Chapter Text
Sex with Feyd is amazing. He's not the first man that Paul's slept with but he's definitely the most talented. Feyd knows all the right buttons to push, just how far to drag out teasing before tugging Paul over the edge easily. He does this thing with his tongue that Paul can never describe but is so undeniably filthy even thinking of it makes his cock stir with interest. There are some oddities of course, as with any partner. (One of Paul's previous partners, for example, refused to drink water. Ever.) While Feyd initiates often he rarely tops and only then if Paul explicitly asks. It's charming, especially since Paul has been told his slim appearance often makes him fuckable so having Feyd look at him with eyes full of desire and beg to be fucked is heady and addicting.
So he's surprised, shocked and honestly offended when Feyd's older brother approaches him with murder in his face. Admittedly, Glossu Rabban often seemed to have murder in his face. Resting murder-face. Feyd rarely spoke of his brother and when he did it was often derogatory, but the two had some kind of bond that Paul, only child until very recently, could not understand. Alia, also, is two and so hardly a person much less a sibling.
"You gotta stop." Glossu says by way of greeting. Paul raises an eyebrow. Unlike Feyd's rasping lilt Glossu's voice is heavy and slow.
"Stop what?" Paul has no idea what he's talking about.
"Having sex." Paul's face must have shown his bafflement because Glossu's murder face pinches into a tight frown. The brothers share certain looks, but most striking is their complete baldness — alopecia, Feyd had said, can be genetic. "He doesn't like it."
At that, Paul laughs. There's no way Feyd doesn't like it. Paul could in fact regale Glossu with exactly how it feels to hold Feyd's hardening cock in his hand, how his moans reverberate down his sternum, how Feyd pleads so sweetly for release.
"I'm sorry? Is this some kind of belated shovel talk?" In Glossu's defense, he had never given Paul the shovel talk, so maybe this was just brotherly duty kicking in late. Paul remembers when Feyd had tugged him before Glossu and just said — we're together, fucking — and then pulled Paul up to his bedroom.
"No." Glossu seems to be searching for the words before landing on. "Be gentle with him."
Paul thinks about Feyd who begs to be hit during sex. He loves Paul's hands around his throat, loves Paul's heel on his cock and balls and can come from being flogged alone. He has no idea what to say in response.
"I'm sorry?" Paul settles on asking again. Glossu's mouth is a hard line. He opens it to say something but it's at that moment that Feyd appears. He walks quickly, hurried, with an aggressive set to his jaw.
"Paul!" Feyd's smile is wide but his eyes are on Glossu. "Brother."
"Brother." Glossu greets. Feyd's eyes dart between Paul and Glossu. His smile strains. Paul feels like an outsider for the first time in a while. There has always been something so openly accepting from Feyd, like Paul has always belonged in his life.
"I'll have to borrow Paul," Feyd says and holds a hand out to Paul. His fingers twitch but when Paul takes his hand, Feyd's grip is steady. "Try not to bother us."
Technically, it's Glossu's house. At first Paul had been surprised to know that they shared a house, especially since he had almost never seen Glossu in the first few months of dating Feyd. But it turns out Glossu often traveled for work and the house is large enough — for some reason it is an eight bedroom house with two kitchens — that they could cohabitate and rarely see each other.
Feyd leads Paul to his bedroom, surprisingly Spartan as always but comfortable, and they fuck. Paul tries to not let himself be distracted by how good Feyd feels around him. He tries to sort through the soft whimpers and sultry pleads. When he comes and holds Feyd close and listens to Feyd get off twice more to Paul digging his nails into his skin he can't help but think of the perfectly stacked sheets and sorted laundry. There's fire down his spine and across the bottom of his feet and the warm sated pleasure from sex begins to mingle with a cold realization.
It's when Feyd presses his mouth to Paul's ear and says I love you like an armistice that Paul understands.
The Harkonnen temper runs in both of them. Glossu never ended up taking their uncle's last name but for Feyd it's the only last name he's ever known. Glossu grew up pounding his fists into other people as a way to vent and while Feyd doesn't share his tendencies for assault he does break things. The living room is in shambles when Glossu returns from his errands. Paul is probably long gone since Feyd rarely destroys things when the other boy is around, Glossu isn't sure if that's a pro or a con, he wonders how much Feyd doesn't show Paul out of fear and how much is out of a misguided desire to placate his boyfriend.
Feyd has thrown furniture, broken the lamps, several dishes are scattered across the floor, but Feyd himself is nowhere to be seen. Glossu takes the groceries into the kitchen and methodically puts them away. Bread. Eggs. Peanut butter. The dark chocolate covered graham crackers that Feyd likes. The shelf-stable cheap bagged cupcakes Glossu likes. Orange juice. Beer. Microwave burritos. Powdered coffee creamer. He had never gotten used to liquid creamers and Feyd drank his coffee black.
"What did you tell him." Feyd appears as Glossu is putting away the vegetables. He doesn't look upset which is never a good sign. "What did you tell Paul?" He's hissing too, a feral sound that they both know Feyd worked so hard to iron out of his voice over the years. They're respectable people now, Glossu Rabban and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. They've worked so hard to bleed the poison of their family out.
"I told him to be careful."
"Careful!? Careful with what."
Feyd picks up one of the coffee mugs they leave on the counter. His grip is white knuckled and Glossu expects the sound of ceramic shattering on the floor.
"You."
Feyd throws the mug at him instead of at the floor. It hits Glossu's shoulder and he doesn't bother to catch it. Only the handle breaks off as it thuds onto the hardwood.
"You're ten years too late." Feyd snaps. It's meant to hurt. It's meant to remind Glossu that he could have been there for Feyd when they were younger had his temper not sent him to prison. And it does hurt to know that Feyd had gone to live with their uncle because Glossu couldn't control himself.
But Glossu learned a lot of things in prison. And one of them was that amends can be made even if it's too late. Small shards of redemption are still worth it.
"I know." He says. Feyd slams his hand into the cabinet door. The wood buckles.
"So stay the fuck out of my life."
Glossu opens his mouth to say something but he has to revise his words. He swallows any explanations, partially for Feyd because his brother never likes to talk about it but also partly for himself; he still mourns the child he only met once, ugly pink thing held in his mother's arms.
"Get that stupid look off of your face." Feyd punches the cabinet again, his fist goes through the wood. He shuts his eyes, mouth quivering and for a horrifying moment Glossu thinks that Feyd might cry. Neither of them could take it if Feyd cried right now.
". . . coffee?" Glossu asks instead, finally finding something to say. Feyd laughs, rasping and wheezing and sounding far too much like their uncle had before he died on his respirators and oxygen.
"Yeah." Feyd pulls his hand out of the chipped wood. "Make me a cup. I'm going to clean up the living room."
It's a habit for Feyd to clean up his own messes. No one else would, after all. Glossu puts some water in a pot and cranks the stove up to high. Two mugs. Glossu puts creamer and Sweet'N Low in his, nothing but the freeze dried instant coffee grounds for Feyd. He picks up the broken mug handle and wrenches the cabinet door off. He'll get a replacement later this week.
"When are we ever going to get real coffee?" Feyd asks when Glossu brings him his cup. The living room is less destroyed, but all of the debris has been pushed to the side rather than taken to the curb.
"When you buy it."
"This tastes like ass."
"Yeah."
Leto has always been Paul's anchor. When Paul skipped his first class in high school he had called his father from the parking lot, guilty but also needing advice. Leto hadn't yelled or interrupted Paul's anxious babbling. Instead he had simply listened and asked if Paul needed a ride home. It's with that understanding and patience that Paul hopes his father can give him again.
"Hey dad."
Leto looks picturesque, sitting at the large oak desk in his study. He has his readers on, finger poised above the tablet he's reading.
"Paul. Staying for dinner, I hope?" Leto immediately puts the tablet down. Paul feels warm and safe, even though he moved out years ago nothing feels like home like being with his father.
"Yes, but I was hoping we could talk before then." Paul seats himself opposite his father. He remembers climbing on this same chair as a little boy, playing with the dictaphone his father used for work and pretending he was also one of his father's clients.
"Speak freely." Leto smiles.
". . . it's about Feyd." Part of Leto's smile wanes, a little. Neither of Paul's parents had warmed to Feyd, both suspicious of Paul's boyfriend. He can't blame them, Paul's previous partners had all been straight A students, scholarship peers, well-dressed-church-going beautiful men or women. Feyd breaks the mold, having been in juvenile detention for property destruction, wearing leather jackets and steel-toed boots, shaved head and a honestly terribly rude way of speaking. But Leto had been supportive nonetheless and while Jessica had been passive aggressive towards Feyd she had never forbidden them from seeing each other.
"What about him?" Leto carefully puts the tablet down on his desk.
"I think I messed up." Paul whispers. Leto stands and moves around the desk to sit in the chair next to Paul. He puts his hand on Paul's knee, heavy and comforting. "I don't think I've been good for him."
"Paul." Leto rubs a small circle into Paul's knee. "I don't know Feyd that well but even I can tell that you mean the world to him. Did something happen?"
Paul tries to find the words. It feels like a betrayal to tell his father what he suspects but he also doesn't know what to do. Leto waits patiently.
". . . I don't think he wants me the same way I want him — but not, not in a bad way." Paul hurries when he sees his father's face grow stony. "I think he's been. . . having sex with me out of obligation, not because he wants to."
Leto's mouth twitches downward. "Oh, Paul."
"His brother warned me and he didn't say what it was but when I started thinking about it. . ." Paul can hear his voice edging into hysteria. Some of it, he knows, is selfishness. He doesn't want to be wrong, he doesn't want the idyllic relationship he's had with Feyd — Feyd is a passing dream in so many ways — to have been a lie. He doesn't want to be the bad guy in this situation.
The fact that he even thinks of it like that — more concerned about what this could mean for him than what it means for Feyd — sits like a rock in his gut. Paul doesn't want this to be about him but there's no way for him to untangle it either.
Paul has always wanted to be good. His father is one of the best men he's ever met, ever heard of, even. If there's something Paul can do to be better, he wants to do it. His friends have joked that he has a savior complex, which he thoroughly disagrees with, he simply wants to become even half the man his father is.
"You didn't know. You don't know." Leto leans over and embraces him. "You can't beat yourself for something you think might have happened and something Feyd hasn't communicated to you."
"I don't want it to be true."
". . . is that why you're talking to me and not Feyd?" Leto is gentle but Paul knows what he means — he should be talking to Feyd. Instead he ran to his father for support.
"I don't know how to ask what I need to."
"You have to remember, Paul, even if you ask the right questions you might not get the answers that you want."
"I think it scares me."
"It probably does." Leto pulls back so he can look Paul in the face. He tips Paul's chin up a little, his smile is steadying. "But that's okay. Fear isn't bad, it's normal. We need to embrace our fear and learn how to live with it and make the choices we need to despite it."
"What if. . ."
"And remember, Paul, you can't save everyone and it isn't your responsibility to." Leto speaks to something Paul hasn't said, but they both understand and it makes his breath sour and his stomach ache.
Feyd makes Paul feel like he's the only person in the world. It's the same intensity he's seen Feyd destroy something — it isn't that Paul doesn't know Feyd's temper, it's that Feyd's temper is never directed towards him. But he saw it at the bank when he had kept Feyd company for the hour he stood in line to settle his uncle's account and when they finally got to the desk the pen Feyd needed to use to sign the release form was out of ink. He watched Feyd's face go blank, disinterested and he slammed the pen into the desk, point down, and it splintered up into his hand and left a crater in the corkwood. He's seen it in the way Feyd has thrown his own phone to the ground and watched it shatter.
And people confuse Feyd's temper with his passion. He's heard it from his mother, that Feyd's 'risk-seeking behaviour' is some terrible thing when combined with his 'wanton property destruction'. Objects don't mean anything to Feyd, is the thing. But people and experiences mean everything. Sometimes Paul thinks he must be the only person in the world who understands Feyd.
Sometimes, he thinks Feyd must be the only person who understands him. It's in the way Feyd sinks to his knees and looks at Paul with adoration. It's the way Feyd takes Paul's hand and holds it to his own throat, permission and pleading all at once. He hands Paul submission on a silver platter and Paul devours it.
No matter what Paul does, Feyd still looks at him the same way — with love. To Feyd, Paul is always good.
The fresh layer of pine needles is a sign that autumn is coming. His worn running shoes have no more tread and slip when he takes the corners of the forest trail too fast. He half-hopes that he'll fall. Feyd grew up racing through the woods, track had been an acceptable afterschool activity and the Harkonnen Birch Conservatory had over 20 miles of trail. He knows the paths better than he knows the layout of Glossu's house.
Feyd runs until his breath drags through his lungs like knives and he gets lightheaded. He no longer does any kind of track, no more marathons or sprinting competitions. He has no more need to have an excuse not to be home. But he has never rid himself of the need to escape his body, push to the point where pain is sublime and the world opens up in a colorless sky he can feel in his bones. It's like strangulation. It's like being hit until he bleeds. It's the degradation and disdain poured into his ears, grinding him down until there's nothing left. It feels so good to become nothing.
He lets himself sink to his knees, the rocks and broken sticks pleasantly rough on his bare knees. As he's done so many times, he tugs the elastic waist of his running shorts down, spits on his palm and imagines it's Paul's saliva that only barely slicks his fingers. His breath is still short from running, his chest still aches and his vision blurs. He squeezes too tightly, feels more pain than pleasure, makes a mess across the dirt and still isn't satisfied. He desperately tugs at his cock again, even though it's much too soon. He rubs his skin raw, not bothering to use his cum or more spit for half-hearted lubricant. Feyd imagines Paul laughing at him, teasing, loving, fond, you couldn't just wait for me? Desperate slut, calling him names just the way Feyd likes. He doesn't come again but it feels nice and numb, exhausting every last bit of himself — pain, pleasure, hands, lungs, cock, mind.
"You're just like your father sometimes." Paul's mother says fondly as she adjusts the collar of his jacket. He swats at her hands, gently, because he knows she'll fuss anyway. She's his mother after all.
"What makes you say that?" Paul asks, though he can't help but feel proud to hear it regardless.
"I can see it in the way you stand." She says softly. "We're both so proud of you."
Paul catches a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. He doesn't think he looks very much like his father. He has so much of his mother's delicate features and almost none of his father's noble gravitas. Jessica has a strange way of making him feel important and successful, strong and invincible. He doesn't know what he would do without his parents.
Feyd calls Paul.
"How are you doing?" There's always a way that Feyd talks to Paul, as though he's the only thing worth using words on.
"All right. I miss you." Paul replies. They saw each other two days ago.
Feyd laughs. Warm. Pleasing. "I miss you too. Do you want to meet up?"
Paul does. But instead he says, "Not now. I have work tomorrow." Which is true, but that's never stopped them before. While Paul may work in the office and Glossu's house is quite far from there they often rent a hotel room nearby.
Feyd is silent for a moment and when he speaks again his voice is low and rumbles with promise. "We can make it quick."
They've done that before too. In the car. In a dark corner. In the elevator of Paul's work place. Paul should say no. He's not ready to continue as they were and not ready to ask Feyd the questions he needs to. But he thinks about how he doesn't feel like himself, how he feels inadequate and how Feyd makes him feel like a good man.
"All right. Come over."
Paul is rewarded by Feyd's laugh again, but this one has an edge to it.