Chapter 5 ~ Clarence Michigan

Chapter 5 ~ Clarence Michigan

I sit up slightly in the bed I must've been put into while I was asleep. It's uncomfortable. Not because it isn't a full sized bed with the perfect tempurpedic mattress, like I used to sleep on when I was royalty. I haven't slept on a bed like that in nearly years, ever since I moved into this castle, so therefore I'm used to it. Then what's bothering me so much?

Perhaps I need a drink of water. I pull myself out of bed, and try to walk over to the tap on the other side of the room. There are some goblets over there as well, so I'll be able to have a cup of water.

However, the second I take a step forward, I collapse onto the floor, gasping in pain. How could I have forgotten? My leg had been shot. I'm injured, and I simply can't walk. Well, it looks like I'm painfully stuck on the floor like this until morning.

Just then, there's a rustle from the other side of the room, and footsteps quietly pacing over. "Mr. Michigan?," someone whispers. "What happened? Are you okay, Clarence?" Only one person calls me Clarence, so that means it could only be none other than...

"Picasso?"

The peasant kneels beside me, biting his lip and flipping his strawberry red hair, mussed up from sleeping, out of the way of his eyes. "Yeah, s'me," he says. "You okay?"

I wince, trying to sit up at least a little more. "It's my leg again," I manage to choke out. "I forgot I injured it, and tried to stand on it."

Picasso winces, shaking his head slightly. "That leg is causing you a lot of problems, isn't it?," he says. "I ought to fix it for you, then, eh?"

I jump in my place. I've never really let anyone who isn't a trained medical personnel treat any of my injuries, unless it's an emergency. "I-I'm not entirely sure about that, Picasso," I answer nervously.

Picasso chuckles, giving me a knowing smile. "Hey, I getcha," he says. "But you know, all these scars I've got, I treated them all myself. The only reason they look bad is because they were all opened again right as they were getting better, and they got infected, and there was no way of curing them."

I reconsider it. "Alright then," I give in.

Picasso smiles, and goes over to the couch. Quietly so he won't awaken either Nathaniel or Bailey, he rummages through Nathaniel's satchel, and finds a roll of plaster. Then, he fills one of the solid gold goblets with water from the tap, and comes back over, carefully helping me sit up and lean against the bed for support. Since I'm still wearing the severed pants, Picasso can get right to work on my leg.

He carefully pours some of the water over the wound on my leg, which stings a little, making me tense up. Picasso then drops the roll of plaster into the remaining water, and begins to wrap my leg up with it, using up the rest of the plaster roll.

"There. Let's put you back into bed so that can dry," he says. I close my eyes and let him lift me up and put me into bed. Picasso takes a minute to wash out the goblet at the tap, then refills it with clean water for me to drink. Setting on the side table, Picasso then stretches out his back, making an odd noise at the back of his throat that's like a mixture between a moan and a grunt. All of a sudden, he climbs onto the bed and sits down beside.

I squint, keeping my eyes fully on Picasso's every move. "Why do you do that?," I ask.

Picasso smirks, turning my chin towards him. "Why do I do what?," he questions. "I do a lot of things."

I sigh, looking upwards to avoid his seductive, hazel glower. "Cuddle up to me like this," I say. "Protect me, and you don't let anyone else take care of me. And that's just to name a few of these 'things.'"

Picasso chuckles, ruffling his fingers through my slightly frizzed-up hair. "You don't get it?," he says with almost a pout. "Clarence, I like ya. More than just a friend. You're a handsome, porcelain prince imported from Australia, and you're so precious. And you're so gentle, and you're awful friendly for a prince...of a royal family!" Picasso sharply wraps an arm around my head, burying my face in his chest. "But, you know what they say. Peasants don't deserve royalty."

That last sentence breaks my heart. Picasso's a really good friend! He deserves me, and I always like being around him, and think it's sweet how he's protecting me. It makes it even more adorable because he has a crush on me.

I move my head to look up at Picasso. His face holds an expression I’ve never seen him wearing before. It’s like he longing for someone...more specifically me. He also looks to be sad, as if it’s impossible to get me, which makes me feel for him even more.

“You know something, Picasso?,” I say quietly to him, so my voice won’t crack and give away that I feel sorry for him. “I was once told that maids and butlers aren’t for loving. They do the work for others. I’ve never believed that; you should be able to love who you please.” I reach up with a tender hand, and stroke Picasso’s soft cheek. As if I have magic within my palm, Picasso’s cheek turns pink to the touch. “All I can say is, I’d never know what to do if I didn’t have a peasant like you. One of the reasons I don’t want to be royalty anymore is so that I can have whoever I want, without the ridicule of most of my family.”

Picasso looks down at me, smiling softly. A smug smile, but also a sweet at the same time. “Love you, Clarence,” he whispers.

I smile brightly, my eyes watering up happily. “I love you too, Picasso,” I whisper.

Picasso carefully wraps his arms around my waist, helping me sit up gently. As I place my arms softly around Picasso’s neck, we lean in, and softly kiss each other’s lips. His are soft, and taste sweeter than I expected, and I like that. As Picasso deepens the kiss, I follow, and feel even more pleasured.

When we pull away, Picasso keeps his fingers buried in my hair. “So, um...are we, y’know...a thing?,” he asks nervously, looking down softly.

I smile, and kiss Picasso’s cheek. “Well, I know I’d enjoy it,” I whisper. “So, if you want to, then of course we are.”

Picasso smiles even brighter, kissing my lips softly once again. Lying down, he wraps an arm around my shoulders, as I rested my cheek on his chest. Listening to his quiet, but soothing heartbeat, I fall fast asleep within no time.