The corridor was quiet as Francis walked back to his room, the echoes of the royal dinner still lingering in his mind. The scent of roasted almonds and mint clung faintly to his coat, but his thoughts were elsewhere — on Colden, on Noir, on the strange, unsettling presence of Prince King.
He reached his door, turned the handle, and stepped inside.
The light flicked on.
And there he was.
Charles.
Standing by the bedside table, holding the photo frame in his hand.
Francis froze.
Charles looked up, his voice low and amused. "I didn't know you still had this."
Francis's eyes widened. "Put it down."
He stepped forward, fast, reaching for the frame — but Charles, taller and always theatrical, lifted it high above his head.
"Still timid and reckless as ever, aren't you, darling?" he said, smirking.
Francis reached again, desperate, his fingers brushing the edge of the frame. His expression was fierce, raw — as if he were reaching for something more than a photo. As if he were reaching for a piece of himself.
Charles's smile faltered.
The look on Francis's face — the sheer intensity, the protectiveness — disgusted him.
He lowered his arm and handed the frame back.
"You used to have innocence," Charles said. "Now you just have hatred."
Francis snatched the frame, cradling it like a wound.
"Why are you here?" he asked, voice sharp.
Charles shrugged. "Just wanted to see you."
Francis stepped back, eyes cold. "Leave."
Charles tilted his head. "You always did know how to make someone feel like garbage."
He turned to go, but not before reaching out — fingers grazing the air near Francis's hand, lingering just long enough to unsettle.
Then he was gone.
Francis closed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against it, gasping.
He looked down at the photo — the image of him and Noir, smiling behind the great fountain, untouched by time.
He placed it gently back on the table.
And sat in silence.
Relieved.
But not unbroken.