Chapter Text
5 years later
A cannonball collides with his legs, nearly taking him down at the knees. Squealing and shrieking with laughter, grin turning wide and mischievous when she realises who she's run into.
Paul smiles down at the curls mess of brown hair and smeared chocolate that makes up his sister Alia.
He picks her up, throwing her over his shoulder and heads in the direction she came from, knowing a harassed and stressed-out master of assassins won't be far behind her.
“Did someone escape?" He acts shocked, aghast and wide eyed as she wriggles and kicks.
“No! Come on Paul! Don't take me back!”
“We all have to learn History. And if I help you skip another lesson it'll be both our heads.”
Twisting and wriggling in his grip, she's now heavy enough to make him wince every time her little foot collides into his chest, but small enough he knows if she gets the right angle, she'll be able to slip right through his arms and bolt.
“I don't wanna! It's boring!”
Thufir comes around the corner at a jog, out of breath and red faced. He sees them and relief sags his shoulders.
“I turned my back for two minutes and she was just gone.” He sighs heavily.
Depositing her back on the floor, Paul holds her tightly, giving her time to get her legs back under her.
She's pouting, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at him - he's a traitor today. She takes after their mother, light brown hair and green eyes, their father’s curls making her look heartbreakingly innocent - and making her a real favourite with the castle servants.
“Stupid history is boring.” She stamps her little foot - he knows better than to laugh at the theatrics.
“You need to stop running away. You're going to get Thufir in trouble. Is that what you want?”
“No.” The pouting gets heavier, guilt furrowing her little brow as she drops her eyes to the floor. “He's my friend.”
“He is. And we don't want our friends to get in trouble do we?”
She shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly, looks up at Thufir with large sad eyes, sudden distress flushing her cheeks pink.
“Sorry.”
She worms out of Paul's grip and shuffles over to Thufir, leaning heavily against his side and fitting her hand into his.
“I won't run away again.” She says it with a quiver of her lip, eyes downcast.
Seeing the tears building in her eyes Paul kneels to her level and lifts her trembling chin to look at him. “How about a deal? Pay attention in your lesson, and at dinner if you can tell me two new things you've learnt today, you can sleep with me tonight.”
Suddenly the quiver and the tears are gone, her face lighting in excitement. “A sleepover?”
She bounces on her feet, basically swinging off Thufir as he tries to steady himself.
“And I can spend the whole night? And you'll read to me? Will you do my hair in the morning the way I like? With the flowers?”
“Yes. We can do all that, but only if you pay attention and actually learn something today.”
She squeals again, the sound bouncing off the old castle walls and magnifying in the hallway, making Paul wince and his ear drums hurt.
It's worked though, and she drags Thufir back around the corner to continue their lessons, the Mentat throwing a silent 'thank you' over his shoulder. Well past the age of having his own lessons to attend, Paul spends his afternoons in the way only the privileged and untitled can.
He reads one of the new books he'd purchased from the last supply run, a real, ancient looking paperback - checking to make sure it’s appropriate for Alia to listen to for their sleepover. He spars with Duncan - Gurney heckles them both from the sidelines. He sits with his mother and enjoys a herbal tea while they discuss the newest garden she has planted and whether the new buds will survive the end of the winter chill.
His mornings are spent sat at his father's council. No longer expected to simply listen, he is encouraged to speak, have his say and make decisions. Six months ago, his father had fallen ill, bedridden by a virus that had spread through Caladan unexpectedly. Paul had arrived at his first council meeting without the Duke at his side, oblivious to the respectful silence and had taken his seat next to father's empty chair - startled in the expectant hum to realise he was what they were all waiting for.
His father had recovered quickly and was once again back in excellent health. However now, three times a week Paul is left to sit the council meetings by himself to rule in his father's stead. He runs through the reports, order requisitions for wheat and grain, monitors their food storage, approves or disapproves of the training plans for their army, and decides what - if any - action to take regarding information gathered by their spies.
Reports of slaves being slaughtered by droves in fighting pits, Rabban’s addictions pushing him further and further from the Baron’s grace, and the Na- Baron – the apple of his uncle’s eye. Blank faced and unconcerned, Paul sits and listens as his council members use words like psychotic, sadist, monster – and on one memorable occasion, abomination.
Some reports remain private, like the one Thufir slips him eight months after the wedding, the Baron celebrates Feyd’s twentieth birthday with an outrageously decadent party, gifting his young nephew three prostitutes, each baring a striking resemblance to the Atreides heir – Paul punches a wooden practice dummy so hard he breaks two fingers and sprains his wrist.
He listens to rumours of an endless parade of prostitutes and slaves through the Na-Baron’s bed chambers, whispers of pregnancies and secret bastards, one report includes vague mention of cannibalism – that one manages to break through his veneer of polite interest as he snatches it out Thufir’s hands with a noise of disgust.
Five years -nearly six- of reports and constant rumours, information coming through like clockwork until two weeks ago when information coming out of Geidi Prime had at first slowed to a trickle, and then stopped altogether.
No one knows why. At first Thufir had been reassuring - sometimes there simply wasn't anything to overhear, sometimes spies got spooked and had to lay low for a while, sometimes they were caught and killed, and it would take time for them to realise. But with each passing day, Paul notices the Mentat getting more and more unsure, his reassurances getting quieter and weaker, his nerves showing in the flustered way he delivers more news of nothing.
His father becomes distant, avoiding eye contact and often staring off into the distance, barely listening to anyone.
It's Gurney who finally says what everyone had been thinking but had clearly not wanted to admit out loud.
“Last time this happened, it was when the Baron's sister-in-law killed herself.”
He eats his dinner, unaware of the heavy silence that has dropped across the dinner table. “Harkonnens close ranks when a family member dies, usually because they're cleaning up a murder.”
Paul doesn't know what to say to that, simply sits and stares at his dinner, a hopeful – dangerous -spark igniting in his stomach.
His spends his night with Alia - after she gives him her two new facts - he reads to her from his book and falls asleep with her little body curled against his, one thin arm thrown around his waist and face buried into his stomach.
And as he had every night for the last five years, he dreams of Feyd.
....
He's sipping at his morning coffee, slowly going over the most recent training reports Duncan had handed him earlier that morning, breakfast half eaten and forgotten next to him.
Alia stabs at her scrambled eggs, still a slightly uncoordinated and messy eater. Duncan and Gurney have joined them, as they always do on the mornings Paul holds court at the meeting - giving him time to ask them any questions or for any clarification.
His father whispers something in his mother's ear that pulls a laugh from her as she slightly slaps his arm.
It's a beautiful morning, the long winter finally turning slowly into spring, and Paul's making plans to sit out in the gardens and do some drawing when Thufir arrives, letter in hand.
“This just arrived for you.”
There's a tightness to his shoulders, an unsteadiness to his baring that puts Paul on edge, and he takes the letter hesitantly - taking note of the imperial seal.
“It's from Irulan.”
Cracking the seal, something uncomfortable in him twists, and he finds himself reading out loud to the expectant, interested faces of his family.
My darling Paul,
I've spent the last few days torn on whether to share this information with you, or indeed whether or not you will even care so many years later. However, as your friend, it is my duty to share this news with you, so you will not have to hear it from others.
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is dead. He passed some weeks ago, of natural causes or ill intent we do not know, and truthfully, I doubt anyone cares enough to find out.
Our intel from Geidi Prime is sparse and lacks detail, we know there will be an official announcement soon of his passing, however I have heard from a very reputable source, someone who's information I trust, or I would not speak to you of it, that the new Baron has already taken his seat, along with his newly wed wife.
I am truly sorry; it pains me greatly to be the barer of this news.
Love always,
Irulan.
“Wife.” He barely hears his own words, whispered at the message in his hand. He repeats it again, as through repetition will make it make more sense. “He married.”
Silence reigns heavily across everyone at the table, even Alia sitting wide eyed and quiet - unsure why but knowing something big has happened.
“Thank you Thufir.” Fighting through the tightening in his chest and the shaking of his hands, Paul closes the message – biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. “Perhaps you could organise something for me?”
The Mentat blinks, offering a cautious smile “Of course.”
“I believe we still have a crate of last season’s cider in storage. The blueberry cider?”
“Yes, I do believe so.”
“Excellent. Could you please box that up and have it delivered to Geidi Prime? A congratulations for the new Baron and his wife. A gift from house Atreides.”
“Would you-” now the Mentat does break, glancing pleading at his father, desperately uncomfortable. “Would you like me to add a message to the - gift?”
“Paul.” His father begins hesitantly, “Maybe you should-”
“No, I don't think that will be necessary.” Paul addresses Thufir, cutting Leto off as though he hadn’t spoken at all.
Gathering his reports, Paul resolutely ignores everyone else in the room except Alia, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.
“And please have it delivered through the official channels. We wouldn't want the Baron to think there was anything insidious about the gift.”
The council meeting is excruciating. Every second he resists the urge to tap his fingers irritably against the table, digging into deep reservoirs of patience. With each passing minute the ringing in his ears becomes louder, the walls close in a little tighter, a scream clawing up his throat.
He's up and gone seconds after the meeting is called to completion, disappearing before anyone can hold him back - slipping past Duncan and Gurney and their questioning eyes.
He finds himself walking briskly - not running thank you - to the nearest door leading outside. His chest tightens, he struggles to breathe, walls closing in and by the time he breaks out into one of walled courtyards hidden inside the castle, he's gasping in great ragged breaths.
The stone path is cool, seeping through the fabric of his pants quickly as he drops down to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. Wet earth and freshly blooming flowers filling his lungs – still sucking in deep ragged breaths. Closing his eyes, he focuses on the wind rustling through the trees, the sound of waves crashing against a far-off cliff face, the permanent smell of salt in the air. The sounds and smells of his home, settling and soothing in a way nothing else could ever be.
Married.
He’d long ago accepted the reality of Feyd taking lovers from pleasure houses and slaves, he’d learned to swallow down the hot burn of jealousy, the white sear of unfairness of others sharing in Feyd’s life while he could not.
There is a continuing blanket forgiveness in his heart for every heinous act, every infidelity, every drop in the sea of spilled blood he is responsible for, for is that not what he promised him? Did he not give him the task of survival at any cost?
But a wife?
He's made vows to someone else; some woman now holds a claim over him, shares his bed, has taken his name, will carry his children, will call him hers.
Something dark and powerful rears up his chest, desperate and broken, tears its way up his throat – shredding him from the inside out, a scream reverberating out.
On the other side of the castle, Lady Jessica clutches at her chest, buffeted by a psychic shockwave so powerful it knocks her to her knees, tears falling unbidden.
Alia screams, covering her ears to block out something no one else hears, sadness unlike anything she’s ever known swallowing her whole.
Paul buries his face in his knees and cries. He cries until his throat is swollen shut and his eyes are blood shot, he cries until he has nothing left to give.
…
A presence hovers to his right - Gurney humming with nervous, unsure energy. Paul doesn’t bother lifting his head, too exhausted.
“If you've come to say something cruel or condescending, I suggest finding somewhere else to be. I am in no mood to respond politely.”
“Thufir is looking for you, he's finalising the off-world shipment, and he wants a final approval for the cider.”
Groaning, he presses his palms against his eyes until he sees stars, shaking his head. “God no, he can cancel it. Stupid, petty thing to do.”
The sun is setting, casting an ethereal orange glow across the garden. He’s been out here for hours staring into nothing, too exhausted and empty to contemplate moving.
Gurney nods, hesitation rolling off him in waves as he hovers between leaving him to wallow and curiosity.
“Just ask. I know you’re dying to.”
“What does it mean?” he asks tentatively, stepping further into the small courtyard. “The cider, you thought of it for a reason.”
“I promised him a case of it once.” It’s a non-answer, a technical truth so vague even Gurney couldn’t find offense in it.
Gurney blinks at him, eyebrow slightly raised – determined today for whatever reason to pull a real answer from him.
“It's also what undid us. I took a bottle of it with me to his rooms the first time we made love. I left it there. Rabban saw it and put the pieces together.”
Now Paul does look over at him. They don’t talk about Feyd, ever. No one does. If he’s ever mentioned, it’s in the context of the Baron’s nephew or the Na-Baron. Kaitain and what happened there is a topic everyone seemed content to forget – something Paul has been grateful for.
Gurney in particular had been enthusiastic to pretend it never happened - he’s always secretly thought it was the only way Gurney knew how to forgive him for something he’s never apologised for.
“His rooms? You went into the Harkonnen quarters?”
It’s almost comforting that at twenty-three, Gurney can still manage to lecture him in the same tone six-year-old Paul received for stealing desert from the kitchens.
“Feyd insisted my first time be in a bed. Something about saving my knees.”
Gurney blanches, mouth pulling into a frown. “Fucking Hell”
“Do you always blanch so dramatically at talk of sex? Or is that barely concealed disgust reserved just for me?” He can’t cover his frustration, pushing at old wounds that never healed, both of them teetering on the edge of an argument he doesn’t want to have but doesn’t know how to stop.
“It’s not-” Sighing heavily, Gurney rubs at his face, weariness pulling heavily at the deep lines around his eyes. “God damn it.”
He groans the whole way down, well past the age of comfortably sitting on a hard stone floor, and settles with a little huff, left leg -the knee that has never quite recovered from a training accident two years ago - stretched out in front of him.
“You’ve never really forgiven me for it.” Paul mumbles absently. If Gurney wants to dredge up the past, so be it.
“Forgiveness requires an admission of guilt. You regret getting caught, not the act itself. You’ve made that very clear.”
“You want me to regret it? Would that make you feel better?”
“Are you telling me you don’t?” Gurney’s voice rises, the sharpness of his tone softened at the edges by concern. “Still? Even after today?”
Somewhere in the castle Alia will be looking for him to drag him to dinner, while his mother pretends not to be concerned by his absence. His father will be reading the reports Paul had only half paid attention to this morning, more grey in his hair every day and exhausted more often than not these days.
Duncan will scold him for running off, Thufir will be relieved to tears once Paul tells him he can cancel the Harkonnen gift. And Gurney. Gurney who has put aside old hurts to comfort him as best as he is able, because despite their friendship having suffered over the years, Gurney has never stopped loving him.
But his heart is broken, and he can’t regret it because, just for a moment, all those years ago, he was whole. And once you’ve been whole, the ache of losing it never quite fades, and you’d give anything to have it back.
“I wish you could have known him the way I did.” He answers, soft and honest. “I wish you could have seen him the way I did. I don’t regret it. But I did betray you. I betrayed our friendship by accepting his offer of it. I betrayed your trust in me. Of that, I am guilty. And I am sorry.”
Gurney has never been one for unnecessary touching. Preferring back pats and the occasional shoulder bump when in a particularly good mood. Duncan has always been the one to pull him into crushing hugs, picking him up and swinging him around, allowing Paul to crawl into his bed after a nightmare well past the age that would have been considered appropriate if people knew. Which is why Paul and his suddenly watery eyes – not tears - thinks he should be extended some grace as Gurney wraps his arm around his shoulder, pulling him down into his chest for a one-sided hug.
“I would like us to be friends again. The way we were before.” He adds.
“As would I.”
The hold is warm and protective, the earthy smell of him filling his senses as he turns further into the hug, pressing his face against Gurney’s shoulder.
“You still love him, don’t you?” Gurney whispers it like a secret, like Paul has ever tried to hide it.
“I always will. I knew that back then; I know it more now. I would have waited a lifetime for him, I still will I suppose, just now I know he’s never coming.”
“Did he make you the same promise?”
The gravel and dirt digs into him, his spine twists at an uncomfortable angle, but he’ll be damned if he pulls out of Gurney’s hold. When he shakes head the rough fabric of Gurney’s shirt scratches and pulls at his skin.
“You can’t spend your life waiting for someone who’s never coming Paul.”
“My heart isn’t mine to give. I gave it to him, not just a piece of it, all of it. And he took it with him. It’s been nearly six years and he’s still the only thing I’ve ever wanted. How do I bring someone else into that? How do I share my bed, my body, my life with someone when the place at my side is already occupied by the ghost of someone else?”
Gurney doesn’t have an answer to that – not that Paul was excepting one – choosing instead to squeeze him just a little bit tighter, grief worn into the deep lines of his face.
“Don’t look so sad Gurney. I'll survive this. I’m not nearly so self-indulgent as to believe I am the first to suffer from unrequited love. I won’t be consumed by it. I’m not that dramatic.”
Fingers card through his hair, soothing and comforting – pushing stray strands out of his eyes. “Paul. I need you to know. Despite my dislike of the boy, justified or not, I would spare you from this if I could. I would deliver him to you if I were able.”
…
Nights have always been his favourite. He loves the peacefulness of them, the silence. At night there’s no one demanding his attention, there are no tasks waiting for him to complete, no reports to read or meetings to attend, his time belongs entirely to himself. There is only the calming, easy quiet of dark and the stillness of a castle at sleep.
Tonight is not a kind night.
He’s soul deep tired, the kind of tired that makes his vision swim and his limbs feel too heavy. The kind of tired that feels like a weight is sitting on his chest, and his mouth feel dry no matter how much water he drinks.
And he cannot fall asleep.
Upon returning to Caladan from Kaitain, suitably shook up from his brush with Spice, he’d dedicated himself to rebuilding his mental walls and for the first time in his life, he has full control over his abilities.
There’s not been a nightmare or a wayward vision in over three years. No ghosts of people’s thoughts or feelings, he no longer drifts off in his own mind lost to swell, but it’s always there, the power sitting peacefully behind a locked door should he ever want it.
He now holds that door closed with scuffed knuckles and splintered palms.
His break in the gardens has left spiderweb thin cracks in his defences. His power, usually kept behind brick and mortar now presses against a barrier only a hairs width thick in some places, leaking through in the form of an uneasy pit in his stomach and unsettling shadows behind his closed eyes.
He desperately wants to sleep. He can't sleep. He knows what he’ll see if he does. He knows where his mind will reach - across the breadth of the universe, to him.
That path leads to madness.
So, he sits, curled in his bed sketching whatever animals he can from memory. He starts with birds, sparrows and finches and red robins. He sketches the coastline he’s spent his life looking at through his bedroom window, now hidden in the darkness.
He falls into the muscle memory of it, the gentle yellow glow of the holo lamp above him turning his pages a delicate tea stained brown as he loses himself in the comforting scratch of pencil on paper and the drag of soft lead.
A quiet knock at his door startles him, and he blinks - disjointed from the interruption as his father enters his room.
“Can't sleep either?” Paul asks softly – the oppressive quiet of night dampening his words.
Leto shakes his head, pushing the thick heavy curls falling into his eyes away from his face.
“Was walking around, saw the light on in here.”
He looks as tired as Paul feels. Dark circles stain his under eyes a bruised black. Tension pulling at his mouth as he bites at the inside of his bottom lip. It’s a soft look on him, sleep ruffled and out of his military uniform - a sight even Paul doesn’t see often. His loose cotton shirt threatens to fall off one shoulder, frame swamped in comfortable brown wool pants.
“What's keeping you up?” Paul asks, closing his drawing book and moving it to his bedside table.
Pulling his knees up, he clears enough room for his father to sit at the edge of his bed – who huffs out bone deep sigh at the movement.
Out of his pocket his father pulls a thumbnail sized chunk sea glass. Worn smooth by decades of rushing water and swelling sea tides.
“I have something for you. I intended to give it to you at dinner. I found it this morning along the coast.”
It’s a soft baby blue, seemingly glowing from within as the light from the holo lamp hits just right.
“I know you don't have any blue.” Leto adds, gesturing to the collection of different coloured sea glass that decorates his windowsill.
“It's beautiful.” Paul smiles, the first genuine smile he’s managed all day. “Thank you.”
The glass warms in his hand as he rubs his thumb across the polished surface, enjoying the soothing motion.
“Just happened to be walking past my room huh?” he adds, eyebrow raised as he rolls the glass around between his palms.
Leto snorts, raising his hands in mock surrender, “Alright, you caught me. I was hoping you were still awake.”
Inhaling deeply, his father turns to face him – worry creasing his brow, a large hand reaching out to tap at Paul’s knee. Whether it’s supposed to be a comfort for him or his father, Paul doesn’t know – he does know whatever words are building in the exhale of Leto’s breaths must be dire for it to warrant a midnight visit.
“I have a decision to make.” He announces it suddenly, hushed and serious. “And I thought I knew the answer, but now I'm not so sure.”
It comes out of nowhere, an admittance of self-doubt he never thought to hear from his father. It sparks worry along his spine, settling as a weight in his gut.
“Do you want to talk it through?”
“I thought I could figure it out on my own. Save you the burden of it. But I'm no closer to an answer and I've run out of time.”
Pushing closer Leto takes Paul’s hands in his own, warm and calloused they envelop his smaller hands immediately, sea glass now trapped in their hands.
“I need to ask you something. And I need the truth. Not what you think I want to hear, not the easy answer to keep the peace, the truth. Man to man.”
There’s a weight to his words that stop Paul from answering any further than a small nod of understand and agreement. A silent promise to do what is being asked of him.
“Are you happy? Not just content, not just moments of happiness. When you think about the rest of your life, here with us, are you happy?”
“I love you all, I - ”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” His Father cuts him off sharply however not unkindly, resting his hand on Paul’s knee with a squeeze. “Are you happy? Are we enough?”
It’s the worst thing he’s ever admitted, the one truth Paul had denied even to himself. He lives a good life. Full of good people and happy days. It’s a blessed life, surrounded by those he loves and who love him. And it’s not enough.
The truth crackles out of him, torn from his sternum full of shame and guilt. “No.”
Leto’s breathing stutters, not truly prepared for a truth he must have guessed at – Paul drops his gaze to avoid looking into his father’s eyes, the shame threatening to choke him.
A gentle touch to his face, guiding his eyes back – his father’s eyes full of understanding and deep sadness. When Leto speaks, it’s barely more than a whisper and Paul thinks perhaps now, finally, they have come to the crux of the issue.
“If you could have him, despite it all. Knowing what you know. The lovers, the slaves, what he may have become. Would you have him?”
“He’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.” Paul chokes out his words through the thickness in his throat and the traitorous tears welling in his eyes - barely audible. “Yes, I would have him. Just as he is.”
“Alright.” Leaning over him, Leto places a kiss to the top of his head, lips pressing into Paul’s curls making the muffled words barely audible. “Alright, so be it then.”
…
Five years, nine months, and twenty-three days after the wedding of Princess Irulan, Baron Vladamir Harkonnen dies. A week later Duke Leto Atreides receives a transmission from a commercial Highliner on course to arrive at Caladan within eight days, requesting permission to enter orbit and for a single occupant shuttle to disembark upon arrival. The manifest logs show the shuttle docked with the Highliner just outside Geidi Prime’s airspace with papers marking it as Harkonnen made.
Feyd Rautha Harkonnen is onboard.
The answering approval transmission, with Leto’s Ducal seal, is received by the Highliner on time – barely - twelve minutes to spare before the request would have been automatically denied.
Paul is told all of this while being led in a hurry through the castle and out to the Atreides landing strips almost exactly twenty-four hours after receiving Irulan’s letter and subsequently having his world implode.
It’s hard to be sure because he’s currently finding it very hard to remain tethered to this new reality, but he doesn’t think he’s handing the news very well.
There’s an overwhelming urge to punch his father squarely in the face.
The coastal wind tears and snaps at his clothes - the cry of gulls, the crash of waves, his father repeating himself, his mother touching his face and straightening his hair, both looking worried – he still hasn’t acknowledged their words past the occasional confused grunt.
Thufir appears next him and points at the sleek black shuttle slowly touching down thirty feet from where they stand. “Paul, the shuttle has landed.”
He can’t feel his fingers, can he usually feel his fingers? The ringing in his ears reaches a fever pitch, choking on his own breath when Duncan thumps him on the back in what’s supposed to be comforting but simply makes his already weak knees buckle dangerously.
The shuttle door opens, and for the first time in ten thousand years, a Harkonnen sets foot on Caladan. Atreides soldiers pause their duties to stop and stare at the unusual ship. There are too many people here. Too many eyes. Too much noise.
Feyd. He’s right there. Alive and breathing and real. He steps out of the shuttle, dressed in his Harkonnen armour – looking different and yet, the same.
There’s a rushing in his ears and his skin suddenly feels too tight, and they all keep looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, but he’s forgotten how to form words, half terrified he’s misstepped somewhere and can no longer distinguish dream from reality and he’s about to come-to right before he inadvertently walks himself off a cliff like a Greek tragedy.
“You’re not the new Baron?” he asks, feeling stupid but needing to hear it spoken out loud, needing to make it feel real.
Feyd shakes his head, biting at his bottom lip – shoulders tight and doing his best to ignore their audience. “Rabban.”
“And you’re not married?”
Another shake of his head – a step closer and then another. “Also Rabban.”
Heart racing, mouth dry – Paul resists the urge to nervously fidget. “Being Baron didn’t appeal to you?”
“Something else appealed to me more.” It’s barely more than a whisper, Feyd finally stepping into his space. Slowly, tentatively, Feyd reaches out and grasps at the hem of Paul’s shirt, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger – there first point of contact in nearly six years and it punches the air out of Paul’s lungs. “Was I wrong in believing there was something waiting for me here?”
Swallowing heavily Paul fights through the dizziness bought on by Feyd proximity. “You weren’t wrong.”
…
Paul doesn't need the power of foresight to know what they all think will be happening tonight. He knows the morning will be spent flushing under Duncan's teasing and innuendo, Alia will sleep in their parents’ quarters tonight under the guise of an exciting sleep over – but really to ensure she doesn't make a surprise visit his room throughout the night as she often does.
What they think is happening, isn’t – probably.
Caution had grown in the place reckless teenage confidence had once lived, abundantly clear in the way he hovers and fluffs, an awkward bystander in his own room. He listens to the rush of water from Feyd's shower, unsure if the open door is an invitation for him to join or an absent mistake - his own shower had remained uninterrupted and upon re-entering his bedroom he'd found Feyd standing in exactly the same spot he'd left him, frowning ever so slightly at Paul's bed.
His bed – the same one he’s had the majority of his life - mocks him from the corner of his room. Lazily made that morning not knowing he would be sharing it with another tonight. Books and reports stacked in messy piles, a toy of Alia's half shoved under the frame, the collection of seashells and coloured sea glass he'd found along the coast over many years scattered across his bedside table. What does Feyd see when he looks at it, messy, indulgent, and full of worthless knick-knacks? A child's bed.
Distantly he hears the shower turn off, an expectant silence rising from the ground like a thick fog. For half a decade, he's dreamt of nothing else and now he doesn't know what he's allowed to expect - a distance between them that has nothing to do location and everything to do with living separate lives for so many years, now expected to simply pick up where they left off.
Feyd enters the room, looking – almost - every inch like a dream Paul's had several times. Skin still shower damp and sticking to his black cotton shirt in awkward places, the deep colour making his pale skin practically glow in contrast. Cotton pants hang loose off his hips, pooling around bare feet.
The Feyd of his dreams never stands quite so rigidly however, shoulders tight. He never looks quite so uncertain or unmoored.
Is he allowed to touch him? Does he ask permission? Will they be intimate tonight - is that what's expected of him? He’ll give it gladly, assuming -hoping - the unsure hesitance between them will melt away under each other's touch - but he's nervous, no better than a virgin again after so long.
Their different experiences in matters of sex had once been significant, now the gap in their experience is almost laughable in its enormity. Has Feyd changed in this respect? Does he remember gentle touches and patience?
Why was this so much easier the first time around?
He cracks first, desperation burning through his anxiety. He can’t let this get away from him, he can’t let insecurities and fear take root between them.
“I want there to be no misunderstandings between us. We’ve waited too long to have it all unravel simply because we did not speak the truth to each other.”
That awkward silent fog twirls invisibly around their ankles, creeping cold tendrils making their way into Paul’s chest, turning into the beginnings of doubt clutching at his heart.
“I need you to start talking.” Paul pushes, closing the distance between them tentatively. He allows the desperation to colour his tone – pretending will get him nowhere. “I'm only half convinced you're actually here and not a figment of a potential psychotic break and the longer you're silent the more I worry I've -”
“I don't know what to say.” Jaw tense and avoiding his eyes, Feyd finally responds. His voice is harsher than Paul remembers it, the years burning away the last of the softness and leaving the deeper rasp of a grown man.
“I spent a week on that transport shuttle thinking about what I was going to say when I saw you. I thought it would just come to me; I thought it would be easy. But it’s not. I don’t know how to tell you what I’ve -” he breaks off with a shake of head, stuttering out before he says what’s really troubling him.
At eight his father had taken him down to the stables to show him the newest catch of wild horses they’d pulled from the plains for their breeding program. Beautiful and wild, Paul had been entranced. A chestnut stallion had caught his eye, stamping and digging at the soft ground, head tossing and snorting great puffs of steam into the freezing morning air.
Already a confident rider, Paul knew the rules. Approach slowly, staying in their line of sight. No loud noises of sudden movements. With a gentle, low shush he successfully made his way close to the animal, rewarded for his patience by being allowed to stroke at his velvet soft nose.
He approaches Feyd the same way.
Heart breaking just a little more, he watches Feyd tense – the unsure eyes that meet his torn between freezing or back away. Carefully – and with no small amount of trepidation – Paul presses his hand to Feyd’s cheek.
It’s electrifying.
“I loved you then, I love you now. I want us to spend our lives together, that's never changed.” The words are too intimate to say loudly, the crack in his voice threatening to show.
“If that's something you needed reassurance of.” He adds quietly, a small smile pulling at his lips when – just for second – Feyd presses his cheek further into his touch.
Their greeting at the landing strip had been overwhelming. Full of bustling movement and spectators, overstimulating in the extreme. Paul had felt nothing other than his own racing heart and the pounding in his ears. The whole thing feeling like a hazy dream, gossamer and flimsy as though if he focused on it too hard reality would slough away like wet paper.
This feels real. Feyd’s cheek is still shower damp and warm, he’s solid and alive, standing right in front of him. He can feel the heat of Feyd’s body, can smell that oil and leather scent he’d been so afraid to forget. There’s no one else here but them.
“It's smaller than I imagined.”
Blinking at the unexpected comment Paul follows Feyd’s gaze back over to his bed, smile turning into a frown.
“Is it? I've never needed much space. I'll arrange for something larger tomorrow for us. I would have had something ready, but I only found out you were coming today. Unless you’d - I can have them set up a separate room for you if you’d prefer your own space while we-”
“No one has ever complained about sharing it?”
This startles a surprised snort from him. “Who do you imagine would? The only person I’ve ever had in that bed beside myself is Alia and she takes up very little space, even if she does kick like a horse in her sleep.”
A heavy frown pulls at Feyd’s features, breaking through the blank mask he’d been wearing. “You don't have to lie about it if you have. I'm a lot of things, more things now than when you last knew me, but a hypocrite isn't one of them. I've not been - well I certainly have no high ground in that matter.”
He says it as though it should come as a surprise, as though he’s spilling a dark secret he doesn’t how Paul will react to. Guilt comes off him in waves, strong enough that he buffets Paul – a wave crashing against the cliff face of his mental walls.
“I know.” Warm skin, soft and pliant as he drags his fingers across Feyd’s cheek and down the curve of his neck, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. “You think I've not heard? I’ve read every report, heard every rumour. Atreides spies are very good. Perhaps there are some I don't know about, but I know enough to imagine the extent it.”
“I'm sorry.” Feyd forces out, reaching up to clutch at Paul’s hand in a desperate movement.
Their bodies hover close, heat and electricity sparking in the space between them.
Shaking his head Paul leans in closer, wrapping his free hand at the nape of Feyd’s neck, fingers resting at the base of his skull – bolder every second they spend together. “I had no expectations of your fidelity. I had no right to demand it in the circumstances.”
“You had the only right.”
The closer they press, the larger Feyd becomes – slowly blotting out all of Paul’s other senses. He’s grown in their years apart, taller and broader than Paul remembers him being. Their height had once been relatively equal, now his eye line settles somewhere between Feyd’s mouth and chin, the sheer bulk of him pressing on Paul from all sides.
There’s a tiny silver scar following Feyd’s bottom lip, another one cutting into where his left eyebrow would be, no thicker than a hair and nearly invisible until the light hits just right. The light dusting of freckles that once sat across his nose have faded entirely, leaving only milky white skin.
“How many were there?”
It’s so quiet he almost misses it, hitching and ripped from Feyd’s throat in a despairing rush. “I don’t know.”
Feyd’s thumb strokes a shaky path from his cheekbone to the curve of his bottom lip, pulling a silent gasp from him, eyes fluttering shut as Feyd’s once soft fingertips - now calloused and coarse pull goosebumps from his skin.
Feyd bring his forehead down to press against Paul’s, noses brush, lips hover only a hairsbreadth apart.
“Can you forgive me?”
Feyd’s words brush against his mouth, his grip is strong and desperate – clutching fingers digging into his skin. Paul feels the branding heat of Feyd’s touch against his jawline and neck, one hand still crushed tightly against Feyd’s chest.
“You’re forgiven.” Paul presses back, leaning into the consuming touch, allowing it to light his skin on fire and chase his breath away. “You always were.”
“Paul.” Feyd breathes out like it’s a prayer, eyes fluttering closed – pressing his face against Paul’s temple – a step away from worship.
He tilts his chin up to look at Feyd, his face. That soft expression of affection, of concern, of relief. So much of him has changed, he’s all sharp edges and restrained rage. But those eyes, those perfectly blue eyes are still the same. In the mess of Feyd’s poorly pieced together psyche, those eyes are the same.
“Ask me about it. Whatever you want, I’ll answer.”
Paul believes him and they’ll be a time for that. A time for questions and horrible truths. But not tonight.
“Can we just-” he trails off, not quite sure what he’s asking for or what he needs. “I just need you, right now.” he finally lets out, dangerously close to begging. “Not sex, not yet, I just need to touch you, to hold you.”
Feyd nods, reaching out to curl his fingers around the hem of Paul’s shirt, and dragging him closer – their bodies finally pressing together. Paul leans into the touch, lips finding purchase against Feyd’s, the hand he curls around the nape of Feyd’s neck trembling slightly.
Feyd’s hands rest on his narrow hips, fingers gripping so tightly that Paul’s sure there will be bruises tomorrow, but the contact, skin on skin is intoxicating, addictive. He wonders if he feels different to Feyd, if the years have changed him in ways he hasn’t noticed. Does he feel the same? He knows he’s filled out in the past years, a little wider in the jaw, a little thicker in the waist - the slimness of youth finally melting away. The thought brings with it a flare of insecurity, it burns hot and fast – before burning out completely, no match for the words of praise Feyd mumbles against his mouth.
Feyd takes a step back, and then another, pulling Paul with him towards the bed. He’s not quite sure how they end up there, his back pressed into rumpled sheets, his shirt lifting as Feyd seeks more skin.
He shivers as the cool air of his room hits his bare skin, a hiccupping laugh pulled out of him when Feyd bites at his ear lobe before pressing feather light kisses behind his ear and down the length of his jaw. Feyd’s hand is splaying across his stomach, the heavy weight of it an anchor point, his breath catches in his throat, and he looks up at Feyd, wide eyed and breathless.
Paul promised himself he’d never ask; swore to himself he would not dredge up things which could never be changed. But he finds the words tumbling from his mouth unbidden, the need to know too strong.
“Did you love any of them?” he asks softly, terrified of the answer – preparing himself to hear the worst.
Eyes wide, sadness and guilt once more clouds Feyd’s features, his hand on Paul’s stomach gripping desperately at the fabric of his shirt. Feyd takes his hand, rubs his thumb over his knuckles – as hypnotised by the ability to touch as Paul is - before placing Paul’s palm flat against his chest, directly over his heart. Bright blue eyes meet his, intense and urgent.
“This piece, this small part of me. Has only ever belonged to you.”
“Don’t leave me. I won’t survive it again.”
“All those years, all that torment. There were so many times I thought of giving up, of giving in and allowing them to burn whatever good I had left out of me. The only thought that kept me going, kept me sane, was the thought of seeing you.”
Mouths pressing together, Paul releases a wet, shaky gasp – Feyd’s body pressing him into the bed, overwhelming his senses.
“I’ll never leave your side again.” Feyd promises, pulling away before diving back in and trailing his lips down the length of Paul’s throat.
Feyd peppers his face in kisses – teasing and tickling - drawing out a breathless, bright laugh from Paul. “We’re going to spend our lives kissing in this bed and arguing about who snores and we’ll fight sometimes because I’m damaged and you’re a little spoilt, but we’ll always apologise to each other, and we’ll never go to bed apart or without saying we love each other, and for the rest of our lives there won’t be a single morning where you don’t wake up in my arms.”
“And you’ll tell me how much you love me every day?” Paul gasps as he tries to wriggle away from teasing fingers stroking along his sides.
“Twice a day, for the rest of our lives.”