I know. We all like Clarisse and Joseph. Or Mia and Nicholas/Andrew/Michael. But I am kind of fascinated by Philippe's situation: having to choose between Helen and Mia, and the people of Genovia. I need to understand how he was able to do that, and this little scene between Philippe and Pierre is proof that I spend way too much time being concerned about that. I do have a few other scenes I hope to add to this one at a later date if I ever like them well enough. (And after returning my attention to the high school reunion story, which I promise to do after posting this.) They involve pretty much all the main characters, including a baby Mia.

None of the characters I mentioned are mine, but you probably knew that.

I have never been to Italy, so I don't know how realistic the circumstances are. Also, the dialogue is probably a bit slangy for two princes, but I am assuming Philippe's time in America has made his speech a little more casual. (I'll bet that drives his mother crazy.)

The phone technology is ahead of its time for this story, but I borrowed it anyway.

Thanks for stopping by to read!

Philippe hadn't been surprised by the news that his brother wanted to leave the family business and join the priesthood.

After all, it wasn't every boy who pretended his dinner roll and grape juice were communion. One evening at the dinner table a young Pierre, his face serious and serene, lifted his arms, bread in one hand and juice glass in the other, and began to utter the accompanying prayers. Philippe had been even younger, but he recalled the event with clarity and great fondness as it was he, not Pierre, who was usually the one to elicit a scolding from their mother and to cause their father to cover up an inappropriate chortle with a hasty sip from his water glass.

Then there was the something about Pierre that made a person want to spill his or her innermost secrets. Not only had he seen people – sometimes complete strangers – unfurling their life stories in a matter of minutes, but Philippe had done it himself. Pierre would have an opinion or make a judgment, but it was always a wise one, coming from a place of empathy. Philippe knew Pierre was a safe place for his confidences, and he wasn't afraid to hear hard-to-handle truths when they came from his brother.

As far as Philippe was concerned, Pierre was a natural. The fact that he had been born Crown Prince of Genovia didn't complicate things for Philippe; he just chalked it up as evidence that God had a quirky sense of humor.

Actually, there was one complication. In order for Pierre to be a priest, Philippe had to be a crown prince. He had known the moment his brother held aloft the bread and juice that he was in trouble, and he was determined to enjoy every moment of his life before the official passing of the baton. He didn't hold it against Pierre. It wasn't as though either of them had a choice in their destinies. Pierre was meant to be a priest. Philippe was meant to be a king. It was just that Pierre was so much better at accepting his destiny than Philippe had ever been at accepting his.

Philippe usually came back around from his occasional bouts of denial with a manageable dose of resentment and a wistful sigh. Only this last time he had gone too far, and now things were more complicated than ever. That's why he'd had to do it. Some poor soul was probably going to be fired for what he'd done today, but damn it! He'd had no choice. Philippe needed to meet with his confessor.

Pierre wasn't going to like this. No one was going to like this, but for the moment, he shoved thoughts of everyone else out of his mind and concentrated on his brother.

He pulled up to the curb, cut the engine, and leaned back into the seat. Night cloaked the dormitory, its windows glowing peacefully with the last lights of a quiet evening. Some were partially obscured with simple curtains, and the light seeped out from the edges of them like rectangle-shaped halos. He supposed the seminarians were all tucked in their rooms for the night, reading prayers or saying them or…something.

He took a deep breath and pulled out his phone.

Dude! What's going on?

It took a few minutes before his brother texted back a reply. Probably Pierre was wrapping up a bout of meditation or trying not to lose his place on his rosary beads.

Not much. How are you?

Eh, okay. What're you doing? Chanting or something?

I'm working on an essay for a morality class.

That was ironic. Philippe felt his palms grow clammy.

Oh. Kind of late though, right?

It's 7:30. Not too late.

But don't you have to get up at some ungodly hour?

This isn't a Trappist monastery. I don't have to be up until 6:30.

Dear God, that's insane!

Yeah, the course schedule isn't as flexible here. Some of my classes are actually before noon.

Some things I will never understand.

What are you doing?

I am sitting here, texting you.

Somehow, the silence waiting for this particular reply was different, and he could almost see Pierre's eyes narrowing as he typed.

What have you done now?

What? See, why does everyone have to assume the worst? Maybe I just want to chat.

Do you?

No, I screwed up. I need to talk to you.

You can call, you know.

It's too big for a phone call.

Uh-oh.

Yeah.

So what do you want me to do?

Come outside, get in the car, and drive off into the Italian countryside with me.

Ha ha, very funny.

Philippe bit his lip as he stared at his phone. Apparently, he took too long to reply.

Philippe? Oh dear Lord, man, are you serious?

Philippe looked up at the building, and suddenly, the curtains in one of the windows were being yanked to the sides. He saw his brother's silhouette – tall, slender, graceful, his lifted arms frozen as they held back the curtains – fill the space for a few seconds before disappearing back into the room.

I'm coming down.

Philippe tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel, his fingers tapping anxiously. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long. Pierre was just as adept as he was at giving his bodyguard the slip, and Antoine had no doubt grown complacent now that Pierre was settled into a seminary in a quaint Italian town and Philippe the Bad Influence was an ocean and a continent away.

A mere three minutes lapsed before Pierre popped out the front doors and made his way down the walk to the compact car.

He was already talking when he opened the door.

"Where did you get this car?"

"I rented it."

"Red?" Pierre plopped down into the seat, then frowned as he reached underneath his leg. He held up his brother's phone. Philippe took it and set it in the cup holder between them. "You couldn't pick a less conspicuous color?"

"Hey, I didn't want to throw around my name for the sake of special treatment. Besides, it's dark. Who's going to notice the color?"

"Oh, I don't know. The local police, the Italian army, the Genovian special forces units that are probably on their way…"

"You're so dramatic. No one ever pegs you as the dramatic one, but you are."

Pierre twisted around to look more fully into the backseat.

"What are you looking for?" Philippe asked.

"Victor."

"He's not here."

"I can see that."

"He's in San Francisco. Or last I heard..." Philippe cleared his throat and fidgeted under his brother's intense gaze. "I was in a hurry. I needed to get away."

The full reality of what Philippe had managed to accomplish finally dawned on his brother. "You got all the way here…alone?"

"I did." He tried not to sound impressed with himself as he suspected it wouldn't help his case.

"How…? I mean – how…?"

"I know, it's pretty amazing."

"Philippe!" he breathed.

"Yeah. Turns out, there's a guy I know who makes fake IDs. Of course, most people want to boost their ages by a year or two to get into clubs, but I had him make one for me." He turned on his charm full blast, smiled hugely, and stuck out his hand. "Hi. Philip Reynolds. Nice to meet you."

Pierre stared incredulously, then smacked his brother's hand away. "You didn't?"

"I did."

"You did!"

"Yes."

Pierre turned his gaze toward the windshield and collapsed back into his seat. "This is bad."

"I know. But look, we probably still have an hour or two. Can we talk about that thing I came all this way for?"

Pierre's head lolled against the headrest, moving side to side in utter disbelief. "You must have had a hell of a start."

"Yeah, I figure I was taking off from La Guardia in New York before they even missed me."

"Mama is going to kill you. Then Papa is going to kill you. And Joe! I don't even want to think about what he's going to do to you."

"That's why after my confession, I'm going to need you to administer last rites."

Pierre sat up straight and looked at him again. "I am a seminarian. I can't do those things."

"Do you know how to do them?"

"Yes, but –"

Philippe waved his hand dismissively. "Close enough then."

A campus security guard tapped on the driver's side window, causing both princes to jump. Philippe rolled down the window.

"Non puoi lasciare la macchina qui," he said, making a sweeping gesture toward the illegally parked car.

"Mi dispiace," Philippe said with an affable smile. He jiggled the key chain, then made a point of putting the key in the ignition. "Andiamo ora."

Pierre gave an easy smile and a nod of his head, confirming that they were leaving.

"Sta bene. Buona notte."

"Grazie, ciao." Philippe waited until he had moved away a few paces, then rolled up the window as they both exhaled loudly.

"Let's go if we're going," Pierre muttered, his eyes still on the officer.

Philippe started up the car and eased away from the curb. "In America, they have these all-night convenience stores that carry everything you could possibly need for an impromptu road trip."

"Well, not far from here, there is a small café that makes excellent pastries and the world's best shots of espresso."

"That'll work."

"So. Is it a girl?"

"You think you know me so well."

"Is it?"

"Yes." Philippe glanced at his brother before training his eyes back on the road. "But I'm not running away in the usual sense. I mean, I'm running away, but she asked me to."

"She asked you to?"

"She said she needed…space."

"I see."

"No, you don't." Another sideways glance. "She's pregnant."

There was a long silence, and Philippe, too cowardly to break it, concentrated on the unfamiliar traffic patterns. Several times, he heard Pierre's quick intake of breath, and knew he was on the verge of speaking, but the quiet stayed intact until Pierre motioned to a small storefront up ahead.

"That's the place."

Philippe squeezed the car into a space, and Pierre opened the door. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

"You have money?"

"Yeah."

"You sure? I mean, there's that vow of poverty and all."

"That's for religious orders, not diocesan priests." He gave him a boyish grin that went a long way to ease the turmoil in his soul. "And Mama still sends me a little spending money once a month."

Philippe pretended to look offended. "Hey, she doesn't do that for me."

"She knows you'll blow it all on Slurpees and those little packages of swiss rolls."

"How do you know about those?"

Pierre laughed and hopped out of the car.

It wasn't long before he emerged from the bakery with two coffees and a bag full of pastries. He settled into the front seat and Philippe pulled back out into traffic.

"Do you love her?"

Philippe's jaw clenched against the sudden threat of prickling tears. "Yes," he said, his voice husky. He felt Pierre's eyes on him, but couldn't meet them.

"Does she love you?"

"She does," he replied, a little too quickly.

Pierre caught it. "But…?"

"But…" Philippe felt shame wash over him. "It's possible she thought I was Philip Reynolds…for a while."

"Oh, God."

There was no judgment or even irreverence in his brother's soft response. Just solidarity.

Because no matter what stupid things Philippe had ever done, Pierre had never refused his help when it was sought.

There was no point hiding it now. "I thought it didn't matter. What's in a name and all that, you know?"

"A royal by any other name is still as royal. We can't escape it, and it's important, Philippe. Like it or not, it defines us."

"I know!" Philippe balled his hands into fists and hit the steering wheel. He didn't mean to start shouting. "Believe me, I know! I fell in love with this free spirit who barely believes in a traditional family, let alone a royal one!"

Pierre let the anger roll off him. "She's not just carrying your child. She's carrying the next Genovian heir – "

"I know that, too!" Philippe roared. "I told her I would make things right! I told her I would marry her and take her home with me, and she could see…" He faltered, searching for words that would make sense. "She has to see. She has to know what it all means, what it all looks like. I have to bring her back to Pyrus with me."

"Sure. She should, you know, meet the parents." Pierre said it with a straight face, but his words were laced with humor.

Despite himself, Philippe laughed. "Yeah. No big deal, right? It's part of the dating ritual." He breathed more evenly now. Pierre had always been able to do that – diffuse his temper by finding a way to make him laugh. "Just so you know, I told her before she told me. I mean, she knew who I was by the time she found out she was pregnant."

"How long have you known her? You haven't even mentioned anyone to me. Come to think of it, I've barely heard from you over the past two months."

"Well," Philippe started.

"So…about two months then?"

"That sounds right."

"Well, things are moving right along, aren't they!"

Philippe blew out a deep breath. "They sure are."

"Let me try to put this delicately. Don't blow up at me, okay?"

"I won't."

"But you haven't exactly…" Pierre sighed. "You're not exactly known for your long-term commitments." He ignored the scowl his brother shot his way. "How do you know you should be marrying her?"

"So my brother the priest is implying I should have an illegitimate child?"

"No, your brother the seminarian is suggesting you might not be ready to enter into the covenantal bonds of the sacrament of marriage."

"Well, hell, when you put it that way, it sounds so serious," Philippe said with a nervous laugh.

"It's meant to."

Philippe was quiet for a few minutes. "I am ready. She's not, but I am."

"How do you know?"

"I just feel it. And because this thing between us – it's strong. We have a connection. I've never felt this way about anyone else. And just because it's dark and I'm looking at the road, don't think I don't know you're rolling your eyes!"

"Sorry, but so far, your reasons aren't terribly original."

"I know you've heard this before. I've said this before. But I didn't know. I didn't know what it could be. This is different, I swear it. And when she told me about the baby, I felt panicky for a moment, but then…" He sighed. "I don't know. It felt right. It felt meant to be. I felt happy, Pierre." He risked a glance at his brother. "I want this. I want to be Helen's husband. I want to be this child's father."

"Do you still want to be king?"

He laughed darkly. "I never wanted to be king."

The silence in the car was weighty, heavy with all sorts of half-formed implications. They had driven quite a few miles before Pierre finally spoke up.

"I'm still just a student. I haven't officially abdicated yet. But I won't go back if this is just fling, Philippe. I need more than what you're telling me."

The cursed tears came back. He tried to speak, but he choked on the response.

Pierre continued. "This is why you came to me? You want me to go back, don't you?"

Philippe shook his head, taking an angry swipe at a rogue tear. "No," he said tersely. "I didn't. And I can't ask you to come back. You belong here. You've found the life you were meant to live."

"So the thought didn't even enter your mind," Pierre confirmed quietly.

"It didn't," he admitted. "I actually hadn't thought…" He let his words trail off as the significance of them sank into his own mind.

"You hadn't thought that far ahead," his brother finished.

"Do I ever?"

"No, not usually."

They were well on their way out of the city before the conversation picked up again.

"If she won't marry me, I will have to leave them."

"The child is royal."

"It is, God help it."

"You need to bring her home with you. For protection, if nothing else. And to let her see what she's gotten into."

Philippe nodded wordlessly.

"The first thing you have to do is go back. Whether she wants to marry you or not, you have to go get her. You have to take her to Pyrus."

"Alright."

Philippe heard the bag rustling. "You want a cannoli?"

"I'm not really hungry right now."

"This must be serious. I am holding food out to you right now, and you are refusing it."

"It's weird, but this whole mess I've gotten Helen and me into is kind of killing my appetite," he said sarcastically.

"Take it."

"Pierre –"

"Don't make me say it. I know this is just a ploy to make me say it."

Philippe smiled. "It's not a ploy. Seriously –"

"Fine, I'll say it. Take the cannoli."

He laughed. "Alright. I'll take the cannoli." He heard Pierre searching the bag for a napkin before passing over the confection. "Pierre. I need you to know, I'm not asking you to come back."

"I know."

"I couldn't do that to you. I'll figure this out."

"If you can figure out how to eat cannoli while driving a very small rental car after fleeing the country unnoticed, you can figure out this other thing with – what's her name? Helen, did you say?"

"Helen," he said with a reverence that was not lost on his brother.

He said it the same way he'd once heard Joe say his mother's name, when Joe thought he and Clarisse were alone and he was safe to address her informally; not knowing Pierre was just outside her office door. That's how he knew Philippe was right. He'd found The One.

Not that finding her was any guarantee for a man. Look at Joe.

"I want some music," Pierre said, changing the subject abruptly. He grabbed Philippe's phone and started looking through his song list.

"Be careful. Some of that isn't kosher for chaste ears."

"Bugger off."

"I'm pretty sure you have to go to confession now."

"Not as badly as you do."

"Let's not talk about me for a while."

"I'm fine with that," Pierre said, making his selection. "Not sure you can handle it."

"I think I'd prefer it. Pierre?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for this."

"You're still the Crown Prince."

"I know."

"At least, as things stand now. Let's not either of us make any big decisions for the next half hour or so."

"Okay." But Philippe, sitting next to his brother who had once recited the Eucharistic prayers over his dinner plate, had already made his decision. At least, part of it.

No matter what else happened, it was time to stop running from his destiny.

At that moment, a newly hired bodyguard was already being fired. A veteran bodyguard was stoically taking a transatlantic chewing out by his boss who was simultaneously directing members of his staff in a search for a lost prince. A king was livid, knocking back another glass of scotch as his queen paced his study, going back and forth between anger and fear.

Unbeknownst to anyone in Genovia, a tearful young art student was hyperventilating, the space she'd demanded closing in on her as she wrung her hands in front of her still flat stomach.

Somewhere in the Italian countryside, two brothers sped into the night, unable to flee beyond the grasping reach of the identities they'd never chosen.

Someone once suggested that maybe Helen didn't know about Philippe's royal heritage right away, and that made a great deal of sense to me as, in my mind, he is always trying to escape his reality, even if for a little bit. I think his deceit was selfish, but not malicious.

The maligned cannoli quote is from The Godfather.

It's been a long time since I took Italian, so I apologize if I have mangled that lovely language at all.