Chapter Text
I.
It’s a common misconception that the scars end at his jugular. One he has never sought to correct. The white lines are his like the heart under them. They glisten in the steam. Fractals on pearl-white skin, not unlike the marble veins under his palms.
The little bottle stands in solitude near the sink. Almost empty. A golden-leaved triumph of nostalgia. Aerion runs a hand through his damp hair. Reaches for his mother’s perfume. Closes his eyes. Past heaven, just under his jawline. On his wrists. Behind his ears. A few sprays. Decades reeling behind his eyes.
The routine’s no heartbreak. You spent a lifetime grieving. Keep swallowing. Until one day, the lump on your throat’s a speck of dust, and breathing’s easy.
Aerion puts the bottle of perfume back in its place. Stares at his reflection a little too long. He’s already late. But the dark circles under his eyes are new. The lines around his eyes scream exhaustion.
He dries himself to the sound of muffled music. Doesn’t hurry, even if the party’s already started downstairs. Grabs a three-piece suit from his closet. Cufflinks, too. The ones Baelor gave him for his twenty-first birthday. A tie. A pocket square. Noblesse oblige.
He buttons his shirt, staring out the window, where the snow falls under an absent circuit of stars. Wonders about the sacred silence. Thinks of a gunshot startling the white. The city gives him a raucous grin.
One last check in the mirror. A lost fight against wayward silver hair. Not that Maekar’s scolding will hurt. Aerion arrives in the living room half an hour late, his mother’s perfume in his wake.
He takes a moment to take in the sight. Suit-clad men gathered in front of the old fireplace, sartorial blessings for the modern man tired of the excesses of consumerist bad taste. Signet rings gleaming under chandelier light. Old-school hairstyles and crips white collars. Flowers on the lapels of some. Shoes shining on the Persian rugs. Amber winking in heavy lowball glasses. It’s too early for anyone to be slumping on the leather couches flanked by old wood.
If morals have aesthetic criteria, then they’re all saints.
God has had a hard time killing them all, so maybe that’s true.
_____
Aerion sees a man die the next day. Raises a brow at all the blood. Leaves the scene with a little red dot of blood on his cuff. Not their best work.
A cop gives him a nod at a stop sign. Aerion smiles back. In his sleek black sedan, tie seven pm loose, he could be one of those white-collar sheep.
The smell of Daeron’s cooking greets him at the doorstep.
_____
A petty treason. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes, and more coffins for the earth. Aerion has rubbed shoulders with mafiosi long enough to fear vendettas. It doesn’t come to this. Baelor works his magic, and young men keep their lives.
Aerion goes home wishing he could pack up the moon. Doesn’t sleep as much as he should. Tiptoes downstairs like a scared kid. Ends up cleaning his semi-automatic pistol under the old Lalique near the glass-to-ceiling window. The brushed steel gleams under the soothing light of his father’s gift.
_____
Do not hate your enemies, it will affect your judgement.
That one, thrashing and bloodied, Aerion hated. Cruelty wrapped up in privilege. Enough rapes to make him wish he’d tortured the fat pig.
Aerion puts a bullet in the man’s head with clenched teeth. Sees his own rage in his father’s eyes.
_____
Aerion’s salvation walks into his life on a fine December morning.
The restaurant’s packed with regulars brimming with early Christmas joy. The cold’s got the windows blurred at the corners and the cheeks reddened. Snow falls outside like the season’s a well-rehearsed children’s play and wonder’s an essential ingredient. Aerion has spent decades at this very table, surrounded by the heads of the mob and savouring the finest dishes in the city. He knows the faces of everyone. Shook hands with most, hand-kissed the knuckles of their wives. Ruffled the hair of their children.
The tall man who walks in, that giant- he clearly doesn’t want food. He looks around like a sailor lost at sea, snowflakes falling on his cheekbones as he blinks, hair sticking out of a well-worn beanie. A waitress gives him direction with a smile. Maekar nudges Aerion’s elbow.
The stranger’s gone as fast as he came. He leaves Aerion to nurse a glass of red wine, French, exquisite, expensive- It’s not strong enough.
He doesn’t remember half of the dinner’s conversation. Walks home in the cooling twilight, breath curling white before his eyes. Wonders if it was all a dream.
_____
He sees him again the next week. It’s a miracle. Or happenstance. Aerion never quite got to the point of believing, despite the rosary in the pocket of his jacket.
This giant of a man is sitting at the bar, cocktail in hand, dark blue suit fitting the place’s standard, hair silky under the low light, words mere whispers in the hushed atmosphere. He’s talking to someone Aerion doesn’t know, but then again, this is not a Targaryen establishment.
He almost forgets what he’s here for. Greets the man he’s set to meet with a perfunctory smile and a brisk nod. Downs a glass of whiskey too fast. Earns himself a few glares. He gets what he came for. Stays longer anyway. Watches.
Aerion doesn’t aim for discretion. Slumps a bit on the leather couch, crosses his legs, and toys with heavy glass in his hands as he watches.
Maybe the tall man at the bar’s got a lover at home. Maybe to touch him would be to die. He’s sin in a bottle. Aerion wants to pop it open. He just watches.
The man disappears when Aerion turns his attention to the waiter, wallet in hand.
_____
Aerion has learned where he fits in the food chain. He still reaches for things that should exceed his grasp. The scars he sees in the bathroom mirror the next morning don’t deter him from going to Aemon. His brother doesn’t ask questions. In twenty-four hours, Aerion’s got the name and address of the tall stranger that occupies every single one of his thoughts.
He says the name out loud, alone, sitting cross-legged on his bed, semi-automatic pistol abandoned amongst the white sheets.
"Duncan."
He imagines him naked in his arms, later, when the water of the bath is too hot and his cock weighs heavy on his white stomach. He imagines doing things to him so wild he wouldn’t know how to say them. He imagines that giant, head thrown back, eyes half-shut in pleasure, and comes in his fist with a whine.
_____
He doesn’t find the time. Works and works and works like the devil’s on his heels and the cold will strangle him if he doesn’t move faster. He owes it to his family. He owes it to Maekar and Baelor. To Aemon and Aegon and Daeron. To- all of them.
Even if they think him mad.
They wouldn’t understand-
The caffeine does nothing. He can’t find sleep. It doesn’t matter. He gets the work done.
He jerks off to the memory of a giant sitting at a muted bar on some exquisite corner of the city. Finds his every thought shadowed by questions about him.
Self-torture beyond belief.
_____
The cuts across his knuckles bleed slower than the car rolls over concrete. He will have to get rid of the silken pocket square wrapped around his hand. His suit’s no better. The fight erupted at the restaurant, of all places.
His profile’s a Pollock’s scare in the window where the night-cloaked city goes by too fast to please his eyes.
He pulls out his phone when the nausea hits. Goes to an instagram profile that’s got only one post for the world to see. The giant’s grin’s a shy thing. He looks like his fucking dream, with that white tee shirt, an old cap on-
Aerion pictures him in a thousand rooms. Imagines kissing him all the way to his bed, on his tiptoes, neck bent- The car pulls up to the curb in the downy peace of a bountiful winter day. He misses the drops of his own blood on the snow when he steps out of the car and the pocket square slides. He’s got eyes only for the house he grew up in.
Someone calls for him from the porch- Maekar. Aerion walks the few steps home, bruises blooming along his ribs.
He’ll see that giant again the next day, Gods help him.
_____
Dunk’s in love with life. It’s a one-way love affair. He’s got no money for it. Only a list of people he lost, and dreams he buried deep enough to forget the taste of their fantasy.
There’s a yellowing picture of the man who raised him on the kitchen cabinet. He still remembers the pillowy petals on his palms. Throwing the flowers where the casket touched the earth. They stand in a field, in the photo. Somewhere he’ll never set foot again.
He kept Rafe’s necklace. Never took it off, once he had put it on on some viciously warm July morning, preparing to bury her. She rests far from Arlan’s grave.
He’s wanted to get rid of the dog leash a hundred times. Stared at it like a fool. Almost threw it away. It remains on the little table near the door, worn and chewed on and so well loved- He adopted the puppy a few weeks after Rafe died. Watched it agonise on a veterinarian’s examination table three months later.
He didn’t cry at Raymun’s funeral. Only wondered whether he’d been marked for loss somewhere along the way.
Now his shoes squeak on a blanket of snow, and he’s certain he’d cry if someone kissed his temple. He doesn’t buy dinner that day. Loses track of time and his footsteps and ends up asking for direction at some restaurant where the food smells heavenly.
_____
The drink’s good, the place quiet. Rich-discreet, Chesterfield sofas and suits for the eye- a landmark of good taste, uncharted territory for him. Lyonel insisted. Said he wanted to try the place out before taking his date.
They talk about everything, except his future. Dunk twirls the whiskey in his glass and thinks about the diplomas in his desk drawer. It’s easy, in the low light, with alcohol coursing through his veins, to realise that he did it all for ghosts. His parents would be proud, but they’re dead, and there’s no happiness in the field.
Dunk acts like he’s not lost in life, and he’s got a plan, like every man in the room.
He tells Lyonel that he only knows that he wants to live. A tear slides down his friend’s cheek. They leave it at that. It’s monumental enough.
He sees him near the end. A silver-haired beauty in some corner of the bar.
Dunk dies on a cold December evening, an empty glass of whiskey in hand, a borrowed suit on his skin. He tries to leave before he can remember the man’s face. He fails.
He kneels in the shower, back home. Wonders if he’s gone insane. A larger-than-life gaze, it’s all he has. The man was wearing a suit which probably costs more than all of his closet. It’s a fever. He falls asleep wondering whether kissing him for hours would chase the man’s little frown away.
_____
He hadn’t planned on getting coffee. Hadn’t planned on working that day either, but he couldn’t say no. The text came at five am, when he lay insomniac in the confines of a cold bed, nursing a colder heart.
The little coffee shop warms him up from head to toe. Not just his body. He nudges a little Christmas decoration without meaning to. Gets some glitter on his arm. The barista beams at him like he’s bearing news of world peace.
"Your usual?" The man asks, already scribbling Dunk’s name on a paper cup, not that it’s needed.
Dunk nods, rubbing his gloveless hands together. He left in a hurry. Forgot his beanie too. And his scarf. God-
"I’m paying for your drink."
Dunk frowns. Turns. His wallet falls to the floor with a little thud. The man in front of him bends, grabs it with lithe fingers, and hands it over.
"My name’s Aerion." the man continues, unperturbed, paying for Dunk’s coffee in one smooth motion while his other hand stays extended.
Dunk’s fingers curl around his wallet. He remembers to breathe. That he can form letters on the tip of his tongue, too.
"Thank you…"
He doesn’t move. Finds himself cataloguing an infinity of angles. The man’s jaw. His recently broken nose. His tailored black coat, falling perfectly on his body. His busted knuckles and white scarf and the lapel of a suit jacket under the wool-
Those ethereal silver hair-
Aerion.
Dunk should already be outside, running to a workplace that sucks more of his soul every day. He eyes the door with a shiver. Turns back to the man’s blue eyes again, and wonders if they met on some past life plane where concrete didn’t exist and their love would have gotten them killed.
Aerion pulls off his scarf with that same little frown that haunted Dunk’s dreams. He steps closer without a word, so small beside him that he has to rise onto his tiptoes to reach. His fingers fumble once before he manages to loop the scarf twice around Dunk’s neck, the wool far too big for his hands. Then he drops back onto his heels and leaves without looking back.
Dunk startles at the door’s chime. Drowns in a woman’s perfume where he buries his nose in white wool.