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Princess Guinevere wishes of freedom.
Trapped in a tall, tall tower, in a castle in the clouds, she dreams of getting away, her hope flickering yet never dying.
Surrounded with riches, granted with sweets from all over the world, dressed in the most expensive fabrics, she yearns for the only thing she can’t have: running fast and running free, through the open planes down, down below.
She spends her nights on the balcony, staring into the dark sky above, led with the stories her nanny used to tell her; stories of princesses leaving their prisons, stories of people wishing hard enough that the universe itself inclined its head, making their wishes come true. She sits on the velvet cushions, wrapped in cashmere blankets, blinking up into the sky and daring it to blink back.
And, one day, it does.
She has a habit of looking for falling stars in the pitch darkness, the very things that are said to grant wishes. She always did, ever since she was a child, since her nanny combed her hair and told her stories—since the first time she dreamed of freedom. She kept that habit through her adolescence; it accompanied her when the world started to feel like too much. It kept her sane when she missed human faces and human touch, the small flickers of light in the darkness, so delicate yet so monumental.
But one can wait for salvation when trapped in a tower only for so long, and so Princess Guinevere grows impatient and grows annoyed. And if that leads to her screaming at the stars, well, it’s a good thing that there’s no one who can hear her.
The universe enjoys irony, though.
The next falling star doesn’t seem like a star at first; it’s a white dot on the firmament, growing with each passing second—quickly enough that Princess Guinevere backs away from the balcony and into the safety of her tower before she can think better of it. She looks at it from behind the door, wondering if it’s some divine hand striking her down for her blasphemy—but no, it’s just a boy, landing on her balcony with grace, smiling and—
Wait a moment.
A boy?
Princess Guinevere scrambles further back, eyeing the boy, her eyes locked on the weird creature that stares back at her—how long has it been since she saw another human?—and she screams.
The boy screams too; he’s young, young enough that his voice sounds more like the one of a girl than of a man. For a moment, that’s all they do; mirror images of each other, a young boy with blonde hair and an older girl with blue, two trapped souls—not that Princess Guinevere knows that they are trapped.
The boy recovers first.
“Whoa, whoa, stop!” He lifts his hands, waving them frantically. “You’re cool, you’re fine, you’re—”
“Who are you?” demands Princess Guinevere in turn. Her heart is beating frantically in her throat, as if alive and trying to escape. “Tell me, or I’m calling the guards.”
Not that there’s anybody here who could listen to her.
“Look, I’m—I’m not a danger for you, or—or anything,” the boy says, breathless. “I’m—what you’d call a star, I suppose.”
“A star,” Princess Guinevere repeats flatly. “You’re some weird kind of flying human, not a star.”
“But I am,” the Star repeats. “And a Wishing Star, at that.”
Princess Guinevere perks up at these words, hopeful now. “Oh,” she says, “does that mean that you’ll grant me a wish?”
The Star laughs, the sound of it hanging in the air like small silver bells. “Well, no,” he replies. “That’s a common misconception.”
“What do you mean, a misconception?”
Star looks at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. “You’re the one who has to grant me a wish.”
Princess Guinevere is not too amused with this idea—however, after a good fifteen minutes of being in denial and of trying to bargain with the Star (to which the boy only shrugs), she gives up and accepts the fact that the Wishing Stars got their names from the fact that it’s them who get to have wishes, and not the other way around.
“Fine,” she sighs at last, lifting her eyes to the ceiling so that she doesn’t scream from frustration. “What do you want?”
“I want to become human.”
Princess Guinevere wants to tell him that it’s a rather boring wish. She settles on nodding her head as if it’s a reasonable one.
“How do I do that, then?”
The answer is you.
***
You are in the middle of baking when someone knocks at the door. You rub your hands together, trying to get the batter off them, but to no avail; the chocolate mass sticks stubbornly to your fingers.
Another knock, more impatient, just as you turn your head towards the door. You curse under your breath and grab a paper towel to wipe off as much as you can.
“Coming!” you yell as you stumble over your own legs with another curse. You try to remember if there was anyone supposed to come today; not that you can remember, no.
You yank the door open and freeze.
Princess Guinevere stares right back at you.
Everybody knows of Princess Guinevere. The most beautiful person in the kingdom, hidden high up in the clouds, far away from normal world. She is said to be waiting there for a prince worthy of her hand in marriage, spoiled and isolated.
Except the fact that she’s not, because she is standing in your door, with her blue hair unnaturally bright, and with a sheepish smile directed at you.
“Hi,” she says, waving a hand. You stare at her wordlessly, too shocked to do anything but that. Finally, you close the door and reopen it, only for her to still be here, way too patient with your antics. “Hi again,” she says, undeterred. “May I come in?”
You silently move to the side.
She is graceful in her movements, you notice as she walks—glides, almost—in. Graceful and beautiful and so, so otherworldly, just like a princess should be. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks and turn your head away from her to hide it, embarrassed already.
“Can I help you, Princess?” you ask, determined to remind herself that she’s a princess and not a crush material, especially not now when you’re still covered in chocolate cookies batter and when she looks like she’s never seen bad days. “I don’t have much, but—”
She laughs softly. The sound seems to lighten up the room, delicate and open, as if she never felt worry in her life. “No, no, don’t worry,” she replies, still smiling. “Just—can we maybe sit?”
You nod, leading her to your living room and showing her to the couch. She looks so incredibly out of place there, in your home, on your worn couch; an inkblot on white sheet of paper. Chocolate sticks to your fingers as you gesture, viscous and sweet.
“Lemme just—” you mumble, shaking your hands up at her. “Do you want anything to drink, Princess?”
She shakes her head with a pleasant smile still on her face. You nod and escape to the kitchen, where you busy yourself with washing your hands, trying to ignore the way your face is burning.
You fail miserably, of course.
When you get back, Princess Guinevere is sitting in the same place you left her. The cup you hold burns your fingers.
“So, uh,” you start, “do you want to tell me what is this all about?”
“I don’t know,” Princess Guinevere replies cheerfully.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t know.”
Gods help me, you think.
“Look, there was this falling star, and I had my wish for it, but it came to me to fulfill his wish instead, and so I did most of what I had to do for that, and—because he told me to gather a few things, you know? And I got them, but I still miss the kiss of a true love, so—so I asked him how can I get it and he kind of sent me down here from my tower and I found myself here and—well. I assume you know how to get it?”
Gods help you, indeed.
***
Princess Guinevere turns out to be, ironically, very down to earth. Granted, explaining to her that normal humans do not have any experience with magic and wishes and certainly not with kisses of true love took some time, but finally Princess Guinevere is sitting on the couch with a steaming cup of chamomile tea in her hands, deep into a conversation with you.
“I don’t know how to send you back, Princess,” you mumble at last. “Like I said, not much magic in my blood.”
She laughs again as if what you said is a joke. “But you know how to find the kiss, right?”
“Not really?”
"She deflates at your words and the sight of it is sad enough for you to sigh and and do what doesn’t seem like the smartest idea. “You can stay over, though,” you offer quietly. “I have some spare sheets and clothes and you can take the bed and I’ll take the couch and—”
“You’d do that for me?”
You nod and the way her face seems to light up from within is worth all of the days you’re gonna spend sleeping on the uncomfortable couch.
Except that you won’t, because when it comes to discussing everything through, Princess Guinevere outright refuses letting you give her your bed.
“It’s your home,” she protests. You try to argue with her, but she’s steadfast. “You take the bed.”
“But you’re a princess!”
“And I am princessely telling you that I am taking the couch.”
She looks very, very pretty saying things like this, you realise, and so you agree. Even as a small part of you wants to argue with her more to see her being all regal with you.
Nonetheless, Guinevere regrets her decision the next morning. She winces as she moves, all stiff and sore—you know that feeling first-hand, and you do not wish it on anybody. The couch is fine for sitting but not quite for sleeping, too hard for that, with springs biting into one’s body through the material.
Still, undeterred, she insists on helping you with breakfast.
“What’s your name?” she asks as you take out cheese and meat from the fridge. You answer her and she repeats the name a few times under her breath. “That’s a nice one,” she decides. “I like it.”
"You try to hide the fact that your heart flutters at these words. “Thank you, Princess.”
“Guinevere,” she corrects. You frown, setting the plates on the table. “We’re on first-name basis now, aren’t we?”
She’s going to do terrible things to your sanity, your brain whispers, unhelpfully.
***
“What’s living in the palace like?”
Guinevere looks up at you from the plate in front of her. She’s even more radiant now, after a few days of being fed normal food and not some absurd dishes pretending to be nutritious.
“You know,” she starts with a shrug, taking a bite of potatoes, still steaming and with a butter sheen on it, “kind of lonely.”
You frown. “In a palace?”
“Mhm.”
“But—it’s so big!”
“And lonely,” Guinevere replies. “It’s nice, sure, but not really—exciting. Or busy, if we’re speaking about it. The staff bows to you, the kingdom adores you, but you can’t do anything with it. I spent most of the days—” she cuts off, looking away. “Nevermind.”
“You spent most of your days…?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Oh, come on, Gwen,” you whine. The nickname slips out on its own and you freeze for the slightest of moments, unsure if she’d be okay with it. Guinevere’s eyes find yours, big and startled and maybe a little bit too excited. “I mean,” you start, trying to explain yourself, but Guinevere shakes her head.
“It’s fine.” She busies herself with cutting the fish, completely focused on taht. “I lived in a citadel, you know? Kingdom tradition or something. There weren’t too many people around, but I always had what I wanted, and everybody was very kind whenever they come and—like I said, it’s nice, if a little lonely.”
You stop eating, the fork hanging uselessly in the hair. You can’t connect these two pictures in your mind: the spoiled, beautiful princess, and a child locked in a tower, so that a kingdom’s tradition is fulfilled.
“I wanted to get out,” Gwen says suddenly, smiling at you. Her eyes seem more glassy than moments before. “I used to wish for it whenever I saw a falling star, but then a star actually fell onto my balcony, and he wanted his wish to be granted, and so thus I landed here. Didn’t turn out too badly, hm?”
You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.
***
“Okay, so,” Guinevere says a week later. “The couch isn’t too comfortable.”
The two of you sit on your terrace, the evening’s air still around you. Guinevere’s profile is illuminated with moonlight, making her even prettier, so that you can’t look at her for too long without blushing like you’re back to being fourteen and holding hands with a girl for the first time.
“Really?” you ask with a laugh, feigning surprise. “I wouldn’t know, since you didn’t allow me to sleep there.”
“Mhm.” She ignores your sarcasm entirely. “So, I’ve been thinking…”
You steal another glance at her. She’s looking directly at you, her wide eyes focused on you and you alone. “Dangerous pastime.”
“YousaidyourbedisbigandIwasthinking—!”
Another laugh escapes from your lips before you realise what she said. “Come again?”
Guinevere looks authentically miserable. “Your bed is big,” she repeats, closing her eyes for a moment. “You said that yourself. And since the couch is, well, horrible, I’ve been thinking that maybe—?”
Oh, Guinevere, flashes through your mind, the things you do to me.
“You want to sleep with me.,” you summarise, realising a heartbeat too late just how it sounds. “In bed, I mean, not—not sleep-sleep. Right?”
“I would appreciate it,” Guinevere replies. Is she sheepish or is that only your imagination?
“Well, then, who am I to say no to my princess?”
Only a week after do you remember that she hadn’t denied your question.
***
Sleeping with Guinevere—pun not intended, thank you very much—is both a miracle and torture. Miracle, because she’s in your bed, close to you and so utterly unbothered with the fact that you feel like you’re going crazy. Her long hair, loose now and curling all around her head like some halo, tickles your face.
Torture, because she’s so close, so incredibly close, and yet you can’t do anything about the fact. Can’t reach out, can’t hug, can’t—anything, really. You’ve known her for two weeks. You can’t fall for your Princess like this.
Guinevere doesn’t seem to have such reservations, though, since she moves closer to you. “Cold,” she mumbles under her breath and you don’t care if she’s truly cold or if that’s simply a convenient excuse, because the next moment she’s touching you, her hand warm on your back, and all thoughts evaporate from your mind.
She falls asleep like this, warm and pliant against your side. You stay awake for much longer trying to carve the moment into your memory. Guinevere is breathing steadily, calm and otherworldly, and you try to stay as still as possible, so that you won’t wake her up. Dreams, at last, come to you in fragments, full of Guinevere’s smile and her touch and her laugh.
The next day, blessedly, is free from work for you.
It’s not that you don’t like your job, no—but even working as an engineer gets boring sometimes, and that’s how the entire week has been. The same project, tweaked over and over again, software blending with hands-on work (you don’t trust anybody else to do the job correctly, not when it’s your responsibility alone to deliver the working product), all while the only thing on your mind is the fact that Princess Guinevere is in your home.
She busies herself with reading books, she told you on the first day. She enjoys that; she likes knowledge—another thing you have in common—and so it’s not a problem for her to sit curled up in the armchair and consume book after book, story after story.
Today, though, is Saturday, and that means that you have a whole day for yourself. Guinevere still isn’t too inclined to go out—to recognisable, she says, too risky, she doesn’t want to cause a scandal walking the same streets that her citizens do—but on weekends you get to sleep in.
And sleep in you do, only to wake up with Guinevere lying half on you, with her hand on your waist and her head nuzzled into your neck.
You are not proud of the way your face immediately flushes, or of how your heart is back to fluttering in your throat like an excited bird. You want to pull her in closer, to return the touch, but you find yourself unable too, frozen with something warm low in your gut.
“I’m cold,” whines Guinevere and sure, you can take that as your excuse, you decide, pulling her closer. Her smell encloses you, lightning mixed with fresh flowers, and you close your eyes, breathing her in.
She’s soft, and she’s warm, and she’s so, so beautiful.
“I’m gonna go make us breakfast,” you say after a few long moments, desperate to move away from her because you can’t fall for her, not like that. You push herself up—or try to, at least, because her hold on your waist tightens and she pulls you down, directly onto yourself.
“Five more minutes,” she demands, spoiled, and you can’t help but listen. It’s hard to think straight with her hands on your body, you think as you lie your head on her chest, listening to her content sigh. You can feel her fingers drawing shapes on your back; small stars and lines that change into circles, and then more lines, unhurried and gentle.
You doze off.
When you wake up, you’re alone, though the sheets next to you are still warm. You can smell something sweet from the next room and sure enough, Guinevere walks in a few moments later with a tray in her hands.
“I made a breakfast for us,” she announces happily, plopping down onto the bed. “Pancakes with strawberry jam and chocolate.”
“I thought royals don’t cook,” you mutter as you sit up. She winks at you, pressing a warm plate into your hands.
“This body holds many secrets within, you know.”
The pancakes are amazing, the jam’s sweetness broken with dark chocolate, but the best part of them is Guinevere sitting right next to you and staring at you like you hung the moon. “What?” you mumble with a full mouth to which she breaks into a laugh.
“Nothing,” she replies immediately, her big eyes sparkling with mirth. “Nothing, you’re just adorable like this.”
You blush again, badly. “Like what?” you ask. It comes out rough.
“Like—lazy, and in the bed, and with jam on your face.” She reaches out to wipe it off. Her touch burns and you jerk away from it. Guinevere lifts a brow. “You were dirty there.”
“Uh-huh.”
You really, really want to scream.
***
You thought the breakfast in bed was bad enough, and that possibly nothing today could beat it.
You were wrong.
You’re teaching Guinevere how to bake chocolate cookies, the same you were baking when she first knocked on your door. It’s not a hard thing in itself—you take eggs and flour, milk and sugar and cocoa, mix it, and voila, you have a tray of fresh pastries—but it turns out to be almost impossible to do when Guinevere decided to be the worst possible student you could have.
The worst meaning the best, but you were not going to admit that.
“What does it do?” she asks, pointing at the pack of sugar. It’s been going on like that for the past fifteen minutes—Guinevere asking the most random questions just to hear you speak—and you find herself helplessly laughing.
“Never seen sugar in your life?” you ask because the thought in itself is absurd. Princesses surely have access to the finest sweets in the world, and thus there’s no universe in which Guinevere wouldn’t know the taste of sugar, or of sweetness in general.
“I did,” she scoffs, mock-offended. “I just want you to explain it to me.”
This girl.
“It makes the cookies sweeter,” you say, deadpan, as you reach for it. She scoffs and yanks it from your hands.
“I know,” she whines, “Anything more?”
“You do not want a chemistry lecture in the middle of baking.”
“I so do.”
Well, if Her Royal Highness insists.
“It keeps them soft and moist, that for once,” you start, unsure if she is serious with the request. She hands you back the pack of sugar, listening to you with attentiveness. “It basically bonds with water and keeps it inside, and so that they stay soft. It’s, uh, also responsible for the colour, like the browning that happens during baking, both in the caramelisation and the Maillard reaction where it reacts with proteins and—you’re not lost?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious. Guinevere shakes her head with enthusiasm, blue hair flying around. “Okay, so, it also helps to make the cookies fluffy and everything, but not because of any reaction this time but because when you mix the batter, the crystals puff up the mixture and form bubbles, and then during baking they expand, because air expands when it’s hot, and—and you get a nice cake. Or cookies.”
There’s silence for a few long moments and you busy yourself with the batter. Your cheeks are burning. You always speak too much when stressed, and now you’re definitely stressed, with a princess looking at you with a question in these beautiful, beautiful eyes. Stressed, and flustered, and definitely rambling way too much for her to be excited about it.
When you turn back to her, Gwen is beaming. You feel her gaze on you, burning as if made of fire, and you half-want to tell her to stop, but the other—more greedy—part of you basks in her attention.
“I love it when you speak like this,” she says, too quiet and serious for it to be a joke. You are probably completely red at this point, but still you nod, embarrassed for no apparent reason.
“Glad to be of service, Princess,” you mumble in reply, trying to diffuse the mood. Your voice sounds rough.
She wrinkles her nose. “You don’t have to say that.”
“Say what, Princess?”
You hear an exasperated gasp from her, and the next thing you know are her hands, sticky with the batter, catching your face and lifting it. Chocolate smears on your cheeks, fragrant and sweet, but all you can think of is Gwen, touching you and looking so pretty when stern. “Please, don’t call me Princess,” she asks. You feel like you’re drowning in the depth of her eyes. “Not you.”
It takes every ounce of your self-control not to close the distance between the two of you.
“As you wish,” you hoarsely reply.
“Thank you.”
You don’t sleep well that night, with the scent of chocolate still filling your lungs and with Gwen’s body curled into you.
***
You come home from work cold, hungry, and irritated.
It’s been a long day, with your project repeatedly misfiring, and with the code not working, and with the calculations being all wrong. Frankly, the whole day was a nightmare, one that you didn’t want to repeat anytime soon, grateful for the upcoming weekend.
You cross the doorway, only to find Guinevere next to the stove, making dinner for the both of you, and all of your annoyance melts away.
“Do you want to go out?” you find yourself asking after you both ate. “I could use a walk.”
“There are gonna be people,,” she mutters from the sink where she is cleaning the dishes (having insisted to do them herself, sweet as she is). “My hair and face are not exactly inconspicuous.”
Not her face, no, you think, resting your chin on your hand as you stare at her shamelessly. “It’s getting dark, plus we’re going to a forest,” you point out. “Nobody’s gonna recognise you.”
Gwen sighs and puts down the plate, turning to you. “Fine.”
Fast forward a dozen or so minutes and you’re walking the path with Guinevere on your side. The setting sun bathes the whole forest in fire, beautiful and fragile all at once. Gwen is laughing openly, staring at the nature surrounding you both with amazement.
“I had no clue you lived like this!” she laughs. Her dress flutters around her legs as she twirls. “It’s beautiful!”
“It is,” you reply, looking at her with no shame. She catches your gaze and smiles.
“Thank you for showing me this.”
You nod, ignoring the way your face heats up. “Wanna see my favourite place here?”
You lead her to the river hidden deep within the forest. There’s a small bridge over it, half-hidden in the shadows now, reflecting onto the water’s surface. Weeping willows lean over the millpond, caressing it with its branches. Gwen stops behind you, breathless.
“It’s beautiful,” she repeats. Her voice trembles slightly and you take her hand before you can think better of it. Sparks shoot through you, electrifying and dizzying all at once.
“Wait until you see it from above.”
From above means having to climb onto the willow. Gwen, predictably, struggles with that—and it doesn’t help that you’re laughing hard enough to struggle to catch a breath—but finally the two of you is sitting high enough on the bough, watching as the sky slowly turns blue, painting the water underneath you black. Gwen is leaning onto you, quiet now that the adrenaline from the climb washed off. Your fingers find her back, caressing it with gentleness you’re unused to. Her body is warm under your touch.
“So pretty,” she murmurs, nuzzling herself closer. “Just like you.”
Her touch burns. Her voice embraces you and you close your eyes, breathing in her scent; fresh flowers and linen from your bed.
“I’m glad you dropped onto my doorstep,” you reply quietly.
“Me too.”
“And that I get to know you.”
She hums under her breath. One of her hands tangles itself into your hair, weaving through it, and it’s so pleasant that you allow herself to doze off slightly, yet not falling completely asleep. Only when she nudges your side do you open your eyes, blinking a few times to chase away the sleep.
“Look,” Gwen whispers as you straighten up. “Fireflies.”
Small, green lights dance in the air in front of you, turning the whole area into a scenery from a fairytale. Gwen looks otherworldly in the shine, yes, but you can now see the humanity shining through: the crow’s feet as she smiles, the faint dark circles under her eyes, the chapped lip—she bites on it when in thought—and she seems even prettier like this, more real than you could ever hope for.
“They look so similar to stars,” she notices, full of wonder. “It’s as if you could just reach and—” She leans forward, stretching her arm into the air before you pull her back.
“Careful,” you scold her through the somersaults your heart does, “we’re still high-up.”
“But I am safe when I’m with you,” she whispers back. Her eyes are big, searching, falling down to your lips and then back up. “Am I not?”
You nod, ignoring how tight your throat feels. She reaches out, to you this time, and moves a strand of hair out of your face. You grab her hand before she can move it away and press it against your cheek, letting the warmth seep into your skin. Your lashes flutter as she lifts another hand, cupping your face, an echo of what she did during baking.
“May I kiss you?”
Your eyes snap open as heat shoots through your body. Gwen is looking at you with patience in her enormous eyes and a small, expectant smile on her lips.
“You—” you choke out, grateful that it’s dark enough that she can’t see how miserably you’re blushing right now.
“I want to kiss you,” she murmurs. Her fingers are stroking your cheeks. “So, may I?”
Saying yes has never been easier.
A second later, the world disappears in a blur of touch and softness. Gwen is filling your senses, warm and flowery, and oh so sweet on your tongue as her lips finally meet yours, greedy and not gentle at all. You laugh into the kiss, helpless with her, but the sound turns into a moan as she bites your lip, as her hands cup your face firmer, lifting it up, closer to herself.
“God,” you pant as you finally pull away, but she takes it as a sign to kiss you again, this time slower. Your eyes flutter shut and you let her take, and take, until there’s nothing left in you but bubbling laughter and the taste of her. Gwen moves lower, leaving marks on your throat as she keeps you in place and you tilt you head back to give her better access, unashamed at all.
“You are divine,” she whispers into your skin. You tangle your fingers in her blue hair, pulling on them to stay upright, too overwhelmed to think. “You’re so, so perfect.”
You capture her lips in another kiss and this time you have no intention of letting go.