Perhaps it was naïve, inviting Voltaire to live in his kingdom—1750, exactly ten years after he’d become king and 14 years after they met.

After exchanging numerous letters between each other, Voltaire moved into Sanssouci.

He found it entertaining, talking to Voltaire. Sending…letters. “Mes hémorroïdes saluent affectueusement votre verge.” He scribbled down teasingly. He giggled as he wrote that.

In a way, he didn’t mind Voltaire near him at all—even if Voltaire could be difficult. They quarreled constantly. Voltaire was too much of a tease, overbearingly so. But, this was Voltaire, and Friedrich liked him.

Friedrich felt freedom in his arrangement with Voltaire. It was liberating to live alongside a man so closely connected and rooted into his past, and had influenced him into the benevolent ruler he was today. It was jarring, as well. He constantly thought back to his youth, and how that little boy had dreamt of the idea of Voltaire, and man who conflicted every part of Friedrich’s life. He mourned his past, and how he gained his freedom from his father too soon, yet with enough time to continue living.

One indolent night, Friedrich had smiled at the nickname used reverently by the French poet:Fritz. It was murmured so adoringly, devotedly. It could be considered a rare moment that wittiness calmed and inhibitions faltered.

They sat closely together. Voltaire was skimming over, and gently editing his writing in French. More than most of his feedback was mere quips that agitated the King.

“Your company pleases me a lot more than most could.” Friedrich whispers, more playfully than not, and yet.

He was not fibbing. They fought, they tussled, they cussed, but they always forgave.