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It's a cold evening in Dogwarts as autumn sinks out of view. The evenings are only going to get colder, with winter on the horizon.
Well, not any old winter. Red Winter.
Martyn shuts his eyes, thankful for his aphantasia for once. Thankful that he will never be able to recall the look on Ren's face in all the right morbid detail.
It's not like he's forgotten, though. He couldn't possibly forget the feeling of skin and bone giving under a blade; warm, sticky blood kissing his cheek; the smell of it; the terrible, strangled sounds he made; the way Ren stood there after, ready to do it all over again in a heartbeat, his head bowed, like a fucking fool, so damningly vulnerable—
"Martyn?"
Ren steps into the safety of Renchanting's dull basement, elbowing the door shut, and there's something delicate cradled in his hands. He's not wearing his crown, and his sunglasses are pushed up in his hair to reveal red, slit-pupiled eyes. Martyn forgets what he was supposed to be doing by the time his body has walked him over to his king.
"Yeah, what's up?" Martyn leans forward to glance into Ren's palms. It's entirely unnecessary, but Ren's breath hitches when Martyn enters his space, so it's entirely worth it.
"I, um." Ren moves his thumbs away so Martyn can get a better view, and clears his throat in that low, rumbling way of his. "I made this. For. For you."
It's small, in Ren's wolfish hands. A dainty string of wildflowers tied into a crown. It's flimsy and fragile, the knots of the stems looking like they'd tear with one wrong breath, and Martyn loves it.
"You made this? For me?" Martyn murmurs. He reaches out, cupping Ren's hands that cup the flowers. His king's hands are cold.
"Yes, I— I wanted to do something nice, that didn't have anything to do with... work, or our situation, or anything of that sort." Ren clears his throat again. "And my options were kind of... limited, if you know what I'm sayin."
Martyn looks up into Ren's shadowed face. He's missing the bloody gold ring of his crown, but there's a collar of scar tissue wrapped around his throat in a similar shape, and he's holding a circle of flowers that he went out into the dusk to pick and tie with Martyn in mind, and his irises are thin crimson loops that stare wide and nervous, and
Martyn loves him.
"My liege," Martyn says. "You silly dog. It's beautiful."
Then he thinks about Ren's hulking, clumsy form crouched in a field, plucking flowers, and he has to stifle a laugh.
Ren's smile carves lines in his cheeks. "May I?"
"You may."
So Ren settles the flower crown in Martyn's hair, his touch light and reverent.
Then he takes hold of Martyn's fingers, dips into a bow far too low for a king, prints a kiss to the back of Martyn's hand, and says, "Me Hand."
It's corny, and dramatic, and incredibly romantic, and if Martyn wasn't already crazy for him he's sure that would have done the trick.
"My liege. Rise."
He does. Martyn kisses him.
Ren is Martyn's king, but tonight, Martyn wears the crown. King of Ren's heart, Ren would probably say, something stupid and wonderful like that. Whatever. Ren is Earth, and Martyn is his single devoted moon.
Martyn is going to love him for a long, long time.