Work Text:
Tamlin could not remember how it came to this. Actually, he could. Like most good things in his life, it had started with Lucien. Lucien had discovered his poetry by accident. A scrap of paper carelessly left lying around in his chambers, immediately spotted by Lucien’s keen eyes when Tamlin had thought he was still dozing peacefully in bed in the early morning light.
Mortified at first, Tamlin had scrambled to cover it up, to hide it, had even tried ordering Lucien as his High Lord to forget about it, with predictably little effect. Lucien had held the paper in his hands, had traced the handwritten words with his finger almost reverently. “You wrote this and thought I’d laugh?” he’d said softly, reaching for Tamlin, his expression tender in a way that no one else ever got to see.
After that Lucien had started giving him little challenges for his poems. Sometimes difficult on purpose, sometimes merciful but always with a grin on his face. Tamlin could never refuse him. He enjoyed sharing this part of himself with Lucien, the trust and familiarity that it brought.
Today, however, Tamlin was struggling to fulfil the prompt. He stood in the vast gardens of the manor, felt the golden sunlight drape across his shoulders like a living thing as he watched some small creature move through the bushes, unhurried and unafraid. A soft wind caressed his face and gently stirred the trees in full bloom around him, while his mind was engaged in an artistic battle.
The world seemed to quiet as he focused, the birds falling silent to not distract him. Brow furrowed in concentration, he scowled down at the piece of paper in his hands, turning the words around in his head.
Lucien, unbothered by Tamlin’s obvious struggles, stretched out languidly in the sun-warmed grass of the meadow. Pants rolled halfway up his calves, his toned legs swaying softly in a way that forced Tamlin to very deliberately keep his eyes on his sheet of paper. It was an effort to keep from staring at Lucien, who looked so at peace in the middle of the Spring Court. To keep from thinking that Lucien belonged here, that he was a fundamental piece of what made his court so beautiful, so alive. Of what made him feel alive.
Without opening his eyes, Lucien spoke, “Careful, Tam. If you don’t stop staring at me like that, I’ll be tempted to come over there.”
Tamlin crossed out something on his paper with a little too much force, “Don’t distract the artist, Lucien.”
He didn’t need to look to hear the smile in Lucien’s voice as he clapped his hands together, eager with anticipation. “Come on, then. Enough stalling. Let’s hear it!” Lucien demanded and well, his wish was Tamlin’s command.
The wind shifted. Tamlin cleared his throat. Drawing himself up to his full height, the light framing him just right, he looked every inch the High Lord of Spring, about to deliver something deeply important to his devoted subjects. He read:
There once was a lord, it was said
Who lived while he wasn’t yet dead
He dined when he ate
He gained lots of weight
And died when they cut off his head
The limerick was in all honesty, quite terrible. Even the gravitas with which it was delivered could not change that. Unbeknownst to Lucien, however, Tamlin had written it like that on purpose, just to make Lucien laugh, to hear his favourite sound.
After he finished reading it aloud, there was only silence. The trees themselves seemed to still. A single bird chirped once somewhere overhead.
Before Tamlin could even lower the paper to catch Lucien’s reaction, he already heard him groan dramatically.
“Mother above, Tamlin,” Lucien huffed, sitting up properly now, his exasperation evident, “Far be it from me to voice unsolicited opinions but what was that?”
A small, crushed flower was stuck in his hair and Tamlin felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and brush it away, but he resisted, just barely. Instead, he gestured to his paper, “A poem, as per your request.”
“That’s one word for it," Lucien looked like he was trying very hard to remain polite, "One could think of other words to describe it of course, potentially less flattering but nonetheless true.” He leaned forward, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and distractingly loose, voice a tease to match, “But like the gentleman I am, I will not utter them.”
Tamlin fixed him with his gaze and bared his sharp teeth in a challenge that was half snarl and half grin.
Instead of being intimidated, Lucien threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing out bright and unrestrained.
There it was. Tamlin smiled properly then. The air shifted with it, warmer now, a faint breeze stirring the flowers at their feet. Lucien plopped back down into the grass, soft and warm from laughter, face alight with amusement. Tamlin folded the paper carefully like it mattered more than he was willing to admit.
For one peaceful moment, he thought his awful limerick had been the end of it. He was wrong.
Lucien suddenly propped himself up onto one elbow again, his red hair flowing over his shoulders like wine that Tamlin would happily drown himself in. “I have another idea for you, oh great poet, to compensate for that atrocity just now,” he said lightly.
Tamlin sighed. “What now?”, he asked, already resigned, already knowing that he would fulfil Lucien’s next poem request.
Lucien flashed him a blinding smile, “Write one about me, then.”
Tamlin stilled, “You?” The paper in his hands audibly crumpled, as he unconsciously tightened his grip.
There was a mischievous look in Lucien’s eyes as he tilted his head in that playful way of his that had Tamlin melting into a puddle. He would always give Lucien whatever he asked for, if he only kept looking at him like that. “Yes, Tam, about me. The emissary of your heart, irresistible in my humility. But,” he raised his eyebrows, “do try to keep any… wildly inappropriate thoughts out of it.” He winked at him, shameless and open, “Or tell me about them later, in great detail. I’d love to hear them.”
Tamlin felt heat rise up his neck, “Lucien!” But he couldn’t stop the smile that stole onto his face. He still felt self-conscious a lot of times when attempting to think about his feelings. Which was ridiculous. This was Lucien, the one person who saw him as he was and did not turn away. Instead, Lucien kept choosing to see him and be with him.
So, if Lucien wanted a poem written about him, so be it. Tamlin would never tell Lucien that he had already written about him. Had already crafted verses straight from his heart, about how Lucien’s presence in the Spring Court made it feel like home. How his poetry came to him easier when Lucien was nearby. In short, Tamlin had already written about him extensively, passionately and, most important, privately. Poem after poem, hidden away to never be found.
Tamlin would rather spend an evening out drinking with the bat boys than have Lucien ever find out about these poems. His dignity couldn’t handle it. They were too open, too earnest, too sincere. Unguarded in a way he did not usually allow himself to be. While he trusted Lucien with his silly little limericks, some poems were only meant for Tamlin himself.
Lucien laughed again, delighted by his reaction, and Tamlin could swear it made the sun itself shine brighter, made the clouds part and his heart overflow.
But Lucien wasn’t done speaking. “Write a poem about me”, he repeated. Then he continued, because as always Lucien was incapable of restraint, “But don’t mention fire or foxes.”
Tamlin frowned, “That removes all obvious material.”
He had never shared his poetry like this with anyone before, never talked about it with others. He had always written it in private, in stolen moments. He’d been hiding that part of himself away, thinking it was unbecoming of the High Lord of Spring to be indulging in silly poems. But with Lucien it was different. Lucien understood him. He was always interested in what he was writing, what he was thinking, often offering helpful commentary with that sharp tongue and observant eyes of his.
But just as often Lucien delighted in distracting Tamlin which left many a poem unfinished on his desk, ink drying in the pot or spilled across the desk and their skin.
He looked at Lucien again, to see if he was serious about his request. Lucien hadn’t moved from his spot on the grass, the first spring flowers framing him like an offering.
“Well?” He drawled, his face tilted towards the sun. It illuminated his features, his scars, bathing him in light and rendering him so beautiful it almost hurt Tamlin to look at him.
Tamlin huffed out a breath, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of his voice, “You’re setting me up for failure. You’ll be disappointed.”
Lucien nodded towards the paper Tamlin was still clutching a little too hard in his hands, “If that last one didn’t send me running, then nothing will.” He grinned, “I am entirely certain that your poem will sweep me right off my feet.”
Tamlin held his gaze for a moment, studying the open affection on Lucien’s face, his own face probably mirroring it. Then, the corners of his mouth lifted, “Fine.”
Lucien settled back into the grass, satisfied. And that was all that mattered.
Tamlin kept stealing glances at him, expression softening despite himself. The grass swayed beneath his feet, as if tugging him into Lucien’s direction. As he lowered himself into the grass next to him, he was already thinking, already reaching for words he once would have kept to himself.
And then the soft spring breeze picked up, whispering across their skin, its winds warm, steady and alive. And Tamlin thought that this very moment, with Lucien in his arms and the warmth and promise of new life of spring around him, this in itself was poetry.