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seleniasTitle: Idée Fixe
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: explicit
Word Count: 4991
Notes:candyheartsex fic written for eggsbenedict. Dion tanks. Lots of poetic edda, oops. Also: desk sex.
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There was little talk at home about Terence’s official knighting, more among Dion’s Holy Order who had watched him come of age and served as the hands that lifted him higher. Between the blur of the day’s ceremonies and standing ovations where Dion pins a brooch upon the lapels of his robes and commends him his courage, Terence nearly gives into emotion. Dion had promised him freedom as his second and the time arrives before they’re a year into twenty; blockades, weather, and an uneasy peace allow this privileged homecoming. Dion holds him steady with his gaze alone, affirming his own safekeeping that words cannot say among men — even familiar faces — and dutiful above all else Terence rolls his shoulders back and takes charge, touching the collar of his shirt and clenching it tenderly between his fingers. Dion knows he will hear all he wishes to say later with their ears alone.
Terence’s armor holds none of the filigree or nearly opalescent mythril that crowns the Imperial Dragoons — but it’s polished, flaring with the shape of him, Bahamut’s crest emblazoned across the chest, and he traces the symbol of their efforts with no words. He was devastatingly sweet as a boy, and showing Terence how to hold a blade and use it to defend, kill, and shame made it unbearably clear to Dion at an early age that he could not tolerate any harm falling upon him. He had hoped his time as a squire would have cowed him and the reality would resolve itself and he would realize their time together was over. But Terence took command of a central force at eighteen and cleverly routed Waloeder footmen with tactics they repeated to each other in the classroom like dull footnotes, and though he’d sworn the same oath as every other knight upon the field of battle Dion knew there was no honor in death for a servant who’s pathways were determined at birth. Terence had always availed himself to Dion alone; his blood for Sanbreque was a meaningless exchange, but Dion’s was, despite and beyond his own misgivings, everything.
It’s a truth inconsistent with the intimate reality Dion’s grown familiar with, but he doesn’t despair; to be loved by Terence is an honor that can’t be resolved by pinning a trinket to his chest. But these are the tools that are in his hands and Terence knows what matters.
An unadorned sky hangs bright and sweet above them with a breeze that still carries Shiva’s kiss. The training grounds are freshly maintained save where snow has dissolved into pools and children play within it. Flowers from hot houses are dispersed and attendants and squires slip them into leather vests, scabbards, belt buckles — to the laughs of onlookers — and hair. Large, lovely marigolds that nearly tip astray with their own weight. Dion takes his from the carrier and arranges it along Terence’s collar where the orange bloom touches his skin and illuminates it — the blue in his eyes takes the appearance of clear water beside its opposite — and Dion’s hand peels the starched fold away and brushs the underside of his chin before withdrawing. The fond look Terence delivers nearly undoes him; for all that he strives to keep his emotions free from the tangle of Dion’s own, they’ve grown together, and Dion realizes, refusing to school his face to perfect punctual formalities, he cannot recall their first, impossible meeting. Was it on a day similar to this? Terence’s voice seems always present in Dion’s memory. He laughs openly when Dion shakes his shoulder roughly like a joyous friend, lover and proud teacher, once -- still. It is, Dion thinks, beautiful to know these shapes they have taken, and ones not yet known.
“It is an honor to serve,” Terence shouts. His voice is nearly lost amid the cacophony, the music, the parade and laughter of a city that holds Bahamut’s honor guard at its heart. They will see Sanbreque through dark, miserable times.
The ceremonial pins he awards each soldier for their valor are carved from a Wyvern’s scales. In the afternoon light, they turn glossy and green, like Bahamut’s skin was cleaved and divided among them all so they might not forget who they honor in their glory. Dion thinks it’s too on the nose. They never let him out of their sight anyway.
“Off with you all,” Dion commands, pitching his voice, watching backs straighten. “Go, be merry. I have seen enough of your faces!” Laughter sounds and Dion smiles, low and easy. Would that it were always easy, but good things are rarely simple or without endless, circular work.
Out of the stinking metal suits they live in the knights dragoon convalesce and swarm among each other, shaking each other by the back of their necks, brushing Terence’s arms with their own, inquiring about his mind and his heart and whomst he will pen first now that he’s more than their prince’s quiet shadow — Dion turns away to allow them their hope and joy. It’s in between seasons and winter storms plague the eastern shores breaking Waloed’s advances by crushing Storm’s easiest ports — he hears that the granaries are low so most of his father’s militia that keeps watch along the front lines take long, unusual absences to abate the burden of their stay, and the exhausted travel of merchants far from home request more capital for work that will reward no one. It is better to be here. Better yet, it will lead into a fateful, graceful lull of attentions. He recognizes solitude when it approaches. But he won’t stay in the palace like a clinging son and wait to depart again. As soon as clearance arrives, Dion will take his official leave, and the commander of his guard will accompany him, and all will rest easy knowing he does not roam Sanbreque’s countryside and sea side villages alone.
Now, Dion has seen what he must of his father by the afternoon, and relaxing into conversations that pull him in multiple directions, he considers what the first task of the evening might be. A book with pages who’s spine he’s not cracked, or some fine, evening walks along the low ocean waters to ground himself amid the confusion of court; perhaps alone, if Terence would like to be among friends or find his parents and celebrate as he should. Only one soul that drags him into stilting conversation refrains from asking Dion about the war, and rather inquires if he might make the salon’s first gathering come spring, when dignitaries arrive from the Dominion to spread knowledge among each other.
“No,” Dion says. “I am afraid those days have past. But would you happen to know the guests?”
The look is sympathetic. “Your Highness, your tutor will not return.”
“I see.” Dion smiles and sighs his appreciation. He wishes there was another he might turn to for company that would see Dion’s retreat on this day for what it was: a quiet anxiety that there was no return from. Harpocrates might have given him comfort in some bit of knowledge he’d hoard and discuss in near sleep to Terence, an answer to take apart when the way forward was unclear. He could tell him without concern how proud and assured he was to see Terence’s new honors. Perhaps he’d opened the door for him as children unwittingly, giving him access to all the same stories Dion would need to stay alive, but he’d put them to his own uses and returned to Dion’s side like good coin.
He turns the conversation a week prior over again in his mind for something to do. They will soon march for Oriflamme, and Terence had laughed uneasily at what for.
“What do we celebrate that isn’t Greagor — will you really forbid me a chance to stand on ceremony with you?”
Terence had drawn his leathers across his chest, still not completely barred from Dion’s touch or influence; he moved fondly into his hands when Dion reached for him, huffing warm air across his skin and considering. “Will you be standing with me? Will I see you?”
“Fool,” Dion said, soft, and threaded his fingers through his hair to hold him. “I’ll be closer than ever!”
Dion remains certain that there are few forces that could suffer his love for Terence.
Familiar dignitaries and families parade the crowds and Dion chats with few. Some are new, many distant memories, but their focuses are elsewhere. A man his senior approaches with short, sandy hair and a widening smile to join him at the dark end of the yard, a cigarette trailing smoke behind him. Later, the party will move higher within the palace, and music will rain down from Whitewyrm to capitalize the evening. Dion pins Lynnore with his eyes, and he neatly salutes Dion, passing his flute of wine from one hand to another, crossing his arm across his chest. He remembers. The association is unpleasant but old.
“At ease,” Dion says, smiling. “It is only a hello.”
“Your Highness, how far you’ve risen. I’d heard word of your order but have not returned from Rosaria to give you my regards.”
“There’s no need, but I thank you. When was your return?”
“Not far out from your own, I suspect. Your father called many back to court for this occasion.”
“I know,” Dion says. “I demanded ceremony.”
Lynnore pauses, nodding at Dion’s words. Before them, some laughing women pass and giggle when they spy him; Dion feels as if he must exist here for everyone but himself.
“It was unexpected to see what you fancy in your military. This year is tightening us all in unexpected ways. I never thought poor heralds would take command when there’s an abundance of well-bred men, but if they are yours then surely well chosen. Time afield will earn them more confidences, I suspect.”
Dion feels the immediacy of his own easy mood shift to discontent, a tang of iron in his throat. He gestures at his light, irritated. “Do you mind,” Dion says. Lynnore drags it out on the stone foundation while he considers self-restraint; he can tolerate poor company but not their words. “Forgive me, Lynnore, I thought we celebrated Greagor’s servants with honors and not sneers. I did not collect the guest book.”
“Of course, Your Highness, I understand your defensiveness. Certainly, House Clement is as old as Lesage, and there’s House Auclair and Montagne to consider as well. They’ve done well for themselves while kept by the good graces of their lords, but not without. Perhaps — I only meant it might be considered cross, per say, for a lower soldier to take the rightful place of another. I know His Highness never complained about the servants of his youth, but there’s never been wrong in doing so.”
“I know your words.” Dion waits, mouth flat.
Lynnore laughs uneasily. He’s the manner of one who knows they speak wrong but does not know how to stop. “You might recognize it’s a bit like employing a, ah, common whore in place of an educated escort.”
Dion pushes into his space, feeling his mouth snarl. “Incompetent fool,” he snaps. “Who’s house do you serve again? I would surely throw you out were you near any ranks of mine.”
His wine glass drops noiselessly on the grass and he stutters backwards. A few onlookers direct their eyes toward them, and calmly, Dion collects the glass where it may not be shattered underfoot later. Above them, crystal light meets the ochre of the evening torches, and his shadow stretches short and crooked beside him. The air is sweet and riddled with laughter, but not here. Dion tries to envision peace and finds his mind turning to his second. A headache is forming from poor sleep and company both. He must not always defend him, but he wants to.
“By the way,” Dion remarks. “The Vicereine’s men mean to return to her homeland and enforce her levies in a few days. I would have thought, considering your station, you would answer her invitation instead of coming to rib at the lack of one from myself.”
Lynnore does not answer.
Dion smiles coolly, satisfied. “Enjoy your sanctuary.”
Terence is quiet, teal and gray robes whispering against his body. The floors are glassy and the large windows make the halls icy and insular. The heels of their boots sync together in the din, though one leads and the other follows. Dion wishes now that he hadn’t hoped for anything as perilous as joy — it was certain to be dashed, and he was foolish to give up the pretense of masking it against Terence’s cleverness. He might have honored his, at least. Regret is foolish, and the day is done. He can give in.
He cranes his head and Terence turns his face to his, eyes crinkling but smile calm under his demands. He is so good at countering Dion’s despair, elevating him when he cannot help himself up, but Dion knows he’s waged wars without him that he is yet to hear. And he would hear them now — has heard them whispered by discontented men embarrassed to be bested by a courtly boy who was younger and poorer than themselves. It is no matter. The work has been good and just and endless to get here.
House Clement has always been in the care of the Lesages.
Terence’s combed hair has slipped forward with fatigue. Reaching out to still him, Dion distracts himself by restoring it to tidiness, the wax warming beneath the pressure of his fingers. Then, pressing him gently into the dark passage of a vestibule, Dion gets his hands around his reassuring mass and squeezes Terence’s biceps and strokes his thumb along the warm, inner fabric. Standing together, they simply breathe.
“My Prince, are you well,” Terence murmurs. His brow pinches. Hastily, Dion presses their chests together and Terence makes a low, quiet sound. Reclining him against the wall, Dion shoves fury from his mind. It’s only Terence inhaling reliably against him, a hand massaging into the width of his back, palm gathering between his shoulders to press at the sore spot in his neck, restoring him to grace.
“I am considering where we should take our leave,” he says. “It’s difficult,” he adds, then laughs a little. “I should like to take you somewhere quiet. Agreeable.”
Terence’s exhale stirs his hair. Dion raises his eyes to meet a plain, considerate frown. “It’s no matter to me that others dislike my ranking,” Terence says, destroying his efforts at peace, cutting to the heart of the matter. “I am your servant. That’s my honor.”
“That you are. That you weren’t.” Dion mutters a curse and an apology and stands on the balls of his feet to kiss his mouth, quick and chaste. His ears are better trained than his own. Listening quietly, no sound follows or can be heard. No men pursue them for company lost, or unwanted concern. His behavior was more than he would have liked on display; Lynnore had always been a soul keen on tradition, a champion of his father’s and dependent on his properties in west Sanbreque to keep gil flowing steadily into his coffers, and that of Dion’s own. Beyond that, Greagor’s most undeserving.
“You still can,” Terence murmurs. His sternum rumbles just above his own.
“What?”
“Take me wherever you want.”
Dion inclines his head. He was considering shores, or hunting cabins, or a tent pitched on a shaded hill.
They move back into the quiet corridor and meander slowly toward the barracks; it is the home away from home, but not when Terence is there too.
Beyond the darkness Terence is illuminated by the warm glow of a fire crystal. He rotates around Dion’s room and fills the space with light and the hearth with wood. It smells faintly of stale leather and cold stone and wetness from condensation on the rocks and old ink spills. Dion makes his way to the shutters and lets the last evening glow wash inward and across his skin. Pale gray light disappears into thundering darkness. He can imagine its crests crashing against the rocks, roaring due diligence. Further still, the blue glow of Drake’s Head silhouettes Whitewyrm, ghostly and silver and abundant above all the rest. Dion wants nothing from it except peace. He may never get it.
It will storm first. Virga streaks the sky.
“It was good news, by the way,” Terence hedges. He undoes the belt at his waist and rolls the robe off his shoulders, body moving away from the fragile material. “The slips will be in by morning. In the afternoon, if there is no griping or account to settle, we can be gone.”
“Peace,” Dion says, laughing. “We’ll have the winds at our back in any direction. We can go any time.”
“I am in no hurry,” Terence says. “But I would like to see you gone.”
He’s quiet, hands folding his robes into neat squares, the sound of fabric falling. He shucks his own and mirrors him. Dion is useless in this way, but it gives him pride to know Terence’s foundation. He turns his head to watch him bend over the trunk and turn quickly through its contents, depositing their ceremonial robes where moths may not reach. — “Don’t lie, My Prince,” Terence warns suddenly, smile severe and coring. “You would have liked to strike him.”
“I’ve wanted worse things,” Dion says.
“Impossible,” Terence says plainly. “Not for yourself.”
Dion looks at him. Misdirection is how he knows freedom; how Terence operates is on the crux that he may be seen, but never heard.
“Terence,” Dion says, fond and tired. “Sit down.”
He knows how to obey and listen and observe; Dion finds the first more difficult with every passing year. He wants to curb foolishness with his heels, and believe that he can be a master of himself and choose answers that settle his truth. Terence found his early on. He cannot raise a man like him beyond the circle of his arms without losing him entirely. It could have been kinder once to sever their thread; he only thinks of how to guard it in position to himself.
Terence sits on the deep chaise and waits. He’s obedient where Dion is not except where it counts to rebel. Terence’s grief only reveals itself in the untidy shape of his letters, his unhappiness obscured from him to make Dion believe he’s an unfailing creature. It’s a horrible thing to be adored so as to hide terrible truths; it magnifies the worst possible damage Dion could ever receive — that somewhere, he failed to protect him.
Positioning his hands at his collar Dion slides the dragon scale pins free from his throat. Terence hadn’t needed them on display at the party — he’d insisted because he was happy. They make a soft sound on the sill, delicately sliding together.
“I am not cross,” Dion says again, wetting his lips. Terence watches him, hands bloodless and anchored over his knees. Dion slides the buttons free of their embroidered loops down the length of his torso and together they shuck the sleeves from his arms. Dion lays the fabric over the arm rest and considers, frowning. “I’m furious.”
Dion stretches himself behind him and presses his face against his neck. His other hand slides below his waistline and Terence laughs a little, sagging backward into his embrace, pinning him in place. “I know few men who would hold another in their rage,” Terence says. His head turns and his eyes appraise him. There’s a gold stain against his neck from the flowers — he must have wore it until it fell apart. “You are good, Dion.”
It takes very little convincing for a show of his best traits. Dion prides himself on knowing every tic and sound as keenly as Terence knows his own. This is work that can only be learned with two pairs of good hands and they slide together along his skin, back and forth.
“Dion,” Terence murmurs, voice trembling.
“Shh.” Dion presses his mouth to his cheek and leans against him, his own hardness snug against his back. He sighs and massages his hand into Dion’s thigh as he runs his own guilelessly in unhelpful places, enjoying the soft, unblemished skin around his crotch, and the bounce of his heavy cock when he lets it fall from his hand. Dion canters onward with a sudden firm grip. Terence’s heart moves to meet his own. He digs his fingers into Dion’s calf and holds on to the thread of muscle, breath uneven and loud. Dion cannot help but match it.
A few hard passes of his fingers catching along the ridges of his skin and Terence tenses against him, slicking Dion’s fingers, and gives his weight over to the circle of Dion’s arms.
They lean against each other for sometime. The fire has warmed to a steady brilliance, and Dion pictures early mornings and nights, shuffling around gatherings of groaning men, warming their numb hands with due diligence as if Shiva’s touch had graced them.
Eventually, Terence turns around in his embrace, cock soft and devastated against his thighs, and kisses him long and sweetly until Dion withdraws to breathe.
It’s a fantasy to have him like this within easy reach of pleasure and companionship both. For every bump in the road Terence politely endures, Dion realizes he has significantly less patience.
But he can be bested.
Terence shoves himself into his arms then, pulling Dion upward, then shoving him back, and their ornaments and papers scatter beneath the thump of Dion’s shoulders abruptly hitting the table beside them. He pins him there only to knead the arousal against his hip and press into it snugly until Dion groans and jolts against him. Terence unlaces his trousers entirely and Dion hears them pool on the ground, a dull roar building in his ears, wind and air rushing past him like a great and immeasurable jump.
“Were you so dissatisfied?” Dion laughs breathlessly and pets his arm. Terence answers his query and clambers over him. A pewter teapot topples to the floor. The weight of him is warm and alluring and tempts Dion to abandon his post and devote his services where they’re appreciated. The long line of Terence’s body is certainly what ties him to this miserable place alone some days — a chance to caress him, hear his laughter in his ears, are sacred texts only between them afforded by Dion’s dedication to the field. Terence would let him do anything to him and he’d thank him for it with needless clause.
“I only thought to help you out of your own,” Terence murmurs, not helping at all. Dion fists a handful of that dark hair and draws him to his open mouth.
It’s not unlike the times in summer where divested of most clothes and sweating in the inescapable hot air, temperance grew exhausted and failed like a stretched rope. Terence would lace the tent closed with unusually clumsy fingers, peeling out of his coat of leather and steel by the entrance, and Dion would no sooner knock him down against whatever surface he caught him by, discarding all the formalities he wielded to keep his companionship safe and precious in exchange for the raw honesty of want, and they’d fuck each other stupid until the only thoughts remaining were of how the air was no cooler even stripped and languishing beside icy crystals. It was fine; they were men who could wet their dry mouths on each other, creatures living off of instinct alone. And there were rivers, which tempered them back into some reasonable shape, putting the iron back into their spines, steeling their resolution to continue forward.
Dion remembers shoving his sopping wet hair away from his eyes and watching Terence drift softly on the surface of a deep pool, dark lashes closed, face and abdomen ribbed with light spangling above. Dion had felt awed and humbled both. He was lucky. They risked everything for a stolen hour of peace. He could not dampen his spirits, or let him fall to harm, or suffer marks on him made by lords that they kept insular in the fouling air of the capital — no, he would shove him aside first, wound him himself as a form of mercy, and Terence may disobey his command if it meant parting with no reunion but go nonetheless — that’s the double-edge of his sword hewing through Dion’s graceless love. It’s his hands splitting across his belt now, kissing rows across his sternum, drawing him up to something that could level an entire province.
“You’ll be my ruin,” Dion says. “Come here.”
Dion’s pulse kicks up. He shoves off his boots and drags himself forward. Terence makes a low, throaty groan when Dion hefts him closer with an arm around his back, another clambering along his heavy, winter pale legs. His mouth is warm and open beneath his own, hands bunching in the finery along his shoulders. Dion helps him up on the desk and wets their hands with whatever vials live in the drawers, and it’s only a few delicious seconds of their eager breathing before Dion shoves into him, Terence’s bare back stuttering up along the fine oak finish and halting where sweat grips him; coins ring from a bag and clatter along the floor in tune to his generous, keening voice, and Dion mercilessly draws one of those broad legs above a shoulder to tuck in close and swallow his sounds. Music plays far away in the halls as somewhere the musicians reward the performers; Dion thinks of nothing save the show before him.
Papers slide along the ground and brush Dion’s ankles with their fine edges. Terence threads a hand through his hair and presses blunt nails against his skin, egging him on. Happiness is giving into temptation and confidently holding conference with love. He’s deluded himself into thinking he could still find that in Whitewyrm, and Terence, loyal and foolish, bid him do as his heart wanted. He’s near certain the gratitude that makes him equally proud and careful of where Terence lands at any given moment is attributed to the enormity of what he has now to lose: a man who with or without title holds residence in Dion’s shaking chest but may die in the same fires that Greagor ordains they light.
With love paving the way, Dion spills the force of it before him in long, stuttering strokes. Terence steadies him against his thighs while his hand tempts his own pleasure to completion between them. The wood groans beneath their heavy bodies, and they lie in silence afterward along its slicked surface, chests pressed together and heaving. Terence’s heart pounds against his own, plunging forward assuredly. Dion feels his breath slow to match. Sliding carefully out of the mess, Terence sits him upright to kiss him properly.
Terence’s eyes are heavy and lidded when they finally open. He says nothing, exhales and waits. He doesn’t need to.
Dion combs his fingers through his ruined hair, tracing the contours of his face, the gentle puffiness beneath his eyes that’s always made him look serious and unrested. “I do think, were you take up another’s post, you would find yourself deprived of the important things.”
Terence smiles a little. “It took so long to get what I want.” He presses his head against his own and kisses the edges of his face. “Now that I have it everything else is a terrible dream. You take up so much space. I am not unhappy. You tell yourself untrue things.” Dion strokes his face, pensive. His constitution grows tired.
“It’s work without marvel,” Dion says regretfully.
“I don’t agree,” he fires back, fingers curling to stillness against his skin. “Dion,” he says, expression suddenly firm, jaw set. His steel eyes hold him but do not trap him. “Let them be challenged. I won’t lose my composure to posturing. Neither should you.”
“I know,” Dion says with confidence, though if it’s unclear to which sentiment, Terence doesn’t comment.
The first hard wind batters the shutters then, wheezing through the high ceiling and stirring gray dust down upon them. The old building is not without its charms or antiquities.
Impossibly, Terence laughs a little, and shaking his hair and sliding away on hands and knees, shoves the hinged window with force to let the cool air rush in and strike at their naked bodies, and Dion finds himself enchanted and ruthless in his commitment all at once.
Terence turns a pastry between his fingers, considering the attack. Flaky layers crumple from his mouth and he catches them with a free hand before tossing them aside with the breeze.
The shore is still dark with recent rain and flotsam clings to rocks with bubbled grime. It smells of salt and the fading cologne still clinging to their own clothes. Side stepping a pool of water, Terence bumps in against him and presses close. At this distance, this time, obscured in the anonymity of cloaks and blackness Dion holds him near with an arm along his back. He has no concerns of prying eyes for Terence relies on him to guide them among the darkness.
“Where shall we go,” Dion says. “Do you believe it would be excessive if I were to buy us a common room along the shore? It will be busy this time of year with fishermen, however—”
“We may ride out to the pastures,” Terence interjects. “It would be more unwieldy, but private.” He holds his hand out and Dion pauses to eat, peeling the paper away. He considers, as he always does, his words. Gulls cry out, winging above like thin clouds. His gray eyes remain fixed on him. “I’ve never minded some rain.”
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: explicit
Word Count: 4991
Notes:
candyheartsex fic written for eggsbenedict. Dion tanks. Lots of poetic edda, oops. Also: desk sex.-
There was little talk at home about Terence’s official knighting, more among Dion’s Holy Order who had watched him come of age and served as the hands that lifted him higher. Between the blur of the day’s ceremonies and standing ovations where Dion pins a brooch upon the lapels of his robes and commends him his courage, Terence nearly gives into emotion. Dion had promised him freedom as his second and the time arrives before they’re a year into twenty; blockades, weather, and an uneasy peace allow this privileged homecoming. Dion holds him steady with his gaze alone, affirming his own safekeeping that words cannot say among men — even familiar faces — and dutiful above all else Terence rolls his shoulders back and takes charge, touching the collar of his shirt and clenching it tenderly between his fingers. Dion knows he will hear all he wishes to say later with their ears alone.
Terence’s armor holds none of the filigree or nearly opalescent mythril that crowns the Imperial Dragoons — but it’s polished, flaring with the shape of him, Bahamut’s crest emblazoned across the chest, and he traces the symbol of their efforts with no words. He was devastatingly sweet as a boy, and showing Terence how to hold a blade and use it to defend, kill, and shame made it unbearably clear to Dion at an early age that he could not tolerate any harm falling upon him. He had hoped his time as a squire would have cowed him and the reality would resolve itself and he would realize their time together was over. But Terence took command of a central force at eighteen and cleverly routed Waloeder footmen with tactics they repeated to each other in the classroom like dull footnotes, and though he’d sworn the same oath as every other knight upon the field of battle Dion knew there was no honor in death for a servant who’s pathways were determined at birth. Terence had always availed himself to Dion alone; his blood for Sanbreque was a meaningless exchange, but Dion’s was, despite and beyond his own misgivings, everything.
It’s a truth inconsistent with the intimate reality Dion’s grown familiar with, but he doesn’t despair; to be loved by Terence is an honor that can’t be resolved by pinning a trinket to his chest. But these are the tools that are in his hands and Terence knows what matters.
An unadorned sky hangs bright and sweet above them with a breeze that still carries Shiva’s kiss. The training grounds are freshly maintained save where snow has dissolved into pools and children play within it. Flowers from hot houses are dispersed and attendants and squires slip them into leather vests, scabbards, belt buckles — to the laughs of onlookers — and hair. Large, lovely marigolds that nearly tip astray with their own weight. Dion takes his from the carrier and arranges it along Terence’s collar where the orange bloom touches his skin and illuminates it — the blue in his eyes takes the appearance of clear water beside its opposite — and Dion’s hand peels the starched fold away and brushs the underside of his chin before withdrawing. The fond look Terence delivers nearly undoes him; for all that he strives to keep his emotions free from the tangle of Dion’s own, they’ve grown together, and Dion realizes, refusing to school his face to perfect punctual formalities, he cannot recall their first, impossible meeting. Was it on a day similar to this? Terence’s voice seems always present in Dion’s memory. He laughs openly when Dion shakes his shoulder roughly like a joyous friend, lover and proud teacher, once -- still. It is, Dion thinks, beautiful to know these shapes they have taken, and ones not yet known.
“It is an honor to serve,” Terence shouts. His voice is nearly lost amid the cacophony, the music, the parade and laughter of a city that holds Bahamut’s honor guard at its heart. They will see Sanbreque through dark, miserable times.
The ceremonial pins he awards each soldier for their valor are carved from a Wyvern’s scales. In the afternoon light, they turn glossy and green, like Bahamut’s skin was cleaved and divided among them all so they might not forget who they honor in their glory. Dion thinks it’s too on the nose. They never let him out of their sight anyway.
“Off with you all,” Dion commands, pitching his voice, watching backs straighten. “Go, be merry. I have seen enough of your faces!” Laughter sounds and Dion smiles, low and easy. Would that it were always easy, but good things are rarely simple or without endless, circular work.
Out of the stinking metal suits they live in the knights dragoon convalesce and swarm among each other, shaking each other by the back of their necks, brushing Terence’s arms with their own, inquiring about his mind and his heart and whomst he will pen first now that he’s more than their prince’s quiet shadow — Dion turns away to allow them their hope and joy. It’s in between seasons and winter storms plague the eastern shores breaking Waloed’s advances by crushing Storm’s easiest ports — he hears that the granaries are low so most of his father’s militia that keeps watch along the front lines take long, unusual absences to abate the burden of their stay, and the exhausted travel of merchants far from home request more capital for work that will reward no one. It is better to be here. Better yet, it will lead into a fateful, graceful lull of attentions. He recognizes solitude when it approaches. But he won’t stay in the palace like a clinging son and wait to depart again. As soon as clearance arrives, Dion will take his official leave, and the commander of his guard will accompany him, and all will rest easy knowing he does not roam Sanbreque’s countryside and sea side villages alone.
Now, Dion has seen what he must of his father by the afternoon, and relaxing into conversations that pull him in multiple directions, he considers what the first task of the evening might be. A book with pages who’s spine he’s not cracked, or some fine, evening walks along the low ocean waters to ground himself amid the confusion of court; perhaps alone, if Terence would like to be among friends or find his parents and celebrate as he should. Only one soul that drags him into stilting conversation refrains from asking Dion about the war, and rather inquires if he might make the salon’s first gathering come spring, when dignitaries arrive from the Dominion to spread knowledge among each other.
“No,” Dion says. “I am afraid those days have past. But would you happen to know the guests?”
The look is sympathetic. “Your Highness, your tutor will not return.”
“I see.” Dion smiles and sighs his appreciation. He wishes there was another he might turn to for company that would see Dion’s retreat on this day for what it was: a quiet anxiety that there was no return from. Harpocrates might have given him comfort in some bit of knowledge he’d hoard and discuss in near sleep to Terence, an answer to take apart when the way forward was unclear. He could tell him without concern how proud and assured he was to see Terence’s new honors. Perhaps he’d opened the door for him as children unwittingly, giving him access to all the same stories Dion would need to stay alive, but he’d put them to his own uses and returned to Dion’s side like good coin.
He turns the conversation a week prior over again in his mind for something to do. They will soon march for Oriflamme, and Terence had laughed uneasily at what for.
“What do we celebrate that isn’t Greagor — will you really forbid me a chance to stand on ceremony with you?”
Terence had drawn his leathers across his chest, still not completely barred from Dion’s touch or influence; he moved fondly into his hands when Dion reached for him, huffing warm air across his skin and considering. “Will you be standing with me? Will I see you?”
“Fool,” Dion said, soft, and threaded his fingers through his hair to hold him. “I’ll be closer than ever!”
Dion remains certain that there are few forces that could suffer his love for Terence.
Familiar dignitaries and families parade the crowds and Dion chats with few. Some are new, many distant memories, but their focuses are elsewhere. A man his senior approaches with short, sandy hair and a widening smile to join him at the dark end of the yard, a cigarette trailing smoke behind him. Later, the party will move higher within the palace, and music will rain down from Whitewyrm to capitalize the evening. Dion pins Lynnore with his eyes, and he neatly salutes Dion, passing his flute of wine from one hand to another, crossing his arm across his chest. He remembers. The association is unpleasant but old.
“At ease,” Dion says, smiling. “It is only a hello.”
“Your Highness, how far you’ve risen. I’d heard word of your order but have not returned from Rosaria to give you my regards.”
“There’s no need, but I thank you. When was your return?”
“Not far out from your own, I suspect. Your father called many back to court for this occasion.”
“I know,” Dion says. “I demanded ceremony.”
Lynnore pauses, nodding at Dion’s words. Before them, some laughing women pass and giggle when they spy him; Dion feels as if he must exist here for everyone but himself.
“It was unexpected to see what you fancy in your military. This year is tightening us all in unexpected ways. I never thought poor heralds would take command when there’s an abundance of well-bred men, but if they are yours then surely well chosen. Time afield will earn them more confidences, I suspect.”
Dion feels the immediacy of his own easy mood shift to discontent, a tang of iron in his throat. He gestures at his light, irritated. “Do you mind,” Dion says. Lynnore drags it out on the stone foundation while he considers self-restraint; he can tolerate poor company but not their words. “Forgive me, Lynnore, I thought we celebrated Greagor’s servants with honors and not sneers. I did not collect the guest book.”
“Of course, Your Highness, I understand your defensiveness. Certainly, House Clement is as old as Lesage, and there’s House Auclair and Montagne to consider as well. They’ve done well for themselves while kept by the good graces of their lords, but not without. Perhaps — I only meant it might be considered cross, per say, for a lower soldier to take the rightful place of another. I know His Highness never complained about the servants of his youth, but there’s never been wrong in doing so.”
“I know your words.” Dion waits, mouth flat.
Lynnore laughs uneasily. He’s the manner of one who knows they speak wrong but does not know how to stop. “You might recognize it’s a bit like employing a, ah, common whore in place of an educated escort.”
Dion pushes into his space, feeling his mouth snarl. “Incompetent fool,” he snaps. “Who’s house do you serve again? I would surely throw you out were you near any ranks of mine.”
His wine glass drops noiselessly on the grass and he stutters backwards. A few onlookers direct their eyes toward them, and calmly, Dion collects the glass where it may not be shattered underfoot later. Above them, crystal light meets the ochre of the evening torches, and his shadow stretches short and crooked beside him. The air is sweet and riddled with laughter, but not here. Dion tries to envision peace and finds his mind turning to his second. A headache is forming from poor sleep and company both. He must not always defend him, but he wants to.
“By the way,” Dion remarks. “The Vicereine’s men mean to return to her homeland and enforce her levies in a few days. I would have thought, considering your station, you would answer her invitation instead of coming to rib at the lack of one from myself.”
Lynnore does not answer.
Dion smiles coolly, satisfied. “Enjoy your sanctuary.”
Terence is quiet, teal and gray robes whispering against his body. The floors are glassy and the large windows make the halls icy and insular. The heels of their boots sync together in the din, though one leads and the other follows. Dion wishes now that he hadn’t hoped for anything as perilous as joy — it was certain to be dashed, and he was foolish to give up the pretense of masking it against Terence’s cleverness. He might have honored his, at least. Regret is foolish, and the day is done. He can give in.
He cranes his head and Terence turns his face to his, eyes crinkling but smile calm under his demands. He is so good at countering Dion’s despair, elevating him when he cannot help himself up, but Dion knows he’s waged wars without him that he is yet to hear. And he would hear them now — has heard them whispered by discontented men embarrassed to be bested by a courtly boy who was younger and poorer than themselves. It is no matter. The work has been good and just and endless to get here.
House Clement has always been in the care of the Lesages.
Terence’s combed hair has slipped forward with fatigue. Reaching out to still him, Dion distracts himself by restoring it to tidiness, the wax warming beneath the pressure of his fingers. Then, pressing him gently into the dark passage of a vestibule, Dion gets his hands around his reassuring mass and squeezes Terence’s biceps and strokes his thumb along the warm, inner fabric. Standing together, they simply breathe.
“My Prince, are you well,” Terence murmurs. His brow pinches. Hastily, Dion presses their chests together and Terence makes a low, quiet sound. Reclining him against the wall, Dion shoves fury from his mind. It’s only Terence inhaling reliably against him, a hand massaging into the width of his back, palm gathering between his shoulders to press at the sore spot in his neck, restoring him to grace.
“I am considering where we should take our leave,” he says. “It’s difficult,” he adds, then laughs a little. “I should like to take you somewhere quiet. Agreeable.”
Terence’s exhale stirs his hair. Dion raises his eyes to meet a plain, considerate frown. “It’s no matter to me that others dislike my ranking,” Terence says, destroying his efforts at peace, cutting to the heart of the matter. “I am your servant. That’s my honor.”
“That you are. That you weren’t.” Dion mutters a curse and an apology and stands on the balls of his feet to kiss his mouth, quick and chaste. His ears are better trained than his own. Listening quietly, no sound follows or can be heard. No men pursue them for company lost, or unwanted concern. His behavior was more than he would have liked on display; Lynnore had always been a soul keen on tradition, a champion of his father’s and dependent on his properties in west Sanbreque to keep gil flowing steadily into his coffers, and that of Dion’s own. Beyond that, Greagor’s most undeserving.
“You still can,” Terence murmurs. His sternum rumbles just above his own.
“What?”
“Take me wherever you want.”
Dion inclines his head. He was considering shores, or hunting cabins, or a tent pitched on a shaded hill.
They move back into the quiet corridor and meander slowly toward the barracks; it is the home away from home, but not when Terence is there too.
Beyond the darkness Terence is illuminated by the warm glow of a fire crystal. He rotates around Dion’s room and fills the space with light and the hearth with wood. It smells faintly of stale leather and cold stone and wetness from condensation on the rocks and old ink spills. Dion makes his way to the shutters and lets the last evening glow wash inward and across his skin. Pale gray light disappears into thundering darkness. He can imagine its crests crashing against the rocks, roaring due diligence. Further still, the blue glow of Drake’s Head silhouettes Whitewyrm, ghostly and silver and abundant above all the rest. Dion wants nothing from it except peace. He may never get it.
It will storm first. Virga streaks the sky.
“It was good news, by the way,” Terence hedges. He undoes the belt at his waist and rolls the robe off his shoulders, body moving away from the fragile material. “The slips will be in by morning. In the afternoon, if there is no griping or account to settle, we can be gone.”
“Peace,” Dion says, laughing. “We’ll have the winds at our back in any direction. We can go any time.”
“I am in no hurry,” Terence says. “But I would like to see you gone.”
He’s quiet, hands folding his robes into neat squares, the sound of fabric falling. He shucks his own and mirrors him. Dion is useless in this way, but it gives him pride to know Terence’s foundation. He turns his head to watch him bend over the trunk and turn quickly through its contents, depositing their ceremonial robes where moths may not reach. — “Don’t lie, My Prince,” Terence warns suddenly, smile severe and coring. “You would have liked to strike him.”
“I’ve wanted worse things,” Dion says.
“Impossible,” Terence says plainly. “Not for yourself.”
Dion looks at him. Misdirection is how he knows freedom; how Terence operates is on the crux that he may be seen, but never heard.
“Terence,” Dion says, fond and tired. “Sit down.”
He knows how to obey and listen and observe; Dion finds the first more difficult with every passing year. He wants to curb foolishness with his heels, and believe that he can be a master of himself and choose answers that settle his truth. Terence found his early on. He cannot raise a man like him beyond the circle of his arms without losing him entirely. It could have been kinder once to sever their thread; he only thinks of how to guard it in position to himself.
Terence sits on the deep chaise and waits. He’s obedient where Dion is not except where it counts to rebel. Terence’s grief only reveals itself in the untidy shape of his letters, his unhappiness obscured from him to make Dion believe he’s an unfailing creature. It’s a horrible thing to be adored so as to hide terrible truths; it magnifies the worst possible damage Dion could ever receive — that somewhere, he failed to protect him.
Positioning his hands at his collar Dion slides the dragon scale pins free from his throat. Terence hadn’t needed them on display at the party — he’d insisted because he was happy. They make a soft sound on the sill, delicately sliding together.
“I am not cross,” Dion says again, wetting his lips. Terence watches him, hands bloodless and anchored over his knees. Dion slides the buttons free of their embroidered loops down the length of his torso and together they shuck the sleeves from his arms. Dion lays the fabric over the arm rest and considers, frowning. “I’m furious.”
Dion stretches himself behind him and presses his face against his neck. His other hand slides below his waistline and Terence laughs a little, sagging backward into his embrace, pinning him in place. “I know few men who would hold another in their rage,” Terence says. His head turns and his eyes appraise him. There’s a gold stain against his neck from the flowers — he must have wore it until it fell apart. “You are good, Dion.”
It takes very little convincing for a show of his best traits. Dion prides himself on knowing every tic and sound as keenly as Terence knows his own. This is work that can only be learned with two pairs of good hands and they slide together along his skin, back and forth.
“Dion,” Terence murmurs, voice trembling.
“Shh.” Dion presses his mouth to his cheek and leans against him, his own hardness snug against his back. He sighs and massages his hand into Dion’s thigh as he runs his own guilelessly in unhelpful places, enjoying the soft, unblemished skin around his crotch, and the bounce of his heavy cock when he lets it fall from his hand. Dion canters onward with a sudden firm grip. Terence’s heart moves to meet his own. He digs his fingers into Dion’s calf and holds on to the thread of muscle, breath uneven and loud. Dion cannot help but match it.
A few hard passes of his fingers catching along the ridges of his skin and Terence tenses against him, slicking Dion’s fingers, and gives his weight over to the circle of Dion’s arms.
They lean against each other for sometime. The fire has warmed to a steady brilliance, and Dion pictures early mornings and nights, shuffling around gatherings of groaning men, warming their numb hands with due diligence as if Shiva’s touch had graced them.
Eventually, Terence turns around in his embrace, cock soft and devastated against his thighs, and kisses him long and sweetly until Dion withdraws to breathe.
It’s a fantasy to have him like this within easy reach of pleasure and companionship both. For every bump in the road Terence politely endures, Dion realizes he has significantly less patience.
But he can be bested.
Terence shoves himself into his arms then, pulling Dion upward, then shoving him back, and their ornaments and papers scatter beneath the thump of Dion’s shoulders abruptly hitting the table beside them. He pins him there only to knead the arousal against his hip and press into it snugly until Dion groans and jolts against him. Terence unlaces his trousers entirely and Dion hears them pool on the ground, a dull roar building in his ears, wind and air rushing past him like a great and immeasurable jump.
“Were you so dissatisfied?” Dion laughs breathlessly and pets his arm. Terence answers his query and clambers over him. A pewter teapot topples to the floor. The weight of him is warm and alluring and tempts Dion to abandon his post and devote his services where they’re appreciated. The long line of Terence’s body is certainly what ties him to this miserable place alone some days — a chance to caress him, hear his laughter in his ears, are sacred texts only between them afforded by Dion’s dedication to the field. Terence would let him do anything to him and he’d thank him for it with needless clause.
“I only thought to help you out of your own,” Terence murmurs, not helping at all. Dion fists a handful of that dark hair and draws him to his open mouth.
It’s not unlike the times in summer where divested of most clothes and sweating in the inescapable hot air, temperance grew exhausted and failed like a stretched rope. Terence would lace the tent closed with unusually clumsy fingers, peeling out of his coat of leather and steel by the entrance, and Dion would no sooner knock him down against whatever surface he caught him by, discarding all the formalities he wielded to keep his companionship safe and precious in exchange for the raw honesty of want, and they’d fuck each other stupid until the only thoughts remaining were of how the air was no cooler even stripped and languishing beside icy crystals. It was fine; they were men who could wet their dry mouths on each other, creatures living off of instinct alone. And there were rivers, which tempered them back into some reasonable shape, putting the iron back into their spines, steeling their resolution to continue forward.
Dion remembers shoving his sopping wet hair away from his eyes and watching Terence drift softly on the surface of a deep pool, dark lashes closed, face and abdomen ribbed with light spangling above. Dion had felt awed and humbled both. He was lucky. They risked everything for a stolen hour of peace. He could not dampen his spirits, or let him fall to harm, or suffer marks on him made by lords that they kept insular in the fouling air of the capital — no, he would shove him aside first, wound him himself as a form of mercy, and Terence may disobey his command if it meant parting with no reunion but go nonetheless — that’s the double-edge of his sword hewing through Dion’s graceless love. It’s his hands splitting across his belt now, kissing rows across his sternum, drawing him up to something that could level an entire province.
“You’ll be my ruin,” Dion says. “Come here.”
Dion’s pulse kicks up. He shoves off his boots and drags himself forward. Terence makes a low, throaty groan when Dion hefts him closer with an arm around his back, another clambering along his heavy, winter pale legs. His mouth is warm and open beneath his own, hands bunching in the finery along his shoulders. Dion helps him up on the desk and wets their hands with whatever vials live in the drawers, and it’s only a few delicious seconds of their eager breathing before Dion shoves into him, Terence’s bare back stuttering up along the fine oak finish and halting where sweat grips him; coins ring from a bag and clatter along the floor in tune to his generous, keening voice, and Dion mercilessly draws one of those broad legs above a shoulder to tuck in close and swallow his sounds. Music plays far away in the halls as somewhere the musicians reward the performers; Dion thinks of nothing save the show before him.
Papers slide along the ground and brush Dion’s ankles with their fine edges. Terence threads a hand through his hair and presses blunt nails against his skin, egging him on. Happiness is giving into temptation and confidently holding conference with love. He’s deluded himself into thinking he could still find that in Whitewyrm, and Terence, loyal and foolish, bid him do as his heart wanted. He’s near certain the gratitude that makes him equally proud and careful of where Terence lands at any given moment is attributed to the enormity of what he has now to lose: a man who with or without title holds residence in Dion’s shaking chest but may die in the same fires that Greagor ordains they light.
With love paving the way, Dion spills the force of it before him in long, stuttering strokes. Terence steadies him against his thighs while his hand tempts his own pleasure to completion between them. The wood groans beneath their heavy bodies, and they lie in silence afterward along its slicked surface, chests pressed together and heaving. Terence’s heart pounds against his own, plunging forward assuredly. Dion feels his breath slow to match. Sliding carefully out of the mess, Terence sits him upright to kiss him properly.
Terence’s eyes are heavy and lidded when they finally open. He says nothing, exhales and waits. He doesn’t need to.
Dion combs his fingers through his ruined hair, tracing the contours of his face, the gentle puffiness beneath his eyes that’s always made him look serious and unrested. “I do think, were you take up another’s post, you would find yourself deprived of the important things.”
Terence smiles a little. “It took so long to get what I want.” He presses his head against his own and kisses the edges of his face. “Now that I have it everything else is a terrible dream. You take up so much space. I am not unhappy. You tell yourself untrue things.” Dion strokes his face, pensive. His constitution grows tired.
“It’s work without marvel,” Dion says regretfully.
“I don’t agree,” he fires back, fingers curling to stillness against his skin. “Dion,” he says, expression suddenly firm, jaw set. His steel eyes hold him but do not trap him. “Let them be challenged. I won’t lose my composure to posturing. Neither should you.”
“I know,” Dion says with confidence, though if it’s unclear to which sentiment, Terence doesn’t comment.
The first hard wind batters the shutters then, wheezing through the high ceiling and stirring gray dust down upon them. The old building is not without its charms or antiquities.
Impossibly, Terence laughs a little, and shaking his hair and sliding away on hands and knees, shoves the hinged window with force to let the cool air rush in and strike at their naked bodies, and Dion finds himself enchanted and ruthless in his commitment all at once.
Terence turns a pastry between his fingers, considering the attack. Flaky layers crumple from his mouth and he catches them with a free hand before tossing them aside with the breeze.
The shore is still dark with recent rain and flotsam clings to rocks with bubbled grime. It smells of salt and the fading cologne still clinging to their own clothes. Side stepping a pool of water, Terence bumps in against him and presses close. At this distance, this time, obscured in the anonymity of cloaks and blackness Dion holds him near with an arm along his back. He has no concerns of prying eyes for Terence relies on him to guide them among the darkness.
“Where shall we go,” Dion says. “Do you believe it would be excessive if I were to buy us a common room along the shore? It will be busy this time of year with fishermen, however—”
“We may ride out to the pastures,” Terence interjects. “It would be more unwieldy, but private.” He holds his hand out and Dion pauses to eat, peeling the paper away. He considers, as he always does, his words. Gulls cry out, winging above like thin clouds. His gray eyes remain fixed on him. “I’ve never minded some rain.”
