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“I still don’t understand,” Paul mutters. He didn’t take to judging and finding fault with his parents' decisions, but this, Paul can’t agree with. “Why not tell the Emperor no?” He questions, not attempting to hide his distaste.
“Paul, please , we’ve talked about this; it is out of our hands,” Jessica sighs. “If this is the path the Emperor chooses, it is the one we must take,” she frowns. “I’m no happier than you.”
His mother's indignation over the matter makes him angry, but he quells the emotion. A Harkonnen, living amongst Atreides— it’s an absurd request, but one the Bene Gesserit insisted upon.
So the Emperor waved his hand and made it so.
-
Despite being only a year older, Feyd-Rautha stood irritatingly taller than Paul.
It was odd for Paul to be around someone his own age. He had never had a peer, so he’d never had anyone to compare himself to. Though he was only thirteen, Paul had only ever been in adult company. He and Feyd-Rautha were similar in this way.
The baron’s nephew had come to live at Castle Caladan a little under a year ago. Paul did not enjoy his presence but found himself in it often. They saw that even the most mundane action was a competition. They spared together, studied together, ate their meals at the same time—today they rode horses together.
It was something Paul had the upper hand in. It had been an enjoyable outing with Feyd-Rautha, and the walk back to Castle Caladan was unusually pleasant. They made fun conversation; Feyd was in a good mood, and Paul felt unusually pleased by his company.
Feyd’s enthused words die in his throat, killed by something Paul didn’t see. Subtlety Feyd picks up his pace. “What’s wrong?” Paul asks, confused by the sudden, stoic urgency.
“It’s going to rain soon,” grunts Feyd. He tugs at the hem of his black doublet and eyes the sky nervously.
Paul nearly laughs at the other boy, but he stifles the energy into a single, good-natured chuckle. He’s noticed Feyd doesn't like storms, but based on the spotty clouds, this would be no more than a drizzle. “It won’t be much,” he says in an attempt to lessen his nerves.
A twitch from Feyd-Rautha’s brow bone tells Paul it does not achieve his desired impact. He’s gotten better at reading him. “Are you worried?” Paul asks.
For a moment, Paul thinks he’ll get no response aside from the crunch of gravel under their riding boots. “Well yeah, I don’t feel like having my skin burned.” He grumbles as if it were obvious.
Paul blinks at him a few times, coming to a halt as he decides to understand what Feyd meant by that. “Water, burning your skin?” He questions, his tone mirthful.
Feyd continues marching onward, not bothering to stop and entertain the question. Paul makes a confused noise; the urgency doesn’t make sense to him. He breaks into a light jog to catch up. “Come on, tell me what you mean.”
“The rain,” Feyd says, his voice suddenly sour, “ burns .” He sounds fed up with having to explain such a thing.
Paul considers the tone he will use to respond far more than he considers the words. “The rain here on Caladan doesn’t burn,” he offers gently. Feyd-Rautha displayed so few weaknesses that Paul sometimes forgot that only a year ago he’d had a completely different life. No matter how well he appeared to have adjusted, he would forever be a specimen of House Harkonnen.
That thought makes Paul frown.
Doubt flickers across Feyd’s pallor face; his lashes flutter, and he seems a shade embarrassed. “The rain on Giedi Prime hurts? Why?” Paul asks, having been born naturally curious.
Feyd shrugged after a beat of thought. He had no qualms with speaking ill of his family, but when it came to matters residing over his planet, he was more careful with his words.
Holding a place in higher esteem than those who inhabited it was a backward idea in Paul’s eyes.
“There’s some type of acid in the rain,” Feyd says after a bit more thought. “It’s part of what makes it so difficult to grow crops.”
Paul nods, remembering his father's words about trading negotiations with the Harkonnen. The CHOAM company took their percentage, of course, but agricultural exports to Giedi Prime had proved to be quite lucrative. He chooses to keep this knowledge reserved; Feyd is always quick to take offense.
“I see,” Paul replies, ‘to live on a planet so painful that even the rain hurts you.’ He thinks about this and can’t help but commiserate Feyd’s early years. “Well, I’m glad the rain can’t hurt you anymore,” Paul adds hastily; he regrets the words almost as soon as he spoke them.
There is no snarky response to the sincere words—only Feyd-Rautha slowing his pace back to a leisurely walk.
-
As time passed, both boys grew into men.
It was over breakfast Paul found himself studying those changes. Feyd-Rautha had never grown out of the habit of eating fast. When Paul was younger, he tried to finish his meal as quickly as the Harkonnen, but as he grew older, he found it wasn’t worth the effort competition required. Feyd was always first to leave the table, and this morning seemed like it would be no different. Paul took slow bites, alternating between a crunchy slice of sourdough bread and strapatsada.
Green orbs flecked with gold trace over Feyd’s jaw muscles as he chews. It strikes Paul how much his childhood companion has changed over the years. He was still begrudgingly a bit taller than Paul, but he’d found it didn’t matter; he could still beat Feyd in combat despite his bulkier stature.
Lady Jessica gives an exasperated sigh. “ Honestly , slow down,” she tells Feyd; the habit has always bothered her.
Feyd ignored the request, taking a large bite of his tomato and egg-topped toast to prove his point. Jessica purses her lips but leaves the matter as she always did with Feyd. It pulls a grin on Paul’s face; Feyd’s antics had developed a charm.
Paul rests his chin in his hand—his elbow on the table's edge as he studies the other man. “Paul,” his mother says incredulously, “elbows off the table,” she warned. Paul obeys quickly and pulls his gaze away from Feyd as he complies with her order, but he is not quick enough to hide his staring.
The staring brings a frown to Feyd’s full lips; he pushes himself back from the table roughly, his chair scraping against the floor with an awful noise. He declares he’s done and exits the room. Next to Paul, his mother makes a noise that lives somewhere between dissatisfaction and confusion. After a few minutes, Paul excuses himself and rises to his feet. He walks slowly until he’s out of his parents' sight—then Paul breaks into a light jog to try and catch up to Feyd. If he had to guess, he’d find him in the training room.
Turning a corner, Paul can see he was indeed correct; the training room door is ajar, and sounds of metal striking dummies can be heard within. Softly, Paul steps into the threshold, not yet announcing his presence. He studied Feyd-Rautha for some moments; this habit of paying more attention to Feyd’s appearance was bothersome to Paul, but he was unable to help his wandering gaze.
-
His interest had started a few months prior; he’d been sparring with Feyd when the knife practice turned into a battle of grappling. Feyd always had the upper hand when they fought like this. The larger man had yanked him off the ground with no warning—instead of calculating his next move, Paul could only think about the solid feeling of Feyd’s body.
He was thrown across the room, landing with a harsh thud.
Cursing to himself, Paul accepts the calloused hand poised to help him to his feet; only his eyes focus far too much on the veins dancing around his knuckles and the warmth of his rough palm against his own softer hand.
-
After a beat, Paul gives himself away. It doesn’t phase Feyd, and it doesn’t pull him away from his combat exercise; Paul suspects the other man had noticed him earlier. “What do you want?” He asks coldly after a final slash across the dummy's chest.
The aggressiveness is off-putting, but Paul forces himself to move on from it. “You left breakfast,” he says lamely, not yet sure what the proper approach is.
“What of it?” Feyd-Rautha snaps, twisting the blade's handle in his hand.
“Just wanted to check on you,” Paul replies, his cheeks reddening. ‘ This was a stupid idea, ’ he thinks dourly. “You seemed bothered,” he added, against his better judgment.
Turning on his heel, Feyd spins around to face him, his eyes dark and stormy. “Bothered?” He questioned fiercely.
“mmhm,” affirms Paul, choosing to stand by his words.
Feyd snorts his derision. “I’m not bothered by the likes of you,” he says, puffing his chest out. The display amuses Paul.
“I wouldn’t think so,” he responds; over the years, he’s become more proficient in handling Feyd. “So then perhaps something irritated you?” He asks, retrying his approach.
Narrowing his eyes, Feyd-Rautha looks like a snake posed to strike. He stalks closer to Paul and asks, “What are you playing at Atreides?”
Feyd had grown away from using his house name, so it stung Paul a bit. “I’m not playing at anything,” he says bluntly. It feels as if this whole thing had been a mistake; he misread the situation; it would have been better for Feyd to cool down alone. Whatever imaginary force had upset him was clearly beyond Paul’s understanding.
For a few moments, Feyd stands in contemplation. When he speaks, he twirls his knife and says, “You’ve been staring at me.”
The accusation is an ambush on Paul, and he feels unequipped to answer such a thing. “Yes,” Paul starts cautiously. “I was staring at you during breakfast.” He tries for a lopsided smile, “It’s funny when my mother scolds you.” He hopes this will end the conversation and that Feyd won’t push the matter.
Feyd’s brow bone raises, and he drops the knife to his side, tip facing down. He takes a few steps closer to Paul, only stopping once they’re sharing air space. “Explain the other times, then.” Paul freezes; his mouth opens, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t find the right words. “What? You have a crush on me?” Feyd leers, punctuating the sentence with a bark of a laugh.
The question makes it all the more difficult for Paul to explain away the stray stares during the past few months. Did he have a crush on Feyd? Surely not , the idea was uncouth—but his observation had taught Paul that he did find something about Feyd-Rautha to be attractive.
Suddenly Paul feels embarrassed and wants to leave; as he’s preparing his retreat, Feyd grabs his wrist, holding it right. “Tell me,” he says sternly, not as a question but as a demand.
“I don’t know,” Paul snips. He wanted this moment to end. His face grew hot, and his nerves felt as if they were on edge. He should have said no. Why didn’t he say no?
“You don’t know,” Feyd echoes. “How can you have no explanation?” He challenges, anger seeping through the cracks in his voice.
Paul’s nerves grew so unbearable that the nervousness morphed into annoyance. “I just like looking at you, I guess,” he mutters, moving to yank his wrist free. He finds the appendage will not budge from Feyd’s grasp. “Let go,” Paul grunts, tugging his arm away sharply.
“I like looking at you too,” Feyd-Rautha says evenly. The grip on Paul’s wrist lessened, and Feyd seemed closer than ever to him.
Making a noise of acknowledgment Paul raises his chin slightly, trying to assess if this was some kind of joke at his expense. He knew his own sincerity, but Feyd, on the other hand…
“You’re cute.”
Paul can hear the pounding of his heart. Feyd’s eyes flicked down, looking at the pinkness of the other's lips. Subtlety he tilts his head, daring Paul to make a move.
Not being one to back away from a challenge, Paul meets Feyd’s lips with his own. At first, it’s stiff and wooden, but after a few seconds, it softens. The kiss deepens; Paul hears the sound of Feyd’s knife clattering to the ground.
With his other hand now freed, Feyd wraps it around Paul’s nape. His fingers thread through the nest of brown curls, and it earns a pleased sigh from the brunette.
Paul breaks the kiss. “Duncan would scold you for dropping that,” he smiles. Feyd’s hands come to rest on Paul’s hips, keeping them pressed close. He looks at Paul with hunger.
Leaning up Paul whispers, “I can think of something else we could do that would piss him off way more~”