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

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Of course not. I'm a professional.

[Orym informs him with a lift of his eyebrow.]

They smell like you.

[And that is a soothing and sweet scent that he has certainly come to know and like.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë flushes a little at that. Though whether from the idea that Orym is so familiar with how he smells, or the other errant thought that passes his mind, he isn’t sure. ]

I wish you’d be a little less professional.

[ …okay, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but he’s going to blame the heat. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym feels himself flushing again, but there's a pleased, playful smile on his face.]

Yeah? How less professional?

[He starts working the oil through Brontë's hair now, just as gentle as before, taking his time with this.]

Would you let me hold you tonight?

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë blinks, and it’s his turn to blush as his bluff is called. But the suggestion still sends a rush of heat through him, and he’s glad he was seated in the tub because that coupled with Orym’s fingers still combing through his hair, he’s feeling a little weak in the knees. ]

I…I think I’d really like that.

[ The teasing tone from earlier is gone, as the words this time come out in a breathless whisper. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym's smile only widens at what he can see of that blush from his current vantage point. And at the answer.

Oh. Well. Good.]

All right. Good. Me too.

[His heart is beating quicker at the thought of it. His fingers eventually slip free from Brontë's hair.]

[makingmyway]

[ He shivers a little, and feeling Orym draw away he turns so he can fold his arms over the side of the tub to pillow his head as he looks at Orym. ]

I guess I should…dry off.

[ He says, as he makes no move to get out of the tub. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Unless you're planning on becoming a merman, probably.

[Orym sets the stepstool back where it was, moves to find a towel and turns back to Brontë with a smile, setting it nearby for him.]

I should go change, too.

[He can duck into his quarters long enough to change out of his clothes into something more appropriate for sleeping.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë nods, keeping his gaze on Orym as he moves around the washroom. ]

All right. And then you’ll be back, right?

[ It might be a bit ridiculous, how already he can’t bear to have Orym away from him for too long. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Nothing could keep me away.

[Orym assures him. Because he can't bear it either. This is all so new and still near unbelievable that it's actually real, not some lingering vivid dream.

His steps lead him closer to the tub, close enough that he can reach out and graze his fingers along Brontë's cheek softly.]

Wait for me, my Prince.

[And with that he'll slip out of the bathroom, through Brontë's bedroom to his own adjacent chambers. They're modest chambers, little in it outside his bed and a trunk for his clothes, and training weapons and a number of plants that grow and flower to add color to the room.

He pours water into the basin in the corner, sparing a moment to clean himself quickly from any lingering dust from the day. He strips from his clothes, finding his usual sleeping clothes -- which in sum total is nothing but a soft, loose pair of pants that cling a bit precariously to his hips.

Taking a breath to steady himself, he heads back to the prince's room.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë leans into the touch, humming a soft sound. ]

Always.

[ He watches Orym leave for a moment, and only once he’s sure the guard is gone does he finally rise from the tub, grabbing the towel Orym left for him and drying off. Then he slips on a robe and wraps the towel around his hair before heading back into the bedchamber.

Finding the clothes Orym left for him, he can’t help a smile as he feels the soft silk material of the sleep shirt. The halfling really does pay attention to what he likes. But he should probably get used to less expensive material, since he won’t be able to have such luxuries when he leaves.

It’s still an exciting thought, as he removes his robe and dresses in the sleep clothes. A part of him is still worried that maybe they’re moving too fast, that something might happen and Orym might change his mind about being with him. But if they take the time to plan it out, maybe it’ll be enough for any problems to arise. If Orym does change his mind by then, well…at least he’ll know before they’ve actually left.

And if he doesn’t, then Brontë will look forward to spending the rest of their new lives together. Merry

Hanging up the robe and the towel, he then sits at the vanity, where Orym will find him when he returns, the light breeze that always seems to drift around him helping to dry his hair as he brushes it. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym finds himself freezing in the doorway, looking at Brontë where he sits, dressed in soft silk and caught in a gentle breeze, a vision out of some fairytale story from his childhood. The impossibly handsome prince, gentle and kind and good. There's no way that he should be this lucky to have somehow captured the heart of someone like Brontë.

And he realizes they're making big plans very quickly too. He has no doubt at all about his own feelings, is certain of where he's placed his heart. Still he's glad that their plans will be taking time as well, enough time for Brontë to think about this. His prince is the one who would be giving up his entire life, and Orym wants to be sure that Brontë is certain -- certain that he wants to throw away the life of a prince, certain that he really wants Orym of all people.

He smiles now though and steps forward.]

Almost ready for bed?

[makingmyway]

[ He’s humming softly to himself as he brushes his hair, the start of a new song playing in his head. But Orym’s voice interrupts the melody, not that he’s complaining. Turning a bit in his seat, he smiles. ]

Almost. Just making sure my hair is dry.

[ He’s made the mistake of going bed with his hair wet, and skipping a few minutes of hair care is not worth the tangled mess he’d have in the morning. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Mm, very important.

[Orym agrees. With as much hair as Brontë has, it's certainly something to consider. Honestly Orym's fingers itch to bury back in that hair, work it into a braid, like he'd been taught as a child.]

You should let me braid your hair sometime.

[makingmyway]

[ He pauses again, the brush halfway though his hair when he glances at Orym again. ]

Would…you like to?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[He ducks his head with a laugh, running a hand through his own hair as he nods.]

I would, yeah.

[Quite a bit actually.]

[makingmyway]

[ Thinking of Orym’s fingers through his hair again sends a shiver down his back, and he turns a bit to look at their reflections in the mirror. ]

…W-Well…my hair is pretty much dry. If you…want to braid it now…

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Yeah? I'd like that.

[The halfling perks up at that and moves in closer, reaching to take the brush from Brontë's hand so he can spend a moment gently brushing through his hair, making sure there are no tangles to start with, taking his time to work through long, soft tresses.]

[makingmyway]

[ With a smile, Brontë lets Orym take the brush and scoots a bit closer to the end of the bench, to give Orym some room to hop up if it makes it easier to work with his hair.

Even just the gentle strokes of the brush through his hair has him sighing contentedly, and he closes his eyes as Orym works. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym will hop up to take that space on the bench for better reach. Now he's the one humming to himself as he carefully works the brush through his hair, though Dorian had already done a good job of that. Eventually he sets the brush down and instead lets his fingers run through soft, silky strands -- ostensibly to make sure all the tangles are really gone, but realistically just because he wants to touch.

Eventually he begins to divide it into sections and begins plaiting. It's a surprisingly complex braid, though nothing too ornate. He's clearly got some experience with this.]

Your hair is so pretty... [He murmurs quietly.]

[makingmyway]

[ Feeling those fingers combing through his hair - fingers rough from years of wielding a blade, and yet so gentle - sends another rush of heat through his body. Especially at the compliment, coloring his cheeks once again. ]

Thank you. I try my best to take care of it.

[ Selfishly, it’s one of the few things that he gets complimented on more than Cyrus. So he makes sure to keep it nice. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym takes his time with this, an excuse to let his fingers play through Brontë's hair really. He's not taking this for granted right now. How could he? He'd been quietly pining for his handsome prince for so long now, to actually have him is astounding.]

I think you do a good job.

[He finishes off the braid now carefully, with a small twist of vines and a few small flowers.]

There. What do you think?

[He's actually quite good at braiding, which may be surprising given how short he keeps his own hair.]

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help blushing a bit at the compliment, nor can he help the soft sound he makes as Orym continues running his fingers through his hair. All of this is already more than he could have ever hoped for, and yet it’s somehow not enough.

When Orym finally finishes, he carefully feels along the braid, and he’s surprised when it doesn’t feel like the simple kind that he’s used to. Grabbing the hand mirror from his vanity, he turns in his seat so he’ll be able to see the braid in the reflection, marveling not just at the braid itself but also the flowers and vines included. ]

Oh, it’s lovely… [ He turns to Orym with a smile. ] I didn’t realize you were so good at this.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

It's a hidden talent.

[Orym admits with a quick grin, hopping back down to the ground.]

My sisters taught me, when we were kids. They taught me the druidcraft too.

[They'd tried to cajole him into growing his hair out so they could braid flowers into it, but he'd never had the patience for longer hair.]

[makingmyway]

[ Dorian nods a little, still admiring the braid. Orym had told him a bit about his sisters before, but this is the first time he’s heard about this. ]

I really like it. [ He glances over towards Orym as he lands back on the ground. ] Would you do my hair like this during the day sometime?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

I'm also good at painting nails making flower crowns.

[A multitalented man this one, Brontë. Put a ring on it now.]

I'm glad. [Very glad. He beams at hearing that his prince is pleased with it, and brightens further at the request.]

Of course, whenever you want. It's a good excuse to get to play with your hair, so count me in.

[See, now he's being transparent with his motivations.]