The moon had gone through an entire cycle since Prince Tino had first fled the castle. He sat on the steps of Berwald's porch, gazing up at the equally sullen white orb. A month had passed. An interesting, eye-opening month. A month that had been thoroughly enjoyed. Yet, no matter how much he enjoyed living in the small hut with his quiet companion, he knew that he must be sought after by his court more frantically with each passing day. Tino knew very well that the King of Denmark kept strict tabs on all of the members of the Scandinavian royalty. It would not be such a threatening thought if the king did not enjoy the hunt himself. Worse, even, he was oft accompanied by his beloved battle axe. The king himself was not a terribly frightening man; tall and wolfish, perhaps, but jovial and good-natured. His gleaming blade, however, was not.

How much longer could this last? If the king did not find him first, what truly frightened him was the thought of Duke Ivan, who might take him back to his Scandinavian home or might instead choose to drag him to his great Russian empire. He had visited once to that cold, cold place, and he certainly never wished to return. Tino felt a shudder wrack his body at the mere memory.

"Y' cold?"

Tino turned as a heavy warmth enveloped his shoulders. Berwald's arms wrapped the blanket snugly around Tino and coiled over his shoulders. The prince's heart quivered and began to beat a bit quicker. From fright, of course, since Berwald was still quite scary and big. A high-pitched squeak slipped past his lips as Berwald tucked Tino's head under his chin and situated his long legs around the prince's smaller body. Tino felt his hips encased by Berwald's thighs and blushed-- he certainly wasn't used to being touched like this. The king was affectionate in a more man-to-man way, and often clapped fellow gentlemen on the shoulder (with the exception of the cold Prince of Norway, who he seemed to favor at times with treats and brief touches). Duke Ivan was... well, he smiled a lot, and he didn't seem to find anything wrong with tossing a person over his shoulder. Eduard, Tino's closest friend and a scholarly viscount of Estonia, would ruffle his hair and drape a casual arm over his shoulder at times, but never like Berwald.

Tino wondered if it was common among peasants to be so touchy-feely. If that were so, this should be normal. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if monarchy wouldn't be so snootish and foul-tempered if monarchs were as affectionate as Berwald.

"Su-san?" Tino said, attempting to ignore the funny feeling in his chest when Berwald's acknowledging grunt rumbled through his body. "I think I'm all better now. I've imposed for a month in your house. I want to apologize."

Tino shifted and felt the solid arms around his shoulders tighten. "Y' aren't imposin'."

"Ah." Tino felt his cheeks begin to heat. "I also want to thank you."

"Couldn't leave ya. Anyone woulda done th' same."

"That may be true," Tino said, quite unsure, but would take his word for it, "but you offered your home, your food, and your clothes to me, even though it seems like you barely have enough for yourself."

Berwald made a noise as if to say, Tha's silly. I don't eat much.

Tino chuckled in return. You're the silly one. No one your size "doesn't eat much."

They sat for a long moment in a comfortable silence before, surprisingly, Berwald broke it. "So... y' plannin' t' leave?"

The prince fisted the blanket with his hands. The tone in Berwald's voice did another unfamiliar thing with his heart. He didn't like this feeling, though. It was a short lurch, lonely. Tino touched Berwald's arm. "Oh, Su-san." How should he explain it? There was no way it would be a good idea to tell him that he was a member of Scandinavian monarchy. He didn't want Berwald to act differently around him. He treated Tino like a fine porcelain trinket as it were-- what would become of his feelings if he knew that Tino was the icon of an entire nation? Or... what if he got mad that Tino had lied to him for an entire month? The smaller blond definitely didn't like that idea. He had just gotten used to a scary-looking serene Berwald.

"My family," he began slowly, carefully, "will come looking for me. They can be a bit scary, and if they find me... depending on who finds me... well, some of them jump to conclusions, Su-san, and they don't really fear any consequences for what they do. I don't want you to get hurt." Returning home really would be the best option. Ivan surely would have gone home by now, and Tino could fabricate a tale of a sudden whim to take a trip to somewhere far away. The king understood whims. He could tell the court it was business. How he would find his way back was his immediate dilemma.

"Don't worry 'bout me," Berwald said. Tino's throat closed at the tender sound. "Go if y' need to, but y' could ne'er impose on me. Always welcome."

Tino wanted nothing more at that moment than to wrap his arms around his caretaker and promise to live with him until the day that he died. The practicality that had been schooled into him from an early age forced him to keep his eyes on the sky and his lips sewed shut.

One of the many oddly endearing things about Berwald was his strange attachment to doing the laundry. He went about the chore once a week (the bedding every other week), taking the clothes and bed-things down to the creek long before Tino would wake to wash. When the prince finally opened his eyes to a new day and dressed, he found the young man out in the lawn with bundles of wet cloth in his hands replacing the axe. Watching such a solemn-faced, well-built man with clothespins between his teeth draping off-white pillowcases over a clothesline was terribly amusing (and, if he was being honest with himself, pretty cute).

Tino found himself waking earlier than usual one particular morning, for once being jarred into waking by the quiet click of the door. He forced himself to stay awake, avoiding the much more tempting option of falling right back to sleep. With sleepy hands to dress himself, it took a few moments longer than anticipated to dress, and by the time he was out the door the sky had turned the lovely murky cerulean color of pre-dawn. He made his way toward the path that led to the creek when a small noise stopped him. Tino cocked his head toward the direction the squeaky, yipping sound. It came to him again, twice from around the back of the cottage-esque house, and Tino went to investigate.

"Oh gosh!"

A tiny ball of dirty brown lapped at the small puddle of water below Berwald's drain pipe. It lifted its head as the prince neared and watched him. Its tiny pink tongue licked at its itsy-bitsy wet black nose. Tino crouched down near the creature, smiling widely. "Here, poochy." He patted the ground before him. Tilting its head to the side, the dog considered the proposition for a moment before padding its way in Tino's direction. Once near, the man scooped it-- ah, her-- up into his arms. She seemed fairly compliant, not struggling in the least.

"Wow, you're filthy!" he laughed, scratching the dirty dog behind the ears. "We'd better go clean you up."

The dog offered a tiny bark in reply, and Tino knew from the sweet sound of her voice that it was love.