The dining room smelled strongly of cooked meats and coffee. As he began to shuffle his way in, he laid eyes upon his brother and father already deep in their morning meals. Philip was as bright-eyed as a newborn doe, and his father’s face was absent of a frown (which was a rare sight). Something had clearly happened last night while he was…otherwise occupied.

He had managed to clean himself up somewhat despite the debilitating pounding in his head. His blue eyes were dull and squinted as he slowly took a seat next to his energetic brother. Without a word, he dutifully began gnawing on a piece of bacon, the savory greasiness a welcomed reprieve from his self-inflicted ailment.

“Brother, did you hear the good news?” Philip piped up eagerly, taking a quick sip of coffee.

Aryn slowly glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow. “No I did not. What’s all the excitement for?”

“I am to be engaged to the lady Dahlia,” he blurted out confidently, a huge goofy grin on his face. The confidence that exuded from the older prince was nauseating.

“Oh really? And which one was that?” he asked flatly, more focused on shoveling food into his gullet.

“The one I was dancing with last night. Dark hair, hazel eyes…”

Aryn nearly choked. After a series of coughs, he finally returned his brother’s gaze. “Wow, that's… wonderful. She seemed like quite a lady.”

“Oh she is. She’s everything I’ve been looking for. Father spoke to hers last night while we were dancing, and he quickly agreed with the partnership. Everything’s starting to fall into place now. Isn’t it great?”

Hearing the ignorant happiness in Philip’s voice only made him more irritated, angry even. Had he just completely forgotten their mother died not too long ago?

“Oh yes, for you,” he grumbled quietly as he stared at his plate.

“Aryn.”

His father’s voice cut through the air like a freshly sharpened sword. With a deep, frustrated breath he finally looked up to meet eyes with the man, an expectant look on his softly featured face.

“You should be happy for your brother. Grateful. His dutiful pursuit of these affairs have afforded you the ability to play the peasant, God knows why you want to. If you’re not satisfied with the current situation, I could see to it you find a wife very soon as well–”

“No.” His voice was loud, and far more desperate than he had wanted it to be. There was a slight raise of Aleksander’s eyebrows, but even that was enough to warrant the fear that began to creep into Aryn’s chest.

“I’m… happy for you, Philip,” he recited dutifully, clear reluctance in his tone. “And I’m sure Dahlia will make for a beautiful bride. Now if you’ll excuse me I seem to have lost my appetite,” he mumbled as he rose from the chair, bowing robotically, and strode out of the dining hall.

As he closed the door and turned, he nearly yelped as a familiar face stood waiting for him. He was in a bit more casual attire than last night, a dark red silken shirt with deep brown breeches and black boots. You could see a fading bruise peaking through the slight plunge of his shirt where he had left it purposefully unlaced. An amused and slightly apologetic expression quickly grew on his sharply defined face, that signature smirk forming on his lips. Lips that had pleasured him last night.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” his smooth voice invaded his ears almost uncomfortably.

“I just wasn’t expecting you to be here still,” Aryn explained slightly out of breath.

The smirk softened on Oliver’s face. “Yes well… I’m sure you just heard the big news. The King invited my family to stay for a few days, get acquainted and all that. He and my father have much to discuss, and I’m sure the lovebirds are giddy at the prospect of seeing more of each other. As for me, well, I intend to explore what this city really has to offer. I would ask you to show me around, but something tells me you never wanted to see my face again.”

“N-no, that’s not it I just… Well I’ve never…” he sighed sharply, pressing his lips together in embarrassment. “This is very… unprecedented territory for me. In many ways. And… I guess I just don’t really know how to go about this.”

A more endearing smile then spread across Oliver’s lips as he let out an airy chuckle. “I understand. And I’m sorry if I was a bit too… direct? I didn’t realize that was all very new to you.”

The pressure filling Aryn’s chest slowly began to dissipate at his change of tone. “Well, I was actually wanting to get out of the castle for the day anyway. So… I suppose I could give you a little tour.”

“Great. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

“This is probably my favorite place to eat in the inner circle. And over down that street is more of the arts district: pottery, painting, sculpting, you name it. There’s a large market in the center, sort of like a town square, but it’s not very active right now due to the season.”

He watched closely as Oliver took in his city, seemingly bored and unimpressed. From what the young man had told him last night, this wasn’t necessarily what he was trying to look for. After a moment, Aryn stopped and raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m assuming you’re more interested in the unsavory activities,” he stated accusingly.

That got a smirk out of him. “What, isn’t watching paint dry just so exciting though?” he exclaimed sarcastically.

Aryn playfully rolled his eyes and turned to keep walking, talking over his shoulder. “Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m not particularly familiar with where all of the underground fight clubs are in the city.”

“What about brothels?”

The prince’s eyes went wide as he whirled on the other noble. “Keep your voice down. Someone might hear you, for God’s sake. And no, I know less about those than the fight clubs. Good Lord you really are a heathen aren’t you?”

Oliver laughed. “I just think maybe you haven’t experienced what life really has to offer. I’m assuming maybe with the way the King is, he doesn’t necessarily let his sons do anything that could tarnish their perfect image. Am I wrong?”

Aryn rolled his eyes once more, this time in seriousness. “Well, that’s how he is with Philip anyway. He doesn’t care so much for me. Black sheep and all, I suppose.”

“Why, because you’re just different? God forbid a man isn’t a wizard with a sword or built like a Greek god. Society’s expectations are idiotic.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the prince felt the sting of tears come to his eyes. He quickly turned from Oliver so that he didn’t see.

The two of them explored the inner circle for a while before both grew bored and decided to venture out. It was heading into mid afternoon when they stopped at a quaint inn and grabbed some of the best comfort food Aryn had ever had. Oliver seemed quite pleased with it as well. It was strange seeing this young man, who was clearly of noble descent, fit in so well with both societies. Or at least that’s what he saw. Maybe his personal life was not too unlike the prince’s. Aryn read books and practiced music as an outlet for his frustrations. Oliver liked to fight. To get into something like that, surely there was some sort of dissent happening in his life.

Of course there is, you idiot. You saw exactly what it was last night.

But on top of it he wore this confident facade. He was one of those people that no one knew a lot about but everyone wanted to. He was suave and collected and intelligent. Maybe that was the difference between them. Aryn couldn’t be like that. He didn’t have the social capacities to blend in, to adapt and thrive. It was hard for him to pretend. And he now realized that was something Oliver was incredibly good at.

And meanwhile he didn’t belong anywhere.

The sun was beginning to set when they finished their supper, and the two wandered farther down the street until coming upon a bustling tavern. A cold sweat broke out on his skin before he realized it was not the same tavern he was thinking of. He saw Oliver’s face light up with that signature smirk as he tugged at Aryn’s arm briefly.

“C’mon, let’s go have fun.”

The tavern door swung open to a much warmer, louder interior. A fire was roaring, supplying constant background noise behind the little band that was playing a jaunty tune. A few patrons turned to look at them briefly before returning to their cups. Before the prince’s anxiety had time to take root in his chest, Oliver grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the bar through the crowd of people. The young man had a demanding presence about him, something Aryn never would. He was able to traverse the crowd with ease as most people parted for him.

They wormed their way into a spot at the bar, and Oliver’s voice rang loud over the ruckus.

“Oi! Two pints and two shots of brandy!”

He set a rather dense coin purse on the counter, and with startling speed their drinks were presented to them. Oliver slid the appropriate amount of coin to the barkeep, along with a tip, before turning his attention to him.

“What should we toast to, hm?” he asked through the buzz of the tavern, raising his glass of brandy towards Aryn.

Aryn proceeded to pick up his. He looked off into space for a moment in thought before turning back to Oliver with a smirk. “To avoiding responsibilities,” he concluded.

A hearty laugh burst from the noble’s mouth as a broad grin grew on his face. “I’ll fucking drink to that.”

They touched glasses and Oliver shot back his liquor with hardened experience. Aryn on the other hand had to give it three goes in order to get the whole thing down. It burned his throat and tasted something awful. As he finally forced himself to finish, he placed the glass down on the counter and shook his head, his face scrunched up in disgust.

“Why the hell would anyone drink that?” he asked hoarsely between a few coughs.

Oliver proceeded to laugh and place a hand on his slim shoulder. “Because it’s cheap and effective. We can’t all drink fancy wine, Your Highness,” he teased.

“You’re one to talk,” he shot back playfully, taking a sip of his ale to wash the brandy from his mouth.

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They sat and drank for a while, losing track of time. Eventually Oliver had grabbed his arm and dragged him to the middle of the floor where many folk were jumping around and dancing. Aryn had never danced like this before. At first he was hesitant, but with enough goading from Oliver, he embraced it and joined in. It felt very freeing. His cheeks had begun to hurt from the constant smiling and laughing. The room was spinning slightly, as they had had quite a bit to drink. But it wasn’t a bad thing. Aryn had never really let himself cut loose like this, never had anyone to do it with especially.

Amidst the joyful chaos, he found himself locking eyes with Oliver. The two were giggling like fools as they danced, and slowly they both began to stop, breaths heavy. The look in the young man’s eyes started to change. He grabbed Aryn by the arm again and headed to the barkeep. The prince couldn’t really hear what they were saying, but just as quickly as they had gotten to the bar, Oliver was then guiding him upstairs to where the rooms were.

His feet were clumsy beneath him as he slightly leaned against Oliver, giggling under his breath. The noble deftly unlocked the door and moved Aryn inside with him before closing and locking it. The constant, invasive noise of the tavern below was muffled to a very distant hum as Aryn welcomed the quiet reprieve. He was actually rather shocked he had been able to stay amongst so many people that long, but he chalked it up to the alcohol.

“That was so fucking fun,” he slurred with a chuckle, plopping down heavily on the bed. “You really do like to party huh?”

Oliver threw the key and his other belongings on the table with a smirk. “Amongst other things. You’re not feeling too drunk, are you?”

Aryn took a steadying breath and made an effort to ground himself. If he focused, he felt pretty in control. His mind was clear, but his perception was slightly altered. He hadn’t been this drunk in a while, but objectively he certainly wasn’t horribly intoxicated.

“No, I’m okay. Just a bit tipsy,” he concluded. Amongst the far more quiet and controlled environment, that swimming, foggy feeling of drunkenness was quickly coming down.

“Good. Do you need food or water?”

The tone in Oliver’s voice was oddly caring, protective almost. It stirred some emotions in his gut.

“No, I got plenty to eat earlier. And I don’t want to be running to the chamberpot a million times tonight,” he pointed out with a shy chuckle.

The noble smiled softly and let out a quiet breath through his nose, something like a laugh. “Alright. Just checking.”

His boots clicked densely on the wooden floor as he slowly strode over to where Aryn sat on the bed. For a moment, he seemed rather intimidating. But then he knelt down so that their faces were level and… began removing Aryn’s boots.

This act rather shocked him. Mayhaps it was because it seemed so out of character for this man he had begun to know. Usually people removed their own shoes, or a servant did it. For another nobleman to be doing such a thing… it was odd. But then he remembered what he had said about society’s expectations, and it seemed a bit less unexpected.

“Oliver, you don’t need–”

“I know. But you’ve been so gracious to me today, I figured I should return the favor. You are a prince afterall. You’re above me.”

That made his face flush hot. “N-no. I don’t want to be. And please don’t treat me like I am. I don’t like it.”

A smirk grew on Oliver’s face, and he looked up to lock eyes with Aryn as he yanked off his first boot. “I knew I liked you for some reason.”

His face grew even more red as he averted his gaze. He attempted to find other things to look at while Oliver removed his other boot, but that endeavor quickly proved futile when suddenly a strong pair of hands gripped his thighs. His head snapped back towards the nobleman, his stomach tensing.

The look in Oliver’s eyes had changed, and it was a look very similar to last night. One hand released his thigh to cup his face. His hands were calloused in places, like Percy’s… just for vastly different reasons. Their hair colors were not unalike, just the textures. Oliver had hair like his own: fine and soft and wavy. The amber color of his eyes almost seemed unnatural. As he drew closer, Aryn could smell the aroma of herbs and more grounded florals, as well as the lingering scent from the tavern.

“I’ve never met someone who has intrigued me quite as much as you, Aryn.”

His voice was low and sultry, and it seemed to penetrate his ears in a way that stirred his soul. His thumb brushed the prince’s cheek softly, then slowly traveled around to trace his bottom lip. His other hand slid up his thigh to grip his waist beneath his shirt. He could feel his breeches involuntarily growing tighter.

“Is this wrong?” he asked in a near whisper.

Oliver’s face drew close to his, their noses brushing against one another’s. His lips seemed to part eagerly against his will.

“Does it feel wrong?”

Slowly their lips connected, and as they began to kiss, Aryn could feel himself melting away. Oliver’s grip on his waist tightened, and he carefully pulled the prince closer, sliding between his legs. Their heights aligned perfectly in their current position, Oliver sitting up tall on his knees while Aryn sat on the low bed. The prince allowed his hands to roam now, one tangling in his hair while the other slid down his neck to his shoulder. It all felt a bit more natural this time, now that he knew what to expect.

He felt a tug as Oliver began to lift his shirt over his head. He raised his arms for him, and as soon as the nobleman carelessly tossed the shirt away, Aryn was glued back to him. His strong hand held the small of his back while the other cupped the back of his neck, pressing their bodies together tightly.

The kissing was soft at first, but the longer it went on, the more intense it became. Aryn’s breathing had sped up and grown deeper, and he couldn’t help but let out small noises whenever Oliver bit and sucked at his skin. At some point the nobleman had removed his own shirt, and the feeling of their skin pressing against each other’s set Aryn’s body aflame. Every once in a while Oliver would brush his fingers over the growing bulge in his breeches, and quickly his loins began to ache. He yearned for that release, like last night.

He was pushed down on his back by a strong hand to his chest. It was then that Oliver rose from the floor and feverishly fumbled with his own boots, removing them along with his pants. He also undid Aryn’s and slid them from his legs. A messy pile of garments was now forming on the floor. Oliver climbed on top of him and pressed their hips together, causing Aryn to moan. Their faces met again as the nobleman brushed his lips along the prince’s jaw, gently biting his ear.

Aryn let his hands explore the man’s back, his chest and shoulders, and eventually he gathered enough nerve to place his hand elsewhere. He felt Oliver tense up, and as he gently squeezed and palmed, a quiet groan of pleasure finally escaped his mouth. It rumbled in the prince’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

He felt Oliver tuck his thumbs into the waistband of his undergarments and begin to tug. In a haze, he instinctively lifted his hips to allow for their removal. Quickly thereafter, the nobleman removed his as well.

A new feverishness had fallen over the two, and Aryn quickly started to become overwhelmed by the pure aching and wanting in his body. He could tell Oliver felt the same, as the way he touched him and kissed him had grown more aggressive. At one point, he grabbed Aryn’s hand and forcefully placed it back to where it once had been. The prince found himself touching him the same way he might touch himself. But it seemed that had not been enough, for after a few moments Oliver pressed his hips back into his, grinding them against each other.

It all seemed so distant yet so present at once. Part of Aryn’s mind couldn’t believe this was happening, and another part was begging for it not to stop. As he closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations, he found himself imagining a different face. And imagining this face made him want it even more. It all kept growing more and more intense, closer and closer and farther and farther, until his moans turned more into desperate whimpers. He went from wanting to begging, to needing.

And Oliver seemed to realize this. Suddenly he was gripped strongly as the nobleman sat up off of him. His rough hands moved in such a way as to flip him onto his stomach, and the other pushed open his legs. He could feel Oliver leaning over him, and his lips feverishly kissed at the skin on his back. He felt his hips press against his backside, and Aryn could sense how he was restraining himself.

But the restraint didn’t last long. There was once again space between them briefly, but it was closed by what at first felt familiar. Then it went farther.

Aryn’s heart leapt into his throat at the indescribable feeling. He had been so caught up in Oliver, in finally exploring what it felt like to be wanted, what he wanted to feel like with Percy…

This was too much. It was too fast. It wasn’t right.

He flipped back around in a panic, knocking Oliver slightly off balance, and found himself scrambling to the top of the bed, his breathing rapid and uneven. His chest was growing tighter and tighter, and soon enough it felt like he was being choked from the inside. Tears welled in his eyes as he attempted to find words, but he had no air to speak them. Instead all he could do was shake his head.

The lust that had been clouding Oliver’s eyes quickly cleared as he looked up at the terrified young man before him. He slowly reached his hands up and forward, beginning to move towards Aryn.

“Aryn… are you okay? I’m so sorry, I thought–”

His words caught in his throat as he scooted up the bed to sit on his knees in front of the prince now. Gentle hands cupped his face as he stared into his glassy blue eyes with overwhelming concern.

“Wh-what were you doing?” he managed to gasp out.

“Well… I thought we were going to make love,” he stated hesitantly. “But… now I realize that was a very bad idea.”

He was slowly beginning to find his breath again. A few tears tumbled from his eyes and ran down his cheeks onto Oliver’s hands. “But I… I thought I wanted it. It felt like I wanted it…”

A gentle, patient look came over the nobleman’s face. “You’ve never done this before. I’m sure your body wanted it, but you weren’t ready. And it’s okay. I shouldn’t have just started in like that… I just haven’t been around people as… inexperienced as you in a long time, and I forgot what that’s like.”

“But I want it with him,” he whispered, a distant stare forming on his face as his lip began to tremble. “I-I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be doing this–”

“Why, because you’re in love with someone?”

Aryn expected him to look mad, but instead there was a soft, understanding expression on the nobleman’s face.

“I… I think so.”

Oliver moved off the bed and fetched their shirts and undergarments from the floor, handing Aryn his. He gratefully clothed himself again, feeling extremely vulnerable now that they had stopped. Oliver got back on the bed once he was clothed, sitting across from the prince with his legs crossed. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind Aryn’s ear.

“So. Tell me about him then.”

He pressed his lips together in thought. “We uh… we met a few weeks ago. He works at another tavern around here, but he mainly helps his father. He’s apprenticing as a blacksmith at the moment but… it’s not what he wants to do. He’s actually more of an artist. He’s just… different. He understands the weird ways that I feel sometimes and makes me feel normal.

“We ended up staying with each other at the tavern one night because we were drinking, and I had this nightmare again. And he just… held me. He took care of me. Without question. And ever since then I’ve been having these thoughts about him, of wanting to be close to him but I didn’t realize what that meant until last night. But I have no idea if he feels like that too and I don’t want to ruin the friendship that we’re fostering. So I’m just… stuck.”

Oliver took his hand in his, brushing his thumb over the back of it. “Well clearly he cares for you. Let me ask you this… Would you regret it if you never tried to see if he felt the same about you? Would you be okay with just pretending the rest of your life around him?”

There was a long silence that filled the room before finally Aryn looked up at him with starry eyes.

“No.”

“Then tell him. You might lose your friendship, but it would probably hurt less than never knowing and always pretending.”

The prince let out a heavy sigh before he climbed onto Oliver’s lap, straddling him. The nobleman looked surprised.

“I need to thank you. For this. I didn’t know who I really was until we met last night. I didn’t know what my feelings meant because it just wasn’t natural for me to think of doing these things with a man. My whole life intimacy has been presented to me between a man and a woman, and I guess I was just unable to wrap my head around a different possibility. So thank you. Truly.”

Oliver smiled warmly as he held Aryn by the small of his back. “I’m assuming this means we can’t have fun with each other anymore though.”

The prince chuckled softly, a shy smile forming on his lips. “No… but I would like it if maybe you just held me tonight. Maybe kiss me a bit more… I don’t know if Percy feels the same way about me, and if he doesn’t, I don’t want to miss out on this chance of exploring myself with you. I-If that’s okay… I don’t want you to think I’m using you I–”

Oliver could hear the panic picking up in his voice and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips. “I don’t. I promise. I wasn’t attaching strings to this. You’re perfectly fine, Aryn.”

The prince wrapped his arms around his neck, their foreheads pressing together. They exchanged soft kisses, not like the ones from earlier. A gentle intimacy and a calmness settled over the two as the buzz of the tavern could still faintly be heard downstairs. Oliver’s hands traversed his body carefully, like someone handling a delicate vase. Aryn sensed that maybe the nobleman needed this too.

Maybe because of the way he was, the way they were, it was hard to make emotional connections with someone when everything had to be a secret. He got the feeling that Oliver never let himself get attached for that very reason. It made sense if nothing fruitful or meaningful was realistically able to come from any of it. But with that approach comes not being able to experience moments like these, the gentle quiet moments that really do mean something.

They stayed like that for a long while, until the tavern seemed to sleep. During that time, Oliver had told him stories. Stories of how he grew up, of when he realized he was different. How he got into fighting. How he and his father also didn’t get along. Aryn returned the stories, talking about his mother and his relationship with his brother. About how he had never felt normal or that he fit in. He told him more about meeting Percy.

Eventually they grew tired, and as the two lied down to sleep, Oliver’s arm wrapped around his waist, he made himself a promise.