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kinkfestTitle: A Smile for All Occasions
Author: Myaru
Rating: T
Warnings: plot? What?
Word count: 1790
Prompt: Fire Emblem 6, Percival/Mildain: over-protectiveness - I won’t break, I’m not made of china
Summary: n/a
A/N: n/a
.........................................................
It was somewhat before Yuletide and the round of parties Percival realized he was being observed in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was hardly above the eastern horizon and still hidden from the courtyard in which he ran drills. Torches were lit, the shadows were deep, black and brown blots of ink sinking between the stones, into the windows and doorways, turning gray and soft as day encroached. He heard his own breathing get progressively harder, faster, the song of his blade cutting the air, sometimes the snap of a dry leaf sliced clean in two when it drifted from the shedding branches of the trees lining his small, square space. Gravel crunched and scattered under his boots. Cool air became warm, then hot as summer. In his peripheral vision, he might see the flip of a cloak, just the edge, decorated with gold or embroidery. Sometimes he imagined the scent of roses to accompany that glimpse.
Observation was well within his liege's rights. Percival said nothing, gave no sign he noticed. He never broke his rhythm. He lunged forward, silver sword arcing, shining, ending with its point aimed at the heart of an old tree trunk. It was all cast shadows, wider than two men of his size. The branches bowed low. His cloak hung on one, another shadow. A real practice yard would have no such thing, but this open area, at the center of the wing in which the royal family lived - the wing he devoted all of his energy protecting - it was meant for the use of the royal family, princes or kings who took up the sword for show or, in rare cases, out of love for the art of war. He'd heard it said a family's decline was demonstrated in lines of the hand or shoulders growing more slender, weak, sick.
He would not call Mildain weak, not by any stretch of words-- nor did he scorn the art of war, so much as bend it to his will as he did everything else. There were times he thought the prince would be better served with magic instead of music, perhaps, yet there was no use in wishing.
Percival lowered his blade. No one had ever disparaged Mildain's delicacy in his presence, but he saw the speculation in certain glances - the adviser, for instance, Roartz, whose serpentine gaze rested too often on his prince to mean well. Defenseless, those slants to his eyes said. Spoiled, unsuspecting.
He might be spoiled, but he wasn't defenseless. Simply-- terrible at hiding.
Percival turned to the shadows of the wide doorway to his liege's wing of the palace, saluted, and slid the blade into its scabbard. He heard a sigh, and then short, soft laugh.
"You were showing off."
"Only a little." He retrieved his cloak, carried it over his arm. The shadow of the doorway faded a bit when he stepped in, torchlight reflected by the gray of his tunic and the pale tan of his soft-skin boots and gloves. His prince coalesced like a ghost, pale, white, wrapped in two robes and his dark winter cloak. "Shall I escort you back?"
Mildain took his arm in reply. Lamps still burned in the corridors whose windows faced inward to courtyards like the one Percival practiced in before his turn at the prince's door officially began at the chime of seven. Guards decorated each corner, all men he knew by the crests on their scabbards and the weaknesses of their stance. Mildain clung hard to his wrist at first, walked close to him, despite the sweat cooling on Percival's brow and soaking his tunic, making it cling. The prince's nails were too white, almost gray; the skin was cold when he took hold of it. Three layers - silk robe, quilted red, the dark cloak, and still it seemed Mildain's frame was too delicate to withstand the weather. He reminded one of flowers - roses, his favorite, or slender lilies.
The prince tightened his hold on Percival's hand when they reached his door and he tried to step back. "I should be properly attired before I attend to you, your highness."
Mildain glanced at him, lifted an eyebrow. "People will talk, I suppose."
Yes, they probably would, but no one had ever accused Percival of assigning any importance to the rumors of court. "They talk the moment you change your breakfast routine." He looked down at his cloak, slung over an arm, at his boots, the dust. No doubt he carried with him what the prince called the stench of the battlefield. "The dust will bother you if I track it inside."
"I was fine downstairs." Mildain pushed the door open, his grip tight on Percival's wrist, pulling, and the light within gilded Mildain's sunshine hair, made it glow around the edges, haloed by flyaways and rogue curls. He turned, nudged the door closed with his foot. "If you're worried, leave it by the door." His gesture encompassed the cloak, his boots, and when Percival opened his mouth to say dirt gritted in several places where it shouldn't, he smiled and said, "All of it."
A moment spanning two breaths passed, and then Percival felt the heat creep from beneath his clothes, trying to reach his face. Mildain's eyes gleamed too brightly. Then he turned and flung his cloak over the trunk by the door, and walked toward the fireplace, shedding the quilted crimson robe, his slippers, tossing his dagger onto the crumpled folds of red and gold, so he might stretch his hands toward the flames. His skin blushed in their light, orange, red, pink along the edge of his shadows.
Percival stripped off his gloves, leaned his sword against the trunk, left his boots and cloak. He felt damp, but still too hot. "Has something come up?"
Mildain glanced up, then turned his gaze back to the flames. "Yes." His slim shoulders moved, a shrug. "Klein says the western families have thrown in with Roartz in all but name. I suppose you were right."
"Of course I was right." Percival ignored the prince's snort and joined him at the fire, standing back a step. "You have instructions?"
Again Mildain turned to him, picked at the laces at Percival's throat-- then laid his hand flat on his chest. "Even your clothes are cold," he said, a line appearing between his brows. He yanked at the laces. "How do you not notice?"
Percival looked down, about to mention the obvious, and Mildain blinded him with his own tunic, pulling it up, trying to push it over his head. Percival cursed, then bit it back, listened to the laughter that met the last strangled syllable, felt the hands on his damp linen undershirt, the nails scratching down, down. He yanked the tunic over his head. "Prince--"
Smiles were Mildain's forte; wide, genuine smiles for friends, half-smiles for inane conversation, just a lift to one side of his mouth; smiles that sneered, curling too much at the corners, his brows meeting at the middle in an expression that insisted he couldn't understand the stupidity inspiring his amusement. Now a slight smile, cat-like, this one only a slight curve to his lips, made fuller by firelight, eyes gleaming like jewels beneath lowered, golden lashes-- accompanied by slim fingers digging past Percival's waistband, pulling his linen up, sliding to count his ribs like two hot brands on the skin.
"My instructions," the prince said, his voice so faint beneath the pop of the fire it almost couldn't be heard, "involve your continued presence here." He often looked smaller this close - shorter, though they were nearly of a height, fragile in an embrace. His fingers played every ridge of muscle like his harp strings. "Since you're so paranoid."
A question.
Mildain looked up quickly when Percival took hold of his hand through the linen, a jerk of his chin, but it was only to pull, to secure his prince against his chest and keep his hands where they couldn't work any mischief. "Your father won't like the implication," he said. Mildain's blue eyes watched his lips, and his hands twisted in Percival's, plucked at the back of his shirt. He did smell like roses, and tea, and a little bit like crisp autumn air, tinged with woodsmoke. "Your opponents--"
"Can be damned," Mildain said, low, his breath hot on Percival's chin. "Even with the west, they don't have the influence to make my life difficult. My power isn't so easily broken." His fingers curled, his nails scratched the small of Percival's back, and he said, "For every eligible female you turn away, three more will be attracted by the possibility of catching you in my bed."
Percival rolled his eyes to the ceiling, clenching his fingers into Mildain's silk, and his prince laughed at the expression on his face, whatever it was. His skin still felt flushed. He caught at least as many glances as his master, stares hidden behind lace, which Percival would have likened to ravening dogs eyeing some form of meat, but he would be walking into another trap with the prince pressing against him like that, his thin robe hiding nothing of what he wanted. "I'm not a show horse." He forced the prince back a step, another step, holding him by the wrists, until his back hit the mauve plaster wall and his wrists after. "If they want a glimpse of my 'nicely chiseled ass' they'll have to sneak all the way through the barracks to find us-- and you'll have to lower yourself to linen, rather than silk."
Mildain trembled, and by the working of his mouth it must have been amusement. "I'm not so delicate as that." His hair glinted, the curls caught against the wall and tracing along his arms, taking on the rosy hue of the paint. "Not as long as we're indoors. I still have bruises from that out--" He went quiet for a kiss, and said, lids lowered when Percival tilted his head, "A wall?"
He raised his own eyebrow, twin to the prince's. "It's here."
"What did you compare yourself to?" Mildain rolled his head against the wall to bare a bit of his throat, almost drunken. "A show horse?"
Percival took the bait, employed his teeth, and put an end to that line of reasoning.
...........................................................
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runiclore.
.
Author: Myaru
Rating: T
Warnings: plot? What?
Word count: 1790
Prompt: Fire Emblem 6, Percival/Mildain: over-protectiveness - I won’t break, I’m not made of china
Summary: n/a
A/N: n/a
.........................................................
It was somewhat before Yuletide and the round of parties Percival realized he was being observed in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was hardly above the eastern horizon and still hidden from the courtyard in which he ran drills. Torches were lit, the shadows were deep, black and brown blots of ink sinking between the stones, into the windows and doorways, turning gray and soft as day encroached. He heard his own breathing get progressively harder, faster, the song of his blade cutting the air, sometimes the snap of a dry leaf sliced clean in two when it drifted from the shedding branches of the trees lining his small, square space. Gravel crunched and scattered under his boots. Cool air became warm, then hot as summer. In his peripheral vision, he might see the flip of a cloak, just the edge, decorated with gold or embroidery. Sometimes he imagined the scent of roses to accompany that glimpse.
Observation was well within his liege's rights. Percival said nothing, gave no sign he noticed. He never broke his rhythm. He lunged forward, silver sword arcing, shining, ending with its point aimed at the heart of an old tree trunk. It was all cast shadows, wider than two men of his size. The branches bowed low. His cloak hung on one, another shadow. A real practice yard would have no such thing, but this open area, at the center of the wing in which the royal family lived - the wing he devoted all of his energy protecting - it was meant for the use of the royal family, princes or kings who took up the sword for show or, in rare cases, out of love for the art of war. He'd heard it said a family's decline was demonstrated in lines of the hand or shoulders growing more slender, weak, sick.
He would not call Mildain weak, not by any stretch of words-- nor did he scorn the art of war, so much as bend it to his will as he did everything else. There were times he thought the prince would be better served with magic instead of music, perhaps, yet there was no use in wishing.
Percival lowered his blade. No one had ever disparaged Mildain's delicacy in his presence, but he saw the speculation in certain glances - the adviser, for instance, Roartz, whose serpentine gaze rested too often on his prince to mean well. Defenseless, those slants to his eyes said. Spoiled, unsuspecting.
He might be spoiled, but he wasn't defenseless. Simply-- terrible at hiding.
Percival turned to the shadows of the wide doorway to his liege's wing of the palace, saluted, and slid the blade into its scabbard. He heard a sigh, and then short, soft laugh.
"You were showing off."
"Only a little." He retrieved his cloak, carried it over his arm. The shadow of the doorway faded a bit when he stepped in, torchlight reflected by the gray of his tunic and the pale tan of his soft-skin boots and gloves. His prince coalesced like a ghost, pale, white, wrapped in two robes and his dark winter cloak. "Shall I escort you back?"
Mildain took his arm in reply. Lamps still burned in the corridors whose windows faced inward to courtyards like the one Percival practiced in before his turn at the prince's door officially began at the chime of seven. Guards decorated each corner, all men he knew by the crests on their scabbards and the weaknesses of their stance. Mildain clung hard to his wrist at first, walked close to him, despite the sweat cooling on Percival's brow and soaking his tunic, making it cling. The prince's nails were too white, almost gray; the skin was cold when he took hold of it. Three layers - silk robe, quilted red, the dark cloak, and still it seemed Mildain's frame was too delicate to withstand the weather. He reminded one of flowers - roses, his favorite, or slender lilies.
The prince tightened his hold on Percival's hand when they reached his door and he tried to step back. "I should be properly attired before I attend to you, your highness."
Mildain glanced at him, lifted an eyebrow. "People will talk, I suppose."
Yes, they probably would, but no one had ever accused Percival of assigning any importance to the rumors of court. "They talk the moment you change your breakfast routine." He looked down at his cloak, slung over an arm, at his boots, the dust. No doubt he carried with him what the prince called the stench of the battlefield. "The dust will bother you if I track it inside."
"I was fine downstairs." Mildain pushed the door open, his grip tight on Percival's wrist, pulling, and the light within gilded Mildain's sunshine hair, made it glow around the edges, haloed by flyaways and rogue curls. He turned, nudged the door closed with his foot. "If you're worried, leave it by the door." His gesture encompassed the cloak, his boots, and when Percival opened his mouth to say dirt gritted in several places where it shouldn't, he smiled and said, "All of it."
A moment spanning two breaths passed, and then Percival felt the heat creep from beneath his clothes, trying to reach his face. Mildain's eyes gleamed too brightly. Then he turned and flung his cloak over the trunk by the door, and walked toward the fireplace, shedding the quilted crimson robe, his slippers, tossing his dagger onto the crumpled folds of red and gold, so he might stretch his hands toward the flames. His skin blushed in their light, orange, red, pink along the edge of his shadows.
Percival stripped off his gloves, leaned his sword against the trunk, left his boots and cloak. He felt damp, but still too hot. "Has something come up?"
Mildain glanced up, then turned his gaze back to the flames. "Yes." His slim shoulders moved, a shrug. "Klein says the western families have thrown in with Roartz in all but name. I suppose you were right."
"Of course I was right." Percival ignored the prince's snort and joined him at the fire, standing back a step. "You have instructions?"
Again Mildain turned to him, picked at the laces at Percival's throat-- then laid his hand flat on his chest. "Even your clothes are cold," he said, a line appearing between his brows. He yanked at the laces. "How do you not notice?"
Percival looked down, about to mention the obvious, and Mildain blinded him with his own tunic, pulling it up, trying to push it over his head. Percival cursed, then bit it back, listened to the laughter that met the last strangled syllable, felt the hands on his damp linen undershirt, the nails scratching down, down. He yanked the tunic over his head. "Prince--"
Smiles were Mildain's forte; wide, genuine smiles for friends, half-smiles for inane conversation, just a lift to one side of his mouth; smiles that sneered, curling too much at the corners, his brows meeting at the middle in an expression that insisted he couldn't understand the stupidity inspiring his amusement. Now a slight smile, cat-like, this one only a slight curve to his lips, made fuller by firelight, eyes gleaming like jewels beneath lowered, golden lashes-- accompanied by slim fingers digging past Percival's waistband, pulling his linen up, sliding to count his ribs like two hot brands on the skin.
"My instructions," the prince said, his voice so faint beneath the pop of the fire it almost couldn't be heard, "involve your continued presence here." He often looked smaller this close - shorter, though they were nearly of a height, fragile in an embrace. His fingers played every ridge of muscle like his harp strings. "Since you're so paranoid."
A question.
Mildain looked up quickly when Percival took hold of his hand through the linen, a jerk of his chin, but it was only to pull, to secure his prince against his chest and keep his hands where they couldn't work any mischief. "Your father won't like the implication," he said. Mildain's blue eyes watched his lips, and his hands twisted in Percival's, plucked at the back of his shirt. He did smell like roses, and tea, and a little bit like crisp autumn air, tinged with woodsmoke. "Your opponents--"
"Can be damned," Mildain said, low, his breath hot on Percival's chin. "Even with the west, they don't have the influence to make my life difficult. My power isn't so easily broken." His fingers curled, his nails scratched the small of Percival's back, and he said, "For every eligible female you turn away, three more will be attracted by the possibility of catching you in my bed."
Percival rolled his eyes to the ceiling, clenching his fingers into Mildain's silk, and his prince laughed at the expression on his face, whatever it was. His skin still felt flushed. He caught at least as many glances as his master, stares hidden behind lace, which Percival would have likened to ravening dogs eyeing some form of meat, but he would be walking into another trap with the prince pressing against him like that, his thin robe hiding nothing of what he wanted. "I'm not a show horse." He forced the prince back a step, another step, holding him by the wrists, until his back hit the mauve plaster wall and his wrists after. "If they want a glimpse of my 'nicely chiseled ass' they'll have to sneak all the way through the barracks to find us-- and you'll have to lower yourself to linen, rather than silk."
Mildain trembled, and by the working of his mouth it must have been amusement. "I'm not so delicate as that." His hair glinted, the curls caught against the wall and tracing along his arms, taking on the rosy hue of the paint. "Not as long as we're indoors. I still have bruises from that out--" He went quiet for a kiss, and said, lids lowered when Percival tilted his head, "A wall?"
He raised his own eyebrow, twin to the prince's. "It's here."
"What did you compare yourself to?" Mildain rolled his head against the wall to bare a bit of his throat, almost drunken. "A show horse?"
Percival took the bait, employed his teeth, and put an end to that line of reasoning.
...........................................................
Cross-posted to
runiclore..
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