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In the dead of the night, he recognises the importance of dreams.
And he realises it now, that he never before knew the weight of someone else’s hands, the taste of someone else’s mouth. He finds about the impossible shape of a feeling that never should have been, he wants to map it out with his fingers, yet he finds himself too scared to properly reach out and touch it.
It’s forbidden. Wrong.
No matter how much he longs to spend the rest of the night with the stranger, free of any responsibility, tucked away somewhere curious eyes won’t pry, to kiss and talk and kiss some more – he won’t. Common sense tells him to run.
And so he does.
His breaths are irregular.
Steps placed without a thought. Fast, half-blind, driven mostly by fear. His boots catch against roots and rocks, half-hidden in darkness. Sharp branches tear at his sleeves. The wind cuts at his lungs.
Tim runs.
He doesn’t know for how long. When he left the estate, it was dark, and now it’s dark still. If he saw the night from his bedroom window, he would have realised how far it is to dawn. The forest looks the same whenever he glances around, hostile and endless, trunks twisted and bare and dead with no end of them in sight. Snow gets into his boots and makes them soggy. The ground, too, is wet with it. Slippery. The winter is slowly retreating, and everything is in this in-between state before turning into a puddle of mud.
Somewhere behind him, close, come the sound of dogs, of men shouting. Horses.
The Duke rides with them, demanding his betrothed. He knows that much.
But no matter who seems to be chasing after the young lord, Tim can’t afford to stop anytime soon.
His breath fogs the air in short bursts. His heart keeps kicking against his ribcage. His whole life exists in between those breaths.
It’s too cold. And he’s not dressed for it, wearing only his light robes and a stolen jacket lined with stiff satin. He didn’t plan this escape. It was barely even an idea. Just a door he stepped through before he could stop himself. And now it’s too late to go back.
How absolutely foolish of him! Irresponsible! Oh, what would his mother say–!
Every time he blinks, he sees candlelight and flowers dancing in front of his eyes. He sees a hand reaching toward him, hears an unfamiliar voice saying something with a tone so soft and shy it now seems impossible and unreal. A face so blurred by memory that he remembers only the eyes piercing into his soul. A man who covered Tim’s hand with his own as they snuck out to the terrace and exchanged glances. It was just to catch his breath, he tells himself, but he also knows it’s a lie. It was so much more. It was the moment he realised, in all its misery, that his mother’s arrangements served no true purpose but to make him unhappy - to bind him with someone he has never once seen, not even during their official engagement banquet!
Tim Drake, a firstborn to a family of low nobles. A completely insignificant individual, if he can say so himself. Promised to a Duke he’s never met. Him! Of all people! Sold like a slave, all to settle debts he didn’t make, to please a mother who never once asked what he wanted, who talked over him at every family meeting, picked out his wedding robes before the contract was signed (and spent a small fortune on them!), and wept every time the northern emissaries arrived, out of relief that she’s placing her son’s life in someone else’s hands.
And now he’s running, like a fool – without a plan, without a place to go. Just him and the sound of his own footsteps, and the cold around him. Last of the falling snow sticks to the hem of the jacket and clings to his hair. He doesn’t know where the road is. Doesn’t know if there’s a road at all.
He suspects his father was the one who gave the order to find him and bring him home safely. Father can forgive him for many things, even without knowing the full reason for his disappearance. After all, Tim is his only son, someone he treats with more patience than anyone else. And Tim knows father is trying to understand, but he doesn’t need understanding. Not right now.
Right now, he just wants to be far away.
From politics. From his duties. From fear.
From the Duke.
A grimace flickers across his flushed face. Features so soft they’re almost childlike. He narrows his pale eyes, lips drawn tight as if holding back a scream. Thoughts keep crowding in, making it harder and harder to focus on the terrain around him. For a moment, he wonders what comes next. He never wanted to leave, but he doesn’t see another option anymore. The matter of his marriage has been weighing on him lately. The attire is nearly finished, and all of society seems to be nervously anticipating the arrival of the Duke’s husband.
A handful of riders on horseback have quickly made up for the previous delay. Tim can only guess how much time it took before the chaos subsided, before anyone noticed he was gone, before his mother stopped screaming. Still, he pushes himself just as hard, choosing a route difficult for riding, far from any marked paths.
If he gets to the village–
Then, what?
Tim doesn't know. He didn't have a chance to plan this far ahead.
Fear steals his breath away. It locks his muscles. It also, impossibly, drives him forward.
His dark hair sticks to his face, damp with sweat and snow, and his robes catch at his legs, restricting his movement. He could have prepared better. He curses himself for it.
When his foot catches on a tree root jutting from the ground, he trips, and his whole life flashes before his eyes. Early childhood, endless games with his father, long conversations about the empire, fear of war, of the world beyond the borders, endless lessons, hunts, tedious banquets.
He scrambles back to his feet, ignoring the torn skin on his palms and the mud soaking into his knees. Disgust and pain are quickly swallowed by something worse. Terror, he realises. Big and overwhelming. Tim begins feeling mad with it.
He doesn’t want to go back. Not even if it means fighting.
For the first time, he looks over his shoulder and breaks into a sob, a sound tearing out of him when he sees shapes emerging between the trees. Horses, riders. He recognises his father’s horse immediately even in this darkness, and then something he cannot understand.
A white mare, his mare, owned for many years, cuts through the forest in a full gallop. She’s a stubborn horse, difficult to ride, too temperamental and proud, known to throw tantrums at any moment. An entire unit rides after her. And riding his mare, a hooded figure charges straight toward Tim with impossible speed.
He barely has time to register what’s happening when someone launches off a said horse and slams into him. Tim chokes on a scream, clamps his mouth shut instead, instinct yelling at him to stay silent. They tumble together, rolling hard, nearly pitching down a small rise. In the chaos, Tim catches a glimpse of dark hair, cut through with a single light streak.
Understanding hits him all at once.
He throws his arms up protectively around his head just before his back strikes a tree, the impact driving a soft, broken sound from his throat.
The unit rides on. No one stops. The sound of hooves and voices fades, swallowed by the forest.
It’s too dark, he registers. Too dark for them to notice this person jumping off a horse’s back like a complete maniac!
Tim looks at the man who tackled him so rudely.
He swallows hard.
He studies his face, eyes dark in the shadows, sharp lines of his face. His hair is mostly hidden beneath the hood, but a few white strands slip loose across his forehead. He looks… wrong. A stranger. And yet–
His stranger. The same as before.
The man snaps something at him, low and urgent, but he doesn’t understand a word.
His head spins. Is he dying?
Tim’s vision blurs as his eyes flutter shut. The last thing he sees is the man’s expression, confused, full of something he can’t name. Fear? Worry? Before Tim collapses, the man catches him, steady and sure, lifting him as if he weighs nothing.
He looks at Tim once more.
Then he turns and carries him away, moving in a direction only he seems to know.
Tim’s robes gleam in the candlelight – red and elegant, embroidered with flowers and birds stitched from golden thread. His mother explained to him that the birds are robins, something he hadn’t known before, and that their meaning has something to do with the history of Duke’s family. Tim, seeing the meaning unimportant and an attack against his pride, almost tore the stitching apart with his fingers, if not for the sour look he received from his father. The robes are far too elegant for someone of his status. They hang loose at the shoulders, the sleeves ending well past his wrists. Perhaps they were meant to make him look larger. Or perhaps it’s just that Tim has always been a little too small to fit into any role he’s been given.
The hall of Drake’s manor is lit by hundreds of candles, each flame reflecting off polished stone and brass. They drip with splendour, casting a yellowish haze over everything. The chandeliers shimmer. The golden accents, so beloved by his mother, pull the room together in a way that makes even the walls gleam. The air smells of flowers, roses and lilacs, with something sweeter and more decadent hidden beneath it all. Flowers spill from every ledge, nestled in tall crystal vases.
His mother chose the arrangements herself, favouring colours that flatter the interior, even if the roses grown in impossible climates were flown in at ruinous cost. Tim knows she’d taken another loan from his aunt, just to spend it all on one banquet. Of course she had.
The estate is large, yes, but it’s too old to sell, too important to lose. It was built by one of Tim’s great-grandfathers and has been the family’s property since. It's not a beautiful building. Years ago there had been a fire that took a part of the manor and the stables nearby. Tim doesn’t remember it too much, being only a small boy back then, but he remembers what happened then – that afterward came the assessors, cataloguing damage so the family might pay less taxes. He suspects now, knowing more about the finances, whether it had been another of his mother’s careful manoeuvres. But it doesn’t matter. The walls are still cracking, in disrepair. The wooden stairs leading from the terrace to the gardens are still charred. They have no money to keep the place properly maintained. All they have is an illusion of dignity and pride, but it's worthless.
By the mirror, Tim stands still.
His hair is tied high in the northern style, a concession to his mother’s endless droning about following regional customs of their esteemed guests. He’s refused to powder his face, though. He will not let himself be made into something decorative, something he’s not. A mannequin dressed for someone else’s fantasy. He wears what they chose for him, yes, but he doesn’t want to make a clown of himself in the process. His mother had begged him to look presentable but he’d refused. She’d clicked her tongue and waved him off, muttering under her nose. He hadn’t argued. He rarely ever does.
Mother is too busy to deal with his childish fits, anyway. She came back from the capital two days ago, happy to announce that the final arrangements for the wedding were finally settled. She loves the court, the scheming, the endless web of favours. And for a woman with no grand title of her own, Janet Drake has always been brilliant at talking to those who have. Her husband is a swordsman of some skill, lauded by the Emperor’s generals. Her sister is a baroness. And her son, her son is soon to be wed to the Duke of the North. She talks about it often, to anyone willing (or even un-willing) to listen. A minor noble family, ascending by imperial command. She’s always dreamed of a future like this.
Tim didn’t mind her long absence. He preferred it, honestly. Without her the estate felt much calmer. He thinks of her voice, recounting his future duties as His Grace’s husband. She used to speak of it as if she was preparing him for a war. Perhaps she was.
Yes, he didn’t miss her one bit.
Not while everything was being sealed around him. Not while his name was being written into parchment and affixed with a seal that will carry him into exile. Not while he stands here, still as marble, while the court rearranges his life without needing him to speak.
Tim doesn’t want to get married.
Not to the Duke.
Not to anyone.
He has no ambitions worth suffering for, only the vague hope of a life left undisturbed. He would’ve been content with gardens. Books. A quiet house. Something green in summer and warm in winter. But those are not things he was raised to expect. His mother spent his youth preparing him to be valuable. The empire has finally decided to collect those promises, and he doesn’t have much say in it.
Yet, he outright refuses to marry a man he’s never met!
There’s still so little known about the Duke. Even now, there are only rumours to fill the gaps. Tim heard some of them firsthand, on the rare days he managed to slip past the gates and walk among the common folk. In markets and taverns, voices always lowered when the subject of the North came up.
They say he was never meant to inherit the North. That he's too ruthless. That he rose to power too quickly, too young, after his predecessor’s sudden disappearance. That the royal family barely tolerates him, that he keeps to himself and refuses to play politics.
They say he has a child. A boy, already nearing fifteen. But that can’t be right. If the stories are true, the Duke can’t be much older than Tim. And he would’ve been even younger when he took the title. Too young to father a child.
Tim’s own father is waiting for him by the stairs, dressed in formal attire, trimmed with silver threads, chest all drenched with family medals. Tim is surprised to see him alone. Usually, he can’t shake the entourage of young girls vying for attention. His father certainly looks handsome, with a still-young face and pleasant eyes, a scar on his nose, and light hair. Sometimes, Tim wishes he took after him more. Instead, he looks almost like a copy of his mother.
“You look… decent,” his father says, giving him a quick once-over.
Tim offers only a slight grimace, then bows, just low enough for the crowd below to see, not any deeper.
“I don’t suppose you’ll manage a smile?” his father mutters.
“Nothing to smile about,” Tim replies.
His father huffs. “Did your mother speak to you?”
Tim shakes his head. He hasn’t heard from her since before the banquet officially began. She’s probably still fussing over the seating arrangements or hiding in one of the parlours, waiting for the Duke like she’s the bride.
“Our special guests are apparently running late,” his father adds with a chuckle. “I've heard, the carriage got stuck in the mud. Ha!”
Tim just nods, keeping his face neutral.
His father’s voice drops further. “Don’t cause trouble tonight. We have much to lose.”
Tim can't promise anything so he doesn't speak.
That earns him a brief glance. His father straightens his cuffs and turns toward the stairs, already scanning the crowd. He leaves, not waiting for Tim.
So he walks down the stairs alone. From afar, he looks like a character straight out of a cheap romance novel. All eyes are on him, and he can almost feel the jealous glances cast his way. As he passes, he hears whispers suddenly erupting, too quiet to be understood. But he knows people are gossiping. About him and the Duke. The ridiculous pairing they make. He understands them perfectly – he doesn’t consider himself a good match for the Duke. Yet his mother, the royal family, hell, even the Duke, somehow think this marriage would be a good idea. Tim finally climbs the stairs and makes his way to the centre of the ballroom.
He doesn’t know where to stand, exactly. He looks around, eyes searching for any familiar face. If he can sneak out or even blend into the crowd–
A voice suddenly comes from behind his shoulder.
“Forgive me. I know the night is still young but I feel rather impatient. Would you grant me this dance?”
When he turns, there are three people standing there, all staring right at him.
The youngest can’t be more than thirteen, Tim thinks. The boy stands leaning against a pillar at the right of the room, watching Tim from the shadows with his eyes slanted and dangerous. Despite the scowl present on his face, he remains regal and poised. The one on the left is shorter than the one in the middle, but not by much, dressed in delicate blue robes that scream of movement. He is smiling, grinning almost, with his upper teeth visible. Tim can’t decide which man he should look at. They look identical, almost, with their hair dark and their eyes bright, and Tim would be stupid not to call them beautiful. Next to them, he pales in comparison, quite literally, with their skin being tanned and golden, something Tim had rarely ever seen in royalty this far East.
More guests from across the empire, he guesses. From the South, maybe. Or even the North. It wouldn’t be strange for his mother to draw them in for a spectacle like this.
His eyes finally settle on the man who asked him to dance.
He’s the tallest of the three. Broad-shouldered. There’s nothing delicate about him, except there is, a gentleness in his eyes that Tim finds strange. A recognition not matching his own. His dark hair is combed back and parting in the middle, loose white strands falling on his forehead. His jaw is sharp, but his smile is kind. His nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken before. There's a scar on his face, barely visible in this intense golden light.
He’s absolutely breathtaking.
Tim realises he’s staring, too.
He swallows.
He doesn’t want to dance with this stranger – not that there’s anything wrong with him, it’s just that he doesn’t want to dance at all. But at the moment, he has no choice. He’d promised his mother, under much pressure, that he would behave himself today. Tim swallows bitterly, finally nodding his head.
He places his hands on the man’s shoulders. Warm hands touch his waist. Tim feels it instantly, like the fabric between them has caught fire. His fingers twitch where they rest, and he hopes the stranger doesn’t notice. He figures he should ask for his name, and properly introduce himself in turn, but someone gasps loudly just as Tim opens his mouth to speak. Then, the music picks up and drowns out all the other noises.
Whoever this man is, he certainly brings much unwanted attention.
Tim ignores the small crowd that has gathered around them. Strange whispers and stares. Giggles erupting, more gasps following. For now, he simply stares at the centre of his dancing partner’s chest. They spin in time with the music, swirling around the room. The dance feels a little too fast for his liking, but it’s also undeniably romantic. He counts the steps in his head – one, two, three… one, two, three – he doesn’t know when this nightmare will end. Sometimes he makes mistakes, loses the rhythm, and simply misplaces his feet, but thanks to the man guiding him with patience, it’s not so obvious to the others.
But something in the man’s jaw goes tight. His hands don’t move from Tim’s waist, instead they hold just a little closer, like he’s memorising the shape of him.
Tim sighs with relief as the final notes echo through the room, ending their dance calmly. The stranger takes Tim’s hand and kisses the back of it in thanks, and suddenly, applause fills the silence left by the music. A group of young girls nearby blushes at the man’s tender demeanour.
The guests depart, some following suit, filling the dance floor.
Tim doesn’t know how it happens – but as he looks into the stranger’s eyes, they find themselves dancing again and again and again, until his feet start to hurt, and his head begins to spin. And Tim, for a while, lives in the illusion that he’s not in some royal romance turned horror. When he snaps out of it, he realises much time has passed.
“It’s such a pleasant evening. Just being here in your presence feels… positively unreal,” the man says, his voice low, almost shy. “One more dance?”
A string of soft notes comes from the orchestra. Tim has no other choice but to agree, finding himself surprised when this time, he’s expected to lead the dance. The man’s hands rest heavily on his shoulders, and they drift together like a pair of petals across the sky.
Tim swallows, trying not to look at his own feet.
“Apologies,” he murmurs, barely above the music. “I’m not exactly… a graceful dancer.”
The man laughs, quiet and warm. “You’re perfect.”
Tim looks up, startled. There’s no jest in the man’s face, only sincerity, too much of it.
“Would you like to go for a walk outside? I wonder if the gardens are as beautiful as I’ve heard,” the man asks, when Tim slows down with his steps.
Tim doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head just slightly, enough to glance up without breaking the moment. The man’s gaze is waiting, not exactly eager nor urgent. He’s only offering to step away for a second. The ballroom is stuffy. Too many eyes, too many expectations. And this, whatever this is, keeps his thoughts from drifting back to the Duke. To his mother. To everything else waiting for him at the end of the night.
“If you don’t mind,” Tim says at last, quieter now, just in between them. He tries to be diplomatic. “I’d prefer to stay here where it’s warm.”
A soft smile touches the man’s mouth. It’s barely there, but it shifts something in his expression, makes him look younger, or maybe gentler, like he’s amused.
“Then how about a moment on the terrace?” he says. “Just a minute. I promise to keep you warm.”
Tim doesn’t agree, not really. But he doesn’t say no, either. He lets himself be led.
They step outside together, and at least half the eyes of the crowd follow but no one dares to move. The terrace is quieter than he expected, wide and cold and washed pale under the moonlight. Frost lines the edges of a wooden balustrade. His breath ghosts in front of him as he leans forward, placing his hands on the railing, trying to calm the newfound thrum in his chest.
He doesn’t hear footsteps, but he feels the man approach. Close, then closer, until the warmth of him wraps around Tim’s back. Arms settle at his waist, not insistent, not invasive. Just keeping him safe from cold, as previously promised.
And Tim lets him.
The touch isn’t strange. That’s what unnerves him most. It should be awkward, scary, too fast and too forward, but it isn’t. The weight of it grounds him. The heat of it sinks through his clothes, settles against his skin.
The man rests his head against Tim’s shoulder, exhaling with a shake like he's been holding his breath all night. His hands stay steady, thumbs brushing absent circles against Tim’s waist, as if he’s memorising the moment by heart.
And Tim… Tim closes his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he lets himself want something. Freedom, maybe. Or, for once to choose something selfish.
"It's a little cold, isn't it?" Tim asks him simply. The stranger looks up at him, smiling slightly. In this low light, he looks mysterious but inviting.
"I like evenings like this the most," he says, stepping back from Tim, unclasping his buttons and offering his jacket. Tim accepts it silently, wrapping it around his shoulders. “I'll never understand Eastern fashion. It looks so… uncomfortable," he laughs, and Tim somehow finds himself laughing along with him.
Tim smiles at him, for real this time, turns his back to the railings, and rests against them. The wood gives a little warning creak, but he ignores it.
"I'll tell you a secret.” Tim’s voice drops to a whisper. “I hate those robes."
"I hate them too. I’d definitely prefer the moment when you take them off."
The glint in his eyes sends shivers running down Tim’s spine. A blush rises on his cheeks. Shameless!
"Forgive my boldness, young lord," the man adds quickly, and it looks like he's blushing himself. The tips of his ears are almost crimson in their colour. "It's just that..."
Tim shakes his head.
"My name is..." he begins.
"Let's skip the pleasantries, as I know who you are and you know me in turn," the man interrupts, just as quickly as before, but his tone is gentle, hoping.
It brings a reaction out of Tim. No! He wants to protest. No, he doesn't have the slightest idea who this man is. But he gets interrupted again, just as he opens his mouth to speak.
"Let's walk back before you turn into an icicle."
They slip away from the party while most of the guests are crowded at the dance floor. The man doesn’t drag him. It’s Tim who takes the lead, hand curled around his wrist, pushing through a crowd of silk and perfume until the hallway swallows them whole.
The manor is quieter here. Dim. The soft hum of laughter fades behind them. Tim doesn’t stop walking until they reach the library.
No one will look for them here.
The door closes with a soft click. Tim doesn’t know why he brought him here, only that he wanted to, that something in his chest hasn’t stopped fluttering since their first dance.
Inside, the air is cooler, but not cold. The fire has almost burned out, casting the shelves in a low glow. Tim steps forward without thinking, his fingers brushing the edge of a table, the back of a chair, anchoring himself. His chest still feels tight from the dancing, too many eyes staring at him.
He exhales, helpless.
“I don’t know why I brought you here.”
The man watches him carefully.
“You wanted to leave.”
Tim lets out what might be a laugh. “You followed.”
“I would’ve followed you anywhere.”
That draws his gaze, finally. He looks at the man across from him, calm, maddeningly warm for someone with snow in his hair.
“People like us aren’t meant to sneak away like this.” Tim swallows, glancing away.
“No,” the man says, and then adds, “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”
It’s not really a question, but Tim nods slowly. He reaches for the back of a chair and sinks into it, arms folded in front of him. “I was told once that wanting things is pointless. Especially things you shouldn’t have.”
“Is that what this is?” the man asks, amused.
“I don’t know what this is.”
They both laugh.
“You should sit close to the fireplace. It's cold in here. Dark,” Tim says after a moment.
The man does. Their knees almost touch.
Tim shifts in his seat, adjusting the jacket over his shoulders. He keeps his gaze on the fire, letting the silence envelop them both. A quiet room, a quiet night. He hadn’t realised how much he needed it until now.
"I'm leaving soon." Tim doesn't know why he says that.
“North?”
Tim hums in confirmation. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t want to say the word wedding. He's still angry about it.
“Have you ever been?” the man asks.
“No.” Tim presses his lips together. “I hear the winters are long.”
“They are.” There’s something knowing in the way he says it, like he’s seen more of them than most. “But the nights are beautiful.”
Tim chances a glance at him, then looks away. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
Silence again. It comes to his knowledge that this stranger isn’t prying. That he won’t push for more than Tim is willing to say.
Still, the words come, almost too freely.
“It’s all been decided. No one ever asked if I wanted any of it.”
The man doesn’t respond right away.
Suddenly, quiet. “Do you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tim smiles faintly. Shakes his head.
“It might.”
Tim studies the fire, jaw tight. He glances up at the man and meets his eyes.
“I’ve learned not to wish for things,” he insists, again.
“That’s a hard way to live.” There's no pity in the man's words, somehow. "Anything you want, you should get."
Tim doesn’t answer. He can’t.
Their eyes stay locked. It’s too much. Tim drops his gaze and stands up, walking around the room.
"Is there any way to convince you, young lord, that marriage isn't as bad as it seems?"
He turns, a frown on his face, and the man steps forward. Too close. Tim’s back bumps against the shelves, and then the man is kissing him senseless. Tim gasps against his mouth, the sound coming high-pitched and short from his throat.
It's nothing like he expected. To have his first kiss stolen, just like this.
It’s not soft. But it’s not vicious. It’s just perfect, if he has to describe it. It makes Tim forget where his hands are supposed to go. His fingers curl in the man’s shirt, trying to push him away and to pull him closer at the same time. His knees go weak. And if it weren’t for the steady arm around his waist, he might fall.
One of the books slips off the shelf behind him and hits the floor with a dull thud.
They both pause.
Then the man leans in again, slower this time, lips brushing against the corner of Tim's mouth. His hand rises to Tim’s cheek. Careful. Like he’s afraid of something.
“You’re so beautiful. So sweet for me already.”
Tim doesn’t even know his name. But for a moment, it doesn’t matter. He doesn't wish to think about it, about the strange words leaving the man's mouth. They make him confused. He tries convincing himself there’s nothing else. Just the warmth of him, the smell of spice in his collar, the unbearable loudness of a heartbeat not his own.
And he likes listening to him, to the warm voice that makes his insides tingle. Every part of this man seems to emit strong heat, one as radiant as a sun. But there's another part of him, one that knows that he will only get burnt if he gets too close. But can he even? After what seems like an eternity spent in the cold depths of loneliness and fear, what will become of his heart when he finally gets to experience something warm? Will it melt? Or will it sear?
He wants to reach up, to touch his face, to trace the scar along his cheekbone and ask where it came from, to know if he always kisses like this, if he always holds like this.
But he can’t move. Not really.
The man’s hand brushes his neck. Lingers. Tim breathes in, sharp. Unsteady.
And then, just when it starts to rise again, when the next kiss promises something too big to take back, Tim pulls away.
He exhales, lips parted.
“We shouldn’t,” he whispers. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
The man doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t argue. He only stands there, gaze steadily pointed at Tim, chest rising a little too fast.
Tim doesn’t know why he said no. It doesn’t feel like a no. But his feet are already moving. He steps past him. Out the door. Back into the hallway where the air is suddenly cooler.
He doesn’t look back.
He won’t ask for his name. Knowing won't change anything, it will make things much harder.
And he realises it now, that he never before knew the weight of someone else’s hands, the taste of someone else’s mouth. He finds about the impossible shape of a feeling that never should have been, he wants to map it out with his fingers, yet he finds himself too scared to properly reach out and touch it.
It’s forbidden. Wrong.
No matter how much he longs to spend the rest of the night with the stranger, free of any responsibility, tucked away somewhere curious eyes won’t pry, to kiss and talk and kiss some more – he won’t. Common sense tells him to run.
And so he does.
Tim wakes up slowly, not knowing what happened or where he is.
His throat burns.
His stomach aches next. Twisted and tight, not just from hunger, though he knows it’s been a while since he last ate anything. Stress does this to him, sometimes.
There are voices.
Muffled at first, low. Then clearer. Footsteps, a pair of them. A floorboard creaking somewhere beyond the door.
He keeps his eyes shut.
The surface beneath him is too soft for anything familiar. Not his bed but definitely his house. Smells like it.
A guest room, tucked away, next to his parent’s grand master bedroom.
Slowly, he opens his eyes. He shifts. His limbs feel slow and heavy. His muscles ache like he’s been sleeping too long. Perhaps he was.
What–
The memories rush back. The banquet. The chase.
Tim sucks in a breath. His chest tightens. He tries to sit up, and the world tilts sideways.
“Woah. Easy.”
A voice, closer now.
A man sits next to his bed. Big, but not threatening. His suit is polished but not ornate. His dark hair is tied back, and his expression is kind. Watchful in a way that makes Tim bristle on instinct. Tim doesn't know him.
“You’re home,” the man says gently. “You’ve been out for a day. Severely chilled, mostly. And a little dramatic! Your mother was furious, you know! But the Duke has managed to calm her down. He ordered me to watch over you.”
Tim blinks at him. “Who…”
The man smiles, tilting his head. “General Richard Grayson. You can call me Dick.”
Tim doesn’t answer right away. He shakes his head, not really believing his words.
And then it clicks.
He remembers him from the banquet. One of the two who stood just behind the stranger who asked him to dance. The smiling one. Not quite as tall, but still striking.
“You were at the banquet,” Tim says slowly, dumbly. “With…”
He trails off. He doesn’t want to finish the sentence. His eyes widen.
Dick’s smile widens just a little. “With my two little brothers,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Well, not exactly brothers! But I took care of them when they were growing up, and–”
Tim doesn’t listen to him.
He just lays there, eyes open, staring past the general’s shoulder at the faint outline of embroidered curtains. It's dark outside, and the bright candles hurt his eyes. His throat still burns, and his skin feels too tight, like he’s been sweating through several fever dreams. He doesn’t remember being carried here. Doesn’t remember collapsing. Only the sound of hooves in the snow and that unbearable cold when he was running.
The bed is warm. The pillows are soft. Someone washed the blood off his hands.
His mother suddenly arrives, probably alerted by the voices coming from the room.
The door swings open without warning. She’s dressed fully despite the, what Tim assumes, very late hour, hair pinned high, cheeks flushed pink with rouge. The moment her eyes land on Tim, they narrow, not with relief, but anger.
The general gives him an awkward glance and leaves the room promptly.
“Timothy Drake," she snaps, voice brittle with barely restrained fury. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done to this family’s name?”
Tim closes his eyes.
He doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say that she’d want to hear.
She continues without waiting. “You’re lucky, lucky, His Grace showed such restraint. That he didn’t call off the marriage entirely. That he forgave your... foolish stunt. And you've made your father worry! Ah, his poor heart almost didn't make it! You should be grateful for not having your back whipped. And after all the trouble I've been through-!”
“My lady.”
A new voice cuts through the air.
She goes silent, immediately, almost flinching. She leaves but furrows her eyebrows at her son, and Tim can tell she wants to slam the door, but at last she shows some restraint.
Tim opens his eyes again.
The man who startled her is familiar.
Of course he is.
The jacket is different, he wears black and silver now, lined in deep green, the colours of the northern emblem. His hair is neater, tied with a red ribbon. But it’s the eyes that undo him.
Tim knows those eyes.
They watched him across a ballroom. They begged to touch him on a terrace. They looked at him like he was something good, something wanted, something to free of worries. The eyes of a man who had kissed him with all the gentleness Tim didn’t know he needed. Who made him feel, for one impossible evening, like there was a world where none of it mattered, the debts, the titles, the arrangement.
Only the heat between them. The way their bodies fit and melted against each other in the low light.
He sits up before he realises he’s moved.
The man steps forward and stops just short of Tim's bed.
Then, he drops to the floor with his full weight, kneeling, and there's nothing graceful about it.
He takes Tim’s hand in both of his, reverent and adoring. As if nothing about this moment feels absurd.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says softly, urgently. “I was terribly, terribly stupid. I thought you knew. God, I thought you knew."
Tim stares at him. At the Duke. At the man he ran from. At the one who brought him back.
He feels the flush rise in his face but it's not like he can stop it.
“I thought-” he starts, and then doesn’t finish. He doesn’t know how to. "I'm the one who should be apologising, Your Grace."
"No," the Duke shakes his head. "You owe me no such thing."
He lifts one of Tim's hands and presses a quick kiss to his knuckles, soon followed by a next one. He keeps kissing Tim's hands and shaking his head. It's like his lips have a mind of their own, and he can't stop them.
“I'm the one who's terribly sorry,” he murmurs against Tim's skin. "You must have been immensely frightened by my boldness. Forgive me. Please."
For a moment, Tim forgets how to breathe.
Tim remembers how badly he’d wanted him. Not because he thought the man was powerful, or noble, or chosen for him, but because he wasn’t. Because he was just someone who talked to him. Who wanted him simply and kissed him without any reason. And now, knowing the truth, it hits harder, because the desire was real, even when the identity was a lie. He had fallen, not for a Duke, but for this.
The Duke lifts his head, still holding Tim’s hands like he’s afraid to let him go.
“And I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, voice quiet, rough around the edges. “You scared me.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
His body’s still aching. His mind’s still reeling. But his voice is bold when he says, “I still don’t know your name, Your Grace.”
The words hang there, not cold, but a little accusing. Just a fact, though. One that matters now more than ever.
The Duke's mouth tugs into something like a smile. Almost shy. He nods once, like he deserves that.
“It's Jason. I can't believe you didn't know that.”
Tim blushes from his own ignorance. He looks at him for a long moment, then down at their joined hands.
Jason, he thinks. Not the Duke. Not a stranger. Not a careless mistake.
“Jason,” Tim repeats under his breath, like he’s trying it out. Like the word might taste different on his tongue now that it has weight behind it. Now that he knows who it belongs to.
Jason doesn’t speak. He just watches him, still on his knees, forehead pressed against the back of Tim's hands like he's praying for forgiveness. Tim blinks, and the edges of his vision blur. From exhaustion. From too many thoughts. From the impossible warmth settling deep in his chest like a wildfire. One hand slips from Jason's grasp. He lets himself put it on top of his head instead, softly threading black hair with his fingers.
“I thought you were a dream,” he says. “Last night. Unreal."
Jason smiles. “You were. So gorgeous, drawing every eye in the room. They looked at you, and then at me, wondering how I came to be so fortunate.”
They sit like that for a long moment. Nothing else moves.
Jason shifts forward a little, raising from his knees. Not fully closing the space between them, but close enough that Tim can feel his breath, warm against his cheek. His gaze flickers to Tim’s mouth, then back up, uncertain. Asking.
Tim doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even think to.
Jason kisses him. A brush of mouths like they’re still learning each other’s shape. He pulls back almost immediately, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.
Tim leans in and kisses him again. It comes easy to him now, not worrying about being inexperienced or awkward or bad.
It's thoughtless. Greedy.
Jason exhales shakily. His hand comes up to cradle Tim’s jaw, thumb resting at the hinge of it. Their foreheads bump. Neither of them speak for a moment.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” Jason murmurs.
“I know,” Tim breathes. “It’s too soon.”
“Not too soon, never. But there should be proper courting,” Jason murmurs. “More letters. Flowers. Anything else you wanted.”
Tim laughs.
“You didn’t send any.”
“I sent dozens.” Jason blinks.
Tim’s heart skips a beat.
“What?”
Jason pulls back slightly, eyes searching his. “Gifts. Letters. I sent them to your family’s estate. I've been sending them for months. Did you really not get any of them?”
“No." Tim swallows. Shakes his head once. "Nothing.”
Jason exhales through his nose. He looks angry for a moment. “Then someone never meant for you to read them.”
Tim closes his eyes, jaw tightening, and Jason, without thinking, kisses him again.
This time it’s not so gentle.
His hand cups the side of Tim’s face and points it upward, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. Their mouths meet again, hungrier now, messier, but still slow. Still full of ache.
Tim makes a small sound against his mouth. Jason swallows it eagerly.
They part only because they have to breathe.
Jason leans his forehead against Tim’s again, eyes closed.
“This is improper,” he murmurs. "I should stop."
“I don’t care.” Tim’s breath shudders.
Jason lets out a soft giggle, like he doesn’t either.
"We’re going to get in trouble for this, Your Grace.”
Jason smiles against his cheek. “Let them try.”
The room feels warmer now, even with the fire burning low. Jason’s thumb traces slow circles against the back of Tim’s hand, grounding them both. Tim’s breath has evened out, but something still flickers just beneath his skin, remnants of want, yes, but also something new. A readiness he didn’t expect to feel.
Jason speaks first, his voice a little uncertain. “I'd like to still marry you. I hope that’s something you wish for as well. We'll travel North together when you feel better.”
Tim nods before he can think about it. “I wish, yes,” he says. And he does. The North has always felt like something distant and harsh. A punishment, a banishment. But now, he remembers firelight and gentle hands, and it feels different.
Jason’s expression softens. “I know it’s not what you were raised for. The winters are long. It’s quieter, and rougher, and… colder than here. But it’s good. I’ve made it good. I think- I hope... you’ll like it.”
Tim is quiet for a moment. He leans back slightly, still holding Jason’s hand, his eyes searching the fire as if their future might flicker there. “I don’t care if it’s rough,” he says. “I don’t care if it’s cold.”
Jason smiles faintly. “You say that now. Wait until you can’t feel your fingers for a week straight.”
“You’ll keep me warm, won’t you?”
Jason tilts his head, gaze incredibly hungry, pupils blown out. “Every night.”
There’s too much heat in those words. A promise.
“I thought marrying the Duke would be...” Tim trails off. “Worse.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a compliment.”
Tim shakes his head, smiling. “It is, husband.”
Jason's eyes widen. Tim expects many things from the Duke, but never to surge forward so suddenly that Tim barely has time to brace himself before he’s tackled onto the pillows.
“Say that again,” Jason murmurs, hovering close, eyes bright with something like wonder.
Tim’s heart stutters. He takes it that His Grace is pleased with his new title.
Soon they are sitting together, speaking quietly about what comes next. The long journey North. The schedule. Jason promises that the ceremony will be small if Tim wants it that way. He says it like it matters. Like Tim’s wants are something to be considered.
“Tell me about the letters,” Tim asks quietly, not quite looking at him.
“Anything,” Jason answers, voice barely a whisper.
Outside, snow settles on the windowsill. A hand settles on his back. One melts faster than the other.