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Daeron is drunk, thankfully. Finally. He does what he can to make sure he whiles away his days inebriated but the world tends to impose. The servants water down the wine he asks for upon waking. When he holds his cup out they insult him by barely filling it halfway and oftentimes even less than that, portioning out mouthfuls that he drains in one go. Their eyes are lowered and their hands steady and no matter how he frames his requests for more, more, more, it all falls on deaf ears. No doubt this collusion against him can be traced back to his father. Some distant, quiet part of Daeron pities his father and the fools errand he's still set upon, his venture to make something of Daeron, something worthwhile. It will not happen. Daeron has spent long years building his cage. He will not step out.
So, he is drunk now, the world tilted on its axis and reduced to a wonderful blur. It had taken him longer than desired, half the day wasted to secure his medicine. Now another evening to pass, long hours stretched out before him until sleep takes him hostage once again. If he does well, his dreams will be distorted and dull, as if viewed through cracked glass.
Daeron keeps drinking.
He stalks the long corridors, haunting the halls. He's long since left his quarters behind, his aimless wandering taking him to the abandoned wing that used to belong to his parents, deserted by father not long after his mother's passing. Still, Daeron knows his father ends up there frequently, and more often than ever these days, since uncle's death. Grief has made Maekar a shadow. He moves slowly and speaks little beyond what is required of him. Losing mother had turned his father to stone, all his edges sharpened, his frown etched into his face. Losing his brother seems to have made him dissipate. Daeron watches his father from afar, and some days sees right through him.
Daeron slips into his parents old chambers. There's fresh soot in the hearth and half-burnt candles at the tables. The curtains hang limp in front of the windows and the bed looks untouched but it's made up with fresh linens. He wonders what his father finds here beyond his ghosts. Daeron takes another sip from his wineflask, and another, and another. He goes to the desk at the corner and opens the drawers. As always, he finds his mother's correspondence left untouched. Letters waiting to be sent, as if any day she'll return from her long absence to seal the scrolls. He reads them over to remind himself of the cadence of her voice, the rythm of her words. He can't remember what she sounded like. He's lost so much of himself to the wine, little pieces torn off and fed into the fire. Offerings made on the altar of easeful sleep.
It's all he can do to help himself, the wine and the whoring. That, or walk into the woods, or the sea, or the flames. Despite it all, he has no desire to meet his end.
Daeron leaves the desk and turns his attention to the chests holding his mother's clothes. He runs his hands over velvet and silk, fabrics dyed in black and red, and purple and blue. He pulls out one of her dresses and burrows his face in it. It smells like his mother still, like the scented oil she used to dab at her wrists and the nape of her neck, the cradle of her collarbones. He used to bury his face in her hair and breathe his lungs full of it when she held him after his bad dreams, before he knew all his dreams were bad dreams. Her fingers would stroke through his hair, over the knobs of his spine and he would settle.
It still helps.
He goes to lie on the bed, curling around the memory of his mother and he lets his weary eyes fall shut. He sleeps.
He dreams.
He wakes to a hand on his shoulder. It's his father, of course. They're chasing the same phantom after all. In the dark Daeron can't make out his face. The hand on him shifts lower, now it rests over his shoulderblade. The wings of his back. Warmth seeps through his tunic, and Daeron leans into it. His father touches him rarely without pain. Never did figure out you catch more flies with honey. Daeron has always been weak to soft touches, does his father not see how sweet and pliant he becomes. Does he not want to see?
"Get up. You missed supper." Maekar's voice is forbidding but lowered, lacking bite. Daeron groans. His mouth is dry. His father leans closer. More warmth wafting his way. "Get up. You smell rank."
Daeron shakes his head into the bedding. It's so difficult to keep his eyes open. "No. I smell like mother."
He hears his father draw for breath and prepares to be told off but then the silence extends, stretches out into long, still moments. His father inhales again, even closer now. His breath is hot on Daeron's neck.
"Fool," his father whispers. "You do."
The hand on his back glides even lower, now it rest atop his waist just above where his tunic ends, a finger's width away from bare skin. Daeron wants to squirm, wants that touch on him wholly, his father's strong hands holding him. His skin burns with want, his blood sings with it, heat traversing from all over to slide along his spine and pool in his belly. He feels himself stir inside his breeches, and buries his face deeper into the bed to smother his shame.
Above him, his father has succumbed to the ghost of his wife, the tip of his nose resting against Daeron's skin, his hand tightening.
Daeron moans and his father stills, begins to withdraw.
"No," Daeron gasps, hand shooting out to grab at the one on his waist. He's strong too, and desperate. "Please father, no."
"Daeron—" Maekar chokes out, voice shuddering and bewildered.
"Please," Daeron repeats and doesn't know what more to say. What more is there? He is wanton and wretched and vile and he would rather die than let go, seeking pleasure from his father's body and his mother's memory. He shifts on the bed, moving his father with him until he feels the other man half atop him, front pressed to his back, their hands now splayed out onto Daeron's bare stomach, his tunic rucked up. His father's hand dig into his skin as he tries to break free from the grip and Daeron moans again, hips rolling back.
"Please." Daeron can't stop, pleasure building, so much more potent now, mixed with shame and the comfort he's always longed for. "You can pretend I'm her."
Behind him Maekar bites off a sharp curse. It does nothing to distract Daeron from feeling how his father's hardening length throbs against him and he ruts back, chasing base needs and they fall into rythm together. It doesn't take much for Daeron to spill. It rarely does, a warm body pressed close seem to be the only requirement and here is his father, riding the back his thigh, lips pressed to his neck to breathe in his mother. His mother's scent filling his nose, the memory of her love engulfing him. Here he is, in the bed he was concieved in.
His toes curl as he spurts into his breeches, his father's hand rubbing low on his stomach as he rides the wave of lust. Maekar follows closely behind, holding Daeron close when he finds his own peak, small huffs falling from his lips all that betray him.
Daeron feels heavy afterward. If he were a better man he would say it's guilt holding him down but he has long since abandoned the game of lying to himself. He feels sated and heavy-limbed with true exhaustion, the kind that will leave him as close to dreamless as he is able. Distantly he can feel his father pull away, weight shifting next to him.
Daeron opens his eyes. His father sits motionless, face buried in his hands. He closes his eyes again.
He sleeps.