for Dorian (makingmyway) - Prince Dorian /Palace Guard Orym AU

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym spends too much time watching the prince. In fairness, it is his job to do exactly that, but it's gone so far beyond just the act of guarding a young noble. Of course it has.

When he'd first been assigned to this position -- the personal guard to Prince Brontë, a promotion really, after he'd managed to be in the right place at the right time to thwart an unexpected assassination attempt against the King and Queen -- he hadn't known much about the younger Prince Wyvernwind, save what he could tell from afar -- that he was beautiful, fair-faced and strong-shouldered, that he always managed to look the part of dutiful and perfect prince.

As he got to know him though, he'd seen more. So much more.

The prince is genuinely kind, not only for show in public. He's gentle and soft spoken, surprisingly down to earth for a young royal who's been sheltered in his kingdom all his life. He's funny too, clever and quick-witted once opened up. It took some time, really, but they've both let their guards down around each other. Orym has to remind himself again and again that he's nothing more than bodyguard, here to keep the Prince safe. Not to keep him company.

But oh he likes his company, has come to look forward to hearing that musical laugh, come to treasure when he's managed to convince Brontë to play or sing for him. There's a warmth in his chest when the Prince confides in him, when he's given glimpses into those surprising insecurities, his hopes and dreams.

It's several months into spending day after day with the Prince that he realizes he's fallen for him. It's foolish. It's utterly foolish and it can never be anything. So he wraps those feelings away and pushes them down as deep as he can.

Today they're in the palace courtyards. The sun shines bright from a sky that is a perfect shade of blue interrupted only by a few white clouds. Orym is rolling his wrist to let his sword dip and then rise, the familiar heft and weight of the blade comfortable in his hand.]

You know, you're good with a blade. I've seen it. But I could probably teach you a few tricks, if you'd be interested.

Comments

[makingmyway]

[ Orym is definitely faster than him, and he yelps as the sword swipes his leg out from under him. He barely manages to catch himself, just enough to not get hurt when he hits the ground, and instead of pushing up right away he uses the momentum of the fall to roll and try and put some distance between them in order to recover. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Good. That's perfect.

[Putting distance between them is safer than trying to get to his feet immediately.

Orym doesn't let up though. He'd said he would give his all, after all. So he's in pursuit. His goal here is to catch Brontë still on the ground, see if he can pin him there. Because what could possibly go wrong with being on top of the prince you have a forbidden crush on? Nothing, that's what.]

[makingmyway]

[ While it helps trying to get some distance, Brontë is definitely at a disadvantage this low to the ground, just for the unfamiliarity of it. Still, as Orym comes towards him, he swings his sword out as though trying to also swipe his feet out from under him.

But at the same time he springs up, trying to catch Orym off guard and tackle into him. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym sees the swing coming and manages to leap over the blade, landing lightly, his own sword already in motion. What he doesn't expect is Brontë immediately coming for him with that tackle.

The halfling realizes his mistake in the next moment, but he doesn't have time to counter. Given the size difference and the prince's greater strength, he winds up fully caught by that charge.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë knows he doesn’t have time to act, so he’s quick to pin Orym to the ground, sitting on his legs and holding down his wrists. His hair and clothes are a bit disheveled, coated with dust from being on the ground, but he manages a grin even as he tries to catch his breath. ]

So…do I win?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Well, the tables have turned. This is pretty much what Orym had planned, but he was the one doing the pinning. The halfling is stubborn and gives one attempt to break Brontë's hold, arching up sharply off the ground, twisting, but not managing to dislodge that hold.

He collapses back with a breathless laugh, looking up at the disheveled prince and returning that grin.

It's right about then that he realizes the position they're in and he can feel his face flush as he looks up at Brontë. He doesn't exactly think he lost, given the view he currently has.]

I... yeah, I think you win. [And before his brain can think better of it,] But I don't really feel like I'm losing.

[Don't flirt with the prince. Don't flirt with the man that you're duty bound to protect.]

[makingmyway]

[ He grins, feeling triumphant. He figures it really is just luck that he managed to surprise the guard, but for now he’ll take what he can get.

Orym’s words have him blinking and it’s only about then that he realizes how compromising their position is. His heart skips, and a blush spreads across his cheeks as well.

In his mind, he knows that he could get off the halfling, to put some distance between them before he does something stupid. Instead his hands trail down Orym’s arms to circle around his wrists, his thumbs lightly stroking over his pulse. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The halfling expects the prince the move, to stand and brush himself off and for this moment to end.

Then he doesn't. Then he sees that blush on Brontë's face that mirrors his own. He could explain that away as exertion, could write it off, but then there's the way the other man's hands move, the brush of those thumbs along his wrist. Brontë will probably feel the way that Orym's pulse quickens, hear the way that his breath catches.]

Brontë?

[His voice is barely a whisper, more breath than sound. And he's called him by name. Brontë. Not 'Your Highness' or 'My Lord' or any of the titles he ought to use. He's always been so careful with those, has never allowed himself the familiarity, never crossed that line. Until now, until he's looking up into those impossibly blue eyes and apparently losing his mind.]

[makingmyway]

[ His breath catches softly at the sound of his name on Orym’s lips, without any title or formality. It’s such a little thing, those words that somehow put them such a distance apart, but the gap has been closed a bit suddenly, and he finds that he likes the way it sounds from him. ]

…say it again?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym can't help it, he smiles at that reaction. There's a warmth in his voice, even if it's still a whisper, hushed as if this is too fragile and precious to be spoken to the open air.]

Brontë.

[There's something hopeful in his tone, foolishly hopeful. Orym knows full well who he is, who Brontë is. They're from different worlds entirely. But his heart is a stubborn, incorrigible thing.]

[makingmyway]

[ He shivers, though this time it’s not just the name, but the way it’s said, the warmth and hope in Orym’s tone that he’s sure is mirrored on his face. And he wants so badly to just kiss him right now. ]

Orym…I -

[ As he feels himself leaning closer, though, he can hear voices in the distance. Some of the other guards passing by, and while it doesn’t sound like they’re approaching where the two of them are, it reminds Brontë of how painfully out in the open they are.

Reluctantly he releases Orym’s wrists, though he still hesitates a moment before getting off him completely. ]

…We can’t talk here.

[ Because now that he thinks there’s a chance, he’s not letting it go just like that. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Brontë leans close and Orym forgets how to breathe, but what does breathing matter anyway? Then the kiss doesn't come, and the halfling is already mentally scolding himself for even entertaining the idea that this beautiful Prince could possibly--

Those thoughts come to a screeching halt when Brontë speaks. Oh, yes. That is an excellent point. And what it's not is slamming the door on whatever this is.]

No... we really can't.

[Orym waits for the prince to stand before he rises to his feet as well. Green eyes look up to meet Brontë's gaze, curious.] Maybe... we should go inside?

[makingmyway]

[ Once he finally got up, he brushes as much dirt from his clothes as he could while Orym gets to his feet as well. Thinking over the suggestion, he nods. ]

We should be able to have some privacy in my chambers?

[ They aren’t unfamiliar with being alone in his chambers, spending so many hours there just talking and getting to know one another. But it somehow feels different to invite him there now, with this undercurrent of something around them. But nowhere else feels safer now. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Of course, yes. Lead on then, my Prince.

[There's still that sense of wild hope in him, even if he's trying to hold it in, trying to ground himself in the reality of the situation.

And it really isn't anything strange, the two of them spending time alone together in Brontë's chambers. It's nearly an everyday occurrence. This does feel different, weightier, thrilling and terrifying and dangerous.]

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help a frown at the return of his title, but remembering where they are he lets it slide (for now).

Instead he nods and turns so they can head back towards his private chambers, trying to keep his composure as he politely greets anyone they pass, all while his heart is racing at the thought that maybe, just maybe, his daydreams weren’t as impossible as he’d assumed.

When they finally reach his chambers, he dismisses the maids, delayed a bit to ask them to draw some water so they could clean up a bit before essentially kicking them out as nicely as he could manage.

And then finally, they are alone. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym manages to wrap himself in a cloak of professionalism, playing the part he has been so very good at for so very long of dutiful guard, entirely devoted to his prince. And that's entirely true, but that devotion runs far deeper than it should.

Once they're finally alone, once the maids have left and Orym closes the door securely behind them, he turns to look at Brontë with green eyes brimming over with unspoken questions, that lingering spark of hope.]

We have privacy now, Brontë.

[His name again, fully overstepping his position, but he's taking this chance apparently, still lingering by the door he just shut.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë suddenly feels awkward, standing in his room as Orym shuts the door. As much as he wants to know, to find out if there is something here and he isn’t just imagining things, he isn’t really sure what to say.

Then Orym turns back to look at him with those brilliant green eyes, and he shivers at the way he says his name. And he can’t help blurting out the first thing on his mind. ]

…I really like you, Orym.

[ He cringes, because of all the ways he imagined ever confessing his feelings, they were never that terrible. But with the words out now, more start tumbling out and he can’t stop them. ]

I mean, I…I do, I like you a lot. And I…I know you’re probably just doing your job, and maybe this isn’t really appropriate, but you’re so much kinder to me than anyone, and I always feel so much safer knowing you’re nearby. And I like talking with you, and learning more about you, and I just…

[ He trails off as he realizes that he’s rambling, and with an embarrassed flush he turns away, unable to meet Orym’s gaze anymore. ]

S-Sorry…

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The way those words are just blurted out is so purely Brontë, that something in Orym absolutely melts. He's seen the Prince be perfect and polished in public, but also seen that self doubt and uncertainty surface when he's not playing his part.

His heart is racing in his chest again, and he closes the distance between them, emboldened by that confession to reach out and take the prince's hand. He lifts it slowly, eyes on Brontë's face even if the other man has looked away from him, before he presses his lips to the back of his palm, soft and lingering.]

I like you too. More than I should, more than I'm allowed to. But I do. You've never just been my job.

[makingmyway]

[ He hears Orym coming closer, and even as hopeful as he is he can’t help still bracing himself for rejection.

So he doesn’t expect when Orym takes his hand, and he turns his head just in time to see the other man kiss his palm. His eyes widen as he draws a breath, and his heart skips as the words fall from Orym’s lips. ]

R-Really…?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[He's touching the prince, and while there'd been an occasional touch here and there (which were oversteps enough), this is new. And dangerous. Orym has no right for any of this. He knows that. He really does.

But he can't just pretend all this away. So another kiss against his hand before he leans to nuzzle against it, digging his grave deeper and silently asking for Brontë to touch him in turn.]

Really. I'm probably the one who should apologize. I'm overstepping myself. I know that.

[makingmyway]

[ Something warm lights in his chest, and as he shakes his head he kneels down so they’re more at height with each other. He turns his hand over to gently cup Orym’s cheek. ]

Don’t…Don’t be sorry. I don’t…I don’t care about our stations. I care about you.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym can't help the quiet laugh that escapes, not in amusement but in startled and unexpected joy. He turns into that touch, eyes falling shut for just a moment.

When he answers though, he opens his eyes again to look to him, one eye level now. He steps in closer, his hand lifting to brush the back of his knuckles along the prince's cheek in turn.]

Were you going to kiss me, out there on the training grounds?

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help a smile of his own, a weight he didn’t know he was holding lifting from his chest.

Then Orym steps closer, and he leans into his touch, even as he flushes slightly at the question. ]

I…I wanted to, yes.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[His fingers shift, fingertips tracing along Brontë's lower lip gently, slowly, like he's imagining what kissing him would feel like. He's imagined it before, more times than he can remember.]

I wanted you to.

[And now, well, now his fingers slip from his lips to cup gently at his jaw so that Orym can lean in and press his lips to the prince's. Oh he's doomed, but he's never been happier for being doomed before.]

[makingmyway]

[ He shivers at that light touch, pressing a light kiss to those fingertips. Then, as Orym catches his jaw, he leans in a bit as well to meet those lips that he’s wanted for so long.

And he’s read a lot of novels about romance, and had dreamt of what kissing Orym would be like. But none of those compared to actually feeling those lips against his, of Orym’s scent and presence so close to him. It’s everything he’s wanted and more. ]