Work Text:
The Saturday morning sun was relentless, baking the asphalt of the downtown pavilion where the weekly farmers' market spilled across three city blocks. For Valarr, it was a ritual and a day well spent. The smell of fresh basil and roasting coffee beans, the hum of live acoustic music, the feeling of actually being part of the city.
For Aerion, it was an entirely different story. He navigated the crush of strollers and golden retrievers with the care of a bomb disposal technician. His linen trousers were bespoke, his sneakers were limited edition, and he looked entirely ready to call his assistant to have the entire event canceled.
"I’m just trying to understand the logistics here," Aerion said, his voice dropping into that clipped, impatient register he used when he was annoyed. He pointed a manicured finger toward a crate of misshapen, dirt caked carrots. "People pay for the privilege of picking out their own vegetables? In the dirt? Valarr, we have a chef. We have a meal subscription service. This is– this is a hobby for people who have too much time and not enough connections."
Valarr, thirty one and remarkably unbothered, adjusted his sunglasses and kept walking, steering them toward a tent selling local honey. He didn't even look back. "It’s not a hobby, Aerion. It’s community. It’s food that hasn't sat in a shipping container for two weeks."
"It’s food that hasn't been properly vetted," Aerion corrected, sidestepping a toddler who had just tried to wipe a sticky hand on his leg. "And look at them. They're all so... earnest. It’s unnerving."
"You know," Valarr said, stopping in front of a display of wild mushrooms, "You’re exhausting. Just for once, try to exist in a space that doesn’t have a velvet rope."
Aerion huffed, folding his arms across his chest. He looked like a prince who had been banished to the middle ages. "I don’t do 'space.' I do comfort. I do convenience. I do air conditioning. I am currently melting, Valarr. This is an environment that actively hates me."
Valarr turned then, resting his hands on his hips. He wasn't frustrated, not really, he was amused, the way one might be by a stubborn but adorable cat. He stepped into Aerion’s space, forcing the younger man to drop his defensive posture.
"You're not melting," Valarr murmured, his voice dipping low enough to silence Aerion’s protest. "You're just bored because you aren't the center of the universe for five minutes. But you are with me. And if you’re going to act like a spoiled brat instead of my husband, I’m going to go buy these mushrooms and take myself to brunch. You can find your way back to the car on your own."
Valarr didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and started walking toward a stall selling fresh pastries, his stride long and confident. Aerion stood rooted to the spot for a heartbeat, his brow furrowing in genuine shock. He looked around, at the crowd, the dirt, the heat, and then at Valarr’s retreating back. The thought of being left alone in the middle of a crowd of strangers was clearly more terrifying than the prospect of touching a vegetable.
"You wouldn't," Aerion called out, his voice a mix of indignation and panic.
Valarr didn't turn back, just raised a hand in a casual wave.
Aerion let out a sharp breath, rolled his eyes, and set off after him, pushing through the crowd with renewed speed. He caught up just as Valarr reached the pastry line, sliding into place directly behind him and gripping the back of his shirt.
"Fine," Aerion muttered, keeping his head low to avoid eye contact with anyone holding a basket. "I’ll stay. But if I get sunstroke, you’re paying for my skincare treatments for the next month."
Valarr glanced over his shoulder, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. "Deal."
They wandered into the craft aisle, where the noise faded. A jewelry stall caught Aerion’s attention. On the black velvet stand sat two matching silver bracelets, minimalist, elegant, and perfectly understated. For a split second, he pictured them on their wrists, a subtle, permanent connection.
Sentimental garbage, he thought, shaking his head. He spun around, leaving the stall behind.
He stopped at a nearby booth, picking up a soy candle with a look of extreme disdain.
"’Sandalwood’ and 'Midnight Fog'?" He scoffed. "People will buy anything if you slap a hand poured label on it."
He was still criticizing the label when a hand caught his left wrist. He started to pull away, but Valarr was already there, snapping a cool, heavy silver band around his skin.
Aerion froze, staring at the bracelet. Then he looked at Valarr’s arm. Identical.
The heat flushed up his neck. Aerion quickly turned away, shielding his face with his free hand, though he didn't pull the bracelet off.
"This is ridiculous," He muttered, his voice quiet, his annoyance clearly fake. "It’s entirely too–“
"You like it," Valarr said, a smirk in his voice.
Aerion bit his lip, refusing to meet his husband’s eyes, but he kept his hand firmly over the bracelet, guarding it. "I’m wearing it for the aesthetic," He insisted, finally stealing a pleased, hidden glance at his wrist. "Don't get used to it."
They continued weaving through the crowded street, but Aerion’s composure began to fray as the sun climbed higher. He stopped dead, tugging aggressively at his collar and fanning his face with a free hand.
"I am quite literally wilting, Valarr. My heels are shredded, and I’m ninety percent sure the humidity is ruining my hair," Aerion complained, stumbling slightly on the uneven pavement. "These shoes were made for sitting in climate controlled boardrooms, not the gravel strewn lot of a public market."
Valarr let out a long, weary sigh. He stopped walking, stepped directly in front of Aerion, and bent down, bracing his hands on his knees.
Aerion blinked, staring down at his husband’s broad back as if it were a foreign object. "What are you doing? What is this supposed to mean?"
"Your chariot," Valarr replied, his voice tight. "If it finally puts an end to the commentary on your foot health, I’m willing to degrade myself for the greater good."
Aerion crossed his arms, huffing with indignant grace. "Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how that looks? It is not socially acceptable for a man of my station to be given a piggyback ride like some child in the middle of a tantrum."
Valarr turned his head back, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. "I thought you wanted everyone to see me as the one you boss around," He challenged. "Here is your chance."
Aerion darted a frantic look around the crowded path. A family of four was nearby, staring, and the woman at the nearby honey stand had definitely stopped pouring to watch. He scowled at them, his pride warring with the sharp, pulsing pain in his heels. Fine.
He took a breath, steeled himself, and attempted a leap. It was meant to be graceful and decisive, instead, he hopped awkwardly, missing his grip on Valarr’s shoulders. He scrambled to find his grip, his shoes slipping on the pavement, and ended up draped sideways across Valarr’s back, awkwardly clinging to his shoulder like a confused, disgruntled koala.
Valarr stood straight, effectively dumping Aerion back onto his own feet. He turned around, his expression one of someone deeply unimpressed. "What was that? You’re moving like a wounded deer. You’re doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
Aerion pushed off, dusting his sleeves with a sharp, petulant snap, his face burning. "I am not doing it on purpose! You are simply… constructed differently."
Valarr crossed his arms, his gaze dropping to meet Aerion’s. "Constructed differently?"
"I am lacking in the height department, alright?" Aerion snapped, his voice tight with embarrassment. "It is a physics problem, Valarr. Not a character flaw."
Valarr blinked, then his expression shifted into one of slow realization. A wicked glint appeared in his eyes. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl.
"So, what you’re saying," Valarr began, clearly enjoying every second of this, "Is that you're short?"
Aerion crossed his arms, huffing, and turned his face away from the nearby shoppers to hide the burning heat in his cheeks. "I am not short," He muttered, defensive and biting. "It is compact. My center of gravity is superior. It’s actually an advantage, even if you’re too dense to appreciate it."
Valarr let out a low, warm laugh, completely unbothered by the flare of indignation. He stepped into that last bit of space between them. Before Aerion could move away, Valarr reached out and gently tipped Aerion’s chin upward with his index finger, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"I don't think you're short, love," Valarr murmured, his voice dropping into a smooth, steady register. "I think you're perfectly sized. It’s convenient, really."
Aerion blinked, his breath hitching slightly as Valarr’s thumb traced the line of his jaw. "Convenient?" He repeated, his voice wavering just a fraction.
Valarr smirked, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from Aerion’s ear. He lowered his tone further, letting the implication hang heavy in the humid air. "It makes it easier to maneuver you exactly where I want you. Especially when we’re behind closed doors."
Aerion’s mouth went dry, the indignant frustration of a moment ago replaced by a flush that had nothing to do with the sun. He stiffened, then slowly relaxed, glaring up at his husband through long, dark lashes.
"You are insufferable," Aerion whispered, his voice breathless, though he made absolutely no move to pull away.
Valarr’s grin turned wicked, the kind that usually spelled trouble for Aerion’s composure. He pressed a quick, firm kiss to Aerion’s lips, definitely a calculated move to leave him breathless, before dropping into a low, steady crouch again.
"Your chariot," Valarr teased, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Take it or leave it."
Aerion darted one last, panicked look around the market aisle, certain the entire vendor row was watching. With a petulant huff, he grabbed hold of Valarr’s shoulders. He didn't hesitate this time, and jumped, launching himself forward with enough momentum to land securely on Valarr’s back.
Valarr stood up effortlessly, shifting his weight to hoist Aerion higher. He slid his hands down to grip Aerion’s thighs, securing him firmly into place while Aerion instinctively locked his arms around Valarr’s neck.
The older man started walking, his pace leisurely and smug. "You know," His voice dipped low enough that only Aerion could hear, "For someone so insistent that they’re just 'compact,' you have incredibly proportionate thighs. They’re really quite firm."
Aerion buried his face into the crook of Valarr’s neck, his ears turning a burning shade of red, though he couldn't help but squeeze his legs just a little tighter against Valarr’s sides.
"I hate you," Aerion muttered into his skin, though the words were undermined by the fact that he was holding on for dear life. "And if you say one more word, I am jumping off."
Valarr just chuckled. "Sure you are."
Valarr moved through the crowded aisles with a steady stride, the bustle of the market seeming to part around them. For the first time all day, the heat didn’t feel oppressive to Aerion, it was merely a background annoyance.
He found himself looking down at the crowd from his new vantage point. The claustrophobia that had plagued him evaporated, replaced by a distinct, smug sense of superiority. He wasn't just walking through the market anymore, he was surveying everyone else and looking down on them from his position.
"You're drifting too far to the right," Aerion spoke airily, his voice filled with haughty nonchalance. He rested his chin against the top of Valarr's shoulder, scanning a nearby tent that sold hand painted ceramics. "That stall over there has interesting glaze work. Pivot."
Valarr stifled a laugh, obediently veering toward the pottery booth without breaking pace. "Yes, your highness. Anything else?"
"Actually," Aerion mused, his grip on Valarr’s shoulders loosening into a relaxed hold, "This is rather efficient. I don't have to dodge the stroller brigade, and my feet are, frankly, thanking you. Why didn't you suggest this immediately instead of letting me walk for twenty minutes?"
"Because you were too busy listing every reason why you shouldn't be here," Valarr countered, his tone dry as he maneuvered around a couple bickering over avocados.
Aerion ignored the jab, his attention caught by a display of artisanal jams. He tapped Valarr’s chest with a manicured finger, directing him like a chauffeur. "Stop. That one with the lavender. It looks passable. Get it."
He settled back against Valarr, feeling the strength of his husband’s stride beneath him. He was being carried like a prize, and as he watched a group of shoppers glancing at them, some amused, some envious, Aerion found that the indignity of the situation had been completely replaced by the luxury of not having to lift a finger.
"You know," Aerion whispered into the shell of Valarr’s ear, a smug smile tugging at his lips, "You’re doing a surprisingly decent job of it. I might even consider allowing this again."
Valarr let out a dry, breathy laugh, not breaking his pace. "Is that so? I’ll be sure to update my calendar for 'Human Transport Services' then. Wouldn't want to miss a booking for such a demanding client."
Aerion just let out a low, smug hum, resting his cheek against Valarr’s shoulder, utterly unbothered by the sarcasm.
By the time they reached the shaded breezeway near the market exit, the dynamic had settled into something entirely domestic. Valarr was still hauling him through the thick of the crowd, his gait relaxed despite the extra weight.
Aerion had one arm draped possessively around Valarr’s neck, his fingers idly brushing against the collar of his husband’s shirt. In his free hand, he held a waffle cone piled high with salted caramel ice cream, which was beginning to weep slightly in the afternoon sun.
Without a word, Aerion leaned forward, guiding the cone toward Valarr’s mouth. Valarr didn't even slow down, he simply tilted his head to accept the bite, his eyes focused on the path ahead as he navigated around a slow moving group of tourists.
"Too sweet?" Aerion asked, his voice curious.
"Perfect," Valarr offered him a small smile.
Aerion took a bite of his own, then tucked the cone back into position for Valarr. It was a fluid rotation, the arrogance of earlier in completely replaced by a comfortable, quiet intimacy that ignored the people swirling around them. Aerion felt entirely content, happy to be carried through the world as long as he had his husband to handle the heavy lifting.
The chaos of the market finally gave way to the peaceful greenery of the city park. The bustle of the stalls was replaced by the rustle of oak leaves and the distant, polite murmur of Saturday afternoon picnickers.
Valarr’s stride was effortless, his breathing steady, as if carrying a grown man through three city blocks was no more taxing than carrying a briefcase.
Aerion, meanwhile, had mostly finished his ice cream and was leaning comfortably against Valarr’s shoulder, his fingers idly playing with the collar of Valarr’s shirt. He found himself quite content, actually. The afternoon had proved more fruitful than the awful first twenty minutes.
They turned a corner into a wide, shaded avenue lined with benches, completely lost in their own little bubble.
"I have to admit," Aerion began, his voice soft and drowsy, "The park is an acceptable alternative to the asphalt. You may continue walking."
"How generous of you," Valarr drawled, shifting his grip on Aerion’s thighs.
They were so preoccupied in their own little world, that they didn't hear the footsteps until the group was barely ten paces away.
"Well, now," An amused voice cut through the quiet air. "I haven't seen a display of chivalry like this since the last century."
Aerion’s head snapped up.
He froze. Standing squarely in their path, were Baelor and Maekar, flanked by Aegon, Duncan, and a grinning Matarys. Aerion’s face went from relaxed to sheer horror in a fraction of a second. He frantically scrambled to untangle his legs from Valarr’s waist, his grip on his husband's neck turning into a desperate attempt to slide down without falling face first into the grass.
Valarr, however, didn't move an inch. He just stopped, shifting his weight to balance a blushing, flailing Aerion, and offered a calm, unbothered nod. "Father. Maekar."
Baelor stood at the front, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth. Beside him, Maekar looked at his son, who was currently draped over Valarr’s back like a piece of luggage, with a raised, skeptical eyebrow.
"Aegon," Aerion hissed under his breath, glaring at his brother, who was leaning against a park bench, shaking with suppressed laughter.
"Don't mind us," Matarys added, his own smile wide and teasing. "We were just remarking on how… efficient Valarr is at managing his household."
"I assume," Baelor said, his voice dropping into a playful, teasing register, "That there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why my son is playing pack mule to yours, Maekar?"
Aerion, red to the roots of his hair, buried his face into Valarr’s neck, refusing to acknowledge the group. "He insisted," Aerion muttered, his voice muffled against Valarr’s skin. "I was kidnapped."
Valarr let out a soft, low chuckle, his hand patting Aerion’s thigh in a way that was, if possible, even more possessive than before.
"He was suffering from 'tender feet' and 'acute exhaustion,'" Valarr explained dryly, looking his father dead in the eye without a hint of shame. "I’m just providing a necessary service."
The park erupted in laughter. Aegon was practically wheezing, doubled over against a park bench, and Matarys was openly wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. Even Baelor and Maekar looked like they were one breath away from completely losing their dignity.
Valarr still refused to set Aerion down. If anything, he shifted Aerion higher, smoothing a hand over his leg with the practiced air of a man showing off a prize.
"Honestly," Valarr called out to his father, his voice dripping with mock seriousness, "It’s for the best. He’s much less likely to complain about the humidity when he doesn’t actually have to walk. It’s a specialized form of maintenance."
The family laughed again, but the joke didn't land well with the man on his back. Aerion went rigid, his face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. He leaned down, pressing his lips close to the shell of Valarr’s ear. He kept his voice a low, sharp hiss, entirely swallowed by the rustle of the leaves.
"You arrogant ass," Aerion hissed, his words for Valarr’s ears alone. "If you keep this up, you can watch your husband being carried by Duncan."
Valarr’s smirk didn't vanish, but his posture shifted instantly. He came to a dead stop, planting his feet firmly in the grass, and the playful facade dropped. He didn't turn to face the others, and he didn't raise his voice, he simply tilted his head, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of Aerion’s ear.
"You think you're going anywhere?" Valarr whispered, his tone dropping into a low, possessive warning. "You’re staying exactly where you are."
He tightened his grip on Aerion’s thighs, effectively pinning him in place, his fingers digging in just enough to be a silent command.
The family, sensing the shift in energy, quieted down, looking between the two of them with confused amusement. Aegon, who was still wearing his muddy rugby kit and looking winded from the match, clapped his hands together to break the tension.
"Alright, enough of the intense whispering," Aegon announced, grinning. "We're all starving after the match. We're heading to the steakhouse on 7th. You two are coming, obviously. You can continue this weird dynamic over dinner."
Aerion, still perched firmly on Valarr’s back, stiffened. He looked at the group and let out a refined, slightly haughty sniff, though the smug glint in his eyes betrayed him.
"Fine," He declared. "But only if you’re paying. I am not spending my evening in a steakhouse on my own dime."
Baelor let out a bark of laughter, clapping a hand on Valarr's shoulder. "That sounds like a fair price for the entertainment you've provided. Lead the way, 'chariot,’ dinner is on us."
The group ambled toward the park exit. Aegon, still covered in mud from the match, felt inspired by Aerion, and decided to exploit it. He dramatically slowed his pace, clutching his knees with a theatrical, groan.
"Duncan!" Aegon pleaded, tugging his friend’s sleeve. "My legs are absolute jelly. Be a pal and hitch me a ride? I’m literally going to collapse in this grass."
Duncan snorted, shooing him away. "You spent eighty minutes running around a pitch screaming like a banshee. You have plenty of fuel left to walk two blocks."
Matarys watched the rejection with a mischievous grin of his own. He sidled up to Baelor, clapping a hand on his father’s shoulder. "Hey, Dad," He drawled, gesturing toward Valarr and Aerion. "If that’s the new family standard, I think I’m feeling a bit... 'acutely exhausted' myself."
Baelor scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're sixteen, Matarys. You're twice the size of–"
"But, Dad," Matarys interrupted, dropping into an exaggerated pout. "The fatigue is setting in. I might just fall over."
Baelor stared at his son for a long beat, his stern expression warring with a sudden, twitching smile. He looked at Valarr, still sturdy as a rock with Aerion on his back, then back at the gangly teenager. With a sigh, Baelor threw his hands up.
"Oh, for heaven’s sake," Baelor grumbled, though his eyes were twinkling. "Get on with it then."
Matarys didn't waste a second, leaping onto his father’s back with a triumphant whoop. Baelor groaned under the weight, while the rest of the family looked on in amusement. Even Maekar’s lips were twitching at the sight of Baelor trying to maintain his dignity while carrying a teenager.
Aerion, tucked securely into Valarr’s back, let out an amused huff at the sight. The earlier tension had fled, leaving him feeling warm, safe, and immensely fond, not that he would ever admit it.
He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of Valarr’s neck, right where the pulse jumped. "I love you," His voice quiet against the skin.
Valarr didn't miss a beat. He gave Aerion’s thighs a firm squeeze and leaned his head back just enough to catch Aerion’s gaze with a look that was equal parts amused and tender.
"I love you too," Valarr replied, his voice low and steady. "And for the record? No one else is allowed to carry you like this.”
Aerion rolled his eyes.