A/N: HAPPY HELLA BELATED BIRTHDAY, CEARA!
Here's a hella belated birthday fic for Ceara. I suck, hence why I'm posting it in January. You asked for possibly a royalty AU, but anything with angst and e/e. Well, it's royalty and there's angst and it's e/e if you squint. I love you tons and I'm sorry for how late this is. I'm so beyond lucky to have you as a friend.

seven
She loved the way he laughed when the puppy licked his face. She loved the way he proudly brought the little thing into the kitchen and held it out for her to touch. She smiled and he smiled back. She loved the way he smiled.

ten
He hated the sound of her tears when that silly dog bit her, the way she fought so hard to keep it silent. He hated her scream the next time he went into the kitchen and that little dog charged at her and the way she shook even after he had taken it outside. He hated the way his father only laughed and said that the little brat had probably tried to steal something. "You shouldn't be in here, anyway. You shouldn't associate with them."

eleven
She loved the sound of his voice, the way he muttered the words to himself, sitting alone under that big tree, his governess leaving him to his own devices. She loved the way he would give the characters silly voices and wink at her when he was done. She loved the way he spoke to her, asking her to sit while he read. He even taught her how to curtsy like a queen and to speak as though someone might care about what she said. She loved that he cared. When May came 'round, she made him a crown of daisies, for what's a prince without his crown? "Flower crowns are for little girls." "Flower crowns are for beautiful people." She loved the way he bowed to her and wore the crown with the grace of a king.

fourteen
He hated the smell of burning daisies and the way they vanished, swallowed by flames. He hated remembering his place and remembering that she had none. He hated the disgust in his father's eyes, the last flower clutched tightly in his hands. His story books disappeared and soon he found his library overflowing with books of victorious warriors of days gone by. He hated reading aloud to the new teacher, in the depths of his father's study, devoid of all sunlight.

fourteen
She loved to watch him from afar. She loved the way he walked and the way he spoke with grace and confidence, the passion which consumed him. She loved the way he interfered when her brother was caught with an orange after breakfast. "It's just a fruit, why shouldn't he eat?" There was a bag of sweets in the kitchen the next morning and, in the deep corner of the pantry, where they had once hidden from the heat of summer, she found an old book. Crossed out, the inscription read, "To a most Noble Prince on the twelfth anniversary of his birth." Below it in a flowing script, "For Mademoiselle Éponine, on the fourteenth anniversary of her own." She yelled out for the date and it seemed as though, after all this time, he knew her better than she did herself. She shut her eyes as a warmth pooled in her stomach. She loved to watch him as she brought out the dessert. She loved — and feared — the way he watched her back.

seventeen
He hated the heat of her gaze on his back, the way she averted her eyes when he returned her glance. He hated the plight of her people and that, by the time he could fix it, it would be too late for her. He hated the way she spoke to him only in quick whispers of "Yes, your grace" and "No, your grace." He hated the way she blushed when they passed and hated how his father noticed. "I should turn her out." "Her whole family is here." "Then I should turn out the lot." "She's only a child." He hated being forbidden from entering his own kitchen. He hated the impending arrival of his bride.

fifteen
She hated each and every layer of the cake. She hated excitement that vibrated throughout the entire palace and she hated the rumors of the newly arrived princess's ethereal beauty. She hated the way her father asked what was wrong and the way he walked off before she could respond. Her sister snorted as she prepared the bread for the feast. "It's not like you had a chance in hell of being a princess." She hated that she had allowed herself to dream.

eighteen
He loved his new bride's cheerful laugh and the way she dropped his hand when no one was watching. He loved the way she danced with her ladies when there was no music the be heard. He loved the her fingers lingered a moment too long on "dearest friend's" cheek. When he lay down to sleep, she turned to face him and whispered to him her fears of the world, her fear of him. He loved the way she cried and kissed his brow when he swore to never touch her and the way she brought fresh honey and a garland of iris and jasmine to the kitchen girl with the glimmering brown eyes.

sixteen
She hated the way her brother worked to polish the armor. She hated that her only friend planned to join the prince in battle. She hated how she ached for one who could never be hers and how, one day soon, he might be no one's. She tip-toed through the shadows, day by day and night by night, and listened in as he told his wife, his father, and anyone who would listen that this war was for the best, that all men could prove themselves, and that it would gift them with a better tomorrow. His passion carved itself into her chest. She hated herself for loving his words and believing that all would be well.

nineteen
He loved the way she ran through the halls and out the door. He loved the way she curtsied before his horse, the niceties of nobility lost on her, her place utterly forgotten. He bowed his head as she placed a necklace of heather around his neck. "For your protection," she whispered, slinking back, ready to disappear. He loved the way his wife stepped between the kitchen girl and his father, taking the girl's hand. He loved the way she told him "We will be here when you return." He loved that all knew that she was his and he was hers. Wherever he went, he felt her in his heart and in his soul. He saw her in the sun and in the flowers, in the moon and in the dust. He saw the glimmering of her eyes beneath the helmet of that slender young soldier. He loved that he could always feel her presence.

seventeen
She hated the way the armor weighed her down. She hated how her blood leaked into her lungs and spilled out of her mouth. She hated that she was drowning in her own life-source. But she loved that she could hear his voice, the passion in the commands he shouted. His new world was coming and she loved that he would have it almost as much as she hated that she would never see it. She hated that he was not there to hold her. She loved that he would never witness her disgrace, her misery. She hated that she would never say goodbye.

always
He hated the slender kitchen girl, the one with the piercing green eyes. He hated the way his father glared out him as he walked straight for the kitchen, without even greeting his ailing mother or his young wife (though he knew the latter would understand). But he hated the way the kitchen girl shook her head. "She ran away when the war started — I haven't seen her since." He hated the way he remembered those glistening brown eyes staring at him from beneath the helmet, admiring and hopeful. He hated her for disappearing when his perfect world cracked and warped. But, most of all, he hated that she was as much him as he was himself and hated that he existed in full no longer.