Chapter Text
The hearth has gone cold, and the candle a dying wick.
Maekar got up from the bed, found his tunic where it had fallen off and drew it over his head in the dark, although there was no need for it. Baelor slept like the dead once he was spent, he always had, since their youths.
He stood for a moment and looked at Baelor, his brother, his lover, the king of the Seven Kingdoms; asleep on his belly with one arm flung across the space where he had lain. The hair was short now, too short for the curls that used to frame his face, and the dark hairs are coming in silver at his temple.
Baelor was past forty, and still the most handsome man Maekar had ever laid eyes on. Gods, how foolish am I? Maekar thought, flushing as he chided himself. It was an old, familiar ache, and he had long since stopped expecting it to fade.
I love you, he thought. I have loved you since I was a boy and I will love you until they burn me.
And Baelor did not love him, at least not in the way he wanted him to, and that truth had settled so long ago that Maekar no longer felt its sting. What their relationship asked of him now was simple, tangible, and only physical. The rest of what he was offering, the yearning, the need, the want; those were never asked, and in turn never offered.
It had begun over wine, after all, and he had never once pretended it to be more than it was. Half a year past Jena’s death or near it, almost a year ago now. The day had been long, the council session longer, and both of them were worn thin by the end of it. Afterward, in the king’s solar, they drank until the flagon stood empty. Maekar could not have said who reached out first; he was certain it was Baelor, though perhaps that certainty was only the shield against the humiliation of having reached himself first.
He had woken in the king's bed with the sunrise light breaking dawn to find his clothes strewn from door to bed, and he knew the maids would be coming in to wake Baelor soon enough. He had gathered his clothes with his heart slamming in his chest, had dressed himself swiftly and practically ran to his own chambers. He had lain there the rest of that morning turning the night over and over in his mind. Baelor had kissed him first, Baelor had wanted him, and it had felt like the start of something. Finally, he thought, finally he could have him again.
But later that day, across the council table, Baelor was grave and courteous and gave nothing away, as though there had been no night at all. Maekar felt the giddy certainty in his chest harden into something colder. He did not let it show, could not bear to show how foolish he was, to have thought one convenient night was anything more. He matched that cold formality with his own, as if the night had never happened.
Two nights later, a page came to his door. The king would see him. He did not think much of it, it was common enough for Baelor to request his company after the day’s business. Sometimes they spoke of their children, sometimes of the realm; sometimes they only shared a cup and let the silence stretch easy between them. He went, as he always went, and he did not let himself think for a second, about what he wished it would be about instead.
To his surprise, the second he closed the door behind him, Baelor was on him; kissing him hard, pushing him back against the wall. Maekar’s breath caught in his throat, and as he kissed his brother back the giddy feeling resurfaced for half a second, and it disappeared again when Baelor pulled away.
We can help each other, like this, Baelor had said, staring at him with his two toned eyes, and the word help gnawed at him. For a heartbeat he thought of shoving Baelor away, of guarding what little of himself remained untouched. But then Baelor’s mouth found that place at his throat, and the sound that escaped him was not protest but a moan. His arms closed around his brother, and the resolve he had clung to unraveled, leaving only the reckless pull of wanting.
A fool then, and a fool now, he thought to himself as he gathered his boots in one hand and let himself out of the king’s chambers.
He must have drifted, though it felt less like sleep than simply shutting his eyes. He woke to the feeling of the mattress dipping beside him and a warm hand cupping his jaw.
“Wake up,” a voice said. It was Baelor’s and yet not. There was a lightness to it he had not heard in years. No grief attached to it, gone the weary drag the crown had laid upon every word now.
He opened his eyes and found Baelor leaning over him, close enough that his dark curls caressed his forehead. It was Baelor but wrong; gone was the grey from his temples, the wrinkles around his eyes. Instead there was a boy no more than twenty, looking down at him with unguarded delight. The sight twisted something in his chest.
“You have gone and grown old on me while my back was turned, valonqar.” the boy said, as though it were a minor grievance. His thumb moved along the line of Maekar’s jaw, over the beard. The boy was smiling, did not seem troubled in the least, only pleased to have found what he was looking at.
“It suits you.” His thumb pressed a little into the beard, and then, softer, “You look like a warrior, a handsome one.”
Maekar did not move; he could not seem to remember how. He lay there under the half phantom touch and let himself be looked at, until the wanting grew too unbearable. He took the boy’s wrist, shoved it away, and sat up.
“What the fuck-” he said.
The boy let his hand be moved and did not fight it, only tilted his head, curious. And the sight of the familiar gesture on the young face was too much, he had to look away. The stone floor was cold against his feet, and he was glad for something solid, something real to anchor him against the dream it must surely be. The boy called after him, using that word he has not used in years, and Maekar could not answer. He stepped into the corridor half dressed, uncaring to who might see.
He made his way to the king’s chambers and found it empty. The blankets lay thrown back as Maekar had left them, the shape of the man still pressed into the linen. His feet continued to carry him around the keep, and Baelor was not in the solar, not at the window nor in the garderobe nor anywhere he could be. Maekar understood, dreadfully, that the king of the Seven Kingdoms was not in the castle.
He went back to his own rooms. There was nothing else to be done; he could not report Baelor’s disappearance without stirring panic, nor expose the boy lest it prove only madness. So he retraced his steps down the corridor, let himself inside, closed the door, and pressed his back against it.
The boy was where Maekar had left him, cross legged in the tangle of the blankets, and he looked up when the door closed with that same untroubled brightness, as though Maekar had only stepped out to see about breakfast.
“Well,” Baelor said. “Where did you run off to, valonqar?”
“Don’t call me that,” Maekar said.
“Call you what?”
“Valonqar.” He spat. “Look at me, I am twenty years older now, boy.”
The boy studied him for a moment, then laughed, bright and untroubled, the sound filling the cold chamber. “You could be grey as a maester and bent over a cane, valonqar,” he said, “and you’d still be my baby brother. That’s not something years can undo. You were born after me, and there’s no changing it.”
Heat rose in Maekar’s throat, and he turned away from the boy’s smug smile; the look he wore when he knew he’d won. It had been so long. He could not recall the last time Baelor had smiled at him with that kind of ease, unguarded and whole. Once, Maekar had been the cause of it, the spark that lit his brother’s joy.
When Maekar returned to the keep after Dyanna’s death, Rhae still an infant in his arms, something of the old warmth flickered back. It was not the closeness they had once known as lovers, but the nearness wore away the distance the years had built. They were steady enough as brothers, bound by the work before them, especially when Baelor ascended the throne and made him his Hand.
And a few years later, after Jena’s death, the bond shifted again; into something uneasy, half spoken, a compromise that blurred comfort with desire. He does not know how to move around his brother anymore, not after they began this, not as brothers. A hand on the shoulder, once a simple gesture, now feels weighted, overthought, every touch measured as if it might be read too closely, too wrongly. And he cannot have that, not when every glance and gesture might be taken for more than it should, a shadow cast upon the crown that Baelor could not afford.
At least if they had surrendered their brotherhood to become lovers, there might have been meaning in the loss. Instead, what remained was only the body. They are close in the physical sense, sharing beds, but the closeness is gone. The physical lingers, but it is stripped of ease, stripped of warmth. But he kept at it, because if he let this go too, then there would be nothing left.
They were no longer simply brothers, and they never truly became lovers. What they had was a half thing, a relationship that hollowed out the bond they once knew. And now, standing in the cold chamber, they were neither one nor the other. Not brothers, not lovers; only men bound by memory and distance, with nothing left between them but courtesy and coldness. Baelor’s laughter belonged to other rooms now, to other faces.
Lost in thought, Maekar didn’t notice Baelor rise until warm hands framed his jaw, holding him as though afraid to let him fall. “Why do you wear such sorrow, brother?” Baelor asked softly, his thumbs brushing Maekar’s cheekbones. “What grief has set its mark upon you?” He leaned in and kissed Maekar’s cheek, gentle, just below the eye. Maekar froze.
Then he shoved him back.
“Stop,” he said, voice rougher than intended. “Stop it, we’re men grown, married men. What we had was boyhood play, nothing more. It ended twenty years ago.”
Baelor took the shove without flinching, his face calm, certain. “Do not lie to me, valonqar-”
Maekar dragged a hand down his face in exasperation. There was no help but to speak plain. “Hear me, Baelor. You are king now. You sit the Iron Throne. You took to wife Lady Jena, and your two sons are near to manhood. I took to wife Dyanna, and six children came of it. Whole lives have been lived since those summers. That is the world as it stands.”
Baelor was quiet, and Maekar dared hope. Then Baelor said slowly, “Took. You said took, not have. Both of us.”
“They are dead.” Maekar shut his eyes, and sighed deeply. “Lady Jena is dead. Dyanna is dead. It matters not-”
“No,” Baelor agreed, something easing in him, half tenderness, half triumph. “We have always known there would be wives. We made peace with that, green as we were. A wife was never the thing to end us, we swore it wouldn’t.”
The memory flashed in Maekar’s mind, them as young men, boys really, swearing in the dark that marriage would be duty alone, that nothing could touch the bond they bore. Then came the vows, Baelor sent to Dragonstone first, and Maekar sent to Summerhall soon after. There was no quarrel, no farewell, no ending; only distance, only duty, only silence.
They wrote letters at first, which dwindled after they both got their first sons, and had ceased completely by the time he welcomed baby Daella. Their lives were filled with other loves, other burdens, other duties. Dyanna was gentle, clever, good, and he had loved her true.
But what he felt, what he had always felt, what he will always feel for Baelor; compare it to anyone, and anything, nothing could compare. Nothing ever came near, nothing ever would. And what grieved him most was that he could not even say when it had ended, exactly. Their bond had seemed so deep, so certain, that it felt folly to think it could be undone by mere distance.
Yet it had withered all the same. He supposed it was the nature of things, that even the heart tree in godswood would die if left barren. And so had they, when their bond was left unattended. What once seemed unbreakable had slipped away in silence, until he was left with nothing but the memory of how strong it had felt, and the sorrow of knowing it had not endured.
“That is not the same,” he said at last. “Believing it wouldn’t end us is not the same as it living. Wanting isn’t having. We let it go.”
“We let it go,” Baelor scoffed. “That is all you have to tell me? That we simply laid it down one day and walked away without looking back?” His jaw tightened. “You make it sound as though it was nothing worth carrying.”
“It was.” Maekar lied. “It did not survive, Baelor. It was a childish infatuation, we grew out of it.”
“No.” Baelor stepped back, out of reach, and the plain hurt in his face almost made Maekar take back every word he said. “You swore to me. Not a fortnight past, we swore no wife, no crown, no sea between us would end it. And now you tell me we just- we simply let it go? You tell me this as if it cost you nothing, as if I was a summer you were glad to see gone.” His voice cracked, then steadied. “I will not hear you say it did not matter. I will not.”
He turned and left, bare feet quick on the stone, before Maekar could draw breath to stop him. For a heartbeat Maekar stood frozen. Then the weight of it struck him; a young man, loose in the corridors with the king’s face. And the look he had worn when he left, a hook lodged deep in Maekar’s chest. He did not know which drove him faster, the danger or the look.
Baelor had not gone far. Maekar hurried after him, calling sharply down the corridor, “Where are you going?”
“To my room,” Baelor answered without slowing, bare feet quick on the stone.
Maekar’ stood confused for a second, as the king’s chambers were in the other direction but it hit him then that the boy meant the chamber he had slept in as a prince, the one he had left behind twenty years ago.
“Baelor,” he said, “you are king now. You do not keep to the old rooms. You sleep in the king’s chamber.”
Baelor kept on, and Maekar followed, heart pounding. He figured it would cause less of a commotion to let the boy reach his destination than to make noise in trying to stop him. The boy went straight to the king’s chamber, and slipped inside.
When Maekar entered after him, breath ragged from the chase, Baelor was already at his desk. And in his hands he held a box. Maekar knew it well, an aged wooden thing, dark, and was always sitting among seals and letters in his desk. He had wondered at it, at times, but it was merely a plain box so he never asked about it.
Baelor turned it gently, pressed his thumb to a circle in the grain, and the wood gave. The lid opened, and Maekar saw the change in Baelor’s face first before he saw the contents. The boy went still, the hurt draining, replaced by bewilderment. Maekar watched then, as the boy flipped the box and the content scattered across the desk.
The first thing Maekar noticed was a kerchief, and Maekar’s breath left him at the sight of it. He walked closer to the desk, lifted it and turned it over, and his throat closed at the familiarity of it, the clumsy weave and the uneven edges. He remembered making it, remembered hiding it from his tutors, remembered pressing it into Baelor’s hand before a tourney and remembered the way Baelor had laughed, bright and surprised, and tucked it into his sleeve like a favour.
His shaky fingers went on, placing down the kerchief before drifting over the letters, his own hand staring back at him from the page, the ink faded in places where a thumb had passed too often. He did not need to open them to know what they said. He had written them from Summerhall in the early years, when he still believed the distance between them was a thing that could be crossed with words. And Baelor had kept every one, worn soft with reading.
There were the ribbons, too; simple things, the colors muted now, from the years when Maekar had worn his hair long. He had thought them lost, one by one, stolen by the wind or left behind in stables and on roads. But here they were, tied in neat little coils, kept all together like a secret hoard.
And the wooden dragon. Maekar's hand hovered over it longest. It was small enough to fit in a palm, the wood gone smooth and dark with handling, the wings a little chipped where they had been too thin. He could not remember how many hours he had spent on it, only that it had taken the better part of a year, hidden work by candlelight, his fingers raw from the knife. He had given it to Baelor on his sixteenth nameday, and Baelor had held it as if it were made of gold.
Beside the dragon lay a lock of hair, long and silver, tied with a bit of thread. His own. It must be fifteen years now since he had cut it. Maekar flushed at the sight, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Gods, how did he even get his hands on this? And folded small, nearly hidden beneath the rest, a scrap of paper torn from some old tome, the edges gone yellow. Maekar smoothed it flat and saw his own boyish hand, cramped and urgent, the same name written over and over; Baelor, Baelor, Baelor… As though the writing of it had been a prayer. A lovesick boy’s scrawl, and Baelor had kept that too.
And newer things; a button bearing his own sigil, a clasp he lost three summers past, and sprigs of dried Spiceflowers; little red Dornish blooms that he had planted in Summerhall. Baelor must’ve kept some on one of his few visits there. His eyes moved to the brightest item; his gold signet ring he had thought lost just a fortnight ago. It had been here all along, three doors away, while Maekar lay awake believing himself wanted only for his body, believing Baelor had kept nothing and felt nothing for him.
“These are not from any summer of mine,” Baelor said, lifting the ring, the flowers, and a few other tokens, his voice wrecked and young. “My box should hold only a handful of items.”
Maekar’s breath caught. The sight of the ring, the flowers, the other tokens; things he had thought lost, forgotten now struck him like blows. His chest tightened, shame of being wrong and longing for Baelor rising together.
“If we stopped, valonqar, if we truly stopped-” Baelor stepped closer, and Maekar took a step back, not realising how close the boy had been. “-then tell me why is this full? Why did I never get rid of the box?”
Maekar’s throat worked, but no words came. He felt the weight of every letter, every ribbon, every scrap of himself kept and guarded, proof against the lie he had tried to live. Baelor stepped even closer, and now Maekar was trapped against the desk. Maekar tried to avert his eyes, but Baelor grabbed his chin, and forced him to look at him.
Baelor’s voice dropped to a whisper, “And tell me why you, even now, grey and grown valonqar-” His hand came up, catching Maekar by the nape as he had always done back then, though now slightly awkward with Maekar taller, “-go red as a boy at nothing but me standing close.”
Heat flared in Maekar's face, undeniable. His body betrayed him, flushing, stiffening, the same as it had twenty years ago. He sputtered, trying to push the boy away, but his hands were clumsy, weak, and Baelor only smiled smugly at the poor attempt.
"There," Baelor said, soft and satisfied. "You see? If you truly wanted me gone, you could put me through that wall without trying. Look at you." His other hand found Maekar's waist, fingers pressing into the solid weight of him, and then began to roam, slow and deliberate, up across his wide shoulders, down his biceps, pressing into the muscles with a low groan.
"Gods, you are built like a tower now, broad as a dragon. Strong enough to break me in two, I reckon." His palms flattened against Maekar's thick chest, thumbing his nipples and Maekar bit the inside of his cheek to avoid a moan, before sliding his hand higher, over his shoulder, up the column of his neck, until both hands were cupping his face, thumbs brushing the heated skin of his cheeks. The boy's smile softened, but not the smugness of it. "And still you flush so pink, so pretty, valonqar. You could crush me, and instead you stand here pink like a maiden."
Maekar had no answer. The truth had been waiting in that box for twenty years, undeniable, and Baelor had dragged it into the light.
“Tell me you feel nothing for me, valonqar, and I shall end this,” Baelor said, letting his hands fall away. He stepped back, a smug curve still upon his lips. Maekar knew it for teasing, yet in that moment he did the first honest thing he had in years; he reached out, drew Baelor close, and kissed him.
The kiss was a little strange, and Maekar's mind caught on that strangeness even as his body leaned into it. He had never had to bend down before, to kiss Baelor. Not once, in all the years of his youth, had he ever had to tilt his head at such an angle to reach Baelor's mouth. And as they settled into adulthood, they had been of a height, or near enough that it made no difference. Two boys, then two men, meeting square and easy, nose to nose, chest to chest. But now he loomed over the boy, and Baelor had to stretch up into it, his hands fisting in the front of Maekar's tunic to pull him down.
And yet.
The mouth was the same. The eagerness was new, Maekar had forgotten how desperate they had been for each other in their youths. Baelor kissed like he had never learned caution, all heat and hunger, no restraint, no calculation. His lips parted against Maekar's with a small, desperate sound, and his hands, gods, his hands were already everywhere.
Sliding up Maekar's chest, over his shoulders, into his hair, tugging at the short strands where they used to find length to grip. He kissed like a man starved, like he had been the one waiting twenty years to have this again.
Maekar had known this, once. He had known the exact shape of Baelor's desire, the way he gave himself over to it fully, without shame, without hesitation. His Baelor had learned, somewhere along the way, to bank that fire, to hold himself back, to kiss in the dark with something held in reserve.
But this boy had not learned that yet. This Baelor pressed against him like he wanted to crawl inside his skin, hands greedy and graceless, mouth hot and demanding, and Maekar's whole body answered before his mind could catch up.
His arms went around Baelor's waist and hauled him up, lifting him just enough that the difference in their height ceased to matter. The boy made a sound against his mouth; surprised, pleased, and his right leg came up to cage Maekar's thick thighs without a breath of hesitation, as though they had done this a hundred times.
Baelor's mouth moved to kiss down the column of Maekar's throat. His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin just above Maekar's collarbone, a sharp, startling sting that was immediately soothed by the wet heat of his tongue. Maekar groaned, a low, guttural sound ripped from his chest as his head fell back. He had forgotten this, too; the sheer aggression of Baelor's passion when it was new and untamed.
The boy's other hand was sliding over his chest, palm flat, feeling the breadth of it through the thin linen of his tunic. He squeezed, a grip that made Maekar's muscles jump. Maekar's own hands rose, tangling in the thick, springy curls at the nape of Baelor's neck and a wave of something sharp and nostalgic washed over him. He missed the length, missed being able to fist his hands in it.
He tightened his grip, just a little, and pulled Baelor's head back from his neck. The boy gasped, his eyes fluttering open. They were hazy, dark with lust, his lips swollen and wet. Oh, Maekar thought, a flicker of memory cutting through the haze of desire. Right, this was a recent enough discovery. Baelor's penchant for a little pain, a sharp edge to his pleasure that hadn't been there in the boy he knew. The smug tilt to Baelor's mouth was gone, his mouth opened with a deep moan as Maekar tugged his hair again, eyes fluttering shut.
Maekar crushed his mouth back to Baelor's then, and he drove his tongue past Baelor's lips, claiming the wet heat of his mouth. He smiled into the kiss, and thought to himself that he would show this arrogant boy exactly who he was dealing with. He would drop the smug smile off the boy’s face-
A sharp twisting pinch on his nipple shot through him like a lightning bolt. Maekar broke the kiss with a choked off moan, his body jerking back in surprise. The pain was immediate, and it sent a jolt straight to his groin, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Baelor was smiling again, that infuriatingly smug, knowing smile. "Some things never change, valonqar." he murmured, his voice low.
Heat flooded Maekar's face, a hot, creeping blush that he couldn't control. He felt it burn in his cheeks, his ears, his neck. He was a man grown, a knight, a prince, and this boy was reducing him to a stammering mess with a single touch.
Baelor then ducked his head, his mouth finding the peak he had just assaulted. He kissed it through the thin linen of Maekar's tunic, his tongue swirling over the cloth until it was damp and clinging. The friction of the wet fabric against the sensitive, peaked nub was maddening. At the same time, Baelor rolled his hips, unhurried, a deliberate grind of his hard cock against Maekar's thigh.
Maekar's hands, which had been gripping Baelor's arms, now fell uselessly to the desk, holding himself up. He felt his own cock, trapped in his breeches, thicken in response, a traitorous reaction to this boy's audacity. Baelor lifted his head, his two toned eyes dancing with wicked light as he watched the flush spread across Maekar's face. "What would he say if he sees you now, valonqar?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "That greying king who wears my face, what would he say if he sees you undone by a boy’s hand and a few sweet words?"
He leaned in, his lips brushing against Maekar’s ear. “You are just as sweet as my Maekar. Still so proud, still so desperate for me. You flush so bright yet you still pretend you hate it.” He punctuated the words with another sharp twist of his fingers, drawing a helpless moan from Maekar’s throat. “But you never did hate it, did you? You only hated how desperate I can make you.”
His free hand came up to trace the heated skin of Maekar’s cheek, thumb dragging over the blush. “And now look at you. Older, broader, and still your body betrays you the moment I get my hands on you. Or maybe it is me and not you, valonqar. Maybe I need to remind your Baelor on how to please you. ”
Maekar couldn't speak. He could only stand there, his body trembling, his mind a haze of mortification and overwhelming desire as Baelor took control, his every touch a calculated assault on Maekar's composure. And gods help him, he loved it. He loved this devoted, wicked boy who knew all his secrets.
Baelor pulled back then, the heat of his body leaving Maekar's. He took a deliberate step back, creating a space between them. Without breaking eye contact, his hands went to the laces of his breeches, his movements sure and unhurried. He freed himself, his cock springing up, thick and flushed with arousal. Baelor wrapped a hand around it, stroking slowly from root to tip, his thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the slit.
"Get down, valonqar." Baelor said. His voice teasing, but it was a command, clear and absolute, delivered with the easy authority of a king though the boy was not king yet.
Maekar scoffed, a disbelieving sound catching in his throat. The sheer audacity of it, the gall of this boy to command him. He was a man with years and experience and scars this Baelor couldn't dream of. For a fleeting moment, rebellion flared in his chest. He should refuse, should put the boy in his place, should-
And yet down he went. His knees hit the stones with a soft thud, the movement he hadn't consciously decided to make. He was face to face with Baelor's cock, the scent of him filling his senses, clean and masculine and achingly familiar. This Baelor might have the confidence, but he had the experience. He was no longer the shy, fumbling boy who had once approached this act with hesitance.
He leaned forward and took Baelor into his mouth, not with the tentative touch of his youth, but with the skilled certainty of a man. He swallowed him down, his tongue working the sensitive underside, his lips creating a tight, wet heat. He set a rhythm, deep and steady, using every trick he had learned over the long years to drive his lover wild. He then swallowed his length, letting the boy thrust into his throat.
This Baelor clearly had not expected this and the hand that had been stroking himself flew to Maekar's hair, gripping tight, trying to pull his head back but it was too late. With a choked cry, Baelor's hips jerked, and he spilled down Maekar's throat. Maekar pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Baelor, who was leaning against the desk, his chest heaving, his face a mask of stunned, breathless pleasure.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Maekar's face, his own cheeks finally cooling as the blush transferred to Baelor's. "So much for wanting to show my Baelor a thing or two," Maekar said, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He rose to his feet, his movements fluid and confident. "It seems you're the one who needed the reminder, brat."
Before Maekar could fully savour his victory, Baelor's hands were on him, pulling him from the desk and toward the bed. There was no hesitation in his movements, only a renewed, almost frantic energy. He pushed Maekar down onto the furs, and then Baelor was climbing over him, all long limbs and burning eyes.
His hands went to the hem of Maekar's tunic, yanking it up and over his head in one rough motion. When it was gone, Baelor stilled, his gaze raking over Maekar's exposed torso. A low, appreciative moan escaped his lips. "Gods," he breathed, the sound reverberating in the quiet room.
Maekar felt a flicker of self consciousness. He was no longer the lean, wiry youth this Baelor is used to. His shoulders were broader, his chest thick with the dense muscle of years with sword and shield, and his belly, once flat and hard, was now softer, dusted with the same white hair that covered his chest.
He remembered the smooth, taut skin of his youth and felt a sudden, sharp urge to cover himself, to turn away. He started to shift, to roll onto his stomach, but Baelor's hands clamped down on his hips, pinning him in place.
"No, don't you dare," Baelor groaned, his voice thick with awe. "Fuck, Maekar, look at you. You look so strong." He let go of Maekar's hip with one hand, wrapping it around his own cock, which was already hardening again, rising impressively from the dark curls at his groin. He began to stroke himself slowly as his other hand roamed over Maekar's body.
His palm slid down the plane of Maekar's chest, fingers tangling in the fine hair there, then squeezing the flesh. "Fuck-" Baelor muttered, his eyes wide and hungry and his hands moved lower. "All this strength. I want to feel it under me." He squeezed Maekar's stomach, his grip possessive. "I want to mark you, valonqar, bite until you scream for me."
Maekar felt his face flush hot. He had forgotten this, the recovery of their youth, how Baelor could be ready again in moments, his desire a relentless, insatiable force. His own cock, trapped in his breeches, began to ache and thicken in response to Baelor's words and touch.
Baelor moved further down, removing Maekar’s breeches, and Maekar moaned when his cock was freed from its confines, and his hand reached down to stroke himself. Baelor kneeled between his spread legs, his own strokes on his cock growing faster, more urgent at the sight of Maekar stroking himself.
"I'm going to spread these thick thighs and bury my face between them," he panted, one hand gripping Maekar’s thighs, his words a stream of filth that made Maekar's head spin. "I'm going to lick you open, taste you everywhere until you're begging. Then I'm going to fuck you, Maekar. I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name, and you're going to feel every inch of me for a week."
Maekar arched a brow, a slow, challenging smile playing on his lips despite the heat coursing through him. "Are you going to talk all night," he rasped, his voice a low taunt, "or are you actually going to do something?"
The taunt hit its mark. Baelor's hand stilled on his own cock. The stream of filthy words ceased. A dangerous glint entered his eyes, and in a fluid movement, he released Maekar and began to maneuver him. His hands were firm, insistent, and Maekar, caught off guard by the sudden shift from words to action, found himself being turned. He ended up on his hands and knees, the furs soft beneath his palms.
Baelor groaned at the sight of him, a sound of pure, unadulterated appreciation. He then gripped both of Maekar's ass cheeks, his fingers sinking into the thick muscle. “Fuck valonqar-” Baelor moaned, before raising a hand and spanked him. The sharp crack echoed in the room, followed by a bloom of heat and a stinging pleasure that made Maekar moan, his head dropping forward.
But instead of following through on his promise, Baelor slid down, lying flat on his back on the furs beneath Maekar. Maekar was left on all fours, confused, staring down at Baelor's feet near his hands. He started to turn his head to question him, but then he felt Baelor's hands on his hips, tugging him backward, lower.
"What are you-" Maekar started to argue, a flush of embarrassment rising in his chest. He tried to resist, to pull away, but Baelor's grip was surprisingly strong, fueled by youthful determination and desire. He pulled, insistent, and the next thing Maekar knew, his balance was lost and he was pulled down.
He ended up sitting, his knees bracketing Baelor, and the load of his weight settled on his own thighs, his hands gripping them. The position was undignified, overwhelming, and before he could form another protest, he felt it. A hot, wet, insistent pressure against his hole. Baelor's tongue.
The boy licked him open with a single, firm stroke, and a whimper tore from Maekar's throat. His hands flew out to brace himself against Baelor’s torso instead, as he began to eat him out in earnest, his tongue fucking into him, his groans of pleasure vibrating against Maekar's skin.
Baelor worked him with a relentless, hungry rhythm. His tongue would delve deep before pulling back to be replaced by one, then two, insistent fingers. He stretched him open, scissoring his fingers and curling them just right, brushing against that spot inside him that made sparks dance behind Maekar's eyes. Maekar was fisting his own cock, his strokes growing frantic as his cock drooled onto his belly.
He became acutely aware of his full weight pressing down on Baelor's face and chest. With a groan of concern, he tried to lift himself, to brace his hands and ease the pressure. "Baelor, I'm too heavy," he panted. "I'll suffocate you."
Baelor's answer was a sharp, playful nip on the fleshy curve of his ass. The sting made Maekar gasp and his hips jerk. "What a heavenly way to go," Baelor's voice vibrated against him, muffled but clear. He tightened his grip on Maekar's hips and pulled him back down, sealing his mouth more firmly against him.
Maekar moaned; and unwilling to be the only one undone, he bent forward, and took Baelor into his mouth again. The reaction was instantaneous. Baelor's hips thrust up instinctively, driving his cock deeper into Maekar's throat. A strangled cry escaped him, and he pulled his head back, dislodging himself. "Maekar, don't-" he begged, his voice wrecked. "Gods, don't do that or I'll come again."
Maekar laughed, "Be careful, then," he taunted, and deliberately sat back, pressing his weight down on Baelor's face.
Baelor's muffled groan was his only reply as he started eating him out in earnest, his tongue and fingers working with a desperate, renewed intensity. Maekar leaned forward again, ignoring Baelor's muffled protests. He wrapped his hand around Baelor's slick cock and stroked him in time with the thrusts of his tongue. And then, as Baelor's hips began to twitch, Maekar gently pinched the sensitive skin of his balls.
It was a new sensation for this Baelor, a sharp, shocking bolt of pleasure pain he had yet to discover. He cried out, the sound swallowed by Maekar's body, and his back arched as he came again, hard and messy, spilling over Maekar's fist and his own belly. Baelor collapsed beneath him, utterly spent, his mouth still pressed against Maekar's skin but his movements finally stilled.
“That’s not fair-” Baelor muttered when Maekar pulled away, and Maekar only laughed. “You know more of me than I know of you.”
“I’ve had twenty more years of you,” Maekar said, turning around to lie down next to the boy, face to face. “It was never going to be an even match.”
“You lie there knowing every way to undo me, and I am left guessing at you like a boy at his first lesson.” Baelor rolled onto his side, sulking properly now, cheek pillowed on his arm.
“Then guess.” Maekar reached over, brushed a loose strand of hair from Baelor’s brow, and let his hand linger there, marveling at how easily the old gesture returned. “You have all the years ahead to learn me, every one of them still before you. There are worse things than a lifetime spent finding a man out.” He said it lightly, though his voice betrayed nothing of the truth, that his own lifetime was already spent. “Something to look forward to. Take it as that.”
Baelor was quiet under his hand, soothed for a moment, and then not. A thought had come into his face, sharp and uneasy.
“This knowing of yourself,” he said slowly. “All these years you speak of, did you learn it only ever with me?” His eyes lifted. “Or were there others.”
Maekar did not insult him with hesitation. “We are married men, Baelor. Both of us. Grown men with long lives behind us.” His hand stayed where it was. “Of course there were others. You know there were, I told you already there were wives.”
“That is not what I am asking, and you know it.” Baelor’s jaw was stubborn. “A wife is merely a duty. I am asking-” He faltered, then pressed on, lower. “Was it only the body, with them? Purely to provide heirs, or was it this.” His hand pressed flat to Maekar’s chest, over the heart, as though the word itself lay there.
Maekar thought of Jena, cordial across a high table, courteous, careful, a marriage that had done its duty and never, so far as any eye could see, caught fire. And then of Dyanna, his own gentle, clever wife, easy to wake beside, easy to sit in silence with, who had given him six children and a home without ache. He had loved her. Truly. There was no honest way to say otherwise.
“I loved my wife,” he said.
Baelor’s face closed like a shutter. He looked away, down at his hand on Maekar’s chest, mouth tight and wounded, and said nothing. Maekar knew he had hurt the boy by telling him the truth, but he would not lie to him just to ease him.
Maekar pinched him sharply in the side, making him jerk and scowl. “Do not ask a man questions you have no wish to hear answered, you brat. I loved her. She was good, and she was mine, and I will not say a false thing to spare your pride.” Baelor sulked, turned half away, and Maekar sighed, softening despite himself, because he had never been able to withstand that particular set of Baelor’s mouth.
“But no,” he said, quieter. “It was not this, nothing ever was.” He took Baelor’s chin, turned the sulking face back to him, and kissed him gently before pulling away.
“Truth is, there was not a single night I lay beside that good woman without wishing it were you instead. Nothing was ever this. You have carried off a part of me since we were boys, and no one has known the whole of me since.” He released Baelor’s chin, his voice rough with the weight of it. “So now you know, my wife deserved a better man than me. Does that satisfy you?”
Baelor’s face opened again, the wound gone, replaced by something bright and greedy and glad.
“Yes,” he said. “Now I am.” Maekar scoffed, but still leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Baelor's lips. But the gentleness didn't last too long, Baelor's hand began to roam, tracing a path down the thick muscle of Maekar's chest. He broke the kiss to mouth along Maekar's jaw, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive skin behind his ear as his hand wrapped around Maekar's still hard cock.
Maekar moaned, his hips jerking, his cock drooling freely into Baelor's stroking palm at the sensation of Baelor’s tongue tracing the curve of his ear. Baelor shifted, pressing his own hardening length alongside Maekar's, his fingers curling around both of them. He stroked them together, the friction of their cocks sliding against each other drawing another deep groan from Maekar.
Maekar ducked his head, kissing a trail down Baelor's neck, his hands holding the boy close, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against his own chest. The pleasure was coiling tight in his belly, and soon enough, a whimper escaped his lips. "Please-" he breathed, the word barely audible. "Baelor, I need you to fuck me-”
"Where's the oil?" Baelor's voice was a strained rasp, the last thread of his control.
"Fuck the oil, I'm already wet for your mouth, don't you dare make me wait."
"You are not ready, I’m not-"
"Fuck me, brother.” Maekar whispered. “Shove that thick cock in me and make me scream your name when I come all over myself."
Baelor groaned, and Maekar knew he was not used to him openly begging for it. He remembered how he was, so shy to voice out anything. Baelor then pushed him flat onto his back and moved to settle between his legs. He pushed Maekar's thighs apart, gripping them to stay open, and his gaze hungry. Slowly, torturously, he began to sink his cock into him.
Maekar moaned at the slow, stretching burn, his own hand flying to his cock to stroke it as Baelor filled him. The sight of Maekar taking him so eagerly, stroking himself as he was being fucked, was almost too much for the boy. Baelor had to stop, buried to the hilt, and take a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself, to hold back his own release.
Then he began to thrust. The pace was deep and slow, and he was spewing filthy words again, a stream of praise that made Maekar's head spin. "Look at you, taking me so well," Baelor panted. "So thick and strong, and all mine to fuck." Maekar just lay there and took it, his body pliant, his mind lost to the pleasure.
"Touch yourself valonqar," Baelor commanded, his voice rough. "Let me see."
Maekar's hands moved from his cock to his own chest, his fingers finding his nipples and rolling them, pinching them just enough to send sharp jolts of pleasure straight to his groin.
Baelor groaned at the sight, his hips snapping forward, thrusting harder. He changed his angle, searching, and then he found it. Maekar cried out, a broken whimper of Baelor's name as pleasure exploded behind his eyes. Baelor angled his hips to hit that spot again and again, relentless.
“Lekia-” Maekar cried out as he came, his cock pulsing as he spilled over his own stomach and chest.
That was all it took for Baelor, he thrust in once more, deep and hard, and followed him over the edge, his own orgasm ripping through him as he collapsed, spent, onto Maekar's heaving chest.
“Again-” Baelor groaned, looking up at Maekar. “Call me that-”
“Lekia,” Maekar whispered, clenching himself and Baelor whimpered, his hip jerking forward.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the dark, saying nothing at all. The boy kissed him slowly, asking nothing of it but the act itself, at the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, beneath his ear, and Maekar returned each kiss in kind, relearning the young face even as he braced for its loss.
He woke up in the morning, and he knew before his eyes opened. The weight was gone. The room was cold with dawn's plain light, no breath at his throat, no head on his chest. His hand found only smooth linen, long cooled, as though no one had lain there at all.
He opened his eyes to his own chamber, his own ceiling. Gone was the boy, gone as though it had never been. The thought settled in him, cold and reasonable, worse than grief. A dream, surely. There was nothing to say otherwise, after all. No head on the pillow, no ribbon, no boy. Nothing his waking hands could hold-
The plain box.
He was on his feet before he had decided to rise, heart pounding. If it had been only a dream, then the box in the king's chamber held what it had always held, whatever that was, unseen and unknown. But if Baelor had opened it, if any part of that impossible day had been real, then the catch would be loose where young fingers had pressed it, and the ring would be lying near the top, his ring, the plain gold band he had lost a fortnight past.
So he went out half dressed into the corridor, not caring who saw, and made for the king's chambers, to learn whether he had dreamed the fact that Baelor loved him back.