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sacharowan · 2 months

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Mark has never liked Monaco. Still, Jenson was very insistent. Mark does not want to be a suitor for the Prince Regent Charles Leclerc. In fact, he wants nothing to do with the country at all - there's something rotten going on here and Mark wants no part of it. Trouble finds him anyway. Charles could do without this whole entertaining and finding a husband thing. He doesn't need it, he doesn't want it and he has bigger problems to deal with, like the assassination plot brewing under the surface. It's kill or be killed and Charles really would rather not. However, this option is too good to refuse. marchal regency au that's supposed to be romance but somehow got involved with regicide. idk either

written for the @hypersoft-fest week 1: historical fiction

ao3

6.6k

Mark knows what Monaco’s like, knows the money that lines these walls is as tainted as the family, but beauty obscures it from the public eye. Look at the Crown Prince, Leclerc. In Mark’s eyes, the most beautiful jewel in the whole Palace, and the most dangerous.

He’s not one to believe in rumours or stories but he does know that this place hides more than a few skeletons. Nothing that beautiful can ever be all that good.

Leclerc is undeniably gorgeous though, a shimmering beauty among all this ostentatious wealth, and apparently looking for a husband. According to Monegasque traditions, he's far too old (and probably far too pretty) to remain single and rule the country by himself. The council want him to find a husband, another pocket to have his hands in, more for the Principality. More, more, more, it's all these European royals want.

Again, Mark knows how this works. He’s been around long enough: it’s the same situation Seb had, albeit with a larger country and a smaller fortune. Jenson was easy for Seb. Mark isn’t like that. He won’t be like that for the Prince.

"Lord Mark Webber," Mark sweeps into a low bow in front of the throne, blinded briefly by the sparkles of the stones in Leclerc's crown. The Prince fits in wonderfully amongst the priceless gems. Mark may not like it but he knows how to play along, how to perform the theatrics they're all really watching for. It's a performance and he's sure Leclerc is easy enough to fool. "A pleasure to meet you, your Majesty."

It’s not intended as a snub (at least not fully) when Mark pulls away before the Prince can extend his hand for him to kiss. Again: not easy. He won’t make the same mistakes Jenson made. He is not blindly loyal and he will not promise anything to this man, with words or with a kiss. Mark knows better than that.

There are many people who are easily blinded by Monaco’s wealth; Mark Webber is not one of them. Charles could've figured this out himself, but Seb's mischievous whispering next to him pointed it out before. "Look at the way he scans the room, watching everything." Charles has never dug deep into the history between Mark and Seb - he knows there's wounds deep enough to still sting, things not to be touched - but the easy read Seb still has on Mark after years of distance suggests something more than friendship.

"Is he paranoid?" Charles asks, even though he knows the answer. Mark isn't paranoid but he is wary, especially of things dressed up in pretty parcels. The way he greeted Charles was enough to discern that. Seb is smart enough to figure out what exactly Charles means by that question anyway.

"No. Cautious though. He doesn't trust Monaco - never has," Seb adds flippantly, "and he doesn't trust you."

That much is obvious to Charles – the way Mark pulled away from him suggested anything but trust, distaste even. Charles rests his head on his hand, still studying Mark. He’s very interesting. “No surprises there then.”

“There’s no surprises with Mark. Ever.” Jenson now joins in, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek. Charles remembers their wedding, grand and glorious and beautiful. The love between them is plain for anyone to see and Charles can only hope he has something even close to that level of devotion. “He’s good though. Safe, comfortable, loyal.” That’s the important bit for Jenson to emphasise, “Whatever you want to call it, Charles.”

Charles appreciates his friends’ attempts to at least try and convince him to take this whole husband search seriously, but he hasn’t quite managed it yet. It’s unnecessary in his eyes, this tradition that he must be married to run the country effectively. He’s been Crown Prince (even before he took over), and Prince Regent for at least half of that time. If he didn’t know what he was doing by now, Monaco would’ve been in ruins, up in flames several years ago when Seb left for the last time. As it currently stands, they’re in the best place they’ve ever been in. Due to no one’s influence but Charles’. “’Safe’.” What does Jenson mean by that?

“He’d be good for the country, the council would like him.” Jenson pauses and seems to consider his next words carefully. “He’d be good for you, I think, Charles.”

Charles doesn’t respond. If the goal is to appease the council – to appease him, he doesn’t care if whoever he chooses is good for him. He is not the defining factor in this equation (no matter that it’s his life and his crown and his country): all he needs to do is please the council. “Charles?” Seb’s voice breaks through his thoughts, “you okay, sweetheart?”

“Fine.” He is fine, it’s not a lie. For now. Because he – Mattia, the King, as Charles is supposed to call him – isn’t here, Seb is here and he’s missed him so much, and this situation happening right now is in his control. “I’m going to talk to Mark.”

A hush falls over the ballroom as Prince Regent Charles Leclerc descends from his dais at the head of the room. All eyes on him now, all of them watching him – the man who holds all the cards and none of the power.

Their eyes are all glued to Leclerc, Mark’s included. He can’t look away, magnetised by this enigma approaching him. Oh shit. Mark has to talk to him. Leclerc wants to talk to him? This is Seb’s fault, he’s pretty sure. He flicks his eyes back over to the dais where Seb is sitting and grinning smugly, Jenson shaking his head lovingly beside him. Yeah, this is Seb’s fault.

Mark doesn’t get a chance to speak first. “You called me ‘your majesty’.”

“Is that not what you are?” What is Leclerc getting at here? What has Mark done?

“I’m not the King, Lord Webber.” As is often the case, Mark flinches at the address. He hates the title. Not good enough for a King or a Prince and too much to remain a Knight. It’s a cruel reminder.

“You are the acting King, your Highness.”

“Don’t let Mattia hear you say that.” Leclerc laughs finally, the distaste showing for the current monarch shining through – something they have in common then. “C’mon, you’re Seb’s friend, aren’t you Mark?” He shivers at his name coming off Charles’ lips – he wants to hear it more often, “Call me Charles.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, your High—”

“Charles.” Charles insists, grinning wolfishly, “It’s perfectly appropriate if I say it is. If I am the ‘acting King’ as you said.” God, there’s something about Charles that Mark can’t quite figure out but it’s enticing, magnetising. Screw him, he’s curious now. The exact opposite of what he came here expecting (he was dragged here, he didn’t have any expectations, just that Jenson said it’d be fun – Mark’s idea of fun has always been starkly different from Jenson’s).

“Well then, Charles, to what do I owe the pleasure?” What is going on here? Mark doesn’t understand.

“I was just here to wish you a good time. I hope you enjoy the pleasures of Monaco and I hope you find what you’re looking for.” With that cryptic message – what the fuck did Seb tell him – Charles turns back to the party, addressing the swathes of people, “I hope you all enjoy your time here.”

Mark watches Charles slink out of the ballroom to the sounds of rapturous applause. Maybe there is more to discover here than the money.

Charles has known for a very long time that Mattia sees him as a threat. It’s been obvious from the beginning, from the coup he formed, from the way he installed Charles as his second in command in hopes of swaying him to his cause. It hasn’t worked, because Charles is nothing if not loyal and he would never be loyal to the biggest traitor this country has seen. “I know.” He cuts off Jenson’s frantic rambling with a raised palm, “Seb knows too. He’s been trying to do this for years, trying to find any excuse to get rid of me save for outright assassination. He couldn’t deal with the fall out of that.” Charles laughs meanly, “Mattia wants power, as long as I hold the status I do, he will not have it. This marriage is a farce – he wants rid of me and marrying me off to Lewis or Pierre would do that cleanly.”

Seb suddenly stands up, beginning to pace the room. “I didn’t realise it’d gotten worse.” Seb sounds guilty and Charles immediately feels bad. It’s not Seb’s fault – it’s anything but Seb’s fault. “I should’ve been here, I should’ve stayed, I should’ve—”

“Seb.” He freezes his pacing, looking at Charles wide-eyed, as if terrified that he’d do something to him. It’s an expression he’s not seen for so many years, since Mattia first took charge and ousted Seb. How could Charles hurt Seb? God, it’s been too long. “It’s not your fault. It could not be your fault. Honestly, the shit that Mattia wants to do to me, fine, I can deal with it. I am in a safe place because I have my status. He would have just killed you.”

They never spoke about this part, the wounds too raw for Seb still. “What?” Jenson gasps, rushing to embrace his husband. “Seb—what?”

Charles says simply, “You got him out just in time.” A week later, Charles knew Mattia had the ingredients for his plan and he knew that they’d got Seb to safety just in time. After all, killing the King of his own country is a lot worse than just dispatching of a ward. Seb wasn’t at risk anymore, so Mattia has turned his materials on Charles.

“And now he wants to marry you off? So you leave?” Jenson asks incredulously and Charles is reminded that not everyone experienced a power struggle at the age of seven and has been living with the consequences ever since.

“He needs to marry me to a royal, a prince or a king so I leave. Anyone lower ranking would be outstripped by my own rank and I would stay.”

“Shit.” He looks pensive for a moment, “How many options do we have then?”

Charles sighs, “Not many.”

“Mark.” One word from Seb, still cradled in Jenson’s arms. Charles has a feeling that Jenson is going to be keeping a very close eye on his husband while they’re still in Monaco. “He’s low ranking, barely a lord at that.”

“You said he doesn’t trust me.”

“No, but he would. And he’s loyal. We trust him.” Not a surprise from Jenson, but that must mean a lot coming from Seb, considering the history between him and Mark.

“There’s another option.” When both Jenson’s and Charles’ eyes are on him, Seb grins broadly, “How do we kill a king?”

There’s something rotten here, Mark can tell. He’s never been particularly trusting, especially of the glamour and beauty of places like this, but there’s so many things that are just screaming wrong wrong wrong at him. He doesn’t feel safe here and those words from Charles have just helped further unsettle him.

Mark has never liked Monaco. Sure, it’s pretty, and the weather’s good, and there’s an abundance of wealth (in most places). But there’s something off about it.

For Mark, it started properly when Seb came back, from his supposed mentoring of the Crown Prince of Monaco. Charles. Truthfully, Mark has never blamed Charles for what happened to Seb when he was in Monaco. It was like being in a lion’s den, both Charles and Seb competing with each other for favour from the king. Something Charles had already due to his position, something Seb believed he was owed for putting his life on hold to do this.

The King was the next problem. Mattia Binotto was a slippery man; no one knew where he came from, only that he suddenly held all of the power in Monaco and that the previous King had left control of the country in Mattia’s hands. Mark didn’t know Jean Todt very well, he only met the man once, but it doesn’t seem like something he’d do. It’s too much power for one man, let alone someone so unknown like Mattia.

Lazily, Mark swirls around the remaining dregs of ginger beer in his glass and loosens his collar slightly. The rooms are lavish, comfortable and opulent. It’s nice. It’d be nicer still if Mark could get his brain to stop racing.

Suddenly, Mark jolts upright, the liquid remaining in his glass sloshing slightly, “Webber isn’t good enough.” This isn’t a conversation Mark should be overhearing. What the fuck does that mean?

He has half a mind to go and confront whoever it is, get them to explain what they mean by him not being good enough, but something stops him. Good enough for what? For Charles? He already knew that. For his title? Yeah, well, he didn’t want it in the first place. For Monaco? Good, he never liked the place anyway. “We need to move on with it or the King’ll just go for plan B.”

Yeah, this definitely isn’t a conversation he should be overhearing. “He can’t just kill the Prince!” The first voice exclaims. Mark stifles a gasp. What the fuck is going on in Monaco? Killing the Prince? Killing Charles?

“We’re running out of time! Mattia wants results and we either need to get him married or dead. I don’t think he cares either way anymore.”

Mark needs to talk to Charles.

Dancing has never been one of Charles’ favourite things. In fact, he hates it. There is nothing more annoying (except maybe Mattia when he’s in a mood) than pretending he cares long enough to swirl around a dance floor with some hopeful suitor. Charles is not a princess: he does not want to be treated like one.

“Charles!” Lewis, at least, is a breath of fresh air. Someone familiar, someone sensible enough (and besotted with someone else) to not slip into the nets of charm that Charles and Monaco both cast.

“Lewis! Nice to see you.” It’s a familiar dance, the same steps and patterns that were drilled into Charles across years. Lewis is good at dancing anyway, so Charles won’t look too bad – Lewis won’t let him, because if there’s anything Lewis cares about, it’s his image.

“How’s it going then, man, the search for a husband?” He rolls his eyes at the words. Charles is pleased to see that Lewis is taking this as seriously as Charles is. That is to say, not at all. It’s reassuring.

Charles breaks out into a grin, “not at all well, thankfully.” Well, he isn’t necessarily thankful, considering Mattia is going to try and kill him, but he really would rather not get married. “There’s no one ‘suitable’ enough apparently. Except you maybe.” Charles flutters his eyelashes at Lewis playfully, a teasing flirt that is familiar enough between them by now.

“Aw, Charles.” Lewis pulls one hand off Charles’ waist to clutch his pearl necklace dramatically, “I would love to marry you! If only…” Lewis trails off, looking wistful. Yeah, Charles has heard his difficulties with Max Verstappen. Reciprocated affection but distance and politics have forced them apart. Now Lewis is supposedly looking for a ‘real’ match (and having about as good luck as Charles is) and Max is stewing in a castle in the Netherlands. However, considering the majesty, the immovable nature of King Lewis Hamilton of the United Kingdom, Charles has no doubts that it’ll work out for them one day.

“It’ll work out.” He does believe it, the question is whether Lewis ever will.

“Yeah, thanks man.” Lewis definitely doesn’t believe it.

The song ends and Charles pulls away, patting Lewis on the shoulder gently. Now that he’s danced, he should be allowed to disappear back up to his seat and pretend to watch the suitors falling over themselves to prove something to him.

“Your Highness! Charles!” There’s only one person here who would have both the confidence to call out to him in the middle of a crowded ballroom and to refer to him as both ‘your highness’ and Charles.

“Mark.” He plasters a fake(-ish; he can’t deny he’s pleased to see that Mark is still here) smile on his face.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” From the look on Mark’s face, it looks like he wants to do anything other than dance but there’s also a steely determination lurking there.

Charles is interested. “You may.” If Mark insists on calling him whatever honorific he feels like, Charles is going to be as much of a princely asshole as possible, because it’s funny.

The music starts up again and they begin to dance, Mark well practiced and graceful as he twirls Charles across the floor. “Your council wants to kill you.”

Charles’ face remains impassive, not at all the reaction Mark expected. Surely no one expects their own assassination. “Oh. Who did you find out from? I didn’t think Seb would tell you directly.”

“Seb knows?” Mark can’t help but exclaim. Why the hell does Seb know about the political state of Monaco? He’s not been a part of them for years.

“Seb was the first target.” Charles isn’t sure why he’s telling Mark this, but if he’s figured this out himself, he might as well know the rest.

“What.”

Charles giggles softly and it’d be cute if they weren’t talking about his possible assassination. No, Mark cannot be getting distracted by that right now. Or at all. He is not here to become another one of the suitors. “Mattia doesn’t like not having all the power. Seb was a threat. I am still a threat,” Mark has no fucking clue what to say, so he doesn’t. “There are two options. I either get married – to someone with enough status to take me out of Monaco. Or he kills me. Poison is very effective and very undetectable if you know what you’re doing.”

This place is worse than he thought. “And you think he does?”

“I know he does,” Charles scoffs, “You get better with experience. Do you really think the great Jean Todt died of natural causes?” He asks mockingly. “It’d be as easy to kill me too. I expect it.”

Oh. Oh shit. Mark has a strange and sudden urge to protect Charles, to bundle him up and take him away to keep him safe. God, he’s losing it. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head, “Thank you for the dance, Mark.”

It’s the first time in a while Charles has seen Mattia actually acting as king, sitting in the gilded throne and wearing (attempting to at least) the royal attire. It looks wrong. It looks better on Charles. “Webber isn’t a fit. Choose someone else.” He snaps dismissively, not even looking at Charles as he waves a hand.

Charles promised himself he wouldn’t get angry about this. But there is something so grating about Mattia, he can’t help it. “You said this was my choice. I want Mark.”

“He’s not good enough for you. A Lord? It’s pathetic and it’s lowly and you’re worth more than that. I want better for you, Charles, that’s all. You deserve better.” Ten, even five, years ago, Charles would’ve been much more susceptible to Mattia’s manipulation.

He repeats, “I want Mark.”

“I don’t care.” Mattia snaps, “He is not good enough for you.” Not high ranking enough to take Charles away is what he means. “Sainz, Gasly, even Hamilton is a better option than Mark Webber. He is not worth you.”

Charles knows what he wants, he has always known what he wants and he’s always known how to get it. However, the unfortunate reality of the situation is that he needs a chaperone with him to his meetings with his chosen suitor. He needs a high-ranking chaperone. “There are other people who will do this for me if you won’t.” Maybe he’ll get some answers from one of them if he forces Seb to chaperone his meetings with Mark. Also, it’d be funny as fuck.

“Find someone else then, I don’t care.” Mattia snarls, and when Charles turns his back to leave, “I thought you were better than this.”

And so did I, once, Charles thinks, slamming the heavy door as he leaves.

Mark has no fucking clue how to feel. First of all, Charles tells him that he already knows about the King’s desire to get rid of him. And also Seb was the first target? Mattia wanted to kill Seb? Jesus, there’s more chaos going on here than he could ever anticipate.

He doesn’t know whether he wants to run or to stay to protect Charles. Because frankly, the Prince’s lack of self-preservation is worrying. He doubts that Jenson or Seb would let anything happen to Charles but surely they’re not around all the time? Surely there’s always a risk that Mattia will get tired of waiting for Charles to get married and just… get rid of him. It sounds crude when he puts it like that, but it’s the reality. Mark wants to be there for Charles.

“Lord Webber?” A knock on his chamber door snaps him out of his thoughts, “The Prince has requested your presence.”

What the fuck. Has Mark fucked up? Is this because he told Charles that Mattia wants to kill him? It’s probably bad that an outsider knows. “Yeah—” His voice sounds strained, he coughs, “One second, please.” To gather his thoughts and to make himself look at least a little bit presentable. Mark isn’t sure when he started caring about what Charles thinks about him, but he thinks it was somewhere between him asking Mark to call him by his name and revealing that he knew about the assassination plot.

He’s led out to the gardens. It’s beautiful, the flowers blooming in the early May sunshine, colour and light everywhere Mark looks. Charles is standing there, underneath an archway covered in flowers (Mark wants something like that at his wedding, he thinks, if Charles looks so pretty silhouetted against the flowers, beauty among beauty). “Mark!” Charles sounds so genuinely delighted to see him that maybe Mark isn’t heading towards his own execution then.

“Hi Mark.” Ah. Seb’s here too. He was so – embarrassingly – focused on Charles that he didn’t notice him.

“Hello, Charles, Seb.” He hopes his distaste doesn’t sound too apparent when he addresses Seb. From the cocky raised eyebrow Seb gives him, he failed miserably. “What’s this about?” Because if it’s not to discuss the whole murder plot, Mark has no idea why he’s here.

“I’m chaperoning the two of you. To begin your courtship.” If Mark had a drink, he would’ve sprayed it all over Seb.

Charles speaks before he can, “If that’s okay, Mark.” It’s so soft, as if Charles genuinely believes that Mark – that anyone – is capable of rejecting him. Mark is not a strong man against the puppy-eyed expression on Charles’ face.

“Of course.”

They stroll aimlessly for a while, Seb following a few steps behind, reading some journal or something. Out of earshot, thankfully, because Mark really doesn’t think he’d be able to look him in the eyes ever again if Seb was privy to the beginning of Mark courting someone. Every so often there’s a sharp curse and he looks back to see that Seb’s walked into a tree or tripped over again. It’s a little bit funny. “I’m sorry if my… bluntness about the assassination was rude, Charles.” Mark says earnestly.

“It was not, do not worry.” Charles turns to look at him, “I appreciate your concern, but this is the reality of this country under Mattia’s rule. I do not know how to solve this yet, but this courtship will be of much help, I hope.”

“I will help as much as I can.” That was definitely more than he meant to say. So much for remaining uninvolved.

Neither of them speak after that. Mark doesn’t think he’s overstepped necessarily, but he doesn’t understand this country. He doesn’t understand Charles, or how much he cares about him, or why he’s even still here. Most people would have run as soon as they discovered a plot to kill a leader: most people don’t want to get caught up in that. Then again, Mark has never been most people.

They walk around the lake, the blue water rippling and lapping lazily against the shore. “Look!” Charles exclaims suddenly, crouching down at the edge of the water. Mark, alarmed, drops down beside him.

He follows Charles’ finger to where it’s pointing. A tiny baby frog is poking its little head out of the water, barely visible because of how small it is. “Oh.” He says uselessly. What does that even mean? What is he supposed to say when he sees a baby frog? It’s very cute, admittedly.

“It’s so cute!” Charles is the cute one here, Mark thinks.

And then all of a sudden, Seb’s stumbling behind them, and Charles falls into the water. Mark jumps, “Seb? What the fuck?” What the fuck just happened? How the hell did—Seb is grinning. Oh this was on purpose then. If this is part of the assassination attempt, Mark will kill Sebastian. It’s a long time coming anyway.

“You can rescue him now.” Seb says smugly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Little fucker.

Still, Mark reaches out to Charles, pulling him upright. He’s shivering. “Charles? Are you okay?” Concerned, Mark asks.

“Cold.” His teeth chatter. No matter the weather, the water really isn’t warm. He pulls Charles out of the water – he’s soaked to the bone.

There’s no hesitation when Mark undoes his cloak, wrapping it around Charles tightly. He doesn’t want to make this easier for Mattia at all, and Charles getting sick will only benefit him. “Here, sweetheart,” He glares at Seb again; this is his fault. “C’mon we need to get you warm.”

He all but drags Charles back to the Palace, not caring if anyone sees them. His first priority is Charles. “Not a great first date then.” Charles laughs weakly, still shivering slightly.

“Not sure hypothermia is on the list of expected courting gifts.” Mark jokes back, smiling. He cannot understand why Charles is still available, he’s so perfect. Or maybe he’s just like this for Mark. He can’t help the small possessive part of him that warms at that.

“Thank you Mark.” They’re outside Charles’ chambers now, somewhere Mark really isn’t allowed to go. Not without bringing scandal to both of their doorsteps and Charles really doesn’t need more on his plate.

“Of course.” He meant it when he said he’d do anything for Charles. Okay, he didn’t say it quite like that, but that’s how Mark meant it.

Charles presses a soft kiss to his cheek and disappears inside the room.

For the next week, Mark doesn’t see Charles. He cancelled all of his official appearances after the lake incident and Mark can’t help but worry slightly. What if Charles has got hypothermia? What if Mattia has got to him? Fucking hell, he’s in so deep now.

“Mark!” Seb’s annoyingly chirpy voice calls out to him in the corridor. The last person Mark wants to see is Seb, considering the shit he did. “Mark! Wait!”

“What Seb?” He snaps and okay, maybe that was a little harsh considering the way Seb’s face falls, but god, he’s really not forgiven him yet. For the lake incident or for before (although he doubts he ever will for that).

“Charles wants to talk to you.” Oh. “Will you come now?” He nods before he can stop himself – the prospect of seeing Charles is too much to ignore. He’s obsessed now, wow.

He’s led to a meeting room of sorts, fancy tapestries adorning the wall. And a portrait in the centre of the room. “It’s the last one.” Charles says, “Mattia had all pictures of Jean destroyed when he took power.” If Mark needed another reason to hate Mattia Binotto, he’s just been given it. It’s not enough for him to want to kill Charles (and Seb), to kill the previous king, he has to attempt to erase all evidence of him even existing. Fucking bastard.

“So,” Seb claps his hands from where he’s seated himself on one side of the table, “How do we feel about killing the King?”

Mark wishes he was sitting down before Seb said that. “What?”

“An eye for an eye or something.” Jenson says. “He wants to kill Charles.” Yeah that is a problem but Mark thought— “He doesn’t think you’re good enough for Charles. Or, he knows you don’t have enough power to get Charles out of Monaco. Which means you’d both stay. Which means you’d both take power. It’s a lot harder to kill two leaders than one anyway.”

God, he’s in over his head isn’t he? Mark sighs, “The solution is to kill Mattia? Will that even work?”

“He doesn’t expect it from me,” Charles smirks nastily, “He underestimates me and overestimates his power. I’m the Regent, no one cares about Mattia and no one will miss him.”

“And you have a plan?”

“Of course.” Seb rolls his eyes.

Mark doesn’t like it at all. The plan is risky and potentially fatal for all of them but especially Charles. Unfortunately, it is undeniably the best solution. They will get Mattia this way. Mark’s issue is the potential collateral damage. And the risk of getting caught, but he’ll take the fall for Charles if it comes down to it.

They enact the plan on Sunday, the start of the final week of Charles’ search. Not that Charles is searching very much anymore: he doesn’t want anyone (or so he says) and he’s got Mark as a backup. He’s got Mark now anyway: he won’t be going anywhere, he thinks, when this is all over. He was a guard for Seb once, even when he didn’t particularly care for him anymore: he has no doubts he’d be so much better for Charles, considering he actually likes him. It’s nothing more than that no matter what Seb thinks.

“Your Highness!” The first shout rings out halfway through the first course. Okay, here we go. Charles is slumped forwards in his seat, head lolling. Look, Mark knows that he agreed to this plan, that poisoning Charles as well as Mattia would make it look much less like a targeted attempt, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. In fact, he wants to get Charles out of here now, wrap him up and keep him safe away from all this chaos. Mark has long since accepted his love for Charles, and the knowledge that it’ll never be reciprocated. Charles only involved him in this because it’s convenient. No other reason at all.

There’s so much fussing around Charles that no one notices when the same happens to Mattia. It’s glaringly obvious to Mark that no one will miss Mattia – he is not and has never been the king, no matter how he tries to delude himself. Which is fortunate really, because the man is dead where he sits.

Both men – one man and one body – are swiftly whisked off to the medical wing to the shocked gasps of the guests. No doubt they will be gone within the day. No one wants to stay at a murder scene. The council will dismiss them soon, or Seb will. From the looks of where Seb is standing at the head of the table, it’ll be him. He still has some sway here after his wardship – he was loved, he is loved in a way Mark will always crave – and the people look to him now for guidance. “It is best if you all leave tonight, it is not safe here if someone tried to kill our King. We can only pray for Charles’ health and recovery from this evil action.” Seb is very convincing.

Three weeks. Mark spends three weeks sitting at Charles’ bedside, waiting for some sign of improvement, something that shows he’ll wake up from this hell they’ve put him through. He’s been shivering for weeks, like the lake but worse, so much worse this time. Mark can’t fix it, no matter how much he wants to.

They shouldn’t have done it like this. They shouldn’t have risked Charles. Anyone but Charles – Mark should’ve been the one to take the fall. But he can’t fix it now, all he can do is wait and hope and pray.

He holds his hand. It’s all he can do, so Mark holds his hand. It’s so cold, like it was at the lake, but this time Mark can’t do anything about it. He has never felt so powerless, so fucking useless. Not even when Seb promoted him to his guard and then his lover and then a Lord, only to throw him away when he was no longer of use.

If Mark can’t save the one person he loves, what use is he at all?

Charles jolts awake. It’s dark all around him, the last dying end of a candle burnt to a stub flickering and threatening to go out. Where the fuck is he? What happened?

“Charles?” He can’t help it: he jumps. After spending however long it was trapped in the silence of his own head, freezing cold and powerless to fix it, the sound of someone’s voice is startling. “Sweetheart, you’re awake?”

Oh, it’s Mark. It’s Mark! Why is Mark here? Not that he minds, Charles has long since known he loves him – three weeks in your own head gives you some realisations. He tries to speak, tries to answer Mark’s question but all that comes out is a pained whine. Useless.

“Shh, sweetheart, take your time. It’s been three weeks, you’re still recovering.” Mark soothes. Three weeks? He’s been out of it for three weeks? “Mattia is dead, if that’s what you’re wondering about. We succeeded.”

Thank fucking god, Charles is free. But he still can’t fucking speak. “I—” The sentence dies in his throat before it even starts.

“We gave you too much poison, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Since when did Mark start calling him sweetheart? Charles doesn’t deserve this level of affection after all he’s put Mark through, dragging him into this plan. “It’s our fault, my fault, that you’re here.” There’s nothing Charles can do to reassure him except squeeze his hand tightly. He doesn’t know when that happened either, but he relishes in it. If this is all he gets of Mark, he’ll take it.

It’s a long and slow recovery. Honestly, Charles can barely call it a recovery. His muscles were shot after three weeks in bed. The one benefit of relearning how to move properly was Mark holding his hands. Now, he feels a little like a baby deer when he walks, Mark alongside him to keep him safe.

And then there’s the speech issue.

Charles can’t fucking talk. It’s his coronation and he can’t even talk. This wasn’t supposed to happen, there weren’t supposed to be any side effects for him. He stutters out a couple of words occasionally, mainly to curse Mark out whenever he beats him at chess, but making a speech as the newly crowned King? It’s not happening. “They’re not going to hold it against you, Charles,” Mark reassures him, or tries to. Charles doesn’t believe him, “They already love you.”

Maybe not now, but they will, in the future, talk about the King who was so weak he couldn’t even address his country. He feels useless. Mark kisses him on the forehead. He’s got more affectionate since the poison issue and Charles loves it. If he could fucking speak, he’d ask Mark to marry him, he thinks. It might be moving a little fast, considering they’ve only technically been on one date, but there’s a certain bond you form with someone who you committed murder with. Besides, if he’s the King, he can do whatever he wants.

There’s so many people watching them as Mark leads Charles up the aisle to where the priest is standing. As Charles’ personal guard – and more now, but the public don’t know that – he has every right to be here, a support against the tide of criticism Charles expects to face. Except he won’t, Mark knows that much, because these people love him more than they loved anyone else before and Charles is theirs. He’s not Mark’s in any way that matters, no matter how much he’d like him to be.

Charles trembles slightly under the weight of the bejewelled crown on his head, still not quite recovered from the poison. It had been a fight (mainly consisting of Charles alternating between glaring at him and using that same puppy-eyed expression that melted him the first time) but ultimately Mark had conceded to allow Charles to be crowned: the country had been without a decent King for far too long. Mark keeps one hand gripping gently on his waist to support him. Just in case.

It’s quicker than he expected, the priest seeming to rush the ceremony if only so Charles can return to resting. He wears the crown, standing in front of his subjects. They are here for Charles – everyone is here for Charles – and Mark is just a little bit possessive. Charles is not his, Charles will never be his but he wants.

It’s unexpected when it happens. Charles wasn’t even planning on it, not now and not ever, but the moment was too perfect. They’re sat on his balcony, overlooking the garden and the lake, the late summer sunset spilling light over everything. It’s peaceful.

Mark is bathed in golden light, looking like the most precious jewel Charles has ever seen. He wants to kiss him. “Will you marry me?” He’s not even looking at Mark when he asks, just gazing out across Monaco, across towards the open sea.

He snaps his eyes over to look at Charles, wide-eyed and shocked, “What?” Charles doesn’t say anything, still resolutely looking away from Mark. He doesn’t want to see his rejection. “Charles, please look at me.” Never mind, so much for that plan. He can’t deny Mark anything, “Will you ask me again?”

“Will you marry me, Mark?” He slips a small box out of his pocket, placing it onto Mark’s leg.

He’s speechless. Charles is going to get rejected, he can tell, he can feel it— “Yes.” Gasps Mark, pulling Charles onto his lap, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” He punctuates each word with a kiss to some part of Charles’ face, peppering kisses everywhere.

How the hell did Charles think he could live without this? “I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling.” Mark’s. Charles is Mark’s.

They’ll get married properly one day, in front of the people, but for now their friends line the avenue of the garden leading towards the archway Mark saw Charles under on their very first date (their only date honestly), and it’s good. “Charles.” He starts, “I still don’t know what I’m doing here, how I ended up here but I know I was supposed to. I was always supposed to be by your side and be yours. I want to be yours. I have never loved someone like I love you and I never will.” It’s almost like he’s swearing fealty, something he did on Charles’ coronation, promising his loyalty to his husband forever.

“Mine,” Charles whispers softly, “I did not expect to find anyone. Ever, and truthfully I did not want to. I had no choice in the matter, it seems because you are here and I am here and I have never been happier than when I am with you.” He pauses, Mark can see the little tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes, “I want to be yours, forever and for as long as we have.”

#sacha fic #marchal #hypersoftfest.creations #sacha speaks #f1 rpf

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