Chapter Text
Dear gentle reader,
The halls of our venerated imperial palace have been rife with scandal and intrigue of late, near all of it centred around the house Atreides. From the abysmal attack they suffered earlier in the year, through their miraculous victory to the upcoming betrothal of their heir. Fear not, dear reader, for I know which morsels of gossip you most enjoy. After all, it is not every day the handsome young son of our most prolific noble family is set to wed the discarded, and some would say stained, head of his rivalling faction.
One has to wonder what stands behind this peculiar arrangement. Is it the result of true love, or perhaps other matters are up for consideration? This author has, on good authority, information that might prove pivotal in unravelling the mystery at hand. For it seems the young Baron was noticed entering the Atreides family home the day before his rather public display towards the Na-Duke. Is it possible he was going to request his lover’s hand in marriage? Or was he there on more prudent matters, ones of business perhaps? After all, it is no secret the machines Duke Leto shall require for his new fiefdom are produced on Giedi Prime, the planet’s main export, in fact. Is it possible, dear reader, that young Paul Atreides has found himself embroiled into a purely political matter, when we all thought him in the grips of ardour? If so, this author must extend sympathies to the unfortunate young man, for who wishes to be tied to a pariah when a princess was very much in his future?
Yours truly,
Atropa.
Stained. That is what Atropa called him in her latest paper. A pariah. Despite the sharp pangs within his own chest, Feyd cannot help but chuckle at her writing. The woman, usually merciless, afforded him some kindness, for there is no mention of the ugly rumours regarding his questionable relationship with his uncle. Instead, all the gossip talked about was the state of his family standing. Quite tame by her standards at least.
Feyd is well aware the very mention of his name will breathe new life to the old gossip, she spared him the outright mention, true, yet there is no preventing the tongues from wagging. What is worse, she had brought Paul into her schemes. Insinuated Feyd had somehow threatened or bribed the Duke into letting him have his son’s hand. For that alone, Feyd resents the author. Paul is innocent of all wrongdoing, his only crime - a seeming fondness for Feyd’s company.
Incensed, trilled and more than a little anxious, Feyd heads for the Atreides family villa, bouquet in hand. Calathea for new beginnings, Clove flowers for bonds of affection and pink hyacinths for playful joy. He hopes his unseeming display several mournings past had not upset Paul overly much, prays the blossoms he picked out would be enough to convey his thoughts in a manner he knows speech will not be. ‘I noticed you,’ he wants the blooms to whisper, ‘I craved you before and knowing you desire me too, our lives will be blissful’.
At the villa he is met with another scowling servant, an older man, grizzled, looking down at Feyd as if he has come to rob the place and slaughter the family. ‘Have you seen the pamphlet, I wonder? Do you believe I forced your master’s hand?’ Feyd refrains from voicing his thoughts, no need to incite further ire upon himself, certainly not while still in the dark as to the Duke’s sentiments on the courtship. “I am to visit the Na-Duke,” he states instead, trying to add a note of assurance to his voice. The tone is off in his own ear, uncertain and flat, yet the older man takes the order for what it is. “Paul is busy,” only to swiftly ignore it.
Right as he is about to have the door shut in his face, Feyd hears a sweet voice spilling from within the confines of the house. “All is well, Gurney,” so the man is Halleck, no wonder he was scowling, “invite him to the parlour, I will be there soon.” Feyd tries his very hardest not to smirk, triumphant, as he walks past the threshold and into the receiving room. No refreshment is offered for this visit, his company is quite incensed with his presence as well, yet Feyd cannot find it in himself to mind. Paul had invited him, Paul wanted to see him.
Forever passes in anticipation, yet much too soon, the young man descends the staircase to join him. Feyd is not ready, not charming, not suave and definitely not calm enough to offer the greeting a man like Paul deserves. And so, in the place of one he hands over his flowers. His suitor chuckles as he takes them, ever delicate in manner and expression, buries his pert little nose between the blossoms. Judging by the soft smile, spilling across his features, he approves of the aromatic concoction. “Thank you,” he turns to Feyd, devastating smile still painted across his features, “I have one for you too,” he adds, a small, nearly imperceptible blush painting his delicate features.
Feyd smiles in turn, in what he hopes is a charming manner with a soft “thank you” of his own. He recognises the cherry blossoms, faith and love, as well as the honeypot for courage, yet the third bloom is unfamiliar to him. He looks at it more closely, trying to puzzle at the meaning, before Paul offers a giggle once more, “this one is called Hu-Sui. It signifies worth and merit that is sometimes hidden. There, for only confidants to witness.” Paul is fully flushed now, making for a most becoming sight. “I hope to prove the message true,” Feyd offers, fully genuine for once. “I believe you will,” his companion mutters, low and distracted, making Feyd wonder if the statement was meant for him in the first place.
“It is fortunate you came to visit,” Paul turns to him once more, “I was actually about to head your way. I was hoping we could speak privately, clear the air a bit with all the gossip flying around.” Feyd tries not to give way for his nervousness, Paul had been consistent so far, surely the wagging tongues of lesser men would not concern him greatly. “My day is free,” he offers instead, “and the estate is empty of visitors. Should you wish we could have our discussion there.” It doesn’t hurt that his chef is a master of his craft, one who was ordered to create exquisite pastries, meant to be delivered later in the day, a small courting gift to Paul. “Actually, I had something else in mind,” a mischievous glint brightens his face, “how do you feel about picnics?”
‘Well Paul, I wouldn’t know, seeing as I have never been invited to one,’ seems like the wrong thing to say so instead he nods in approval. “We could find a shaded spot in the gardens,” he offers. Paul is sunshine incarnate, soft and inviting as a dazzling smile spills upon his features. “I know the perfect place. Let me just put these in water and grab the basket.”
Feyd is not offered time to reply as his companion all but dances away, returning a few minutes later with a basket, much too big and heavy looking for him to carry. So Feyd, remembering his manners, reaches out to take it, only to have Halleck come between them, more thunderous than any cloud Feyd had ever seen. “I will take that, pup.” Paul frowns, eyes darting around the room, “thank you, Gurney,” he offers politely, “but I believe some privacy might be prudent today.” And so, Feyd claims the woven container, fighting a smirk once more.
They head out, Paul seems to know where he is going, nervous energy rife between them. Feyd wants nothing more than to reach out, claim the younger man’s hand for his own and let himself be lead, mindless and floating. He does not, remembering Paul’s shocked expression a few mornings ago. Paul is a proper gentleman, he will not appreciate Feyd’s more physical expressions of affection. And yet, how good would it feel to suck the young man off, leisurely sprawled upon a blanket, beneath the soft rays of the setting sun. Alone in the gardens, Paul would not have to keep quiet, he would be able to let go, moans and sighs spurring Feyd on as he learns his lover’s body, his desires. Would Paul finish, sheathed in Feyd’s throat? Would he kiss him then, taste his own spent on Feyd’s lips and smile once more, just as he had back in the house when he was first presented with the flowers?
Lost within daydreams of flushed cheeks and straining cocks, Feyd does not notice Paul had stopped till he stumbles into the younger man. “My apologies,” he quickly offers, “my mind was elsewhere.” “No need to apologise,” Paul does not seem the type to hold grudges, “the nature here is so beautiful, I often find myself distracted as well.” ‘It is not the trees I was daydreaming about,’ Feyd thinks to himself, “the view is breathtaking indeed,” he murmurs instead, gaze trained directly upon his companion. Paul’s cheeks catch aflame as he looks away, to a bubbling creek at the end of a clearing, “do you enjoy gardens?”, he asks, too quick and breathless to pass for being unaffected.
“There is not much nature on Giedi Prime, I am afraid. And the sun can be rather dangerous. But our nightlife makes up for it.” The comment rouses Paul’s interest and he asks Feyd for details, ever clever, ever curious. No wonder he spends most of his days with a book in hand. Feyd indulges him, as he sets out to spread the blanket beneath the branches of a weeping willow, right at the edge of the water. The happy bubbling of the stream will conceal their words, as the swaying spring shoots veil them from the outside world. Feyd is not sure if Paul himself picked the contents of their basket, breads and cold meats, preserves and butter, fresh fruit and soft, sweet wine. Everything so perfect, so soft and romantic, fanning the flames of Feyd’s earlier conviction. Paul is no mortal man, for one such as him cannot exist in the corrupt halls of the imperial palace. A nymph instead, had graced the Duke’s family back on Caladan, ethereal in his beauty, and the man had decided to treat it as one does a son.
“Life on Giedi Prime does not start, not truly, till the sun sets. During the day everything is black and white, but more so than you see here on Kaitain,” Feyd explains, “it’s the absence of colour and the complete and utter starkness of it. I know I am not explaining it well, I suppose the only way to know is to actually see it yourself. All colour is bled from the world by our sun. At night, however, the entire capital turns into a kaleidoscope, neon blues and pinks and purples. People race against the clock to feast their eyes.”
Paul is looking at him, unblinking, intense, and for once Feyd feels self conscious. Perhaps he has gone too far in his enthusiasm. “I apologise,” he begins, “I got carried away.” - “Oh no, please continue. I cannot imagine such a place. Caladan is somewhat similar to Kaitain, well the summers are. We have other seasons, but none of them offer anything like what you just described.” Emboldened by his words, by the aborted gesture of his hand, Feyd was so certain Paul would reach out to grasp his own across the blanket, he continues his tale.
“As I was saying, nights are a treasure trove of colour, sound and more,” gaze burning, he feasts his own eyes upon his companion, “every place has a bright, blinking sign. My favourites are the dance clubs. You walk in, seamlessly becoming a part of the crowd. In that space we are not workers and barons, but bodies, moving to the rhythm the musician has set for us.” Paul seems reticent, almost wishful, and Feyd stays quiet for some time, giving him space to share what weighs upon his mind. “Honestly, this sounds incredible. Wherever I go, I am always the Na-Duke, never Paul. Even in the sietch, people knew. Some were curious about me.” There is such sadness in his voice, Feyd cannot stop himself from reaching out, taking the smaller, soft hand in his own, rubbing slow circles into the back of it. ‘You will always be Paul with me,’ he longs to say. “We can go some time,” he offers instead, “and there are shows too. I mean, if you don’t feel like dancing. The booths are private and no one cares who you are one way or another. It’s what I like most about Giedi Prime.”
“I would like that,” answers Paul, fingers offering a squeeze to Feyd’s hand. He does not, cannot possibly know what it means to have the small gesture acknowledged, yet Feyd’s heart threatens to leave his chest regardless. “I wanted to talk to you,” Paul begins after some moments of silence, “about the paper. What Atropa wrote,” he clarifies, faced with Feyd’s confusion. “You wish to break the connection?,” Feyd asks in what he hopes is an unaffected tone, prays his voice does not shake as he fears his hand does.
“No. Of course not,” Paul quickly assures him, “I want to find her. Get her to retract her statements, stop spreading malicious gossip.” Soft fingers squeeze his again, Feyd takes a wheezing breath, trying to fill his aching lungs once more. “She was cruel to you, belligerent to me, unfair to both our houses. I fail to puzzle out the reason, so far she has refrained from spreading news that is outright false.”
“I have been thinking about the paper as well,” Feyd admits, “it feels like a provocation, a trap perhaps. But for who and to what end evades me still.” Paul gazes at him, clear eyes assessing, pondering. “At first, I thought she wished to upset my father,” he admits, “get him to break the connection. But then why bring the princess into it?” - “Remind the Duke what he is losing out on,” Feyd offers, uncertain, reticent. One wrong move and he will be the architect of his own destruction. Yet Paul looks at him in a manner so very earnest, Feyd takes a fortifying breath before offering his thoughts once more. “Your betrothal to the princess. A grandson on the imperial throne. Should you wed me, such dreams go up in smoke.”
Bells of laughter ring out beneath the willow tree. A rather unexpected reaction to what Feyd sees as a rather serious situation, quite miffing indeed. “My apologies,” Paul finally manages between fits of undue entertainment, “but to think the princess and I, my father that is” - “perhaps you might try not to make a jest of the situation,” Feyd interrupts. Paul’s laughter, carefree and unburdened, feels like a dagger to the chest. Does he not grasp the meaning such an outcome would have for Feyd? Worse still, does he simply not care?
Eyes stinging, Feyd gets up to leave. It is too much, he needs time. To think, to plan. Perhaps there is still time to find someone from a house fallen into financial ruin. Perhaps a younger son or daughter might take him, he does come with an inheritance these days. An arm around the waist is what stops his progress. Paul. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings. Please believe me when I say my father never endorsed the match with the princess Irulan. In truth, he never wanted me anywhere near the throne.” He sounds calm now, his merriment a thing of the past, as if the product of imagination. “I find your words hard to believe. What man does not wish his own blood in the ultimate seat of power?” - “A man who cares more for his son’s happiness than the empty ambitions of the court.”
Feyd turns then, gazing down at his companion, drinking in his serious, stern expression, so alike the Duke it dizzies his head. Paul is his father’s son indeed. “You know the first words he spoke to me when the last pamphlet came out?” Feyd shakes his head, he cannot imagine what Leto Atreides had to say just then, so soon after their own meeting. After Feyd had not spoken a word of attachment between the man’s son and himself. “I am proud of you, he said, I wish you had confided in me. His only pain came from the thought I did not trust him. There is no disappointment in my father regarding us, no resentment at all.” Paul is still holding him, gentle, ever so gentle as his words spill forth. His confession, sweeter than any honey Feyd has ever tasted, holds a tinge of guilt, his eyes avoid Feyd’s gaze. ‘Why didn’t you?,’ he wants to ask, ‘why hide so long if your father would not object?’ He does not, he lacks the courage, the desire to break this perfect moment. Instead he lifts his arms from their useless position by his side, only to embrace the smaller man. He cannot speak his thoughts out loud, but he can show his gratitude at the safety Paul is offering.
“Let us sit,” Paul offers, “I chose this place for a reason.” His eyes twinkle and his lips spread in a smile, a shining, sharp canine poking free from the confines of his upper lip. Feyd hums, unwilling to break the embrace, yet curious to see Paul’s plan unfold. They make their way back to the blanket, not without undue awkwardness for Feyd refuses to fully let go. Paul gives up all pretence of reticence, faced with Feyd’s clingy, needy nature, and the two end up a mess of limbs upon the ground. Feyd manages to angle himself in a way that allows Paul to use his body as a pillow. Smaller than the rest of his family he might be, he is still Paul’s superior when it comes to sheer size.
Paul reaches into their picnic basket, pulling out what seems like a light, velvet bag. Driven by curiosity, Feyd tries to reach for it, only to have his hand lightly tapped away. “Behave yourself,” Paul mutters in his ear, trying his patience in a most cruel manner. How is he to hold back, suppress his obscene moaning, when soft lips venture so close to his ear? “And if I will not?” The green of Paul’s eyes is swallowed whole, light pink dusts his cheeks as the younger man takes a shuddering breath. It is good to know he is not the only one affected by their closeness after all. Paul is rescued from the need to offer up a punishment to Feyd’s everlasting disappointment, their peace interrupted by a dozen little voices. A family of ducks, Paul’s surprise judging by the absolute delight that spills across his face. And in that bag? Feed and treats for his aquatic friends.
Feyd had never been invited to a picnic before, nor had he ever fed duck families in a stream. But gazing at Paul’s soft, animated expression, hearing the excitement in his companion’s voice, he cannot regret his lack of experience any longer. For nothing could be more perfect than this moment, and Feyd is glad it is his first.