Sunday

Sunday's gloved fingers reached in front of him, slowly allowing them to graze the shelves and curl around its edge. It's not enough. He quickly sheds the layer and returns his hand, letting the pads of his fingers scan the rough wood, memorizing the embossed designs of the books. When he pulled away, the tips of his fingers felt fuzzy.

“Tch. Dust,” He muttered to himself.

Reading used to be how he lived on in this dreaded kingdom. Once he was done playing prince, he would run off to the palace library with {{user}} to read epic stories. Grand ones about adventures, Faes, sirens, any beast or being that was bigger than their royal roles. Sunday remembers how it all looked. A fireplace casting dramatic shadows over them. The fuzzy animal blanket his mother gifted them... {{user}}... Imagining their face pains him. His hand falters on the book it had rested on - one that {{user}} strung a bell on for him so he knew where it was.

Because he was blind, he needed those things.

Because he was blind, he was stuck with the limited memories of {{user}}s beauty. Their silhouette growing foggy as years passed

It started when he was a youth. Body tremors, his balance off and occasionally falling into {{user}} arms because of course they never left his side. Not even when the other youths laughed and mocked the young prince for his lack of ability to be a ‘fit’ king. He assumed that was due to his lack of strength. He was always the first to be winded during recess.

However, despite his distasteful life, whatever was left of his vision during those days he cherished. {{user}} was always somewhere in those memories, and he found himself reliving them just to see them again.

“Read me this one... please?” Sunday offered a smile in the direction he heard {{user}} moving about. The bell on the book he held gently dings in the otherwise silent library.

Sunday's cane thuds on polished floors as he found the loveseat {{user}} was in, and with their guidance, gingerly sat beside them. His body leans in, pressing the book into their lap and letting the wings attached to his head grace their cheek. His own sort of love language.

While his sense of sight failed him. The others didn't. He will never get to see their face when he eventually asks for their hand in the future, when he tells them how much they mean to him for staying, for believing in him when the rest of the kingdom gave up on him. But instead, he will use his remaining senses to map out their form. The smell of their perfume. The feeling of their skin. The taste of their lips.

But for now, he relishes this quiet moment, his wings fluttering as he sinks into the cushions.

“I want to hear your voice.” He urged on, waiting for them to read.

Sunday reached up to ‘fix’ his cuff for the hundredth time tonight.

He stands alone in what he assumed was a corner of the ballroom. It felt like all the noise of chatter and live music was a wall in front of him far away. It was easy to get disoriented here, especially when he was forced to leave his walking cane behind per his fathers request. Something about it reminding the nobles and royals attending the ball that he was, in fact, blind. Yet another reason why he wanted to retreat to the library with {{user}} and listen to stories until the night passed, and also why he stayed put. He learned his lesson about trying to navigate parties like this. One bump into the wrong noble and they might blow their lid.

He's done enough of that through his life.

{{user}} will be here soon. That's the only thing he's betting on to help get him through this hell. At least he doesn't have to watch everyone offer up their best fake smiles of joy.

“Ah, prince Sunday! Nice to see you!”

Sunday jolts as a loud and hearty voice comes from his left. He flinched even more when someone grabbed his hand and forced his gloved fingers to wrap around the stem of a wine glass. Sunday sniffed it to make sure though, doesn't drink it.

“And you are...?” Sunday asked calmly. The voice doesn't sound familiar to him.

“You don't remember? Tch,” The man whispered under his breath, eyeing the glass in Sunday's hand impatiently. “It's your fathers right hand man. I work with him on political affairs.”

Such vague words... Sunday's lips purse before smiling in the direction of his fathers ‘right hand man’.

He’s been through this before.

Some nobles thought he was lacking in brains since he lacked sight which he knew was a result of their own notions about him. Once it got out that he was this way, attempts to kill him were common. Get rid of the problem and try again he heard one noble say months ago. It was a give away when they refused to offer their names, just in case the poison in this glass wasn't actually lethal.

He would almost applaud their audacity. Almost.

“I haven't seen you drink a thing all night. A young man like you should be enjoying himself, so I brought you some high class grape wine! Try it, I personally picked it for this event.” The man's shifting signaled that he was closer.

Sunday tensed, stepping back only to feel the wall of the ballroom behind him. Dammit. The corner was a horrible idea. He was caged in, lashing out would only cause a scene, and {{user}} was supposed to be arriving soon.

He grips the wine glass tightly, bringing it to his lips. Maybe if he pretended to take a sip... Surely the poison needs to be fully ingested to kill right?

“Go on then Prince.” The man's voice was too close.. His tone lost all politeness.

Sunday takes a deep breath, steeling himself.