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“You’re going to miss,” Chaol told him, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Dorian briefly loosened his grip on the taut bowstring to glower over his shoulder at his friend. A sharp retort stilled on his lips-- the kind he wouldn’t hesitate to utter with the other young and reckless nobles that were their peers. One that involved a bet and copious amounts of gold.
Gold that the son of the Lord of Anielle did not have.
Dorian heaved a sigh and pulled the string tight again, sighting the rabbit once more. “How far?” He asked quietly, focusing.
Chaol’s smile was wide and genuine behind Dorian. “Too high,” he answered. “Probably four or five inches.”
Probably . Dorian refrained from rolling his eyes -- if only because he would lose sight of their quarry. As if Chaol didn’t know exactly how far off his aim was. Chaol knew him better than Dorian knew himself. Especially when it came to his hunting skills.
Dorian adjusted his aim, and loosed the arrow.
The rabbit went down without a sound. It was a perfect shot.
Chaol reached out and clapped him on the back, grinning. Dorian shook his head, but grinned back. With a short, sharp whistle, the dog sitting still as death beside their horses lunged off to pick up their prize.
“She’s getting impressive,” Chaol mused, watching the hound bound through the open grass.
“Of course she is,” Dorian answered, shouldering his bow before picking up his horse’s reins. “What else do I have to do besides hunt and train my hounds?” With a click of his tongue, the horse smoothly set off after his dog.
“You could come to training,” Chaol nearly drawled. “But then who would read all the books you’ve hoarded in your room?”
Dorian very nearly blushed.
He was getting lazy about training with his closest friend. Though Chaol was three, nearly four years older than him, Dorian had been able to hold his own against him since they were children. Had been... until he discovered that reading wasn’t quite so unpleasant as court life had led him to believe. He’d started staying up well into the early hours of the morning just to devour as many chapters as he could before he fell asleep face down at his desk.
He’d learned the hard way not to try and hold a book up when he was getting tired. It had taken a week for that black eye to heal.
But going to bed as the sun rose was not conducive to working out with Chaol or the guards, all of whom had a masochistic love of getting up with the dawn.
“I’ve been... busy,” Dorian hedged -- a half-truth.
Chaol shook his head, the smile still shining in his eyes. “You’re lucky you have such a handsome face, or women wouldn’t so much as glance at you.”
Dorian’s answering grin was wicked and delighted. Of course books weren’t the only thing keeping him up at night, as Chaol knew too well. His mother had scolded him only that morning that he was beginning to get a reputation .
He had retorted that there were worse things to be known for.
And besides-- there were still plenty of things he hadn’t tried, he mused silently to himself, as Chaol urged his horse slightly ahead of Dorian’s, ever the loyal and cautious guardian. Dorian eyed his friend’s broad shoulders, letting his gaze drop slowly down his back. Chaol rode like a king, straight-backed and proud. Chaol might tease him mercilessly about how Dorian flaunted his good looks, but Dorian saw in Chaol what the guard refused to see in himself.
And he had seen it for a very, very long time.
--
Dorian was drunk.
He was beyond drunk-- he was... He couldn’t think of the word for what he was, except that it was something his mother would find deeply offensive. The thought made him smile even wider.
Chaol pinched the bridge of his nose as Dorian’s cousins tripped over themselves as they veered in the opposite direction, to where their chambers were. Roland and Errol could have used an escort just as much as the Crown Prince, but Dorian was his priority. Dorian would always be his priority.
His priority slung an arm around Chaol’s shoulders. “They’ll be fine,” Dorian drawled. “Roland already threw up twice.”
Chaol made a face. He already struggled to keep his expression neutral around the young Lord of Meah. He didn’t need more reasons to dislike the man. “That’s... charming,” he muttered, and slipped his arm around Dorian’s waist to keep the prince from accidentally dragging him to the floor.
“You, Chaol Westfall, are a terrible liar,” Dorian told him, grinning.
“Indeed I am, your Highness,” he answered, escorting Dorian up the tower stairs to his chambers.
“Chaol,” Dorian said, his face falling slightly.
“Highness?”
Dorian stopped and tried to pull his arm back. Chaol only let him lean back enough to make eye contact. He kept a tight grip on Dorian’s belt, just in case. The last thing he needed was to explain to his captain that he’d let the Crown Prince of Adarlan fall down the stairs.
“ Chaol ,” Dorian repeated.
Chaol blinked and met Dorian’s eyes. There was something burning there that he couldn’t read. “Dorian?”
Dorian stared at him for a long moment before nodding -- the motion a little too exaggerated given the prince’s lack of balance. “Better,” he said, slurring slightly. “I don’t like it when you use titles.” He lifted a foot to the next step, one hand braced on the stone wall.
Chaol reined in a sigh. Dorian was far too drunk for this argument. Getting the prince to understand that while they were friends, Chaol was nothing more than a palace guard, while Dorian was the Crown Prince was a battle he had yet to win -- and one he knew better than to fight tonight.
Chaol didn’t remove his hand from Dorian’s belt until they were safely atop the landing just outside the prince’s door. At least if he topped over here, Chaol stood a better chance of catching him. “Make sure you get water--” He grunted and stopped abruptly as Dorian stumbled into him, pinning him against the stone wall.
“You let go,” Dorian said with a slow blink.
Chaol nearly laughed. “Did you want me to throw you into bed by your belt?”
“You can throw me into bed however you want,” Dorian answered, his eyes blazing.
Chaol resisted the urge to tilt his head, but narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion. “You’re ten steps away from your bed, Dorian.”
Dorian’s eyes dropped to Chaol’s mouth, and Chaol froze. He had recognized that look in Dorian’s eye. He’d just never seen it turned on himself. “Come on,” he said more softly. “Let’s--”
Dorian cut him off with a firm, hot kiss. Chaol stopped breathing.
Dorian braced his hands on either side of Chaol’s shoulders, tilting his head to the side to press a feather-light kiss to Chaol’s neck.
Chaol grabbed Dorian roughly and pushed him back, holding him at arm’s length. “Dorian.” His face was burning.
“Chaol,” Dorian purred.
“You are very drunk,” Chaol told him slowly, trying to march Dorian backwards while maintaining the distance between them.
“You’re not drunk enough,” Dorian retorted, letting himself be guided.
If I believed in the gods, I would get on my knees and thank them for that, Chaol thought to himself, and reached past Dorian quickly to push his door open.
“Let’s get you some water,” Chaol told him, easing the prince into his room. It was an effort not to push him towards his bed, but Dorian grabbed his arm, as if he sensed the urge.
“I should have gotten you drunk,” Dorian mused. That burning light in his eyes hadn’t dimmed in the slightest.
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Chaol answered calmly, reaching for Dorian’s hand to pull his fingers loose.
Dorian yanked him close before he could, his mouth curving into a smirk. “Because you’re afraid you’ll enjoy yourself too much?”
Chaol was on fire. He had to extract himself from this situation, but he had no idea how. Worse-- would Dorian remember this in the morning? He took a quick breath. “Your Highness--”
Dorian grabbed his jaw firmly. “Don’t. Do not call me that.” Chaol started to protest but Dorian continued. “If you’re not interested, tell me so plainly. Don’t be a coward and hide behind propriety.”
Chaol blinked. Had Dorian just called him a coward? His expression hardened as he grabbed both of Dorian’s wrists and propelled him backwards onto the bed. Dorian sat abruptly, but managed to stay upright. “You’re drunk, Dorian,” Chaol insisted. “You need sleep.”
Dorian looked up at him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” Chaol asked, getting him a glass of water from the ewer by his desk.
“Are you afraid you’ll enjoy yourself too much?” Dorian repeated.
Chaol pushed the glass into his hand without meeting his gaze. “Good night,” he whispered, and left.
--
Chaol didn’t know how to strut. He’d seen Dorian and Roland and even some of the court ladies walk down a hallway in such a proud, arrogant way that he couldn’t think of a better word for it... but him? He walked with his back straight and his chin lifted and... maybe there was a little bit of strut in him after all.
He’d been Captain of the Royal Guard of Adarlan for six weeks, and he might very well have been strutting around the palace ever since.
He wasn’t overtly proud -- the last thing he wanted was for anyone to compare him to General Ashryver -- but it was hard not to feel a certain tightness in his chest when his men offered him a salute and a genuine smile. So, egotistical though it may have been, it caught him by surprise when -- after six weeks of quiet satisfaction -- Ress didn’t offer him the recognition he’d become accustomed to.
He stopped just outside the library doors, brow furrowing slightly. “You’re supposed to be with the Crown Prince,” Chaol told him, trying not to frown.
Ress nodded, but eyed the library door with the same pinched expression Chaol had first noticed. “He’s in the library, Captain. He... insisted we wait out here.”
Chaol’s jaw tightened. How very like Dorian, to ignore his personal safety in favor of solitude. He took one step forward before a second thought hit him and he froze. As nonchalantly as he could, he asked both guards. “Is he unaccompanied?”
Because if there was one thing Dorian had proven he liked as much as books, it was women. And trust his prince to find some wholly irreverent way to combine the two. It would certainly explain Ress’s expression.
“Yes, Captain,” Ress answered without hesitation as Chaol loosed a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “He said he was tired of being stared at.”
“Tough shit,” Chaol growled, and marched inside.
It took all of a minute to find Dorian. All he had to do was follow the only source of light and sound in the entire gargantuan space. There wasn’t a single other soul present. The intensity of the silence made the hair on the back of Chaol’s neck stand up.
“Unless you think I’m at risk of death by paper cut,” Dorian drawled, not lifting his eyes from the book in his lap. “I don’t require the company of your watch dogs, Captain.” His legs were draped over the arm of a plush chair in a rakish, very un-princely manner.
“And if I do think that?” Chaol asked, planting his feet and crossing his arms.
Dorian’s gaze flicked up with a hint of amusement. “Then I would call you a filthy liar.” He raised his head and huffed. “I assure you, I’m quite safe. Ress knows to come running the second a book gives even the slightest hint of wanting to ravage me.”
Chaol couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Need I remind you--”
“No,” Dorian answered curtly as he uncurled and got to his feet. “Because I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t care that my father has gone to war with Wendlyn. No one’s going to send assassins after me in the library.”
Chaol pursed his lips. Dorian was his prince-- the man he would obey above all others, if he was being honest with himself. But Chaol would never forgive himself if something happened to Dorian. Never.
Dorian’s mouth edged into a slight grin at his silence. “So you see, Captain...”
Chaol let out a soft huff of breath. In a voice that was barely audible, he said, “You’re allowed to throw my title around, but I can’t use yours?”
Dorian’s expression turned into something wicked. “I’ve had nearly seventeen years to become bored of mine. Yours is a novelty, Captain .”
Chaol opened his mouth to object, but Dorian cut him off with an equally quiet murmur, and a hand on Chaol's shoulder. “You do know how proud I am of you, yes?”
It was an effort to hold Dorian’s burning gaze, but Chaol maintained eye contact. Even as his throat tightened to the point of pain, and all he could do was nod.
“I wish you would let me show you how much,” Dorian added with a smirk.
Chaol’s face heated, and he whipped his head to the side, straining to listen for even a hint of sound around them. Dorian’s reputation with women was becoming legendary-- but this...
“Please,” Dorian said with a purr, stepping closer. “You think my Captain of the Guard would let anyone sneak up on us?”
Chaol didn’t yield a step, but forced himself to take a breath. “Been drinking again?” He asked, forcing his voice to sound casual.
That wickedness burned in Dorian’s eyes. “Not a sip, Captain. As you well know.” He smoothly slid his hand from Chaol’s shoulder to the curve of his neck.
“ Dorian ,” Chaol hissed.
“I told you before. If you’re not interested, tell me so plainly.”
Chaol opened his mouth to tell him exactly that. No sound came out. Seconds passed, and Dorian slowly raised one eyebrow in elegant amusement at him.
He was not interested in Dorian Havilliard, the Crown Prince of Adarlan-- not in any sense that Dorian implied every time he did... this. He wasn’t. Dorian was his friend. And Chaol had never been attracted to men. Or him. Especially him.
Chaol blinked. Dorian’s fingers felt like fire against his skin. He shuddered, and whispered. “Dorian, you... I know you enjoy playing these games with courtiers, but...”
Dorian’s head tilted to the side in a near predatory way. “Games?” He asked, a layer of iciness in his tone.
Chaol waved his hand dismissively. “This... thing you do.”
In a single step, Dorian closed the distance to press Chaol against the bookcase directly behind him. A decade of constant training had Chaol side-stepping him on instinct, snatching Dorian’s wrist to pin it behind his back as he pinned the prince -- his prince -- in the very spot Dorian tried to maneuver him.
The sound that came out of Dorian’s mouth was not one of surprise or rage, but pleasure. Chaol immediately let him go, taking a step back. His apology died on his tongue as Dorian laughed softly.
“I have yet to meet a courtier who can do that to me,” Dorian mused, resting his forehead against the spines of the books at eye level.
“I didn’t mean to--”
“Yes, you did,” Dorian replied, looking over his shoulder. “I want you to do it again.”
Every breath was agony. Chaol wanted to run. He wanted to turn and flee from the library and hide until his face stopped burning and his chest didn’t hurt.
But he’d never run from anything in his life. Walking away from Dorian the night his prince had kissed him was the closest he’d ever come to turning tail like an absolute coward.
Chaol’s jaw tightened. He straightened his back. “Why are you doing this?”
Dorian went still at the change in Chaol’s posture. He was silent for a moment, but eventually murmured. “Because I’m curious. And I trust you.” He turned smoothly to face Chaol. “You are my dearest friend. And I want to show you how much you mean to me.”
Neither of them moved. Chaol didn’t so much as draw breath. All around them, the library was utterly still and silent...
Until Dorian let a soft oomph of breath as Chaol pinned him against the bookcase, taking Dorian’s face in both hands, and kissed him fiercely.
An entire lifetime passed in the span of one heated, hungry kiss.
Dorian had wrapped his arms around Chaol’s waist, pulling the captain into him as he kissed Chaol back fervently. There was nothing slow or soft and gentle in it. That wasn’t what he wanted anyway. Chaol was strength and steel and will, and Dorian wanted to taste every inch of what his friend had to offer.
Chaol pulled back first, his breath coming in harsh, short bursts. He leaned back enough to look Dorian in the eye, and then muttered. “ Shit .”
Dorian grinned.
--
Chaol adjusted his jacket for the tenth time before approaching the library doors. He had to walk past Press without the younger man getting a whiff of what had just happened. Not a hard task by any means-- it was just a few steps.
A few leaden, awkward steps. Past a guard that Chaol himself had trained to be keenly observant.
Shit .
Chaol smoothed his hair back with both hands and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, set his face in an unimpressed mask, and stalked out of the library.
Neither of the guards stationed at the door said anything. Chaol’s only acknowledgement was a grunted farewell.
Ten steps. Twenty. Thirty.
He rounded a corner and flexed his fingers. It was an effort not to slam his fist directly into the stone wall. It would be horribly painful, but pain might bring clarity. There certainly wasn’t anything clear or sane or rational running through his head.
Shit!
He kept walking. If he punched the wall, Ress might hear. His goal was to get as far away from his guards as possible. He was supposed to be walking toward Dorian’s tower, but...
He had just kissed the Crown Prince of Adarlan. Intentionally. What utter insanity.
And to think-- his father thought the worst possible thing Chaol could do was forfeit his birthright to become a palace guard. He nearly emitted a short, bitter laugh.
Chaol ran both hands through his hair again, and found himself at the foot of the tower stairs that led to Dorian’s room within minutes. He looked up at the staircase.
He was inside the door to Dorian’s room before he realized his feet were moving.
Again, he pushed his hands through his hair, unable to stop pacing back and forth from the hearth to the four poster bed that he noted -- with a bemused frown -- was unmade. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, none of which he was willing to linger on lest he make the mistake of being rational about the truly mad choices he was making.
Dorian walked in calmly, a casual and sinful smile on his beautiful mouth. He shut the door to his bedroom behind him, and slid the lock closed with a soft but poignant click. “You know...” He began.
Chaol cleared his throat and lowered his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Dorian’s eyebrows rose slightly. “About what?”
“About what I did-- in the library just now. That was...”
Dorian stepped up to Chaol and placed two fingers against his mouth. “I’m not.”
Lightning seemed to spark from Dorian’s touch through Chaol’s skin and deep into his chest. He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears.
He had never been remotely interested in Dorian like... Like the way Dorian expressed an interest in everyone. He’d never seen the Crown Prince being intimate with another man, but he’d seen Dorian flirt shamelessly with them. It never occurred to him to ask-- or even to wonder. He’d never been jealous, or concerned, or even curious.
But something in him was begging now.
Dorian was the most beautiful person he’d ever met. Everyone knew that. Everyone wanted that.
Chaol licked his lips nervously, forgetting in that brief second that Dorian’s fingers were there. A delighted shiver ran through his friend. Chaol sucked in a breath.
“Let’s just sit down,” Dorian offered gently.
Chaol glanced around the room. The only open surface was Dorian’s bed. Even the floor was cluttered with clothes and stacks of books. It was almost enough to make Chaol’s skin itch.
Dorian tugged him over to the bed before Chaol could even think to ask where he meant. Chaol sat, and focused his eyes very intently on the floor.
“Chaol,” Dorian whispered. Chaol closed his eyes. Why did his name sound like a prayer on Dorian’s lips? Why was his heart hammering? Why did he want whatever this was so desperately? When he opened his eyes again, he turned to look at Dorian -- right into Dorian’s shining sapphire gaze.
There was such nervous yearning in his prince’s expression. So Chaol, his voice barely audible, asked: “...you trust me?”
Dorian nodded. “More than anyone else in my life.”
“And if--” Chaol paused, trying to collect his thoughts. After a moment, he continued. “You get bored so easily, Dorian...”
Dorian had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “Never of you, Chaol. Not ever, in all the years we’ve known each other. No matter the... adventure.” He reached out, and threaded his fingers through Chaol’s slowly.
Chaol returned the gesture by tightening his grip. “It would kill me to lose you,” he admitted.
Dorian nodded, his face full of empathy and understanding. He felt the same. He just didn’t share Chaol’s worry. He knew his own heart-- he knew that nothing, regardless of their intimacy, could fracture them. “Do you trust me?” Dorian asked him.
Chaol blinked. That was the question, wasn’t it? Dorian was... beautiful. And wild. And young. And so wonderfully free. Chaol had fought and maneuvered for more than half his life to ensure that it would only ever be so for his prince. Dorian was his everything. Of course Chaol trusted him.
So he nodded, and answered. “I do.”
Dorian got up slowly. Each step was feline-soft on the floor; each movement sinuous. He slid one knee on to the bed beside Chaol and pressed closer until he was straddling his captain’s lap, sliding both hands into Chaol’s deliciously messy hair. Chaol was obnoxiously handsome in a deeply masculine way. The pink tinge in his cheeks only brightened his stunning bronze eyes.
Chaol rested his hands on Dorian’s hips, choosing not to think too closely about how natural it felt. He would have preferred not to think at all, especially with Dorian... Gods. Dorian Havilliard was in his damn lap.
Dorian leaned down to kiss Chaol again. There was enthusiasm and hunger in it, and a curiosity that Chaol felt mirrored deep inside himself. He did trust Dorian.
He loved Dorian.
Chaol kissed him back smoothly. He loved Dorian. And he would give his prince anything he asked for, now and forever.