The cold, dark wind whipped at his face and legs relentlessly, sending deep shivers throughout his body as he quickly trekked towards the castle. He knew something was missing after he left the council chamber, but in his distraction from thinking about Aryn, he hadn’t been able to place it until he had gotten back home. He just hoped no one had searched his satchel and perused his sketchbook.

  After a brief introduction and explanation (thankfully they had recognized him), the guards at the main door let him in. He hurried up to the third floor of the castle and pushed the heavy oak doors to the council chamber open, rushing towards the chair he typically sat in. A wave of relief washed over him as he spotted the simple brown bag beneath the table; he must have accidentally kicked it under when he’d stood. Gathering it up, he exited the large room in a far less panicked state.

  As he descended the stairs and began to make his way back to the entrance of the castle, a quiet but insistent urge pricked at the back of his mind.

  No. He needs his space. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.

  He would be lying though if he said it hadn’t been extremely difficult for him. His physical needs he could take care of on his own, but what ate at him was the distance he could sense growing between them. He knew there were things going on in Aryn’s head that he wasn’t telling him, things that were also wearing away at him. But whatever it was, especially regarding his newfound discomfort with intimacy, it pained him that Aryn was hesitant to divulge the truth to him.

  “Percy?”

  His head turned in the direction of a familiar voice to spot Philip making his way out of the throne room. He nodded at him in greeting, pressing his lips together in a tight, polite smile.

  “Evening, Philip. Sorry to show up unannounced. I forgot my bag,” he explained, gesturing to his satchel.

  “Oh, it’s no problem. I was actually hoping to see you again. Could you give this to Aryn? It’s a rundown of today’s events at the council meeting. Figured he’d want to know.”

  His brow furrowed in confusion as Philip handed him a letter with a simple seal. He took it from him hesitantly, a strange dread beginning to pit in his stomach.

  “Is he not in his room?” he questioned.

  It was now Philip’s turn to look puzzled. “I… don’t believe so. I knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer, so I figured he was with you.”

  Suddenly his heart dropped to his feet, and the prince’s expression quickly grew more troubled. Without another word, he rushed down the hallway towards Aryn’s quarters, fear gripping at his insides. He banged on the door with the side of his fist.

  “Aryn?” he called nervously.

  No answer.

  He tried the door handle, and to his relief it was unlocked. Without a second thought, he shoved it open and flung it closed behind him, glancing about the room wildly. He wasn’t in his bed, nor at his desk or by the fireplace. Had he slipped out, ran away to somewhere within the city? It wasn’t safe.

  “Aryn,” he called again before rounding the doorway to the washroom.

  His heart stopped beating.

  Icy blonde hair poked out from the lip of the tub, but he could smell it. The blood. He rushed around the side of the bath, unable to breathe.

  He lay in the tub completely naked, curled up into a ball as his fist loosely clutched a knife in its grasp. A small, thin pool of blood sat beneath him, and numerous long, horizontal cuts lined the inside of his thighs. His pale face was wet with tears as he stared back at him with the most devastating look in his eyes. But what stuck out to him in that moment was the deep red bruise that had taken over his right cheekbone.

  Aryn’s fair features contorted into an expression of absolute sorrow and, to his own confusion, what appeared to be mortification. But it didn’t take him long to put the pieces together.

  Me seeing this… This is his worst nightmare.

  His mind was racing a mile a minute as he tried to figure out what to do, where to start. Eventually he kneeled next to the tub and slowly, ever so carefully, reached a hand out.

  “Aryn… I promise everything will be okay. But I need you to give me the knife.”

  His fragile body shuddered with a defeated sob, but to his immense relief, Aryn slowly presented the knife to him with a trembling hand. He gently peeled his bloodied fingers off the handle before setting the weapon to the side, his green eyes now traveling downward to urgently assess what damage had been done. It was hard to tell underneath all of the dried blood, but thankfully none of the cuts looked deep. And they didn’t appear to be actively bleeding any longer. Very briefly, he allowed a small sense of comfort to wash over him.

  “Percy? What’s going on?”

  Philip’s voice suddenly called from inside the bedroom. The terror that entered Aryn’s eyes was enough to make him shoot to his feet from the washroom floor and clumsily rush out into the main chambers. He saw Philip standing by the door, starting to make his way inside, and immediately blocked his path. The crown prince stared at him in fearful confusion, straining his neck to catch a glimpse at where Percy had just hurried out from.

  “Is he in there? Aryn,” he called, shouting past Percy’s shoulder.

  Without thinking, he put his hands on Philip’s shoulders and forced him out of the room, swiftly shutting the door behind them.

  “Who the fuck do you–”

  “Philip, please, I need you to listen to me,” he begged, his voice hushed and low. “He is okay, but I am telling you he would be irreparably devastated if you walked in there right now. Do you trust me?”

  A painfully long silence ensued, maybe not quite as long as he believed, but the look Philip was giving him made it seem like decades.

  “Fine.”

  He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “I need you to get some linen cloth and ointment from the maester’s quarters. If Byron asks, I’m sure you can come up with something. And also hot water for a bath, if you could ask the servants for some as soon as possible.”

  He could see the conflict dancing on the surface of Philip’s sharp, handsome face. The man was not used to being told what to do, let alone by a commoner. If this were any other person of nobility, they would spit on him and laugh in his face. Or worse, throw him in a stockade. But in their brief time together, he knew Philip was not any other nobleman.

  “Alright, I’ll go ask for the water first then. But only if you swear to me that my brother is okay. Elsewise you will not stop me from opening this door again.”

  There it was. It was subtle, but as they stared at each other, he spotted the shift in his rich brown eyes. Aryn hadn’t shared much about the details of their relationship, or what exactly they had been through together, but now he knew. He could see that cold, desperate fear that Philip tried so hard to keep buried, a type of fear that only came from seeing its nightmare so close to fruition, so capable of being real. But if there was one good thing that that fear told him, it was he now knew Philip truly loved Aryn.

  “I swear on my life.”

  With only a nod, Philip turned and hurried down the corridor towards the servants’ quarters.

  A heavy silence settled over him for a moment as he reached for the door handle. He didn’t know how he was going to fix this. But all that mattered right now was making sure Aryn was okay. They could talk about it later, or not at all; he didn’t care. He just wanted him to be all right, to feel safe and cared for. With a shaky, steadying breath, he pushed the door open once more. Upon entering the washroom, he saw that Aryn had sunk farther into the tub, holding his face in his hands. His heart sank as he spotted a light red welt beginning to form on the outside of his leg, an injury that had not been there a moment ago. Slowly, he made his way to the side of the tub so as to look upon Aryn’s face, kneeling once more.

  “Philip’s going to get water for the bath so we can clean you up. He doesn’t know what happened, I promise.”

  No response. That was when he noticed how Aryn was subtly writhing around in the tub, not quite in pain but… he truly didn’t understand what was happening. This was completely out of his depth.

  “My love… can you look at me, please? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  His body shuddered again.

  “I can’t,” he finally whimpered, his hands tightening their contact with his face as the writhing intensified.

  “Why can’t you?” he murmured gently. “Aryn, I already told you, there is nothing you could do that would scare me away.”

  “It should…”

  The back of his neck grew hot with anger.

  “No, it shouldn’t. I mean, for the love of Christ, you saw what I did to that man and you didn’t run away. Aryn look at me.”

  Ever so slowly, he finally withdrew his hands. His blue eyes were dull and bloodshot, his face pale and flushed all at once, and that bruise…

  “I love you, more than my words could ever express. Remember when I told you that if I were so bothered by the things that haunt you, I wouldn’t be here? I’m here. And I’m not leaving. Ever.”

  If he had tears left to cry, they would have slipped out of his eyes. But instead Aryn’s face twisted up again with heartbreak, and he turned his head away.

  A quiet knock at the door was his saving grace, and he stood quickly and made his way out of the washroom. He found four buckets of steaming water sitting in front of the door without an owner. It seemed Philip had been thoughtful enough to ask the servants to use discretion. Gripping the handles, he hoisted two of them up and carried them carefully into the washroom, then went back and did the same with the remaining. Opening the linen cabinet, he fetched a thick washcloth and dipped it into one of the buckets, moving to wipe the blood from Aryn’s legs.

  Trembling fingers grasped his wrist with a surprising amount of strength, stopping him in his tracks.

  “Please, just… let me do it,” he murmured quietly.

  Pausing, he slowly lowered the washrag before letting Aryn take it from him. Instead, he dragged one of the buckets over to the side of the tub.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom when you’re done so we can wrap them up, okay?”

  Aryn nodded numbly, no longer looking in his direction, as he began slowly wiping at his thigh, his blue eyes becoming severely more distant. As hard as he tried to fight it, his heart continued to crack, and he quickly snatched up the knife on the floor before departing from the washroom.

  A few minutes went by as he anxiously waited in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, his knee bouncing up and down rapidly, before another knock sounded on the door. He shot up from the chair and yanked it open to reveal Philip, who held in his arm a thick wrap of linens and a small jar. Sighing heavily, he took the items from the prince.

  “How’s he doing?” Philip asked quietly.

  He wanted to lie, to tell him Aryn was fine. Physically, it wasn’t entirely false. But mentally, emotionally…

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  His dark curls bounced slightly as he shook his head. “I’m trying my best but… it’s like he’s been completely shattered. I think… I think your father struck him.”

  Philip’s warm brown eyes quickly grew dark and cold. “I’m sorry what?”

  “There’s a deep bruise on his cheek,” he murmured, his voice low and hushed as he glanced down the hall briefly. “Now maybe he slipped in the tub but–”

  Suddenly the prince turned, prepared to bolt down the hallway. He snatched Philip’s arm.

  “Hey. The last thing that needs to happen right now is you confronting him and causing even more commotion. Save the matter for tomorrow.”

  The prince’s eyes were still glued down the hallway.

  “Philip.”

  He sighed angrily. “When he wakes up in the morning, take him to the estate. I don’t want him anywhere near here when that happens.”

  “Done. Go find Oliver. You need to let off some steam.”

  Philip looked at him now with conflict written all over his face. His own expression quickly softened.

  “I’ve got him. I promise.”

  The crown prince took a deep breath before finally conceding and turning down the opposite hallway towards Oliver’s chambers.

  He quickly sequestered himself back in the armchair, picking up the book that had been left on the small table next to it. Flipping through the pages, a small, heartwarming smile slowly spread across his lips as he took in all the little notes Aryn had written in the margins. His attention was split between the novel and keenly listening to the sounds coming from within the washroom. Eventually the noises ceased, and he quickly stood from the armchair and went to the large dresser, fishing out some comfortable clothes for Aryn to wear.

  Eventually the door to the washroom opened, and the prince wandered out of it wrapped in a simple robe. His gaze was almost as distant as when he’d started to clean himself up, but at least he was no longer visibly trembling. Percy grabbed the jar of ointment from the table and placed a hand on the back of the armchair.

  “Come here,” he murmured gently.

  Aryn shuffled over and plopped down into the cushions heavily, not making eye contact. He kneeled on the rug and opened the jar, swiping a good amount of the ointment onto his thumb before hesitantly shifting Aryn’s robe out of the way. Watching the prince’s face carefully, he gently traced his finger along the first wound, immersing it in the healing ointment. The flesh beneath glistened with a dark pink hue, and Aryn tensed slightly as the balm seeped into the cut. With no blatant protest, he gently and methodically continued to cover the rest of them, being careful not to press hard.

  He almost fell backwards as suddenly Aryn shot to his feet, wrapping the robe tightly around himself, and began pacing the room. His face looked pained, uncomfortable, panicked even. He found his brow furrowing with concerned confusion as he stood from the floor, setting the ointment jar aside.

  “Aryn, what’s–”

  “Stop,” he shouted. “Just stop, it’s… it’s too much.”

  He froze in place, his green eyes glued to him with shock.

  “What is?” he asked almost in a whisper.

  Aryn whimpered in frustration and ran his hands through his hair so hard it was as if he were trying to pull it out.

  “Everything! I can’t do this right now,” he cried, tears cascading down his cheeks. “It’s just too much…”

  His feet pulled him towards where Aryn was pacing, and his hands came to grasp him by the arms as he guided them over towards the bed. He sat down on the edge while keeping the prince in front of him, sliding his hands to meet Aryn’s.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmured gently.

  He swallowed harshly and gasped for air, his face quickly growing wet as he couldn’t seem to stand still. It was just like the writhing he’d been doing in the tub.

  “I feel like I’m suffocating,” he whimpered breathily. “I feel like I’m trapped and I can’t breathe and I wanna crawl out of my own skin…”

  He could see the panic quickly welling up inside of him and stood from the bed, gently grasping his tear-stained face in his hands.

  “Then we’re gonna breathe, okay? Hey, look at me. Can you breathe with me?”

  Initiating, he took a slow, deep breath in, his thumb brushing the tears from Aryn’s cheek as he held the prince’s gaze. His thin frame shuddered as he attempted to draw a breath between his sobs, the effort shaky and jagged. But he was breathing. So he did it again, all the while keeping their eyes connected. Aryn’s breath was longer, more sustained, before he let it go in another sob. And again. This time the exhalation was unsteady, but there were no more cries to be heard. And once more. Finally, their breaths were similar, their chests moving in sync as Aryn wrapped his hands around Percy’s wrists and pressed their foreheads together.

  “Do you want to sit?” he whispered in suggestion.

  “No,” a chord of panic struck up in his fragile voice again. “No, I need to move…”

  “Okay… Then we’ll move,” he confirmed softly.

  Their bodies began shifting from side to side in a slow, rhythmic fashion. He kept his hands where they were, not wanting to change anything, to disturb anything. A few moments of silence passed as Aryn kept his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  His voice was so tentative, so tender that it didn’t even sound like himself for a moment. Aryn blew out a steadying breath between pursed lips.

  “I don’t know where to start…”

  “Well, what’s the first thing coming to your mind?”

  He gently brushed his thumb over Aryn’s left cheek, apprehensive about the right side. Judging by how potent the bruise was, he could only imagine how sensitive his cheekbone felt. He forced down the quiet anger that began to bubble up inside.

  “That I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

  His thumb halted as he drew his face back slightly to look upon him better.

  “Now why in the world would you think that?”

  “Because you’ve given me everything,” he said with a sharp sigh. “And all I’ve done is fuck up your life. You were hurt because of me. Nearly murdered because of me. You bloodied your hands for me… and all I’ve had to offer you is this.”

  “Aryn, I don't think you realize how extraordinary you are. You have the kindest soul of anyone I’ve ever met, you’re incredibly brilliant, and intuitive, and artistic… you have such a generous heart, and I know you don’t see it, but there are so many people around you who are thankful for you. Like all of the servants. Aryn they love you. They would do anything you ask, not because you’re their prince, but because they want to do it for you.

  “And in terms of what you have to offer me? I had no idea who I was before I met you. I worked, and worked, and slept, and did it all over again for years. Meeting you, I realized what I really wanted, what I was so desperately missing in my life. I love you endlessly, unfathomably, timelessly. I would not trade what we have for the world. I would climb mountains for you, swim across oceans for you, face entire armies for you, if it meant I could still get to love you. And I know you don’t see that in yourself, and you don’t believe me, but I will spend every moment that we’re together trying to convince you of it.”

  Tears now flowed freely from his deep blue eyes as his grip on his wrists tightened.

  “But I won’t even let you touch me right now,” he cried softly.

  A heat quickly rose on the back of his neck. He wasn’t angry at Aryn, only angry at the fact that he still felt so guilty about it.

  “So? Fuck that. I don’t care. All I care about is your welfare, your happiness. And I know you’ve been blaming yourself so harshly because it seems that I haven’t been affected by what happened. But we come from different worlds, different experiences. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had nightmares, haven’t been constantly looking over one shoulder some days. It’s been a week, Aryn. Give yourself some grace.”

  “But I miss you,” he whispered desperately. “I miss your hands and your lips, and the way you touch me, the way you love me… that’s why I’m so goddamn frustrated.”

  His green eyes began to sting as tears now threatened to spill from them. “I miss you too… But I’m not willing to hurt you, however accidental it may be.”

  “I want to try,” he insisted quietly, blue eyes shimmering with a newfound determination. “If we never try… then we can’t move past it.”

  An apprehensive longing stirred deep within his chest at the possibility. To even be able to hold him again, feel his skin again…

  “You tell me what you want,” he declared. “I’ll only do what you ask me to.”

  “My hair,” he stated. “Touch my hair.”

  Slowly, he slid his hand backwards from Aryn’s cheek, letting his fingers gently comb through the side of it. He quickly closed his blue eyes, a mild sense of discomfort dancing across his fair features. But he didn’t withdraw, so he continued to run his fingers through his icy blonde locks, now playing with the slightly longer strands on top.

  “You tell me when to stop,” he reaffirmed softly.

  His other hand remained cradling his porcelain face, but that changed as Aryn drew it downwards with his own and placed it on top of the opening in his robe, on his chest. Using only his fingertips, he carefully traced across his collarbone as he watched Aryn closely. He felt him stiffen up beneath his touch, but he continued to slowly glide his fingers over his skin. Eventually, that tension within his body eased up, and his blue eyes fluttered open to look at him.

  “You okay?” he whispered, the hand he had in Aryn’s hair halting.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered back, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

  For once, he hesitated. Aryn’s confidence seemed more like a stubborn defiance of his anxiety. But it was what he wanted. And they could always stop, whenever he needed to.

  Brushing his thumb along Aryn’s jaw, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together. The kiss was light, and brief. But after pulling back for a moment, they connected again. And so he slowly, gently peppered Aryn’s mouth with kisses. Nothing sustained, nothing expectant. Just one moment at a time.

  Hesitant hands toyed with the bottom of his shirt before eventually finding their way underneath, timidly exploring the landscape of his abdomen. It sent a wave of warmth down his spine. He had missed those hands, so desperately and terribly missed them. He wanted nothing more than to lay in bed and have those hands discover every inch of him.

  He found his hand traveling from Aryn’s hair down to his waist as, to his surprise, the prince connected their lips this time. As he tried to pull away, Aryn followed him, not allowing their mouths to separate, so he fully leaned into the kiss instead. Their lips now moved in tandem as Aryn slid his hands up to his chest beneath his shirt.

  “Percy…”

  He strained forward slightly as Aryn pulled away, desperate to hold on to the moment. But he looked into his blue eyes expectantly, wondering if something had happened.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you crying?”

  What?

  He reached up with one hand and quickly wiped at his face in confusion, pulling away with tears on his fingers. A sharp sigh escaped his chest as he shook his head.

  “I just… I just missed you.”

  Smaller, more delicate hands now reached up and held his face.

  “I’m right here. Maybe not fully here but… here enough,” he declared with a breathy laugh.

  He laughed back with a sniffle, fighting the urge to continue wiping at his face to erase the evidence. Instead he let Aryn embrace him. Now it was his turn to close his eyes.

  A soft, tender kiss was placed on his jaw. Then another on his neck.

  “I love you so much,” he whispered against his tan skin. “Thank you for taking care of me…”

  “Always,” he whispered in return, fighting back the emotion that threatened in his voice.

  “Can we lie down?”

  Reopening his eyes, he nodded with a soft smile and went to climb into the bed, but Aryn’s hand caught him by the arm.

  “You’re not sleeping in your day clothes. Take them off.”

  He raised a cautious eyebrow at the prince. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want to feel you again,” he murmured quietly, his tone resolute.

  Conceding, he stripped down to his undergarments and jumped into the bed, flinging open the large fur blanket as an invitation.

  “Well come here then,” he goaded playfully, a cheeky smile spreading across his lips.

  Aryn shyly smiled back before crawling into bed, settling in next to him with his head on his broad shoulder. Beneath the blanket, his slender fingers traced all over his muscular torso, rediscovering and noting all of the little scars or prominent freckles that dotted his tanned skin. The quiet crackling of the dying fire filled the space with a constant comforting noise.

  “Shit, we didn’t wrap you up,” he murmured, remembering the linen bandages that sat on the table.

  “It’s okay, it would just chafe them anyway. Best to let it breathe. Trust me,” Aryn explained quietly, his voice becoming more distant and reserved.

  He found his hand migrating back to Aryn’s hair, gently combing through the ashen locks.

  “Last time we slept together in this castle, it was a very different situation.”

  “Mm, kind of. I was going mental both times so not too different,” he jested dryly.

  “Stop it,” he warned before placing a kiss on top of his head. “You really need to be nicer to yourself.”

  “I used to be a lot meaner before you came along,” Aryn pointed out. “I guess you’ve softened me up.”

  He chuckled softly and shook his head, a warm smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

  “Well we’ll have to keep working on that then. But for now, you should get some rest,” he stated, tilting his chin down to look upon the prince. “I’m whisking you away to the estate in the morning per your brother’s request.”

  Blue eyes looked up at him, puzzled. “Not that I’m complaining, but why?”

  “Because he’s planning on having a conversation with your father about… what happened between you two tonight,” he explained apprehensively.

  The look on his fair face shifted as he now glanced away. “It’s better just to leave it alone… Philip doesn’t need to get in trouble for me.”

  “I know, but he wants to. Let him stick up for you for once.”

  The idea made Aryn pause, and after a moment he burrowed deeper into his shoulder.

  “Well it’s his funeral. I’m too exhausted to care about that right now,” he resigned, a yawn overtaking his features.

  Giving in to the sudden urge, he tilted Aryn’s chin up with his fingers. Blue eyes met with green before he leaned down and pressed a final kiss to his lips.

  “Goodnight, my love.”

  A soft pink rose on Aryn’s cheeks as a warm, timid smile spread across his face.

  “Goodnight, Percy.”

  There were a million things that he could have thought about just from today that would have kept him awake all night. But the one thing that his mind kept settling on was that Aryn was in his arms again, safe and loved and cared for. And with that sentiment, he slept well for the first time in a week.