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Mehen cannot fall asleep, no matter how much he’d tried. He’d already reviewed lengthy reports for hours, brewed some medicinal tea, yet slumber continues to evade him.
Giving up, he sits by the window, opting to watch the moon instead. He leans his head against the frame, olive green eyes murky with exhaustion.
Despite his busyness for the past few weeks, his mind still worries for someone, thoughts filled with the person he sometimes wished he’d never met at all—his biggest headache, his worst problem to date, his sole reason behind all the frustration he’d been feeling lately.
He closes his eyes, and all he sees is a man he wishes he doesn’t look for.
“Valer,” he breathes weakly. “Answer my damn messages, you fucking useless bastard.”
“You called for me?”
Mehen’s head jerks up at the sound. This must be a hallucination or something. “What—”
A light chuckle breathes by his ear, husky and familiar and all things annoying. “Has my beloved wife missed me?”
Mehen nearly springs away from where he’s sitting, shuddering from the feeling of that man—that bastard’s breath so close to his skin. “V-Valer!” he does his best not to raise his voice, fearing he’d wake Arellyn sleeping several rooms away. “Could you please not fucking do that?!”
“Such foul mouth, dear wife,” Valer laughs, purple eyes bright with mirth. “At the very least, you should greet your husband well, honey.”
“Call me wife one more time and I’ll show you what a proper greeting is,” Mehen seethes, and Valer only answers with another laugh.
“Don’t be mad, now,” Valer placates him, then sits close to the still-glaring Mehen. Swallowing another chuckle, he says, instead, “Halbern has been quiet lately, I hear.”
“Everyone has been very busy, my lord,” Mehen answers, rising from his seat to brew fresh tea for the Grand Duke. “Arel included. She’s been very dedicated to her studies, too.”
“Has His Highness…” Valer trails off, seeing the slight furrow between Mehen’s brows, beginnings of murder brewing in his aura. “No, forget I asked that. I don’t think I would like to hear your answer.”
“News has probably reached you at this point, my lord,” Mehen says, tone deceptively placid. “Albeit late, I suppose.”
“I have my ways of knowing.” Valer’s eyes are on Mehen, who’s preoccupied with serving him tea. “As long as I know you and Arel are all right, I see no reason to worry.”
Mehen sighs, irritation flaring once more. “At the very least,” he grits, glaring down at his supposed superior, “you should be more present here in this mansion. I understand you have duties at the Northern Fortress, but—” Mehen suddenly stops, nearly spilling his own tea.
Valer tilts his head, raising a brow. “But?”
Mehen looks away, fighting back the urge to complain (nag, Valer would say) more about the Head of the House’s more frequent absences. Part of him urges Mehen to be the ‘responsible’ servant—to remind Valer more of his duties as the Head of House Halbern, look after his duchy, and be more present in the court, if need be.
Yet another reminds Mehen of the sacrifices Valer had to do for the sake of the household, especially for his adorable daughter. Of the secrets Valer cannot say, even on his last breath.
Of the violent after-effects Valer does his best to downplay, never mind if Mehen could see through his lies, anyway.
“Forget it,” Mehen finally says, letting the matter drop. He sits on the windowsill again, this time a bit closer to where Valer is. “If I say any more, you’ll say I’m nagging again, my lord.”
“Of course you would, you’re my wife,” Valer laughs. “What kind of wife does not worry for his husband?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Silence falls between them, neither awkward nor comfortable. Mehen keeps his eyes down, wondering what stupid thoughts are spinning inside the bastard’s head.
For all the years that Mehen had known the man before him, there were times that he just couldn’t guess what the other was thinking. Of what kept him occupied lately, other than the monsters endangering the Northern Fortress. While there are days that Mehen could accurately guess what Valer would do in certain situations, the unexpected ones kept happening one after the other, sometimes Mehen doubted himself.
If there is one thing that Mehen is very sure of, however, it would be Valer’s utter shamelessness and lack of desire to be truly sincere in looking after the duchy.
Mehen swallows another sigh, turning his gaze back up to the moon. For a fleeting moment, he remembers their younger days—Valer was the Young Master, then. More than once, he’d snuck out with Mehen, playing under the moonlight, sometimes tracing the constellations with him and sharing stories under the stars. Many times, Mehen forgot the passage of time; by the time the two of them returned to the manor, the deep black skies were beginning to lighten with the faint first rays of the sun.
Things had been a bit easier, back then. Mehen had less problems on his mind, and Valer had been more present within the household. Valer had smiled more, laughed more, shared more of himself.
Time had passed too fast between them, spilling through their fingers. Yet Mehen finds it strange that time seems to trickle each time they’re together.
Just like now, sitting by the window, watching the moon and saying nothing, letting the quiet envelop them.
“Mehen.”
The soft rasp close to his ear wakes Mehen back, and he barely turns his head towards the leaning Valer. Doesn’t move, not even a little, as Valer rests his head on Mehen’s lap.
“You probably wonder,” Valer whispers, “why I’m here.”
Mehen doesn’t answer. Keeps his gaze on the moon above them, glowing in the star-filled sky.
“There’s a strange phenomenon back at the Northern lands, you see,” Valer murmurs, seemingly uncaring that Mehen is yet to say something. “So strange, it disturbed the knights at first. I thought it was a sudden monster invasion, yet turns out, flowers have bloomed in snowy soil.
“Flowers,” Valer smiles, “that, by laws of nature, shouldn’t bloom in such a harsh, freezing environment. Can you guess what they are, honey?”
Only then does Mehen look at him, about to snarl something about calling him such disgusting names, yet his words cut short when Valer hands him flowers.
“Mehen. Do you remember?”
Stunned, Mehen can only blankly take the flowers from Valers’s hand, the familiar scent filling his nose. Taking him back to that early evening, when the skies so resembled Valer’s eyes it took his breath away—
“My sister once told me of the magic embedded deep in the flowers, and of their language,” Valer’s eyes are on Mehen, drinking in every emotion on his retainer’s face. “I didn’t believe her at first; only indulged her as best I can, yet unable to fully absorb them at all.
“And yet, when I saw those flowers blooming by the snowy cliffs,” Valer’s voice drops even lower, no louder than a breath, “nothing else came to my mind, except you. Of that twilight, when we snuck away in the fields…”
Mehen feels cool fingers lace through his trembling ones, warming all parts of him that he never realized were left cold for so long. Remembers, too vividly, of a young boy’s wide smile as he led them through the vast fields close to the mountains, calling his name.
Of a young boy’s eyes as mesmerizing as the twilight skies above him, nightfall blending in with the setting sun. Of endless lavender fields, sweet smelling in the early evening air.
Those eyes are looking through him now, wide and clear, and Mehen, for the life of him, cannot find it in himself to look away.
“Mehen,” Valer calls him softly. Mehen’s heart betrays his master—and Mehen’s sure, very, very sure, that Valer, the bastard, can hear it.
“Do you know what this flower means?”
Mehen knows—he’d read about it, he’d once heard it in passing when he dropped by the apothecary. Was once asked by Arel herself, not so long ago, when a basket of them was sent her way.
“Purity,” Mehen answers, his heart thumping. “Protection. Royalty. And…”
The cool fingers tighten around his, Valer’s face slowly rising close to Mehen’s.
Mehen should push that face away. Throw curses, threaten Valer’s life even if they end up as empty words. Release his fingers from Valer’s sure grip, create a distance between them as master and retainer.
Yet. And yet.
“And what, Mehen?” Valer’s voice is not tinged with teasing, without folly. His eyes are amethyst flames, burning away what remains of Mehen’s common sense. “Tell me.”
Later, Mehen will reason out with himself that Valer had cast him some stupid spell that muddled his mind and melted his better senses away. Later, Mehen will convince himself that he got too caught up in the moment, that he was taken off-guard for him to make sense of things.
All that will come later.
Right now, all Mehen can see is Valer’s eyes, eyes that caught him from the very moment he held out his hand to him. Brighter than the morning star, with his hair like a halo in the summer sunlight.
“Devotion,” Mehen whispers. “Eternal affections that transcend lifetimes.”
And—
Something so warm, so soft brushes against Mehen’s lips, a petal-like touch too fleeting to catch. It is over before Mehen can even make sense of it, before his mind can catch up with his heart.
“My dearest Mehen,” Valer murmurs, so close to his lips Mehen thinks he can taste it, still, “take care of it until I come back, all right?”
Olive-green eyes, dazed with confusion and many other emotions Mehen dares not name, meet bright violet ones. “Where…?”
When Mehen’s better senses return, Valer is nowhere to be seen. The only proofs that he was ever there was the barely finished, now cold tea, the scent of metal, snow, and blood lingering in the air.
The fresh lavenders on Mehen’s hands, the warmth on Mehen’s lips, the uneven thumps of Mehen’s heart.
“Valer?”
Come morning, House Halbern’s servants will wonder why Mehen is out of sorts for the whole day, barely finishing his tasks and only managing to make sure Arel’s needs are met. Come morning, the maids will wonder why their Lord Mehen is more temperamental than usual, grumbling about how useless, how stupid, how fucking reckless Grand Duke Valer is.
Come morning, Arel will notice the lonely sprig of lavender on her Mom’s desk, strangely remaining fresh despite the whole day passing.
Yet right now, there is only a man sitting by the window, gazing up at the moon, a name on his lips and a heart stolen away in exchange for another.