Archive of Our Own

### Chapter one ###

No matter how many times he went through it in his head, this plan didn’t make sense. There had to be something missing. He’d worked with the Mages for weeks to get everything put together, he knew the whole thing in and out, when he left their tower he really believed that all he had to do was put that blade in His back and everything would work out. He’d finally be able to do something about the coming Dark. And be free of the shadow of his father… 

Maybe it was that desperation that fueled that old fire of Confidence in him, or the relief of finally having direction again, or maybe just being closer to aspects of his other father for the first time in decades that brought it back out of him, but the further Maelgwyn got from all of that and sat twirling that knife, waiting for the Day of High-Sun, the more that flame flickered. 

Sighing, Confidence Breathing slumped back into the good armchair, the old thing wheezing a feeble protest as it coughed up a little poof of dust. Dropping the charcoal pencil he’d been using to scrawl over his already scratched up notes, he lets his eyes linger on the fire in front of him. 

After a particularly dodgy score meant the crew had to lay low for a while, he had been staying at the school with the Hitchcocks for about a week while most of the others went back to their own beds. It’s bizarre to see this place empty. The second basement that the Six (and now Maelgwyn) used as a base of operations was almost always bustling with a few too many people for it to be totally comfortable. You get used to the constant buzz of laughter and conversation and scheming after a little while, but Maelgwyn hadn’t been looking forward to trying to sleep through the noise (especially Aubrey’s experiments). And yet when he realized he was the only one sleeping on the cots they kept down here, he almost missed the hassle. Being around other people was always easier… When he was on his own, just him and his mask, Maelgwyn had a lot more trouble distracting himself from everything, and more often than not ended up wallowing and chain smoking alone instead of getting anything done. 

Maelgwyn ran a hand over his insistent stubble, grimacing at how much he’d let it grow, his eyes falling on the single, heavily reinforced door into the basement. There was one benefit to having to sleep in the school. Being two staircases instead of two trains away from his boyfriend was lovely, and with having to keep their relationship quiet around the rest of the crew (especially Edmund, who still refused to trust him), they never got as much time together as they liked. Maelgwyn spent most of his free time at the school already, but it’s one thing to plan a time to get coffee while everyone else is busy, it’s another to fall asleep on the couch chatting and joking about whatever was on their minds that day. 

Having Ethan so close and so often available was doing wonders for his mental health, but still… The long hours when Hitchcock was busy or out and Maelgwyn had nothing to do but sit in front of the fire re-reading everything the Mages gave him on the palace, the knife, and complex magical theory made his head spin. Normally when he got this deep in the pit the Prince would go get something to eat from a cafe nearby, or take a walk in the Gardens that bore his name, but with the extra heat on them he couldn’t really go on a lively jaunt through Chrysanthemum and expect it to go well, especially since the bug-eyed Faithful had started to put together who might be behind his father’s silver mask. The last thing he needed was more people bowing to him like Caroline always did.

He knew Ethan’s evening class was almost finished, so he set about gathering up the confidential parts of his notes and putting them back in his little hiding place in the hole behind the kitchen cupboards. It wasn’t the best hiding spot but it would do for the next couple of weeks at least. Besides, if someone did find it then Castille and the others would cover for him, right? He hoped as much anyway. Keeping all of this from Ethan was torture… but he didn’t really know what else to do. It isn’t like you can get a card for “I’m going to murder my father, the God-King, who you’re somehow still a loyalist of, and even if we do it right theres like a 50/50 chance I dont come back-- oh also your brother who you trust more than anyone has been lying to you and so have the rest of us including me, your loving partner” at the shops in Redhouse Square. He was going to tell him eventually, but then Castille let him know that for some damn reason Edmund wanted to keep Ethan out of it. Maybe it’s understandable… if anyone was going to try to stop him from killing his father it would be the only one of the Six who still prayed to him most Sundays. And yet, by that same logic, doesn’t he deserve to know? Wouldn’t it only be fair to tell him that he’s going to have a hand in the death of his Lord? Isn’t it a blatant break of trust not to tell him what exactly the plan is? 

How the hell is Edmund, Mr. “I know you’re lying” himself on board with this? Was Edmund having the same moral conundrum over this right now or was he somehow fine with breaking his brother’s heart like that? Sure, Ethan was supposedly the less sensitive of the two, but there’s a view of someone you only get in the quiet hours between midnight and daybreak, and he knew for a fact Ethan was a lot less stone cold than he presented. Maybe Edmund just… doesn’t realize that. Doesn’t see just how much it would crush Ethan to learn his brother lied to him about something like this. 

Realizing he’s gotten far too in his own head about this, he gives up on trying to untie the horrible knot he finds himself in. At least for tonight. Finishing putting up the notes, he goes to the sink of the shoebox kitchen, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror for a brief second before quickly averting his eyes. His hair was a mess, he hadn’t shaved in four days, hadn’t washed his face in two, and when he isn’t relying on makeup to touch everything up it was really taking a toll on his appearance. Maelgwyn isn’t a vain person per se, not the way Ethan is at least, but it’s a lot easier to project confidence when you know people aren’t going to look at you thinking how tired you look, and he wasn’t letting himself look this disheveled when Ethan got off work. Resentfully, Maelgwyn looks back up at the mirror’s slightly dirty finish, doing his best to ignore that horrible feeling that every angle looks so wrong, and gets to work.

######

“Mael!!” By the time Ethan clatters into the room, the haphazard pile of sheathed blades cradled in his arms threatening to fall with every movement, all the candles have long since burned low or gone out. Maelgwyn, who finished preening and sat by the fire turning his mask in his hands over and over, evidently hadn’t gotten up to change them. “I’m sorry, class ran later than I thought it would.”

Maelgwyn’s stupor broken by the predictably loud entrance of his boyfriend, turned to face the source of the clatter, his usual tired smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he immediately stands up to help Ethan not drop everything. “It’s alright” His voice carries the hint of a chuckle with it, “I don’t mind waiting. Here, let me help.”

“You don’t have to— oh.” Before he can finish protesting, Maelgwyn is already on his way over and taking about half of the identical swords, helping carry them over to their cabinets on the wall closest to the door. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” 

In a few well practiced minutes, the two of them carefully inspect each sabre for damage before setting it back in its place, hanging like so many wine glasses in the slightly misshapen cabinet that Sige had built. The time passes in comfortable silence, both focused on making sure each of the blades is whole and unharmed by the often slightly too exuberant would-be duelists. 

“You’ve never seen me use a sword, have you?” 

“Hm?” Ethan looked up from one of the last remaining blades, which he had been dutifully polishing before returning it to its place. “I don’t think so, no.” To almost anyone else, the Prince’s voice would sound convincingly nonchalant, but Ethan knew him too well for that. Cracking a smirk he went on, “Well. Not like that anyway.”

Maelgwyn, who had been honing one of the others, now stands staring at the near perfectly straight spine of the thing. It wasn’t much, something simple and hardy that the students could cut their teeth on safely while still being cheap enough that Ethan could get them in bulk from Castille, but there was a beauty in that simplicity. You don’t grow up in the house of The Craftsman Incipient without learning to appreciate the beauty in a purely functional tool. 

After a moment of silence, lost in the feeling of a hilt in his hand that didn’t have that awful weight behind it, Maelgwyn slips into his stance, and is shocked that after 15 years it still fits him. His motions slow and cautious, he begins to flow through one of the first sequences he learned, closing his eyes and letting his breath guide him through one gentle swipe after another. 

“Tuck in your elbow,” a beaming Ethan, who had since ignored his task in favor of watching his boyfriend, eyes practically glowing with his cheek resting in his palm, calls out to the Prince. “And keep your back straight, you’ll lose your balance.”

Maelgwyn grins and pauses his movements to shoot Hitchcock a glance, re-setting and adjusting his stance accordingly, drawing himself up to his impressive full height. Now properly focused, he takes a deep breath before executing the same sequence a little faster, not planning on missing a chance to show off.

Ethan’s gaze shifts from doting to analytical as bits of this form catch his eye. It’s different from how he teaches certainly, far more flowing and expressive than the duelist’s blunt and aggressive style, and it isn’t exactly like the traditional military style either, none of the rigidity or discipline of their shared previous vocation. It reminds him a bit of home, the long sloping arcs and dancer’s rhythm bringing back memories of when he and his brother used to watch their father practice, but it also clearly has roots in west Hieron, Maelgwyn’s own mixed heritage showing in his every breath and step and slash. “Where’d you learn this?”

The Prince, now fully in his element, doesn’t stop moving yet, artfully weaving his way around the cluttered space, filling it with flashes of steel and the whirl of his sleeves while managing to avoid knocking anything over, striking only dust and air. “From my father.”

And there it was again. The hard brick wall he always came to when trying to learn anything about his boyfriend’s past. “I see.” Hitchcock stands up, walking around to get a better vantage point on his partner’s bizarre and beautiful swordsmanship. It wasn’t that Maelgwyn was unwilling to discuss the past, they’d talked extensively about the war, past relationships, even a scrap or two about his childhood, but anytime he mentioned his parents Hitchcock knew he wasn’t getting anything else out of his masked companion. 

Maelgwyn started to change things up, repeating the first sequence again but adding different flourishes and accents, a twirl here, an extra slash there, before moving cleanly into improvised movements with a sort of grace Ethan usually only saw in his brother. In a way, it’s difficult to be a duelist and not a dancer, and for the first time it was becoming clear to Hitchcock just how much he was dwarfed in both by this man. He liked to think that he could win if it came down to it —Maelgwyn does a lot of things very well and fighting dirty isn’t one of them— but it doesn’t take the practiced eyes of a teacher to see that in a fair fight he’d have a blade to his throat in moments. 

“Maelgwyn?” 

“Yeah?” At this he finally stops, hearing the hesitation in Ethan’s voice and lowering his blade, turning to face him, concern plain in his ice blue eyes.

“Could you…” Hitchcock pauses, finding himself feeling more vulnerable than he expected at the prospect of asking this, “Could you teach it to me?”

######

“You’re too tight.” 

“If I had a gold piece for everytime—”

“Your shoulders, Ethan.” Maelgwyn gently rests his hands on his love’s shoulders, his breath just barely tickling the hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck. “You’re too stiff. Relax.”

Nodding, Ethan lets some of the tension out of his shoulders with a deep breath and adjusts his stance, letting his sabre hang lightly in his hand. “How’s this?”

“Better.” Stepping back to get a better view, Maelgwyn begins putting his hair back in the messy bun he usually wears while practicing. “Now take it again, slowly this time.” 

Their voices echoed softly off of the hardwood floors of the now empty duelists’ studio, the moonlight filtering in from the tiny windows set at the top of the basement’s walls mingling with the firelight as Ethan more slowly went through the steps of the first sequence of Maelgwyn’s variation on his Holy Fathers’ form. Ethan, as it turns out, is an infuriating student, and the Prince was suddenly very glad Captain Hitchcock wasn’t ever in his unit in the war. 

The sequence itself was simple. It was different from its equivalent in the style Hitchcock taught, but not by much. In a way, that was why it was so difficult. Ethan kept falling back on his muscle memory and losing focus on keeping his movements fluid instead of harsh. 
But he was getting better, this time getting through the whole thing as intended instead of sinking back into his familiar stance. 

“There you go! That was great!!” It was Maelgwyn’s turn to beam at his boyfriend. He might have a few decades experience on him, but watching Ethan swing that sabre always brought him such comfort. He always moved so awkwardly without one, like his whole body was off balance without a couple pounds of steel in his hand. And Mael was good, sure, but the moment Ethan picked up a sword it was like his entire being poured into it. Everyone talks about how a sword is supposed to be an extension of yourself, or at the very least his father always did, but Maelgwyn wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone else actually achieve that until he met Ethan Hitchcock. “Now do five more.”

######

“So… where did you learn that?” Ethan asked again, taking the water his boyfriend had brought for him as they both caught their breath. “I’ve not seen much like it.”

Maelgwyn’s confident smirk faltered, not realizing he’d been dreading the question until it hit his ears. “Like I said… my old man.” He sighs, plopping down next to Ethan and leaning against the long mirror that spanned the dueling studio wall, “Well, kind of. My dads put a practice sword in my hand when I was practically a toddler.” 

“Ours was the same way.” Ethan takes a long gulp of water, handing the large glass to Maelgwyn, who does the same. “He was a soldier too, and with how much we were on the road, we needed to learn to defend ourselves.”

The Prince is momentarily taken aback, but hides it well. Ethan barely ever talks about his past, especially his family, but neither did he so… it seemed fair. “I get what you mean. Both mine were big time generals in their day.” The lie fell out of his mouth so easily it almost worried him. But he couldn’t explain more than that, not with… everything.

“Ah.” Ethan’s face soured sharply, “I see.” He’d always said you couldn’t trust a general past their practiced grins. You can’t spend your life sending soldiers to die for career and country without losing his respect.

“Yeah, pretty much exactly what you’re expecting.” Maelgwyn laughed, handing the water back to Ethan and resting his head against the mirror, looking up at the low beams of the ceiling and remembering the way Samothes’s holy brow furrowed every time his stance slipped a tiny bit. “But they were damn good fighters.”

“They always are.” Ethan said gravely, “So, they taught you that style?”

“I mean, yes and no?”

“What do you mean?” Ethan propped his elbow against his bent knee and leaned his jaw on his hand, letting his eyes graze over the sweat dewed skin of his partner. With how guarded they both tended to be, they hadn’t started actually opening up to one another until pretty recently. He’d noticed more and more lately how little he actually knew about Maelgwyn’s life, and as much as he wasn’t about to ask how he ended up locked in Memoriam, Ethan wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to get closer to him. 

“Well… they’re pretty different swordsmen. They both taught me their own styles, and over the years I just sorta synthesized the two into my own thing.”

“Mm.” Ethan nods, putting some of the pieces together, “That explains why I haven’t seen it before.”

“Yeah. It’s not quite unique, but it’s mine.” The smirk that practically defined him started to pull at his lips again, “My father hated it. Well, both of them did a little, but one more than the other.”

“Ah, he’s one of those dads then?”

Maelgwyn nodded, chuckling a little. “They always are.”

“Tell me about it.” Ethan sets down the water and reaches for his flask before remembering he’s not wearing his coat, sighing and hanging his head dramatically. “If we’re talking about dads, I’m getting a drink.”

“We don’t have to.” Maelgwyn’s hand finds Ethan’s, slipping his fingers between his and squeezing slightly. He never liked how much Ethan drank but he wasn’t gonna bring that up now. “We can talk about something else, if you want. Family is a touchy topic for me, too.”

“You’re sweet,” It was Ethan’s turn to smirk, leaning back into the wall from where he was about to stand up again, “But honestly I don’t mind. Just don’t have as much to say.”

“Is it alright if I ask what you mean by that?” Maelgwyn’s question is tentative, unsure of how rude he’s being. 

Thankfully it doesn’t seem like Ethan is offended, letting go of his hand for long enough to pull the much bigger man into his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, his calloused hand resting softly in Maelgwyn’s burnished gold curls. “Not to get too deep into it but… Edmund and I only really have each other.”

Maelgwyn, who had long since assumed that from the way they both talk about one another, nodded, closing his eyes and relaxing into Ethan, slipping an arm around his waist and ignoring the awkward angle his back was in to lean against his shorter boyfriend’s chest. “That makes sense. You two seem really close.”

“We are… usually.” Ethan sighed wistfully, “When we came to Marielda we were, anyway.”

Maelgwyn lifted his head, looking up at Ethan, mustache ever so slightly disheveled from the couple hours’ practice. “Did something happen?”

Yeah. You. Ethan stops himself from saying, knowing Maelgwyn isn’t the reason things broke bad at the college even if Edmund might not want to admit that. “I mean… he’s just been dealing with a lot. So he keeps to himself more.” 

A puzzled look crossed Maelgwyn’s face, lined with worry at seeing Ethan clearly trying not to look upset. “I thought he was doing better with all of that.” 

“Well, he was,” Ethan’s voice cracked just a little, the well-built dam between his emotions and his face starting to crack. “But then I guess something new rattled him in the last couple of months and now he’s barely looking me in the eye.”

Maelgwyn’s face, which a moment ago had been politely worried, drained of all expression, putting his head back down in the hopes that Ethan wouldn’t notice the sudden shift. Whether or not Memoriam was his fault… this definitely was. “That sucks. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

“I’m more worried about him if I’m honest.” Ethan’s voice comes out as more of a sigh than anything else. “He’s so fragile lately… anything going wrong knocks him flat, and I’m the one who has to pick him back up again. But whatever this is, he’s gone from moping apologetically around his studio and day drinking to snapping and yelling at me whenever I open my mouth to check on him.” Ethan’s knees raised, the fabric on his stiff military slacks bunching as he half-curls in a ball, rare for the champion manspreader. “I have no idea how to help him, and even if he’s gotten his pride back enough to not let me, I know he needs it.”

“I know the feeling.” Maelgwyn’s eyes are fixed on the floorboards, focusing on counting the lines in the hardwood and clenching his jaw. He’d never liked Edmund. The entire time he’d known him, Edmund had been a whiny, obnoxious, pathetic drain on his twin. He’d only hesitate to call Edmund a coward because of the high opinion he held of his brother. But no matter how much he didn’t care for Ethan’s brother, he couldn’t deny that this most recent strain between them was undoubtedly the result of his plan. So Maelgwyn kept his distaste to himself, deciding it was more important to make sure Ethan was alright instead of voice his opinion. Squeezing him tighter for a moment and nestling closer, Mael spoke more softly than his usual carrying baritone, “If there’s anything I can do, I’m around.”

Ethan returned the small hug with a soft chuckle, “Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but I think that might be part of the problem.”

“What d’you mean?” 

There was a trace of hurt in Maelgwyn’s voice, and Ethan hurried to correct his mistake. “Oh, no, it’s not any real problem,” Ethan explained, “Having you here has honestly made my week, but I think he’s starting to realize I’m hiding something.”

“Oh.” Maelgwyn echoed. “That sounds… bad.”

“It’s not great!” Ethan let out a nervous laugh, “But I’ll figure it out. He’s my brother, he’ll come round.”

“I hope so.” Mael knew better than to assume that was likely, but did appreciate Ethan trying to soothe both of their anxieties around hiding everything like this. “If there’s anything I can do to make that easier, staying out of the way or whatever, I can.”

“Babe,” Ethan chuckled a little more honestly, tipping Maelgwyn’s chin back up to face him, “I love you, I’d much rather you be in the way.”

Maelgwyn, who had been trying to stay focused through the cavalcade of butterflies coursing through him, felt his eyes go wide.

“I mean— I’m—” Ethan realizes a moment later what he said, his eyes following suit and his face flushing as he stammers to fix it, “Not that I—”

His partner cuts him off, his hand coming to Ethan’s face as he leans up to lock their lips together. It really was the only way to shut Ethan up sometimes. For someone whose tongue is almost as sharp as his blade, Ethan’s lips are always softer and gentler than Maelgwyn expects. The kiss doesn’t last long, Maelgwyn pulling back after a few moments and leaning their foreheads together. “I love you too.”

Ethan laughs and feels his entire posture relax. Talking about everything just now had tensed him more than he’d noticed, but Maelgwyn always managed to calm him down in just the right way. Pulling Maelgwyn into a deeper kiss, his hand finds its way to his partner’s waist, shifting their position slightly to get better access to him.

The both of them now fully distracted, neither notice the near silent click of the dueling studio door shutting. Edmund had heard people practicing and was about to duck down to see what was going on, but when he realized whose voice accompanied his brother’s, he’d decided to hang back. 

Edmund sighed, leaning against the wall of the staircase and trying to keep his breathing measured, eyes shutting as he forced himself to remain silent, the old cat burglar’s instincts flaring up in him as he stayed hidden. One thing was for sure, Ethan had definitely been hiding something. 

### Chapter two ###

(CW violence, blood, familial argument, oblique mention of transphobic child abuse)

Edmund glowered down at his sabre, inspecting it with a harder brow than he’d worn in a long while, not yet sure whether he should be dreading what was coming next. How could Ethan do this? He knew either of them getting involved romantically with anyone was dangerous, and somehow he picked the single worst person he possibly could have. Doesn’t he see that Maelgwyn working with the Six at all is the biggest target they could have on their backs right now? And with how close they’re getting to the map, with everything at stake and the crew finally starting to make some real money, why the hell did Ethan pick now of all times to let himself feel.  

The blade had a few minor imperfections. He tended to keep good care of it, but not nearly as well as Ethan’s identical one. Edmund had been meaning to ask Castille if she would work on it, to make sure that the tiny cracks he’d started to see cropping up weren’t a sign of something deeper, but ever since Memoriam, he hadn’t really used it for more than practice and an accessory. He assumed that must’ve been what put the crack in the blade. He ran a finger over it. It was small, nothing that should show deep structural damage, but he had a bad feeling it ran deeper than he could see. You hold any tool long enough and you start to get a feel for its condition in a way that goes deeper than sight, and Edmund’s sabre wasn’t nearly as well worn as his dance shoes, but he made a point of inspecting it every morning before his practice, at the very least. 

Hearing the clatter of his brother descending the steps from the main level down to the basements, Edmund let out a sigh and undid the sleeves of his flowing white blouse, rolling them up to reveal the dark, wiry muscle of his forearms, dotted with little scars here and there from various fights or slips. “Ethan.” He called out as the steps grew closer, his voice low and somber, “Come on, we need to train.”

Ethan, who had been planning on ducking down to check on Maelgwyn again before the place was full of his students, froze in his tracks. Had he forgotten they planned on fencing together today? Usually they waited until a day neither of them had class so they could really go all out… why wasn’t he waiting until Oteday? “Uh… do we?”

Edmund grimaced, keeping his eye on his sword and not looking at Ethan. “We skipped last week, come on.”

“Oh– uh,” He knew Maelgwyn had pretty intense plans soon, and even if he wasn’t talking about it, he was clearly not managing the stress well. But hearing more confidence in his brother’s voice than he had since he came back from Memoriam spurred him onward. Missing last week had been bothering him and besides, Maelgwyn could take care of himself… right? Besides, Edmund seemed upset… maybe this was more important. “Yeah, alright.” Ethan smiled at his brother, who still didn’t look up at him. Taking the last few steps with a bit more of a spring in his stride and shouldering through the half open door, he crosses the room towards the cabinet they kept their good practice sabres in, half pulling it open before Edmund called out again, eyes still low.

“What’re you doing.” His tone was sharp, almost accusatory.

“Getting a sabre..?”

“You have one on your hip.”

Ethan blinked twice, looking at Edmund with confusion in the eyes they shared before glancing down at the sword hilt hanging off of his belt. They hardly ever practice with the real thing, it’s ridiculously dangerous, especially with their tendency to go a bit too hard when it’s just the two of them and they can really let loose. “... Alright.” Ethan hadn’t been on the back foot with Edmund in a while now. Lately he spent so much time looking after him and making sure he was up to class (or their real work) that he wasn’t used to his brother’s voice sounding so sharp and commanding. “Just let me get the pads.” Ethan made to walk to the closet where they hung, turning his back to his brother for a moment.

“No.” 

“What?” Ethan turned back to Edmund, worry starting to creep further into his voice. “Edmund… what’s wrong?” 

Finally Edmund looked up from his blade, his eyes burning with a fury and determination Ethan usually only saw in a mirror. “When was the last time we fought seriously?” 

“What do you mean?” Ethan took a step towards his brother, reaching out a hand to him in what he hoped was a calming gesture, but the minute he shifted his foot Edmund’s feet slid into stance, raising his blade towards his brother. The moment the sword is pointed at him Ethan stops, taking a slightly more defensive stance as his hand reflexively drops to his own hilt, “What are you doing?”

“Draw your sword.”

“Edmund, no! Put your sword down—”

In a move more reminiscent of his counterpart, Edmund cut off his brother with one clean step closer. Ethan stepped back, shutting his mouth and realizing just how close to the corner he was right now. 

“Draw. Your. Sword.”

Cursing in Nacrean, Ethan again acts more like his brother and does as he’s told, drawing the blade and unbuckling his sword belt with his offhand, letting the sheath and belt fall with a clatter around his ankles. Kicking it away, the bravo drops into stance himself, hand down in a low defensive guard, their blades nearly touching. 

“Fine.” Ethan spits between them. He’s not exactly sure what the problem was, but only a few things got Edmund this angry, he’s not blind. “En gar—”

Before Ethan has a chance to finish speaking, Edmund lashes out with a low swipe at his legs, all sense of etiquette broken in the first move. Ethan had expected some amount of dirty play from the amount of malice in his brother’s eyes, knocking the blade away and going for a thrust, assuming correctly that his brother would dodge before the sword pierced his shoulder. Using the new opening, he takes a few steps away from the corner, just out of Edmund’s range. Ethan smirks, “Come off it, you know I’m the better duelist, I don’t want to hurt you, Edmund.”

Edmund snarls, intending to wipe the smug expression off his oldest rival’s face. Resetting his stance and stepping closer, Edmund smoothly steps away again, not letting his brother get close. “Scared, are you?”

If he were to be completely honest the answer is yes, seeing Edmund suddenly so cold to him was starting to shake him. But there was no way he could let Edmund see that, so he keeps that cocky little smirk playing beneath his mustache as he decides to go on the offensive. Lunging for his brother, Ethan makes like he’s about to go for another thrust, and when Edmund moves to parry, he twists his blade at the last moment, sending it in a slash that would have left most people missing a chunk of their arm. But most people aren’t expert dancers. 

In an effortless pirouette, Edmund snakes around the blade, barely an inch between it and his bare forearm as he cleanly transitions into another attack, slashing down towards his rival’s face, who just barely manages to stop it with his own, a look of genuine panic flashing across his face in the split second before they connect.
“Remember when we were kids?” Edmund pants, putting pressure down on his brother’s blade, locking them together and trying to ignore the way he feels the metal shift in his hand, “And Auburn would yell at us for fighting with the knives he made for us?”

Ethan looked confused, still not sure how to respond to his brother always using their father’s first name, “What?”

“He always said, ‘You’ll hurt him, your brother’s not strong like you’.” Punctuating his words with a sudden hard push, he knocks Ethan off balance, sending him clamoring to regain his footing.
“Well what else did he always say?” He steps closer as Ethan gets his feet back under him, taking another slash at Ethan’s torso only to have it blocked at the last moment, “Always make them underestimate you.” Slashing again, more forcefully this time, Ethan knows he can’t quite get his sword up in time and steps to his right, Edmund’s left, to avoid it, the blade nearly connecting with his shoulder, but before Ethan can get back into his stance, Edmund again pulls another of his brother’s moves and shoulder checks Ethan in the chest, sending him coughing and spluttering to the floor with a muffled thud and the clatter of his sabre on the hardwood. 

Edmund steps close again, standing over him and pointing his blade down at Ethan’s throat as he regains his breath, “Still think you’re the better duelist?”

Ethan isn’t used to being so outclassed by his brother, but now that the initial shock of Edmund’s fury has worn off, he’s begun to properly analyze his brother’s moves. He’s too angry, and like both of them tend to when they are, Edmund keeps overextending himself with his swipes. That, and with the exception of the pirouette from a moment ago he isn’t keeping his defenses up. If Ethan can time it right, it should be easy to get him off rhythm and knock him down, maybe get him to tell him what the hell this is really about. 

But before that, he has to get out from under his brother’s blade and back to his sword, still laying where he dropped it on the other side of Ethan’s feet. Taking this moment to catch his breath properly now that Edmund has stopped swinging, Ethan lets out a nervous chuckle, “You know, now I’m not so sure.” Putting his hands up in mock surrender he goes on, “Come on, Edmund, you beat me. Can’t we just talk about whatever this is?” 

“Don’t play that with me, I’ve seen you get out of this position before.”

“Edmund, I’m serious, I don’t want to keep fighting like this.”

“You think I can’t tell when you lie to me?” Edmund lifts his blade a fraction, aiming to strike down at his brother’s arm or shoulder and end this quickly, but spotting the flick of his brother’s wrist just in time Ethan rolls out of the way, scrambling to stand up before his brother’s second swipe. But having expected something like this, Edmund makes no such move, instead focusing on cleanly stepping between Ethan and his sword, raising his own in a more defensive position.

Shit… so he noticed that weak point in his form too. Now that it’s become incredibly clear Edmund isn’t stopping the onslaught until he gets a little blood out of him, Ethan pulls a long knife out of his boot and holds it as defensively as he can, not sure how to get past his brother to pick up the sword. “So, since you’re serious, how’re we doing this? First strike? I know you’re not trying to kill me.” Even though he’s definitely losing, he feels himself start to smirk, having missed seeing Edmund with so much fire in him. “Or we could talk about it like adults instead of settling it like we did when we were kids. Just an offer.”

Edmund scowls, and in a mirror of his brother’s first action spits on the ground between them. “Fine. Let’s talk.” His eyes sear through Ethan’s. He’d started to enjoy the fight himself, but being reminded of why he started it in the first place sours him quick. “What the hell are you doing with Maelgwyn?”

Ethan throws back his head and lets out a derisive laugh, dark brown curls framing his handsome face as it twists into a mirrored furious expression. “Of course that’s what this is about.”

“Well!?” Edmund’s hand tightens on his blade, his knuckles losing some of their color, “Are you going to answer me?”

It’s Ethan’s turn to fall silent, grimacing and choosing to answer with the blade of his knife instead of his tongue. He has to do this right or he’s screwed, and probably badly wounded. Edmund might not be as practiced a duelist as he is, but his background in dance gave him a decided edge in evasion, and Edmund dearly liked to show that off, especially in private where they don’t need to worry about keeping their style consistent between the two of them. So if Ethan can avoid the sabre and get inside his brother’s range, chances are Edmund will dodge his strike. But if he messes this up, well, then he can kiss his good shirt and a substantial amount of blood goodbye. 

Not letting himself pause too long, he dashes straight forward, trying to close the distance as quickly as he can, knife low as if he was planning to stab Edmund in the gut. But it seemed Edmund followed his train of thought, and rather than attempt to swipe at him with the sword, Edmund raises his elbow and shifts his weight subtly to the left. 

Ethan notices his mistake a moment too late, and as he nears his brother hoping that the knife strikes clean air, he feels it snag in his brother’s shirt and his eyes go wide in fear as the vise snaps shut, Edmund pinning his wrist in place with the upper part of his arm and causing him to drop the knife that was his last line of defense. 

As it clatters to the floor next to his sabre, Ethan tries fruitlessly to escape his brother’s grip, but Edmund holds firm, glowering down at his brother with a look somewhere between anger and disappointment. “Really? First you lie to me for months now you can’t speak when confronted with it?”

“Shut up!” Ethan snaps, now really starting to get pissed off. Who the hell is Edmund to talk down to him like this? They’re supposed to be equals, that was always how it was with them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Then enlighten me! Did you forget all of our rules or just the most important one?”

Ethan rolls his eyes, still struggling. “Who cares if I have a boyfr—”

“DON’T LIE TO EACH OTHER.” The hypocrisy makes his blood curdle, but he still can’t let go of his anger long enough to stop, pushing Ethan away from him (and his weapons) and putting his sword back between them. 

“WELL WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?” Ethan throws his arms open, keeping his distance now that he can’t do anything to block Edmund. “I knew if I said I fell for someone you’d flip out! And with you practically falling apart every fucking night and me having to be the one making sure you eat, and sleep, and stop drinking before you hurt yourself, I didn’t know what else to do! And then things just… kept piling on.”

Letting out a dismissive scoff, Edmund retorts, “Fell for? Fell for?” His brow furrows further somehow and he advances again, keeping his sword high and pointed right at Ethan’s chest. “I thought you were just seeing one another! But you fell for Maelgwyn??” He takes a wide, unbalanced swipe at his brother’s stomach, but Ethan easily steps around it, taking this opportunity to get around the side of Edmund and closer to the blades that lay on the floor.

“YES! I DID!” Ethan shouts back, “And if you’d ever actually spoken to him you’d see why! But you’re too terrified to open your mouth half the time he’s in the room!”

“And you should be too.” Seeing his brother’s eyes flick towards his sabre, he realizes he messed up by letting Ethan get around him. Not yet making a move, knowing that would just make Ethan lunge, he tries to instead keep him talking, his voice taking on a grave hue as it did whenever what happened at Memoriam comes up, “You weren’t there. You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

“And neither do you! You pompous, arrogant, self important little prick!” Ethan’s face has started to go red from anger now, mirroring his brother’s fury in his own expression. “He’s kind, and gentle, and respects me a hell of a lot more than you ever have! He wouldn’t try to kill me with a sword over something this asinine!” He despised comparing the two of them, it always felt wrong in his head, but when he pretty much only spent real time with Edmund for the last thirty years it’s hard not to. 

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe the reason I hate your rules is that they don’t fucking work for me!?” Ethan steps closer to Edmund, the blade between them forgotten in his effort to get out what’s been bothering him now for ages, “How much I hate having to keep myself completely detached from everyone? Just so you can sleep easy at night knowing neither of us have any real connections outside of each other? And for what!” The words just keep pouring out of him, not sure he could stop if he tried, “So that maybe we can avoid people holding us back!? Clearly you don’t give a damn but I do.” His voice softens a little as he feels himself start to crack, the overwhelming stress of the last few months finally getting to him, “I can’t keep living like this, Edmund! Especially when now I have to spend half my time taking care of your whinging, pathetic, whiskey-drenched ass every night!” Anger rises back up his tone he goes on, “Except for the times you hole yourself up in your room and refuse to come out for WEEKS! So don’t fucking lecture me on rules when I’ve been the only one actually doing any fucking work since you came back shaking and crying from the college!”

Edmund, who has begun to shake with anger at the way Ethan is talking so flippantly about his trauma, fires back “You don’t understand! He’s dangerous! You don’t know what he’s planni—”

“Stop trying to protect me!” Ethan feels himself start to laugh, not sure what part of this his subconscious finds funny, but his diaphragm moves all the same. “You’ve been trying to pretend like you’re in charge ever since you stopped dad from hitting me for chopping off all my hair!” Ethan’s voice goes a bit more serious again. “We’re supposed to be equals! Isn’t that one of your precious rules? You don’t get to tell me what to do and treat me like a child, especially when you’re barely able to put on your jacket by yourself anymore. You aren’t dad.”

Ethan knows he’s gone too far when he sees Edmund’s eyes go wide, his nostrils flaring as he feels his blood boil. “My rules?” Choosing not to respond to the blatant insult, he goes on, “We decided on them together! They’re OUR rules, they have been since we decided to find the mansion!”

“Not anymore.” And with that Ethan finally lunges for his sword, now only paces away from it. Edmund thrusts his blade angrily at him, safety forgotten in trying to stop him before he can reach the sabre, and if Ethan hadn’t rolled at just the right moment he’s sure Edmund would have buried it in his stomach. Luckily, he makes it to his saber in one piece and recovers quickly, raising himself up to his full height, blade held tightly in his right hand. 

Now that the momentum of the argument is broken, Ethan’s mind kicks back into analysis mode. With Edmund being this aggressive and wild, he wasn’t going to beat him with proper military form. It’s too easy to knock him off balance and off rhythm that way, especially when Edmund knows his style so well and has repeatedly proven that this isn’t a fair fight. No, if he wants to get Edmund to calm the hell down and stop coming at him like this, then he needs to end this quickly. But even now he felt hesitant to swing in a way he knew Edmund couldn’t dodge. He was pissed, sure, but Ethan never wanted to harm Edmund, and with a real sabre a little glancing blow can easily land wrong and hurt either of them permanently. And yet, Edmund seemed to have no such hangups. Ethan’s eyes met his brother’s, momentarily sizing one another up, beginning to circle one another as Edmund’s fury continued to smolder behind his retinas. If Edmund was aiming to hurt him, he has to defend himself or this could turn worse very quickly.

Getting through Edmund’s now practically nonexistent defense isn’t going to be much of a problem, but actually hitting him with all his twirls and dodges will be. Plus, it’s obvious from his breathing that they’re both getting tired. This had gone on long enough and it won’t be able to continue much longer. All he had to do was be unpredictable enough to put Ethan on the back foot, and try his best to end this quickly without anyone getting too hurt.

Edmund raises his sword between him and his now re-armed brother, presumably doing a similar calculus in his own mind. When he sees it, Ethan feels himself drop into Maelgwyn’s stance on instinct. It’s looser than his usual position, back slouched, shoulders sloped. His grip is almost lazy, barely keeping his sword from falling out of his hand, but still pointed at Edmund’s throat. His offhand comes up to his chest from where he usually tucks it behind his back, looking almost more like a boxer than a fencer. 

It’s not that different from his own stance, but when you’ve spent your whole life sparring against someone, it’s immediately recognizable when they start changing things up. Edmund’s eyes narrow, but he stays quiet, analyzing his brother’s bizarre form with the same confusion Ethan had regarded Mael earlier in the week. 

Fixing his brother with a cold stare he’s not used to wearing, Ethan feels some of his confidence return to him, the comfort and safety of his beloved’s presence in his breathing technique balancing and focusing him. Sliding his foot forward carefully, he awaits his brother’s approach.

Edmund, who in the brief pause regained some of his composure but not quite enough, takes two small steps forward before lunging in a thrust at Ethan. Expecting to finally land a real blow against this clearly indefensible stance, Edmund’s eyes widen in surprise when Ethan’s blade dips, perfectly catching his sabre and twisting it away. But Edmund only has a moment to be shocked before Ethan’s posture pivots, fist shooting out and slamming into Edmund’s cheek unexpectedly, the reason for his strange offhand position revealed as Ethan gracefully slips out of counterattack range.

Edmund spits out a bit of blood to join countless stains like it on the dull wood, regaining his balance and trying to stop his head from spinning. They never hit one another above the neck when they sparred, it was too obvious a tell between the brothers if one of them had a visible bruise. Maybe Ethan really meant it… but now wasn’t the time for that. He could think about what they said to one another after he’d won. Pulling himself back up to stance, he fixes his brother with a determined glare. All he has to do is outlast his brother. Even if Ethan had picked up some new moves, Edmund still had the edge in evasion. And yet, after going so long, he could feel himself starting to wane, exhaustion pulling at him insistently, his sword arm begging him to rest. But with Ethan standing there looking so damned smug, he couldn’t stop yet. Not after what he said.

Snarling again, Edmund switches hands, tossing his sabre into his left and shaking out his now spent right, his left foot coming forward. “What the hell was that?”

“Enough to beat you.”

Edmund scoffs, but he can feel the worry starting to build in him. Ethan was pissed. And he’d never liked how quickly his brother jumped to cutting things off when he got heated. “Then come and try it.”

Giving into the goad, Ethan advances faster than Edmund was expecting, his blade flashing out to swipe at his legs as Edmund had at the start of the fight. His brother knocks it aside easily, but expecting another punch, Edmund’s eye was on Ethan’s fist, and not his feet. 

Ethan kicks hard at Edmund’s left ankle, making his twin yelp sharply as his stance falls to pieces, lashing out with his sword, trying to find purchase, but only managing to flail uselessly as Ethan steps back, again letting his brother regain his balance instead of striking, toying with him.

“Come on, stand up straight Captain!” Ethan sneers, slipping into their old commander’s voice, relishing finally having the edge against Edmund in this fight. “Are you going to fight me or keep falling?”

Edmund responds in kind with his sword, lunging forward and swiping a few times in quick succession, each one blocked by Ethan’s lazy sabre, and even though he was sure that should’ve been enough force to knock it out of his hand with how he’s holding it, for some reason the sword just wouldn’t budge. Confidence’s Breath is a powerful thing. 

Once Edmund’s last strike dies on the edge of his blade, Ethan knows this fight is over whether or not Edmund would admit it. Edmund was too tired, and Ethan’s second wind was carrying him a lot further than his twin’s aching muscles would. 

Lunging forward one last time with all the force he can muster, he goes for a simple downward slash towards Edmund’s temple. Edmund instinctively snaps his sword up to block the blow, but as he turns, the light from a nearby sconce shines through the hairline fracture in the spine of his blade, and Edmund realizes a moment too late where Ethan’s is about to strike.

There’s a shrill screech of metal scraping against itself as Ethan’s sabre cuts halfway through the steel of Edmund’s, and in the millisecond pause before either of them have time to process what’s happened, Ethan’s instinct takes over and in one final push, Edmund’s blade snaps cleanly off, his eyes going wide in terror as it clatters to the floor at their feet.

### Chapter three ###

“Edmund,” Ethan laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, holding out a waterskin for him. “I canceled class tonight. Are you alright?”

He didn’t look up, transfixed by the broken sabre in his hands. 

“Edmund. You need water, you’re exhausted.”

“Did you mean it?” His voice is soft, slightly misshapen by the swelling in his cheek. 

Ethan sighed, expecting something like this from his brother. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone so hard. He should’ve known his brother’s sabre would be as fragile as he was. He never did take good enough care of it. 

Wiping the last of the tear tracks off his face he sits down next to where his brother kneels. “I’m not sure.” Leaving his hand on his mirror’s shoulder, Ethan sets the waterskin down in front of him in case he changes his mind. “I just… I don't think I can keep doing this the same way anymore. And it’s not just Maelgwyn, I’ve felt like this for a while—”

“No.” 

“Hm?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Edmund finally puts down the blade of his saber, taking the water but still gripping tightly to his hilt. “Do I really act like him?”

“... Oh.” Of course that’s what he’s fixated on. Ethan lets his hand drop from Edmund’s shoulder, thinking quietly for a few seconds. “I mean… sometimes? But I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I didn’t realize.” Edmund mumbles, pulling the cork out with his teeth and letting it fall by the strap it’s attached, taking a long gulp of the water and wishing his brother had brought something stronger. 

“We both do sometimes, Edmund.” Ethan wanted to comfort him, but at the same time he can’t quite shake his own fury at the way Edmund had treated him, both tonight and the last however many years. “That’s just how fathers are.”

“Don’t say that.” Edmund looks up finally, fixing his brother with a look halfway to a glare as he holds the water out to him. “You’re nothing like Auburn.”

“Yes I am. It’s inescapable, he raised us, of course we both act a little bit like him occasionally.” Taking the water he downs a bit of it, but hands it back almost immediately. “I barked at you the way he used to. The way we both did back when we were training our unit.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” Ethan chuckled humorlessly, “Whether or not we like it we both look like he did too.”

Edmund’s fist clenches tighter on the sword, his mouth twisting into a scowl. “Don’t remind me.”

“Ed, I’m saying that I was wrong.” Like always lately, he had to be the bigger person. “I shouldn’t have spat that in your face. But you were being ridiculous, you see that right?”

Edmund goes silent, drinking more of the water and staring down at his blade where it sits on the floor. 

“Look, I’m not going to stop seeing Maelgwyn, but I promise he’s not a threat to either of us. If you just spoke to him you’d see that—”

“Ethan.” Edmund looked up, knowing he had to say something but not sure how to tell him without telling him. “You can’t trust him.”

“Tough.”

“What?”

“Tough!” Ethan smiled, maddening Edmund slightly, “I already do.”

“But, you don’t understand—”

“I understand there’s something you’re not telling me.” Ethan takes the water back again, Edmund’s mouth closing slowly. “Both of you. I might have no idea what’s going on with you two, but I’m not an idiot.”

Edmund looks confused, not sure what to do with this information. He knew he hadn’t been the most slick about everything he’d seen and everything he knew now, but still, he thought he’d done a better job than that at least.

“Edmund, I don’t care. Whatever it is, Maelgwyn wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, and I hope you wouldn’t either.” He claps Edmund on the shoulder. “Today notwithstanding.” 

Edmund scoffed, then sniffled, wiping his nose on his arm and going back to not meeting his twin’s gaze. The two remained like that for about a minute, silently thinking over all of it and passing the water between them. But after a while of trying to keep his tears at bay, Edmund finally relaxes enough to find his voice again. “So… Maelgwyn huh.”

“Yep.”

“How long?”

“A few months. Not long, really.”

“Mm.” Edmund nodded, pausing briefly. “And… he treats you well?”

Ethan laughed, “Really you should worry in the other direction, mate.”

“I couldn’t care less as long as you’re safe.” He mutters, both protective and petulant instincts flaring back up in him as he comes out of the fog of the duel a bit more.

“Well, I am.” Ethan smiles, “And he is too, for that matter.”

Sighing, and deciding that there wasn’t any way out of it at this point, Edmund decides to just get over himself. “How’d it happen?”

“I promise, you don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

“No, that fun.”  

“Sun and skies, you’re an idiot.” Edmund mumbles, shoving Ethan’s shoulder playfully, eliciting another bark of a laugh from his brother.

A few seconds pass in quiet before he answers the question, censoring the bits he knew Edmund wouldn’t want to hear. “We started talking when everyone was out one night. He was still getting his bearings on the city after, yknow, being locked up.” A warm, reminiscent smile spread over his face, staring into the middle distance with a wistful expression. “Ended up walking around the streets at night, showing him what had changed since the war ended. He offered to pay for drinks as a thank you, and we both had a few too many.”

“Church boy? Really?”

“Oh yeah. Total lightweight, though.”

“Figures.” Edmund finds himself chuckling a little. 

It’s Ethan’s turn to go silent this time, thinking quietly and trying to decide how to put the question into words. When he speaks it’s with a cautious rhythm, his usual overconfident cadence turned meek. “So… you’re alright with it?”

Edmund scoffs again, “Can’t stop you, can I?” 

“Nope.”

“Then I’m not gonna hit you again at least.”

“Thanks, prick.” Ethan rolls his eyes, still annoyed at the way Edmund always acted like the older brother, but glad they at least worked most of this out without too much blood. Standing up with a groan, he stretches and cracks his neck, “Come on, I’m getting a drink and you need to eat. We’ll talk to Castille about the sword when she comes back.”

######