Aladin was not exactly sure how he had survived the next days of whipping. Of barely surviving. Of the taunts he would receive from his mentor, or the loud scripture readings and the mental beatings. He wasn't sure how he still managed to bathe away blood and grime. How he could still cry and find comfort in Florante's clothes and note, in the stars they were both looking at no matter the distance. How he found himself eat and sleep and breathe despite it all.
Today was different.
Today, he was not summoned to go to the Mosque. And it was a relief. It was such a big relief he contemplated staying in his bedroom and never leaving.
But he did leave his room.
And, well, by leave it meant going to the banquet hall for meals. That was it.
Aladin then realized that he could live perfectly fine by himself while he was here, thanks. Occasionally ask a servant to bring him a month supply of food and water. He never even had to go outside or make a presence at the Banquet Hall and kill himself further by tearing himself apart with forced smiles.
But, oh well.
Aladin was already slipping out of his grand robes. He had already found the most practical ones that weren't so flashy, and the ones he wore to the Mosque with the thick fabric so the whipping wouldn't hurt as much. So he wouldn't bleed badly. It was already tough to figure out how to clean the wounds by himself the way their trainer Finn back then taught them to.
But he managed.
Aladin was managing.
He carefully put on Florante's clothes over himself, being extra gentle for his back. He was suddenly grateful for all the time Florante would spend in the woods hunting. His clothes smelled like Albania's forest and the hint of his sweet scent. Home.
His clothes smelt like home.
Aladin sighed and lied down on his bed—on his stomach. His back was still recovering from all of it. And damn him, he'd rather die than have someone take away his love for Florante.
As if that was possible.
It was only two hours past noon, and he was already exhausted. It was exhausting to exist in Persia. Everybody's eyes on him. Everybody expecting the best from him. All these expectations to satisfy and people to please. . . . It was a sure drain of energy.
Aladin closed his eyes. And in Florante's clothes, it was like his Golden Boy was with him in some ways.
~
Aladin never hosted any visitors in his room.
Never in his life. Playmates weren't allowed to come in because it was of royalty. Servants didn't count because they were required to be there, bound by duty. And his father destroying his privacy certainly could not be considered a guest. The last time anyone was here to be with him was his Mother—and she was long gone.
So, it was a shock.
The knocking on the door was sure. It was clipped and formal.
Aladin groaned. "What is it?" he barked.
"So feisty for a Prince," was the response.
YOU ARE READING
hiraeth (floradin)
Fanfiction"is that him? is that the boy you love? florante?" "he was the boy i loved." thank you so much to @acemikka for the cover!
