Chapter Text
To say that Lucerys Velaryon was absolutely fucked was a complete understatement.
He throws the empty box on his bed and tries to fight off the incoming migraine by closing his eyes and massaging his temples.
When it doesn’t help, he releases a bloodcurdling close-mouthed scream, before plopping onto his bed face first.
Luke had always been a lover of words. Whether they be read, written, played, or sung— Luke had a deep love for them.
Right now, however, Luke wishes he just never had the words ever. He wishes he’d never read all those teen romance books in his highschool years— wishes he’d never learned how to put all of his embarrassing feelings onto paper so unashamedly.
His sweet mother, who’d been the first to give him papers and pens and told him “you could write them all here, and no one would ever have to know. It could be your little secret forever.”
My little secret forever, she said. No one would ever have to know, she said.
Luke screams in eighth octave b flat, making Viserys (who only had a thin wall separating his room from his second eldest brother’s and was definitely hearing all of Luke’s woes at the moment) knock harshly on the wall between their rooms and yell, “shut up!”
“I’m dying,” Luke wailed in reply, voice muffled by his pillow.
“Well die quieter!” was Viserys’ quick answer.
Luke turned over to lay on his back, breathing heavily as he anxiously interlocked his fingers over his stomach.
You see, Luke’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day starts out like this.
It was just two days before Luke has to move into the college dorms (although Jace has been incessantly bugging him, ever since Luke decided to go to the same university, to rush for their fraternity so they can both stay in the same house).
He was packing up the last of his things— putting stuff he no longer needs in boxes so Daemon can drive them all to the nearest charity.
His stepfather had already driven the first batch of his things to the charity the other day.
And none of those was what made Luke have the most terrible day ever.
He didn’t mind packing or cleaning his things up. He didn’t mind giving away to charity.
What Luke definitely minded was reaching up in his closet to the highest shelf, a part he hasn’t touched in years, and snatching a very familiar, very opened, and very empty blue box.
The last time Luke touched this was about two and a half years ago, when he was at the tender age of seventeen.
He remembers very clearly how he had it closed— tied the whole ribbon with a pretty green ribbon and everything.
When he climbs up a stool in panic— checking to see if the box just tipped over to spill his secrets— he finds the ribbon laying freely over a mess of his other things— none of his secrets present.
What did the box contain, you may ask.
Well, you see, Lucerys Velaryon was always known to be a sweet boy— growing out of his cheeky naughty childhood into someone who was a little shy and a little naive— someone who was quick to follow his mother’s instructions, easy to hide behind his older brother when troubles arise (less for being scared or weak, and more for why would he take some punches when Jace is right there?) .
But Luke, to his family and close friends, was better known for being a little dreamy— someone who easily gets lost in his own head— someone who had more than a little flair for dramatics.
And so— at some point in his teenage life, after his mother had given him papers and pens and a little push to write about his innermost feelings— Luke thought it was a good idea to write every person he’s ever liked a love letter.
These love letters were Luke’s most secret possession. He writes it when he feels so much for a certain person, or a certain encounter with a person— he doesn’t know what else to do.
Nobody else knows about it— his mother might think it’s cute if she ever found out— Daemon might laugh and think it’s silly, but would let Luke do whatever the fuck he wanted anyway— and Jace.
God. Jace.
It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it was only four letters in total.
But once you know who they were written for…
Dear Lord.
One of the letters was to Baela— which is probably the least bad out of everyone on the list.
He remembers writing it just as ninth grade was about to end, the second he’s ever written— right after she asked him to dance in one of their school’s events.
Everyone likes Baela, so it makes sense that at some point, Luke did too.
She’s beautiful, kind, amazing at everything, and also (as of their senior year in highschool) very exclusively only into girls.
Another was to Aegon Targaryen II. His sweet mother's demon of a younger brother. Or the Aegon the shittier, as Jace liked to refer to him (their very own Aegon, the fourth son in their big family, did not know what to feel about what that implies).
It was the last letter Luke had ever written, in the early days of eleventh grade. It was the last for various reasons, but mostly because Jace had begun a very complicated on again off again relationship with him (that, as both men attended the same university, and belonged in rival fraternities, Luke assumes is still going on). And Luke realized maybe writing love letters you’ll never get to send jinxes his luck with love.
Luke was very familiar with Aegon II and his siblings back in the day, when Viserys I was still around to be the glue to the two branches of the Targaryen family. But Luke didn’t really think there was anything cute about him during that time.
It wasn't until he witnessed the elder as a member of the swim team in their little highschool. Luke was dragged into one of his competitions by Baela and Rhaena. And lets just say, watching Aegon II brush back long wet silver hair was a life changing event for him. The crush lasted about five hours tops.
Another was to Merea Baratheon, a cool girl in the same club as him when he was in tenth grade. She knew how to ride horses and Luke heard from some of the upper years that she went out fishing with her dad every month. She always came to school with her hair braided back and Luke thought it really suited her.
She signed his yearbook with a heart and pinched his cheek goodbye on her last year.
And at the bottom of the box, where Luke used to keep it because he liked seeing it the least, was a letter to Aemond Targaryen.
Aegon the shittier’s younger brother. His mother's second younger brother. His uncle.
The first letter he’s ever written— to the first boy he’s ever loved. Just the summer between seventh and eighth grade, a couple of weeks before Aemond and he stopped talking altogether.
That— Luke didn’t even want to remember what he wrote there.
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The hectic hours leading up to his move to the dorms was almost enough to make him forget about the complete tragedy he’s facing.
On the drive there, he’s managed to gaslight himself into believing that it may have just disappeared. Maybe the world glitched and forgot it ever existed, so they just stopped spawning the damn letters.
Maybe it was donated to charity and now the kids are having a good laugh over whoever this embarrassing Luke was.
Luke hopes they think it's satire— or a draft for a really cringy preteen romance book.
There’s just nothing he can do about it now.
It’s all gone and there’s nothing left to do but to hope for the best.
He’s walking around campus now, getting a feel for the university Jace has been talking about in the past couple of years, the same one he’ll be attending for the next four.
In his hand were various pamphlets— after he’s been stopped by multiple people talking about their causes and their organizations. Where Luke simply smiled and hummed in the right places, thanking them before leaving, and not recalling a single word they’ve said.
He should’ve stayed there, in the mess of students who can smell freshman blood on him— really, he should’ve let them feast on him instead of breaking free and taking a walk in the field where he could get some air.
A few students were in there, near the goal in the farther end of the field— wearing training gear, and passing a ball between them.
They were talking but Luke wasn’t close enough to make out what they were saying.
He took a deep breath.
Luke was just about to turn back and pay the other students no mind, when one called out to him.
“Yo!”
Luke sees the way they were all turned towards him, but as the sunlight was directly behind them— he couldn’t make out their faces, let alone their expressions.
He wasn’t sure if they were calling for him, until one with terrifyingly familiar silver hair was jogging towards him, calling out a low, “Velaryon.”
The man stops just before him,
Luke feels like someone just pulled the whole world beneath his feet— his heart stops for a second— before it picks up and starts beating a mile a minute.
“Thought I heard someone say you’d be going here,” he says, all casual.
When Luke speaks, he sounds as if he hasn’t drank water in years, “Aemond Targaryen.”
How could Luke forget?
How could he forget that Aemond was going to the same university as his brother? The same university as Jace? As him?
Aemond tilts his head in a way that was so unlike the unsure Aemond he used to be when he and Luke were still talking— when Luke could still see both of his eyes.
The Aemond that stands before him now is a foot taller than Luke remembers— Luke is barely eye level with his shoulder— with dark sportswear that clung to his arms— showed off strong thighs.
But what really struck Luke was a black patch over his eye, tied behind his head— a scar running along just above his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek under it.
The last time Luke saw it— it hasn’t been long enough to heal properly yet.
Now, Aemond looked handsome and strong and sure— like he’d healed a lifetime ago— filled out in all the right places.
And Luke was so weak in the fucking knees for multiple reasons.
“Lucerys,” his uncle replies, voice deeper than the last time Luke heard him— his tone something he’s never used on the younger.
Luke gulps. “Hello.”
He didn’t know what to say. Why did he not prepare for this?
Why is Aemond willingly talking to him in the first place?
They consider each other for a few tense seconds.
“You know, I thought we were going to ignore each other your whole stay here,” one corner of Aemond’s lips quirks up the tiniest bit, “so imagine my surprise when I receive something from you a few days before you start.”
Luke couldn’t focus properly— his eyes kept going back to the bead of sweat slowly dripping down Aemond’s bicep.
He gulps again for any hopes of soothing his dry throat, “what?”
“Is it some kind of sick joke to you?” Aemond’s voice takes on a darker tone, “never took you to be cruel, but…” the elder taps his eyepatch twice, smiling now, “you did give me this, didn’t you?”
That makes Luke focus enough to meet his eye, frown forming on his face, “what?”
When Aemond just raises an eyebrow, Luke follows, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
The elder lets out a little disbelieving huff of air, making Luke’s frown deepen.
“I’m saying,” Aemond’s voice gets lower, but more pointed, “it’s a little cruel to say ‘I think you have the most beautiful eyes’ in a love letter to someone you made half blind.”
Lucerys Velaryon’s world tilts off its axis.
I think you have the most beautiful eyes
Love letter.
The last thing Luke remembers is his world going black, strong arms surrounding him before he hits the ground.
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Dear Aemond,
I really liked the book you gave me last Christmas. I know your mom probably made you prepare gifts for us, but I liked it anyway. I liked how you listened to what I had to say about it too.
My brothers don’t really like reading books, and they’re not really interested when I talk about them. You listened to me the whole time I talked about it. Thank you.
You probably think mom chose the gift I gave you— but I did, I promise! The stone on the bracelet reminds me of your eyes. They’re really pretty. Your eyes, I mean. Well the stone, too, but your eyes mostly.
I think you have the most beautiful eyes.
I don’t think I’ll ever have the guts to truly tell you— and I’m not even sure yet if it’s true, because I have nothing to compare it to. I don’t really mind if it is.
You are my first love.
I want to hold your hand. And I want to lean my head against your shoulder during movie nights without having to pretend to be asleep.
You make me feel funny. In a warm way.
I think mom knows.
I’m not sure if I want you to know too, or if I don’t. You knowing feels like the most terrifying thing to me. But I kind of want you to know how great I think you are.
I’m not sure what I’ll do about it yet, if I’ll do anything at all.
But I do— love you, Aemond Targaryen.
Always yours,
Luke
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When Luke wakes up, it’s to his lower back uncomfortably leaning on the bleachers, Aemond’s hand easily holding his shoulders up as he crouches in front of him.
Luke blinks multiple times— the sun is still high up, and behind Aemond’s head he sees four unfamiliar faces looking down at him, various degrees of amusement in their expressions.
He’s been carried to the bleachers, several feet away from where he fainted right into Aemond’s arms.
Sweet baby Jesus.
“Aemond,” Luke lets out, the other’s name sounding more like a gasp from his lips.
“Lucerys,” Aemond answers, his expression something Luke doesn’t recognize.
So it wasn’t all some sick sick nightmare.
Oh how badly Luke wishes it was.
And just when Luke thinks things couldn’t get any worse— he hears footsteps coming from a few feet away—
And he sees him—
Aegon Targaryen II, the guy who’s most likely still having a thing with his own older brother, is walking towards them, a very familiar envelope in hand.
If Luke squints— he might see his own handwriting on the paper— might see the same heart sticker he used to close all the other envelopes.
He gazes back into Aemond’s face.
He sees the elder frown, probably wondering what in the world Luke looks so panicked about.
And Luke, like the fool he is, did the only thing he could think of—
“I’m sorry,” he whispers quickly—
Before he cups Aemond Targaryen’s cheek and leans up to kiss him right on the lips.