Chapter Text
Duncan Tall and Aerion Targaryen had always moved along the same lines, their lives brushing past each other long before either of them bothered to look twice. It wasn’t intentional—more like background noise. Familiar faces in shared spaces—names mentioned in passing.
It only shifted when Aerion turned twenty and finally noticed.
Noticed that the rugby coach Aegon wouldn’t stop talking about wasn’t just some guy with a whistle and too much patience, but Duncan, who also happened to know Daeron, which, in itself, meant very little. Daeron knew everyone. At twenty-five, he moved through the world as it belonged to him, collecting people with that easy, reckless charm Aerion had once described as “questionably functional.” So no one found it strange when Aerion started lingering a little longer than necessary. and watching at first. The way Duncan spoke—steady, unhurried, like he meant every word. The way he looked at people when they talked actually looked like he was listening instead of waiting for his turn.
There was something disarming in it. Something solid.
Something rare.
It happened slowly, and then all at once. A conversation here, half-finished over cheap drinks at a bar where the music was always too loud. Another picked up days later, somewhere quieter. Daeron’s flat, cluttered and warm, laughter spilling into the hallway. Rugby practices, Aerion had no real reason to attend—except suddenly, he did.
“I’ve got more time now,” he’d said once, shrugging it off, though even he didn’t quite believe it.
Duncan had just nodded, like that made sense.
And somehow, it did.
Their friendship slipped into place with an ease that should’ve been suspicious. There was a rhythm to it—light, teasing, threaded with something just a shade sharper than casual. Aerion, who rarely let people past a certain distance, found himself… different. Looser, maybe. Quicker to smirk, quicker to push, to test.
Duncan didn’t flinch. Never seemed to. People noticed. Raymund, especially.
“Getting involved with a Targaryen?” he’d said one night, voice low, like he was offering a warning Duncan hadn’t asked for. “That’s not simple. Better to keep it friendly. There’s too much history in that name.”
Duncan had just huffed under his breath, wiping his hands on a rag, grease still caught beneath his nails.
“Yeah,” he’d said, not looking up. “Maybe.”
He didn’t listen. Neither did Aerion.
They fell into it without ceremony. Aerion was… a lot. He knew it. Sharp-edged when he wanted to be, restless, easily irritated, the kind of person who pushed first and thought later. But Duncan saw through it almost immediately—past the bite, into something looser, wilder. A streak of rebellion that didn’t quite fit the polished expectations tied to his surname.
Motorbikes. Fast cars. Ink curled along his skin—dragons, mostly, though there were others Duncan hadn’t had the chance to map yet. A few piercings he mentioned once with a half-lidded look and a quick wink, like a private joke.
Duncan had just laughed.
It wasn’t surprising when things shifted.
By the time Aerion was about to turn twenty-one, and Duncan was already twenty-six, the line between friends and something else had worn thin enough to disappear entirely. Aerion studied business and marketing, half buried in deadlines and presentations. Duncan worked long hours at the garage, hands rough, shoulders carrying the kind of fatigue that settled deep into the bones.
Different worlds, on paper. In practice, they made it work. Aerion spent more time at the shop than he probably should, perched on a stool, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching Duncan work. Duncan showed up after classes when he could, leaning against Aerion’s car as he belonged there, as he’d always been part of that routine.
They learned each other’s circles. Slipped into them without resistance. And just like that, they became exclusive. There were no real problems—at least, none that felt big enough to name. A little jealousy here and there, the kind that showed up in small gestures. A hand at Aerion’s lower back when someone stood too close. A look from Aerion lingered a second too long when someone laughed at something Duncan said.
Nothing explosive. Just… there.
Contained. Safe.
At home, Maekar watched.
Aerion could feel it sometimes—those long, unreadable looks across the dinner table, heavy without explanation. It unsettled him more than he liked to admit. He knew what he was. The only omega in the family in a long time. A fact that carried more weight than it should, tied to expectations no one said out loud, but everyone seemed to understand. Still—this was Duncan. Duncan, who stayed late to help people who couldn’t pay. Duncan, who sent half his earnings back to Ireland without complaint. Duncan, who felt… steady.
It mattered.
“I don’t want you losing focus,” Maekar had said once, the words landing between them over dinner, quiet but firm. “Your studies come first.”
Aerion had rolled his eyes, irritation flashing quick and sharp, though it didn’t quite stick.
“I get it,” he’d muttered, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not like we’re planning a wedding or anything. I’m twenty-two. He’s busy working, sending money home. It’s not… that.”
A pause. Then, softer— “I won’t lose track. I promise.”
Maekar had nodded, though something in his expression didn’t fully ease.
Maybe it was the age difference. Maybe it was timing.
Aerion had started university later than most—life getting in the way in ways he didn’t like to unpack—and now he was in his second year, still catching up. Duncan had already built something for himself, even if it wasn’t polished. He worked. He earned. He carried responsibilities Aerion was only beginning to understand.
They weren’t planning anything permanent. Not a house. Not a future mapped out in detail.
Aerion still lived under Maekar’s roof, still relied on him in ways that grated at his pride. Duncan shared a place with Raymund and his partner, juggling rent and remittances back home. They were young. That was enough.
Aerion wasn’t like Valarr, already lining up a marriage with Kiera of Tyrosh as if life came with a script. Aerion had time. Things to finish. Things to prove—mostly to himself.
No rush. Just… this.
One of those afternoons finds him back at the rugby field, the sky stretched thin with grey, the air carrying that faint, damp chill that clings to London even when it isn’t raining. Aegon is thirteen now, all restless limbs and impatience, somewhere on the pitch with the others. Aerion lingers at the edge, arms crossed loosely, watching.
University has been brutal lately. There are moments—more than he’d admit—when he questions why he started at all. Why does he keep going.
But he does.
Because Maekar had looked at him, steady and certain, and said, I need you to do this, Aerion. And for all his defiance, for all the ways he pushes back—That still matters. So he stays.
Aerion parks along the edge of the rugby club lot, where the pavement gives way to uneven gravel, and the city feels a little farther off than usual. Out here, London softens—less noise, more wind, the faint smell of damp grass clinging to everything. He doesn’t rush to get out. For a second, he just sits there, fingers still on the steering wheel, gaze drifting past the windshield toward the field.
Duncan is easy to find. He always is.
Even from a distance, he stands out—not just for his height, though that helps, but for the way he occupies space without trying. Solid. Grounded. There’s a weight to him, something steady that draws the eye without demanding it. His shirt clings damply to his back, darkened with sweat, hair sticking in uneven strands to his forehead beneath a worn cap.
Aerion exhales slowly.
Yeah. That’s part of why he keeps coming. The door beside him opens abruptly.
“Ugh, I thought Daeron was coming.” Aegon’s voice cuts through, already annoyed as he leans halfway out of the car. “Wasn’t he available?”
Aerion drags his gaze away from the field, blinking once before looking at his brother.
“He was drunk.” No point softening it. They both know. He shifts in his seat, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug. “Or nursing the worst headache of his life. I owed him a favor, so… here I am.” A beat, then a glance sideways. “What, I’m not allowed to pick up my little brother?”
Aegon snorts, shaking his head as he reaches for his phone.
“No, because you’re just going to stand there talking to Dunk and doing… whatever it is couples do.” He makes a face. “I still don’t get it. And I’ll be stuck here for hours.” Aerion rolls his eyes, already pushing the door open.
“You’ll survive. You’ve got your phone, your tablet—don’t pretend you don’t spend hours glued to those anyway. Do your homework, and I’ll get you food after.” He pauses, one hand on the roof of the car. “Be grateful you even have a phone. Imagine the tragedy otherwise.”
Aegon mutters something under his breath, already half gone into whatever game he’s opening. Aerion leaves him to it. The air hits him cooler outside, carrying that mix of freshly cut grass and damp earth. It clears his head a little as he starts toward the field, hands slipping into his pockets, shoulders loosening with each step.
Practice is ending. A few players linger, boots thudding dully against the ground as they gather equipment, voices low and tired.
And there—Duncan.
Bent slightly as he lines up cones, movements efficient, almost automatic, but never careless. There’s strength in the way he moves, contained rather than shown off. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing forearms marked with faint grease stains that never quite wash out, a reminder that he didn’t start his day here. Aerion slows without meaning to. Let his gaze trace the line of Duncan’s back, the shift of muscle under damp fabric, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. There’s something about this—this ordinary moment—that settles him more than it should.
Like standing near a fire and not realizing how cold you were until now.
“You’re slow.” The words come easily, edged with a half-smile he doesn’t bother hiding this time. Duncan looks up immediately.
And just like that, something in his expression changes. The faint tension in his shoulders eases, his gaze sharpening into something warmer, more focused.
“You could’ve helped instead of complaining, sweetheart.”
His voice lands low, steady, familiar enough that Aerion feels it more than hears it. He steps closer, closing the distance until the heat from Duncan’s body is noticeable, grounding.
“Right, because that’s exactly why I came.” He reaches for a cone, drops it into the bag with exaggerated care, fingers brushing Duncan’s knuckles in the process—light, deliberate. “See? Excellent help.”
Duncan huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Aegon’s in the car?”
“Dying, apparently.” Aerion glances over his shoulder briefly. “He says we’re ruining his life by taking too long.”
There’s fondness tucked under the sarcasm, subtle but there. Duncan ties off the bag, pulling it tight before setting it aside, straightening to his full height. The space between them narrows without either of them commenting on it.
“He’s not entirely wrong.”
Aerion scoffs softly. “He’ll live. He likes the car. Means he can avoid Father’s rules for a bit.”
That earns a small smile from Duncan, one that lingers just long enough. The quiet that follows isn’t empty. It’s settled, built from too many shared moments like this. Aerion shifts his weight, rocking slightly on his heels before speaking again, voice dropping.
“I’ve got exams next week.” It comes out almost like a confession. “Two finals. One presentation. Marketing, then finance—” he grimaces. “If I make it through, it’ll be a miracle.”
Duncan steps closer—not abrupt, not overwhelming, just enough that the space between them disappears naturally. Their scents mix for a moment, something warm and grounding threading through Aerion’s senses.
“You’ll make it.” Simple. Certain. “You always do.”
Aerion glances down briefly, eyes catching on Duncan’s hands—broad, steady, a little rough around the edges.
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re my boyfriend. You’re contractually obligated to believe in me.” There’s a faint curve to his mouth, something softer underneath the teasing. “I’m considering leaving the country.”
“Ireland’s full,” Duncan replies, just as easily. “Wouldn’t recommend it.” A beat. “Maybe Scotland.”
Aerion glanced at him sideways, and something shifted in that shared look—a silent language only they spoke. Despite the short time they’d known each other, they understood one another deeply, perhaps better than anyone else ever had. For a moment, the air turned electric.
"And you?" Aerion asked, lowering his voice as if they were sharing a secret. "Is the shop keeping you busy?"
"Always," Dunk replied. His focus had drifted from the ice cream cones to the way the wind played with Aerion’s silver hair. "I’ve got three cars waiting. One has a dead engine, another sounds like it’s about to blow, and…" He paused, shrugging as he closed the distance between them. "The last one? I don’t even know where to start."
"Sounds exciting."
"It is," Dunk said. Then, almost instinctively, his hand slid toward Aerion’s waist. It was a firm, natural grip that fit perfectly against the curve of his hip. "Maybe a little affection would help. They say endorphins do wonders."
Aerion let out a soft laugh but didn't pull away. On the contrary, his body leaned into the pressure of Dunk’s palm. His fingers found the hem of the Alpha’s t-shirt, gripping the fabric and bunching it between his fists.
"I think I might have an idea," Aerion murmured, meeting his gaze. "You could take a break. It shouldn't all be work and broken parts. I think I can find a way for both of us to unwind."
"I could say the same about you and your books. My dragon, surrounded by more pages every day," Duncan teased with a half-smile.
Aerion didn't reply, simply arching an eyebrow. He was close enough now to feel the frantic thrum of Dunk’s pulse and catch the scent of him—soap, faint sweat, and that distinct Alpha musk. It was an addictive, intoxicating combination. Dunk tilted his head, his thumb stroking the skin just above Aerion’s waistband with a slowness that stole the omega's breath.
"Aegon is watching us through the windshield," Duncan whispered, though his eyes half-closed and he made no move to retreat. "Your brother is definitely going to give me a lecture after this. He might only be thirteen, but he can be quite the royal when he wants to be."
Aerion shook his head. "Let him watch. Maybe he'll learn a thing or two about patience." He paused. "We are royalty, Duncan. I’ve told you a thousand times."
The response was simple, devoid of tension. Aerion was about to add something witty, but Dunk leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't rushed or demanding. It was slow, deep, and steady—as if the world had stopped spinning just for them. The hand at his waist tightened, pulling him closer until their chests brushed. Aerion responded without hesitation, parting his lips and pressing against him. He let the rest of the world—his brother’s complaints, the rustle of the wind, his academic worries—melt into the heat of Dunk’s mouth.
As he lost himself in the passion and softness of the kiss, Aerion felt a familiar warmth bloom in his chest, making his legs tremble. Sometimes, when they were like this, Aerion found himself thinking about the future. It felt foolish, but when Dunk looked at him like he was the entire world, it was hard not to dream. When they finally broke apart, they didn't go far; their foreheads remained pressed together, sharing the same air.
"Five more minutes," Dunk murmured against his lips, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp.
Aerion exhaled a shaky sigh, a small smile tugging at his lips as he basked in the protection only Dunk’s arms could provide.
"Five," he conceded. "Before Aegon starts honking the horn."
For once, with his heart finally at peace, Aerion was in no hurry to be anywhere else.
Days blur into weeks after the rugby field, slipping past in a rhythm that feels almost too easy to question. Morning comes softly. Light filters through the curtains in thin, pale-gold lines, stretching across the wooden floor and climbing the walls without urgency. It’s not enough to fully wake him, just enough to pull Aerion out of that hazy in-between where everything feels distant, weightless, safe.
He doesn’t move. Not yet.
His eyes stay half-lidded, lashes brushing faintly against the pillow as he lingers there, suspended between sleep and awareness. He lets himself feel first, before thought catches up—mapping the quiet language of his body waking beside another.
Duncan is there. A constant.
The weight of him behind Aerion is solid, grounded in a way that feels almost necessary. An arm draped across his torso, firm but not restrictive, holding him in place like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It doesn’t surprise him anymore—hasn’t for a while—but it still sends something subtle through his chest, a small, involuntary shift in his pulse he would never admit out loud. Duncan’s breath brushes warm against the back of his neck, slow and even, still deep in sleep. There’s a faint roughness to it, the kind that comes from long days and late nights, from a body that works hard and rests only when it has to.
His fingers move, almost absent-minded, threading through Aerion’s silver hair. The touch is light, unfocused—and still possessive in a quiet, instinctive way. As if, even asleep, Duncan needs to confirm he’s still there. That he hasn’t slipped away.
Aerion inhales slowly. The sheets smell faintly of detergent—cheap, familiar—and underneath that, Duncan. Leather, oil, something warm and grounding that settles deep in his lungs.
He’s wearing one of Duncan’s shirts. Of course he is.
It hangs loose on him, slipping off one shoulder, exposing skin to the cool air of the room. Goosebumps rise along his arm, sharp against the lingering heat at his back. Ink curls across his skin—dragons along his neck, his shoulders, trailing down his arms—half-hidden beneath fabric and shadow.
He shifts, just slightly. Presses back. Fits closer, aligning himself with Duncan like something instinctive, careful not to break the fragile balance of sleep. Behind him, Duncan reacts without waking—tightening just enough, adjusting with him, like it’s automatic. Like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Maybe they have. It’s in moments like this that the thought creeps in. That quiet awareness of change.
Aerion doesn’t say it out loud. Wouldn’t know how to, not without it sounding like too much—too soft, too exposed in ways he’s not used to being. But something about Duncan rearranges things. Edges soften. The constant noise in his head dulls into something manageable.
Duncan doesn’t ask him to be anything other than what he is, doesn’t pick him apart or try to reshape him. He says things plainly, sometimes too plainly, but never with judgment.
With him, life feels… simpler. Not easy. Just—possible to hold. He lets out a quiet breath, something close to a smile flickering and fading before it fully forms. They spend too much time together. He knows that. Everyone else knows it too. Between lectures and deadlines, Aerion finds himself at the garage more often than he admits, perched on a worn stool, watching Duncan work. The clatter of tools, the sharp scent of metal and coolant, Duncan swearing under his breath at something that won’t cooperate.
And then the nights.
Always stretching longer than intended.
Aerion leaves clothes behind without thinking—shirts, jeans, small things that quietly turn into something permanent. A drawer that becomes half his. A space that stops feeling borrowed.
Duncan cooks. Simple meals, nothing elaborate, but warm, steady, enough. Aerion lingers nearby, leaning against the counter, stealing pieces off the cutting board just to see the way Duncan reacts. Sometimes, he would wear nothing but one of his shirts, bare legs brushing against the edge of the cabinets.
Other times, they don’t bother leaving the bed. Hours pass like that. No urgency. No need to fill the silence with anything but the sound of breathing, the quiet shift of sheets. They touch constantly. Absent, habitual, necessary. A hand at the small of Aerion’s back. Fingers hooking into his belt loop when they walk. A palm resting low, possessive without force. Other times softer—hands brushing, fingers threading together across a café table, unnoticed until they’re already there.
Duncan always reaches for him. And Aerion—he lets him.
Which, in itself, still feels strange sometimes.
He wasn’t raised with this kind of closeness. What affection he had came in fragments, uneven, shaped by a family that had been breaking long before he understood what that meant.
And still—even now, with Duncan’s hand resting heavy and warm against his stomach, there’s a part of him that feels like it isn’t enough.
He closes his eyes. Home comes to mind, uninvited. Wide spaces. Cold silence that settles over dinner tables, even when every chair is filled. He loves his siblings, in his own way—messy, complicated, real. But Maekar… Nothing with him is simple. There are always expectations. Standards that shift just enough to stay out of reach. Conversations that feel more like assessments than anything else.
Since their mother died, something in the family fractured. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a slow, quiet split that kept widening until everything felt unfamiliar.
Aerion tries. He really does.
He stays. He studies. He follows the rules, even when they itch under his skin. He does what’s expected, what’s required—what might keep things from breaking any further. He refuses to fall apart the way Daeron has, even if part of him understands it. Even if part of him feels the same pull, some days.
So he holds himself together. Keeps moving.
And still—there’s always been something in him that felt alone. Something deep-rooted, quiet, persistent. A hollow he never quite learned how to fill.
Until now.
Behind him, Duncan shifts slightly in his sleep, his grip tightening for a second before settling again. His hand presses more firmly against Aerion’s stomach, grounding, warm. Aerion exhales, slower this time. And for once, that space doesn’t feel quite so loud.
Duncan’s arm tightened instinctively, a sudden muscle spasm pulling Aerion closer until his back was flush against Duncan’s solid chest. His hand wandered upward, fingertips grazing the nape of Aerion’s neck with a clumsy, half-asleep slowness, tracing invisible circles. Duncan was prone to this—talking in his sleep, only to remember every word with startling clarity once he woke. Other times, he simply smiled at his dreams. Aerion was always there to witness it all. Duncan’s arm tightens in his sleep, a small, involuntary pull that drags Aerion closer until his back presses fully against the solid line of his chest. The movement is instinctive, unthinking, but firm enough to anchor him there. His hand drifts higher, fingers brushing along the nape of Aerion’s neck, slow and clumsy with sleep, tracing lazy, uneven circles against warm skin.
It’s something Duncan does often—talking in his sleep. Smiling, sometimes, like whatever he’s dreaming is kinder than the world he wakes up to. Aerion has noticed it more than once, lying awake just to watch, to listen.
"Dragon…" Duncan murmurs, voice thick, the sound vibrating low against Aerion’s spine. "My prince."
Aerion doesn’t answer. He never does, not when Duncan uses those names like that—soft, unguarded, meant only for him. Duncan once said they were theirs alone, that he liked the way Aerion’s mouth twitched when he heard them. Aerion holds his breath for a second anyway, as if responding might break something fragile.
"Ray…" Duncan’s brow furrows faintly as he shifts, pressing his face into the curve of Aerion’s shoulder, always the one who holds, never the one held. "Moving. With Rowan… their own place… living together."
The words come out uneven, dragged along by sleep, but they land with startling clarity. Aerion blinks slowly, his chest tightening in a way he doesn’t immediately name. Raymund. Leaving the flat. Leaving Duncan alone in it.
"Yeah?" he murmurs under his breath, too quiet to wake him, more reflex than response.
Duncan let out a low sound, a grunt of affirmation that dissolved into a sigh. He buried his nose in the scent gland at the side of Aerion's neck, right where a small dragon tattoo peeked out. He took a deep, grounding breath of his omega—his, despite everything—inhaling the scent only he knew so well.
"A year…" he adds, softer now, like a secret meant for the dark. "Us, Sweetheart."
His fingers pause in Aerion’s hair, catching a strand, twisting it absently before smoothing it back.
"We could… live together."
The room shifts around those words.
The silence that follows isn’t the same as before—it settles heavier, fuller, filling the space between them with something that feels almost tangible.
Aerion remained still, but he felt something in his chest tighten and then expand. It wasn't rejection. It wasn't even fear, though the idea was massive, daunting, and even a little dangerous. They had been together for a long time (almost two years)—that was the weight of his reality. He wouldn’t be the only one living with a boyfriend; his cousins, his classmates, his closest friends... many did it for necessity, to save money. Aerion didn't need the money, but he needed this.
And still—two years. He lets the number settle.
Somewhere along the way, time stopped feeling like separate days and started threading itself into something shared. Laughter that lingers. Oil stains that end up on his clothes as often as Duncan’s. Habits that quietly became routine. Living with Duncan. Living with his boyfriend.
Waking up like this every morning. Going to lectures, coming back not to something temporary, not to a space that feels borrowed—but to him. His chest rises slowly. Family drifts into his thoughts, but it doesn’t look the same this time. Not the long hallways, not the cold dinners or measured conversations.
This feels different. Warmer.
He lets himself imagine, just for a second longer than he usually allows. Graduation—crowds, noise, searching until he finds that familiar height leaning against a car that’s seen better days. That quiet, crooked smile that says everything without needing words. Mornings like this are repeated until they become normal. Evenings where the day settles into something shared instead of something endured.
He sees more than that. Duncan is building something of his own—saving, maybe opening a garage that actually belongs to him. Or going back to EMT work, if he wants it, even if it’s harder, even if it pays less. Aerion standing beside him through it, not behind, not ahead. Visiting Ireland, maybe. Meeting the foster father that Duncan sends money to every month.
A life that isn’t polished, but real.
Aerion swallowed hard, a knot of emotion tightening in his throat. "I’m turning twenty-three soon..." he murmured, barely audible. "And you’ll be twenty-eight."
Duncan doesn’t react. His breathing stays deep, even, already pulled back under by sleep. Still, saying it out loud shifts something. Makes it heavier. Realer.
Moving out. Leaving behind the structure he’s known his entire life, stepping into something uncertain with a man who smells like engine oil and soap, whose hands are always a little rough, whose heart is… steady in a way Aerion has never quite known.
The thought should feel reckless. Instead, it feels like freedom.
Wrapped in Duncan’s warmth, with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressing into his back, it doesn’t feel like a risk. It feels like a foundation. Like something he could build on.
Aerion closes his eyes again, a slow breath leaving him. There’s still time before he graduates. His life is far from settled. Expectations still press in from every direction, heavy and constant.
And yet—for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s standing in the middle of something that might swallow him whole. When he looks ahead, it isn’t empty. It has a shape. Warmth. Blue eyes and steady hands.
It has Duncan.
Aerion lifts his hand, finding the strong line of Duncan’s forearm where it wraps around him, holding onto it gently, like sealing something unspoken. He lets himself believe in it. In that future. In that life.
Young or not, it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels right.
And with that thought settled quietly in his chest, he lets himself drift back under, still held, still anchored—carrying that certainty with him into sleep.
Morning arrives without hurry, filtering into the small flat in that greyish London light that barely warms anything—the kind of morning where the sun seems undecided about whether it wants to come out at all.
Aerion stands barefoot on the cold kitchen floor, leaning against the counter with a mug in one hand. He’s wearing one of Duncan’s shirts—long, softened by use, brushing against his thighs. He rarely wears anything underneath when it’s just the two of them. He never seems to think much of it.
Duncan does.
He’s on the other side of the kitchen, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still sleep-tousled, his chest bare. Faint marks trail over his shoulders, and along his back, pale traces Aerion had left there the night before, when they’d fallen into each other the way they sometimes did—less out of hunger than out of needing somewhere to set down the weight of the day.
There’s a mug of coffee in Duncan’s hand, though he seems to have forgotten all about it. He watches Aerion openly, leaning back against the table as though the morning has nowhere else to be.
"You know you do that on purpose, don’t you?" he says at last, voice rough with sleep. His eyes drift slowly over Aerion, warm and unashamed. "I know you too well, Aerion Targaryen. Especially when you wear my shirts."
Aerion arches a brow, taking a slow sip.
"Do what?" he asks, too innocent to be believable. "I’m just enjoying my morning. And enjoying the fact that my boyfriend has this miserable flat all to himself for once."
Duncan doesn’t answer right away. He just pushes off the table and takes a step closer. Slow. Measured. As if there’s no one else in the world, no sound beyond the quiet hum of the city outside. It still catches him sometimes—the effect Aerion has on him. How easily the rest of the room disappears.
"That," Duncan murmurs, stopping right in front of him.
His hand finds Aerion’s waist with familiar ease, slipping beneath the shirt. Warm palm, rough fingers. The touch settles there as it belongs. Aerion exhales softly. He doesn’t move away; if anything, he leans in just a fraction, already expecting it.
"Maybe I like distracting you," he says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "It’s entertaining."
A low sound escapes Duncan, almost a laugh, his fingers tightening slightly at Aerion’s hip. "It works a little too well."
The silence that follows isn’t really silence. There’s the muted noise of traffic outside, the faint clink of ceramic against the counter, the quiet rustle of fabric when Aerion shifts. Their breathing settles into the same small pocket of air.
"I’ve been thinking," Duncan says after a moment, and something in his voice loses a little of its teasing ease.
Aerion’s eyes drop briefly, following the slow movement of Duncan’s thumb against his skin. "Mm?"
"About what I said the other day." Duncan pauses, choosing the words more carefully than usual. "About living together. Ray’s moving out soon. We could take the place for ourselves."
There it is. Aerion stills. Not much, just enough for Duncan to feel it—the way his breathing changes, the slight tightening of his fingers around the mug before he finally sets it down.
"I know," he says quietly.
And he does. He’s been thinking about it more than he wants to admit. Running through it in his head late at night, turning it over from every angle. Pros. Cons. The truth is, there are more reasons to say yes than no. A place with Duncan. Something that feels theirs. Something quieter than home. Even Daeron, for all the chaos of his life, has his own place. Valarr and Kiera have theirs. Sometimes Aerion thinks maybe he should want that too. Maybe he already does. Duncan doesn’t pull away. His hand slides a little farther along Aerion’s waist, keeping him close without pressing.
"I know it’s not small," he says, voice calm, steady. "You don’t have to answer me now."
Aerion lifts his gaze. Duncan is too close to pretending.
"I’m still thinking about it," he admits. No games, no sharpness. "It’s… a lot." Then a faint smile touches his mouth. "But I’ll figure it out, impatient man. I just… want to do it right."
For a second, Duncan only watches him, blue eyes quieter now, searching his face as though weighing what isn’t being said. Then he nods.
"All right." His thumb strokes once at Aerion’s side. "I can wait as long as you need."
The tension doesn’t vanish, not entirely. But it softens. And then Duncan smiles—crooked, a little too pleased with himself, enough to make Aerion think absurdly of the Cheshire Cat.
"Changing the subject," Duncan says, voice lighter now. "What do you want for your birthday?"
Aerion lets out a soft breath through his nose and lifts his hands to Duncan’s shoulders, then higher, sliding them around the back of his neck. He rises slightly onto his toes without thinking.
"Five days," he murmurs, leaning close enough that their foreheads nearly touch.
"More or less."
Aerion smiles then. Small, but real. "I want this break with you. The holidays are coming. Then your birthday. I want that time with you. Not my father calling every five minutes. Not family asking questions. With our friends, maybe. But mostly… with you."
For a second, Duncan says nothing. His hands slide slowly up Aerion’s back beneath the loose fabric, steady and certain, until they settle between his shoulder blades. There’s no hesitation in him. Never much is, when it comes to Aerion.
Duncan likes touching him. Holding him. Reaching for him almost without thinking, as if some part of him is always checking that Aerion is still there.
"That I can do," he murmurs. "I think I can manage that."
Aerion laughs softly, the sound barely there. Then he closes the distance.
The kiss comes unhurried. Warm. Familiar. Weighted with the kind of certainty that doesn’t need asking anymore. Duncan holds him easily, as if he’s always known exactly where Aerion fits. Aerion leans into him, giving just enough, wanting just enough more. At some point—he isn’t even sure when—Aerion’s legs have slipped around Duncan’s waist, and Duncan catches him without effort, hands firm at his hips, holding him as naturally as breathing.
For a little while, everything else falls away. The decision. The doubt. The future.
There’s only the quiet kitchen, the pale London morning, and the warmth of Duncan’s body keeping the cold out. Neither of them knows yet that things are already beginning to change. Slowly. Quietly. In ways neither of them can see. With that, time kept moving, weaving between them a kind of intimacy that felt thicker now—more vital, more necessary.
The warmth in the room never came only from the heating or from sheltering against the London rain. It came from them. From their bodies. A slow, steady kind of combustion fed by months of shared touches, late nights, and the easy way they had begun to fit into each other’s lives. Aerion always found it oddly funny—like some private joke the universe had made at their expense—that their birthdays always fell so close together. His first, then Duncan’s, some weeks later. As if, in some quiet way, their lives had been leaning toward the same place long before either of them had noticed. As if something had been setting the rhythm for them all along.
The break arrived almost without warning.
For a few days, the university loosened its grip around Aerion’s throat. No deadlines stacked on top of presentations, no endless reading lists waiting to ambush him. He could breathe again. They spent the holidays together, as they always seemed to do now.
One evening with the Targaryens—formal, stiff, more exhausting than enjoyable. Duncan had stayed close most of the night, one hand resting at the base of Aerion’s back, warm and grounding. Targaryen gatherings were never simple. He liked seeing his siblings, his cousins, his uncles, but Maekar always seemed to carry that same quiet disapproval whenever Duncan was in the room. It never turned into anything loud, but Aerion felt it all the same. Aegon spent half the evening announcing he would rather be with their uncles, Daeron drank more than usual, and by the end of it, Aerion was reminded, once again, that family celebrations had never felt quite the same since everything had splintered.
The night with their friends was different. Better.
Daeron was there, and Valarr, Tybolt, Tanselle, Raymund, and the rest of the people who had somehow become part of the shape of their lives. There was music, too much alcohol, and laughter that came easier than breathing. Nobody even blinked when Aerion and Duncan slipped away early, heading back to Duncan’s flat—now only Duncan’s, since Raymund had moved out with Rowan a few days earlier.
They came home smelling faintly of gin and cold air, kissing between half-laughed sentences, fingers hooked into each other’s sleeves, all quiet understanding and shared heat.
Life was good.
Aerion was doing well at university. Not perfectly—never perfectly—but well enough. Duncan had more work at the garage. He came home tired most nights, shoulders heavy, knuckles stained with oil, but there was always that quiet satisfaction in him, too. Aerion liked waiting for him like that. Sometimes he’d catch Duncan by the wrist before he’d even washed up, trace the dark grease over his skin, then grin when Duncan went still beneath the teasing boldness of it.
It was strange. The calm. Strange enough, Aerion caught himself waiting for it to crack. His relationships had never lasted this long. They had never stretched far enough into the future to become anything real.
And yet, with Duncan beside him, he kept thinking about it. About the future. About what Duncan had said.
Tonight, the night before he turned twenty-three, nothing felt close to breaking. If anything, it only seemed to pull them closer.
If anything, it only seemed to pull them closer.
Outside, London had gone quiet. Just the distant sound of a passing car now and then, and the soft, irregular tap of rain against the window. Inside, the room was dim and amber-lit. Their scents hung in the air—wood, leather, clean sweat, the lingering sweetness of Aerion’s omega pheromones mixed with the expensive cologne he always wore. Aerion lay sprawled across the bed, the sheets tangled carelessly around his long legs. His skin was still warm, a little damp, his body loose with that heavy, pleasant tiredness that came when there was finally nothing left to think about.
He’d only just gotten over the cold Aegon had started and then generously passed on to Daella, Rhae, and eventually him. A miserable little thing. Nothing serious. But it had left his skin more sensitive than usual, every touch sharper somehow. Duncan had taken care of him through it—quietly, naturally. Cooking for him. Making sure he drank enough water. Pretending not to notice when Aerion got irritable and dramatic.
Now Duncan was half-propped beside him, one hand resting loosely on Aerion’s waist. His fingers were rough, callused from work, but impossibly gentle. His thumb moved in slow circles over the curve of Aerion’s bare hip, almost hypnotic. Each touch sent a low, warm ripple through Aerion’s body. He turned his head a little, silver hair spread over the pillow.
“What?” he murmured, his voice rough, little more than a husky thread.
Aerion is always n both sacred and earthly at once. He knew Duncan had always been that kind of territorial alpha, no matter how much the mechanic denied it, and Aerion had always liked that side of him. Duncan did not answer right away. His gaze drifted down over Aerion’s torso, over the omega’s tattoos, then to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. There was something different in his expression, as though he could feel the immensity of what he carried inside him and was trying to fit it into something small enough to hold.
“Just things,” he said at last, though his eyes lingered on Aerion’s pink lips with obvious thirst. It was almost absurd, the way Aerion’s lips always noticed the way Duncan watched him, especially now, as if he were looking at something that seemed naturally flushed and bright. “Thinking about how you practically live here, and yet I still haven’t heard anything like, yeah, I want to live with you, Dunk. I watch you spend half your time in this apartment, then leave because you have to go back to your father. You know? Even Aegon seems tired of it.”
Aerion lifted a brow, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
“That loudmouth is always spilling every family problem. Aemon doesn’t, but that’s only because he’s away studying. Aegon, Daella, and Rhae, though? They never stop talking.” He shook his head once or twice. “They’re worse than Daeron.”
That drew a smile from Duncan, though it never fully reached his eyes. The intensity was still there.
“Yeah, well…” He ran a hand over the back of his neck, almost awkwardly, a gesture Aerion found strangely adorable on him. “I’ve got something for you. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, with all the chaos. I know you’ve got lunch with your family, and then that party.”
Aerion pushed himself up slightly, resting on one elbow. The sheets slipped lower, revealing more of his pale chest, the tattoos still there like a quiet act of rebellion against his family.
“Now?” he asked, playful curiosity threading through his voice.
“Now.”
Duncan leaned toward the nightstand. His movements were calm, but Aerion caught the faint stiffness in his shoulders.
And that—that—was for him. For a moment, Aerion’s heart began to pound. Was this really happening?
No. Of course not. They were far too young. He loved Duncan like a madman, but still—right now, they both had different dreams, and that enormous word did not belong to either of them yet. Did it?
When Duncan turned back, he had a small box in his hand.
He said nothing as he passed it over. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and that brief touch seemed to set the air between them on fire. Aerion looked at Duncan first, searching for those blue eyes, then down at the box.
No.
It wasn’t that.
And somehow he could breathe a little easier, because no… he was only twenty-two, almost twenty-three. Far too young for that.
“Duncan…”
“Open it, sweetheart,” Duncan said, his voice softer than usual. Almost shy. Almost pleading.
Aerion opened the box slowly.
Inside, resting on dark velvet, lay a fine silver chain. Hanging from it was a small silver dragon.
It was nothing like the jewelry his father gave for status, the kind Aerion was expected to wear at formal events. There were no diamonds, no emeralds, nothing that glittered too brightly.
It was simple.
Elegant. A small dragon. His. The dragons were no longer only ink beneath his skin. Now there was one at his throat, too. For a second, Aerion said nothing. The air turned heavy in his lungs. The dragon lay still in the palm of his hand, but something in his chest moved so violently it stole the breath from him. He loved him.
Gods, he loved him like a madman.
“I thought…” Duncan cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at him. Yet his hand found Aerion’s waist again, tightening slightly, as though he needed to make sure Aerion was still there beside him in bed. “I thought you’d like it. I know the story of your name, your family… how much dragons mean to you. And I kept thinking—Aerion already carries them on his skin, so wouldn’t it be nice to see one around his neck too? Something that wasn’t an inheritance. Something that was yours.” His voice softened. “A gift.”
Aerion looked up. His violet eyes were shining in a way Duncan had rarely seen, a little blurred with emotion he rarely allowed himself to show.
"It’s a dragon," Aerion whispered, tracing the metal’s silhouette with the tip of his finger. "A silver dragon."
"I noticed," Duncan replied, a hint of dry humor lacing his words. "I figured if I’d given you a wolf or a stag, I’d probably find my head on a platter."
Aerion let out a low laugh, a vibrant sound that resonated in both of their chests. He leaned forward, closing the distance until his breath brushed against Duncan’s cheek.
"I didn't want to give you something... typical," Duncan continued, his voice dropping an octave, making everything feel more intimate. "I wanted to give you something, Targaryen, but at the same time, something that was entirely yours. You deserve it—for everything."
Aerion looked down at the necklace again and realized it wasn't just a gift; it was an anchor. It was Duncan telling him that he saw him beneath the layers of his persona, past the arrogance and the fear. It was a silent promise between them. A way for them to belong to each other. An unexpected lump formed in his throat, and a liquid warmth spread down his spine.
"Come here, you idiot," he murmured affectionately.
Duncan hardly had time to smile before Aerion pulled him by the collar of his shirt, drawing him in with an urgency that wasn't born of lust, but of a desperate need for connection.
The kiss was slow, yet heavy with everything they didn't know how to put into words. It wasn't a hungry kiss—though hunger always lurked beneath the surface—it was a kiss full of gratitude and a nearly religious devotion. Aerion savored Duncan as a man starved for air, drawing in his firmness, his calm, and the scent of home that only he possessed. They pulled apart just a few millimeters, foreheads resting against each other, sharing the same oxygen in the dim light. Aerion still held the necklace between his fingers, the metal warming against his skin.
"Put it on me," he whispered against Duncan's lips, a command that sounded like a surrender.
Duncan took the chain with almost reverent care. His hands, large and calloused from the heavy metal of the workshop, moved with the precision of a surgeon. He brushed against the nape of Aerion’s neck as he fastened it, moving his silver hair aside with a slowness that made Aerion’s skin prickle and drew a shaky sigh from his lungs.
When the clasp clicked, Duncan didn't pull away. He lingered, pressing a long, lingering kiss just below the fastening, right where his spine began. He kissed over Aerion’s other dragon tattoos, as if marking them anew. Aerion closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing his throat, surrendering to the sensation of Duncan’s lips claiming his territory with the utmost tenderness.
For a moment, the university didn't exist. Maekar didn't exist. There were no passive-aggressive comments about the future, no expectations, and no weight of a family name that often felt like a death sentence. There were no problems; there was no need to think ahead. In that moment, there was only the light weight of the dragon against his sternum and Duncan’s large hand sliding up his back, tracing every vertebra with a tender possessiveness.
"Happy birthday, my dragon," Duncan whispered, his mouth trailing a path of heat from Aerion’s neck to his shoulder. "To this birthday, and all the ones to come, sweetheart."
Aerion turned his face just enough to catch those blue eyes—his favorite eyes, the only map he needed in this world. He reached up to nip gently at Duncan’s lower lip before whispering: "It’s the best gift I’ve ever had, Duncan. I’m going to wear it forever. I’m never taking it off."
As he fell back onto the mattress, pulling Duncan down with him, he thought that if the future looked even a little bit like this—this suffocating, tender heat, this shared silence, and the man who held him as if he were the most precious thing in the world—then maybe it wasn't so terrifying after all. Maybe, in the end, fire wasn't just meant to destroy, but to keep them warm through the longest of nights.
Aerion was not surprised that night when Duncan took him into his arms, when Duncan settled above him and began to kiss him softly, when he kissed his neck and then slowly made his way down his body. When he reached his navel, he paused for a moment to press a gentle kiss there, one still heavy with passion.
It was when Duncan lifted his gaze, his blue eyes darkening, that Aerion caught that glimpse of wickedness in his boyfriend’s face—a look he loved so much. It was no surprise when Duncan was above him, loving him as if this were the last thing left between them, when everything simply became too much, when Duncan entered him with a softness only that alpha could ever draw from his body, when Duncan licked at his nipples, and it felt as though they were both touching the sky with the tips of their fingers.
And while Duncan moved inside him, while Aerion’s arms were braced against the mattress and they could look straight into each other’s eyes, while Aerion’s nails scratched down Duncan’s back as if it were some instinctive way of marking him, the words slipped out next.
His breathing was uneven, tired.
“Yes, I’ll move in with you, Duncan,” he let out. For a moment, Duncan moved quickly, taking Aerion’s face in his hands and looking at him while he remained speechless, listening to his boyfriend. “But you’ll have to put up with me forever.”
Duncan kissed him again like a desperate man.
Outside, London kept breathing beneath the gray rain. Inside, in the small universe they had built together, the night was only just beginning, while the heat between them promised never to fade. Aerion and Duncan kept kissing, their bodies still warm, and Aerion could not stop thinking that this was the future he wanted.
Tragically, they did not know that in that precise moment—while moans of pleasure escaped Aerion's lips and peace seemed to reign—something irrevocable had already begun to change within him.
Time kept moving, weaving something denser between them—something intimate enough now that it felt less like romance and more like a second skin.
It was one of those gray London afternoons, damp and oddly mild, the kind where the sky looked heavy but never quite committed to rain. Aerion sat wedged inside a terrible little sushi place Daeron had insisted was “authentic,” staring at the chipped soy sauce bottle in the middle of the table and thinking, not for the first time, that family gatherings were a strange kind of endurance sport.
Valarr sat on one side of him. Daeron, on the other hand.
Seven weeks had passed.
In seven weeks, Aerion had turned twenty-three, moved out of Maekar’s house, and said things to his father he could not take back. Duncan’s birthday was close now—close enough that Aerion had already started planning for it in secret, because Duncan had done the same for him. He could still remember walking into the flat that night and finding everyone there, the cheap candles, the terrible singing, Duncan watching him from across the room like he’d hung the whole evening together with his bare hands.
And then, later that same night, Aerion had told Maekar he was moving in with his boyfriend.
Maekar had called it rebellion. Called it the tantrum of a spoiled omega who didn’t know what he was doing with his life. Aerion had left before he said something even crueler than he already had. He had not seen his father since.
Now, sitting here with a plate of sushi in front of him, he found himself watching Daeron first.
His brother looked tired in that careless, handsome way of his—dark blond hair brushing his collar, sleeves shoved up, posture loose enough to suggest he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once. No, the smell of alcohol on him today, which Aerion registered with quiet relief. After the last few mornings—waking nauseous, his stomach turning so violently he had thrown up Duncan’s dinner—he wasn’t sure he could have handled the smell of whiskey without climbing out the nearest window. Then there was Valarr. Only a year older, annoyingly composed, dressed too neatly for a place like this. The sort of man who looked like he already had the next five years of his life drafted out somewhere in a notebook. International relations, steady girlfriend, tidy future. And still, somehow, he looked faintly bored by all of it.
Valarr was the first to speak. He narrowed his eyes at Aerion’s plate.
"Before we talk about anything else," he said, lifting his chopsticks like an accusation, "why are you eating sushi with mayonnaise?"
Daeron looked over, followed the line of sight, and physically recoiled. "Oh, gods."
Valarr stared at him, scandalized. "Even the chef looked offended when you asked for it."
Aerion didn’t even look up. He’d seen it online. It had sounded good. Now he wanted it, and suddenly that felt like a matter of principle. He took another bite.
"Why don’t either of you say anything when Daeron mixes gin with whatever chemical disaster he calls a drink?"
Daeron immediately smacked his shoulder. "Because what I do to my body is art," he said. "What you’re doing is a crime."
Aerion glared at him and, out of pure spite, squeezed even more mayonnaise over the sushi.
"I swear to god," Aerion said coolly, "if you both keep looking at me like that, I’m ordering garlic sauce too."
For a moment, both of them just stared. And Aerion—already strangely protective over this stupid plate of food—crossed his arms and muttered, "Honestly. Can we talk about something else? I came here to eat, not to be persecuted."
Valarr barked out a laugh. "Fine," he said. "Let’s talk about Duncan, then."
Aerion went still. Daeron’s grin turned slow and knowing.
"Because apparently," Valarr went on, reaching for his drink, "Every time we call you now, you’re with him."
"Or at his flat," Daeron added.
"Or making that face," Valarr said.
Aerion frowned. "What face?"
"That one," Daeron said, pointing at him. "The stupid one."
Aerion opened his mouth to insult them both, but the words never quite made it out. Because there it was again—that small, familiar twist under his ribs. He was happy living with Duncan. More than happy. But now and then, in moments like this, happiness brushed up against guilt so quietly he barely noticed until it was already there.
Valarr’s voice softened a little. "Father said Uncle Maekar isn’t doing well."
Aerion’s jaw tightened. Valarr glanced down at his plate before continuing.
"Mum tried talking to him. So did Father. I think he’s… angry. He thinks you’re throwing your future away." A beat. "And," Valarr added carefully, "He thinks Duncan isn’t good enough for you."
Aerion felt something hot and sharp rise in his chest. His fingers curled around the edge of the table. He would never understand it. Never. Maekar liked Duncan well enough when he was coaching Aegon’s rugby team. When he was useful. Respectable. Harmless. But the moment Duncan became real—became part of Aerion’s life in a way that mattered—suddenly he was a mechanic with rough hands and no future worth naming. Duncan, who had worked for everything. Duncan, who sent money home. Duncan, who talked about saving for his own garage one day with that quiet, careful hope he only showed when it was late, and the lights were low.
Aerion shook his head. "Let him think whatever he wants." His voice came out flatter than he meant. "My relationship with Duncan is serious. I’m still studying. He’s still working. Nobody’s ruining anything."
He reached for his water and paused halfway there. Too sweet. Late, everything sweet seemed unbearable. He set it down again with a faint grimace. "I’m fine," he said, quieter now.
Daeron had been watching him. Not pushing. Just watching. Then he shrugged and reached for his beer. "I told you," he said, voice easy, "You should’ve moved out sooner."
Aerion gave him a look. "You say that now because you don’t live with me."
"Exactly."
That got a laugh out of Valarr. Daeron smirked. "I like you, brother. But living with you again? I’m not that noble."
Aerion rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Oh, right. Easy for you to laugh, Valarr." He pointed at his cousin. "You have no idea what it’s like growing up in that house. Six people, constant noise, doors slamming, somebody always shouting, somebody always crying, somebody always asking where Aegon went—"
"That’s fair," Valarr admitted. Then, after a beat, he added more quietly, "Father says it’ll pass. He says Uncle Maekar’s at that age where watching his children leave feels more like loss than pride."
Daeron snorted softly but didn’t interrupt.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Around them, the restaurant hummed—plates clinking, voices low, the smell of soy sauce and rice thick in the air. Daeron and Valarr drifted into another conversation after that. Kiera. University. Some party. Lyonel Baratheon is apparently making an idiot of himself somewhere. Aerion only half listened. His thumb brushed unconsciously against the silver dragon resting beneath his shirt. A small, hidden weight. Duncan. The thought of him came easily now—like breath, like instinct. And for one strange second, Aerion let himself believe everything might actually stay this way. Steady. Good. Safe.
"By the way," Valarr said, dragging him back. Aerion looked up. "Kiera and I are coming to Duncan’s birthday."
Aerion groaned immediately.
"She says she’s bringing cake."
"That sounds like a threat," Daeron said.
"It is," Valarr replied.
Aerion scrubbed a hand through his short silver hair. "Brilliant," he muttered. "I should’ve stuck to dinner. Quiet dinner. Normal dinner."
Daeron laughed into his beer. "No chance. This is what people do when they’re in love. He threw you a party. You throw him one. That’s how it starts. Then you’ll be planning dinners, holidays, stupid little traditions—"
"Thank you, Doctor Romance," Aerion cut in dryly. "Your expertise is invaluable."
Valarr laughed again. "It is normal," he said. "I started doing the same with Kiera."
Aerion opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came. Because, annoyingly enough, they were right. And the thought that slipped into his head then came so naturally it startled him.
A different flat someday. A better one. Duncan is laughing in the kitchen. Friends are crowding into the living room. A housewarming neither of them could really afford yet, but one they would have anyway. A future built slowly. Not grandly. Just honestly.
He didn’t say any of that aloud. He only picked up another piece of sushi—drowned in mayonnaise, just to spite them—and tried not to smile into it.
A week later, Duncan’s birthday turned their flat into something Aerion still wasn’t entirely used to calling theirs.
Even now, the thought caught on something inside him.
Their flat.
It was small, a little too narrow in the hallway, with a radiator that knocked whenever it pleased and windows that never quite kept the London chill out. But tonight it felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heating. People were everywhere. Friends crowded the living room, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. Someone had strung up a few cheap paper decorations that kept tilting sideways. A ridiculous number of balloons hovered near the ceiling. Gifts had already begun piling up in one corner—badly wrapped, some of them, which meant Daeron had definitely been involved.
The overhead lights were off now. Only the candles lit the room, soft gold flickering across familiar faces.
Aerion stood there holding the cake and, for a second, simply watched Duncan.
He looked good tonight. Too good. Relaxed. A little flushed from beer and laughter. Hair slightly mussed where people had kept clapping him on the head or dragging him around the flat. There was something in his expression—something loose and happy—that made Aerion’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
Kiera had gone absurdly overboard with the cake. Chocolate, strawberries, cream, more sugar than any sane person needed. Just looking at it made Aerion swallow hard. Lately, sweet things turned his stomach in strange ways. Still, he ignored it.
He stepped closer, holding the cake between them, twenty-seven candles burning unevenly.
"Make a wish," Aerion said, the corner of his mouth lifting. "And don’t say it out loud, because I know you’ll be tempted."
A grin tugged at Duncan’s mouth. "You know me too well."
"I really do."
Duncan leaned in and blew the candles out in one breath. The room erupted instantly. Cheers. Whistles. Someone started singing badly again. Then Daeron and Raymund, who had clearly been waiting for the opportunity, shoved a bit of frosting straight at Duncan’s cheek.
"Bastards," Duncan laughed, wiping at his face.
Tanselle and Rowan were already taking pictures, both of them far too delighted by the chaos. Kiera had taken charge of slicing the cake while Valarr hovered beside her, pretending not to be helpful and failing.
It all moved fast after that. The room broke apart into smaller conversations, into music and clinking glasses and people reaching for plates. Aerion had barely set the cake down when he felt Duncan behind him.
A familiar warmth. Then arms slid around his waist.
Large hands settled low against his stomach, drawing him back until Aerion’s spine rested against Duncan’s chest. The contact was so instinctive now that it made something inside him soften immediately. Duncan bent close, his breath brushing Aerion’s ear.
"I’m really happy," he murmured, voice rougher now, meant only for him. "For all of this, my dragon." His lips pressed lightly just beneath Aerion’s ear, close to the silver ring in the cartilage. "I love you."
Aerion went still. It wasn’t that Duncan didn’t say it. He did. But every time, it still landed somewhere deep. He turned halfway in Duncan’s arms. Up close, Duncan’s eyes were bright—blue and steady and a little softer than usual.
Aerion knew he looked pale. A little tired, too. He could feel it in the heaviness behind his eyes, in the faint twist low in his stomach that had been following him on and off all evening. He didn’t care. Not now.
Duncan shifted carefully so they were facing each other properly, one hand still anchored at Aerion’s waist as though he had no intention of letting go.
"No, seriously," Duncan said, quieter now. "Best birthday I’ve had." His thumb brushed once over Aerion’s side. "Getting to spend it here. With my omega. With you." A small breath left him, almost disbelieving. "I love you."
Aerion glanced around instinctively. No one was paying attention. Daeron was currently trying to convince half the room that whatever he was mixing in a glass counted as a legitimate drink. Valarr looked offended by the whole process. Kiera was laughing. Tanselle was taking more photographs than any of them would ever need.
Safe. Private, even in the middle of everyone.
Aerion lifted a hand and touched Duncan’s face, fingers grazing the rough line of his jaw.
"Then," he said, voice low, teasing to keep himself from sounding too affected, "I suppose we can do it again next year." His thumb dragged lightly over Duncan’s cheek. "And you should probably save your strength."
Duncan’s brows lifted. "Oh?"
Aerion leaned in just enough for his lips to brush the corner of Duncan’s mouth. "For your other surprise," he murmured. "Later. When everyone’s gone."
The look Duncan gave him then was almost unfair. Slow. Hungry. Hopelessly fond. He smiled—a crooked, boyish thing that always made Aerion feel warmer than it should have. Then Duncan kissed him. Not long. Not enough to make the room notice. But not brief either. Just a quiet, certain kiss from a man who loved him openly.
When he pulled away, he gave Aerion a shameless pat on the back before stepping off toward Tanselle and Rowan, already being dragged into another conversation.
Aerion watched him go. And smiled before he could stop himself.
The rest of the night blurred pleasantly. People stayed late. The music got louder. Someone nearly dropped a plate. Daeron kept inventing drinks that should probably have been illegal.
Aerion ignored the dull ache in his stomach and the occasional wave of nausea that rose whenever he caught too much sugar in the air. He ignored the heaviness behind his ribs, the odd tiredness that kept settling into his limbs. It didn’t matter. He spent the evening at Duncan’s side whenever he could. A hand at Duncan’s back when he passed. A shoulder brushes his. A private smile from across the room.
Little things.
But lately, little things had begun to feel like the shape of a life. And Aerion liked this life. He liked the plans that came with it. He liked waking up beside Duncan in the morning, all warmth and sleep-heavy limbs and rumpled sheets. Liked the lazy kisses before either of them fully opened their eyes. Liked the quiet domestic intimacy of sharing coffee, stealing each other’s shirts, pretending not to notice when Duncan watched him too long.
He liked this. More than he had ever expected. More than he had ever said aloud.
And as he stood there, half-listening to Valarr complain about Daeron’s drink choices, Aerion found himself thinking—quietly, fiercely—that he never wanted to leave this version of his life behind.
Living with Duncan turned out to be almost exactly what Aerion had imagined, and somehow better for being so ordinary.
There had been adjustments, of course.
They split groceries now, argued mildly over electricity bills, over whose turn it was to buy detergent, over the fact that Duncan seemed perfectly capable of leaving tools in places where tools absolutely did not belong. Aerion still couldn’t cook to save his life, which Duncan found endlessly entertaining. Order, though that was different. Aerion needed things arranged a certain way. Shirts folded properly. Books are tacked neatly. Mugs are not abandoned in strange corners of the flat.
Not that he was impossible about it. After growing up with five siblings, he had learned long ago that perfection was a myth people invented to make themselves miserable.
So no, living together hadn’t changed them in any dramatic way. It was still Duncan coming home smelling faintly of engine oil and cold air. Still, Aerion half-studied on the sofa while Duncan moved around the kitchen. Still lazy mornings, shared showers when they had time, the occasional argument over nothing that ended with one of them laughing first.
It was everything Aerion had wanted. The only thing that had changed was his body.
The last few weeks had been... strange. Final-semester stress had been eating at him slowly enough that he’d almost accepted it as normal. Then Aegon, little plague that he was, had passed along some vicious stomach bug after practice.
Gods. That alone should’ve taught Aerion never to pick him up from rugby again.
Granted, watching Duncan out on the pitch, sweaty, flushed, grinning, all broad shoulders and easy strength, had nearly made it worth it. Nearly. But the stomach pain had lingered longer than it should have. The tiredness too. A dull heaviness in his bones. Morning nausea that came and went without warning. A strange, restless hunger that never seemed to want the things it used to.
Now he was sprawled across the sofa in their living room, feeling better for the first time all day, a blanket tangled around one leg. Duncan stood in front of him, arms folded. Concern sat awkwardly on him—like he was trying not to hover and failing.
He was wearing those grey sweatpants Aerion liked too much, hanging low on his hips, and a dark, sleeveless shirt that showed off the strong lines of his arms. Honestly, it was unfair. Duncan looked annoyingly good for a man trying to scold him.
"Seriously?" Duncan said, staring at the plate in Aerion’s lap. "I thought your stomach hurt."
Aerion kept eating. On the plate: chunks of pineapple. In one hand: a fork. Beside him: an open jar of Nutella. Duncan blinked at him.
"The other morning you were throwing up," he said slowly. "Now you’re eating pineapple dipped in chocolate."
Aerion lifted another piece, dragged it through the Nutella, and popped it into his mouth. It was absurdly good. Possibly the best thing he’d tasted in days. He didn’t care how strange it looked. He didn’t care that sweet things had been making him queasy all week, or that two days ago the smell of coffee had nearly sent him running to the sink.
Right now this—this ridiculous combination—was exactly what his body wanted. He chewed, then shrugged.
"Targaryen genes."
Duncan’s mouth flattened. "That’s your explanation?"
"It’s an excellent explanation," Aerion said with complete seriousness. "That’s how we survived for centuries. Strong blood. Warrior instincts."
Duncan sat down beside him with a sigh that sounded halfway to a laugh. His hand slid instinctively to Aerion’s waist. Aerion leaned into him at once, setting his head against Duncan’s shoulder, warm and familiar.
"One time," Duncan said dryly, "You told me about an uncle who died fighting some wild animal." Aerion took another bite. "The animal won."
"Things happen."
Duncan snorted. Aerion swallowed and waved his fork vaguely.
"It’s just stress. And Aegon’s fault. That idiot gave me whatever this is." Then, after half a second, he added without thinking, "Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine."
Duncan didn’t answer immediately. He was watching him and really watching him. Aerion’s cheeks looked a little fuller lately. There was a softness to him that hadn’t been there a month ago. His scent—already enough to make Duncan’s head turn seemed warmer somehow. Richer. Harder to ignore.
Duncan leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Chicken soup," he said finally, pushing himself to his feet. "That’s what you’re getting."
Aerion made a lazy shooing motion with one hand. "Yes, yes. Go work, my slave."
That earned him a low laugh. Duncan bent down again—another kiss, this time to his cheek and then his mouth, quick but lingering enough to make Aerion’s pulse kick.
"I want food in an hour," Aerion murmured against his lips. "I’m starving."
Duncan gave him a look. "Yes, Your Highness."
And then he disappeared into the kitchen.
Aerion listened to the familiar sounds—the cupboard opening, the tap running, the quiet clatter of pans. It should have been comforting. And it was. Mostly. He finished the pineapple. Then half of something else. Then stole bread while Duncan wasn’t looking. That had become another thing. He was hungry all the time now. Not ravenous, exactly. Just... hungry in odd ways. Constantly aware of food. Certain things sounded revolting. Others felt suddenly necessary.
He’d put on five kilos. (eleven pounds). He knew because his favourite trousers sat tighter around the waist now. Because his arms felt a little softer. Because Duncan had started cooking more now that they lived together, and Aerion had never once said no to a warm meal waiting for him after class. He noticed it. But he didn’t dwell on it. Stress, he told himself. End of term pressure. Better food. A body finally not running on caffeine and spite. The vomiting had eased. The headaches, too.
He was just... more sensitive lately. More tired. That was all.
At least, that was what he told himself.
A few days later, he was picking Aegon up from rugby again. Duncan had been called into a club meeting and couldn’t make it, so Aerion had only gotten a quick kiss at the mouth before the alpha disappeared back toward the pitch. Now Aegon was in the passenger seat, all elbows and long legs and teenager restless energy. He’d gotten taller. His hair was dyed gold now—his latest rebellion against the family’s silver-blond legacy—and he still smelled faintly of grass and sweat.
Usually, that would have bothered Aerion. Today it didn’t.
Aegon clicked on his seatbelt, stared out the windshield for a moment, then said quietly, "Father’s lonely."
Aerion’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. A sudden wave of nausea rolled up his throat so sharply it made him swallow hard. No. No, absolutely not. He was not doing this.
He turned his head and looked at his brother. "Then maybe he shouldn’t have said those things about Duncan." His voice came out flatter than he meant. "Especially when he knows him. When he’s watched him coach you. He talked about him like he was nothing."
Aegon lowered his gaze. Aerion forced himself to breathe.
"Father and I were always going to have problems," he said after a moment, quieter now. "He never really sees what’s in front of him. You’ve seen it with Daeron."
That landed. Aegon stayed quiet.
There was always something fragile between them. A bridge half-built. Aegon had been born a year before their mother died. For the younger ones, grief had always been a story told afterward. For Aerion and Daeron, it had been a room they’d lived inside. That difference never really went away.
"The house feels weird now," Aegon said finally. "Aemon’s barely there. Daella and Rhae are always doing their own thing."
Aerion swallowed. And to his own annoyance, something tightened painfully in his throat. His eyes stung for a second. He looked straight ahead.
"You can spend time with Daeron," he said. Aegon blinked. "Or with Duncan and me." Aerion shrugged, trying to make it sound casual. "Dunk likes you."
That got Aegon’s attention immediately.
"And," Aerion added, thinking as he spoke, "I could probably talk to the Blackwoods too. Maybe you could stay with them for a few days. Get out of London."
Aegon turned so fast that Aerion almost laughed. "Seriously? With Betha’s family?"
Aerion tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He did not want to think about Maekar. Did not want to replay that fight. Did not want to remember the way Duncan’s name had sounded in his father’s mouth.
So instead, he kept his eyes on the road. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe you need it. Daeron probably does too. He owes me favours."
That finally made Aegon smile. A real one.
They didn’t hug. Didn’t say much after that. Aerion dropped him off a street away from the family house like usual, watched him jog off, then drove home. Later that night, with Duncan already asleep beside him—one heavy arm thrown over his waist, breathing deep and even against the back of his neck—Aerion felt his phone buzz on the mattress. A message from Aegon. Just a blurry photo, Aerion didn’t understand at first. Some stupid rugby thing. Probably.
Underneath it, only three words: Thanks, Aerion.
Aerion stared at the screen longer than he meant to. Then he locked the phone, set it aside, and settled back into Duncan’s warmth. Maybe that was what brothers were for. Even when love between them had never learned how to speak cleanly.