answered evasively. Maria noticed that the usual dullness was missing from behind his voice. His typical bored and completely unimpressed tone had switched to one of soft importance. She hesitated briefly.
     “Come in.” The knob turned and Tunsung appeared. He had taken a shower and changed out of his muddy clothes. His white collared shirt was open at the neck and slightly rumpled. It brought out the darkness in his eyes and his hair, which caught dull blades of light from his surroundings that made it look like silk. He wore straight-legged blue jeans that cuffed off above his boots, which he’d wiped clean of dirt spots and slush stains. None of this escaped the princess.
     Neither did the book in his hands, nor the petal on its cover.
     “I was reading this…” he started uncertainly. He held it out and glanced up at her. She looked down at it as though it were the most wretched thing in the world, inching backwards. Her hands tightened around fistfuls of blanket. Tunsung persisted, turning to the exact chapter she’d been skimming before he’d shown up in the library. He pointed to the one line she’d never wanted to read again.
     …Do you fight all of the time?
     “Princess Maria, you and I fight all the time…” he told her. She winced and he hesitated. He wondered if, from where she sat so many feet away, she could hear his heartbeat. “What do you think?”
     Finally, she looked up at him, and he was surprised to find her eyes full of confusion and denial. Suddenly, her emotions were gone and her earthen orbs were left cold. She turned her head away with a huff and folded her arms over her chest.
     “I think that that book was written by an egotistical male who knows nothing about women!” she stated firmly. His jaw dropped. He threw the book to the floor and the noise made her jump and turn back around.
     “Are you serious?!” he demanded irately. “This man is a genius! He’s revered in China as a dating specialist! He’s like America’s Dr. Philip!”
     “His name is Dr. Phil,” Princess Maria snapped. Tunsung scowled.
     “I don’t care! And listen, stop talking badly about men.”
     “Why should I?” demanded the other, jumping to her feet. “Men are inferior! They’re worthless! They’re only here for entertainment and hired help!”
     Tunsung’s countenance darkened frighteningly. He paced slowly towards the princess, until he stood toe-to-toe with her. His voice when he spoke was a dangerous hiss.
     “And your chef is a woman. Of course, the help you hired to work in the kitchen is a woman, because that’s where women belong. And the help you hired to shovel manure and do the dirty work out in the stables is a woman.”
     “And the one doing all the manual labor and back-breaking work is a man, because men aren’t good for anything else.”
     “And the one protecting your life, protecting everything you hold dear, is a man. He stands out there in the rain and the snow and the heat in that armor every single day, and you hold it against him that he’s a man?”
     Princess Maria narrowed her eyes at him. She felt like slapping him; how dare he turn the tables on her like this?
     “Do you know why you don’t have to clean out the stables? Do you know why we never expected you to learn to cook? Do you know why you aren’t the maid for my room, why you don’t vacuum the rugs and wash the bathrooms and mop the throne room?!”
     “Because they’re jobs for your domesticated women,” he bit with a sneer. Her eyes widened and this time she really did slap him. His head jerked to one side and three long red lines appeared on his cheek. Blood crept out slowly from the one in the center.
     “Are women so weak now?” she demanded icily.
     He stood still for a long moment, staring at the wall with a far off look in his eyes. Then he turned towards her, and with the utmost humility, lowered his head and bowed to her.
     “Excuse me, Princess Maria. I’ll be going now.”
     And he left her, the door shutting quietly.

     Jean had traded shifts with another guard. This other guard was a friend of his, and wasn’t doing anything in return, but that was alright with the Frenchman—it was in the name of true love. That wasn’t to say that Jean was in love with his friend. On the contrary, his friend was in love with the servant girl of a prominent family that lived on the outskirts of the city. As often as he could, he snuck out of the castle and spent a night with her there. Tonight was one of those nights, and even though Jean had stood at the door of the stables for eleven hours, and even though he had been standing guard at the gate for the past five hours, he would now have to pull an all-nighter and stand guard at the gate for another six.
     He kept his posture perfect, he kept his attention focused on the darkness around him, the noises the echoed from the other side of the gate—not that he could hear anything above the sound of pounding rain. It crashed so loudly against his helmet that he’d had to remove it, and so he stood there at 11:00 at night, freezing, head bared to the elements, soaked to the bone, dead tired, and still doing the best he could at his job.
     His heart fell to his feet when he remembered that he was on stable-guarding duty the next morning from six to six. His guard duty ended at six in the morning… and started again at six the next night, right after his stable-guarding duty…
     He took a deep breath and stood up even straighter.
     “As foi, Jean,” he told himself. If anyone could do it, it was a Frenchman. And he was one hell of a Frenchman.
     “Talking to yourself, Frenchie?”
     Jean turned his head at the sound of the other man’s voice.
     “As a matter of fact…” he replied. Ricky’s silhouette drifted across the water- and moon-drenched ground, his body materializing suddenly. He had his arm looped around the long handle of an umbrella, and even though it fought terribly with the wind and looked like it would rip to pieces in mere moments, it protected his head from the majority of the rain slashing his way. A heavy red sweater hid his upper body, much to Jean’s disappointment. Galoshes protected his feet, but the ends of his jeans were heavy and dark, soaked to the knee. Something was tucked under his free arm.
     “So did you know I was coming, or do you suck at your job after all?”
     “I heard you, obviously, Ricky Bobby,” Jean scoffed. “That is why I chose to speak in French, so that you wouldn’t understand me.”
     “You told yourself to have faith.” The surprise on Jean’s face was evident and Ricky smiled to himself. Jean was cute when he was surprised.
     “How did you know?” Jean demanded. “Ricky Bobby, you—” His insult stopped short when Ricky suddenly drew near, holding the umbrella over them both. That adorable look of surprise was back, and Ricky found that he was enjoying himself. He passed the bundle under his arm to the guard, who took it with utter confusion on his face.
     “Put this on,” he told him.
     “What is this?” Jean questioned.
     “A sweater,” he answered. His sweater, right out of the same drawer as the one he was wearing. This one was blue. And heavier. Jean merely looked at it, rotating the fabric in his hands. “Put it on.”
     Jean wanted to comply, he really did, but it was difficult and stupid to put a sweater on over chest armor. Ricky detected this from Jean’s conflicted expression and took the sweater back, giving the Frenchman two free hands. Jean unhooked his armor and let it rest against his legs. Then he took advantage of the situation and moved closer to Ricky in the confined space of the umbrella. The backs of his shoulders bumped lightly against Ricky’s chest. Silently, he cursed his uniform’s leggings that prevented him from ‘accidentally’ pressing his hips to Ricky’s, as well. He took the sweater back and pulled it down over his head, immediately feeling the effects of its warmth as he hooked his armor back on. It had been wrapped in the other man’s arms for a few minutes, at least. That was good enough for him.
     But it wasn’t good enough if that was as close as he’d ever get.
     “Jean…” Ricky started. Jean decided that he’d rather not have the other man’s fist in his face and stepped away inconspicuously, still hiding beneath the meager protection of his umbrella and savoring their closeness. “Why are you doing a midnight shift? Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”
     “I am filling in for a friend.”
     “But… don’t you work tomorrow, too…? Like all day long…?”
     “Oui, Ricky, oui, all day long. Stop reminding me.” Ricky smiled gently.
     “You really have to stay out here all night?” he inquired. It seemed cruel and inhuman to make a man stand outside in a torrential downpour for thirty-six hours straight. Who in their right mind would attack in this weather, anyway? Jean merely frowned at him, as if to say, ‘what’d I just tell you? Don’t remind me.’ Ricky sighed lightly and handed Jean his umbrella.
     “What are you doing?” Jean demanded. Ricky didn’t reply, merely walked back off into the storm, his shadow fading. And then Jean realized that the other man had lied. Well, he hadn’t exactly lied in the sense that he’d told him something that was untrue. Rather, he’d pretended not to have known that Jean was standing outside in the rain. But he’d been carrying an extra sweater around…
     Fifteen minutes later, Ricky was back, his entire body drenched, hair matted to the back of his neck, sweater the color of drying blood, except no part of him was drying, but merely getting wetter. With him, he carried three duffle bags, which he threw to the ground when he’d made it back to Jean.
     “Now what are you doing?” Jean questioned again. Ricky still remained wordless, zipping open the first bag and pulling out the canvas inside, along with long metal rods. The guard thought his heart would stop when he realized it was a tent.
     Ricky set it up and crawled inside. It was spacious enough for one and a half people at best, and Jean was tempted to break his promise to have faith in himself and stand guard all night long in the interest of curling up next to the other man without any room between them. He glanced inside and watched Ricky unroll two sleeping bags along the floor of the tent. And then he watched Ricky pull off his wet clothes, first his sweater, then his shirt, then his boots and socks and jeans, and his skin was moist and peach colored and his body was muscular and beautiful and Jean couldn’t stand it.
     Ricky seemed blissfully unaware, stretching out along the sleeping bag near the back of the tent and humming to himself contentedly. He dusted his fingers over his stomach, which rose and fell with each slow breath he took. After a moment, he sat up and fetched a set of dry clothes from the depths of his sleeping bag, and the treasure that was every inch of him was once again hidden away.
     “Come inside,” he told the Frenchman. Jean hesitated. He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. Oh, how he’d give anything to come inside—…
     “I cannot,” he voiced aloud, cutting off the voices of the desires rampaging around in his head. “I must stand guard here.”
     The tone of his voice revealed something to Ricky. Jean’s life in France wasn’t as great as he’d led everyone to believe. He was happy to have his job. He had sworn his life to the queen and the princess and the Italian kingdom… as thanks for saving him. What had he been through? What had happened to him? Was it poverty? Persecution? Torture? An arranged marriage? Or had he simply needed to get away?
     There are these really cool rubber-plastic window things on each side of the tent,” he told him. “You’ll be able to see forward and to both sides. Get in here.”
     Again, Jean found the invitation tempting. So tempting, in fact, that he allowed those rampaging voices to get the better of him. His face tinted a light red and he hurriedly slid inside, snapping the umbrella shut and leaving it on the ground outside at Ricky’s suggestion. He then inspected the windows to be sure he wouldn’t miss any sign of intrusion. There were indeed long sheets of leak-resistant plastic set along each side of the tent. Satisfied, he turned to Ricky with a smile.
     His expression immediately turned to surprise—how Ricky loved to see it!—when he found the other man holding out a pile of dry clothes for him.
     “Ricky, are these yours?” he questioned.
     “I asked a friend of yours to get them for me. I hope you weren’t saving them for a special occasion.” Ricky smiled and Jean wondered how many sweet things this remarkable man would do for him before he remembered that the two of them were bitter rivals and under normal circumstances, exchanged only heated insults. But he changed anyway.
     Jean undid the clasps of his armor and set it aside, piece by piece. He then removed the sweater Ricky had so generously leant him, and passed it over to the American. Jean dipped his hands beneath the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head, tossing it into the corner, inside-out, like a typical man. With a flush, he quickly grabbed it back and folded it, tossing it onto his sleeping bag—the sleeping bag Ricky had brought for him—before continuing. His obnoxious leg armor went next, along with the leggings beneath it and everything else but his boxer-briefs. He glanced up at Ricky, who was busy noticing that the other man’s underwear left nothing to the imagination. Especially not Jean’s erection. And Jean noticed Ricky staring.
     He smirked to himself as he slowly redressed, putting his warm clothes on piece by tantalizing piece, his fingers touching, tracing, bare skin as he went. He enjoyed the expressions on Ricky’s face as he pretended not to watch. When he was finished, however, there was nothing he could do but humble himself.
     “Ricky Bobby,” he murmured. Ricky looked up at him and he paused. “Thank you… very much.” Ricky smiled.
     “Sure.”

     The door to kitchen slammed shut and the Chinese boy shoved the food cart in front of him like a baby carriage with a bomb in it. He yanked back on it when he’d drawn close enough to the center island, leaving it there as he stormed around to the back counter and took a seat across from Amant. At the sink around the counter’s corner, off to his and Amant’s left, was Erezbetta, washing fruits for breakfast.
     “Something the matter, Tunsung-san?” Amant questioned. He was usually a nice guy, never moody or upset, like when Princess Maria got through with him. But lately, he’d been cranky 24/7, always about something that he didn’t want to discuss.
     “Yes!” he cried, and the two girls knew it had nothing to do with the princess. Both of them suspected he’d realized Maria was more than just a ditzy female, and that his mood swings were simply the signs of a denied love.
     “And?” Erezbetta prompted. She tossed a handful of apple slices into the blender on her right and then shoved the cap on, pressing it down with her palm as she turned the tiny machine on and let it work its noisy magic. Also included in the soon-to-be smoothie were vitamins, orange slices, chopped-up bananas, and tofu squares. Tunsung waited, fuming silently, completely unaware of the glances the other two were exchanging while he wasn’t paying attention. Amant was in the kitchen for a reason—she was pretty sure Tunsung was here for the same.
     The blender stopped and Erezbetta poured its murky, viscous contents in a glass. She set the glass on the Chinese help’s food cart and returned to the stove, where eggs were frying with soft sizzling noises. Meanwhile, Tunsung began his rant.
     “You’ll never believe this! Last night, Ricky Bobby brought out a tent and sleeping bags and set it all up inside the gate. He and Jean Girard shared that tent—they slept together! Isn’t that the most disgusting things you’ve ever heard?!” He beat his fists against the table. “I’ll bet they were kissing and touching each other and all sorts of dirty things, too!”
     “If you think it’s so disgusting,” Amant mused in a bored tone, cheek in hand, “why are you fantasizing about what they might have done?” Tunsung scowled.
     “I’m not fantasizing about anything!” he protested vehemently. “They definitely did those things! Why else would Ricky have been sleeping inside a tent with Jean?!” Amant merely rolled her eyes. She’d heard those rumors, too. Well, actually, no, she hadn’t. She’d stayed up all night and spied on the two men from her window, a pair of binoculars in hand. They hadn’t done anything. They hadn’t even touched. Ricky had fallen asleep less than an hour after bringing everything outside, and Jean had sat just inside the doorway, safe from the rain. He’d stayed awake all night long, diligently scanning the grounds for intruders, protecting his princess, protecting his kingdom, and protecting the love of his life, who lie sleeping just behind him.
     Erezbetta turned one of the dials on the electric oven and the light below the front left burner disappeared. She hoisted the pan away from the fading red coils, sliding the fried organic eyes onto a plate. This she set beside the fruit smoothie, flanking it with a fork and a knife.
     “Why don’t you go complain to Princess Maria about them?” she suggested to Tunsung, giving the food cart a meaningful nudge. He slapped the counter with both palms and hopped out of his seat.
     “You know, I think I’ll do just that,” he announced, and hurried angrily from the room. The cook sighed and went about cooking more breakfasts for the rest of the castle.
     “Any reason to see her,” she mused. Amant nodded slowly in agreement.

     Tunsung hammered on Princess Maria’s door. He was furious, so blindly furious that he was convinced the girl would agree with him. Why he’d thought that was beyond her, for when she opened the door and saw the twisted frown on his face, she knew right away what he wanted.
     “Is that my breakfast?” she interrupted his imminent rant. She gestured with newly painted nails to the food cart. He looked down at it and then back at her. She moved to take her glass and the Chinese boy grabbed her wrists. She cried out and his frown darkened; he kicked the cart fiercely and it rolled off down the hallway. The princess watched it wide eyed.
     “Listen to me! Your guard and your groundskeeper are sleeping together!”
     She whipped her head back around to glare at him, standing as tall as she could in her bare feet.
     “And so what?” she demanded, ready to fight. And all at once, Tunsung noticed that she was wearing a pair of shorts that ended high above her knees, and an orange tank top with spaghetti straps, one of which had descended from her shoulder, loosely curving around her upper arm. The princess wrenched her wrists away when she realized he was shamelessly drinking in the sight of her. She forcefully slammed the door in his face.
     “Princess Maria!” he protested immediately. The door opened again, and she reappeared, tugging a thin jacket up over her shoulders. She made a show of zipping it up to her chin, effectively covering her upper body. Tunsung breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t slam the door again.
     “As I was saying,” she began coldly. “So what if Jean and Ricky are sleeping together?”
     She, too, knew that they were not. In fact, Jean had rushed to her first thing in the morning to sincerely apologize. Maria had had no idea what he was talking about, and in the end, it turned out to be nothing after all. Jean’s painful past had poured out on her throne room floor, before the royal thrones of her and her mother.
     Jean had grown up poor, his only skill riding horses, and when he turned sixteen, his family had essentially sold him. He was married off to the son of a prestigious and wealthy couple in Paris, and had lived many, many years as nothing more than a slave to his ‘husband.’ When the royal family of Italy had taken him away, it was the happiest day of his entire life. He had sworn his unconditional loyalty, had sworn that he would never do anything to anger either the queen or her daughter. Accused of sleeping with their groundskeeper? Staying the night in a tent, without any proof that they hadn’t done anything to distract the guard from his duties? He was positive they would ship him right back to that man in Paris who would remarry and re-enslave him.
     And then Princess Maria had risen from her throne and told him that she didn’t care who he loved or what he’d done, and that she trusted his word when he said and Ricky hadn’t done anything. And she planned to tell Tunsung that he, too, should keep out of the Frenchman’s business.
     “They’re both men!” Tunsung exclaimed. “Men shouldn’t love other men!”
     “Ah, so you admit it’s love?” She pointed teasingly at his nose. He wrinkled it at her and she found herself giggling.
     “I don’t care if it’s love. It’s wrong.”
     “Why?” She pressed her palms to her hips and waited.
     “Because! You can tell by the process of evolution that men are atomically made for women. Their bodies fit together.”
     “I guess you’ve never seen a man spoon with another man.” Tunsung blushed to the tips of his ears.
     “Princess Maria!” he cried loudly. He looked every which way and then lowered his voice to a frantic whisper. “I cannot believe you said that!”
     “I’m serious, Tunsung. Two men can fit together in the same way you’re saying a man and a woman can fit together. And don’t use the biblical excuse on me, either—you’ll just say ‘God says so,’ and I’ll just say that he also says ‘an eye for an eye,’ and that you can’t pick and choose what you want to believe in, and then—are you paying attention?”
     Tunsung jumped, startled by the sudden change in her voice.
     “W-What?” he questioned. She eyed him curiously and he laughed nervously.
     “What?” she repeated demandingly. The Chinese boy hesitated.
     “You…” He blushed again and looked off to one side. “You never called me… by my name before…”
     Her words left her. Every argument she had—what percentage of humans had been homosexual for the history of the world, the crimes that homosexuals were less likely to commit, the lack of evidence that homosexuals and heterosexuals were biologically different—died on her lips.

To be continued...