In which the egg definitely comes first, or Why there are chickens all over the place in the goblin kingdom.
Väinö is entirely mine. Jareth isn't.
Jareth sprawled. Given any piece of furniture, he made it his own. The only time he would constrain himself to a position which might be considered "sitting" was at high court. Every time Väinö saw him there, he was almost frightened by Jareth’s almost visible self-control–not that it ever went past almost. Jareth had too much skill to ever display the amount of control he held over himself.
However, that potential-filled stillness could not be seen at the moment. Jareth was currently draped over a chair, heedless of everything but the remnants of his eggs. Everyone else had left, leaving him alone at a table full of half-empty plates, although he showed no signs of being at all bothered by this.
Väinö leaned against the doorway, watching with fond amusement. Few people got to see this side of Jareth. The world saw him only as the ice prince, the goblin king, master of the great game, the second oldest sovereign in the Seelie court. Väinö knew very well that Jareth was all these things and more, but he would also always think of him as his (much) older cousin who ate his breakfast eggs with something akin to fanatical devotion.
Perhaps that explained why he allowed his kingdom to be overrun by chickens.