Work Text:
Peter’s hands are shaking.
Caspian hadn’t noticed it at first. He’d been too focused on the beating of his own heart in his chest, and on the battle before them. It was easy to lose everyone in the chaos of the battle. Sure, it hadn’t been Caspian’s intention, but he’d largely separated himself from the group lest he accidentally catch them with a clumsy swing of his sword.
They’d all caught up with each other eventually as the Telmarines began their retreat. Still, Caspian was more focused on that. They’d followed after knowing partially what would greet them at the bridge. Caspian could feel his blood thrumming under his skin and the adrenaline was practically choking him.
Aslan had been a welcome sight, but had stolen Caspian’s breath from his lungs. He was a great beast, unlike anything Caspian had ever seen before. His roar rattled Caspian’s bones. A feeling of dreadful hope washed over him like the waves that licked at his feet as the bridge was destroyed, and yet Aslan hadn’t spared him a single glance. Despite that, Caspian’s attention was almost entirely set on the lion.
Presently, though, Peter’s hands are shaking.
Caspian hadn’t meant to notice in the first place. Peter was hardly Caspian’s biggest priority—they were both surrounded and separated by celebrating Narnians as they all trailed after Aslan towards Telmar. Caspian had looked down to speak to Reepicheep when his eyes caught on Peter’s hands by his sides.
They’re shaking. Just small tremors, but Caspian can tell. He tries to cover it by fidgeting with his armor or with his hands themselves, but he’s still so unsteady, and Caspian can see it.
He doesn’t say anything. It’s not the time for it, and he doesn’t believe Peter would appreciate being questioned in front of so many creatures. Caspian knows he himself wouldn’t.
Caspian is, despite popular belief, a patient man (at least he can be, when he chooses to). He can handle biting his tongue for an hour or two and refocusing on his fellow Narnians for the moment.
He doesn’t get the chance to corner Peter until a few hours later after they’ve settled into the castle. The sun is beginning to set, and the Pevensies are being led to the rooms they’ll be staying in.
(Caspian isn’t quite sure where he’ll be sleeping tonight, if at all. The thought of returning to his old bedroom makes his stomach turn and a thickness rises in his throat. No matter how much the room has been altered, Caspian doesn’t think he can ever sleep in there again. He supposes, though, he can always spend his night in the solar.)
Peter had managed to avoid him, whether intentional or not, the entire evening. Caspian can’t blame him. Sure, it had been inconvenient in terms of lessening Caspian’s strange sort of anxiety about the fact that Peter’s hands are still shaking, but it didn’t upset him much. It just kept him worried.
Caspian trails towards the hall the Pevensies are staying in after a quick bath. It had been a relaxing twenty minutes. He scraped the blood from places on his body he didn’t think should have blood staining with the armor he’d been wearing, and he did his best to get the grime out from beneath his nails that had built up over the past week. He’d forgotten how comforting it is to be clean.
But that is entirely beside the point.
The room Peter is staying in is the one at the end of the hall. It’s nothing special. It’s a simple guest bedroom. The queen sized bed in the middle of the far wall is made with dark wood, with a velvet headboard and a canopy with chiffon curtains. There’s a desk in one of the corners and a chair tucked under it, and a mirror on the opposite wall. Caspian is almost sure that this particular room is the one with the dark green wallpaper with golden flowers on it, but he can’t quite remember. He supposes he’ll confirm that bit now.
He knocks on the door three times firmly. The sound echoes through the corridor behind Caspian. For a moment, there’s no sound. Then, shuffling. The door opens just a crack before Peter finally opens it all the way.
“Hello,” he greets, voice quiet and slightly raspy. His hair is wet—not damp—and drips down his face. It’s clear he’d dressed in a haste by the way his shirt (white with ruffles at the cuffs, one of Caspian’s old shirts) is rucked up slightly. The loose collar is already starting to soak.
Caspian gives a sheepish nod. “Hello,” he echoes. An awkward pause holds as they stare at each other. Caspian breaks it by clearing his throat. “May I…?”
Peter seems to get the hint and steps back. “Of course, yeah.”
Caspian steps into the room with great care. He pushes the door closed behind him. Peter backs away from him just enough to grab the towel he’d left next to two lit candles on the desk in the corner. He uses it to begin drying his hair.
“So,” Caspian begins, “are you settling in well?”
“I suppose so,” Peter replies. “The bed seems…soft. Thank you for the clothes, by the way.”
“It was no trouble.” Caspian clears his throat again and steps further into the room. He watches as Peter cracks open the door to his personal washroom and hangs the wet towel up on the top of the door. Caspian’s gaze zeroes in on Peter’s hands once more. “Your hands are shaking.”
Peter turns around. “What?” he asks, likely because he hadn’t heard properly. He wipes his hands off on his loose pants (brown, also an old pair of Caspian’s).
“Your hands. They’ve been shaking since you fought my uncle.” Caspian isn’t sure why he feels out of place pointing it out. He doesn’t expect Peter to snap at him like he used to, but just because he isn’t as volatile doesn’t mean that he and Caspian are friends now. Caspian is painfully aware of that.
“Oh,” Peter says after a long moment. He doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I did,” Caspian says plainly, then regrets it immediately. He cringes a bit at his words, then speaks again. “Are you alright?” is what he decides on.
Peter gives a noncommittal shrug as he starts to move again. He approaches the bed and opens the curtains around it, then finally sits down on the edge of it. “I’m well enough. I don’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight, but I’m okay.”
“That is…good. Well—I don’t mean—it is not favourable that you will not sleep well, but I only meant—”
“I understand,” Peter replies, cutting him off with an expression dangerously close to fond. Caspian can feel his ears heat up as he registers Peter’s response. He promptly looks away. Peter chooses to continue. “Are you alright, then?”
Caspian takes only a moment to search for words. “Well, yes. I’m quite alright. I don’t think I will have an easy time sleeping, either. I have…well, I have never seen battle like that.”
Not a lie. Not a full truth. Caspian has never seen battle, period. Full stop. He’s much too young to have ever been considered to become a soldier, even if he wasn’t a prince. He’d never been that good of a swordsman, anyway. He’s not a prodigy by any means when it comes to melee. He’s a bit better with a crossbow, but not exactly reliable. He’ll get better with more training.
“I understand,” Peter says. He’s tracing lines into the sheets now. “I couldn’t sleep after my first battle, either. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. It takes some getting used to.”
“I do not think I want to get used to it.”
Peter studies him after that, and Caspian isn’t entirely sure why, but he’s surprisingly not off-put by the curious expression on Peter’s face and the faint furrow of his brow. Whatever comes of Peter’s assessment, though, Caspian does not know. Peter changes the subject.
“Did you only come to point out that my hands are shaking?”
Caspian feels silly when it’s worded like that, because it’s the truth. He hadn’t thought much past that. It seems Peter can tell what with the way his eyes light up with amusement.
“And also to make sure the room is to your liking.”
“Of course,” Peter agrees, though his tone is much too disbelieving to be convincing. Caspian rolls his eyes.
Night has fully set in now, shrouding the world in darkness. Only the light from the stars and the candles in the room keep Caspian and Peter illuminated now. Caspian finds himself entranced by the way the shadows of the flames dance on Peter’s skin. The low hum of the breeze and the sounds of the castle settling are the only noises that break up their speech. It’s relaxing but unnerving in a way Caspian doesn’t remember.
Peter’s eyes linger on Caspian’s frame for a long moment before he shifts on the bed, pushing himself away from the edge and further into the middle of the bed. “Your coronation is only a few days away,” he says, quiet again.
Caspian nods and finds himself taking a small step forward.
“If you’d like, I can give you some pointers. Tips.” The offer comes tentatively, but sincerely.
“That would be nice.”
And it is.