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Gwayne was unfortunately the only person who could look good in an airport.
Criston watched him from the corner of his eyes, paving slowly back and forth as he listened on the phone. “It’s terrible weather. Can you book something, just to be sure? Yeah, it’s not clearing up anytime soon.”
A terrible pit opened up in his stomach. The idea of running into Gwayne in his grey suit with his finely patterned scarf while wearing a stained grey hoodie and sweatpants, greasy hair, purpling under his eyes, it nearly sent him into a spiral, his socks were mismatched, gods sake.
He was sweating, he realized. He should move further away, maybe pull up his hoodie so Gwayne didn't see him. His eyes flicked over to the policeman side-eyeing him and thought better of it. Even with a sevenpointed star resting on his chest, dressed in cotton pants and creased sneakers they saw him as a threat.
He desperately looked up at the brightly glowing sign, proclaiming cheerfully that because of dangerous weather conditions all upcoming flights have been delayed indefinitely. We appreciate your understanding and will inform you of further developments as soon as we can.
It had been two hours with no information, Criston almost regretted using his vacation days to visit his younger brother. But Vorian had threatened to come to him and cram his entire family in Criston’s one bedroom flat, stubbornly refusing to let him isolate himself completely. Ever since Criston had blown up his relationship with Gwayne he demanded they see each other at least twice a year, insisting he should spend time with his nieces before they grew up to be ‘too cool’ to hang out with him. He’d set his sight on winning the HYROX doubles together, never mind that his antidepressants made him lethargic or that Criston was in his early fourthies now-
“Criston?”
His self pity spiral screeched to a halt at the sound of that posh voice lilting his name.
“Criston is that you?” Reddish hair entered his vision - have been delayed indefinitely. We appreciate your understanding and will inform you of further -
“Are you having a stroke?”
Criston snapped his eyes down. Gwayne’s ethereal face was creased in worry, eyes round and wide. His hair was shorter now, trimmed neatly against his neck. He looked good, healthy, cheeks flushed pink even though his freckles had faded with winter. He was biting his lip nervously, Criston had always found it endearing when he did that, had thumbed it out from between his teeth, had kissed him, had teasingly bitten at his bottom lip instead.
“Criston?” he asked again. Criston, Criston, Criston! Had said it sweetly, furiously, warning him and greeting him and begging him and crying-
He had a different aftershave now, Criston thought dizzily, something fresh and expensive.
He flinched backwards as those long fingers tried to grab his elbow.
A wide eyed hurt look. “You look like you're going to faint.”
Criston looked down at the elegant hand still half raised in the air. Gwayne stuffed it in his pocket.
“I haven't seen you in so long.”
“What are you doing here?” Criston ground out.
Gwayne drew his head back an inch. “The same as you I imagine. Flying. Making an attempt to, anyway.”
Criston looked down. “Right.”
Gwayne crossed his arms over his chest. “How have you been?” After everything you did? Without me? Without anyone?
“Good.”
Gwayne nodded. “Yeah?” he asked doubtfully.
“Really,” Criston lied.
Gwayne shuffled his feet, when Criston managed to meet his eyes again his face was set in a wistful expression. “I’ve wondered about you. What you’ve been doing. Where you went.”
“Work, visited my brother, his family.”
“How are they?” Gwayne asked with genuine warmth. He was like that, interested in people, and welcoming to everyone he met.
“He’s good. So’s Leya. And the girls, of course. They're great.”
“That’s good.” Gwayne gripped his own bicep tightly. “I would it be weird if-”
“Attention please. We have just received the news that conditions will not change until the morning. All scheduled flights will be canceled. For further information please visit our website, further information will be provided in the mail.”
A chorus of groans rose up around them.
“Ah,” Gwayne said, remarkably chipper. “Well, there goes that.”
Criston sighed and cursed his luck.
“What are you going to do?”
Criston gave him an irked look and watched him bite back a smile. “Wait until everything is,” he gestured vaguely upwards, "resolved itself.”
“I booked a hotel last minute,” Gwayne shrugged, "it'll probably not be the most amazing room but it's something,” he offered tentatively.
Criston watched the throngs of people pushing to the exit. “Probably full already. I’ll just sleep on a bench.”
“For ten hours?”
Criston weighed being pitied by his ex against weathering suspicious looks and trying to sleep upright on a plastic chair for the next however many hours “I’m not letting you get me a hotel room.”
“We can share.”
“Gwayne,” he sighed.
“We’ve shared a bed before, Criston.” Gwayne’s eyes were very wide and very, very bright.
Criston sighed. “Okay.”
Gwayne’s grin was worth the ache.
Criston glared at the suspiciously fancy logo swirled behind the receptionist.
“It’s not so terrible,” Gwayne scolded typing away at his phone.
“I don't mean-” Criston cut himself off. “I’m grateful, truly.”
“It’s a hotel room, not a life debt,” Gwayne said dryly, accepting the key card with a gracious smile. Criston grabbed his luggage before he could and got a wink as answer. “My white knight.” Gwayne waved the key card. “Come on then.”
They walked side by side to the elevator. Criston wasn't sure what to say. You look amazing. I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.
“How’s Daeron?”
It was adorable how Gwayne lit up at the mere mention of the boy. “Good! Just talked to him. He’s starting his A-levels next year. Naturally, the whole family has an opinion on which subjects he should take.”
Criston frowned as Gwayne scanned the card and pushed the top button. “What does Ormund say?”
Gwayne sighed. “He thinks Biblical studies are imperative.” An eyeroll. “Like the poor thing isn't suffering through his sermons every holiday.”
“And Daeron?”
“Daeron is more enthused about equestrian dressage.” Gwayne smiled. “He could be selected for the Olympic team.”
His heart clenched tightly at the thought of the little boy he had adored now entering adulthood. Daeron had grown taller than Gwayne, towering over both his uncle and mother in every linkedin post Ormund created and Alicent reposted about winning chess tournaments or school awards.
“Congratulations.”
“He’s not made it yet.”
“He will."
Gwayne smiled broadly at him, eyes creasing and then lift opened and Criston quickly stepped out.
Gwayne looked around, slightly miffed. “It’s not bad.”
Criston took in the champagne, the jacuzzi and the large four poster bed. “Is this the Honeymoon suite?”
Gwayne shrugged one shoulder. “Only one they had left.” He looked up through his lashes. “It’s not a problem is it?”
“No, I’ll take the couch.”
Gwayne’s fingers curled over his shoulder. “Criston, the bed is big enough.”
It was his own loneliness, Gwayne’s sweet gaze on him, the knowledge that if he hadn't been an idiot they would have stayed together in a suite like this years ago, celebrating. Sharing champagne coated kisses in a rosepetal bed.
The desire of sliding in bed behind a freshly showered Gwayne and tucking his nose in his neck twisted in his stomach.
Gwayne shrugged his coat off, slinging his scarf over the back of a chair. “Or would your partner be upset?”
Criston blinked out of his daydream. “I don't have a partner.” Eyes trailing over the hollow of Gwayne’s throat cradled between his white collar before guiltily jerking up again.
“There’s no issue then,” Gwayne said cheerily. Immediately grabbing the champagne to scrutinize the label.
“Gwayne-”
“I’m not asking you to marry me again, I’m telling you we’re grown men and can share a bed.” Gwayne popped the bottle open with a twist of his wrist. “Champagne?”
Criston clenched his jaw and put away his luggage, as Gwayne poured two glasses, victorious.
Gwayne tipped their flutes together. “Cheers.” He drained the glass in one long swallow and Criston longingly watched his bobbing throat.
When Gwayne looked at him quizzically he took a sip.
“You're really high strung,” he noted, fair brow arching up.
Criston didn't say anything, watching Gwayne’s troubled blue eyes flit over his person in silence. Once, years ago, Gwayne would have drawn closer to kiss him, to coax him into a hot shower or a massage that ended in a long, hard bout of stress relief but now he only watched, scratching his forehead with an elegant ringfinger.
Gwayne sighed and sat down. “What have you been up to?”
“Work.” The Targaryen conglomerate had given him a glowing recommendation after his years as CSO there on the agreement that he left without a fuss and kept his mouth firmly shut about his relationship with Rhaenyra and the dubious parentage of her six children, half looking like her bodyguard, half like her uncle and none like her husband. Her dubious relationship with the new CSO, her dubious relationship with her uncle and his wife, and whatever she had going on with her stepmother.
He’d spent too many years silently watching the strange configuration of her, Harwin, Leanor, Daemon, Alicent and Laena for her to be comfortable with him staying so close.
He wouldn't have been surprised if his car had mysteriously blown up but maybe she had thought it overkill. Maybe Alicent had not wanted to hurt Gwayne by shooting the ex who’d so rudely left him through the head.
“Riveting,” Gwayne said dryly.
“I left the Targaryens and started working for the Martells. I wanted to be away from…” he waved his hand. “Moved to Sunspear.”
Trying to find some connection with his mother through time, trying to envision her as a girl strolling through the limestone, marmer and red clay streets in the sun. He hadn't found her and the Martells were not much better than the Targaryens when it came to their dealings. But his skin color did not stand out and people weren't surprised that he’d had boyfriends but more so that he’d had one at a time.
“I had three in college,” Qoren had told him once. “It is no problem here, Cole. Life is a feast that you have to eat with both hands.”
“I have two hands but only one cock, sir.”
The man had gestured. “What did I tell you? Three.”
He shook his head and looked back at Gwayne. “It’s a nice city.”
“You’ll have to show me around.” Gwayne took another sip. “Next year their contract with the Triarchy ends. The family wants the Martells to sign with us. Ormund thinks that because we specialize in logistics and not merely transport they might be tempted to switch over.”
Criston hummed and drank from his glass.
“Ormund told me to fuck Qoren Martell,” Gwayne sighed.
Criston choked. Dizzy from lack of oxygen and jealousy he wheezed out, “What?” as Gwayne pounded him on the back.
“‘Redheads must be a rarity down there, cousin, and you might as well make your sinful choices for the benefit of the family,’” Gwayne quoted in a lofty drawl. He cackled at Criston’s face. “What kind of wines does Qoren like?”
Criston scowled and Gwayne laughed harder.
“Don't be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he said too quickly.
Gwayne hummed dubiously but let it go. “Are you happy? In Sunspear?”
Criston looked down.
Gwayne bit his lip. “I am happy to see you again, Criston.”
“Me too.”
Gwayne seemed to loosen at those words, smiling brilliantly. “Mind if I use the bathroom first?”
“You're paying.”
Gwayne tossed his head. “Always do,” he sighed dramatically and Criston flicked foam at him for the lie. “I’ll be quick,” he promised as he rummaged through his suitcases.
Soon the sound of Gwayne’s humming drifted through the air. Leave it to Gwayne Hightower to sing in the shower after hours of delay in the world's drabbest airport.
If I’d just said yes I would hear this everyday.
As Criston rummaged through his toiletries he was hit with the ice cold realization that he hadn't brought any sleepwear. At his brother’s he always slept in the guestroom in the attic, all the heat in the house getting trapped right at the top, his underwear had been enough.
Criston ran a hand over his face in exhaustion. A t-shirt then. And his underwear. Gwayne had seen more of him, he reasoned, Gwayne had seen him suffering through food poisoning and still asked to marry him. It would be fine.
“Bathroom’s free.” Gwayne padded up to him. Clad in a silk taupe pajama set and matching wool slippers and Criston should have found it ridiculous but on Gwayne everything was charming.
He realized he’d been silently staring when Gwayne batted his eyelashes at him.
“Thanks.”
In the safety of the shower he took deep pulls of Gwayne’s bodywash and mentally noted down the brand.
He glared at himself in the mirror. You are two and forty.
His reflection took another spiteful sniff before letting go of the bottle. Carefully setting it back in the exact same place, like Gwayne would otherwise know and accuse him of being pathetic.
You are pathetic.
In the hotel room a dream was waiting for him.
Gwayne had slipped under the sheets, face dewy with product, glasses perched on top of his head as he waited for it to dry. He glanced up from typing on his phone and then immediately glanced down to Criston’s bare legs.
“Is this okay?” he asked quietly, fully prepared to sleep in jeans if Gwayne deemed it necessary.
Gwayne blinked at him. “You’ve fucked me on all fours.”
“Gwayne!”
Gwayne grinned. “Get in the bed.”
Criston did, stiffly laying down and covering himself up to the neck. Gwayne continued to hum absentmindedly.
“I’m just informing everyone. Daeron says hi. As does Aegon, don't know how he knows.” Gwayne frowned at his phone and. “And after this absorbs,” he pointed at his face with a flippant circle of his wrist, “I need to moisturize. It’ll be ten minutes tops. We can't all be naturally pretty.” He gave Criston a condemning look.
Criston turned his head towards him. “It’s my Dornish blood,” he said demurely. “It gives me incredible beauty at the cost of a fiery hot temper and a tendency towards underhandedness.”
“Don't brag.”
Seven years ago he’d been the one holding Gwayne’s glasses as Gwayne's thumbs flew away at the screen. Pointing out that research had shown a phone in bed lead to an average of half an hour less sleep and could significantly impact health in the long run and Gwayne would have said he’d heard that getting one's dick sucked actually improved sleep significantly so if Criston really wanted to put his money where his mouth wasn't he’d-
Criston shut his eyes. Listened to Gwayne as he put his phone down and his glasses in their case, the twisting of a cap and then the sound of Gwayne’s hands gliding over his face and neck.
Then silence. The shifting of sheets as his warm body drew closer.
“You really should be grateful you have such amazing skin.” Gwayne’s fingers were warm when he brushed them over his cheek, fingers still slightly moist with product. “You wash your face like you're a rabid raccoon and still it’s perfect.” Criston kept still and let Gwayne rub more cream or serum under his eyes and into his forehead. Gwayne was the one who knew everything about collagen and retinol, scouring Criston’s back for blackheads with a maniacal delight when he let him.
Criston had missed all of it, all of him. Even his sullen moods, stuck-upness and unfailable talent to find sore spots to dig his nails into with false politeness.
Criston wanted to tell him that he didn't have the energy to delve into skin products and vitamins, that food tasted like nothing now, that he couldn't get any joy from exercise anymore and not even Dorne’s mild, bright summers kept him from sliding lower and lower.
Criston had come to the painful conclusion that he was a creature of devotion, that he was never happy when he was alone, that he craved attachment to another person but wasn't any good at intimacy. That finally he’d found a person who didn't want to use him, discard him when they had gotten what they needed and he’d fled with his tail between his legs at the thought of it being forever.
The product had long been absorbed into his skin by now, but still Gwayne was rubbing slow circles between his eyes.
He could hear the smile in Gwayne’s voice. “Are you falling asleep?”
“No,” he grumbled. Gwayne snorted and made to pull away. Criston caught his wrist on reflex.
Once, he would have kissed it, rolled closer so Gwayne would massage his head or scratch his back. Now they both froze.
“Criston?”
He kissed it.
Gwayne’s pupils were so wide his eyes looked black.
Gwayne surged forward, suddenly feverish, both hands fisting into his hair, all the nonchalance and coy seduction disappearing immediately as he kissed him hard. Criston cupped his face to slow down his furious pace. Hand catching his hip, thumb pressing against the sharp bone there and urging him to straddle him properly.
“I’ve missed you so much, baby,” Gwayne whispered against his mouth.
Criston blinked quickly and kissed him again before he could see his eyes well up.
Gwayne’s hands scrabbled over his shoulders down his stomach and Criston had to catch his wrist to stop them from hooking into his underwear. “Too much?”
“Yeah,” Criston breathed.
Gwayne pressed a quick kiss against his mouth to reassure them. “That’s okay.” Kissed him again, slower this time, and Criston slid his hands over his back to keep him close. “That’s okay, love.”
Criston felt like he was on fire, he needed to taste Gwayne more than he needed air, his thirst unslakable, his loins fighting valiantly against the SSRI’s pumping through his system. Criston wasn't going to let go, never, he’d made his mistakes but he’d learned, he swore he’d learned and he would-
Gwayne pulled away with a gasp. Smiling when Criston tried to kiss him still, presenting his cheek for worship. “I missed you so, so much,” he said tenderly.
Criston felt his fingers tremble. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Don't be sorry, darling.” Gwayne kissed him again. Thumbs swiping under his eyes. “It’s okay. I have you now.”
They curled up together, Criston finding solace underneath Gwayne’s chin, silk cool against his cheek and the scent of birch in his nose. Gwayne’s nails scratched gently over his shoulders.
“If the deal with the Martells goes through I’d have to be in Sunspear regularly," Gwayne murmured. “And when Daeron starts university he won’t need me to be home so often.”
Criston held him tighter. “I want that.”
Gwayne smiled in his hair and kissed his crown.