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]

[ 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.]

[makingmyway]

[ Dorian laughs a little, finally placing down the hand mirror to give Orym his full attention. ]

Is that so? I might ask you to do my nails sometime too, then.

[ The admittance has Brontë blushing again, but he smiles as he slips off the bench. ]

Well, that works out then, because I really enjoy the feeling of you playing with my hair. So we both win.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Your wish is my command.

[Orym teases with a smile, but he means it. He'll happily paint Brontë's nails, do his hair, shower him in the attention and affection that the halfling knows the prince deserves but so rarely seems to receive from his family.

And now he's decided he has permission to be the one to do it, which is thrilling.]

That a fact? It's nice when things work out so well.

[He holds out a hand to him.] Come, my Prince. You should get some rest.

[makingmyway]

[ Those words send a different kind of warmth through him, causing him to fidget just a bit. Whether he feels ready for physical intimacy or not, it doesn’t stop him from imagining certain things for when he is ready.

But he ignores it for now, as he nods and takes Orym’s hand, leading him over to the bed. It’s certainly large enough for them both to lie in it with a lot of room for them to be comfortable, but he honestly doubts they’ll need it.

So turning down the sheets, he slips under them and moves to the middle, glancing over at Orym and waiting. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym is doing his level best to keep his own thoughts proper for the time being. This deserves their taking their time, Brontë deserves this being done right, in their own time.

That doesn't mean he doesn't fully intend to hold the other man while they sleep tonight. Orym is a tactile thing, easy and generous with touch when he can be.

Once Brontë is settled, Orym climbs into the bed to join him. There's plenty of room in the bed, yes, but he scoots himself right up close to the other man.]

Hi.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë’s breath hitches softly as Orym settles so close to him. ]

H-Hi.

[ It isn’t that he minds the closeness. Quite the opposite, really. But it doesn’t help that Orym is shirtless, which he had noticed before, but this close he can’t help but notice. Even in the low light he can see the lines of wiry muscles in his lithe form, or the raised marks of scars across his body. He’d always known Orym was handsome, but being this close now has his mouth going a bit dry. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Is this all right?

[Because oh Orym heard that hitch of breath, and he has to force himself to breathe as well. He reaches a hand up to brush his fingertips along Brontë's cheek, soft. If the prince needs his space, Orym will give it to him without question.

There's dedication here, utter and complete, to his prince. He's been his guard; he always would have died for Brontë. But now, well, now he gets to live for him.]

[makingmyway]

[ A soft sound rises from his throat, and he closes his eyes as he leans into Orym’s touch. ]

Y-Yeah…it’s okay. It just, um…might take a bit of getting used to.

[ But oh how he wants to get used to it. Especially as he scoots a little closer, feeling the warmth of Orym’s body against his own. Hesitantly he rests a hand against Orym’s chest, opening his eyes again to watch the halfling’s face as his fingers brush over his skin. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Oh that sound does something to Orym, and he takes a breath to settle himself. Innocent thoughts, Orym. Innocent thoughts.

When Brontë moves closer, when that hand sets at his chest, Orym feels his heart flip over itself, and his hand drops from Brontë's cheek to set against the side of his neck.]

We have time to get used to it. But if it's ever too much, just tell me. Whatever you need, all right?

[makingmyway]

[ With a small smile, Brontë nods, even as his hand finds a small scar and he can’t help running his thumb across it. More than anything, he knows that he can trust Orym, that the halfling will take care of him and keep him safe. ]

I know…thank you.