Chapter Text
It's not like Gurney's gym, which Paul would describe as comfortably well-worn, with brick walls and a skylight ceiling and weathered punching bags and a small boxing ring that looks like there should be an audience watching with bags of popcorn or peanuts in their hands.
Sleek, modern, electric—or, rather, electronic. That's what Paul thinks as he studies this place. A color scheme of black and white, and all the equipment is made up of machines that have sort of LED display, and everyone is wearing very form-fitting leggings and about half of them are sipping at smoothies that are the green of freshly cut grass.
Paul, in his t-shirt and ripped, faded jeans and boots that still have grit and sand from Arrakis National Park stuck between the soles, feels rather out of place.
The man at the front desk obviously has the same thought, because he gives Paul an unimpressed once-over from head to toe, then asks, "Do you have a membership?"
Shifting his ragged backpack to rest on his feet, Paul replies, "No, I don't. I was just hoping to see Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, if he's available."
It must be a question the staff get quite often, considering Feyd's fame and the man's put-upon sigh. "We don't give out information about our members."
"I understand," says Paul. But Feyd—or, more likely, Feyd's manager—frequently posts clips of his workouts to social media. Feyd keeps to a rigorous training schedule. Paul knows that he's here now. "But would you be willing to check if he's here? And, if he is, would you just tell him that his fiancé is here to see him? My name is Paul Atreides." They are still technically engaged, even if Paul hasn't spoken to him in about three years outside of the occasional text message.
At that, a few heads turn, listening to the conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul can see two women whispering to one another and glancing at him in what they must think is a furtive manner. The man at the front desk grimaces. Paul can tell he's considering his options. If he goes and Paul is lying, then he'll have interrupted Feyd-Rautha Harkonenn's workout at the request of a man who's walked in trailing the desert behind him onto the polished gym floor. If Paul is telling the truth and he was asked to leave, then Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen will find out that his fiancé had wanted to surprise him with a visit and been sent packing.
The man says, "Wait here."
He waits, considers sitting on one of the chairs near the entrance, then thinks better of it. The gym's owner wouldn't be happy about a dusty human-shaped imprint on their plush white seats.
"Mr. Atreides?" The man returns, carrying with him a newfound respect for Paul. "If you'll just follow me to the back."
Paul hauls his backpack over one shoulder. "Thank you." Mr. Atreides—that's first time anyone's called him that since private school. And at the park he was Usul—a nickname given to him to indicate that he'd been accepted among the more senior rangers, which, when he'd first started, had been just about everyone. Stilgar was a veteran, as were Jamis and Harah, and even Chani had a season on him because she'd interned at the park when they were at university together. After a couple of years at Arrakis, even hearing Paul sounds strange to his ears. Mr. Atreides just sounds—wrong.
It's a huge gym. There's multiple rooms with multiple classes going on. Kickboxing, cycling, yoga. How many times has Paul suggested that Gurney have someone lead a morning yoga class to his gym? But Gurney's had that gym longer than Paul's been alive, and it always seems to be doing fine, especially since there's always a bunch of tough, young guys wanting to train at the same place that where Duncan Idaho got his start.
The room where Paul is led has no boxing ring, but a floor lined with mats. There's a crowd of men and women watching two fighters training. One of the fighters is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.
Shirtless, barefoot, wearing only black grappling shorts, gloves and, from the set of his lips, a mouthguard. He's larger than Paul remembers—more built. His body is like an image from a figure drawing textbook; Paul can name the musculature of his arms, his legs, his torso. Every part of him is meant to be on display, to intimidate and entice.
Feyd's sparring partner aims a kick at him. Even Paul can see it was too slow, the movement practically choreographed. Feyd dodges by drawing closer; he catches the man's leg, pins it to his side with his arm, keeping his opponent unsteady, and then strikes with his free hand, fist colliding with the other man's face with the sharp crack. The upper body of Feyd's sparring partner slumps to the safety of the mat, and Feyd unceremoniously drops the rest of him to the floor, legs deadweight. Feyd spits out a black mouthguard and says, mocking, "Good effort."
Someone hands him a towel. Feyd wicks the sweat from his face, his bare, glistening chest, and then he raises his head and his gaze finds Paul's.
Paul gives him a small smile but makes no move to greet him, standing perfectly still near the doorway, waiting.
Feyd tosses the towel aside. It lands on the floor. That isn't good gym etiquette, Paul thinks. Feyd stalks toward him, eyes bright and predatory, and wraps his arm around Paul's waist, pulling him into a possessive half-embrace. He says, "Paul."
"Hello, Feyd," he replies. "I hope I didn't interrupt your training." Which is a lie—he's come here with the intention of being a distraction.
His fiancé shakes his head. "No, I was just finishing up," says Feyd. He squeezes Paul's hip. "You look good."
"Thank you."
There is a pause, as Feyd waits for Paul to tell him the same, but Paul only raises his eyebrows, which prompts Feyd to comment, "Awfully dusty, though. Did you come here straight from Arrakis?" When Paul idly nods, Feyd's eyes widen. "Wait, are you serious? That's four days by train."
"Three and a half. It wasn't a bad trip. I like taking the train." And even the few amenities a train car offered was a luxury compared to what they'd had at the ranger housing in the park. No air conditioning, a refrigerator that was filled with more bottled water than food—the land had what was called a well but what was more akin to a muddy puddle—and an oven that was used solely to hold dishes. They'd had a microwave for frozen dinners and a campfire for everything else. Days spent making sure tourists didn't go off the trails and die from dehydration or heatstroke in the middle of the desert, and nights cooking sausages and potatoes in a cast iron skillet by the campfire, underneath a blue-black night sky glittering with stars. God, but it'd been fun!
Feyd doesn't seem to want to let him go. He brushes a bit of dirt from Paul's shoulders, picks at the collar of his t-shirt, studies the engagement ring that still graces Paul's finger with clear pleasure. Feyd says, "Come with me to the showers. We can wash off." His aim is obvious; it's not so much suggestive as it is a plain statement.
Paul replies, "I'm not a member."
"They'll make a exception if you're with me."
The small crowd is watching them with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. Word must have filtered to them by now. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's fiancé. Why didn't they know about Paul before? Why hasn't he been around to support Feyd as he's climbed the ranks?
They can ask Feyd, Paul thinks. Or, better yet, they can ask Margot Fenring. He makes a show of considering Feyd's offer, then says, "No, I really should get going. I just wanted to stop by and see you."
Something hopeful crosses Feyd's expression. "Is that right?"
"Mm-m." He traces a finger along Feyd's chest, still sticky with sweat.
"Where are you staying?"
"With Duncan," he says.
The hopeful look is quickly replaced by a familiar scowl. Feyd says, "You should have asked me."
"I could have asked you," Paul says. "But I wouldn't want to keep you from your training."
Feyd leans in even closer, his lips at Paul's ear. His voice is low and gravelly. "You know that I always have time for—what the fuck is that in your bag?"
"What? Oh!" Paul swings his backpack around and catches a tiny snout and glittering dark eyes retreating back into a hole in the ragged canvas. "That's Dibby."
"What's a dibby?"
"My kangaroo mouse. He's a rescue—he can't be released into the wild, he wouldn't survive—so I took him!" That hadn't been strictly legal—but it hadn't been illegal, either. Just somewhat frowned upon. Chani had told him that he couldn't save every injured animal in the wilderness, but Paul hadn't wanted nor expected to do that. He only wanted to care for this one. Besides, there'd have been no one else to look after him in the ranger house now that the season was over. It only made sense for Paul to bring him along.
Feyd stares at him. "A pet rat?"
"A kangaroo mouse. And he's not a pet—he's more like a companion," Paul says.
"Right." Feyd frowns. "Does Idaho know he's getting an extra roommate?"
Paul pats his backpack fondly. He can hear Dibby scuffling inside one of the pockets. "Of course. I wouldn't just spring that on him. But he loves Dibby."
"Loves, huh?" Feyd sucks his teeth. "You know, I have a match coming up."
"I know. I already have a ticket." He adds, "Lanville is a friend of Duncan's."
"And no doubt you'll be cheering him on," says Feyd through gritted teeth.
Paul nods. "That's right. But the best man will win."
"I won't disappoint you." From the look on Feyd's face, his tone of voice—he's not just talking about the match. Give me another chance, he's saying. I won't disappoint you again.
He doesn't want to say, We'll see, doesn't think he could stop himself from sneering if he said it, so instead Paul hums and moves to leave. "I'd better get going."
Feyd grabs hold of his wrist. "Don't I get a goodbye kiss?"
Bold as ever! Paul raises an eyebrow. "Do you think you deserve one?" he asks.
His fiancé says nothing, but the expression on his face is half-glowering, half-pleading. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is always handsome, but he is so extremely cute when he pouts. Paul smiles. He brushes their lips together, the barest hint of a kiss, but when he draws away Feyd lets out a long exhale, his gaze dark and wanting.
Feyd's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. He rasps, "Welcome home, Paul."