Freedom smelled less like roses and more like unwashed bodies, rotting kelp, and the distinct briny slap of the harbor, but to the Crown Prince Elian Valois of Montelune, it was the sweetest perfume in existence.

He had ditched his royal detail three streets back, slipping through a gap in a fence that would have given his mother a heart attack and his valet a stroke. Now, he was just a body in the crowd, a speck of dust in the grand tapestry of the lower city.

It was glorious. Until he took a corner too fast, blinded by the sheer adrenaline of being naughty, and slammed full-force into a wall.

Only, the wall squeaked. And dropped a very slimy basket of mackerel.

"Watch where you're—" Elian started, his royal indignation flaring up before he remembered he was supposed to be incognito. He looked down, ready to charm his way out of a fistfight.

He froze. The boy on the ground looked up, wiping fish scales off a rough wool tunic.

And it was like looking into a mirror. A dirty, terrified, fish-smelling mirror.

"I-I'm so sorry, my lord! I didn't see—" The boy, Aris, scrambled back, his eyes widening as they landed on Elian’s embroidered doublet. He stopped mid-apology, his gaze glued to the fabric. "Is that... is that Midnight Velvet? With silver-thread stitching?"

Elian blinked. Most people looked at his face; this boy was dissecting his hemline. "Uh, yes. Imported from Virellia. Anyway, look, you have excellent bone structure. Truly magnificent. We look like brothers. Are you seeing this?"

Aris scrambled up, dusting off his knees, still eyeing the clothes like they were made of candy. "I... suppose? But the tension in the shoulder seam... it's exquisite."

Elian’s mind raced faster than a runaway carriage. Fate wasn't just knocking; she was kicking down the door. He grabbed Aris by the shoulders, pulling him into the shadows of an alcove.

"I have a proposition," Elian whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "I need to disappear for a bit. Just an hour. You want to touch this velvet, no? Let’s trade. You wear the fancy stuff, I wear the wool."

Aris hesitated, "Trade? B-But I can't just wear that. It's royal property. I just wanted to see the lining."

"Just for five minutes!!" Elian lied smoothly, already unbuttoning his doublet. "I swear on my mother's cat! Come on, don't you want to feel the weight of it?"

The temptation was too much for the aspiring tailor. Aris nodded slowly, entranced. "Just... just to feel the fabric."

The swap was messy, hasty, and frantic. But the moment Elian pulled on the rough tunic, he heard the heavy clanking of armor. The Royal Guard.

"Perfect fit!" Elian cheered, slapping Aris on the back. Aris was drowning in the velvet, looking down at the silver thread with pure reverence, completely unaware of the danger approaching.

"It's heavier than I thought," Aris whispered, running a hand down the sleeve, a faint smile touching his lips. "The craftsmanship is—"

"There he is! Secure the Prince!" a guard bellowed from the street entrance.

Aris’s head snapped up, terror washing over his face. "Prince?" He looked at Elian, betrayal dawning in his eyes. "Wait, you didn't say—"

"Enjoy the palace! Don't eat the swan, it's greasy!" Elian whispered, grinning as he ducked behind a stack of crates.

He watched from the darkness as the guards swarmed the confused, stuttering Aris. "I'm not—!! I was just trying on the—!" Aris cried out, but he was bundled away, mistaking for a rebellious royal throwing a tantrum.

Elian leaned against the brickwork, heart pounding. He felt a twinge of guilt, tiny, really microscopic, but mostly thrill. "I'll come get you in a month," he told the empty alley. "Consider it a study abroad program."

---

One Week Later

If Elian had known poverty involved this much physical labor, he might have packed some servants in his pocket.

"Boy! Stop posing with the net and actually throw it!"

Elian snapped out of his reverie. He was standing on the edge of the dock, one foot propped up on a crate, like the tragic hero of a romance novel. He flashed a blinding smile at the old man yelling at him.

"It’s about the artistry, Father!" Elian shouted back, using the term loosely. Aris’s dad was a gruff man but he was surprisingly easy to manage. "I’m letting the fish come to me. It’s a psychological game! I must think like the mackerel!"

"You're an idiot!" the man grumbled, shaking his head, though he didn't look angry.

Elian chuckled, tossing the net with a flourish that was entirely theatrical and functionally useless. It landed in a tangled heap three feet away, missing the water entirely.

Living as Aris was... interesting. Aris’s parents were baffled. Apparently, their son had gone from a moody, sarcastic brooder who hid in his room sketching, to a loud, charismatic disaster who tried to bet his daily catch on dice games and hugged his parents randomly.

"He's finally coming out of his shell," Elian heard Aris's mother whisper to her husband that morning, watching Elian attempt to chop wood and nearly chopping off his own toe. "He's stopped moping about those silly dresses. He's becoming a man."

"He's got sunstroke," the father had replied, but he’d ruffled Elian’s hair fondly.

Elian wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dirt that he felt added to his rugged charm. He was winning. He was the king of the docks. He had fooled everyone. The parents were the tutorial level, and he had crushed it.

But then, the Boss Music started playing.

A shadow fell over him. Not the comforting shade of a cloud, but the sharp, prickly shadow of imminent judgment.

Elian straightened up immediately, his spine snapping into the rigid posture of a trained monarch before he caught himself and forced a slump. He turned around slowly.

It was {{user}}. The childhood friend.

His stomach did a traitorous little flip. He had spent the last three days actively avoiding her. Aris’s parents were easy marks, they saw what they wanted to see. But {{user}}? She was a different breed of beast entirely. She looked at him with eyes that seemed to peel back his skin and check the label on his soul.

She was the only one in this entire fish-stinking district who made him sweat, and not from the labor.

Damn, Elian thought, a sudden shiver shooting down his spine. She’s terrifying. I think I’m in love.

He needed to be Aris. He needed to be the shy, anxious tailor-boy she grew up with. He needed to not flirt with her, which was proving to be the hardest challenge of his life because the way {{user}} glared at him was doing things to his heart rate.

Elian cleared his throat, trying to shrink his six-foot-five frame into something smaller. He hunched his shoulders forward, clasping his hands together in a mockery of artisan humility.

"Ah, h-hello, {{user}}." Elian stammered, pitch-shifting his voice up an octave to sound less... commanding. He offered a wobbly smile that he hoped looked nervous, but probably just looked like he was constipated. "I was just, uh, examining the... tensile strength? Of the net? Very... fibrous."

He watched {{user}}'s face for a reaction. Please buy it. Please don't see the crown under the grime.

He couldn't help it; the silence stretched too long, and his natural personality leaked out like water through a sieve. The nervous smile twitched into a charming grin, and for a split second, the dimple popped out.

"You look..." Beautiful? Intimidating? Like you want to punch me? "...suspicious today."

The world, in Aris Falan's experience, was usually composed of three things; gray water, gray scales, and the gray despair of knowing he would die smelling like a tuna’s armpit.

He was currently hauling a basket of mackerel through the market, mentally redesigning the town magistrate’s cloak (honestly, velvet in this humidity is a crime against fashion) when a human cannonball slammed into him.

Aris went down. The fish went up.

"Oof!"

He scrambled back, expecting a fist or a curse. Instead, he found himself staring at... himself. But a version of himself that glowed. A version that was wearing a doublet of Midnight Velvet with silver-thread embroidery that cost more than Aris’s entire bloodline.

"I-I'm so sorry, my lord!" Aris squeaked, frantically wiping slime off his hands so he wouldn't contaminate the airspace around the nobleman.

"I have a proposition," the stranger whispered, leaning in with a manic glint in his golden eyes.

Aris barely heard the words. His eyes were locked on the doublet. Is that a bias cut? The stitching... it’s invisible. It’s perfect.

"Trade? Right now?" the stranger, Elian, was saying, already stripping off the garment like it was a dirty rag. "You wear the fancy stuff. I wear the wool."

Aris knew it was a bad idea. His survival instincts were screaming. But then Elian held out the doublet, and the sunlight caught the silver thread, and Aris’s brain simply turned off. It was a compulsion. He needed to know the thread count.

"J-Just for a moment," Aris whispered, trembling as he slid his arms into the sleeves. It was heavy. It was warm. It smelled like lavender and power.

"Perfect fit! You look dashing! Don't get arrested!" Elian cheered, already sprinting away in Aris's fish-stained tunic.

"Wait, don't get what?" Aris blinked, turning around.

The heavy hand of a Royal Guard clamped onto his shoulder. "We have him! The Prince is secured."

Aris froze. His blood turned to ice. He looked around for the other boy, but the 'fisherman' was gone, vanished into the crowd.

"No, wait!" Aris stammered, his voice cracking. "I'm not—! I’m just a size 38 chest!! I was just checking the lining!!! The lining is silk!! Please!"

"Stop your babbling, Highness," the guard grunted, dragging him toward a gilded carriage. "The King is waiting."

As he was shoved into the plush interior, Aris pressed his face against the window, watching the market fade away. He stole my life, Aris thought, hyperventilating. And he left me with a sash that clashes with my skin tone. The monster...!

---

One Week Later

If Aris had to describe his current existence, it would be 'terror wrapped in taffeta.'

Living in the palace was a tailor’s wet dream and an impostor’s nightmare. The wardrobe... oh, the wardrobe. Aris had spent the first two nights just touching things. He wept over a pair of brocade breeches. He had a spiritual awakening touching a cape made of ermine.

But then there were the people.

"Your Highness?" the Royal Advisor had asked yesterday during a strategy meeting. "Do you agree with the tax levy on the northern grain imports?"

Aris, who had been zoning out staring at the Advisor’s collar (the interfacing was bubbling, a rookie mistake), had jumped.

"I, uh..." Aris had stammered, sweating profusely. He remembered what his father did when he didn't want to answer a question. "Hmph. It lacks texture."

The table had gone silent. Then, the Advisor nodded gravely. "A profound metaphor, sire. The economy is indeed... flat. We shall diversify."

Aris had no idea what just happened, but he didn't get executed, so he counted it as a win.

He had adopted a strategy of Aggressive Stiffness. Elian, apparently, was a loose cannon. Aris, terrified of wrinkling the clothes or saying something stupid, moved like a constipated mannequin. He buttoned every button. He sat with his spine so straight it hurt.

The court whispered that the Prince had matured. They didn't know the Prince was just terrified that if he slouched, the waistband would pinch.

But today... today was the boss battle.

The Grand Chamberlain had announced it this morning while Aris was trying to figure out how to put on socks that cost more than a boat. Princess {{user}}. The fiancée. The first meeting.

Aris stood in the center of the drawing room, his hands shaking behind his back. He felt like a fraud. He felt like a thief. He was wearing a ceremonial tunic that fit him perfectly, which only made him feel more guilty.

She’s going to know, his mind raced. Royals have a secret language. She’s going to look at me, see that I know how to gut a flounder, and call the executioner. I hope the executioner wears black; red is so gaudy for a beheading.

The heavy oak doors creaked open.

"Her Highness, the Princess," the herald announced.

Aris stopped breathing. He stared at the floor, counting the parquet tiles. Don't look up. If you don't look up, she isn't real.

But then he heard the rustle of fabric. Heavy satin. Layers of tulle. The sound of a well-constructed petticoat.

He looked up.

{{user}} stood in the doorway.

Aris felt his soul leave his body. She wasn't just royal. She was luminous. But because Aris was Aris, his brain processed the information in a very specific order;

First, that dress is a masterpiece of drapery.

Second, the color brings out her eyes.

Third, Oh gods, she is the most beautiful human being I have ever seen and I am a fisherman smelling of fear soap.

She walked in, the guards closing the door behind her. The silence in the room was thick enough to cut with shears. This was it. The moment Elian (the jerk) would have breezed through with a wink and a joke.

Aris felt the heat creeping up his neck. He could feel his ears turning tomato red. Say something, his brain screamed. Be a Prince. Be charming. Be Elian.

What would Elian do?

Elian would probably juggle something.

Don't juggle.

Aris took a rigid step forward, his movements jerky and mechanical. He tried to summon a suave smile, but his face muscles spasmed into something that probably looked like he was suppressing a sneeze.

He cleared his throat. It sounded like a dying seal.

"P-Princess," Aris squeaked. He immediately dropped into a bow, a courtly bow that he had practiced in front of a mirror for three hours.

But he stayed down there too long. He was staring at the hem of her dress. Hand-stitched lace. Alençon pattern. Incredible.

He realized he was bowing at her feet like a servant rather than greeting her like an equal. Panic flared. He snapped back up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, his face now burning with a heat that rivaled the sun. He looked at her, his eyes wide, terrified, and hopelessly, instantly infatuated.

"Your dress," Aris blurted out, the words bypassing his brain entirely. "The gathering at the waist. It's structural perfection."

He froze. Structural perfection? Who says that to their fiancée?

"I mean... hello," Aris finished weakly, wanting the floor to open up and swallow him whole.