Chapter Text
You just posted “A Suit and a Gown, Both Armor”, so it’s probably too soon to request a part two to the fic but I wanted to put this request out there anyway. It could just be about Roman attending the ball in their gown, since I’d be interested in seeing them enjoying the ball dressed the way they feel most comfortable and happy. And since I was the one who requested a nonbinary Roman fic, I just wanted to say thanks for writing my request. The fic was very enjoyable to read :) – monkeythefander
“Enter.”
The steward pushes open the door, letting it shut with a low thud. Roman looks over their shoulder as his gaze travels up and down the length of their outfit. The tailor pokes her head out from just behind their hip and hums in acknowledgement.
“You have outdone yourself this time,” he says lowly, “your work is, as always, spectacular.”
“Save your flattery,” the tailor says, even with the slightest glow of pride to her cheeks, “not every tailor is so fortunate as to have such an excellent model.”
“You both should save your flattery, I’ve no need to hear it.”
“You have every need.” The steward comes closer, meeting Roman’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “Though I do not stop by just to admire: your brother has arrived.”
Ah.
Roman raises their chin just slightly, affecting a confidence they do not feel. An admirable effort, but a fruitless one: the steward catches sight of their mere hesitation and takes another step forward.
“I am happy to tell him to wait until the ball begins proper, he is several hours early, after all.”
“Well, he is wont to show up unexpectedly.” They are unable to keep the note of fondness from their voice, even as their hands twitch at their sides. “Where is he?”
“Presently in the courtyard still, entertaining some of the children with tales of the Kraken.”
“I hope he’s picking the ones that are appropriate for their ears.”
“Their parents were within close range, I am sure they would make some attempt to alert him if his subject matter strayed too far from what they wished their children to be exposed to.”
Roman sighs. They look down at the rich red fabric swirling from them and follow a single speck of dust as it leaves the skirt and lands on the floor. The tailor gives it a quick tug when they remain silent for too long.
“Am I making a mistake?”
“Would you care to be more specific, old friend?”
“This,” Roman says, gesturing about, “the ball, the choice of clothing, the… this.”
“I do hope you’re not about to tell me you want another costume for the evening—“
“No, no, nothing like that, it’s just—“ their hands twist into each other and they bite worry their bottom lip between chapped lips—“is this the proper time to be…”
The steward picks up on his unwillingness to fully voice the statement—and how could he not, when Roman had all but stumbled around it like a newborn foal—and steps closer once more, close enough to brush their hands tighter. Roman takes it gratefully, clinging with a strength that they know takes the steward by surprise. He squeezes back, just as readily, as the tailor produces a needle and begins to finish a seam.
“I can think of no better occasion,” the steward says softly, “than on the day of a ball where the kingdom has come together to celebrate you and all you have done for them—no, no, do not protest that fact. This ball is for the good of the people, for morale, yes, I know, but it is a celebration.”
“Why of me?”
“Who else would it be for?”
“What about for them? For weathering yet another year, for overcoming difficulty, for simply being? Does it have to come back to me?”
“You’re not dissuading his questions about why you’re suddenly so insistent on avoiding the spotlight, you know.”
Roman sighs, letting their head hang. The steward waits patiently until they can summon up their strength again.
“I am…worried,” they settle on finally, “that in my efforts to celebrate this part of myself that I will only be at a greater disadvantage when it comes to what comes after.”
“You speak of the reaction to your reveal.”
“Yes.”
“Those who are truly yours to care for and care for you in return will not question it,” the tailor says with a certainty they wish they could borrow, if only for the evening, “and I will be there to pin the ones that would behave otherwise back into place.”
“I don’t believe there’s a need for that.”
“Which is why I am not asking for your permission.”
“I think you’d best nod and agree,” the steward hums, a chuckle evident in his voice, “we both know it might happen regardless of whatever approval she gains.”
“You say as if you won’t be pointing them out to her if she should miss them.”
“Naturally.” The steward winks at them in the mirror before growing sober once more. “In truth, old friend, I do not envy your position. I don’t mean to force you into a decision you do not wish to make. I believe you could simply reveal yourself in these stunning garments without ascribing them to the other secret you wish to reveal and the kingdom would think nothing of it. Well, aside from the obvious.”
“What is the obvious?”
“That the tailor is a master at her craft and you are as beautiful and handsome as ever.”
“Careful now, I believe I’ve been warned off of flushing too obviously.” Roman shakes their head. “I…this all seemed so simple just a few days ago.”
“Big decisions often do.”
The three of them lapse into silence for a long moment, interrupted only by the soft susurrus of the tailor’s needle through fabric. Distant sounds of laughter and hooves on cobblestones drift in from the still-open window as the afternoon wears on.
“Is it worth it?”
“Hm?”
“IS it worth it,” the steward asks gently, “to know that those who would speak of you are not speaking the full truth, if it would save you the backlash of what you would reveal?”
Strings though wounds around their hands and words, their arms and legs, their waist and heart. Would it be worth severing them if the blade that did so cut him as well?
“You needn’t make the decision right now,” the steward says after Roman makes no further move to speak, “I can go and tell the Duke that he must wait until the ball begins to—“
“No.” Roman swallows. “He can come up now.”
“Certainly, I can fetch him.”
“And would you—“ Roman catches the steward by the hand as he goes to pull away, even as they do not make eye contact in the mirror— “would you tell him?”
The steward pauses, evidently surprised, and Roman dares look at him.
“If he knew,” they say quietly, “if he knew, that might…that might help me decide about…the rest.”
“You did say you suspected he might already know,” the steward agrees with equal caution, “I think it is a wise decision to share the burden with him now.”
“Shame on you,” the tailor scolds, “for referring to such a thing as a burden.”
“I only meant to say—“
“I know what you meant,” Roman says quickly, squeezing his hand again, “I understand. I…yes, thank you.”
“I’ll go and fetch him now.”
He retreats, Roman watching him go until the door closes with a soft thud once more. Their gazer travels from the door to the open window along a thin golden shaft on sunlight, lingering on the armor set out to dry from an earlier spar, the golden embossing on its more decorous finishing gleaming in the late light. Further still to the bed with its rich red canopies, to the desk where the last of the correspondences sat with their paper edges curling up like forgotten petals. The slight coil in their stomach twists as they look at them: invitations answered at the last minute, those from suitors who wished to enter the ball as a matched pair, and of course, the ones from the other guests to the kingdom.
“Forgive me if I am overzealous in coming to your defense,” comes the tailor’s soft voice, interrupting their thoughts, “I do not mean to offend.”
“You never could. I find that while I lack no strength or will to rise to the defense of others, when it comes to myself, I am…less than able.”They offer their other hand to her, letting her take it and squeeze. “It is an honor and a privilege for you to come to my defense so readily.”
Her brow quirks. “Even if I threaten to stab those who are despicable to you with pins?”
They laugh. “Yes, even then.”
“Noted.”
A few more moments pass in companionable silence, the tailor returning to her work as Roman allows their thoughts to wander, until the tailor pronounces the seam finished and steps back to have a look at them.
“What do you think?”
“The steward did not misspeak. You are a vision.”
“And you are a master?”
“Well, that did not need to be spoken.”
A small smile curls up their face as footsteps approach from the hall. They begin to turn to see who it is—they know, they already know, they could feel his approach as easily as they can anything in the kingdom—and the door opens to reveal the steward and—
“Holy fucking shit, Ro.”
Roman turns fully, the tailor taking one of their hands to help. The fullness of the red skirt almost obscures the podium entirely, spilling out from the golden carapace framing either side of their torso. One reaches upwards to wrap around their side ribs and chest, the other down to give the illusion of a swelling hip and thigh. The edges of the gold perfectly meld with the golden detailing of the white shirt, their asymmetry accenting the slimness of their waist and the broad line of their shoulders. A more traditionally masculine collar closed with a ruby nestles at the hollow of their throat, two golden epaulets atop each of their shoulders. Golden chains hang over their upper back and chest, the very longest of each just brushing the top of the higher half of the carapace.
The crown sits waiting on a side table.
“Whilst I cannot ascribe the same crassness to my own sentiments,” the steward says as he shuts the door again, “I concur wholeheartedly with the Duke’s statement.”
Remus hasn’t said another word, still staring at Roman. His own costume, a slightly sleeker and more elegant version of his customary green sash with black tulle, does little to cover the way his chest stutters slightly with his uneven breaths. After another pause, his eyes flick up to catch Roman’s and a grin spreads across his face.
“Holy shit, Ro.”
“I take it that’s a good thing?”
“You take— Ro. You look fucking amazing. Everyone in that ballroom is gonna shit themselves when they see you.”
“I hope not,” the steward remarks casually, “that would be an awful mess to clean.”
Still, Roman cannot stop their own answering grin as Remus comes forward to take their hands. “I’m glad you came.”
“Like I would miss it.” Some of the mania goes out of his grin and he lowers his voice. “I did notice something about the way he introduced you to me, though.”
Roman swallows. “Yeah.”
“Are you…you’re using they/them now?” They just nod silently. “Okay. Are you still—can I still call you my brother?”
“Yes,” they say far too quickly, “yeah, that’s—that’s fine. I’m still going by ‘Prince.’”
They do not miss the way Remus’s shoulders sag in relief. “And then Ro-Bro?”
“Also fine.”
“Great. Good. Fuck, I’m so proud of you, Roro.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You just came out. That’s hard and scary, and not in the good way.”
“ Remus.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll be serious.” He glances down at the garments against and gestures. “Is this…are you coming out to everyone tonight too?”
The humor in the room abruptly fades as a weight sinks from Roman’s throat to their stomach. They glance at the tailor and she nods, standing and going to take the steward by the arm. He lingers a few moments more, clearly unwilling to leave Roman in such an unsure state.
“It’s okay,” Remus promises, “I got them.”
“We’ll be just outside.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as the doors close, they let out a shaky breath. Their shoulders sag, their hands in Remus’s beginning to tremble ever so slightly. Remus, ever the attentive brother, crouches slightly so Roman needn’t move to look at him, pressing as close as he dares to their skirts.
“What’s going on, Ro,” he asks softly, “talk to me?”
“I don’t know what to do, Re.”
“About what?”
“ This.” They gesture at themselves and the surrounding room with an edge of frustration. “It hurts, it does, but they don’t—I don’t know if I can do it if they—if they—“
“Hey, shh, easy, slow down a bit.” He reaches up and cups the back of their neck. “You’re talking about the others reacting to you coming out, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What could they do? Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds lightly when Roman glares at him, “let’s walk through it, what could happen?”
Roman sighs. The weight of standing still for so long as the tailor worked catches up with them all at once, leaving them weak at the knees and leaning heavily on Remus.
“Shit—here, let me get that stool, you can sit on that. Do you think you can get it under the skirt?”
“Probably?”
Remus makes sure they’re steady enough to stand on their own for a moment as he goes to fetch the plump and plush footstool from the corner of the bed. Roman hefts the skirts up and out of the way as he sets it on top of the podium, helping to spread the fabric out so that no wrinkles or creases form.
“There’s so much skirt it kind of looks like you just got shorter.”
“Does it?” Roman glances over their shoulder at their reflection. “Oh. It does.”
In customary Remus fashion, he ignores whatever decorum or courtesy rules there may be and plonks himself on the floor, still within reach of Roman if they need to hold on to him again.
“It feels hypocritical,” they murmur, “to have a ball and make such a big deal of…of coming out and then not wanting it to be a whole thing.”
“How so?”
“I don’t want—I don’t want to be smothered about it. I don’t want it, like, shouted from the rooftops or anything. I don’t need it to be big and…and now this really sounds hypocritical.”
“There’s a difference between you celebrating it and someone else trying to celebrate it for you.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly it.”
“Mm. Yeah, I’ve met Patton before.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“That one was. What else?”
“This is also going to sound hypocritical—“
“I don’t care about what it sounds like, Roro, just talk to me. I’m not gonna tell anyone else shit.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I think it’s…I’m…”
“Dealing with the things the others have forced onto you ‘cause they can be really shitty to you when you try and talk about things, I know, please continue.”
Roman winces at how blunt it is, but moreover, how true it is. “I also don’t want it to be just…dismissed? Or overlooked? I don’t want it to be a technicality.”
“You don’t want Logan saying you basically count as a man.”
“Are these really that obvious, Re?”
“They are to me.” He reaches out and knocks his hand against Roman’s. “Because I know you.”
“No, I don’t want that. And I don’t want Virgil calling me attention-seeking or dramatic either.”
“Like he thinks you’re coming out for the trend or some other stupid bullshit that isn’t true?”
“Yeah.”
Remus makes a grumble that sounds suspiciously like knocking someone over the head with a Morningstar, but it’s only a grumble that Roman can’t quite make out. “And Janny?”
The strings tighten and hook into their lungs. The metal suddenly digs into their ribs and the skirt grows heavy and viscous around their legs. Their collar tightens and itches.
“Yeah,” they hear Remus mutter from leagues away, “I thought so.”
“I don’t mean to think the worst of them,” they say through a cotton tongue, “but I can’t help it.”
“You’re scared, Roro, it makes sense that your brain is conjuring up worst-case scenarios.”
They huff. “Worse than the idea of them not believing me in the first place?”
“You could pass it off as something that’s just true for the Prince Roman in the Imagination.”
“And be scolded for making light of nonbinary people? No, thank you.”
Remus falls silent for a moment and they sigh.
“Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Ro. This shit’s hard. I’m just here for you.”
Roman nods, still not looking at him. They stare at their hands, at the calluses and wrinkles and dry spots, and the golden signet ring resting on their left pinky. They look at it, at their crest and the weight of the gold, and the way that it insists on catching the light no matter which way they turn it.
“Whoa, hey,” Remus’s hands cup their cheeks and their head is tilted back to meet his concerned expression, “hey, Roro, it’s okay, I’m right here, okay? I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, it’s gonna be okay.”
I know, they try to say, but their throat won’t cooperate, I know, why can’t I speak?
Their answer comes in the form of a tremendous hitching breath and the feeling of Remus wiping something from their cheek.
Oh. I’m crying.
Realizing this fact does not do anything to stop it; rather, as soon as Roman realizes, the force of the sobs doubles and threatens to dislodge Remus’s hands as they lean on him for support. He blindly gropes for a handkerchief and passes it to them, letting them bury their face in their hands as he curls protectively around them, still murmuring into their ears.
“It’s gonna be okay, Roro, I’m right here. I promise it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna figure it out. I swear we’ll figure it out.”
They fumble to get their hand around his wrist and hold on for dear life. Remus weathers the storm as though he were a mountain, immovable, immutable, everlasting. Roman loves him.
Eventually the sobs taper off. They scrub the last of the remnants from their face as Remus tilts their chin up, tutting at the roughness left on their cheeks.
“The tailor will have my head if I let you make your pretty face all messy,” he says without any real heat, taking the handkerchief and gently cleaning the rest of their face.
“Did you know she’s threatening to stab anyone who’s mean to me with her pins tonight?”
“I’ll help her, that sounds like a perfectly reasonable idea.”
“Remus.”
“Oh, fine, ” he sighs, “I won’t help her.”
“Thank you.”
“I won’t stop her either.”
Roman sighs and he chuckles, leaning forward to rub their noses together. “Hey, you know I love you, right? I’m so proud of you, Ro-Bro.”
“I love you too.” They glance at the door. “You can let them back in now.”
Remus nods and goes to the door as Roman gets themselves together just a tad. The tailor lets out a quiet noise when she comes back to his side, obviously noticing the last of the tears. They shake their head, it’s alright, and she gives their arm a reassuring pat.
“Have you made our prince cry, Duke,” the steward asks lowly, “is everything alright?”
“It’s okay,” Roman says, “I’m alright.”
“Well, you’ve given me time to finish the beading on the skirt,” the tailor says, happily taking a seat on the floor and picking up a different needle, “hold still as much as you can, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Perhaps the Duke would be willing to help with the rest?”
“Oh, fuck yeah, Roro, let me do your makeup.”
“If you want to?”
“Yeah, I want to.” He goes to the side and fetches a large case, setting it up on a nearby table. “You just shush and let me work, okay?”
“Okay.”
The steward brings over another chair from the table and takes a seat near the three of them. The rest of the afternoon passes in lazy conversation, the quiet stitching from the tailor, and the soft touch of brushes across their face. AS the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky, eventually Remus and the tailor step away and Roman beholds themselves in the mirror.
Golden sparkles atop red eye shadow, a brighter highlight in the inner corner. Sharply contorted cheekbones and a bright red lip. They turn their head this way and that, admiring the way the light catches the high points of their face.
“The finishing touch.”
The tailor has their crown in their hands. They bow their head slightly, feeling the weight of it come to rest on top. It settles perfectly into place. They take a deep breath and stand, facing the mirror.
“My prince,” the tailor murmurs.
As if on cue, the clock begins to chime. Not long now until the ball begins.
“Do you want me with you,” Remus asks, “or in the crowd?”
“In the crowd. Let me find you.”
Remus nods, offering the smallest bow— Roman laughs at that—and leaving. The steward steps up to take his place, smiling.
“You look resplendent.”
“Thank you, old friend. Though I fear I’ve kept you both from getting ready yourselves.”
“Nonsense. I just have to swap out a few things and I’ll be finished.”
“It would only be responsible of me to be on hand should you need an emergency repair,” the tailor says, innocently smiling when Roman narrows their eyes at her, “pins and all.”
“You’re both incorrigible.”
“And you would not have us any other way. Ah!” She slaps their hand lightly when they go to help. “None of that for you. You can simply stand and look incredible.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“You are the prince. Letting us fumble about with our own garments is perfectly fair.”
They raise their hands in concession, sitting back down as the two of them ready themselves for the ball. When the time draws near, each of them offers a hand and they stand, moving slowly from the stool through the halls and down the back corridors to the grand staircase. From just beyond the shadow of the overhanging promenade, they can see the lights on the stone and the faint strains of music and conversation from the ball proper.
The steward pauses just before the entrance. “How would you like to be introduced?”
The tailor squeezes their hand reassuringly.
“What we discussed earlier.”
The steward smiles and lifts their hand, clasping it against his own chest in a modified version of the soldier’s salute. “My pleasure, my friend.”
He walks out onto the landing to address the herald. The sudden air of the ball makes them lightheaded and their hand trembles once more. The tailor steps a little closer in the shadows, letting them lean against her side until their breath returns.
“Chin up,” she whispers encouragingly, “or the crown slips.”
“Thank you.”
“We love you, Roman, we’re by your side.”
The trumpets blare. They take a deep breath and push their shoulders back, raising their chin. The booming voice of the herald echoes over the now-hushed ballroom.
“I give you, Their Majesty, Prince Roman!”
They walk out into the light.
The first thing they see are the ornate chandeliers suspended over the marble floor. Glittering crystal fragments catch the light and send it dancing about the columns. Garlands swing in the gentle evening breeze from the hanging gardens, rich and vibrant blooms occasionally dropping petals onto the costumed folk beneath. As rapturous applause breaks out amidst the gasps and murmurs, their gaze travels from one side to the other, taking everything in.
And there, in the middle, there they are.
The first one he sees is Logan, a midnight blue cape over one shoulder, revealing a deep silver set of plate with a long sword at his side. The inside of the cape is inlaid with glittering gems that look like stars. Next to him is Virgil, also in a cape, covering a set of purple robes and black gems. Patton wears a similar outfit, except in light blue and white. On one hip hangs a small bag, also inlaid with sapphires and other precious gems. Janus stands to Logan’s other side, clad in a glittering gold ensemble fit for the finest of court sorcerers. His cane makes an appearance as well, elegantly gilded with a snake’s fangs at its base.
Remus grins and offers them a little wave.
Someone hands them a goblet and they raise it in toast. Across the room, many hands raise to do the same. They smile and drink as the steward motions for the music to begin again. The tailor comes to their side as the ball resumes, responding to their entrance with a new and vibrant energy.
“You were spectacular,” she murmurs, “now come, let’s get you into it properly.”
They make their way down the stairs, the crowd parting around them as the steward and tailor follow close behind. Compliments and praise come from all directions but Roman only has eyes for the five in the center. They come to a stop a few paces away, still a little breathless from the rush of emotion.
They do not have to say a word.
The steward will tell you that the one in light blue managed to reach the prince first, throwing his arms around them with a squeal and a whisper. The tailor will say it was only by a hair; all five of them rushed to embrace their prince in celebration of their moment.
Regardless of whose word you favor, both would agree that a ball had never had such cheer nor enthusiasm, and not a single person needed a sharp pin to the side to get them to see what was right in front of them.
And all was right with the world.