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Paul’s first memories are of the ocean. His father always found it important that he grew up with an equal sense of respect and trust for the unpredictable tides, and since he was young he has spent a lot of his time on the shores of Caladan.
Learning how to swim feels like finding a passage to another world. The water holds him gently, cool on his skin, and when he dives beneath the surface the world is perfectly muted; even his thoughts a distant echo, rather than a pressing panic.
Soon enough, leaving his clothes on the rocks and walking into the foaming waves comes as natural as breathing. When he tastes the salt on his lips, when he sprawls out beneath the sun and lets the water dry on his skin, he feels grounded, connected to his home through this primordial thing that predates not only him but his bloodline - this thing that will remain, long after they’re gone.
Sometimes when he forgets how to breathe, when shouldering the role of heir becomes overwhelming, there’s a calm to be found in the waters. No matter the weather, no matter the mood, Paul looks towards the horizon, and feels the panicking staccato of his pulse mellow into something manageable.
Recently, he has been in desperate need of quieting his mind. While Paul has been taught countless strategies for this very purpose, the things he’s trying to rid himself of isn’t as simple as steadying his mind ahead of battle, or staying vigilant through his sleep.
It’s just - one day he wakes up, and the world is different.
It’s a change that builds over time, but the actual shift is sudden, disorienting. Paul walks past the barracks, catching Gurney Halleck playing to some of the recruits, and none of this is new, none of it is different, but as Paul catches sight of him, something seizes in his chest, and he sucks in a sharp breath, hoping to stave off the light-headedness somewhat.
He has known Gurney forever, but he has never known him like this; the sun catching in the buzz-cut hair, the silver of his beard, the amber gleam in his eyes; hands steady and confident on the strings of his baliset.
Gurney taught Paul how to play - Gurney plays to him still - and while Paul knows that he must have always looked like this, it is all frighteningly new.
Paul knows fully well that he has no reason to hide, that it’s impossible that his revelation can be obvious to others - no matter how world-altering it feels to him - but still, there’s a heated flush beneath his skin, a hitch to his breath, and all he knows is that he cannot let it show. He knows that, above anything, this is something that he must keep to himself. A secret that he must hide until he himself understands it, and once he does understand it, he must guard it even closer still.
And yet, he only rounds the corner of the barracks, turning his back to the wall, listening to the strum of Gurney’s experienced fingers and the deep baritone of his voice. He listens to the yearning lyrics, sung with a soft cadence, like Gurney doesn’t simply recite the old song from memory, but like the longing for distant shores and a love found and lost is something that he himself has lived. Paul wouldn’t be able to still his beating heart even if he tried, and so, he turns to the sea.
This heat beneath his skin can be soothed by the waves, numbed momentarily by the unaffected embrace of the sea, but he soon finds that the embers cannot be put out.
All the more often, Paul sneaks down to the shore, submerging himself no matter the forecast. Where his mind would normally quiet, now he finds a singular focus; the rest of the world falling away until all that remains is the heat planted within him by Gurney.
When he sits on the rocky beach, knees pressed against his chest, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air after holding his breath for much too long, he lands in a calm underscored with something else. A restless longing that he tries to contain by hugging his knees with a firm grip, but even then, the salt on his lips doesn’t taste like the sea anymore.
Gurney knows, because of course he does.
Gurney knows, because if there’s anyone who knows Paul more intimately than the sea, it’s him.
Maybe he doesn’t know the nature of Paul’s fixation, and he certainly doesn’t know the why of Paul’s decision to withdraw from him, but he certainly notices, and watches Paul with a thoughtful gaze, those hazel eyes - normally softened by laughter lines - now framed with a sharp worry.
Paul wants to offer him reassurance. He wants to explain that Gurney hasn’t done anything wrong, and that this distance isn’t of his making, but… explaining would be to offer too much of an insight to what has actually left Paul this distracted.
Instead, he turns his gaze to the horizon, and he tries to remember how to breathe, and none of it works because it builds and it builds and it builds.
Paul has no intention of acting on his feelings, but then he finds himself on a balcony overlooking the rolling hills, the sea a still mirror of the starlit sky. The moonlight is a gentle silver, taking the shape of a confidant who will offer just enough shadows that he can allow his yearning to surface. That he can entertain the thought of Gurney’s hands on his skin, those confident fingers tangling with his hair rather than conjuring notes, that low baritone a heated hum on his skin. In the dark, these thoughts seem far less dangerous than he has believed them to be, and by the time Gurney finds him out there, in the cold, Paul is foolishly open to the thought that maybe this isn’t something that he needs to keep hidden. That maybe, he is doing the both of them a disservice by distancing himself without allowing Gurney the knowledge of why.
So, when Gurney silently takes a seat next to him, sitting just close enough that his thigh presses up against Paul’s thigh - that his presence draws Paul’s desire like a deep flush just beneath his skin - and when he asks, ever so carefully, if Paul is alright, if there’s anything he can do to help, Paul leans right into that warmth.
He puts his head on Gurney’s shoulder, holding himself with a tight coiled tension, and when Gurney doesn’t pull away from him, it all just snaps, Paul letting out a shivery sigh in relief, anxiety bleeding out of him as he allows himself to relax, and lets Gurney carry his weight.
With the secrets he’s keeping, speaking seems dangerous, but beneath the dim light of the stars, his actions are obscured by the dark, and so; when Gurney just shifts his position, draping an arm over his shoulders, offering comfort without knowing what for, Paul lays his hand - fingers spread, palm facing up - where their thighs meet, feeling the rough fabric of Gurney’s pants brush against his knuckles.
He holds still with all the training that’s been instilled in him, techniques meant for combat and survival now used for something as frivolous as matters of the heart, but, god, it feels anything but frivolous. It feels like when he swims too far off-shore, ocean currents gripping him, ready to carry him under the surface and sweep him so far away that he could never hope to return.
He holds still, and he counts his heartbeats as if his pulse had any chance of not racing at a time like this, and when Gurney’s hand - big and calloused and warm - entwines their fingers and holds him with a steady, grounding grip, it could be platonic but it isn’t. It isn’t.
Paul kisses him then.
Foolishly and helplessly, he turns to Gurney, and Gurney turns to him - perhaps because he knows, but more likely because he catches the movement at the corner of his eye, because he so easily reads Paul and wants to offer him support; companionship; anything he wants - and then Paul has closed the distance between them, and the embers roar into a blood-hot fire beneath his skin, a flush blooming down his cheeks, his throat, his chest.
Paul gasps at the intensity of it, the burst of desire intoxicating and new, and Gurney’s hand grips his tightly, and his lips are chapped but soft, and there’s the sting of his beard, and when Gurney’s lips part Paul feels the ocean current grasp him and tear him into deep water, unexplored pleasure as Gurney’s breath ghosts over his lips.
He doesn’t actually know what to do beyond this point. This wasn’t something he planned, and he certainly doesn’t have the experience to guide him further. For all the vague fantasies he has allowed himself, none of them can serve as a guide now, and all he can think to do is push even further into Gurney’s space, chasing everything soft, every roughened thrill, and then Gurney’s free hand comes up to cradle his face, and for a crazed moment Paul believes that he will mentor him even here, but instead - Gurney gently pushes him back, just far enough that their eyes can meet.
“Paul”, he breathes, voice rough and heated, and Paul has never heard him like this.
But even though Gurney’s voice buries deep in his chest with promise, and even though he holds Paul ever so gently, his eyebrows are drawn together with deep-set confusion, and his eyes are wide with a mixture of worry and pity.
“Why…” Gurney catches himself, lips pressed together in thought, and then he swallows, sucking in a deep breath before he makes another attempt to speak. Paul steels himself, because whatever this is, it isn’t an enthusiastic encouragement to continue, and there’s nothing he could say to make things right now that his thoughtless actions have changed their friendship forever. Gurney clears his throat, looking like he doesn’t necessarily trust himself to speak, but forging ahead anyway. “Did I give you the -”
“I’m sorry”, Paul blurts, because while he normally would never insult Gurney by interrupting him, it is a better option than passively inviting the heartbreak. For a terrible moment, he’s tempted to stay, because despite everything, Gurney’s hand is still cradling his face, and he’s still looking at Paul with compassion, and some crazed part of his mind thinks that maybe, this is an intimacy that he could still earn.
“Please forgive me.” When he speaks this time, his voice comes out a pained whisper, and he gets to his feet on unsteady legs, Gurney’s hand falling from his face as he stands. He escapes into the castle quick enough that, even if Gurney has moved to stop him, Paul wouldn’t have a chance to know.
Sleep doesn’t come easy, and he certainly doesn’t wake up feeling rested. For most of the morning, he keeps to his room, but the walls are closing in the second he allows his thoughts to wander, and normally, Gurney is the one he would turn to when feeling lost.
Now, only the sea remains.
Sneaking out of the castle is easy as anything, and by noon Paul finds himself on the shore once more, the sun high in the sky, its light a sharp, metallic grey when reflected off the water. For a while, he just sits on the warm rocks, hands trailing absentmindedly over the stone as he listens to the rumble of the surf, but the calm that settles over him only allows him to relive last night in an even clearer focus.
Paul hasn’t brought a change of clothes, nor a towel, but that doesn’t stop him from stripping off his clothes, folding them into a neat pile and placing a stone on top of them, to ensure that they’re not disturbed by the wind.
He walks into the sea, the water cold but not uncomfortably so. He’s shivering, holding his arms to his chest, as if he could physically hold on to what little warmth he still carries beneath his skin, and yet – he knows that the easiest way to shake the cold is to submit to it completely. To hesitate is to invite doubt and well, he’s had enough of that.
When he dives beneath the waves, the harsh cold waters are shocking at first, harsh where they grip his hair and drive him back towards the shore, but beneath that roughened surface, there’s that gentle caress he knows so well.
Paul kicks off the seabed, swimming further out against the current, not stopping until his lungs are screaming for air, the pressure so bad that he’d inhale water if he lingered for even a second longer.
He breaches the surface, sucking in deep, ragged breaths, his toes barely reaching the sands below, and he doesn’t turn to shore, instead threading water with his gaze turned to the horizon.
Like this, he has pushed himself just enough to feel anchored in his body; muscles straining; pulse ringing in his ears; every breath heavy; something he has to work hard to earn.
Like this, there’s no room for panicked thoughts, no reason to revisit the same memory again and again.
He dives beneath the surface once more, this time swimming towards the seabed, and while it stings keeping his eyes open, he can make out the myriad of smooth rocks there; the strands of coppery kelp; the small, silvery fishes nearly blending in against the backdrop.
Letting the sea rustle him back and forth, he’s floating, suspended, his mind quiet – almost – like he can find peace at the bottom of the sea should he just stay here long enough.
When he breaches the surf a second time, he knows that he stayed under for much longer – knows that he’ll be able to push himself further and further if he just keeps at it. Because, even now, there’s the memory of Gurney’s fingers entwined with his, Gurney’s lips parting for him, Gurney looking at Paul like he deserves the world, despite what he’s done, despite…
On his third trip to the bottom of the sea, he digs his fingers down between the rocks, dragging himself along the seabed and holding on, refusing to return to the wind-battered world above.
There’s a pressure building in his chest, a ragged desperation in his throat, but the world is almost muted, almost peaceful, and Paul is looking at the seaweed moving gently with the waves, and his mind is almost empty, and –
then it fills all at once, a confusing heat blooming beneath his skin, as a hand cards through his hair, fingers curling beneath his chin and guiding him back to the surface.
Even as Paul looks up through the distorted surface, he can tell that it is Gurney who stands above him – as if he’s been summoned here by Paul’s pathetically yearning heart.
Paul coughs, gulping down mouthfuls of air, finding his throat so rough that it’s an actual physical challenge to start breathing again.
“Gurney?” his voice barely carries, strained and breathless, and his mind is much too hazy to allow him to form sentences.
“I watched you from the shore”, Gurney says, his voice a low rumble not unlike the rhythmic sea, and his fingers trail down Paul’s throat, his hand coming to rest over his collar bones, fingers spread over his chest. “You disappeared for so long, and I… I apologize if I overstepped, sire.”
It is rare to hear Gurney Halleck stutter, and even rarer still for him to be this doubtful of his own actions. Paul just breathes through it, the words not really settling, but Gurney’s hand is so warm on his skin, and as he blinks the sea water from his eyes, he finally realizes just what a pair they make.
Paul; naked, his skin pale from the cold, his dark curls dripping with water, Gurney; wearing his training uniform, having waded into the waves without even removing his boots.
The fabric must be weighing Gurney down, but he has planted himself firmly at Paul’s side, seemingly not caring about how the dark pants, heavy with water, hang low on his hips, and how the grey shirt is plastered to his skin, clinging to his chest, his abs, his waist.
Paul’s hand is shaking when he reaches for Gurney, fingertips tangling in the thin fabric of his shirt, and he only pulls on it enough that it doesn’t cling to his skin in such a distractingly obscene way.
“You didn’t overstep”, he manages, knowing full well that he should meet Gurney’s eyes and offer reassurance, but he can’t look away from where he’s holding on to that grey fabric, like it’s the only thing keeping him from being swept away.
“Neither did you.”
Paul needs a moment for the words to register, and even then, he is sure that he must have misheard them; or at least misunderstood Gurney’s intention. Shock draws his gaze to finally look up at Gurney and really take him in, and he finds those hazel eyes wide with trepidation – as if Gurney himself is surprised by what he has admitted to – but beneath the anxious gleam, there’s an amber heat.
“Are you sure?” Even as he asks the question, Paul feels foolish to jeopardize this thing that is apparently within his grasp, but… it just seems unfathomable that it actually is. “I acted without thinking. I should have talked to you, I should have…”
And Gurney listens to him with endless patience, laughter lines fanning out at the corner of his eyes as he smiles, and the hand at Paul’s collar bones trail up, up, until his fingers curl over the nape of Paul’s neck – the hot, calloused touch enough for a full-body shiver to rush down Paul’s spine.
“You must be freezing”, Gurney says, gaze trailing down Paul’s chest, as if only now noticing the pallor of his skin.
Paul only manages to nod, swallowing thickly, both hands tangled in Gurney’s shirt now, giving a hopeful tug, as if he is even remotely strong enough to manhandle Gurney to where he wants him.
To his surprise, Gurney goes willingly, stepping in close, the rough fabric of his pants brushing against Paul’s thighs, his other hand coming to rest at the small of Paul’s back, and it’s enough to draw a gasp from his lips – the warmth spreading beneath his skin like pleasant embers.
Paul kisses him then.
Desperately, heart beating out of his chest, feeling like he’s in a free-fall until Gurney meets him halfway, and the embers roar into a blood-hot fire beneath his skin, a flush blooming down his cheeks, his throat, his chest.
This time, there’s no element of surprise, no misread intentions, and Gurney guides him with steady hands, angling him into the kiss just so, and crushing their bodies together, Paul overwhelmed at this raw, physical heat after having spent so much time suspended in the gentle cold.
There’s the sting of stubble against his lips, his chin, the taste of salt on his tongue, and then Gurney’s hand comes to cradle his face, licking into his mouth, not demanding but gently – as if mentoring him even here.
The currents swirl around them, sand and seaweed rustling at their feet with the push and pull of the tide, and Paul gets his hands beneath the hem of Gurney’s shirt, trailing up over his abs, around his sides, fingers spread wide and pushing into the muscle of his back.
Gurney hums against his lips, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, and then leaning back just enough for their eyes to meet.
“We need to get you into some dry clothes.”
Paul nods, not trusting himself with words, because he knows the flush of his skin must be very much visible, and even now as they speak, his hands are still beneath Gurney’s shirt.
“Once we have done that, we will talk”, Gurney continues, and his voice is rough, and his gaze falls to Paul’s lips – if only for a moment.
Paul swallows thickly, because he really is freezing now, and he feels like the only heat he still carries within is the fire Gurney planted there.
“Take me to shore”, he says, as if he expects Gurney to call him “master” – as if he has ever felt comfortable giving him orders in the first place – and it’s just brazen enough that Gurney’s mouth twists with a smile.
Without much effort, those strong arms sweep Paul out of the waves, Gurney hefting him up to make sure he has a good grip, before he starts the trek back to land. Paul loops his arms around Gurney’s neck, heart beating out of his chest at the thought of just how easily Gurney carries him; how he lies here, naked in Gurney’s arms.
He's shaking from the cold, and there are so many things left for them to talk about, but as Gurney puts him down on the beach, and Paul finds his footing even on unsteady legs, it’s as if they have brought the calm of the sea back ashore.
As Paul pulls on his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin, caging him in, he’s not bothered by the rough touch, because he knows that, should he wish to be held gently, should he crave for his mind to find a peaceful quiet, he can find all that and more in Gurney’s embrace.