Chapter Text
His hands grab for the lining of his shorts, he wants to push up on his toes and take his lips against his own, but he is not quite sure that that is allowed. They’ve only just gotten there. In Aemond’s room, formerly Luke’s, the mattresses had been splayed out, with Helaena taking Lucerys’ bed. They’d agreed it was because she was the only girl, but everyone knew it was because she was the only choice that wouldn’t start a whole civil war between them.
Though Luke supposes that it doesn’t matter to him anymore, because he stands beneath the trees where they had their dinner only hours earlier. In front of him Aemond stands with a cigarette burning between his lips. Puffing smoke and looking down at him.
“I’m not going to beg,” Luke says.
“Then why are you here?” Aemond asks. A question that Luke doesn’t know how to answer. Because he is going to beg, at some point. He had many strengths, resilience not one of them. Luke wets his dry lips, runs his tongue across it quickly, teethes at the flaking skin. Aemond’s gaze is harsh, even if it always is. It is not a good idea, they both know. Years of resentment, hatred, just bubbling beneath the surface, always ready to blow. Luke can’t blame Aemond for that. He has never brought himself to apologize, and perhaps he never will.
In truth Luke, Lucerys doesn’t feel any remorse when he looks at the long healed over scar on his uncle’s face. In another world perhaps, perhaps there, his face remained unscathed by Luke’s blade, but in this world. In this time where they stood beneath the trees, the cicadas singing around them. The warmth of the night air surrounding them. In this world the scar was there, and that was just how it had to be. Apologies were neither necessary nor helpful in Luke’s mind.
“I still want it, properly,” Luke says. His uncle quirks and eyebrow, brings the cigarette to his lips and breathes in deeply. Simmers in his lungs before he releases it in Luke’s direction. Luke breathes in, and breathes out.
“Beg then, Lucerys.”
“Luke,” he corrects.
“Lucerys,” Aemond repeats, eye not leaving the dark-haired boy before him. It’ll end badly, he’ll cry his eyes out when the summer is over. When autumn comes and sweeps it all away. Summer is the shortest season. It is the worst season. The sun is too bright, the air is too hot. Luke can’t breathe properly and Aemond steals everything else that he tries to keep hidden. Sensitive, sweet boy. Luke is nothing else.
“Please,” he relents, tightening his grip on the hem of Aemond’s shorts, because he hadn’t removed his hands. It works, sort of. Aemond’s hand comes to his face, cupping the side of it. Rough thumb against Luke’s tanned skin.
“More,” Aemond demands.
“Please, please, just once and we don’t have to speak of it again,” Luke whispers, leaning upwards, lips so close to Aemond. So, close he can almost taste it. The cigarette and the wine. The rough thumb push against the corner of his mouth. The salt of his skin coating his lips, seeping through and into his mouth. His lips part, the sound of spit and lips and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He takes the digit without protest, eagerly. Sucking on it, pushing up against the other, chest against chest, hands on his hips. Nails sinking into pale skin which makes Aemond hiss. Not pull away though.
“Just once?” He asks, thrusting his thumb past Lukes’s teeth, up on his tongue. He raises his chin slightly, staring at the display before him through his lashes. Desperate, sweet, Luke never really lost his chubby cheeks, his edges so soft and inviting. Wolf in sheep’s clothing if Aemond ever saw one. His mouth warm, wet and so willing to take him in. Luke nods, slow and careful as to not bury his teeth into Aemond’s thumb, slowly moving back and forth on the digit. Closing his eyes as he does, taking it all in like a good boy and Aemond’s lips part with delight, eye focused on solely on Luke.
A little whore. How many others had been before him, he thinks to himself. Luke doesn’t carry himself like a virgin and his mouth confirms it completely. How many others had he taken in his mouth? How many times had he dropped to his knees on uneven ground and drank it all up like a good little slut? The questions both aggravate him and makes him shiver. Luke isn’t one for ‘just once’. Though Aemond has more self-control than that.
“Fine, once,” Aemond says, pulling his thumb from the other’s wet mouth with an indigent pop.
--
The morning sun rises slowly, but Aemond is already out of bed. The rest of them still asleep on their mattresses as he leaves. Stepping carefully, mostly for Helaena’s sake. The floorboards creak, and he supposes it is because there are several people adding to the pressure. He steps over Joffrey and to the small spot where his and Daeron’s mattresses don’t meet. Like a twisted game of hopscotch. He does consider stepping on Aegon’s mattress just for the hell of it. He decides against it though.
Aemond grabs his shirt and shorts from the broken wooden chair in the corner, perfectly placed by himself for this very moment. Then he slips into the bathroom. Though doesn’t run the water too long. Brushes his hair and places his eyepatch on. More for the others than for himself.
On the patio, breakfast is already set, and Rhaenyra is whirling around the kitchen, messily pressing oranges into a pitcher which is only about half a glass full. Something is burning on the stove, and Aemond can’t remember a time where his sister has looked less put together.
“Do you need any help?”
Rhaenyra’s head whips up to look at him, her pale hair, frizzy and tussled out of its braids. She looks, soft, somehow. His oldest sister has always seemed cold to him, calculated in her words, in her movements, decisions. Now she looks almost human, out of her element, eyes wide open, searching for something on his face as if he has called her something horrible.
“No…” Her refusal is confused in itself, staring at him.
“No?” He can imagine himself looking at her, furrowed eyebrows. For once they see each other as they are perhaps, not just the other. Rhaenyra as his half-sister, unknown to him and yet familiar.
“No, sorry, I’m just tired Aemond, but I got this,” Somethings don’t change though, and that Aemond doesn’t mind. One step at a time, he supposes. She hasn’t got it though, whatever that is, because whatever she is cooking on the stove is burning. He leaves it be for now, no use getting into some fight when he only has a couple of hours left. Instead, he moves out towards the patio. Daemon with his newspaper and coffee cup which steam is swirling above it, sat in his usual spot. Routine. Aemond pulls one of the chairs out, not leaving that buffer as he had left those first days.
“Morning,” Aemond greets, the nervousness still marinates in his stomach, and he fears he is wide eyed, but once again he reminds himself, one step at a time. The newspaper flutters, violet eyes look at him for a second and then the newspaper flutters again.
“Morning,” Daemon says, and it sounds like a sort of agreement. It is morning indeed, no one else is awake, and he supposes Daemon is only awake because his wife is. “You’re the only one awake?” he asks. Aemond nods and takes the coffee pot in his hand, pouring himself a cup. His hands don’t shake anymore. Daemon sighs in the chair besides him, shifting as he leans back, his body so open, unprotected. They can hear Rhaenyra swear in the kitchen.
“I looked at your painting,”
The words make Aemond’s stomach twist, his limbs tingle and head grow light. Transported back to school and awaiting judgement outside an office, exams, principal’s, detention. Every moment that has ever felt like life or death. Wrapped up in the neat package that is Daemon’s judgement. This man, who in truth has had so little to do with his life should not have so much power over his well-being. But he does and Aemond fears it is too late for him to change that.
Years of wanting approval, acknowledgement. Perhaps even to be like the man who sat before him at the head of the table. More than he had ever wished for his own father’s approval. More than any teacher. If he tears this apart now, then Aemond’s chances are slim.
The painting in question, a small seven by five canvas, slathered in mossy greens, greys, brows and black. A dark cavern and within it, glowing eyes, and the outline of the beast. Bigger than life despite the small surface it had been painted on.
Deamon knocks his cigarette pack on the edge of the table and pulls one out, places it between his lips with three fingers, staring at Aemond with squinted eyes, furrowed brows. Breathes the smoke deep within his lungs and releases.
“It’s good,” He concludes.
“Thanks,” Aemond nods and doesn’t allow himself to unravel. But Daemon has released his metaphorical grip on him, and he can finally breathe. For the first time since he arrived.
“You’ll come back next year?” Daemon asks.
“If you’ll have me,” That means more than what Aemond wants to admit. His eye follows as Daemon taps his cigarette against the porcelain ashtray that is placed besides him. The older man hums, purses his lips and shrugs.
“Ah, I’ll consider it,” he says and then laughs, which in turn makes Aemond smile and look down.
--
Helaena helps him pack up his stuff. The mattresses have all been carried away to the attic once more. His suitcase lays splayed open on the bed he has called his own for six weeks now. He’s not particularly looking forward to going back home. To what life truly is, having to hear his brothers argue across the dinner table once more. His father’s declining health. How he walks through their house in the middle of the night coughing and harking.
Helaena is folding his shirts. Badly at that, but he has no intention of correcting her and tell her how creased all of his clothes will be when they get home. A problem for future Aemond, like every problem is for future Aemond. He brushes her hair back and kisses her forehead, a silent thanks for her help. She hums like she always does, melodic and distant. Like she is never truly there. He loves her all the same. Out on the gravel in front of the house, Viserys is watching Aegon try to stack the backpacks and luggage. Commanding him and correcting him as Aegon is struggling to understand how to best solve the puzzle. Until Jace comes and fixes it for him. Another defeat for the eldest son of Viserys Targaryen.
“Have you talked to Luke?” Helaena asks, interrupting his concentration and dragging him back into the moment. He hasn’t, he doesn’t know what to say. They agreed on once, it should stay once.
“What should I talk to Luke about?” He asks, but his sister doesn’t answer. She knows too much to keep it hidden within her head. With little attention afforded to her she has a keen eye; she has the time to observe. Not driven by hedonism like Aegon, who doesn’t know what is going on around him most of the time. Nor is she fueled by rage and resentment like Aemond often finds he is, one-track minded until it is not anymore. So, she knows, she always knows. Instead of saying something he grunts and closes his suitcase and taking her backpack, slinging it over his shoulders.
When they come downstairs, Luke and Joffrey are saying goodbye to Viserys, laughing politely at one of his worse jokes. With decided steps Aemond places his suitcase on top of another and balances Helaena’s backpack on top of that again. Though brown eyes have found him, like they always do. They burn him softly. Gently as if they don’t mean to hurt him, but they still do. He shakes Daemon’s hand, accepts another tense hug from Rhaenyra. Give acknowledging nods to the two other Velaryon boys, before settling his gaze on Luke while his siblings and parents take over with their goodbyes.
Just once.
It rings in his head. The feeling of his hands grasping at Luke’s narrow hips, the summer air around them. Sweet moans that he would never hear again.
Just once.
“Luke,” he says finally.
“Uncle,” Luke responds. If he had been a better man he might have reached out, shown an ounce of affection. But he is not a better man. He is only him.
“I’ll see you next summer,” he concludes.
As the car leaves, the mirror treats him to the sight, he sees how the boy stands in the driveway. Shorts bunching on his thin body, t-shirt bellowing on him. He becomes smaller and smaller, and then they turn, and everything becomes trees and road and gravel.
Just once, he reminds himself.