Chapter Text
Although Duncan was an optimist, he wasn't delusional. He understood that Aerion was so far above him that mentioning it felt almost embarrassing. The owner of an old auto repair shop who could barely make ends meet could not stand alongside an influencer with ten million Instagram followers—the president's grandson and owner of a significant stake in the Targaryen business empire, which encompassed everything from a chain of trendy coffee shops to tech conglomerates.
The gap between them was so vast that Duncan couldn't even afford a smartphone to join the millions who eagerly devoured Aerion's every new post and story; he was still clinging to his old flip phone. Sometimes, with a strange, masochistic feeling, he'd borrow Raymun's smartphone just to read all those enthusiastic (and sometimes cringe, even scary) comments people left under Aerion's posts, hoping to get even a shred of a Targaryen's attention. Fortunately for Duncan, Aerion rarely replied to anyone.
And yet, for the past two months, they had been… together.
Duncan didn't know how best to describe what was happening between them. For him, it was undoubtedly a serious relationship: they spent many nights together in his small but clean apartment right above the shop; they didn't just have passionate sex, they also talked, laughed, or sat in silence when they were both too tired for anything else.
But what Aerion thought about it… To be honest, Duncan was afraid to ask. He was afraid of shattering the fragile, happy bubble he'd been living in for the past two months. He was afraid that if he asked Aerion to be his boyfriend officially, Aerion would just laugh in his face, call him an ignoramus and a fool yet again, and they would never see each other again. So he kept quiet, gratefully accepting whatever crumbs of attention Aerion gave him, even though with each passing day he wanted more and more.
They'd met right here, in his auto shop. It was a gloomy, rainy evening when bright flashes of lightning split the sky, and the windowpanes rattled with thunder. Duncan had stayed late to finish a repair for one of his few customers when the most expensive car he'd ever seen pulled into the shop: a red hybrid with tinted windows, packing nearly a thousand horsepower. It cost so much that he could have bought his entire garage—along with the whole street in Flea Bottom—and still had money left over. Raindrops rolled off the flawless paint without leaving a trace, and the dim ceiling lights gleamed in the black rims. The only problem was the muffled, almost coughing sound coming from under the hood, which didn't stop even when the driver cut the engine and angrily threw the door open.
"Do something about this piece of shit!"—those were the first words Duncan ever heard from Aerion. "Now!"
In his defense, Duncan could say only two things. First, there were too many Targaryens to know them all by sight. Second, that evening Aerion looked nothing like his usual self—composed and impeccably elegant. His red suit with gold stripes—apparently chosen to match the car—was soaked through. His wet hair stuck out in all directions, and there were leaves tangled in his silver locks. Duncan immediately realized the customer had tried to fix the car himself, right in the middle of that merciless storm, and failed. No wonder he was in a terrible mood.
And yet the situation was so unusual that for several long seconds Duncan just stared at the stranger, mouth agape. He'd completely forgotten that a minute earlier he'd spilled soda on himself, pulled off his T-shirt, and was about to find another one. He didn't usually greet customers shirtless.
"What are you staring at, you oaf?" the stranger barked, and only then did Duncan snap out of it. "This piece of junk isn't going to fix itself, and I still have to get to a party."
However, Duncan didn't rush straight to the car. He remembered what his adoptive father had taught him: a repair shop only seems like a place for cars. In reality, it exists for the people who drive them.
A few minutes later, the customer—stunned and even a little scared—was sitting on the old but tidy customer couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, a cup of fragrant green tea steaming gently near his face. Only then did Duncan turn his full attention to the car and lean over the engine.
"It's nothing serious, but it'll take about an hour," he said, then turned his head toward the customer, who was staring at him wide-eyed. That's when Duncan first noticed how striking the stranger was: he was incredibly handsome, and his violet eyes seemed to peer, unsettlingly, into the very depths of Duncan's soul. "You can leave the car here and pick it up in the morning… so you'll make it to the party."
Wow, Duncan, way to go—your eloquence is off the charts, he scolded himself, flustered under the stranger's piercing gaze. He probably should have put on a T-shirt after all instead of standing there half-naked like… Duncan didn't even know what. But it seemed too late to walk away from the car now.
"A real party won't start without me," the stranger snorted, regaining his self-assurance. "Besides, leave my beauty here to get stolen? No way."
"I guarantee nothing like that will happen here." Duncan wasn't offended by the remark at all: if he had a beauty like that, he wouldn't take his eyes off her either.
The whole time Duncan worked on the car, he could feel the customer watching him. It seemed to him that those violet eyes kept wandering from his head to—oddly enough—his butt, but every time Duncan stole a glance at the stranger, the man's eyes were fixed on the expensive phone in his hand. Yet as soon as Duncan turned back to the engine, the feeling returned. And in the end, Duncan realized with horror that he was actually starting to like it.
"All done," Duncan said when the customer came back from the restroom. The man looked impeccable: the tailored suit fit his slender frame perfectly, and his hair was meticulously slicked back, with just a few strands falling loose, which gave him a special kind of charm.
"Finally," the customer snorted, pulling out his phone. "How much do I owe you?"
With a note of regret in his voice, Duncan named the price. The regret, of course, wasn't about the price—it was because, as he suddenly realized, this handsome stranger was about to get into his fancy car, drive off to what was undoubtedly a fancy party, and Duncan would never see him again.
"And how much for the repair?" the customer suddenly asked, just as a loud payment notification chimed from the computer in the office next door.
"What?" Duncan asked, confused.
"I'm asking how much it'll cost to fix the car, you idiot," the customer repeated irritably.
Duncan looked at the stranger, surprised. For a moment he thought it was some prank, but the handsome face was surprisingly serious—even a little menacing.
"That was the payment for the repair," he explained.
"What?" For some reason, the customer seemed surprised, and his gaze darted to the now-empty mug and the blanket. "I thought that was for…" He broke off. "Never mind. No wonder this place is such a dump with prices like that."
Duncan might have taken offense if it hadn't been true. The shop had seen better days, but after Arlan's death it had taken him a long time to pull himself together and realize that running the place wasn't just about fixing cars, but also bookkeeping and a whole bunch of other crap that instantly gave him a headache. And taxes? Oh, man, those damn taxes took a huge chunk out of his earnings!
Still, it stung to hear that from a handsome stranger.
"Have a nice evening," he said, making it clear the conversation was over.
"Whatever," the stranger snapped, surprisingly aggressively, shooting Duncan an offended look.
A minute later, Duncan was alone in the workshop. For a moment, it felt like a strange dream—if not for the blanket on the couch and the system notification: Aerion Targaryen had transferred money to his account—the very money he'd thought was for the tea. Duncan stared at the sender's name, mouth hanging open, already knowing Raymun would never believe him.
For the next few days, Aerion wouldn't leave Duncan's head. For some inexplicable reason, the Targaryen was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last before he fell asleep—and then he dreamed about him, too. At first, Duncan thought it was because a real celebrity had visited his workshop, but that didn't quite explain it. Especially after he woke up with a cock as hard as a rock and a crazy thought about how Aerion's lips would feel around it. Duncan was clearly losing his mind. He could only hope it would pass soon, disappearing as quickly and unexpectedly as it had come.
Of course it didn't.
It got even worse when, a few days later, Aerion came back into Duncan's life. Or rather, he didn't just come back—he pulled up at the shop again. Only this time he wasn't driving the red hybrid, but a matte black supercar with gold-plated rims. Just as Duncan suspected, Aerion had chosen his outfit to match the car. Duncan's mouth went dry, and his cock twitched at the worst possible moment when Aerion stood before him in short leather shorts that barely covered his ass and a dark, sheer shirt through which his pink nipples were all too visible.
But a thought immediately crossed his mind—one he had absolutely no right to have: where was Aerion headed dressed like that? Or, worse, who was he going to see?
"Something's creaking way too loud when I accelerate," Aerion said instead of hello, plopping down on the couch. "Fix it, Duncan."
Duncan had no idea how Aerion knew his name, but he had no choice but to nod and get to work. There was a creak, all right, but it was so faint that Duncan needed a few extra minutes to figure out where it was coming from. Aerion would have to have really good hearing to pick up on something like that. It wasn't even a malfunction—just a minor adjustment—so Duncan was done in fifteen minutes, realizing that Aerion in those short shorts would be his go-to fantasy whenever he jerked off for the next… years.
"That fast?" A note of dissatisfaction crept into Aerion's voice. But he was in no hurry to get up; in fact, he sprawled across the couch, crossing one leg over the other.
"I just had to add a little oil and tighten a few things." Duncan shrugged, shivers running down his spine under those violet eyes. "It's unbelievable that you even heard that. You saved yourself from a big problem down the road."
"How much do I owe you?" Aerion's voice was almost a purr.
For a moment, Duncan wanted to let Aerion go just like that, without paying, purely for the slim chance of seeing him smile. But the shop's battered walls quickly brought him back down to earth—he couldn't afford that; every penny counted. So Duncan named his price after all.
"Oh, no," Aerion suddenly drawled, and—lo and behold—a small but unmistakable smile crept onto his face. "I don't think I have anything to pay you with…"
Duncan barely kept himself from glancing at the car, which cost more than he'd earn in his entire lifetime. Still, he understood that sometimes even rich people ended up in situations like this. Take his best friend Raymun, for example, who came from a fairly wealthy family but decided to go his own way, so his parents froze all his accounts. Yes, he'd had some temporary difficulties, but now he was happier than he'd ever been in all the time they'd known each other. Aerion was probably in a similar situation.
"But I can pay you back another way." Aerion sat up straighter and spread his legs so wide, so seductively, that it took all of Duncan's willpower to keep looking him in the eye.
"Another way?"
"With my body."
For a moment, an image from his dreams flashed before Duncan's eyes: Aerion naked on his bed, flushed from their kisses. But he immediately pushed it away, reminding himself that Aerion didn't mean that at all. It was just that they—the rich—sometimes didn't express their thoughts very logically.
"But the shop doesn't need a cleaner," Duncan replied. Because, really, the only thing Aerion's body could be used for—besides fucking him senseless—was cleaning. Duncan wouldn't let him anywhere near the other customers' cars. "So there's really no need…"
"Are you serious right now?" Aerion's face went stiff, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. The playful, relaxed air from a moment ago vanished; Duncan felt as if a real dragon were staring at him, ready to devour him.
"I already cleaned everything this morning!" he blurted in a panic.
Aerion froze.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked suddenly.
"N-no," Duncan stammered, thrown by the abrupt subject change.
"A girlfriend?"
"No!"
"Don't you find me sexy?"
"I do!" Duncan blurted out automatically and instantly turned bright red. He couldn't believe he'd said that, and he could believe even less that Aerion had asked.
"And you want me to clean up here?" It looked like real fire was about to shoot out of Aerion's mouth. "I, Aerion Targaryen, clean up here?"
"Y-yes?" Duncan wasn't sure of anything anymore. He didn't understand what was going on, but he knew something had gone wrong.
"Seven, just kill me," Aerion barked, getting up from the couch. He pulled out his phone, and literally a second later a payment notification chimed from Duncan's office.
"But you said you didn't have any money…"
"I found some, you stupid idiot!" Aerion yelled, storming past Duncan.
He got into his car, slamming the door much harder than necessary, and within seconds he was gone. Duncan watched him drive away, completely at a loss as to what he'd done wrong. But when he walked into the office, he saw that Aerion had left a tip big enough to cover a whole month of utilities. Duncan was, if that was even possible, even more baffled.
He went upstairs completely devastated. Before, he hadn't even hoped to see Aerion again; now that he knew for certain he never would, his heart was breaking. He replayed their conversation over and over but still couldn't figure out what he'd done to offend Aerion. After all, he'd pushed away every dirty thought, been understanding, and was even ready to let him go without paying—yet for some reason, that had infuriated Aerion.
Damn it.
Duncan had been lying awake for a long time when a sudden, loud, insistent knock sounded at the door of his small apartment. He sat up in surprise: the only person who might come by at this hour was Raymun, but he would have called first. Duncan didn't know who to expect, but it certainly wasn't an angry Aerion in clothes unusually simple for him—light-wash jeans and a black T-shirt, which suited him even better than his usual flashy outfits.
"So are you going to fuck me or not, you big oaf?" Aerion barked, his hungry gaze never leaving Duncan's body.
Duncan wanted to say something, but remembered just in time that he might blurt out something that would make Aerion run off again. So he kept his mouth shut, let his guest in, and yes, he fucked Aerion good on his old, creaky bed. At the time, he thought incredible luck had fallen from the sky. A one-time thing that would never happen again—which is why he didn't let Aerion out of bed until dawn, until he was covered in kisses and bite marks, his hole soft and well-used and dripping with Duncan's cum. But he couldn't just let Aerion leave like that: only after making sure he was cleaned up and fed did Duncan finally walk him to his car—that same red hybrid.
"I'd like to see you again," Duncan said, not expecting anything but unable to hold back, because this night had been the best of his life. "Please."
"Are you stupid?" Aerion started the engine, the marks from their night still visible on his neck. Before Duncan could feel disappointed, he added, "I'll be here at ten tonight."
At first, it was just wild sex. Then conversation got added to the mix, when they both lay there exhausted and satisfied. And soon they started spending time together just for the sake of it—watching movies or talking while Duncan cooked dinner for the two of them. Aerion had slipped into his life, coming and going as he pleased. And even though that wasn't enough for Duncan, he was grateful.
Aerion was his lucky star. Ever since he'd come into Duncan's life, everything had gotten better. And it wasn't just about having regular sex for the first time in his life, but also about things at the shop looking up. The number of customers was slowly growing, the average ticket was going up—and these were no longer just neighbors from Flea Bottom, but strangers driving very nice cars who, much to Duncan's delight, didn't take very good care of them. And although he put every penny back into the shop, a few days ago, for the first time in years, he'd started setting a little aside for himself. First and foremost, to buy a smartphone and follow Aerion on Instagram. Yes, it was pathetic, but Duncan couldn't help himself.
He really liked Aerion.
A lot.
Even though he's far above Duncan.
But one evening, Duncan's world was shaken a little, fortunately, in a good way. As often happened during a rush of customers, he'd stayed late. The radio was playing softly in the workshop, and Duncan immediately caught the loud, distant sound of an engine, which brought a smile to his face: he would have recognized that car with his eyes closed. It could only be one person, and Duncan was incredibly happy to see him—even a single day apart was enough to make Duncan miss him terribly.
Duncan stopped working, wiped his hands, and prepared to greet the love of his life, only to realize something was wrong. There was none of the smooth hum Aerion always slowed down with; instead, it sounded as if someone had shoved a stick into the engine and it was grinding away, punctuated by the loud squeal of the brakes.
"What the—" Duncan began as the car finally rolled up beside him.
But his jaw dropped when he saw that Aerion wasn't in the driver's seat. At first, Duncan didn't see anyone behind the wheel, but eventually, to his great surprise, he made out a huge bald head—the head of a boy barely peeking over the steering wheel.
Huge.
Bald.
Head.
What the hell was going on?
Finally, the car stopped with a terrifying, almost unnatural creak, and the engine let out one last sneeze that made Duncan's heart ache. He watched in shock as the door opened and a small, skinny boy climbed out—a kid in light-wash jeans and a blue T-shirt with some strange, square video game character on it.
"What the…"
"Hello!" The boy's voice was loud and terribly squeaky. "Is that you, sir? Duncan Pennytree? Sir!"
"That's me," Duncan said, finally recovering from the shock. "And you are…?"
"I'm Aegon Targaryen, sir," the boy introduced himself. "But you can call me Egg."
Duncan didn't know what surprised him more: the young Targaryen who had just driven up to his shop completely illegally, or the fact that the boy had introduced himself as Egg. What kind of nickname was "Egg" anyway?
"My older brother told me to come see you," the boy went on, pointing at the car. "He's… not doing well."
Duncan put two and two together in an instant. Aerion had mentioned his brothers, but never in any detail—he only ever called them "little rats." And if the boy was behind the wheel and his older brother was in bad shape, then…?
Duncan rushed to the car. He didn't know what state he'd find Aerion in—and froze when he realized Aerion wasn't in the car at all. Instead, a young man with tangled sandy hair and a greenish face was lying across the back seat. Duncan knew this Targaryen: a popular singer, a troubled kid with a drinking problem—Daeron Targaryen.
"Duncan, is that you…?" Daeron asked weakly.
Duncan looked in shock at Egg, standing a little way off and looking like he was about to burst into tears, then at Daeron, who, for some reason, recognized him and looked like he was about to throw up. Duncan had absolutely no idea what was going on, but he knew one thing: two people in front of him needed help. The questions could wait.
"Yes, it's me," Duncan said, helping Daeron to his feet. "It's okay, I'll help."
"My… boyfriend will be here soon to pick… us up," was the last thing Daeron said before passing out completely. This wasn't at all how Duncan had planned to spend his evening, but there was no time to complain.
He carried Daeron over to the customer couch. Daeron reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, so Duncan thoughtfully set a bucket nearby—just in case. As for Egg, who had finally calmed down, Duncan sat him on a tall stool beside him, handed him a mug of sweet tea, and let him watch while he worked on the car. Aerion wasn't picking up his phone, so Duncan had no choice but to wait—either for Daeron's boyfriend to show up or for Aerion to call back and, no doubt, give everyone, Duncan included, a piece of his mind.
"You're so big, sir!" Egg remarked. "And hairy!"
"Um… thanks?" Duncan chuckled without looking up from his work.
"Will I get that big, too?"
"Of course," Duncan lied without thinking twice, remembering how small Aerion looked next to him. If Egg really was his little brother, the kid didn't stand a chance. "And hairy, too."
"I already have one hair under my balls," Egg announced with the utmost seriousness.
"You don't tell strangers things like that," Duncan scolded him, though it didn't come out stern at all, because the kid had made him laugh.
"Right," Egg agreed easily. "But you're not a stranger, sir. Daeron saw you on Aerion's Instagram, so you're a friend."
Duncan tensed, but immediately decided the boy had gotten something mixed up. Just yesterday he'd borrowed Raymun's phone to read—with horror and jealousy—everything people were writing in Aerion's comments, and there had definitely been no mention of Duncan.
"I'm not on his Instagram," Duncan grumbled. He wished he were. He wanted the whole world to know that Aerion belonged to Duncan, and Duncan belonged to him.
"You are, I saw it," Egg insisted.
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are!"
"No, I'm not!" Duncan couldn't believe he was arguing with a little kid.
Egg snorted loudly and hopped off his stool. He ran over to Daeron, pulled the phone out of his brother's pocket, and with a practiced motion—clearly not his first time—held the screen up to his sleeping brother's face to unlock it.
"That's not very nice…" Duncan began, but fell silent when the boy handed him the phone.
A photo of Duncan was on it, taken in profile: he was chopping vegetables with a slight smile. Duncan even knew when it was taken—a few days ago, when Aerion came home from class completely wiped out, and Duncan cooked dinner while Aerion finished something on his laptop.
Duncan scrolled up to the profile page and saw that this wasn't the account with ten million followers at all, but a private one, with a three-headed dragon as the profile picture. Only a few dozen following and even fewer followers. And… the entire feed was filled with photos of Duncan—Duncan next to cars, Duncan in the kitchen, Duncan asleep in bed, Duncan out on the street. Almost all of them had clearly been taken on the sly, but that didn't make them any less beautiful.
"Is this another one of Aerion's accounts?" Duncan guessed, feeling his heart swell. Aerion liked him—he liked him so much!
"Yeah, it's for family, not for work," Egg explained, then shot a glance at Daeron, who already seemed a little better. "So… we can come to you with any problems."
Duncan might have felt sorry for the kid, but he couldn't stop scrolling. His photos had started appearing on the account two months ago, and the first one… The first one was a photo of a mug of tea, Aerion's lap, and Duncan himself in the background, bent over the familiar red hybrid.
Oh.
"So, are you and Aerion—Seven forgive me—dating?"
"Yes!" Duncan replied enthusiastically. "I mean… yes, we're dating!"
Duncan was determined: tonight he would finally get the confession he'd been longing for from Aerion.
"I feel for you." Egg didn't look happy at all. "You seem so nice, and Aerion…"
"He's really nice, too!" Duncan didn't let the kid finish. Sure, Aerion could be sharp-tongued at times, but Duncan saw his true character.
"No."
"Yes!"
"No."
"Yes!"
Duncan couldn't believe he was arguing with the kid again. Egg's face flushed, and he reached for the phone, as if he already regretted showing it to Duncan. But it was too late—the boy had just made Duncan the happiest man in the world.
"Mr. Pennytree?" A young man in an expensive black suit suddenly walked into the workshop. He had dark hair, and a single silver streak at the side gave him a strange air of power.
"Valarr, you found us!" Egg exclaimed happily, then turned to Duncan. "This is our cousin!"
Oh. Another Targaryen.
Valarr smiled warmly at Egg, then shook Duncan's hand as if they'd known each other for years.
"I'm glad you found my workshop," Duncan said.
"Well, sir, you're the first person Aerion has ever given native advertising to," Valarr said with a reserved smile, "so our family has known for a while who you are and where to find you."
But before Duncan could ask what the hell "native advertising" was, Valarr spotted Daeron and forgot everything else in the world. He rushed over to his cousin and dropped to his knees right on the dirty floor. He gently brushed the hair from Daeron's face and pressed his palm to his cheek. They must have been very close cousins.
"What happened?" Valarr glanced at Egg.
"Daeron picked me up from school, then we went to the pub…" the boy began, but fell silent and looked away. Everyone knew how that ended. "I didn't want my father to see him like that. And he said to go to Ser Duncan while you were busy."
Valarr exhaled heavily and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Thank you, Duncan," he said finally. "For taking them in."
Duncan shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, realizing he'd unwittingly stumbled into a family drama.
"It's fine." He waved it off. "Daeron said his boyfriend would come pick him up… but I'm sure his cousin will do just fine, too."
"He was right about everything." Valarr smiled almost imperceptibly, which thoroughly baffled Duncan. Then he looked him straight in the eye and said, in a strange tone that left Duncan unsure whether it was a threat or not, "Welcome to the family!"