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“I shall see you in Ashford,” Daeron mumbled between the heated atmosphere that surrounded them, body setting up in flames at every touch Valarr administered upon his pale skin, leaving a trail of lava molten, like a river flowing through his skin.
Valarr continued his path of kisses, until he reached Daeron’s pelvis, who just started to comprehend the situation.
“Va-Valarr…” he moaned, air too thick for him to gulp.
As on cue, the younger man stopped, both eyes looking directly at his soul. “You would have me stop?” His brown eye glinted pitch black against the soft and warm candlelight.
The hands grasping his hips made him lack his usual wit. Alas one thing was for sure; it was the first time Valarr sought his intimate company since the last moon passed by, as Daeron often pursued him in turn.
And when the hands stopped cupping his sides, they caressed their way up, a goosebump inducing touch. Slowly, they descended again until both cupped Daeron’s rear.
“Speak.”
Daeron broke their gazes, sighing. Took a glance at the window, the way he could see the city buzzing with his own special energy, the one he visited every night swinging and drowning his sorrows away with cups.
“Daeron.” His voice was ever so soft once more.
“Do not stop.” He closed his eyes, belly tight with anticipation and what seemed as wildfire expanding through his limbs.
In swift moves, he was stripped of any clothing, and when he distinguished Valarr clothed body, he could only emit a small and breathy:
“Oh”.
He gripped the man’s short locks, as if to fuse his face against his cunt. He shortly wondered if that would make Valarr happy. To be fused every moment at every second together. And took him a small moment to realize his husband sought him out to at least spend their last night together, until they finally reunited in Ashford… a hidden effort to avert him from running to his wine and ale.
A Valarr way of showing his appreciation for Daeron, in the silent way he did. Made him feel as if it was real love, or the whole deal he watched both their parents display every afternoon at supper.
Up to that point of ecstasy, both united intrinsically in the way only a husband and his spouse could, Daeron saw he should try harder, for both of them.
Valarr released a placed grumble, sitting abed with Daeron's legs clasped tight around him, his member still inside of Daeron’s folds.
“Stay.” He whispered. His voice was honey dripping on a pastry.
Daeron laid hold over his face, tracing with his purple eyes the fine bridge of his nose, a raised mountain in the meadow of his face. He counted the constellation of freckles kissing Valarr’s cheeks and nose. He dived in for a kiss upon those rose petal lips, then his cheeks and his eyelids at last, while Valarr’s hands tighten his grip on his waist.
“I am.” He agreed, resting forehead against forehead.
“I desire nothing more than to reunite with you at Ashford at once”, Valarr lamented.
Daeron grinned, giving one more kiss to those plump lips. “Time will pass fast, we will see each other when we least expect it.”
He returned the tilt of his mouth, rightfully complicit. And slightly jesting. Which only prompted a groan down Daeron’s throat.
“I will arrive, lacking delays or problems,” he released his face, resting both forearms on the other’s shoulder, almost like an embrace, glancing at Valarr's face.
The younger smiled softly, symbolically embracing both his feelings and body alike.
“You must.”
“I will,” Daeron breathed, stealing one more kiss, “I promise”.
Valarr plunged himself for another long kiss, accepting his spouse’s pact.
“Daeron”, he stated like he was a statement or an affirmation, not the very name his mother gave him upon his arrival at birth.
It was the way of the crown’s favorite grandson. Silent, solemn and at times, too eerie for even Daeron’s bloody riddles that plagued his dreams, similar to a moth going towards light.
The slightest breeze caressed them, like a lover’s kiss afraid of it. The protruding weed and small branches bounced around just as Valarr's short hair got disrupted by it, the change not even perceptible for those who didn’t know the intricacies of Baelor’s heir. For he knew every little speck of him: the way he moved, breathed and smiled, even how many hairs were in his small strand of white hair.
For Valarr was the very air he breathed. His soul, if Daeron ever had one.
“Valarr…” for all his dreams, he found himself lost at words, what one could say to relieve such heartache?
“Be gone with you, prince.” He said, not an order, just a soft plea. “Please.”
He stopped a few steps before the absent minded boy, who at once seemed too old for his age. Daeron often thought himself dumb, but even a man his caliber could see the beauty bestowed upon Valarr face and mind alike. One he denied himself often than not. Always turning to his cups rather than appreciate his husband’s beauty.
He meditated for a while on his cold demeanor. Prince, not my prince. Not even his name, before getting thrown out of the meadow’s peaceful air.
“Does my presence pain you so?” He asked, wishing at least the buzzing sound his cups granted him.
“You shall never pain me.” He responded, hand embedded into his leg, in a weak attempt to support himself. Threading too carefully as he wasn’t the one in need of comfort, as he wasn’t the youngest amongst the meadow. “After the trial… it is all hard to bear.”
“I remember the sight of you for the first time,” Daeron mumbled, creeping closer to him, before sitting down by his side. “I saw you even before, in my dreams.”
Valarr granted his attention to him, eyes illegible as usual, a lake too deep and dense to see your own reflection. It made him feel slightly self-conscious.
“I was only five by a few moons before I started to get these dreams. You were so… beautiful.” He tried to search for a more vivid image of his dreams, only to find riddles upon riddles. “I saw you just like this, galant.”
Valarr slightly snorted, as if too afraid to disturb the peace in which the birds danced and pecked the soil searching for its food.
Daeron watched just how he rubbed his face in his hands, a gesture too unprince-like. He had that effect, often provoking Valarr’s reaction.
“I don’t see how seeders can be found beautiful.” He said, mirthful. “If anyone is beautiful, you are so.”
The older broke their gazes, uncomfortable with accepting the soft praise.
“Prince Baelor is going to be fine, I saw it.” He softly caressed his right hand, afraid of its touch, ever so distant from Valarr, who always initiated everything. “I promise.”
Valarr maintained his gaze upon his husband's face, trusting. For a moment, Daeron relinquished his attention, before the prince averted his eyes, gazing at the sad looking sky. He traced the way Valarr clenched his jaw, and the soft wrinkle his nose made while sniffling his tears away.
By the time both returned, Maekar already ordered their return while he waited for his husband’s recovery in Ashford. While Valarr rode ahead, Daeron knew for sure something was lacking.
“Did you felt disappointed when uncle Baelor arranged your marriage?” Egg once asked Valarr, earning a hard look from him as he retained Daeron’s body from stumbling forward, while he clinged on his mid body, the world too fuzzy and distorted.
They got away from the tavern noise, while they still heard the insatiable chanting from all the drunken folk who sang along whatever their heart wished, mirroring the way Daeron had sung before his husband lifted him up.
“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.” Valarr had whispered to him, before they returned to wherever they stumbled upon Egg.
And even if his lack of enthusiasm and compromise made him tired, he maintained both their honor, denying Egg’s claim, playing the part of husband.
“Why, pray tell, would I be disappointed?” He replied, leaving no more room to speak. The three of them remained silent.
When they lay tight on Daeron’s bed in the early morning, he whispered softly, voice slurring when he said, “you shall not keep doing this, I promise.”
Valarr gripped his hand tightly, kissing his knuckles.
“I shall hope so.”
Moons passed through just as Daeron’s promise did, quickly. Rotted away.
“Did you see this?” Valarr murmured, voice faint, laboring sickly breaths that Daeron could see in the up and down waltzing of his chest.
Daeron laid his face in the small nook of his husband’s neck, drawing small circles in his chest, finding the wetness of his tunic oddly grounding. Their grandsire long passed away with the great sickness, it took Matarys as well and with that, any will Valarr had before left in the dawn.
“You should not get sick,” Valarr rasped again, hand holding still Daeron’s own. “Not good,” he paused, “for you,” Daeron closed his eyes, in a futile attempt at holding his tears, “for the baby.”
“What one could care about such a thing, if his own soul is slipping away at the very moment.” He sniffled, kissing the younger one's knuckles. “Why would I want myself swell full of child if their own sire is not there? If the love who created them shall die upon your arms?”
Valarr coughed again, hand clutching his mouth closed. Daeron raised from his embrace, small fabric in his hand to wipe his forehead, combing his dark locks.
“I was unaware of me being loved so.”
He almost smiled, hand clenched around the poor piece of fabric. His hair bounced back while he tried to contain his sobs once more, imagining he did not look any better than the way he succumbed to his cups. Valarr holded his hand weakly, just as Daeron searched for something that promised him, and both, that they would grow old together.
“You are not to be widowed.” Valarr smiled softly, and even with all the sweat and hair clinging to his forehead, looking so lovely as the day he was promised to Daeron. “I may not have your gift,” Daeron smiled ruefully, “but I am certain.”
Daeron could not find the strength within him to refute Valarr’s saying. And even if he did, he throwed himself in the hopelessness of his dreams being wrong for the first time. So he nodded, tears staining his vision in one incomprehensive painting that disfigured Valarr's face.
“Let us rest.” He asked softly, kissing his forehead, the touch feathered light as the hummingbird’s fluttering wings.
He adjusted by Valarr’s body, wishing he could amalgamate the contour of his body inside of Valarr’s figure, to die by his side, and to be buried like so for all eternity. As lovers, as husbands.
He counted every labored breath his husband exhaled, lulling himself to sleep while nourishing his warmth together.
By the time Daeron gained back his mind from unconsciousness, Valarr's hand had long slipped away in the night.