Chapter Text
There are no birds on Geidi Prime.
No animals of any kind in its capitol save for the hordes of small, sickly grey rodents in the lower city.
Pilingitam trees grow far into the west - the last piece of the planet’s original forests allowed to thrive, purely for logging and export purposes. He’d been taken there once, thirteen and already so, so angry at the world – he’d already learnt what was to have hate burn through your veins like fire. Awed by the towering trunks and distinctive lime-green leaves from his holo-tapes, walking amongst the trees he’d strayed far from the logging operations, going deeper into the forest and pulling sweet fresh, unpolluted air into his lungs for the first time in his life.
One might think this would have made him happy, perhaps filled him with comfort or joy – to walk beneath the canopy of hundred-year-old giants, to feel the brush of grass and the crunch of dry leaves under his boots for the first time in his life. But it had not. Instead – bitter unfairness had boiled contempt and anger in the bit of stomach.
Every rustle of a leaf, every crunch under his boot, even the damp wet smell of moss and fungi was a reminder of how devoid his life was of such things. The grey wasted landscape of his home, the ambient drone of machinery never ceasing. No wet smells of soil and new life – oil, smoke, and the astringent smells of chemicals had filled his lungs since the moment of his birth.
He had left thoroughly unimpressed and disgusted at his planet’s dependence on such an outdated, vulgar export, quietly determined to make the whole process obsolete when he was in power.
Caladan has birds.
Caladan has a lot of animals.
The planet breathes as though it’s alive and not simply a chunk of rock.
Forests and wooded groves, lush green orchards filled with fruits of reds, yellows, and oranges. Greenhouses bursting with exotic flowers and fruits, the smell of them filling the courtyards and drifting in through the southern windows on the days when the wind is still.
Salt, seaweed, and brine forever permeates the air, kicked up by churching waves against sharp cliffs. The docks are constantly busy, fisherman returning with nets bursting with trout and salmon. Once, he sees a boat return with a catch of long, hideous tube fish which Pauls points out as eels.
There are birds in more colours and sizes then he’s ever imaged. From the bright red chested pheasants which are present at almost every meal, to the white gulls which circle the docks constantly, squawking and screeching over the leftovers dropped by the fishermen.
Lady Jessica has a fondness for parrots, he discovers, bright yellow little things with orange faces, their feathers tapering into greens and blues at the tips of their wings and into their tails. Not native to Caladan, Paul explains one night when he mentions them.
Duke Leto had them imported as a surprise for her after Paul’s birth, in the two decades since, the population had exploded. The original dozen turning into more than a hundred flying freely around the castle grounds, never straying too far from Castle Caladan and the orchards, hiding in the greenhouses during winter.
Birds make a lot of noise he discovers. They chatter and screech with the rising of the sun, sometimes they sit in open windows clicking and chittering until you feed them pieces of fruit from your plate, sometimes they bite – this he’d learnt one morning when he’d fed one a piece of apple at Paul’s direction. He now has a scar on his knuckle as a reminder to move his fingers away quicker.
He can hear them now, squawking and screaming over the berry bushes far below Paul’s bedroom window, their noises carrying in the wind.
He knows he technically doesn’t have to awaken with Paul or join him for the traditional morning sparring session with Idaho, and frankly he’d be overjoyed to sleep through the family breakfast – something he finds to be a strange and odd custom, unsettled and uneasy at the way the family genuinely seem to enjoy spending time together.
However, he’s well aware his continued acceptance on this planet, and in Paul’s life, rests in the Duke’s hands. He is allowed here because Duke Leto is soft when it comes to the needs and wants of his children- willing to bring the very devil into his household if it means Paul’s happiness. But even he has his limits - what they are, Feyd has not discovered yet.
Integration is his best chance of survival, he’s desperately aware of how tenuous his welcome is, how delicately the floor under his feet is balancing, propped up only by the weight of the Atreides tolerance of him – and their indulgence of Paul.
He thinks he’s doing well, blending in. He’s never been one to shy away, or to avoid attention, but he does know how to appear invisible, he’s always been good at that – a necessary skill developed in childhood when staying unnoticed in shadows was very much necessary for survival.
So, he keeps his head down, his stance loose, unthreatening, and he speaks to the other members of the Atreides household only when spoken to - there was an entire week not long ago where he didn’t say a word to anyone besides Paul.
Pressing his head further back into the pillow, he releases a groan, desperate to drown out the jarring noise of the outside world just a little longer. It’s early morning, the sun just peeking over the horizon and beginning to warm the air.
Days are spent following Paul around like a shadow, standing off to the corner waiting to be summoned into conversation while he makes himself as small and unassuming as he can – not an inconsiderable feat considering he stands at six foot two, the broadness of his shoulders dwarfing Paul as he looms behind him like a particularly pale Golem.
Humble and obedient has never come naturally, but Feyd is nothing if not adaptable and after spending so many years seeking out and extracting the weakness in others, he knows how to successfully emulate it.
Nights are spent learning each other again Sex had come slowly in those early weeks of his arrival, Paul content with gentle touching, exploring with inquisitive fingertips dragging along collarbones and ribs, warm hands sliding under his shirt and across the hard expanse of his stomach, skittering away should Feyd’s hands stray into more intimate territory.
Early mornings - those first few seconds of waking, are usually the worst. Often, he wakes gasping and shivering, heart jack hammering in his chest as the last of his nightmares fade and melt from his memory, leaving behind cold fear and damp sweat.
He’d give anything to be able to sleep in past dawn – the Atreides strict regimental way of living at war with a lifetime of leisure. He’s spent the majority of his life in late hazy nights and sleeping through until afternoon hunger forced him from his bed – not here, the Atreides wake at dawn and are disgustingly perky about it.
It’s worth it though, for this.
He wakes with Paul plastered to his side, face pressed into the dip of his neck, snoring softly. Paul’s breath is always warm and damp against his skin, his hand holding tightly and possessively at his hip – It’s been just over two months since they’d reunited and still Paul clutches at him in his sleep like he’s afraid Feyd might disappear in the night.
Leaning against a pile of impossibly soft pillows, head pressed back and throat bared, chest tight and breathless. Paul – beautiful, ethereal, gasping Paul, moving against him. Desperate pants against Feyd’s mouth, rhythmic little thrusts against his abdomen. Hands splayed against the wooden headboard, fingers catching on the wood grain, breath catching in high whines.
Feyd lets him set the pace, rocking against him, holding Paul’s hips and keeping him on rhythm whenever he loses it. He’s burning up, feels his calloused fingers press tightly at the soft, hot skin of Paul’s flanks. He’s not being gentle, gripping down in a way he knows will leave bruises.
Paul drops down, cheek pressed against Feyd’s, fluttery warm breaths against his ear. Pulling back, Paul’s lips crash against his and Feyd growls into the addicting heat.
He’d give anything to stay here together indefinitely, safe and comfortable in the one room in the Castle he’s beginning to think of as his home.
…
“You’re late.” Gurney grumbles at them, eyes narrowed as they enter the training room.
Teeth gnaw on the inside of his cheek, sharp pain distracting him from the abrasive response crawling up his throat.
Paul makes no effort to hide his eye roll, pulling a face at Gurney with a good-natured smirk. “I didn’t think you were still keeping my schedule old man.”
Feyd watches Paul kick off his boots, toes flexing against the polished stone floor. The young man preferring to spar barefoot with minimal protection – if Paul had his way, they wouldn’t even use the shields when sparring with each other.
It’s the only time to date Feyd has refused to budge against Paul, refusing to engage until he’d agreed to the shields at a minimum. After so many years of fighting in blood and slaughter, he doesn’t fully trust himself not to lose himself in the haze of good fight.
“You’ve been slacking.” Gurney answers smartly, throwing a practice dagger to Paul who catches it expertly.
“I’ve recently found better ways to spend my mornings.” Paul shoots back with a smirk.
Heat itches at the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to pinch the back of Paul’s neck in retaliation for bringing Halleck’s attention to him – instead meeting the disgruntled Warmaster’s gaze with a flat expression, shoulders tense and worrying at the sore spot on the inside of his cheek.
Gurney’s eyes narrow, followed by a smile which shows altogether too many teeth and Feyd knows the next few hours are going to be unpleasant.
Harkonnen soldiers are known throughout the Imperium for their skill and the punishing training they all undertake. They’re disposable and easily replaceable and because of this many of them die during training in order to carve out the strongest and most brutal amongst the ranks.
An hour into training with Gurney Halleck and Feyd begins to see why the Atreides consistently trounce them in any kind of open warfare.
Sweat coats his body, stifling in the way it makes his clothes stick to him, shield humming across his skin like an invisible blanket. He feels an exhaustion in his extremities he hasn’t felt since the very early days of his training as a child.
“Lift that left arm up properly!” Halleck yells at him when he allows his arm to dip slightly, muscles burning in protest.
“Paul! If you twist that right knee one more time, I’ll have you running drills with the new recruits for a week!”
Halleck slaps his hand against the knee in question, earning himself a dirty look from Paul.
“I’m an adult, you can’t yell at me like this.” Paul mumbles under his breath – but they both correct their stances accordingly.
They share a few practice blows, moving through the basic motions of a fight, each time he deflects one of Paul’s blows, or dodges an attack, he sees out of the corner of his eye Gurney’s scowl etching deeper onto his brow.
“I was right. You have been slacking. Stop pulling your fucking hits! Hit him properly!” Gurney growls, not just to Paul but to him too and Feyd wonders how he’d known he’s been holding back.
Clearly having enough of being yelled at, eyes alight and bright, Paul twists, drops his left shoulder and swings at him. Fuck he’s fast. Feyd barely gets his defence up in time to block – Gurney Halleck is right; he had been dropping his left arm too low – before Paul’s attack lands. He stumbles back at the force of the blow, stunned at the strength behind it, and the three more blows that follow, each of them landing with crushing speed and precision.
“You’ve been holding back.” He accuses Paul breathlessly, still a little stunned at the speed and strength Paul has just thrown at him.
Just out of sight, Gurney snorts “You’re one to talk. I’ve fought Harkonnens my whole life kid, and I know you didn’t survive the arena’s fighting like this. I haven’t trained Paul for twenty years for you to pussyfoot around him.”
“You want me to hurt him?” He spits out, exhausted and frankly more than a little irritated at spending an hour being yelled at by a man he’d like to take a swing at most days. The last instructor who spoke to him the way Halleck did received a crushed larynx for it.
“This isn’t foreplay. If you can’t push each other, you shouldn’t train together.” Gurney snaps back.
Something of his thoughts must show, a clench of his jaw, a flex of his fingers as he turns away from Paul to shoot a look at the Warmaster because suddenly Paul is next to him, breathless and sweaty, smile shining brightly as the adrenaline of a good workout pumps through him.
Gentle fingers stroke at the inside of his wrist, calming and grounding, Paul pressing up against his side and he unclenches his jaw with an imagined creak.
“It’s time to get ready for the council meeting.” Paul directs at Gurney pointedly, a steel in his voice not even Halleck can ignore.
Feyd allows himself to be hustled and nudged out the door, ignoring the scowl on Gurney’s face in favour of inhaling the tantalising scent of a sweaty Paul, resisting the urge to grab at him the way he wants to.
…
Council meetings.
How he hates council meetings.
They’re glued together for the most part. Sleep together, eat together, train together – Feyd has become Paul’s own personal ghost, never more than two steps behind him.
But once a day Paul splits off to discuss Caladan’s business with the various advisers. It’s one place Feyd categorically isn’t welcome - his presence is tolerated throughout the rest of the Castle, but Paul has never extended an invitation into that room - it’s not his to give Feyd knows, that power belongs only to the Duke.
Every day he watches that door close between them and it’s like a tether is cut, leaving him suddenly unmoored, alone. Castle Caladan grows large and hostile around him, the warmth around him draining away without the protection of Paul.
He hates it, the weakness which has grown in him in the past months. Never in his life has he not been useful in some way, the purpose he had been raised for – however distasteful a purpose it has been – has been cut away from him, leaving him as little more than a decorative piece of furniture moved from one room to the next.
So, he retreats to Paul’s rooms, secure and safe in the knowledge he won’t bump into anyone there, or startle some servant not prepared to turn a corner and see a six-foot tall Harkonnen standing in the hallway.
The bed is already made by the time he makes it back to the room and he stands frozen in place for a moment, tongue pressing absently at the welt he’s chewed on the inside of mouth before deciding a shower will adequately kill some time.
Afterwards he dresses in soft, flowing cotton in a dark grey – thankfully the Atreides tastes run towards stormy coastal colours of deep blues, deep greys, and mossy greens - he’s forever grateful he’s not had to give up his preferred colour pallet.
He’s never been interrupted here, everyone knows where Paul is at this time of day, and certainly no one is coming looking for him – until Duke Leto enters the room, preceded only by a quiet knock – having the nerve to look as equally startled as Feyd feels, blinking owlishly at the man from the bed, legs crossed and book held loosely in his hand.
“Paul’s not here.” A redundant thing to say, as pointless and useless as he feels most days and he resists the urge to roll his eyes at his own inane comment.
“I know.” Leto tips his head in acknowledgement, a rueful smile pulling at his mouth. “Walk with me?”
It’s framed as a question, unnecessarily. Feyd is in no position to decline.
He’s guided to the southern side of the Castle grounds, a small courtyard opening up to a broad expanse of tough shrubs and rocky ground, tiny stones sliding across loose sand, trying to trick his ankles into rolling.
The wind rips at his clothes, cutting through the thin linen of his shirt. Immediately damp begins to cling to him from the spray of water kicked up by crashing against the rocky shoreline.
“I would like us to agree to speak the truth, plainly to one another. I have no patience for platitudes or political games in my own household.” Leto begins, a kind and easy smile draped over the aura of authority like a shroud.
Salt air, fresh and sharp floods his lungs – it’s a feeling he’s still not used to, standing small and vulnerable against the vast expanse of churning sea. Paul loves it out along the shore, will spend hours pointing out various bird species and plant life, so Feyd follows him here often but truthfully the itch of unease doesn’t leave his skin until he’s back surrounded by castle walls.
“I can do that.” He answers simply, watching the Duke with wary eyes.
Leto nods before turning his attention to the sea, looking out at some far off thing in the distance Feyd cannot begin to imagine – he tries not to spend too long looking at the vast expanse of water, it makes him desperately uncomfortable, and more than a little nauseous.
It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together, already they’ve spoken more words to one another than they have done in the past two months combined.
There’s a lot of the Duke in Paul; they share far more features than not. He’s got his mother’s complexion, her nose, and that sly little smile that pulls at Paul’s mouth when he’s being cocky or cheeky, but the rest is all Leto.
Dark eyes framed by long lashes; heavy curls that whip wildly in the breeze no matter how much oil is used to control them. There’s grey in the Duke’s though, peppered through the once pitch black hair, and fine wrinkles crease at the corners of his eyes.
If this is Paul’s map for aging, he’s truly been blessed with kind genetics, luckier than him as any rate. If the state of his uncle or his brother is the future he’s fighting against, well it’s probably a very good thing he’s essentially given up drinking since arriving here. He should probably start eating more vegetables, take up exercise as a hobby, maybe even -
“When I was a boy, I used to imagine what kind of Duke I might be.”
Leto jerks him from his rambling thoughts, and he brings the world back into focus with a blink.
“What great deeds would I accomplish in battle, what legacy would I leave? Would I leave any legacy at all, or would my name simply fade amongst all the others who came before me and never managed to be anything other than average?”
“I’ll wager your name will be remembered much more fondly than mine will.” Feyd points out bluntly – his own unfortunate legacy something he’s been very pointedly avoiding thinking about.
Leto laughs, sharp and little ruefully. “The Duke who took in his homosexual son’s lover, a Harkonnen no less, is not quite the legacy I imagined I would leave behind.”
“I betrayed my people; I’m a traitor of the highest order. It was only the promise of supporting Rabban as my replacement, uncontested, that afforded me my life as I left.” Feyd counters.
“You still think of them as your people?” Leto questions, doing a poor job at hiding his interest.
“Aren’t they?” Feyd picks up a polished stone, rubs the grit off with his thumb. “Sixty years from now, geriatric, drooling into my porridge because I can’t chew anymore, your people.” Derision slips out, bitterness black and think seeps through his words like muck.
“Paul’s people, with still name me the Harkonnen in their heads and in whispered conversations behind my back.” Arm hooking back, a flick of the wrist, and he sends the stone flying across the water. Paul’s been trying to teach him how to skip rocks – unsuccessfully – and he watches the stone plop and sink with a blink.
“I don't know what I’m good for anymore.” He admits, something hot and bright burning in his chest, a headache brewing behind his eyes and the taste of blood filling his mouth as he bites down on the chunk of cheek he’s been abusing all week. “The only things I know – the only skill set I’ve ever had any talent for – there’s no place for any of that here.”
“You were raised to rule.” Leto points out rather tentatively.
“I was raised to subjugate. Not rule, there’s a difference.”
“You have all the same training Paul does.” The Duke pushes, “You’re intelligent, and too competent by half to be happy simply warming his bed for the rest of your life. It’d be such a waste.”
“With respect, what is your point?” Feyd cuts him off, patience beginning to thin. “My Lord.”
“My point, is there a life here for you if you want it, beyond Paul.” Leto murmurs softly. “Think about it.” He makes a move to rest his hand on Feyd’s shoulder, aborting the gesture when Feyd tenses ramrod straight at the movement, dropping it awkwardly to his side. “A lifetime is an awfully long time to exist only within the orbit of another. And resentment is a sickness that nothing survives.”
…
He does think about it. In fact, he spends the rest of the day thinking about it. Paul initially spends the afternoon watching him curiously, periodically trying to pull him into conversation – giving up on the fourth attempt when Feyd responds to his offer of a blowjob with a distant, non-committal hum.
He leaves Feyd to his thoughts with an indulgent eye roll, curling up on his favourite plush monstrosity of a chair in the far corner of their rooms to read his book – while Feyd sits on the low, long chaise lounge he’d claimed as his own favourite spot almost immediately.
Had there been a plan at some point? Had there been some half formed, nebulous idea of what came after? Getting out had been his only goal for half a decade, Paul had been the goal. And he’d lived, breathed, and killed for it. Every day, every breath, every moment of cruelty, indignity, and shame had reverberated with one thought and one thought only – Paul.
But he’s here now, Paul – his one reason for existing through the last six years – is right there, curled up not four feet away chewing absently on his thumb nail – and yet he feels like he’s cracking, splintering around the edges of his being.
“You’ll be Duke one day.” The words drop for his mouth, a half-formed thought escaping unbidden.
“That does tend to be how it works.” Paul murmurs absently, soft pink lips twitching into a smirk – never looking up from his book.
“And what will I be?”
This does reward him with Paul’s attention, the young man furrowing his brow at him, eyes that Feyd knows see too much boring into him.
Paul’s answer is soft, simple. “Whatever you want to be.”
Paul closes his book, placing it on a small end table as he gracefully unfurls himself. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”
What, exactly, does he want? What is he outside of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, Na-Baron? What is he outside of loving Paul?
“Do you want to be Baron?” Paul suggests, head cocked. “To rule Geidi Prime after all? It might run us a little thin, ruling two planets at once, but we’d manage.”
Paul is stalking over to him, bare footed and in a knitted jumper slightly too long in the arms for him - slow and languid, a teasing smile made all the more enchanting by the promise in his eyes.
“No? A different planet? Gamont maybe? That planet is dripping in so much gold I’m shocked it’s not fallen out of the sky, and it’s ruled by a veritable moron.”
He lets out a huff as Paul throws his leg over his waist and pushes himself up to perch over his lap, letting his head fall back against the arm of the lounge – hands falling naturally to thin hips as Paul drops his weight down.
“Or Arrakis?” Paul continues, eyes dropping to Feyd’s mouth – the same thumb he’d been nibbling on earlier pulling down on Feyd’s bottom lip. “The desert climate might be a little rough on your complexion though. Although I do find myself missing those little freckles.”
Feyd raises an eyebrow at that one, sneaking his fingers under Paul’s shirt to stroke and squeeze along the soft skin of his ribs. “With your reaction to Spice? Better not.”
Long, delicate fingers trace across his cheeks, sweeping under his eyes and down his jaw. The touch is soothing and relaxing, and he chases it when Paul pulls his hands away, moving his mouth in close in their place. “How about the Golden Lion Throne?” he whispers it against Feyd’s lips, taunting and teasing, “I could make you Emperor.”
Eyes fluttering closed, Feyd can’t contain the groan that escapes him. Paul is heady and warm against him, he smells of lavender and mint from the gardens, a hint of charcoal and lead on his fingers from his art. It floods his scenes, rushes through his nervous system – better than any drug.
“Could you really?” He whispers it, gasps it out as a moan when warm lips brush his check and press to the sensitive curve of his ear.
“The threads of fate can always be rewoven if you know where to pull.” Paul promises him, his voice like warm honey dripping into his ear. “I know where to pull. I’d bend the universe to your will, if you asked it.”
It’s forbidden to say such a thing, treason to even think it – not for the first time Feyd is swallowed by the rush of holding such a powerful thing in his hands. Paul is a bright spark of power, rare as stardust, a burning star in the universe and it makes him weak at the fucking knees to know it’s all his.
“What do you want Feyd-Rautha?”
He can feel Paul’s smirk against the shell of his ear – he knows what he’s thinking, and Feyd wins back a sliver of high ground when he rakes his nails down along Paul’s ribs, earning himself a gasped-out whine at the unexpected sensation.
“A purpose.” He answers finally. “I want to wake up in the morning and have somewhere to be, a role to fulfill. I want to contribute something of use to you and Caladan. I want to be welcome here, not merely tolerated.”
Pulling back, Paul sits upright on his lap, looking down at him thoughtfully. “It’d be easier for me to get you the throne.” Paul replies, deadpan – teeth pulling at his lip as he thinks. “Well, I did promise you anything.”
Lips capture his, finally in a kiss. He inhales sharply, welcoming the press of Paul’s body against his own, hands cupping his face to pull him deeper.
“So tomorrow, let’s find you a purpose.” Paul manages to mumble against his mouth, Feyd swallowing his startled laugh when he pins Paul against him and expertly tips and rolls him – pinning him against the lounge.
“Right now, my purpose is to make you fucking scream.” He bites down hard on the juncture where throat meets neck, grinding down against Paul’s already swollen cock – and Paul, to his delight - screams.