Work Text:
*
His Prince Dion is strong, the strongest man Terence has ever known; unwavering and so, so brave under all that the Empire asks of him, yet he is not invulnerable. Far from it. Terence is grateful that he has been allowed to see what lies within, been allowed to share in his burdens as much as he may, and care for him. Be it only that he could share it all, take it over, and carry the weight of all his duties for Dion.
But he cannot. Nor would his Prince ever wish for such things. No.
But he can tend to his wounds, he can trail his fingers gently along the consequences slowly claiming his body, and he can place soft kisses across skin, as if to kiss away the pain. As if they were still but children, yet unaware of the burdens of position and fate both. When there were still more firsts ahead of them than lasts.
He can do that, for as long as Dion will let him.
first
.smile
If asked, Terence would not be able to tell when he first saw Dion smile. He holds no concept of a life before Dion — even his earliest memories are filled with the bright smiles of a young, blond boy and the joy of spending time with him. He remembers the ones directed at himself, the ones directed at their mutual teacher always eager to praise Dion, and the ones directed at his father, the hopeful longing pulling at their edges. He remembers them all, and wishes he could remember the first likewise. To save it, and hold it close to his heart like he does the others, forever treasured. To keep the memory of them alive, as they grow ever more scarce.
Because Dion’s smile is like the sun itself, so thoroughly filled with light shining from within. Terence has always been helpless towards it, ever turning to face wherever he goes. Ever ready to stay at his side, to bask in his glow. He is beautiful, all wheat blonde hair and golden brown eyes that shimmer and glow in the sun, and Terence has never been able to look away. He never will be.
.priming
The first time Terence sees Dion prime, his breath gets caught in his chest. It is one thing to know that his friend since childhood embodies the Eikon, and another yet to see it. He stands there, fingers gripping tightly onto the railing separating him from the events of the courtyard and looks on with both awe and fear mingling within him.
Bahamut, their protector — the Great Greagor’s blessing to the Empire — is large to say the least. Even this many yalms away Terence can feel the gusts of wind on his face as the great wyrm flaps his wings once, then twice, before taking off into the sky above them. He has often found himself thinking of the scripture his elders have taught him as nothing but stories, but right here, in the presence of Bahamut himself, it is so easy to believe every single one. With every turn of Bahamut's graceful body in the sky, emotions swell within his chest. As he looks around him, it is clear that everyone gathered there are likewise having their spirits lifted. Bahamut, the Warden of Light, is here to protect them. His knuckles whiten on the railing, as his gaze follows the twirling Eikon through the sky.
His eyes stay fixed until the great dragon once again lands, talons heavy on the cobblestones and wings raising clouds of dust into the air. They stay, as the large draconic body disintegrates into nothing but sparks of light, floating away into the sky, only for the body of a familiar young boy to reappear. They stay, as this young boy, his dear friend Dion, falls to his knees and pants, as if struggling for air.
The applause that rings out around him feels like nothing but a distant buzzing in his ears, as he leans forward over the railing, as if getting even a few fulms closer would be enough to reach his friend. It is not, of course.
Nay, he can only watch as the Emperor and his Cardinals step forward; all tall and looming, hardly a yalm from the still kneeling Dion. And right at the helm of them, is his friend’s very own father. Though Terence can not make out the words, he can see Lord Lesage speak — just as he can see the way Dion’s body grows tense, only for him to slowly push himself up to stand straight on shaking legs, head bowed in front of the highest men of their Empire.
Moments pass while Terence holds his breath, and around him he can feel his fellow audience disperse. It matters not, his own focus remains steadily on Dion.
A clap on a shoulder, a quiet word — and Dion’s father turns back to the Emperor and Cardinals, guiding them away. And though Dion’s posture immediately slumps again, though Terence can see his bruised knees trembling, a smile that can only be described as happy spreads across his face.
It is then, with his hands squeezing the marble railing surrounding the palace courtyard, that Terence asks himself: if Bahamut is to protect Sanbreque, who will protect Dion?
.faltering
Despite the rows of old men watching him intently on both sides, it is difficult to keep his face calm and composed. Every time his eyes catch on Dion’s face and the way he just can’t seem to stay still, it is like happy laughter wants to force its way out of Terence’s chest, and he has to barricade every door to keep it hidden inside. It would be inappropriate, entirely unsuitable, and at the very least gain him a scolding. He does not want to risk losing what he is about to gain before it has even begun. He just needs to… to… keep a straight face…
Lord Hector barks out an order to their right, and— Above him, Dion sticks out the tip of his tongue and rolls his eyes dramatically. He looks just like he does when they make impressions of Father Erich behind the chapel between bells. He only just manages to cover the bubbling laugh with a coughing fit and can only pray that none of the knights noticed. Or the Syndicate!
Above him, Dion snickers. His eyes glow. Terence can’t help but let out one more cough, and after a brief but unavoidable grin, he schools his expression back to what is expected of a young man in his position. He tears his eyes away, turns his gaze to the floor, and waits. He watches Dion shift on his feet on the dais.
Terence is eager, ready to take on the responsibility. Dion must be as well. It shows in his soft smile, shining so bright despite the dreary old men surrounding them. Terence keeps his face straight, but gives Dion a quick wink.
Eventually, everything is in place, and the Head Cardinal clears his throat. Terence straightens his back immediately, but keeps his gaze low. Dion is standing two steps above him on the dais, now perfectly still with his hands curled into fists by his sides. Like this they are practically the same height. Terence finds he likes that. Though they are hardly three moons apart in age, Dion is yet to grow as tall as Terence already has. But he will catch up one day, Terence is sure.
If not, Terence will make sure he will never hear the end of it. Between his squire duties and their lectures, of course. If he can make it through this appointing spectacle without making an absolute fool of himself, that is.
The spectacle of it all feels more than a little silly. He already spends most of his time with Dion, what difference will it make that he is granted an official position to do so? Surely it could have been no one else.
Terence would not have let it be anyone else.
But Dion is Bahamut — the protector of the Empire, chosen by the Great Greagor herself, and so traditions and bureaucracy must be followed, as they have been taught. And Terence has long since sworn to himself to protect Dion. Doing so in front of others poses no issue. He will gladly do so a hundred times over.
So he kneels in perfect form and recites what is expected of him.
It is but a simple ceremony, over in hardly a moment, and then he is bound by duty.
When it is complete, Dion’s face breaks out into the warmest of smiles above him. Yet the gazes of everyone around them are heavy on Terence, and he knows better than to smile back. He nods, keeps his face down, and speaks:
“My Lord.”
He can feel the smile on Dion’s face falter. It is the first time it ever does so because of him.
.desire
As the Dominant of Bahamut there are duties that Dion must attend to and places to where Terence may not as easily follow. Endless ceremonies and shows of might, where Dion is brought as inspiration, motivation. And it is inspiring, Dion is inspiring, and Terence will have to keep up to make sure he does not get stuck behind.
It is when helping Dion dress for one of these ceremonies, a gala of some sort, that it first happens. Dion, still notably shorter than himself, stands perfectly still with a determined look on his face as Terence slides his arms inside the tailored vestments and steps behind him. There, as he pulls the layers in place, his eyes catch on the nape of Dion’s neck, bared as his undershirt has been pulled down. It gapes a little, and Terence can trace his eyes down Dion’s spine an ilm or three. Over his sun-kissed skin, over the spattering of freckles, the jut of a shoulder blade.
Terence is entranced.
It is not as though he has never seen Dion undressed before, he has. There is little of Dion he has not seen. But suddenly he cannot recall when he last did so, nor can he recall if Dion was quite this… beautiful then.
Terence’s lips tingle. He swallows down the sudden, strong and entirely inappropriate need to lean forward and press his lips against Dion’s skin. He forces his eyes away, up, back to safer areas, only to find Dion’s concerned gaze trained on him over his shoulder.
“Everything alright, Terence?” He asks, and Terence nods, and pulls on the strings of the vest to tighten it.
“Yeah, just a bug bite. Want me to scratch it for you, my Lord?”
He is met with a slap of voluminous sleeves and soon they are both laughing and slapping at each other in a manner that Terence is deeply aware is no longer socially acceptable at their age. But Dion’s grin is contagious, it is dazzling and his skin is warm under Terence’s hands as they wrestle for control.
And within Terence, there is a new fluttering feeling that does not seem to want to leave. It seems to have come to stay.
.prince
“My Prince.”
The words taste funny on his tongue the first time he speaks them.
Dion looks like he’s not sure what to make of it either — his face pulling between a grimace and a smile. “I am still Dion,” he protests, and Terence grins.
“My Prince,” he repeats teasingly, but in his belly relief settles, light and comforting. Dion is right. He is still Dion, still Terence's best friend. No matter what power his father has been given, no matter how much of that is due to Dion himself as the dominant of Bahamut.
The thing is, Terence thinks, if anyone deserves such a status, such reverence, it is Dion. Kind, noble, hardworking and oh, so beautiful Dion, always putting others first, always wanting the best for their people. To be their inspiration, their hero.
To Terence, Dion has always been a Prince.
.curse
Joining the imperial dragoons together brings many firsts, and Terence watches Dion flourish away from his father’s and new stepmother’s judgement. He is good at this, he was born for it, and with Waloed knocking on their doors Sanbreque needs him. And Terence will follow wherever he goes, wherever Dion will allow him to follow.
Dion is gentle and kind, up until the point you anger him, as any threats against his people will. The Dion that goes into battle is a string ready to snap, and Terence does not envy the enemy who has to face him. Not even Odin himself.
But even when fighting ferociously, even in these outbursts of rage against the King that dares threaten their Sanbreque, Dion shows care and compassion, keeping the devastating effects of Bahamut’s might away from their people. Away from the troops. Terence is not the only one to notice this, and though he receives deserved recognition, his own father remains silent, only asking for more.
How Terence wishes he could fill that need within Dion. That his words of praise would be enough, that Dion would look at him and see all that he needs.
But, no matter that he has known Dion since before either of them could speak full sentences, no matter how much he cares for Dion, he is but an attendant to the Prince of the Empire. But a servant of Bahamut. And that is enough.
With no wings of his own, he cannot follow Dion into the sky, but he can be there when he lands. He can fight alongside him from below, and he can see to him when the Eikon fades, when exhaustion hits. Every time he leads Dion back to his tent, every time he helps him out of his armour, piece by piece.
He guides Dion to sit down, kneels in front of him and turns his hand to reach the clasps underneath his wrist, keeping his gauntlets closed. One by one, they open, and then he grabs hold of Dion’s arm, to pull off the gauntlet itself.
Above him, Dion gasps.
Terence looks up, and Dion’s eyebrows are knitted tight, his eyes slightly widened. Keeping his eyes on Dion’s face, Terence strokes his thumb higher on the inside of his arm and feels Dion flinch underneath it.
Once the gauntlet slips off, he sets it aside without letting go of Dion. Then, he carefully rolls up his crumpled sleeve to see whatever lies underneath. Whatever injury Dion must have received despite the finest armour in all of Sanbreque.
What meets his eyes sparks a moment of confusion, and then a weight settles in his belly, heavy and dense, as Dion’s left hand swiftly moves to cover the unmistakable patch of greyening skin. His mouth is a thin line when Terence looks up, and his eyes shift away, not meeting Terence’s gaze.
“Nothing to worry about,” he quickly says, rolling his sleeve back down, as if covering up what the curse has already claimed will stop its progress, or move time back to before it ever gained a foothold on Dion’s skin. Terence may still be young, but he is not naive.
“My Prince,” he whispers, without letting go of Dion’s hand.
.injury
Years of battles, of constant training and rising in ranks, of seeing Dion prime time after time, have not prepared him for the sight of Dion pierced by Odin’s sword right above him, light bleeding out over him and all around him. Nor for the way Bahamut would fall and crumble into light dust, as the body of the man Terence loves most in the world reappears, his blood raining down over Terence as he falls.
Terence catches him, tumbling backwards onto the muddy ground, arms wrapping tight around Dion, before rolling over, so that if Odin were to strike another time—
But there is no second strike, no more dark shadow looming above them, only the scrunched up look of agony on Dion’s face and the blood, more blood than Terence has ever seen. There are only the weak, whispered words “Thank Greagor, you are safe,” before Dion goes limp underneath him.
Then, for the first time, all Terence can do is scream.
.kiss
When Dion turns to look at Terence his eyes are wide and almost unnaturally bright, as if the light inside him is trying to force its way out. Terence can hardly breathe with how quickly his heart is pounding in his chest. It stirs around the complicated mixture of feelings inside him, spreading through every ilm of his body. The relief, the anger, the desperation, love and… Hope.
Dion’s fingers trail over his hand, then up his arm and shoulder, leaving a trail of tingling heat behind, even through the fabric of his tunic. There are tears stinging in his eyes, and when Dion’s fingers sink into the short hair at the back of his head he swallows down a sob. It has no place here between them, not when Dion is so very alive despite everything, not when all Terence can feel is love.
He shivers and lets his eyes fall closed as nails scratch gently over his scalp, and then Dion’s hand guides him forward. Terence forgets to breathe.
The first press of lips against his is warm and dry, hesitant and so, so soft that Terence can no longer hold back the sob. It escapes his parting lips as a whimper, swallowed up by Dion’s mouth moving over his.
Dion’s hand slides back to cup his cheek, thumb wiping away a tear Terence didn’t know had fallen. He breathes in through his nose, and then lifts his own hand to tangle with Dion’s. Two points of contact that make everything else disappear. There is only Dion, and the whispered words once nary an ilm of space once again separates them:
“Be mine, Terence.”
“I am,” he whispers back. I always have been.
The second kiss tastes of salt, but also of the future.
.disagreement
It is difficult to watch the way the demands and expectations placed on Dion grow year by year, to watch as he receives praise and adulation from everyone but the one person still longs for. The one thing Terence can never replace. It is difficult to watch the way he pushes himself ever further, doing everything asked of him and more, for the Empire, for the people and for his Father. And yet, he ever returns to their quarters with heavy disappointment weighing him down. It is difficult to watch the way he is made to feel inadequate, when Terence knows nothing could be further from the truth.
It is difficult to keep all of that inside, and so, eventually it spills out.
The frustration at everything Dion allows his father to command him to do, that he is so good and dutiful that he never once thinks of himself. The wish to whisk Dion away to somewhere else — anywhere in Valisthea, or even across the oceans — where they could just be. The two of them, where there would be no wars for Bahamut to fight, no need for the curse to spread, no responsibilities to his father or the Empire. It is a selfish wish, and he knows it, but he wants it with his whole heart and he offers it with determination.
The response is frustration in equal measure, but of a different kind: affront that Terence would even suggest abandoning their people to the wars and the blight. Refusal to even entertain the thought; hurt and betrayal, that Terence would think him capable of such an act of selfishness.
But Terence does not, and that is why those words festered inside for so long. And he knows that heated words, slammed doors and parchments thrown around change nothing, he knows that even waking up in the morrow after falling asleep clinging desperately to each other, neither of their minds will have changed. Dion will always choose to give more of himself than the world around him deserves, and Terence will always wish it weren’t so.
And so once again, he makes the choice to stay by Dion, no matter where it takes them. It is a promise, quietly kissed into slowly petrifying skin. And with time, mayhap, there may be solace in fantasies, as long as they remain just that: fantasies.
.lines
It is when the sun’s rays shine through the silken curtains one morning in Twinside, scattering into beautiful puddles of colour all across their skin, that Terence first sees them. Dion’s eyes are still closed where he lies, head resting on Terence’s shoulder, basking in the morning glow. Terence can not help but trail his fingers over his skin, trace a path from his slight morning stubble, past a freckle or two, a scar from a pimple to… lines. Faint lines at the corners of his eyes, more visible when resting than they ever should be on someone still so young.
Terence strokes a thumb softly over them, his heart aching for but a moment, before he finds he loves them too, like he loves everything about Dion. And he will love every mark that life puts on him.
His hand continues its journey of soft touches to Dion’s nose, and Terence cannot resist pushing his finger into the tip of it.
Dion’s face scrunches up, eyebrows knitting together in that way Terence loves when it is from joy. He does it again, and Dion’s hand comes up to swat at his own, lips pulling into a smile. When Terence does not relent, they soon find themselves in a lighthearted slapping match, and when Dion straddles him and holds his hands in place, victorious as ever, he is grinning widely.
Dion is beautiful, he always has been. But like this, with the morning sun casting a glowing aura in all the colours of the rainbow around him he is mesmerising.
Terence stares, spell-bound by him, by everything about him. Even those lines now etched so clearly in the corners of his eyes, made deeper by his bright smile. Lines that show that he has lived, that he is alive, and that there is no such thing as forever, least of all for a Dominant.
It is difficult to make it to the meetings of the day.
.realisation
Then, one day like any other, Terence realises that for every first, there will be a last.
.chasm
No matter how loud he shouts, no matter how high he climbs, Dion remains out of reach. Out of reach for his words, his pleas and his hands. All he knows is that whatever is up there, whatever is thrashing through the centre of Twinside, crushing the town and its people with its size and might, it is no longer Dion.
It cannot be, Terence knows this, he knows it better than anyone.
He also knows that if Dion is lost to him, to them, it falls to him to protect what Dion cared about. Not only as his second in command, but as the one he let know his heart.
And so he lets his shouts quiet, with one last gaze up to the familiar form of the great Eikon, now locked in battle with others, flurries of light and fire lighting up the sky, and climbs back down to the street levels. He must regroup their dragoons.
.selfishness
“Dion, I cannot leave—” he begs, hands grasping onto the arms of his beloved, only just returned to him. Alive, like through a miracle, something Terence had long since stopped believing in. And yet. Here they are, both of them. And yet…
“But you shall.” Dion’s voice is soft, quiet, in the empty hallway, but Terence can hear every waver in it perfectly. After a brief moment of silence, Dion continues:
“If I am ever to be worthy of the forgiveness of our people, then I must earn it. And I must earn it by my hand, and my hand alone.”
It is an excuse, Terence realises. A justification for what he is asking. Terence’s fingers clench around the coin pouch in his hand, the weight of it much heavier than it has any right to be. It is the weight of the request it holds, not the coins inside.
They are in the middle of a war, and Terence is no fool. He knows the gist of what transpired, he knows what burden Dion carries. He knows the guilt that Dion feels over what he let himself become, and the destruction he wrought. And he knows the lengths to which he will go to help set things right.
And he would go all the way with him, like he has sworn so many times. Wherever Dion’s path takes him, Terence would follow. Be that to leave all this behind or to traverse to the end of the world. Anything, so that Dion would always have someone by his side.
In front of him, Dion avoids his gaze, keeping his eyes cast down to the side, as if scared that if he looks at Terence, his resolve will crumble. That he would… Give in, and do what Terence wants. Allow him to stay.
And then he understands. It is like the skies fall open and drench him in a heavy rain, sinking through his garments within nary a moment, chilling him to the bone.
This is a selfish request.
It is not the Prince of Sanbreque, now de facto Emperor, asking his personal guard nor his second in command to withdraw from the battlefield of an era in favour of protecting one girl. It is not Bahamut, the protector of Sanbreque, asking him to abandon the plight of their people in the face of the chaos erupting all over Storm. It is Dion, his beloved Dion, asking Terence to go, to find safety. To protect this girl so that he too is protected. To leave, and to live.
Dion is sending him away because he knows there is no return from where he is going, and he would not have Terence follow him there.
“Know that I do not ask this lightly,” Dion begs, and Terence does know. Terence knows, and he hates it. He hates that this is what he has wished for for so long. Dion, choosing to put his own wishes before the needs of everyone around him.
And he knows that there is no way he could possibly deny such a wish, not from Dion. Not ever. And so he swallows down the thick lump in his throat, and finds his voice:
“And know that I will do it.”
last
.smile
The last time Terence sees Dion smile may already have passed without his knowing. He cannot recall exactly when it happened, nor where. Mayhap he will try to recreate it in his mind for as long as he lives, never knowing.
But what he does know is that it does not have to be so for Dion. That he can give Dion what he himself may not have. A last smile.
And so he smiles through the tears he cannot stop, and speaks, voice so cracked it may as well shatter.
“Farewell… my Prince.”
And Terence does what he thought he could never do: he looks away.