Entry tags:

ezzelin, nicholai, original fiction, pg, quincy

Original, "Ezzelin's New Clothes," Ezzelin/Quincy, Nicholai, PG
Promised ... oh goodness, when did I promise to start doing fairytales? Sometime early- or mid-Fall quarter, certainly. And oh, my first attempt at this story was a massive failure, I had, at one point, Quincy coming out of a refrigerator. Don't ask me, I don't know what I was thinking, all I know is that it happened, and then I was like "whut" and scrapped the fic.

So! Here's the better version. No one's in a refrigerator, and it's close enough to count as a fairytale abuse. Enjoy!

Also, please note that Ezzelin, Quincy, Nicholai, and Nicholai's pillow are all © Seppy, they're not mine, and I don't recommend writing them without permission, Julius will fricassee you if you try. *nods*

Ezzelin's New Clothes

by mistr3ss Quickly

Ezzelin suspects something's amiss when Nicholai doesn't resist going to bed, Wednesday night. Has a gut feeling that he's missing something when Quincy lingers in the doorway while Nicholai gets his goodnight hug, acting eager to put the boy to bed. Gets downright suspicious when, ten minutes after saying goodnight to Nicholai, he hears laughter coming from the boy's room.

He should know better than to allow curiosity to get the better of him. He knows that. Knows that, whatever's going on, it's probably nothing he wants any part of, probably something that will just add to the headache he's got budding between his eyes.

He goes to the door and listens anyway.

"Just like that," he hears Quincy saying, voice light with laughter. "And I said to him, 'Ezzelin, you can't go out there, you're not wearing anything!' But he was so drunk he didn't even—"

At which point, the headache swells to a full throb, the crack of the door hitting the wall as it's thrown open doing nothing at all to alleviate it.

"Quincy Richard Porcelain," Ezzelin says, "what in the name of—"

"Goodness, you're loud at bedtime," Quincy says. "And in answer to your question, the story about that New Year's when you didn't realize the punch was alcoholic, remember?"

He doesn't remember, not really. Nothing past the cup of punch that tingled delightfully as he swallowed it, nothing until the following morning, complete with too-bright sunlight and too-loud Quincy and a cup full of something that had once been a decent tomato juice and did not kick the headache-nausea-dizziness like Quincy had promised it would. But that's not something his son needs to know, so he grunts and nods and does his best to loom over his lover, which isn't terribly difficult, what with Quincy seated on the edge of Nicholai's bed.

"I hardly think this is an appropriate story for bedtime," Ezzelin says.

"It's not my bedtime story," Nicholai says.

"He's right, it's not," Quincy says.

"Then go to sleep, it's past your bedtime," Ezzelin says.

"Did you really go out naked and tell everyone that the party was over 'cause you were drunk?" Nicholai says.

"Hey now, that's not what I said happened," Quincy says.

He looks nervous. Like he knows just how much trouble he's in.

Ezzelin pulls up a chair. Sits down in it, regretting only a bit that he's left his drink in his study.

"We really should talk about this another time, you know," he says, crossing his legs. "But, with things like this, it seems that the longer a parent waits to discuss it, the worse the child's misconceptions are. Heaven only knows what misconceptions you've gotten already from your ... source."

"I only told him the truth!" Quincy splutters, indignant.

Ezzelin answers him with a glare. "What actually happened is this: a student—whom we caught and disciplined for his actions—added a large quantity of alcohol to the punch served at the school's New Year's party. Upon drinking a few cups of it, I became inebriated, then ill. I went to an empty classroom to lie down, and at some point the noise from the hall became too much for me to tolerate. I simply rose, went to the hall, spoke with the students about being quiet, then retired to my apartment for the evening."

Nicholai narrows his eyes. "Daddy said you were naked," he says.

"Yes," Ezzelin growls, giving his lover a sidelong glare. "He tells everyone that. But you must understand, Nicholai, that not everyone defines things in the way you define them, so when your father says 'naked,' he does not mean that I was wearing nothing. He simply means that—"

"Oh don't, you'll ruin the story," Quincy says, sulking.

Ezzelin resists the urge to smack him. "—that I was wearing my dress-shirt and slacks only, I'd shed my shoes and tie and vest in the interest of being comfortable while I lay down," he says. "Most of the students had never seen me ... relaxed and ill, before, so rumor spread eventually, to students who did not attend the event, that I was nude when I came out to see to the noise level in the room."

Nicholai blinks. "So you weren't actually naked," he says.

"Correct," says Ezzelin. "I was not actually naked."

He should suspect something's amiss when, instead of frowning at his father and accusing the man of lying to him, Nicholai's face lights up. Has a gut feeling he's missing something when Quincy's lips twist into what can only be described as a wicked smirk. Gets downright suspicious when Nicholai squirms in bed, toes and fingers and feelers all wriggling like he can barely contain himself.

"Daddy was right, then," Nicholai says. "He said only really smart people could see your clothes, like in the book. So you weren't really naked, you just looked that way to the students who were too stupid to shut up when you were working on a killer hangover!"

He beams at his fathers, one shaking with barely stifled laughter while the other stares at him, slack-jawed. Says right, Daddy? when Quincy's nearly got his breath back, then right, Dad? when Quincy breaks down into heaving guffaws, loud enough to earn a disgruntled trill from the lump of fluff curled on Nicholai's pillow.

"Not exactly," Ezzelin says. "But, as it's past your bedtime, I suppose we can sort out the details in the morning."

He leans down and kisses his son on the forehead. Gets ahold of Quincy's sleeve and tugs, gets the man to his feet and moving towards the door, at least. They pause in the doorway, long enough for Quincy to blow a goodnight kiss to Nicholai, then Ezzelin pushes, gets the still-giggling fop out into the hall without any more questions being asked.

"I can't believe you, sometimes," he says, brushing Quincy's hands away from his shoulders and ducking into his study, his head throbbing badly enough that his glass of bourbon seems a beacon of light in the darkness. "Telling him such a story ... and telling him such an outrageous version of it, no less."

Quincy sniffs. "Don't even want to hear my side of it, do you?"

Ezzelin doesn't. Shouldn't. Shrugs and settles down in his chair anyway, recognizing inevitability when he sees it.

"Nicky said he was tired of fairytales because they're not real," he said. "So I told him your version of his fairytale to prove that he can still like his books because they're rooted in reality, whether he's experienced such a reality firsthand or not."

It's a terrible excuse. Pathetic. Poorly thought-out.

Ezzelin pours his lover a drink.

"To childhood," he says, when Quincy says what's this for? "And to the endurance an adult must have in order to preserve it for his children."

Quincy smiles and clinks his glass against Ezzelin's. Drinks as if he's won some kind of competition.

Which is fine, Ezzelin thinks, drinking from his own glass. He'll stop smiling after he learns what kinds of stories his son will hear about his past fairytale transgressions, come the morning.